PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93.

July 9, 1887.

OPERATIC CONFUSION.

I went on Saturday to hear the three operatic novelties so liberally provided for us on the same night by Messrs. Mapleson, Lago and Harris. I do not mix my liquors, and I endeavour, as a rule, to keep to the same lyrical drama throughout the evening; nor is it my fault if a good dose of strong Beethoven, sweetened with Gounod and flavoured with Meyerbeer had, on the occasion in question, a somewhat confusing effect on my brain. At Her Majesty's, Lilli Lehmann was all right as Leonora: not Leonora of La Favorita, but Leonora the favourite wife of Manrico—no, not of Manrico, but of another personage who, like the unfortunate Trovatore, has to be rescued by his loving spouse from the tyranny of a powerful baritone; whether Verdi's Count di Luna or Sheridan's Pizarro, I cannot just now call to mind. Mlle. Lehmann is not only a fine singer, but also a serious dramatic artist; and the public was deeply impressed by her performance. She is a Lehmann with all the earnestness of a good clergyman; not that she had taken orders as I (Box No. 70) had done.

From Her Majesty's Theatre, I drove in a rapid Hansom to Drury Lane. I had told the cabman to take me to the Royal Italian Opera, and I was about to remonstrate with him for conveying me to the wrong house, when he promptly explained that there were now two Royal Italian Operas, one at Covent Garden, the other at Drury Lane. New source of confusion! "Confusion worse confounded!" as Milton observes.

"How far have they got?" I inquired as I entered the theatre.

"Valentine's death scene," replied my friend.

"Valentine does not die, my dear fellow; Valentine only faints," I answered, I was thinking of course, of the new dramatic soprano, Mlle. Sandra, in Les Huguenots.

"You are evidently not an Opera-goer," I continued, "or you would know that no one dies in this work, except, of course, in the last Act. But that is always left out."

"Wrong again!" exclaimed Jones, with an amused look. "Augustus Harris restores the last Act. See his prospectus."

"Well, never mind that. Is Ella Russell singing the part of Queen Margaret as well as ever?"

"I did not know that Margaret was a Queen. I always thought she was of humble origin. The part in any case is being played by Mlle. Nordica."

Determined to be no longer the victim of mystification, I wished Jones good-bye, and hurrying in, found the curtain down. Afraid now to ask what was being played, I waited patiently for the next Act, and when at last the curtain went up, I found to my astonishment that some representation entirely new to me was taking place. Will-o'-the-Wisps on a dark back-ground. That was all I saw. I asked myself whether I had gone mad, or whether the Drury Lane Pantomime was being played a little earlier than usual. Then the dark scene gave place to a scene of great brilliancy. There was a throne at the back of the stage, and again my thoughts reverted to the Huguenots, and I fancied I could recognise Queen Margaret. But her features were not the features of Ella Russell. Besides, Ella Russell does not dance, not at least on the Operatic stage; and this lady did.

"This is Helen," said a gentleman in a stall on my right to a lady by his side. Here was at least a clue; and when at the same moment the baritone De Reszke stepped out of a group attired in the garb of Mephistopheles, I said to myself that the performance had been changed, and this was the last Act of Boïto's Mefistofele, with new details, or at least details that I had not noticed when the work was performed at Her Majesty's Theatre and at Covent Garden. Now dancing began in earnest, and I wondered much at the never-failing ingenuity of Mr. Augustus Harris, who with a score of first-rate singers in his Company, had nevertheless found himself compelled (probably at five minutes' notice,) to change an Opera into a ballet. It reminded me of a certain operatic Manager, who, being suddenly deprived of the services of most of his vocalists, announced in his programme, that in consequence of the departure of his principal singers, the music of Don Giovanni, would be "replaced, for that night only, by lively and expressive pantomime."

When, however, Mephistopheles De Reszke and Faust De Reszke both began to sing, I saw that my supposition was untenable.

