It is unnecessary to go through the details of our marvellous escape
from the lowest dungeon of the royal Palace of SURVAN TSAUL, where for
months we were immured on a constant diet of suet pudding. Of course
we did escape, but only after killing ten thousand Mariannakookas,
and then swimming for a mile in their blood. COODENT brought with him
a very pretty _Skulrimehd_ who had grown attached to him, but she
drooped and pined away after he lost his false teeth in crossing a
river, and tried to replace them with orange-peel, a trick he had
learnt at school. Sir HENRY's fight with She-who-will-never-Obey is
still remembered. He will carry the marks of her nails on his cheeks
to his grave. I myself am tired of wandering. "_Home, Sweet Home_," as
the _Bab Ballads_ have it, is the place for me.
THE END.
* * * * *
AN UNREHEARSED EFFECT.
(_BY OUR OWN RECITER._)
[Illustration]
I went to see the Pantomime this Christmas in our town.
We laughed enough the opening night to bring the theatre down.
The piece was _Burleybumbo_, _the Old Giant, and his Men_;
_Fairy Starlight, Little Popsey, and the Demon of the Glen_.
The Supers were collected from the local talent round,
And for _Burleybumbo's_ servant the Blacksmith, JOHN, they found;
A stalwart varlet was required to carry off his foes
To Burleybumbo Castle, where he ate them as he chose.
His minions, who wore hideous masks, had nothing much to say,
So an IRVING was not wanted to do their part of the play.
On this eventful night the house was packed from roof to pit,
And the Manager was jubilant at having made a hit.
The Curtain drawing slowly up, revealed a flowery glade,
In which the _Fairy Starlight_ and her lovely maidens played.
The wicked Demon then came on, and round the stage did glower;
No mortal man could e'er withstand his wrath or evil power.
Last of all came _Burleybumbo_ with his crew, a motley horde,
Our old friend, Blacksmith JOHN, was in attendance on his lord.
They were singing and carousing, when a man rushed in to say
That a dozen wealthy travellers were coming down that way.
The band dispersed, and hid themselves, in hopes that they might plunder
The unsuspecting wayfarers. Alas! now came the blunder:
Old JOHN he wouldn't hide himself, but coolly walked about
Advancing to the footlights, he looked around--but hark! a shout:--
"Confound you! Dash my--! Just come off! Hi, you! Who are you? JOHN!"
"Not if I knowsh it, jolly old pal! I've only just come on!"
Thus saying, he lumbered round the stage. The Prompter's heart had sunk:
No doubt about the matter--_Burleybumbo's_ man is drunk!
"Come off! Come off!" from every wing was now the angry cry.
"Me off, indeed! Oh, would yer? Sh'like to see the feller try!"
_Burleybumbo_ then appeared, and vainly tried to drag him back.
JOHN stove his pasteboard head in with a most refreshing crack.
The wicked Demon now rushed on; his supernatural might
Was very little use to him on this surprising night.
He tried to push him down the glade, but here again JOHN sold him;
He caught the Demon round the waist, and at the Prompter bowled him.
Ah! such a shindy ne'er was seen, such riot and such rage--
It was the finest "rally" ever seen on any stage!
'Mid shrieks and cat-calls, whistles shrill, hysterics and guffaws,
They rang the Curtain down amidst uproarious applause.
The piece is still a great success; but, I regret to say,
JOHN's name appears no longer in the bills of that fine play!
* * * * *
NOT INSIDE OUT.
Fair Maiden, you're looking a vision of beauty,
You may comfort yourself you've no rival to fear;
But you won't take it ill if I feel it my duty
To whisper a word of advice in your ear.
Now, the word would be this--when the daylight is dawning,
Or, at any rate, when it's more early than late,
Pray remember the coachman, who, fitfully yawning
Outside in the street, finds it weary to wait.
You reck not at all of the hours that are fleeting,
You ask for an "extra"--you can't be denied.
But though, doubtless, soft nothings may set your heart beating,
Yet they're awfully cold for the people outside.
