*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12738 ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 99.



November 29, 1890.




MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

NO. VIII--JONNIE.

    (_Par_ DICK DODY, _Auteur de "Le Nabab Boffin-Newcome,"
    "Madame de Marneffe Jeune et Rawdon Crawley Commerçant,"
    "Trente Ans à prendre mon bien partout," "La Lie de mon
    Encrier," "Raclure des Petits Journaux," &c, &c._)

I.--LE HIGLIFE SCOLASTIQUE.

Le recteur regardait avec un air égrillard le museau chiffonné de la
jolie Madame COPPERFIELD, qui désirait lui confier son petit garçon
comme élève dans l'institution la plus distinguée de tout Paris, une
maison où chaque enfant devait apporter dans sa petite malle trois
couverts en vermeille, et un trousseau de six douzaines de chemises
en batiste fine; une maison où les extras, les vin d'oporto, les
beef-tea, les sandwich, souvent dépassaient la pension.

"Voyons, ma belle dame," dit le recteur, "comment s'appelle-t'il--ce
petit mome--pardon--ce cher enfant?"

"DOMBEY, Monsieur, JONNIE DOMBEY. JONNIE sans l'H."

"Il est noble?"

"Mais, non, Monsieur. Son père était banquier, financier, que sais-je!
Il faisait des affaires énormes--gigantesques! Il regardait les
ROTHSCHILD comme de nouveaux venus--il--" et la gentille petite
COPPERFIELD se perdait dans un labyrinthe de phrases, et se réfugiait
dans une énorme houppe à poudre-Sarah, qu'elle portait toujours dans
son manchon.

[Illustration: JACK CUIVRECHAMP SE FAIT RECONNAITRE PAR MLLE.
ELISABETH TROTTEBOIS.]

"Mais il n'était pas noble," dit le recteur, avec dureté; "je
regrette fort, Madame, de ne pouvoir accepter votre petit gosse--votre
fils--comme élève; mais cette institution scolastique est des plus
_fashionables_ de Paris. Si vous aviez une petite couronne de Marquise
sur votre carte de visite, si vous étiez descendue d'une voiture
blasonnée aux chevaux fringants, avec cocher en perruque spun-glass,
mes bras de père spirituel se seraient ouverts avec effusion pour
accueillir cet enfant. Mais vous portez sur votre oarte un nom
suspect, et vous êtes arrivée en voiture de place. Ainsi avec la
plus haute considération je dois vous prier de prendre la peine
de débarrasser le plancher. Adieu, mon petit bonhomme. Tu as l'air
scrofuleux mais charmant."

Madame COPPERFIELD, qui était entrée comme Zéphire partit comme Borée.
Sa robe de soie faisait un frou-frou prodigieux dans le vestibule.
Elle monta dans la voiture au cheval étique, aux coussins moisis,
tirant le petit JONNIE avec une violence hystérique.

"Parceque tu n'est pas fils de Marquis on m'outrage," elle dit,
fondant en larmes. "Et pourquoi n'est-tu pas fils de Marquis, petite
brute? Moi, je ne sais pas."

Le petit DOMBEY sautait sur les genoux de sa mère; il la consolait,
et quelques instants plus tard mère et fils suçaient emsemble un grand
morceau de butter-scotch, pendant que la petite écervelée considérait
le costume qu'elle devait porter le soir au Bal Bullier.

II.--UN GYMNASE À TOUTES LES COULEURS.

MADAME COPPERFIELD ne se tenait pas pour vaincue sur cette question
d'une pension pour le petit. Sa cuisinière lui soufflait le nom d'un
Monsieur SQUEERS qui habitait dans les environs de Clichy, et cette
fois c'était la cuisinière qui conduisait le petit JONNNIE chez son
alumnus; et la cuisinière ne faisait pas de façons; c'était à prendre
ou à laisser.

Le bon SQUEERS, qui avait habité auparavant le Yorkshire, avait
developpé une goutte de sang nègre, et s'était établi avec la seconde
Madame SQUEERS (soeur cadette de la respectable Madame MICAWBER) dans
les environs de Clichy. Malheureusement il n'avait pas oublié son
système anglais, et quoiqu'il faisait bien des raffinements sur les
rudes et franches pratiques de Dotheboys, le système était au fond le
même. Il lui fallait toujours sa victime--son SMIKE. À Dotheboys le
SMIKE était blanc, et s'attachait à NICHOLAS, le pion; à Clichy le
SMIKE était noir, mais c'était toujours bien SMIKE, qui entrait dans
la pension bien vêtu, ses frais payés ponctuellement, et qui tombait
bien bas, jusqu'à balayer le plancher, et à servir à table. Et plus
tard le SMIKE noir devait mourir accablé de cruautés, d'une mort
encore plus larmoyante et plus terrible que la douce phthisie du
SMIKE blanc. Il est mort dans la seconde manière de DICKENS, plus
travaillée, plus tendue que le style jeune et fort de NICKLEBY.

III.--CE QU'ON APPELLE UN BEAU-PÈRE.

Il n'y a pas loin du premier chapitre dans la vie de JONNIE jusqu'à
l'entrée de MURDSTONE--le MURDSTONE français, dur, mais poète, ainsi
plus frivole que le MURDSTONE anglais. Mais, puisque pour le petit
ARRIE tout ce qu'il y a de pénible dans l'histoire de son petit cousin
anglais doit s'augmenter, le MURDSTONE français a des traits des
NÉRON et des CALIGULA. Naturellement le jeune DOMBEY, se souvenant
des escapades du cousin, fait son petit voyage d'enfant--une fuite
de la pension jusqu'à la maison maternelle où la petite dame s'est
installée en secondes noces avec MURDSTONE D'ARGENTON, le poète. Alors
commencent l'éducation de l'enfant par le beau-père, les larmes de la
mère, le martyre du petit. Que de gifles; que de dictionnaires lancés
à la tête du chétif bambin!

"Faut qu'il aille quelque part gagner sa vie," dit MURDSTONE, qui
s'enrageait de plus en plus, à cause de deux incommodités dans leur
vie de famille, la première que lui, MURDSTONE, n'avait pas le génie
d'ALFRED DE MUSSET, la seconde que l'enfant avait un rhume de cerveau
incurable. "Envoyez-le laver les bouteilles chez un marchand de vins,"
proposait un ami de la maison.