"What you have seen," said Jones, who meanwhile had come in, and who now occupied a seat on my left, "is not Mefistofele at all. It is Gounod's additional Ballet Scene for Faust. 'Dramatic Divertissement' it ought to be called. Beautiful grouping, picturesque costumes, magnificent scenery, delightful dance music! But you ought not to have missed the new Valentine. That was a great mistake." I looked at my watch. "Time enough for the new Valentine even now," I reflected; and I went over as fast as I could to Covent Garden.

Here there was a new Valentine surely enough. A Russian lady, I was told. Not a bit like the Russian ladies one has seen in Fedora, the Pink Pearl, the Red Lamp, and other dramatic misrepresentations of Russian life. But Mlle. Sandra, or Mlle. Panaeff, or whatever her name may be, was not playing the part of a female Nihilist. She was impersonating a well-bred, Catholic young lady of the Sixteenth Century. Jones subsequently informed me that it was not Mlle. Sandra's Valentine that I ought to have seen, but Victor Maurel's, at the other house.

Note at the Guildhall.—Now we know what the City Marshal has to do. We saw him in his warlike costume, bareheaded, marshalling the carriages of the Great Personages on their departure, and capitally he did it. Not a single name was pronounced incorrectly. Everybody came up to time, and got away comfortably. On these occasions, the City Marshal is a sort of Glorified Linkman.

THE LATEST FROM LORD'S.

Land Bill. "Well, anyhow, you carried your Bat." Crimes Bill. "Yes; but you'll find the Bowling awfully hot."

Scene—The Cricket Field. The Bell has rung for the Second Innings. Mr. Land Bill is just going to the wickets, and pauses to exchange a word or two with Mr. Crimes Bill, who has had so long an innings in the earlier part of the match.

Crimes Bill (taking it easy on his bat). Hello, L. B. my lad, you're going in?

L. B. (buttoning his gloves nervously). Ye—e—s. Captain's orders!

C. B. Well, I hope you'll win.

L. B. I'll do my best; can Cricketer do more?

C. B. No. But, by Jove! you'll find it hard to score.

L. B. What? Bowling killing?

C. B. Beastly! Talk of "shying"?

Crossland's a lamb to Healy.

L. B. Ah! that's trying.

But then they haven't got a Shaw, Sir, surely?

C. B. No; but, by Jingo! they have more—a Morley!

Straight on the middle stump. And then old Glad

Breaks awful, right and left, and shoots like mad.

I say they ought to be disqualified

For unfair bowling.

L. B. Humph! that game's been tried;

But Umpire doesn't always seem to see it.

C. B. Ah! Umpires are such funkers.

L. B. Well, so be it.

Must do my best. What sort of wickets?

C. B. Crumbling.

Must meet the ball with a straight bat; no fumbling,

Or out you go!

L. B. And how's the fielding?

C. B. Dicky!

'Tis there you'll have the pull that wickets sticky

Or cut up, through the influence of weather,

Can't neutralise. They're never all together.

Some run like hares, some throw in like a Krupp;

But what they fail in is in "backing up."

L. B. Thanks be! I see my chance then. If they're loose

In fielding I can slog 'em to the doose.

C. B. But don't take liberties, my lad. No jumps

In for a drive; they're always on the stumps.

And then their wicket-keeper's like a cat.

L. B. Well, anyhow you carried out your bat,

Despite the lot of them. Can "crack" do more?

C. B. (significantly). Yes!—I kept up my stumps, but could not score!

A "Not out, nothing" may be meritorious,

And very useful, but 'tis hardly glorious,

A stolid Scotton's worth his salt, at need;

But, after all, he's not a Grace or Read.

You'll have to hit, as well as guard your wicket,

If you'd be popular. Blocking is not Cricket!

L. B. Humph! no, not quite. My orders are to score

And bring the House down.

C. B. That will cause a roar

When you take back your bat to the Pavilion.

A Cricketer must smite to please the Million.

