Chapter 1

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

AN APPEAL FOR INSPIRATION.

[Mr. LEWIS MORRIS has been requested to write an ode on the approaching Royal Marriage.]

AWAKE my Muse, inspire your LEWIS MORRIS To pen an ode! to be another Horris! "HORACE" I should have written, but in place of it You see the word--well, I'm within an _ace_ of it. Awake my muse! strike up! your bard inspire To write this--"by particular desire." Wet towels! Midnight oil! Here! Everything That can induce the singing bard to sing. Shake me, Ye Nine! I'm resolute, I'm bold! Come, Inspiration, lend thy furious hold! MORRIS on Pegasus! Plank money down! I'll back myself to win the Laureate's Crown!

* * * * *

THE CHIEF SECRETARY'S MUSICAL PERFORMANCE, WITH ACCOMPANIMENT. --Mr. JOHN MORLEY arrived last Friday at Kingston. He went to Bray. He was "accompanied" by the Under Secretary. Surely the Leader of the Opposition, now at Belfast, won't lose such a chance as this item of news offers.

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THE "WATER-CARNIVAL."--Good idea! But a very large proportion of those whom the show attracts would be all the better for a Soap-and-Water Carnival. Old Father Thames might be considerably improved by the process.

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* * * * *

ODDS BOBBILI!

(_The Rajah of Bobbili arrived by P.& O. at Marseilles, where he was received by Col. Humphrey on behalf of the Queen._)

There was a gay Rajah of Bobbili Who felt when a steamer on wobblely, "Delighted," says he, "Colonel HUMPHREY to see," So they dined and they drank hobby-nobbeley.

* * * * *

IS THE _TIMES_ ALSO AMONG THE PUNSTERS?--In its masterly, or rather school-masterly, article last Saturday, on "The Divisions on the Home-Rule Bill," written with the special intention of whipping up the Unionist absentees, the _Times_ said, "There is an opinion that, with a measure so far-reaching in its character as the Home-Rule Bill, pairing should be resorted to as sparingly as possible." The eye gifted with a three-thousand-joke-search-light power sees the pun at once, and reproduces it italicised, to be read aloud, thus--"_Pairing_ should be resorted to _as pairingly_ as possible." What shall he have who makes a pun in the _Times_? Our congratulations. Henceforth, to the jest-detectors this new development may prove most interesting.

* * * * *

IMPERIAL INSTITUTE NOTICE AT THE RECEPTION.--"Guests must retain their wraps and _Head Coverings_." Evidently no bald men admitted.

* * * * *

AUSTRALIAN SONG IN MINOR KEY FOR ANY NUMBER OF VOICES. --"_I Know a Bank!_"

* * * * *

A BUSINESS LETTER.

["Marriage is daily becoming a more commercial affair." --_A Society Paper._]

DEAR FRED,--Your favour of the 3rd, Has had my very best attention, But yet I cannot, in a word, Accept you on the terms you mention; Indeed, wherever you may try, According to the last advices You'll meet, I fear, the same reply-- "It can't be done, at current prices!"

In vain an ancient name you show, In vain for intellect are noted, Blue blood and brains, you surely know, At nominal amounts are quoted; And then, I see, you're weak enough To offer "love, sincere, unstudied,"-- Why, Sir, with such Quixotic stuff The market's absolutely flooded!

But--every day this fact confirms-- The time is over for romances, And whether we can come to terms Depends alone on your finances. So, would you think me over-bold If I, with deference, requested A statement of what funds you hold? In what securities invested?

For, candidly, in such affairs A speedy bid your only chance is, A boom in Yankee millionnaires May soon result in marked advances; With you I'd willingly be wed, To like you well enough I'm able, But first submit your bank-book, FRED, To your (perhaps) devoted MABEL!

* * * * *

SUSPIRIA.

(_By a Fogey._)

I would I were a boy! Not for the tarts we once were fain to eat, The penny ice, the jumble sticky-sweet, The tip's deciduous joy--

Not; for the keen delight Of break-neck 'scapes, the charm of getting wet, The joy of battle (strongest when you get Two other chaps to fight).