"Mais, non, cela ne serait pas assez dur," repondit le poète. "Je suis
fâché qu'il n'y ait plus à Londres ce bon système de ramoneurs-garçons
qu'on faisait brûler vifs quelquefois dans les cheminées. Faute de
cela je le mettrai sur la voie ferrée, à graisser les roues avec son
petit pot de pommade jaune--et si par hasard il se faisait écraser par
un train--tant pis pour lui."

Il était grand garçon maintenant, ce joli petit JONNIE du premier
chapitre, et avant de partir pour se perdre entre les Parias du pot à
graisse sur la ligne d'Est, il s'enhardit jusqu'à questionner sa mère
sur un sujet qu'elle avait approché de temps en temps gentillement du
bout des lèvres, en lui soufflant des idées romanesques, des visions
de ducs espagnols et de millionnaires anglais.

"Dis done, p'tite Maman, comment s'appelait-il, mon père?"

"Mais, mon cheri, naturellement, il s'appelait COPPERFIELD."

"Mais, Maman, tu me disais autrefois qu'il était DOMBEY, un grand
financier, riche à millions. Se peut-il que de DOMBEY je sois devenu
COPPERFIELD?"

La pauvre inconséquente sanglotait avec véhémence--"Mon JONNIE, je
te trompais. DOMBEY, le financier raide et hautain, n'a jamais existé
dans la vie réelle. C'était un mannequin en bois. Ton père était
DICKENS, le grand romancier anglais. Il est mort avant ta naissance.
Sans lui tu ne serais pas."

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A CORRESPONDENT.--We do not think you are wise to have asked a
large circle of distinguished French sporting friends to bring their
rods over with a view to salmon-fishing in the Serpentine. Trout,
there may be; no doubt, there are, but we have some doubts about
salmon. Your suggestion that if you can't get a rise you might perhaps
"bang away" at the waterfowl, certainly has a more promising sound,
but we would advise you to commence your sport early, for fear of
hitting the bathers. You will require the permission of the Duke of
CAMBRIDGE. This you will get through any Park-keeper.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. MANTALINI ON THE LINCOLN CASE.--"And both were right, and neither
wrong, upon my life and soul, O demmit!"--_Nicholas Nickleby_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FINAL TEST.

_Bellona_ (_to the "Times" and Mr. Stanhope_). "I SUPPOSE,
GENTLEMEN, YOU DON'T WANT TO WAIT FOR _ME_ TO SETTLE THE
QUESTION!"

TOMMY ATKINS, _loquitur_:--

  Oh, where and _wot_ am I? A spindle-shank'd stripling,
    As blue-gilled old Tory ex-Colonels protest?
  Or a 'ero, as pictured by young RUDYARD KIPLING,
    Six foot in my socks, forty-inch round the chest?
  I'm blowed if _I_ know arter all the discussion.
    But if I'm the cove as they're going to trust,
  To give good account of yer Frenchy or Russian,
    At least they'd best give me a gun as won't _bust_.
  They've bin fighting this battle of barrels and breeches,--
   Ah yus, from the days of our poor old Brown Bess,
  And wot's the result as their 'speriments teaches?
    They'd better jest settle it sharp-like, I guess.
  If once of a rattlin' good rifle I'm owner,
    A thing as won't jack-up or jam, I don't care.
  But if they stand squabblin' till Missis BELLONER
    Puts in _'er_ appearance, there'll be a big scare.
  Ah, she's the true "Expert"; wuth fifty Committees!
    But then '_er_ decision means money--and blood.
  Wot price TOMMY ATKINS, _then_? Everyone pities
    His fate, when he's snuffed it, and pity's no good.
  Whether STANHOPE is right, or the _Times_, I ain't sayin';
    But here Marm BELLONER gives both a big hint,
  As it's rayther a touch-and-go game they are playin',
    And TOMMY, he thinks she is right,--plain as print!]

       *       *       *       *       *

"SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!"

Look out for _Mr. Punch Among the Planets_! He is a Star of the
first magnitude, and the above is the title of his Christmas Number.
It will issue from, to use astrological language, the House of
BRADBURY-AGNEW-&-CO., although the sidereal and celestial subjects
of the forthcoming Christmas Number are suggestive of the old days
of "BRADBURY and Heavens."

       *       *       *       *       *

THREE TASTES.

I.

  My pipe, he tastes of turpentine--
    He is a penny pipe--
  A taste that every pipe of mine
    Has when he is not ripe.
  I bought him at a little shop
    Where they sell fruit and cheese,
  Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop,
    And said, "A _cheap_ pipe, please."

  It was a maiden sold him me,
    And she was proud and cold;
  She'd briar pipes at two-and-three
    For them that squandered gold;
  She'd one that had a leather case.
    Item, a curly stem;
  And cheap pipes make her shrug her face,
    She had such scorn of them.

II.

  My pipe he tastes of cherry now;
    Gone, like the foam of wine,
  Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow,
    Gone is that turpentine.
  With the pure herb I feel it blend--
   That charm of cherry-wood,
  And smoke him six times straight on end,
    Because he is so good.

  And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs,
    And therewith wags her head;
  And warns me in between the whiffs
    That I shall soon be dead;
  And says excessive smoking must
    Debase and bring me low,
  She makes herself offensive, just
    Because she loves me so.

III.

  My pipe, he tastes of chocolate,
    And he has grown so dear so dear,
  That I get up at half-past eight
    And smoke till night is here.
  My aunt informs me that the smell
    Is ranker than before--
  I could not love her half so well
    Loved I not baccy more.

  The female mind! The female mind!
    How beautiful it is!
  And yet it has to sit behind
    When it's compared with this--
  This taste that falls upon my pipe,
    That calms when woman clacks,
  In the sweet season when he's ripe,
    And just before he cracks.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MAGIC HORSE.

(_A PARALLEL NOT TO BE PUSHED TOO FAR._)

[Illustration]

    ["You are likewise to understand that MALAMBRUNO told me that,
    whenever fortune should direct me to the knight who was to be
    our deliverer, he would send him a steed--not like the vicious
    jades let out for hire, for it should be that very wooden
    horse upon which PETER of Provence carried off the fair
    MAGALONA.... MALAMBRUNO, by his art, has now got possession
    of him, and by this means posts about to every port of the
    world."

    "Hoodwink thyself, _Sancho_," said _Don Quixote_, "and get
    up.... And supposing the success of the adventure should not
    be equal to our hopes, yet of the glory of so brave an attempt
    no malice can deprive us.... The whole company raised their
    voices at once, calling out, 'Speed you well, valorous
    Knight! heaven guide thee, undaunted Squire! Now you fly
    aloft!'"--_Adventures of Don Quixote_.]