Routledge's Jubilee Guide to London, is good, not only for such a "high old time" as the Jubilee Week, but for the next three years or so until the streets are re-named and a few new thoroughfares opened up. The illustrations are excellent. There is only one objection to this Guide as a companion, and that is it is rather too large. No Guide to be useful should be bigger than the Handy-Volume Shakspeare size, originally started at 85, Fleet Street. Some of the French Guides, not the regiment, but the little books, Joanne's Series, are models in this respect.

Philips' Handy Volume Atlas is about the right size. "The World," it is often said, "is a small place;" but for all that, it does not go so easily in a tail-coat pocket, where Mr. Philips' Atlas can be conveniently carried. It is an invaluable companion for everyday newspaper reading. Happy Thought for Travellers, to whom this little volume is recommended, "Philips on his way through the World."

WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Our Artist (showing his last and most important Picture, the work of years). "Yes, I should like to exhibit it; but I don't want to sell it, you know—at least not till times are better."

Friend. "Well, why not send it to the Exhibition, and put a prohibitive Price upon it—say Twenty Pounds?!"

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.

(Meteorological forecast for the Month.)

6th.—Queen's Weather continues. Raspberry crop fails. Strawberries sold by auction in Covent Garden Market, and fetch two guineas each.

13th.—Queen's Weather still continues. All the grass in Hyde Park turns brown, and suddenly disappears. Vegetables generally sell at famine prices. Riot of Dukes attempting to secure a bundle of late asparagus from a fashionable West End greengrocer's, suppressed by the police.

17th.—Queen's Weather as settled as ever. Great drought commences. London Water Companies cut off their supply. Five o'clock tea in Belgravia made from boiled soda-water. Apollinaris supplied in buckets, for washing purposes, at the rate of twenty guineas the dozen pint bottles.

21st.—Queen's Weather showing no signs of departure, fifteen umbrella-manufacturers go through the Bankruptcy Court, and commit suicide. Dust in London becomes intolerable. A Nobleman in Mayfair has Piccadilly watered with BASS'S India Pale Ale.

27th.—Queen's Weather established. The Thames runs dry between Vauxhall and Westminster. The Speaker gives a garden-party in the bed of the river. Café noir, made of ink, served as a refreshment.

31st.—Queen's Weather still continuing, seventeen ginger-beer manufacturers who have become millionnaires are raised to the Peerage. The Lord Mayor goes off his head, and, imagining that he is the Old Pump at Aldgate, is removed, by general consent, to Colney Hatch.

FLOREAT MASCHERA!

A Great deal of curiosity has been expressed about the Gray's Inn Maske of Flowers, which has puzzled a number of people. The better informed have replied, when asked, "What was it?" "Oh, don't you know what a Maske is? Why Comus was a Maske, don't you know?" To save time and temper, Mr. Punch begs to inform all inquirers that:—

1. "Gray's Inn" is the Inn where the poet Gray always stopped when he came to town. It has always been associated with Poets.

2. This Maske of Flowers is not Mr. Cyril Flower, M.P.'s.

3. It is highly improbable that the Benchers of the Four Inns of Court will appear in Fancy Costume at four o'clock in the morning, and serenade the occupants of the Western Face of Gray's Inn Square from the Gardens.

4. The Maske is not so called from everybody in Gray's Inn appearing in "big heads."

5. The Lord Chancellor is not introduced as Harlequin, and does not dance a pas seul with "Mr. Solicitor," founded upon some of the more intricate steps of the pavan, or peacock's strut.

6. That it is not the duty of the Master of the Revels to teach the Masters of the Bench how to execute with spirit a Morisco.

Having said what the Maske will not be, Mr. Punch goes a step further—and stops, thinking it will be better to reserve particulars until after the Performance.

Every Etonian ought to go to the Gaiety and hear Mr. Merrivale's new piece, of which Mrs. Brown-Potter is the heroine. Why ought every Etonian to do this? We forgot to mention that the name of the play is Civil Warre. (If it isn't so spelt, it ought to be.)

ROYALTY AT THE PALACE.