Want of thought, not of heart, is the reason as ever,
So if you find leisure to read through this rhyme,
When you order your carriage, in future endeavour
To prevent any waiting--by being in time,
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Publisher of _The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine_, earnestly
requests the reviewer, appealing to his heart in the reddest of red
ink, on a slip of paper pasted on to the cover of the Magazine, not
to extract and quote more than one column of "Talleyrand's Memoirs,"
which appear in this number for January. The Publisher of the
_C.I.M.M._ does not appeal personally to the Baron--who is now
the last, bar one, of the Barons, and that bar one is one at the
Bar,--but, for all that, the Baron hereby and hereon takes his
solummest Half-a-Davey or his entire Davey, that he will not write,
engrave, or represent, or cause to be, &c, for purposes of quotation,
one single word, much less line, of _Tallyho_--beg pardon, of
_Talleyrand_,--extracts from whose memoirs are now appearing in the
aforesaid _C.I.M.M._ But all he will say at present is this, that,
if the secret and private Memoirs haven't got in them anything more
thrilling or startling, or out of the merest common-place, than
appears in this number of the _C.I.M.M._, then the Baron will say that
he would prefer reading such contributions as M. de BLOWITZ's story of
"How he became a Special," or _The Pigmies of the African Forest_ by
HENRY M. STANLEY in the same number of this Mag.
[Illustration]
What the Baron dearly loves is, ELLIOT STOCK-IN-TRADE _The Book-worm_,
always most interesting to Book-worms, and almost as interesting to
Book-grubs or Book-butterflies. By the way, the publishing office of
_The Book-worm_ ought to be in Grub Street. For what sort of fish is
_The Book-worm_ an attractive bait? I suppose there are queer fish in
the Old Book trade that can take in any number of Book-worms, as is
shown from a modern instance, well and wisely commented upon in this
very number for January, No. 38, which is excellent food for worms;
the whole series, indeed, must be a very Diet of Worms. Success to
the _Book-worm_! May it grow to double the size, and be a glow-worm,
to enlighten us in the bye-paths of literature. "_Prosit!_" says the
Baron.
I would that some one would write of BROWNING's work as HENRY VAN DYKE
has written of TENNYSON's. To the superficial and cursory reader of
the Laureate, the Baron, sitting by the fire on a winter's night, the
wind howling over the sea, and the snow drifting against the window,
and being chucked in handfuls down the chimney, and frizzling on the
fire, says, get this book, published by ELKIN MATHEWS: _ça donne
à penser_, and this is its great merit. "Come into the Garden,
Maud"--no, thank you, not to-night; but give me my shepherd's pipe,
with the fragrant bird's-eye in it, with [Greek: ton grogon], while I
sit by the cheerful fire, in the best of good company--my books.
Our Mr. GRIFFITHES (CHESTER, MAYHEW, BROOME, AND GRIFFITHES) has been
all the way _From Bedford Row to Swazieland_, and has written a lively
narrative of his perilous journey. He went on a professional retainer.
You don't catch Bedford Row in Swazieland on other terms. Being there,
he kept his eyes open, saw a good deal, and describes his impressions
in racy fashion. He did not like the coffee served _en route_, and
was disappointed with the Southern Cross; but on the whole enjoyed
the trip. One would naturally expect that the price of his book would
be six-and-eight-pence, or, regarding it in the form of a letter,
three-and-fourpence, but BRADBURY, AGNEW, & Co. issue it at a
shilling.
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
_Our Artist_. "WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE THE PORTRAITS, MISS BUNNY? THE
SITTERS ARE ALL OLD FRIENDS OF YOURS, I BELIEVE?"
_Miss Bunny_ (_triumphantly_). "YES; AND, ONLY THINK, I'VE ACTUALLY
MANAGED TO GUESS THEM ALL!"]
* * * * *
ARBITRATION.
_Seal, suddenly emerging, loquitur_:--
Belay, you two lubbers, avast there! avast there!
What signifies squalling and squabbling?
You're both argufying a good bit too fast there,
Whilst that which you stand on seems wobbling.
You'll be in a mess, Messmates, shortly, the pair of you.
Give _me_ a thought in the matter!