  Yes, "Speed you well, most valorous Knight!
    Heaven guide you!"--and sound sense inspire you!
  Small marvel that our land's black blight
    Of want and misery should fire you,
  Or any man whose heart will mourn
    More for wrecked lives than broken crockery.
  This picture is not shaped in scorn,
          Nor meant in mockery.

  La Mancha's Knight, though brave, was blind,
    Squire _Sancho_ just a trifle credulous,
  But our dear Don was nobly kind,
    And in the cause of suffering sedulous.
  If, mounting MALAMBRUNO's steed,
    He showed more sanguine than sagacious,
  He was not moved by huckster greed,
          Or pride edacious.

  But "with what bridle is he led?
    And with what halter is he guided?"
  Asked _Sancho_, rubbing his clown's head.
    So they who have the least derided
  Your plan for floating "the submerged,"
    Colossal, costly, wide extending,
  Feel some few questions may be urged,
          Without offending.

  Benevolence the crupper mounts,
    His arms, like _Sancho's_, from behind fold;
  But it would seem, from all accounts,
    He, like _Don Quixote's_ Squire, rides blindfold;
  It may be to most glorious ends,
    It may be to disastrous spillings.
  Sense fain would know before it spends
          Its hard-earned shillings.

  If all were genuine that is Big,
    If all were sound that's well intended,
  _Quixote's_ wild jaunt and _Sancho's_ jig
    Would very differently have ended.
  Zeal boldly mounts the Magic Horse,
    Charity on behind holds tightly,
  Who will not wish them skill and force
          To guide it rightly?

  But Human Life's a complex maze,
    And Nature's laws are most despotic.
  Vice is not killed by kindly craze.
    Nor suffering quelled by zeal Quixotic.
  Big questions the Big Scheme beset.
    Bid Pity _think_, and do not ask it
  Too blindly all its eggs to get
          In one huge basket.

  Philanthropy, which facts will school,
    Is not a theme for mocking merriment.
  As MORLEY says, he is the fool
    Who never ventures bold experiment.
  Against the ills our State that shake,
    The spectre Vice, Want the pale ogress,
  _Punch_ hopes the Magic Horse may make
          Practical progress.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS, MARK, BUT I CAN'T HIT A BIRD
TO-DAY!"

"LET'S SEE YOUR GUN, SIR. AH!--WELL, I'D TRY WHAT YOU COULD DO _WITH
SOME CARTRIDGES IN IT_, IF I WAS YOU, SIR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

RIGHT-DOING ON THE RIALTO;

OR, THE MODERN SHYLOCK.

(_A SHORT SHAKESPEARIAN SEQUEL._)

    _Enter the_ MODERN SHYLOCK _and_ BARINGO BROTHERS.

_Shylock_. Five Millions sterling for three months? And this
  You say, they will advance, if you can show
  Sufficient guarantee?

_Baringo_.        Indeed 'tis so.

_Shy._ Well, well! But how comes it about that you
  Whose honoured name has so long held the sway
  Of all safe dealing, that men only asked,
  "If a BARINGO backed it," to take up
  Unquestioning the newest stock,--should thus
  With sudden flash flare up and set in blaze
  The whole commercial world?

_Bar._        Oh! press me not,
  Nor question me too closely! "_Argentines_!"
  That fatal word sums up the evil spell
  That in these latter luckless days has fallen
  Upon our swaying House.

_Shy._        I see your case!
  A cry for gold finds you all unprepared,
  Your capital locked up beyond the seas.
  You cannot realise.

_Bar._        Alas! too true!
  That is the situation!

_Shy._        Badly done!
  Ah! it has been a sorry piece of work,
  Your "management."

_Bar._        I bow my head to that!
  But you will lend your aid? You'll pull us through?

_Shy._ Listen, BARINGO. Many a time and oft
  In this English land men have rated me
  About my moneys and my usuries.
  But that is long ago; the times have changed,
  And feeling in more righteous channel set,
  Now turns itself in flood to sweep away
  The wrongs of vanished years. Nay, more than this.
  But yesterday one of my ancient race,
  Filled, with his Christian colleagues' heartiest will,
  The civic throne; and at this very hour
  A protest from all classes in the land
  From low and high, from peasant and from peer,
  Goes forth to plead with the despotic power
  That 'neath brute persecution's iron heel
  Would trample out my brethren's life. So, there,
  Which way I look I meet a greeting hand.
  So, not repeating here the vengeful plot
  Of the old _Shylock_ of the play; without
  My pound of flesh or pound of anything,--
  But solely for the bond of brotherhood
  That should link loyal workers in one field,
  Count on my help in this your stress--for I
  Will be your guarantee!

_Bar._ You will! Oh, thanks
  For such blest help!

_Shy._ Such help is only right,--
  So say no more!

_Bar._ (_aside_.) Thank Heaven! _That
  Ends our plight!_

    [_Dances wild fandango of delight as Curtain descends._

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Here are some regular sea-breezy Nautical stories for our youthful
Islanders. _From Middy to Admiral of the Fleet_, by Dr. MACAULAY,
which is a good long step; but this is the life of Commodore ANSON.
_Up North in a Whaler_, by EDWARD A. RAND; a pleasant little trip
for the Summer holidays--not inviting now--but try it later. Messrs.
HUTCHINSON & Co. also publish "_The Low-Back'd Car_," by SAMUEL
LOVER--an old Song in a fresh setting of charming Illustrations, by W.
MAGRATH. "We don't kill a pig every day!" But just for once and away
get _My Prague Pig_, by S. BARING GOULD. W. CLARK RUSSELL's _Master
Rockafellar's Voyage_, recommended.

To the ambitious young entertainer, _Magic at Home_, translated by
Professor HOFFMAN, will be a source of delight, and if some of the
experiments should lead to slight temporary inconvenience, it will
only help to pass a more cheerful evening than usual.

[Illustration: The Mirror of Justice.]

For drawing-room plays apply to GEORGE ROUTLEDGE, who publishes a set,
one of which, _Acting Charades and Proverbs_, by ANNE BOWMAN, will be
found very useful. A Bowman hits the mark.

Those who know their London _au bout des angles_, can tell you of
many quaint spots of beauty, which may be seen when it is not quite
enveloped in a cheerful fog, though several of the more ancient
landmarks are fast vanishing; yet in _Picturesque London_, by PERCY
FITZGERALD, M.A., F.S.A., will be found a happy collection of all the
most taking parts, both in odd corners, and interesting structures.
Charming illustrations by HUME, NISBET, and HERBERT RAILTON.