A Hard-Working three weeks has H.R.H. had of it. Morning, noon, and night, here, there, and everywhere. Mr. Punch was glad to see that H.R.H. took his advice, given last week, and immediately visited the Crystal Palace. The Fireworks were first-rate. The Prospect was brilliant. Good omen for the C.P. If the B.P. could only get to the C.P. in twenty minutes from Victoria, by Palace trains every twenty-five minutes after a certain time in the afternoon, the future chances of prosperity for the Palace would be considerably increased. By the way, we thought we noticed some people, who had nothing to do with the fireworks, speaking to the Lighters—the de-lighters—while in the execution of their duty. If so, this ought to be stopped, and a notice put up,—"You are requested not to speak to the Man at the (Catherine) Wheel."

Cockney notion of A-making.

JILLS IN OFFICE.

Scene—Portion of a Stationer's Shop, used as Post Office. Two Young Ladies (let them be distinguished as Miss Cross and Miss Orty) discovered behind wire-screen. At opening of scene, the public is composed exclusively of the gentler sex, and the demeanour of Miss C. and Miss O. though firm, is not positively forbidding. Lady Customers, having despatched their business move away, leaving the coast clear to three Mild Men, who advance to screen with a meekness designed to propitiate. Instant transformation in both Miss C. and Miss O., who gaze at them through screen with air of visitors at the Zoo who are not fond of animals.

First Mild Man (with apologetic cough). Oh, good-day! [Slight pause.

Miss Cross to Miss Orty (in continuation of an interrupted anecdote). Yes, I said it to him just like that—it made me so wild!

Miss Orty. I shouldn't have taken any notice if it had been me.

First M. M. Can you oblige me with six stamps, if you please?

[Miss Orty, without looking at him, opens drawer, tears off six stamps, and tosses them contemptuously underneath the screen.

Second Mild Man. Oh, I beg your pardon, I just called in to inquire—— (Miss C. and Miss O. regard him stonily, which has effect of disconcerting him to some extent). I—I ... there were some books I sent off by Parcels Post from this Office the other day ... you may remember it?—they were all in white wrappers. (Miss C. and Miss O. wear the resigned look of people who feel themselves in for a dull story.) Some of my friends, er—I have been given to understand, that two of the parcels have—well, failed to arrive as yet.... Could you kindly——

Miss O. to Miss C. (with lifted eyebrows). Know anything about the books?

Miss C. shakes her head in scornful repudiation, whereupon Miss Orty selects a printed form, which she jerks towards Second M. M. Fill up that, and send it in to the Postmaster-General.

Second M. M. But are you quite sure they have not been mislaid here? You see they are small books, and it struck me perhaps—er——

Miss O. Any remarks you have to make can be put in the form.

Second M. M. Quite so—but if you could only tell me——

Miss O. Can't do any more than I have done. (To First M. M.) I gave you your stamps some time ago, didn't I?

First M. M. Oh, yes—yes, I had the stamps, thank you. But—but (with manner of man who is compelled to enter on a painful subject) there was my change—I—I gave you half a sovereign.

Miss O. (with cold suspicion). Don't remember it. You should have spoke about it at the time—but of course, if you say you haven't had it—I suppose——

[Deals out his change as if it was more than he had any right to expect.

Second M. M. One moment—am I to leave this form with you?

Miss C. No. Send it to the General Post Office in the regular way—they'll attend to it. You'll find all the directions there if you take the trouble to look.

Second M. M. Thank you very much. Good morning.

[Miss C. and Miss O. naturally take no notice of this piece of familiarity, and Second M. M. departs crushed, and gradually realises that he is slightly annoyed.

Third M. M. (presenting a telegram). Will you send this off at once, please?

Miss Orty (takes the form, and runs a disparaging eye over it, rather as if it were an unwelcome love-letter from some detested adorer). "Post mortem's" two words.

Third M. M. I have no objection—but it's rather important. I want it delivered, and soon.

Miss O. You must put the address more full than "Rumbo," then.

Third M. M. But the telegraphic address is registered "Rumbo."

Miss O. (who seems to consider "Rumbo" somewhat too frivolous). Well, if you like to leave it so, I can send it—it's at your risk. (She leaves the form on the counter.) Eightpence-halfpenny.