_My_ interest's at stake, and it isn't quite fair of you
Me to ignore 'midst your clatter.
If 'twere not for me, Mates, this cold Behring's Sea, Mates,
Would hardly strike you as so tempting.
Do grant your poor prey, if I may make so free, Mates,
From slaughter some annual exempting!
I'm worried and walloped without intermission
Until even family duties
Quite fail, whilst your countrymen cudgel and fish on.
By Jingo, some of 'em are beauties!
My poor wife and children have not half a chance, Mates.
That's not to your interest, I reckon.
Cease shindy, and on a new course make advance, Mates,
Where sense and humanity beckon.
There's not much of either in cruelly clubbing
My progeny all out of season;
And if you are bent upon mutual drubbing,
You must quite have parted with reason.
_Mare clausum_, be blowed! That's all BLAINE's big bow-wow, Mates.
Men can't thus monopolise oceans.
Diplomacy _must_ find a compromise now, Mates,
And, well--I have told you _my_ notions.
Give me a close-time,--I shall be very grateful--
And leave the Sea open! What more, Mates?
For brothers like you to be huffing, is hateful.
Be friends, think of me, and--_bong swor_, Mates!
[_Dives under._
* * * * *
UP-TO-TIME TABLE, FROM THE NORTH.
| Morning | Mineral | General |Traffic and|
| Fast. |and Parl.| Express.|Even. Mail.|
---------------------+---------+---------+---------+-----------+
Edinburgh \ |7 A.M. to|11 A.M. A| Noon F | 9 P.M. L |
(Waverley Station)/ | 9.30 | | | |
Carlisle | 12.15 | ... | ... | ... |
Hawick | 4.30 | B | ... | ... |
Galashiels | 9.45 | ... | 2.15 G | 1 A.M. M |
/ | 1 P.M. | | | |
Motherwell < |(Stopped | 4 P.M. C| 3.19 H | 3.20 N |
\ |by riot) | | | |
St. Margaret's Works | 3.30 | 5 D | ... | ... |
Perth |9.45 A.M.| ... | 11.26 I | ... |
Glasgow |12.30P.M.| ... | ... | ... |
Aberfeldy | 6.13 | ... | ... | ... |
Dundee |1.12 A.M.|3A.M.to 9| ... | ... |
Inverness | 9.23 | ... | 3.5 J | ... |
Aberdeen | 11.6 |7 P.M.? E|1 A.M. K | O |
---------------------+---------+---------+---------+-----------+
A--Takes delayed pig-iron and third-class passengers. B--Half of
train stops here through breaking an axle-pin. C--Passengers, for
protection, get under seats of carriages. D--Stops for repairs.
E--Having had a collision at the junction for Aberfeldy, will come on,
if there are any passengers equal to finishing the journey.
F--Starts under the management of a Director, and, owing to a
misunderstanding, dashes off to Aberdeen, without stopping. G--Doesn't
stop, but knocks over a station-master. H--Is pelted as it tears
through the station by _ex-employés_. I--Knocks over another
station-master. J--Meets a pilot-engine, which it splits in half.
K--Goes at full speed through the end of the terminus, depositing the
passengers in a heap in the middle of the town.
L--Train starts, made up of horse-boxes and luggage-vans full of three
weeks' arrears of parcels, first-class carriages, Post-office van,
fifty coal-trucks, and a wild beast show, the Directors wishing
to make up for lost time. M--Train breaking down here, mail and
passengers only forwarded. N--Train attacked by rioters. Pitched
battle with the passengers. O--Telegram from Motherwell saying, that
owing to police intervention, train starts the day after to-morrow.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ARBITRATION.
THE SEAL. "BELAY, YOU TWO JOHNNIES!--AVAST QUARRELLING! GIVE ME A
'CLOSE-TIME,' AND LEAVE THE 'SEA' AN OPEN QUESTION."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHOCKING!
_Fair New-Englander_ (_spending the Winter in the Old Country_). "OH,
WHAT A LOVE! AND IS IT THE FIRST YOU HAVE SHOT THIS YEAR, CAPTAIN
RASPER?"]