Christmas special numbers are not exactly up to date; they are turned
out so early that by the time they ought to be seasonable, they are
almost ancient history. _The Ladies' Pictorial_ is filled with short
stories by popular authors, which are well illustrated.

The earlier part of _My Life_, by SIDNEY COOPER, R.A., is very
interesting, as must almost always be the story of the early career
of such an ancient mariner as is this well-known animal-painter. There
must be a halo of romance about recollections which no one living can
or cares to contradict. When these biographical reminiscences come
within the memory of middle-aged men, then this said memory doth run
somewhat to the contrary of that of the veteran painter who put the
cart before the horse, so to speak, in his artistic career, seeing
that he commenced with carriages and ended with cows. As far as _Mr.
Punch_ is concerned, the Baron has already denied that DOUGLAS JERROLD
was ever the Editor of _Mr. P.'s_ paper; and Mr. COOPER's account of
the _Punch_ dinners must be taken with the contents of a well-filled
salt-cellar, as Mr. SIDNEY COOPER was never present at any one of
them. Inaccurately he attributes a repartee of THACKERAY's to DOUGLAS
JERROLD; and the well-known retort of JERROLD to ALBERT SMITH he gives
so incorrectly, that in this instance the Attic salt has lost its
savour. There is too much soft-soapiness in his reminiscences of
personal interviews with Royalty to please robust readers. Judging
from the latter portion of the second volume, wherein, as I should
take it, there is considerable "padding," it would seem that "the aged
P." has already secured an excellent position among "the immortals."
Hitherto it was generally supposed that of the arts Music alone would
survive _in sæcula sæculorum_; but perhaps, after all, Painting has a
chance, and especially animal painting, even though the animals may be
allegorical. With its pardonable defects of memory, and its occasional
touch of Royal Windsor Livery complaint, the reminiscences of SIDNEY
COOPER, R.A., are pleasant and, of the first volume especially be it
said, interesting reading.

_The Auld Scotch Songs_, arranged by SINCLAIR DUNN. Well, DUNN, sing
clair!

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW IT'S DONE.

(_A HANDBOOK TO HONESTY._)

NO. VI.--"AN ALARMING SACRIFICE"--SOMEWHERE!

  SCENE I.--_A Suburban Drawing-room, old-fashionedly furnished;
    brightly-bound books scattered about a solid, sombre-covered
    table; oil portraits of elderly, stiffly attitudinising
    couple on the walls; a general atmosphere of simple, pietistic
    propriety. Present,_ EDWIN _and_ ANGELINA, _a modest, but
    deeply-enamoured pair, shortly about to be married._

_Edwin_ (_after the regulation ceremonial_). My dearest ANGELINA, I
have something here which I think will greatly simplify the business
of house-furnishing, that has so deeply occupied us lately.

[Illustration]

ANGELINA (_flushing tenderly_). Oh, EDWIN, _have_ you? How nice, dear!
And what is it?

_Edwin_ (_eagerly_). Quite providential, I call it. You know, dearest,
I've saved three hundred pounds for the express purpose; and here
is an advertisement, according to which, for about that sum, we can
secure a complete fit-out for our little villa, which, I think, will
exactly suit us. Quite an exceptional chance, as the advertiser
says. A gentleman, lately arrived in this country from India, is
unexpectedly compelled to return immediately. Consequently he
is obliged to dispose _at once_ of his lately-purchased house of
furniture, _at a great sacrifice_. It is as good as new, in fact, has
hardly been used at all; is elegant and substantial, and can be seen
any day at Vamp Villa, Barnsbury, upon presentation of visiting-card.
Suppose, dearest ANGY, we run over to-morrow afternoon, and have a
look at it? Such a chance--in the very nick of time, too--may never
occur again!

_Angelina_. Oh, EDWIN, _how_ fortunate! Should it suit us, what a lot
of trouble it will save!

_Edwin_. And money, too, darling, for the prices seem to be _very_
low. I'm so glad you agree, dear.

_Angelina_ (_with effusion_). Of _course_ I do, EDWIN. And (_with
tender glance at one of the oil pictures_) how delighted dear Mamma
will be! [_Osculation, appointment, and exit_.

  SCENE II.--_Mysterious-looking Villa at Barnsbury, permeated
    by strong smell of French-polish and fusty straw. Large "House
    to Let" boards and posters prominently disposed. Present._
    EDWIN _and_ ANGELINA, _and a blandly loquacious person, in
    black broadcloth, with a big foolscap-paper Inventory, and a
    blunt-pointed pencil._

_Loquacious Person_ (_fluently_). Why you see, Madam, Mr. PAWNEE
LIVERLESS 'ad to leave for Bombay early yesterday mornin', and was
therefore obliged to leave the sale of his furniture in our hands.
But he is an old client of ours, Mr. LIVERLESS is, and he has given us
_carte blanche_ as regards the disposition of his effects. Only they
_must_ be sold at once. A retired Colonel at Notting Hill, who seemed
_very_ sweet on the bargain, promised me a decided answer by twelve
o'clock to-day. It has not come, and I am free to negotiate with
the next comer for the furniture as it stands, provided an immediate
settlement can be arrived at. _Wait_ I cannot, but in any other
pertikler I shall be only _too_ 'appy to meet your views.

_Edwin_. I see the furniture is quite new?

_L.P._ (_with cheery candour_). Well, no Sir, not quite. Oh, I'll not
deceive you! It has been in use a few months, and, as you see, is none
the worse for _that_. Better, if anything, being fully tested as to
seasoning. I need 'ardly tell _you_, Sir, that new furniture nowadays
is a ticklish thing to invest in. _Such_ tricks, my dear Sir, _such_
nefarious dodges and artful fakements! (_Sighs._) But--(_taking up a
chair and banging it vigorously but adroitly on the floor_)--_this_
is stuff you can depend on, and 'll be better three years hence than
it is to-day. This saddle-bag _sweet_, Madam, is simply luxurious,
good enough for any doocal dinin'-room; the carpets throughout
are as elegantly hesthetick in design, as they are substantial in
fabric, whilst the--ahem! sleeping apartments, are perfect pickters
of combined solidity and chaste elegance. _I_ always say, that as
a real gentleman is known by his linen, so the 'ome of a party
of true taste may be tested by the bed-rooms. You'll excuse me,
Madam--(_smirks_)--but such are _my_ sentiments, _not_ as a salesman,
but as a family man.