No! times have changed since then. The social whirlpool has engulfed the boys; Robb'd of their simple, hardy, rowdy joys, They start from scratch as men.

The winners in the race! Secure of worship, each his triumphs tells, Weighing with faintly-praising syllables The fairest form and face.

Once, in the mazy crush, Ingenuous youth, half timid, and half proud, By girlhood's pity had its claims allow'd, And worshipp'd with a blush.

Time was when tender years Would hug sweet sorrow to the heart, and blur The cross-barr'd bliss of the confectioner With crushed affection's tears.

That humbleness is sped, The vivid blazon of self-conscious youth, The unwilling witness to whole-hearted truth, Ne'er troubles boyhood's head.

Now with a solemn pride, Lord of the future's limitless expanse, The Stoic stripling tolerates the dance Weary, yet dignified.

Propping the mirror'd wall, No joy of motion, no desire to please, Thaws those high-collar'd Caryatides, Inane, imperial.

Girls, with their collars too, Their mannish maskings, and their unveil'd eyes, Would feel, if girls can be surprised, surprise Should courteous worship woo.

From their exalted place The boys their favours dole, as seems them well, Woman's calm tyrants, showing, truth to tell, More tolerance than grace.

* * * * *

DOUBLE RIDDLE.--Why is a whist-player, fast asleep after his fifth game, like one of the latest-patented cabs? Because he can be briefly alluded to as "Rubber Tires." (_Riddle adaptable also to exhausted manipulator in Turkish Bath after a hard day's work._)

* * * * *

Pity the sorrows of a poor "Old Man," Whose pouch is emptied of its golden store; Whose girth seems dwindling to its shortest span, Who needs relief, and needs it more and more.

_Punch's_ appeal for the marsupial martyr Is based upon an ancient nursery model; But he will find that he has caught a Tartar, Who hints that _Punch_ is talking heartless twaddle.

Knocked out this round, and verily no wonder! The Money-boxing Kangaroo is plucky: But when a chance-blow smites the jaw like thunder, A champion may succumb to fluke unlucky.

The Australian Cricketers in their first game Went down; but BLACKHAM'S bhoys high hopes still foster; Duffers who think 'twill always be the same, Reckoned without their GIFFEN! Just ask GLO'STER!

So our pouched pugilist, though his chance _looks_ poor, Will come up smiling soon, surviving failure; And an admiring ring will shout once more, (_Pardon the Cockney rhyme!_) "Advance, Australia!!!"

* * * * *

THE ARMS (AND LEGS) OF THE ISLE OF MAN.--At a discussion on Sunday-trading, one day last month, there was an attempt made to raise a question as to breach of privilege. The Speaker, however, stopped this at the outset, advising them that they "hadn't a leg to stand upon." Very little advantage in having three legs on such an occasion. The odd part of these Manx-men's legs is that they are their arms. It was originally selected as pictorially exhibiting the innocent character of the Manx Islanders. For their greatest enemy must own that "the strange device" of the three legs is utterly 'armless.

* * * * *

THE END OF THE DROUGHT.

(_By a Cab-horse._)

Don't talk to us in praise of rain! When we are slipping once again; This beastly shower Has made wood-pavements thick with slime. Suppose you try another time, By mile or hour;

See how you'd like to trot and trip, To stop and stagger, slide and slip, Pulled up affrighted, Urged madly on, then checked once more, Whilst from some omnibus's door Some lout alighted.

You would not find much cause to laugh, Like us, you would not care for chaff Were you such draggers; Your shoes would soon be off, or worn, You'd get, what we don't often, corn, And end with staggers.

You'd long to be put out to grass, Infrequent so far with your class-- NEBUCHADNEZZAR Was quite an isolated case-- You would be tired of life's long-race; Slaves who in Fez are,

On the Sahara could not bear Such toil as falleth to our share, For death would free them. You say the farmer wants the wet For meadows; pray do not forget We never see them.