* * * * *
TOO CIVIL BY HALF; OR, PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.
(_A DRAMA FOUNDED--MORE OR LESS--UPON FACTS._)
ACT I.--"PAST."--_Interior of the Savings Bank Department of
the G.P.O. Employés engaged upon their work. The hour for
customary cessation of labour strikes._
_Official of a Higher Grade_. Officers and Gentlemen, the exigencies
of the Public Service require your presence for some time longer. I
beg you to continue your work.
_A Hundred Employés_. Never! (_Aside._) Ha! ha! the employment of
Female Clerks is avenged!
_Off._ (_almost in tears_). Reconsider your decision, I beg--I
implore!
_Another Hundred Employés_. Never! (_Aside._) Seven hours a day and no
longer--shall be secured at one fell swoop!
_Off._ (_with indescribable emotion_). Oh, my country! Oh, my Savings
Bank Depositors! Oh, my dignity of the Civil Service!
[_Faints in the arms of faithful Employés, whilst the other
Clerks defiantly depart. Tableau._
ACT II.--"PRESENT."--_Magnificent apartments of the
P.-M.-Gen. in the G.P.O. Deputation of contrite Employés
listening to the eloquent speech of their Official Chief._
_P.M.G._ (_in effect_). I am delighted that you are such good fellows.
Your conduct in owning that you were wrong in refusing to work after
regular official hours, almost effaces a painful page in the history
of St. Martin's-le-Grand. Let it be clearly understood that extra work
is _not_ compulsory, _but_, if _not_ undertaken, may lead (as in the
present instance) to immediate suspension, if not dismissal. Surely
no one can object to that? (_Contrite Officials express mournful
approval._) And now good-bye, and A Happy New Year. As for the
future--hope, my good friends, hope!
[_Exeunt the contrite Employés, leaving the Officials of a
Higher Grade agitating the nerves controlling their eyelids
spasmodically._
ACT III.--"FUTURE."--_Same Scene as Act I. Venerable Employés
discovered, after twenty years' further service._
_First Venerable Employé_. Remember the words spoken a score of
winters ago--Hope, brother, hope!
_Second Venerable Employé_. Yes--Hope, brother, hope!
[_As the Scene closes, the entire Establishment are left
continuing the self-sustaining, but rather profitless
employment, indefinitely. Curtain._
* * * * *
_A Son of the Pool_. By the Author of _A Daughter of the Pyramids_.
* * * * *
CHARLES KEENE
BORN AUGUST 10, 1823. DIED JANUARY 4, 1891.
What words avail to honour friends departed,
Gone from the gatherings which so long they graced?
What phrase seems fit when comrades loyal-hearted
Mourn a loved presence late by death displaced?
No formal elegiacs fashioned coldly,
Beseem the memory of that manly soul,
Whose simple, downright spirit trod so boldly
Life's most sequestered ways from start to goal.
Not rank's trim pleasaunce, nor parades of fashion
Tempted his genius; his the great highway
Where, free from courtly pride and modish passion,
Toil tramps, free humours crowd, rough wastrels stray.
Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly,
Fixing for ever on his chosen page
In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly
The crowded pageant of a passing age.
What an array! How varied a procession!
The humours of the parlour, shop, and street;
Philistia's every calling, craft, profession,
Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.
Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery,
Waiterdom's wiles, Deacondom's pomp of port;
Rustic simplicity, domestic drollery,
The freaks of Service and the fun of Sport;
And all with such true art, so fine, unfailing,
Of touch so certain, and of charm so fresh,
As to lend dignity to Cabmen railing,
To fustianed clods and fogies full of flesh.
Nor human humours only; who so tender
Of touch when sunny Nature out-of-doors
Wooed his deft pencil? Who like him could render
Meadow or hedgerow, turnip-field, or moor?
Snowy perspective, long suburban winding
Of bowery road-way, villa-edged and trim.
Iron-railed city street, where gas-lamps blinding
Glare through the foggy distance dense and dim?
All with that broad free force, whose fascination
All felt, and artists most, that dexterous sleight
Which gave our land the unchallenged consummation
Of graphic mastery in Black-and-White.