    [L.P. _takes_ EDWIN _and_ ANGELINA _the round of the
    house, expatiating glowingly but discreetly as he goes, and
    ultimately effects sale of the "furniture as it stands" for
    a liberally proffered "ten-pun note off the advertised sum
    tottle."_

  SCENE III.--_Interior of Greengage Villa_. ANGELINA (_now_
    Mrs. CANOODLE) _discovered in tears over the wreck of a
    "Saddlebag" Sofa, very shaky as to legs, and shabby as to
    "pile."_

_Angelina_ (_sobbing_). And to think that _dear_ EDWIN should have
spent his long savings on such wretched stuff as _this_! Oh, that
talkative but treacherous tout at Vamp Villa! Why, 'tis only six
months since we were married--(_bohoo!_)--and there's scarcely a thing
in the house that's not either shaky, or shabby, or both!

    [_Breaks down._

_Edwin_ (_entering with a flushed face, and clenched fists_). ANGY,
my darling, _don't_ waste your tears over that vile combination of
unseasoned timber and devil's-dust. Rather pluck up a spirit and
pitch into _me_, who was fool enough to be tricked by a plausible
advertisement, a scheming vendor of shoddy furniture, a hired villa,
a verbose villain, and the thrice-told tale of a mythical "Indian
gentleman," an imaginary "emergency," and a purely supposititious
"sacrifice." [_Left lamenting._

       *       *       *       *       *

"A DANIEL!"

[Illustration: G.O.M. DANIEL in the Irish Lions' Den.]

Years ago, when BRITON RIVIÈRE painted his picture of "_Daniel in the
Lions' Den_," which foppishly-speaking men would speak of as "_Deniel
in the Lions' Dan_," public curiosity was aroused by the fact that
DANIEL was facing the lions with his back to the spectators. Of
course, in this instance, the public mind is not exercised by the
problem which was put to the Showman by an inquiring small boy, in the
memorable formula of inquiry, "Please, Sir, which is DANIEL, and which
is the Lions?" as never, for one moment, could there have existed, in
the densest brain, the smallest doubt as to the identity of the Hebrew
Seer. Should the question now be put by an intending purchaser, Mr.
WILLIAM AGNEW has only to give an adaptation of the historic reply,
and say, "Whichever you like, my little dear; _if_ you pay your money,
you may take your choice."

Now in this grand picture there is no sort of doubt, "no possible
doubt whatever," as to which is DANIEL and which are the Lions; but
there must arise in the spectator's mind the question, _Who was the
painter's model for this figure of_ DANIEL? To this there can be but
one answer, "the G.O.M." This is the painter's model for DANIEL. Here
he stands looking up towards the opening and seeing daylight. His
hands are tied by the bonds of a majority against him. As for the
Lions they may be Irish Lions, who may be thinking of another grand
old DAN, The Liberator, but who, once upon a time, in the good old
Kilmainham Gaol days, would have fallen upon this G.O.M. and torn him
in pieces; not so now. It is a grand picture.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHO'S YOUR HATTER?" OR, SIDE-LIGHTS ON ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY.--Years
ago, the great Ritual Case was that of Mr. BENNETT, of St. Barnabas,
Pimlico. Now the most recent is the Archbishop's decision in the
Lincoln Case. The two may be quoted henceforth as "'The Lincoln and
Bennett Cases,' which cover a variety of heads."

       *       *       *       *       *

"HERE WE GO UP, UP, UP!"--_Mr. Punch_ with Time visits the Heavenly
Bodies. Special Stars engaged for Christmas Entertainment. Look
out for _Mr. Punch's_ Christmas Number, entitled _Punch Among the
Planets._ For once _Toby_ will be Sirius.

       *       *       *       *       *

SHORTLY TO APPEAR.--Companion Volume to _Oceana_. New Work, by C.S.
P-RN-LL, entitled, _O'Sheana_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BANK HOLIDAY WIT.

_Mamma_. "COME ALONG, DARLINGS!"

_'Arry_. "ALL RIGHT, MISS! JUST WAIT TILL WE'VE 'AD A DRINK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PARLIAMENTARY "ANCIENT MARINER."

(_FRAGMENTS FROM THE LATEST RENDERING OF THE OLD RIME._)

[Sidenote: An Ancient Mariner meeteth Three Guests bidden to St.
Stephen's and detaineth one.]

  It is an ancient Mariner,
  And he stoppeth one of three.
  "By thy scant gray looks and glittering eye,
  Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?"

  "St. Stephen's doors are open wide,
  My duty lies within;
  M.P.'s are met, the programme's set,
  May'st hear the Irish din."

  He holds him with his sinewy hand,
  "There was a ship," quoth he.
  "Hold off! unhand me, Ancient One!"
  Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

[Sidenote: St. Stephen's Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the Grand
Old Seafaring Man, and constrained to hear his tale.]

  He holds him with his glittering eye--
  St. Stephen's Guest stands still,
  And listens, like Midlothian's mob.
  The Mariner hath his will.

  St. Stephen's Guest stands like a stone.
  He cannot chuse but hear;
  And thus outspeaks that ancient man,
  The bright-eyed Mariner.

  Our ship was cheered, the harbour cleared
  Merrily did we drop
  Below the Kirk, Tory ill-will
  Our vessel might not stop.

[Sidenote: The Mariner tells how his new-launched Craft, after some
adverse gales, sailed northward, with a good wind, and fair weather.]

  The sun arose, that erst had left
  Our Home-Rule argosy,
  And he shone bright, our course was right,
  The "flowing tide" ran free.

  Higher and higher every day
  Our sun shone bright and clear--
  St. Stephen's Guest here beat his breast,
  For he heard the loud "Hear! Hear!"

[Sidenote: St. Stephen's Guest heareth that business is toward within;
but the monologuising Mariner continueth his tale.]

  The Speaker hath paced into the House,
  Toward his lofty place;
  Gleaming like gold before him goes
  The merry, massive Mace.

  St. Stephen's Guest he beat his breast,
  Yet he could not chuse but hear;
  And thus spake on that ancient man,
  The garrulous Mariner.