Enter Footman, with parcel.

Footman. How much to pay on this, Miss, please?

[Miss Cross takes it reluctantly, slaps it down on scales with infinite contempt, flings in weights, and then tosses a stamp and label to Footman, with the brief remark, "Fourpence," spoken aggressively. Footman, after paying his fourpence, and gazing from stamp to label in a hopeless manner, opens his mouth twice, and withdraws, too intimidated to ask for further instructions.

Miss C. (still occupied with her anecdote). I should laugh if he came again next Sunday, just the same—shouldn't you?

Miss O. I'd let him see I wasn't going to put up with it, I know!

Miss C. Oh, he'll find out he won't have things all his way. (Perceives First M. M. evidently awaiting her leisure.) Was there anything else you were waiting for?

First M. M. Er—yes. Can you let me have a Postal Order for six-and-sixpence?

Miss C. (with decision). No, I can't!

First M. M. (surprised). But surely——!

Miss C. Give you two—one for five shillings, and one for eighteen-pence, if that will do?

First M. M. Of course, that's what I meant!

Miss Cross. It's not what you said—you said a order. (Makes out the orders with much disdain.) Three-halfpence to pay.

Second M. M. (returning). Oh, I quite forgot—will you kindly cash this order for me?

Miss O. Not till you've signed it.

Second M. M. Bless my heart, I quite forgot it ought to be signed! Could you oblige me with a pen for one moment?

Miss O. There's a desk over there for all that.

Second M. M. I—I thought if you would let me sign it here, it would save time—the desk is occupied at present I observe.

Miss O. (dabs a pen in the inkstand, and pushes it disdainfully through the wire net-work.) Give it back when you've finished with it.

[She is apparently alarmed lest it should be secured as a Souvenir.

Enter Imperious Customer, and approaches screen with lordly air.

Imperious Customer (blusterously). Here you—one of you, let me have a penny stamp, and a packet of thin post-cards, and two half-penny wrappers, will you? and look sharp!

Miss C. and Miss O. (becoming instantly all smiles.) Certainly, Sir. (They vie with one another in activity.) Postcards in that drawer ... I'll get the wrappers—ninepence-halfpenny, Sir, and thank you. Good morning, Sir.

[Exit Imperious Stranger snatching up his purchases and ignoring parting smiles from behind the screen. Mild Men store up the lesson for use on future occasions. Scene closes in.

How's That?

"The A B C of Cricket you must get,"

Says a great Critic, "if you would succeed."

Punch then presumes 'tis by that Alphabet

A Cricketer may learn to (Walter) Read!

Coins of the Realm.—'Arry remarks that the Tories are led by a "Bob" (Cecil), the Parnellites can boast the possession of a "Tanner," whilst the Liberal Unionists make the most of their "Joey."

On the Jar.—The French have a proverb, "il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée." This evidently does not apply to the Sublime Porte, which seems generally "neither one thing nor t' other."

It was settled at the last meet of the Coaching Club that Mr. Eaton, M.P., the new Peer, is to be crowned not with laurels, but with his own bays.

THE BARD AT HENLEY.

(A Reminiscence.)

Retirement after the Jubilee Fortnight.
"Far from the Madding Crowd."

Oh, Friday was lovely! The Bard who now sings

Saw Princes, Princesses, a Duke, and two Kings,

His Indian Highness, called Ras Kutch Thakore,

Nawab Gaffer Jung and several more.

They saw the best racing, then went to lunch with

The Closuring Commoner, our Mr. Smith.

'Twas Jubilee Weather! the Course was well kept!

Oh, champagne! and Oh, headache! I sighed—and then slept.

I awoke, to find all my companions gone,

And I, like the Rose, was left blooming alone.

So I plunged in the freshening stream—down, down, down

I dived, and I dived, then I came up—to town.