Pleasant to dwell on, and a proud possession,
Now the tired hand that shaped that world is still,
Leaving an ineffaceable impression
Upon the age that fired its force and skill.
Honoured abroad as loved at home, how ample,
The tribute to that modest spirit paid!
To pushing quackery a high example,
A calm rebuke to egotist parade!
Frank, loyal, unobtrusive, simple-hearted,
Loving his book, his pipe, his song, his friend,
Peaceful he lived and peacefully departed,
A gentle life-course, with a gracious end.
Irreparable loss to Art, deep sorrow
To those his comrades, who so loved the man,
And who had hoped for many a sunny morrow
To greet that gallant spirit in the van.
That tall, spare form, that curl-crowned head, the knitting
Of supple hands behind it as he sat,
That quaint face-wrinkling smile like sunshine flitting,
The droll, dry comment, the quotation pat;
The small oft-loaded pipe, of ancient moulding,
The brazen box that held the well-loved weed;
Who shall forget who once was graced by holding
In friendship's clasp the hand now still indeed?
Farewell, great artist, comrade staunch and loyal!
Few simpler lives our feverish age hath seen.
Could pomp high-pinnacled, or trappings royal,
Add honour to the memory of CHARLES KEENE?
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOBLIN TRANSFORMATION SCENE FROM THE IRISH EXTRAVAGANZA
OF THE O'RIP VAN WINKLE.
_Where the Home-Ruler of Butt's time awakes to find all the would-be
dic-taters suddenly become mere mushrooms._]
* * * * *
THE SHAH (LEFEVRE) AND THE SULTAN.
[Illustration]
Over a series of weeks preceding Christmas, Europe was disturbed by
rumours of a momentous interview reported to have taken place on
the banks of the unsuspecting Bosphorus. One of the parties to the
conference was his Imperial Majesty the SULTAN. The other was an
English Statesman, the trusted counsellor of an Ex-Premier, and
believed in family circles to be the real author of some of his
supreme measures. The naturally retiring disposition of the Statesman
in question, and his inviolable reticence in respect of any matter
concerning himself, made it difficult to arrive at the truth.
Doubtless the stupendous event--the possible consequences of which
on European affairs Time will work out--would have remained for ever
hidden but for the ruthless action of "the London Correspondents of
various provincial papers, who gave in their London letters more or
less inaccurate reports of the event." How they came to know anything
about it admits of only one conclusion. _The SULTAN must have told
them_. The event was too important to be left to this haphazard kind
of record, and, accordingly, the _Speaker_ has been favoured with a
narrative of what took place, the signature disclosing the fact that
the other party to the interview was the SHAH LEFEVRE.
The SHAH's account, regarded as a record of a historical event,
is manifestly hampered by that modest and insatiable desire for
self-effacement which marks this eminent man. We see anonymous
"persons who had access to the SULTAN approaching" the SHAH, and
"suggesting to him that he ought to apply for an audience." We see him
"declining to do so on the ground that, having taken an active part in
the agitation in England on the subject of the Bulgarian atrocities
in 1877, it would not be right that I should thrust myself on the
attention of the SULTAN." It is generally thought at Stamboul and
elsewhere that Mr. GLADSTONE was chiefly responsible for the memorable
agitation referred to. But the SHAH is not the man to hide the truth.
Also, "I wished to be free to say what I thought about the condition
of Turkey on my return to England." That was only fair to waiting
England. No use the SULTAN trying to "nobble" this relentless man. So
it came to pass that he went to the Palace, reluctant, but "feeling we
could not refuse such a command from the Sovereign of the country."
He talked with CHAKIR PACHA and WAHAN EFFENDI; saw the SULTAN's horse;
hung about for hours; no SULTAN appeared; went back to hotel quivering
under the insult. Had framed telegram ordering the British Fleet to
the Bosphorus, when VAMBÉRY turned up, pale and trembling; besought
the SHAH to do nothing rash; explained it was all a mistake. This
followed up by invitation to dine at the Palace the following day.