    [But behold the tale that was told unto St. Stephen's Guest by
    the Ancient Mariner is now known unto all men, from repeated
    and prolix narrations; the tale to wit of the Mariner's
    startling adventure in unsailed seas on board his suddenly
    launched _Home Rule_ Argo; how that the Ancient Mariner shot
    the Oof Bird (that made the (financial) mare to go, and the
    (party) breeze to blow); how that his shipmates cried out
    against the Ancient Mariner for killing the bird of good luck,
    which lay the golden eggs, but how, when the fog cleared off,
    they justified the same, and thus made themselves accomplices
    in the act; how "the spell began to break;" how "the Mariner
    hath been cast into a trance, and the angelic power" (of
    speech) "causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than"
    (ordinary) human "life could endure"; how in the Mariner's
    opinion the _Home Rule_ Argo yet "stoppeth the way," and until
    it hath free course must impede the fair navigation of the
    (political) ocean; and how, finally, he, the Ancient Mariner,
    is constrained to "pop up" and repeat this tale of change and
    chance unto the appointed persons.]

       *       *       *       *       *

  Forthwith this tongue of mine was stirred
  To quenchless fluency,
  Which forced me to begin my tale,
  As now I tell it thee.

  Since then, at an uncertain hour,
  This ecstasy returns;
  And till my thrice-told tale is through
  The heart within me burns.

  I pass, like _Puck_, from land to land,
  I have strange power of speech;
  That moment that his face I see
  I know the man that must hear me,
  To him my tale I teach.

         *       *       *       *       *

  What loud uproar bursts from that door!
  They're at it hotly there:
  Will they be silenced by the tale
  Told by the Mariner?
  Bim! Boom! There goes Big Ben's deep bell!
  The Speaker's in the Chair!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY "ANCIENT MARINER."

  "IT IS AN ANCIENT MARINER,
  AND HE STOPPETH ONE OF THREE.
  'BY THY SCANT GREY LOCKS AND GLITTERING EYE,
  NOW WHEREFORE STOPP'ST THOU ME?'"
]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CHECK.

_Huntsman_. "SEEN THE FOX, MY BOY?"

_Boy_. "NO, I AIN'T!"

_Huntsman_. "THEN, WHAT ARE YOU HOLLARIN' FOR?"

_Boy_ (_who has been scaring Rooks_). "'COS I'M PAID FOR IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DEATH PENALTY; OR, WHO'S TO BLAME?

ACT I.

  SCENE--_House of Commons, rather sparsely attended, it being
    the occasion of a statement on the needs of the Army to be
    made by the_ Secretary for War.

_Secretary for War_ (_continuing his speech_). And so, Mr. SPEAKER,
I trust that I have justified the demand I have made for so many
millions for building Barracks, and conclusively proved that the
Authorities responsible for our military efficiency are thoroughly
alive to the necessity not only of safeguarding the lives, but of
increasing the comfort, of our gallant defenders. (_Cheers_.)

ACT II.

  SCENE--_Celebrated London Barracks. Fire just broken out in
    top storey of Married Soldiers' Quarters, crowded with women
    and children. Soldiers rushing for ladders. Some children
    handed up through a trap-door, which is supposed to lead to
    roof. No exit on to roof available, and children being slowly
    smothered. Screams. Great excitement._

_Non-Commissioned Officer_. Ha! Fire in the "Rookery!" And it'll burn
like paper, being old and rotten! Now, where's the fellow who ought to
have the key of the hydrant? (_Exit in search of him._)

_Labourer employed at Barracks_ (_entering hastily_). Hullo! A fire!
Where's that key of mine for the hydrants? Can't attend to _that_,
however, as there's my wife and family to be saved! (_Rushes out, and
hydrants cannot be unlocked for ten minutes. When they are, they are
found to be without water!_)

_Colonel Commanding the Battalion_ (_just arrived on scene_). No
water! Well, of course there isn't! Hasn't the War Office ordered it
to be turned off at night, spite of my protests? Tell the Fire-Brigade
men to get water wherever they can!

    [_Water eventually got in roads several hundred yards from
    burning building._

_Non-Com. Officer_ (_directing two soldiers, who have gallantly
rescued a couple of children that have been burning and suffocating
under roof_). Yes, take 'em off to the hospital! Poor little
creatures--not much hope for _them_, I'm afraid! (_To Colonel._) A bad
business, Sir!

_Colonel_. Would have been worse if the men hadn't behaved so well,
and turned themselves into amateur firemen. No thanks to the War
Office that there aren't twenty-two deaths, instead of two. Why,
only six months ago, I warned 'em that the place was "unfit for human
habitation," and a regular death-trap in case of fire, with only one
narrow wooden staircase to the whole block. I wrote that, "if a fire
occurred at night, there must be many deaths." Yet nothing has been
done.

_Non-Com. Officer_. Shocking! There's a talk that the place had been
condemned by the War Office.

_Colonel_. Condemned, but not pulled down! I wonder who'll be
condemned at the Inquest. Shouldn't be surprised if it were the
War-Office Authorities themselves!

    [_And so they have been--and quite right too_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GENERAL PUNCH'S IMPROVED MAGAZINE RIFLE.

1. A Hatchet (_to pull out and fix inside_); 2. A Spear (_ditto_);
3,4,5. Compartments with handles, to be used as Portmanteau; 6. Shirt
Collars and Evening Tie; 7. A Pipe; 8. Tobacco; 9. Cigarette Case;
10. Sandwich Case, Potted Meats, Biscuits, &c.; 11. A Self Air-Loading
Bullet Mechanism; 12. Gladstone Bag; 13. Portable Bath and Hammock;
14. Cooking Stove; 15. Cooking Utensils; 16. A Telescope; 17. A
Walking Stick; 18. An Umbrella; 19. A Billiard Cue; 20. A Scent
Bottle.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY MEET IN A NOVEMBER FOG.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE COUNTRY HOUSE.

(_WHAT OUR ARCHITECT HAS TO PUT UP WITH._)

_Fair Client_. "I WANT IT TO BE NICE AND BARONIAL, QUEEN ANNE
AND ELIZABETHAN, AND ALL THAT; KIND OF QUAINT AND NUREMBERGY, YOU
KNOW--REGULAR OLD ENGLISH, WITH FRENCH WINDOWS OPENING TO THE LAWN,
AND VENETIAN BLINDS, AND SORT OF SWISS BALCONIES, AND A LOGGIA. BUT
I'M SURE _YOU_ KNOW WHAT I MEAN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN HERO;

_OR, HOW TO DISCOURAGE CRIME._

HENRY LARRIKIN, who was recently convicted and sentenced to death
for the murder of a nursemaid and infant on Shooter's Hill, is now
confined in ---- Gaol, and is reported to be in excellent spirits.
He passes his time in illuminating texts, which he presents to the
Governor and Warders, and some of which have been disposed of for
enormous sums. A petition has been circulated, and extensively signed,
praying for a remission of his sentence, on the ground of provocation,
it having since transpired that the infant put out its tongue in
passing. Several Jurymen have said, that had this fact been brought
before them at the trial, they would have returned a very different
verdict. Much sympathy is expressed with LARRIKIN, who is quite a
young man. He expresses himself as sanguine of a reprieve.