Philanthropists, why don't you walk? Of slaves' hard lives you blandly talk, Like "Uncle TOM"--nay, You think what your own horses do, But we--there, get along with you! _Allez vous promener!_

* * * * *

CHANGE ITS NAME!--An estate in the Island of Fowlness, Essex, of 382 acres, was put up to auction last week, and, according to the _Daily News_ there was only one bid at a little short of eight pounds per acre. "The property was withdrawn." This step was judicious and correct. It was an act of fairness to Fowlness. But then, does it sound nice for anyone to say, "I'm living in the midst of Fowlness"? It may be a Paradise, but it doesn't sound like it.

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* * * * *

The Mellor of the C.

AIR--_"The Miller of the Dee."_

There was a jolly MELLOR, The Chairman of Com-mit_tee_; They worried him from noon till night-- "No lark is this!" sighed he; And this the burden of his song For ever seems to be, "I care for e-ve-rybody,--why Does nobody care for me?"

* * * * *

VESTRIES, PLEASE COPY!--Sir RICHARD TEMPLE has announced a reduction of the School-Board Rate by a farthing in the pound. May he never become a ruined Temple owing to such economies! The Rate-payers will be grateful for even a fraction of a penny, so long as it is not an improper fraction. This sort of saving is far better than squabbling over Theology. Says _Mr. Punch_ to Schoolboardmen, "Rate the public lightly, and don't rate each other at all!"

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NEW SARUM VERSION OF "_DERRY DOWN_."--"Derry _up!_ up! Up, Derry, up!"

* * * * *

Poor Letter H.

SCENE--_Undergraduate's Room in St. Boniface's College, Oxford. Breakfast time._

_Servant._ I see, Sir, you don't like the butter. Summer _h_air will get to it this 'ot weather.

_Testy Undergrad._ Confound it, LUKER, I don't mind the--ahem--hair, but kindly let me have my butter bald the next time!

[_He had swallowed a hair._

* * * * *

_Under the Great Seal_ is a new work by Mr. JOSEPH HATTON. The Busy Baron hath not yet had time to read it, but, from answers given to his "fishing interrogatories," he gathers that international piscatorial questions are ably discussed in the work. JOSEPH has lost a chance in not dedicating it to SEALE-HAYNE, M.P., and, instead of being brought out by HUTCHINSON & Co., it ought to have been published by SEELEY. However, even JOSEPHUS HATTONENSIS can't think of everything, though he does write on most things.

* * * * *

AT THE NEW GALLERY.

IN THE CENTRAL HALL.

_A Potential Purchaser (meeting a friend)._ Ha--just come in to take a look round, eh? So did I. Fact is--(_with a mixture of importance and apology_) I rather thought of _buying_ a picture here, if I see anything that takes my _fancy_--y' know.

_His Friend (impressed)._ Not many who can afford to throw money away on pictures, these hard times!

_The P. P. (anxious to disclaim any idea of recklessness)._ Just the time to pick 'em up cheap, if you know what you're about. And you see, we've had the drawing-room done up, and the wife wants something to fill up the space over her writing-table, between the fireplace and one of the windows. She was to have met me here, but she couldn't turn up, so I shall have to do it all myself--unless you'll come and help me through with it?

_His Friend._ Oh, if I can be of any use--What sort of thing do you want?

_The P. P._ Well, that's the difficulty. She says it must match the new paper. I've brought a bit in my pocket with me. His Friend. Then you can't go _very_ far wrong!

_The P. P._ I don't know. It's a sort of paper that--here, I'd better show it you. (_He produces a sample of fiery and untamed colour._) That'll give you an _idea_ of it.

_His Friend (inspecting it dubiously)._ Um--yes. I see you'll have to be _careful_.

_The P. P._ Careful, my dear fellow! I assure you I've been all through the Academy, and there wasn't a thing there that could stand it for a single moment--not even the R.A.'s!