A Case against the Police.—This was Miss Case, who being arrested by a Constable, was Miss-taken for somebody else. Gallant Josephus Chamberlanius of the Orchid Squad has come to the rescue, and the "Matthews-at-Home" Secretary granted an inquiry. Before this paragraph appears, the Public may be in possession of the truth. Justice must be done, or the young woman may become Case-hardened. But whatever the result may be, the Magistrate should study and get by heart, Newton's Principia.

GARDEN, LANE, AND MARKET.

"Mr. G."—the upper G.—went to hear Puritani on Thursday night. Of course he called on Madame Albani, and sang a few of the songs just to give "Signor G." a hint. When the First Act was over, and the Closure was moved by the Act-drop descending, Mr. G. went into the Lobby, and voted with the Government of Covent Garden. Mr. G. was seen to be several times in animated conversation with Mr. Hall, who was decorated with a Covent Garden Order, and was wearing a Shirtcollerado Gladstonensis in his button-hole. It is, we believe, quite untrue that Mr. Hall has refused to take office—box office—in the next Liberal Cabinet; but whether he will be made an Extra Knight or not is still uncertain. Mr. Gye is very Earnest about it, and at present we can say no more except that the performance of I Puritani was first-rate, as naturally it would be, with Albani, enthusiastically received, Gayarré, and D'andrade. There were numerous encores, and the applause was bestowed with a warmth which increased the temperature considerably.

At Drury Lane.—A prettier and sweeter voiced Zerlina than Miss Arnoldson, has not been seen or heard for some time. We must not venture on comparisons, but in two respects Miss Arnoldson has the advantage over Madame Patti (who was singing in Traviata on Friday night at the Colonel's Opera House) but one of these is not voice. M. Maurel played and sang the im-Maurel Don Giovanni admirably, and Ciampi as Mazetto, looked and acted like Lionel Brough. A good performance.

"LONG EXPECTED COME AT LAST!"

The Imperial Institute has commenced. The first stone has been laid by Her Gracious Majesty, and the Prince of Wales is sanguine as to the result. The Institute is to be a House and Home, with gardens attached, for special use of our Indian and Colonial cousins visiting England, and it is also intended to keep perpetually before the eyes of the British Public specimens of Indian and Colonial industry. To so useful a scheme Mr. Punch wishes every success.

Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum,
Tendimus in—Kensington.

The subjoined list of the Procession as it ought to have been, was probably altered at the last moment; but there is no doubt it would have been effective as it stood, or rather as it moved on:—

Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A., drawing himself.

The Rajah of Shampooah, with Order of the Turkish Bath.

THE QUEEN.

Any Kings and Queens who may be left in Town.

Any number of Trumpeters blowing their own Trumpets.

Mr. Lewis Morris, with his Ode Colonial, accompanied by
Sir Arthur Sullivan, on a Grand Piano.

Right Hon. W. H. Smith, with banner of "Closure."

At a signal from the Archbishop the Chorus will strike up—

The great Imperial Institoot,

In Kensington has taken root,

And as a tree up may it shoot!

Our Institoot, Our Institoot!

Sir Arthur Sullivan was so overcome by this inspiration, that after reading it, he could not compose himself. "No," he exclaimed, "I cannot invent music which should be a worthy setting for so precious a gem! Give me something more simple," and so it came about that Mr. Lewis Morris's poem was chosen. Whether the above-quoted beautiful chorale was written by the Earl of R-ssl-n, whose little Jubilee volume of poems has so enchanted a select circle, or by another titled and unprofessional poet, is a secret which wild horses should not make us divulge. Hooray for the Institoot!

GETTING ONE'S MONEY'S WORTH.

She. "What's the good of spending all our Sunday Afternoons in walking round the Square, where there's never a Soul and hardly a Tree to speak of, and when there's the Park close by?"

He. "What's the good of having to pay a Guinea a Year for the use of the Square, if we don't use it as often as we can, I should like to know?"

THE NEW, AND BAD, "HATCH."

Mr. Punch loquitur:—

Well, Partlet, old hen, here's a pretty fiasco

The Poultry profession seems going to pot.

You might search the whole kingdom, from Greenwich to Glasgow,

And never encounter an uglier lot.