CENTRAL NEWS TELEGRAM.--LATER INTELLIGENCE.

_Monday_.--LARRIKIN was informed this afternoon, by the Governor of
the Gaol, that the HOME SECRETARY saw no grounds for interfering with
the course of the Law, and that the sentence would consequently be
carried out on Friday next. Two of the Warders, with whom LARRIKIN is
a great favourite, on account of the affability and singular modesty
of his demeanour, were deeply affected, but the prisoner himself bore
the news with extraordinary fortitude and composure. His sole comment
upon the intelligence was, that it was "just his blooming luck." By
special favour of the Authorities he is allowed to see the comments
of the Press upon his case, in which he takes the keenest interest.
A statement that he had on one occasion been introduced to the
nursemaid, through whom his career has been so tragically cut short,
has caused him the deepest irritation. He wishes it to be distinctly
understood that both she and her infant charge were absolute strangers
to him.

LATER TELEGRAM.

_Wednesday Morning_.--LARRIKIN continues wonderfully calm. He is
writing his Memoirs, which he has already disposed of to a Newspaper
Syndicate for a handsome consideration. Those who have been privileged
to see the manuscript report that it reveals traces of unsuspected
literary talent, and is marked in places by a genial and genuine
humour. LARRIKIN's great regret is that he will be unable to have
an opportunity of perusing the press-notices and reviews of this his
first essay in authorship, for which he expects a wide popularity.

FROM A SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

_Thursday_.--To-day LARRIKIN received a visit from an old friend, who
was visibly moved during the interview, in spite of the prisoner's
efforts to console him. "There's nothing to snivel about, old man,"
he said repeatedly, with a tranquil smile. He then inquired if it was
true that there were portraits of him in several of the papers, and
was anxious to know if they were like him. He has executed his will,
leaving the copyright of his manuscript, his sole assets, to his
father, who has been in a comparatively humble position of life, but
who will now be raised to a condition of affluence. The father has
been interviewed, and stated to a reporter that he has been much
gratified by the expressions of sympathy which have been showered upon
his son from all sides. This morning a local florist sent LARRIKIN a
beautiful wreath, in which the prisoner's initials and those of his
victims were tastefully intertwined in violets. LARRIKIN was much
touched, and his eyes filled with tears, which, however, he succeeded
in repressing by a strong effort. His self-control and courage are the
admiration of the officials, by whom he will be greatly missed. All
day he has been busy packing up the furniture with which, by special
permission, his little cell has been provided by his many admirers,
and the interior has already lost much of its late dainty and cosy
appearance. LARRIKIN has been whistling a good deal,--though, as the
day wore on, the tunes he executed became of a less lively character.
Towards evening, however, he recovered his ordinary high spirits, and
even danced a "cellar-flap" for the entertainment of his Warders. A
telegram has just been handed to him from an anonymous sender, who is
understood to be a person of some eminence in bird-stuffing circles,
which contained these words--"You are to be hung on my Aunt's
silver-wedding day. Keep your pecker up." On reading this message.
LARRIKIN came more near to breaking down than he has done hitherto.
He has selected the clothes he is to wear on his last semi-public
appearance; they consist of a plain black Angora three-button lounge
coat, a purple velvet waistcoat, soft doeskin trousers, a lay-down
striped collar and dickey, and a light-blue necktie with a glass pin.
He has presented his only other jewellery--an oroide ring, set with
Bristol diamonds--to the Warder who has been most attentive and
devoted to him during his stay in gaol. He is said to have stated
that he freely forgave the infant whose insulting conduct provoked
his outburst, as he did the nursemaid for not restraining her charge's
vivacity. This intimation, at his express desire, will be conveyed
to the parents of the deceased, and will doubtless afford them the
highest consolation.

_Thursday Night, Later_.--LARRIKIN is sleeping peacefully. His
features--refined by the mental anxiety, and the almost monastic
seclusion to which he has been lately subjected--are extremely
pleasing, and even handsome, set-off as they are by the clean collar
which he has put on in anticipation of his approaching doom. Before
sinking into childlike slumber, he listened with evident pleasure to a
banjo which was being played outside a public-house in the vicinity of
the gaol. The banjoist is now being interviewed, and believes that the
air he must have been performing at the time was "_The Lost Chord_."
The scaffold on which the unfortunate LARRIKIN is to expiate his
imprudent act is now being erected, but the workmen's hammers
have been considerately covered with felt to avoid disturbing the
slumberer.

_Friday Morning_, 9 A.M.--All is now over. The prisoner rose early
and made a hearty breakfast, and plainly enjoyed the cigar which he
smoked afterwards with his friend the Governor, who seemed to regard
the entrance of the executioner as an untimely interruption to the
conversation. "You'll have to wait a bit for the rest of that story,
Governor," was LARRIKIN's light-hearted comment. The unhappy man
then--(_Details follow which we prefer to leave to the reader's
imagination--he will find them all in the very next special
description of such a scene_). LARRIKIN was most anxious that it
should be widely known that, in his own words, "he was true to himself
and the public, and game to the last."

Several reporters were present in the prison-yard, and also a number
of persons of distinction, who were only admitted as a great favour.
It is said that the prison Authorities were compelled to disappoint
thousands who had applied for permission to view the last sad scene.

LARRIKIN's melancholy end will doubtless operate as a warning and an
example to many romantic youths, who are only too easily led away by
the morbid desire for notoriety, which is so prevalent nowadays, and
which is so difficult either to account for, or discourage.--(_Special
Descriptive Report_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

IN OUR GARDEN.

_Monday, November_ 24.

[Illustration]

Charmed to have a visit from OLD MORALITY to-day. Most kind of him to
find time to run down, seeing all he has on hand. But he's a really
good fellow, of the kind who in all circumstances find time to do a
friendly thing. Always from the first taken a friendly interest in our
little experiment. He is, indeed, indirectly personally responsible
for its undertaking. If I hadn't come across him playing leapfrog
before dinner with AKERS--DOUGLAS and JACKSON, as mentioned some weeks
ago, SARK and I would never have tried this way of passing a Recess.