All this, and what followed at the dinner; how there were "excellent
wines, electric lights, and a great display of plate"; how the
SULTAN, concentrating his attention on the SHAH, and forgetful of poor
FREDERICK HARRISON, who had, somehow, been elbowed into obscurity,
paid court to this powerful personality; how he received him on the
daïs, and now cunningly, though ineffectually, he endeavoured to
secure on the spot the evacuation of Egypt, is told in the SHAH'S
delicious narrative.
_Mr. Punch_, sharing in the thrilling interest this disclosure has
created throughout the civilised world, has been anxious to complete
the record by supplementing the SHAH's account of the interview,
with the SULTAN's own version. This was, at the outset, difficult.
Obstacles were thrown in the way, but they were overcome by the
pertinacity and ingenuity of Our Representative, who at last found
himself seated with the SULTAN on the very daïs from which SHAH
LEFEVRE had conferred with his Imperial Majesty whilst other of the
forty guests, "including the Austrian Ambassador," looked on, green
with envy.
"It's a curious thing," said the SULTAN, laying down a book he had
been reading when Our Representative entered, "that, when you were
announced, I had just come upon a reference by your great Poet to your
still greater Statesman. You know the line in Lockandkey Hall,--
"'Oh the dreary, drear LEFEVRE! Oh the barren, barren SHAW!'"
"That," Our Representative writes, "is not precisely the line as I
remember it; but I make it a rule never to correct a SULTAN."
Accordingly His Majesty proceeded: "And so, my good Cousin, _Mr.
Punch_, wants to know all about this interview, the _bruit_ of which
has shaken the Universe. His wishes are commands to me. In the first
place, I will tell you (though this is not for publication), that it
was by the merest accident I had the advantage of knowing your great
countryman. I heard there had come to Constantinople one FREDERICK
HARRISON, head of a sect called the Positivists. I am, you know, in
my way, and within the limits of my kingdom, one of the most absolute
Positivists of the age. I wanted to see the English apostle, and told
them to ask him to dinner. Somehow things got mixed up, and, at the
preliminary morning call, the SHAH LEFEVRE walked in. Had never heard
of him before, but gathered from CHAKIR PACHA, who had been talking to
WAHAN EFFENDI, who, had seen WOODS PACHA, who had spent an hour with
VAMBÉRY, upon whom SHAH LEFEVRE had called, that the SHAH was really
the mainspring of the Liberal Party in England, GLADSTONE being merely
figure-head, HARCOURT in his pay, and CHAMBERLAIN suffering in exile
under his displeasure. Allah is Good! Here was a chance thrown into
my hands. I forgot all about FREDERICK HARRISON; told CHAKIR PACHA and
WAHAN EFFENDI to entertain the SHAH in the ante-chamber with coffee
and cigarettes, drawing him out on Armenia and Egypt. Meanwhile I
crept under the sofa, and heard every word. The SHAH very stern about
Armenia, could not be drawn about Egypt. At end of hour and half
began to get tired under sofa; managed to stick in WAHAN EFFENDI's
Wellington boot a note, on which I had written, 'Take him to see my
horse.' So they went off to stable, and, as soon as coast was clear,
I crept out; shut myself up in room for rest of day. Heard afterwards
that they came back, the SHAH much impressed with appearance of my
horse; resumed conversation on Armenia and Egypt for another hour; at
last got rid of SHAH.
"At night VAMBÉRY, disguised as melon-seller, entered Palace and
gained access to my room. Told me fearful mess had been made of
matters. The SHAH really didn't care about seeing the horse; wanted
to see me. Talks about ordering round the Fleet. 'Better ask him to
dinner,' said VAMBÉRY; so despatched Grand Chamberlain in carriage and
six. The SHAH mollified; gave him a good dinner: plenty of electric
lights. Afterwards he was good enough to see me on the daïs. Tried
to get him to promise alteration in attitude of English Liberal Party
towards me; also wanted him to settle at once withdrawal of troops
from Egypt, But, though most urbane in manner, exceedingly cautious.