They're crooked, and cranky, and wry-neck'd, and lanky;

I cannot discover one point that is good.

What, join in your cackle of triumph? No, thankye!

We can't accept this as a Jubilee brood.

I did expect something a little bit better

From one some crack up as the pride of the House.

Of decentish broods you have been a begetter,

And, though you are dowdy, I thought you had nous.

But these scraggy scramblers, ill-fledged and ill-fashioned?

By Jingo, old bird, they're a perfect disgrace.

No wonder the public disgust grows impassioned;

They simply degrade a respectable race.

Just think of the beauties, the silver and gold chicks,

That often have left that identical coop!

I'm sure there's not one of those comely, plump, bold chicks

That would not despise this contemptible troop.

They look like the work of a villanous vamper.

Just take a glance at 'em, my Partlet, I beg;

They've too much top-hamper, they scarcely can scamper.

A shabbier brood, Partlet, never chipped egg.

Pray how do you think that the Fancy will class them,

So scraggy, and leggy, and bandy, and bald?

You'll find it most difficult, Partlet, to pass them;

In fact, 'tis a pity they can't be recalled.

I'm really ashamed of 'em; so, Ma'am, should you be.

The kindliest hen-wife would banish the batch.

What? Say one word for 'em? Now, don't be a booby:

You must be aware they're a precious Bad Hatch!

RALEIGH TOO BAD.

Sir Walter Raleigh's old house at Brixton Rise, Punch hears, "is about to be sold by public auction", and the surrounding twelve acres of "nobly-timbered park", given over—of course, like so much else in that once leafy suburb—to the untender mercies of the Jerry Builder. Too bad! In the olden days, Queen Bess used to be rowed in her barge up the Effra (which now, like the Mole, "runneth underground", hidden by earth and brickwork, but, not long since, was a visible stream) to visit Sir Walter at what was then his Country House. There were no Interviewers in those happy days, else would a "Sir Walter Raleigh At Home", with "Gloriana" as his guest, be toothsome reading. And shall Jugson, the Jerry-builder, with his mud-bricks and slime-mortar, his warped timber and his peeling stucco, banish even the memories of the great Elizabethans from their ancient haunts? Forbid it, O Spirit of the Jubilee Year! Let the Jubilators Raleigh—we mean rally, round Raleigh's old Mansion,—

"Let not his house who witched Old England's eyes

Before base Jugson fall on Brixton Rise."

Ben Trovato Again.—When the Papal Envoy arrived, His Eminence had several mansions placed at his disposal. The one he fancied most was that offered by Mr. H. Labouchere, M.P., with the appropriate designation of "Pope's Villa, Twickenham."

A Hard-worked Official.

Lord Chamberlain Lathom, exhausted is he

After this season of Jubilee.

"Farewell to my cares at holiday-tide,"

Says Lathom aloud, when he'll lay them aside.

As to the Mission of Monsignor Persico to Ireland, an Horatian Nationalist wrote—"Persico's odi." And he probably does dislike it.

THE NEW "HATCH."

Mr. P. "AH! THEY'RE AN AWFULLY UGLY LOT! I DID THINK THE OLD GAUCHE-HEN—(AHEM!)—WOULD HA' DONE BETTER THAN THAT!!"

[Exit sadly.]

THE LAST VISIT (BUT ONE) TO THE ACADEMY.

A grand flare-up on Thursday last. A Jubilee Soirée worthy of the Jubilee Year and the Royal Academicians. Kings, Queens, Royal Highnesses, Grand Dukes and Duchesses have become so common this Jubilee month, that, when some blasé and well-seasoned Londoner is asked who such and such a decorated person is, he languidly replies, "Oh! only a King, or something of that sort."

There was a private Royal Night on Wednesday, when only Royalty and The Forty R.A.'s were present,—"The Forty" did something in the oil and colour line, as we gather from The Arabian Nights, revised edition, by Lady Burton,—and, of course, Mr. Punch, who is everywhere on every occasion, and who, in a general way, represents H.R.H. Everybody.