Hadn't heard OLD MORALITY was going to look in. Expect he wasn't sure
he could get away from Cabinet Council, and so didn't write. When I
came upon him he was standing absorbed in contemplation of ARPACHSHAD.
ARPACHSHAD, himself, so engrossed in problem occupying his mind, that
he did not notice our visitor. Had started yesterday cutting grass on
lawn with machine. Getting on pretty well with it till, this morning,
wind rose, blowing half a gale from Westward. ARPACHSHAD discovered
that, starting with machine from the Westward, he, with wind blowing
astern, got on capitally; but coming back, with wind ahead, there was
decided addition to labour of propelling machine. When OLD MORALITY
arrived, ARPACHSHAD had halted midway across the lawn, and was looking
Westward with air of profound and troubled cogitation.

"I know what he's thinking of," said OLD MORALITY, whose Parliamentary
experience has made him an adept at thought-reading; "he's wondering
if it's possible to mow the lawn all from the Westward, so that he
would have the wind behind him throughout the operation."

No doubt OLD MORALITY had fathomed depth of ARPACHSHAD's meditations.
Pretty to see his manoeuvring: Went down full-sail with assistance of
favouring gale; tried to tack back, bearing away to the North; when
he'd got a little way, slewed round to the West, going off before the
wind to edge of lawn. Finally borne in upon him that the position was
inexorable. He couldn't go with the wind all the time; must retrace
his steps; by tacking was really covering more ground than need be;
was, in fact, doing more work than he had intended. Shocked at this
discovery proceeded to follow ordinary course. Presently catching
sight of solitary leaf careering down walk, fetched broom, and
tenderly tickled the gravel in pursuit of the leaf.

"There is," SARK sharply observed, "nothing ARPACHSHAD enjoys more
than dusting the walk with a broom. It is a process that combines the
maximum of appearance of hard work with the minimum of exertion."

OLD MORALITY pretty lively in anticipation of Session, which opens
to-morrow. Always inclined to take sanguine view of situation. Doesn't
vary now. "Oh, you leave it to us, TOBY, dear boy." he said, when I
expressed hope that he would not risk his precious life and health
by overdoing it. "We've got a splendid programme, and mean to pull
through every Bill. Didn't do much last year, it is true: but don't
you see the advantage of that? If we'd passed all our Bills last
Session, must have arranged a new programme this year, involving
considerable labour. As it is we turn a handle, and there are all the
old things once more; homely and friendly; as the poet says, 'All,
all, are come, the old familiar faces.' There's the Irish Local
Government Bill, the Tithes Bill, Employers' Liability, and a troop of
others. All been brought in before; everybody knows about them; if we
don't pass them this Session they must come up again next."

"Ha!" said SARK; "so there is to be a next Session."

"Certainly," said OLD MORALITY--"and we would have another, if we
could. In fact, I'm not quite sure whether it may not be managed. We
are always suspending Standing Orders, of one kind or another. It is a
Standing Order of the Constitution that no Parliament shall sit longer
than seven years. Very good--in an ordinary way, excellent; though,
perhaps, a little too liberal in its arrangements when Mr. G. is
in power. But as you, TOBY, may, in earlier years, diligently
striving after improvement in caligraphy, have had occasion to note,
Circumstances alter Cases. Here we are, a contented Government, with
a Parliamentary majority always to be relied upon. Why disturb an
ordered state of affairs, and plunge the country into the turmoil
and expense of a General Election? Why not bring in a short Bill
to suspend the Septennial Act, and let the present Parliament go on
sitting indefinitely? Why should the Long Parliament remain a monopoly
of the Seventeenth Century? I do not mind telling you (this, of
course, in confidence) that we have talked the matter over in the
Cabinet. It was the MARKISS who first started it; and, though one or
two objections have been raised, the idea is rather growing upon us,
and I should not wonder if it came to something. You will find no
mention of it in the Queen's Speech--but that is neither there nor
here."

"I have noticed," said SARK, "that of late it has happened that Bills
mentioned in the Queen's Speech come to nothing, whilst the Session is
largely taken up with discussion of Bills which find no place in that
catalogue. Last year, for example, JOKIM's Compensation Bill wasn't
mentioned in the Queen's Speech; and yet it filled a large part in the
programme of the Session."

"Ah," said OLD MORALITY, changing the subject, "I see ARPACHSHAD has
nearly come up with that leaf. He'll be going to his dinner now,
I suppose, and I think I must be off. Shall see you at the House
to-morrow. Sorry for you to break up the associations of your rural
life; but that only temporary."

Saw OLD MORALITY off at the station. Came back to pack up our spade
and hoe, and leave some general instructions with ARPACHSHAD. He seems
much touched at the approaching separation. Quite unable to continue
the lawn-mowing. Followed us about with his jack-knife open, clipping
here and there a dead stem, so as to keep up an appearance of
incessant labour.

"Ours is only a change of occupation, ARPACHSHAD," said SARK. "We
cease to labour here, but we carry on our work in another field. We
go to town, leaving, as the Poet GRAY might have said, the garden to
solitude and you."

"Excuse _me_, Gents," said ARPACHSHAD. a look of anxiety crossing his
mobile face, "but you can't leave it to me altogether. I could manage
well enough when you were here, helpin' and workin'. But, when you're
gone, I'll have to have at least one extry man." SARK pleased at
this testimony to value of our assistance; but it really means that
ARPACHSHAD intends to do less than ever, running us into the expense
of a second gardener.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARS ABOUT PICTURES.

[Illustration]

Arrive at Fine Art Society's Place, and there look at HOKUSAI's
drawings and engravings. Who was HOKUSAI? Why, don't you know? He was
our own LIKA-JOKO's great-grandfather. "Great-grandfather was a most
wonderful man, There's none of 'em does what great-grandfather can,"
except LIKA JOKO, of course. Obliged to say this, because I know LIKA
JOKO goes about with a Daimio's two-handed sword, and he would think
nothing of giving me the cut direct. But to return to HOKUSAI--sounds
like sneezing in a Dutch dialect, doesn't it?--his drawings are full
of originality and humour; he was possessed of wondrous versatility
and great industry. He began to draw at six, and continued till he
was well-nigh ninety. Were he flourishing now, he might illustrate the
lucubrations of

Yours par-tially, OLD PAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

"UP ABOVE THE WORLD SO HIGH!"--See _Mr. Punch Among the Planets_--his
Christmas Number. In spite of its title, it is not "over the heads of
the People." Look out below!

       *       *       *       *       *

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.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol.
99., November 29, 1890, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12738 ***