Not to be drawn. Talk about Eastern statecraft! nothing to you
English, as represented by jour SHAH LEFEVRES. When I pressed him
to come to point about Egypt, he said, 'On this subject I can only
speak my own views. I am not authorised to speak on behalf of those
I am politically associated with, but personally I am opposed to the
occupation of Egypt by English troops.' There's an answer for you!
Your MACHIAVELLIS, your TALLEYRANDS not in it. Felt I had wasted some
time, and given away a dinner all for nothing, except the memory
that will ever rest with me of having been privileged to see this
remarkable man standing on my daïs."
Here the SULTAN clapped his hands three times, and Our Representative,
being carefully placed in a sack, was dropped into the Bosphorus,
whence he was rescued in time to send off this despatch for
publication in the current Number.
* * * * *
ACCIDENT ON THE ICE.--The other day a gentleman, well known in the
world of Sport and Art, was skating on the Serpentine, and fell in
with a friend. Both were getting on well when our reporter left.
* * * * *
EXTRACT FROM REPORT OF THE G.O.M.'S BIRTHDAY SPEECH AT HAWARDEN:--
[Illustration: _G.O.M._ (_to himself_). "I hope Lawson isn't looking
at me."]
"And I do not hesitate to betray to you this secret, that not
infrequently in the summer months, when winding my way homewards after
midnight, sometimes very long after it, from the House of Commons,
I have stopped my course for a moment by the side of the drinking
fountain in Great George Street, Westminster, when there was nobody
to look at me, and have indulged in the refreshing draught which was
there afforded me, feeling at the same time that I was not performing
any action which could expose me to the resentment or displeasure of
my excellent friend whose name is well known to you all--Sir WILFRID
LAWSON."
* * * * *
I'D BE A CRIMINAL.
A SONG OF THE RULING SENSATION.
TUNE--_I'D BE A BUTTERFLY_.
I'd be a criminal, born in a slum,
Where refuse, and rowdies, and raggedness meet;
For when to the court for my trial I come,
I'll be gazed on by all that is gracious and sweet.
Fair dames of the land will acknowledge my power,
And Scientists sage will be slaves at my feet;
Offers of marriage I'll get in full shower,
And fools in my cause in their thousands will meet.
They'll trot out each new "scientific" vagary,
Some hope of escape to my prison to bring,
And scribes on my case will be sportive and airy
And tell how I look, eat, sleep, dress, talk or sing.
Those I have butchered will get scant attention,
Interest's sure to be centred in me.
Painters will picture me, poets may mention,
Beauties discuss me at five o'clock tea.
Mad doctors will fight o'er my mental condition,
Hypnotists swear I was somebody's tool;
And if I'm condemned, why a Monster Petition
Will promptly be signed by each faddist and fool.
Murder--and good Dr. LIÈGOIS of Nancy
Will back you, LABRUYÈRE will help you away.
I'd be a Murderer, that is my fancy,
He is the only true Hero to-day!
* * * * *
THE AMUSING RATTLE'S TOPICAL NOTEBOOK.
(_FOR THE USE OF DINERS-OUT AND OTHER AMATEUR ENTERTAINERS._)
_The Strike in Scotland_.--You might suggest, that were it in Ireland,
one might see a _rail_ way out of it, or rather in it. This jest may
be expected to be appreciated by a parson's wife of the sharper sort.
Something ought to be got out of the visit of the agitator BURNS to
the North. Example of what can be done in this direction:--"People
who play with fire (persons who go in for strikes) must expect BURNS."
However, be careful not to say this to a Scotchman, or he may want
your blood before you get to the cigarettes. North Britons are very
jealous of the reputation of their national poet, and permit no
jokes upon the subject. You see, in letting off your witticism at
a Scotchman, you would have to explain that it _was_ a joke. You
might also hint that it was "hard lines" for the Railway Companies
concerned; but this will provoke gloom rather than gaiety amongst
those who have invested in Caledonians and North British. If you talk
about the riots in connection with the movement, you might say that
the pugnacious rioters remind you of safety matches, "for they not
only strike, but strike on the box!"
_The Parnell Negociations in France_.--You can say something about
O'BRIEN's invitation to Mr. PARNELL to pay him an evening visit on
the French coast, reminds you of the once popular song, "_Meet me
by Moonlight, Boulogne_." If you are told that "Boulogne" should be
"Alone," return, "Precisely--borrowed a word--Boulogne was a loan."
This ought to go with roars. At a Smoking Concert you might suggest
that Mr. O'BRIEN was just the man to settle a quarrel, because even
when he was in prison he took an absorbing interest in _the proper
adjustment of breeches_!
_The Row at the Post Office_.--As the Savings' Bank Department has for
years been the Cinderella of the Civil Service, this is a subject that
will not create much interest; however, you might possibly extract
a pleasantry out of the name of the present Postmaster-General in
connection with the now-appeased _employés_. With a little trouble
you should be able to say something quite sparkling about what the
"officers" _hoe_ to _Raikes_!
_The Portuguese Difficulty in Africa_.--Rather a good subject at
a Christmas Dinner, where relatives (on particularly affectionate
and intimate terms) are gathered together. Say you have got to the
dessert, and you start the subject. Observe that it is fortunate that
the SULTAN OF TURKEY is not interested in the matter, or there would
be further trouble of a like character. To the question, "Why?" reply,
taking up a bottle of red wine to point your witticism, "would it not
be a second difficulty with the _Porte, you geese_?" To make the jest
perfect, connect Turkey in Europe with the _dindon aux marrons_, of
which you will have just partaken.
_The Weather_.--If forced to fall back upon this venerable subject
(which should only be broached in the wilds of Cornwall, or other
equally primitive spots), of course you can speak of a hard frost
being "_an ice_ day for a hunting-man, although he is sure to swear at
it." If the weather breaks, you may observe, "_You thaw so_," but not
when you have to shout the quibble through the ear-trumpet of a deaf
old maid. And this, with the other witticisms recorded above, should
carry you (by desire) into the middle of next week.
* * * * *
A DEADLY KISS.--The Hotch-kiss.
* * * * *
A PANTOMIMIC REVERIE.
(_BY A "SLIPPERED PANTALOON."_)
[Illustration]
Tax-gatherers molest one's door,
The streets are choked with messy mist;
I'm the proverbial Bachelor,
An old, prosaic Pessimist.
Yet somehow--who can tell me why?--
Urged by the Past's dim Phantom, I'm
Disposed my cosy Club to fly,
And prank it at the Pantomime.
A Phantom weird of things forgot!
My mother, proud of me at her
Sweet side--our yellow chariot--
The long, long drive--the theatre--
My fear to miss--my thrill when in--
The Fairy Queen, the jolly King--
The laughter flung at Harlequin,
And Pantaloon arollicking.
And sister PRUE, and brother TIM,
(I scarcely recollected them),
Magnificent in gala trim:
Dear me, how I respected them!
I deemed them quite grown up, so bold
Seemed they, glared so defiantly:
Yet they, too, cowered to behold
Prone before JACK the Giant lie.
Yes! Where is TIM, where PRUE, alack!
Where mother fondly pliant now?
Where for that matter too is JACK,
And where the grisly Giant now?
In lonely stall, with vacant brow
I sit and eye the _coryphées_:
In my time they were Fairies; now
They seem to me but sorry fays.
The pageantry is twice as grand,
The wealth of wealth embarrasses;
And yet this is not elfinland
But great AUGUSTUS HARRIS's.
The _blasé_ children vote it flat,
When Mister Clown cries, "Here's a go!"
Yes, there's the box where erst we sat
And laughed so, sixty years ago.
The very box: I think, you know,
The reason I'm so queer to-night
Is merely because long ago
Here faces were not here to-night.
I'd best be off--Bless me! no Clown?
No Stage?--no Past invidious?
No Orchestra?--but simply BROWN
Snoring the midnight hideous!
No Drury Lane?--no tinsel flare?--
No pirouetting Bogeydom?--
Only a Club, and one who there
Forgot in sleep his Fogeydom!
Welcome my Transformation Scene;
I'm dull once more, and every
Old Bachelor like me, I ween,
May muse at times his reverie.
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.