[_They enter the West Room._

IN THE WEST ROOM.

_An Insipid Young Person (before_ Mr. TADEMA'S "_Unconscious Rivals_"). Yes, that's _marble_, isn't it?

[_Smiles with pleasure at her own penetration._

_Her Mother (cautiously)._ I _imagine_ so. (_She refers to Catalogue._) Oh! I see it's a Tadema, so of _course_ it's marble. He's the great _man_ for it, you know!

_First Painter (who had nothing ready to send in this year)._ H'm, yes. Can't say I care about the way he's placed his azalea. I should have kept it more to the left, myself.

_Second Painter (who sent in, but is not exhibiting)._ Composition wants bringing together, and the colour scheme is a little unfortunate, but--(_generously_) I shouldn't call it altogether _bad_.

_First Painter (more grudgingly)._ Oh, you can see what he was _trying_ for--only--well, it's not the way _I_ should have gone about it.

[_They pass on tolerantly._

_The I. Y. P._ Can you make this picture out, Mamma? "_The Track of the Strayed?_" The Strayed _what_?

_Her Mother._ Sheep, I should suppose, my dear--but it would have been more satisfactory certainly if the animal had been shown _in_ the picture.

_The I. Y. P._ Yes, ever so much. Oh, here's a portrait of Mr. GLADSTONE reading the Lessons in Hawarden Church. I _do_ like that--don't you?

_Her Mother._ I'm not sure that I do, my dear. I wonder they permitted the Artist to paint any portrait--even Mr. GLADSTONE'S--during service!

_The P. P. (before another canvas)._ Now that's about the size I want; but I'm not sure that my wife would quite care about the _subject_.

_His Friend._ I'm rather fond of these allegorical affairs myself--for a drawing-room, you know.

_The P. P._ Well, I'll just try the paper against it. (_He applies the test, and shakes his head._) "There, you _see_--knocks it all to pieces at once!"

_His Friend._ I was afraid it would, y' know. How will _this_ do you--_"A Naiad"?_

_The P. P._ I shouldn't object to it myself, but there's the Wife to be considered--and then, a _Naiad_--eh?

_His friend._ She's half _in_ the water.

_The P. P._ Yes, but then--those lily-leaves in her hair, you know, and--and coming up all dripping like that--no, it's hardly worth while bringing out the paper again!

_The I. Y. P._ Isn't this queer--"_Neptune's Horses_"?--They _can't_ be intended to represent _waves_, surely!

_Her Mother._ It's impossible to tell what the Painter intended, my dear, but I never saw waves so like horses as that.

IN THE NORTH ROOM.

_The I. Y. P. "Cain's First Crime."_ Why, he's only feeding a stork! I don't see any crime in that.

_Her Mother._ He's giving it a live lizard, my dear.

_The I. Y. P._ But storks _like_ live lizards, don't they? And ADAM and EVE are looking on, and don't seem to mind.

_Her Mother._ I expect that's the moral of it. If they'd taken it away from him, and punished him at the time, he wouldn't have turned out so badly as he did--but it's too late to think of that _now_!

_A Matter-of-fact Person (behind)._ I wonder, now, where he got his _authority_ for that incident. It's new to _me_.

IN THE BALCONY.

_The Mother of the I. Y. P._ Oh, CAROLINE, _you_'ve got the Catalogue--just see what No. 288 is, there's a dear. It seems to be a country-house, and they're having dinner in the garden, and some of the guests have come late, and without dressing, and there's the hostess telling them it's of no consequence. What's the title--"_The Uninvited Guests_," or "_Putting them at their Ease_," or what?

_The I. Y. P._ It only says, _"The Rose-Garden at Ashridge_ (containing portraits of the Earls of PEMBROKE and BROWNLOW, the Countesses of ----").

[_She reads out the list to the end._

_Her Mother._ What a _nice_ picture! Though one would have thought such smart folks wouldn't have come to dinner in riding-boots, and shawls, and things--but of course they can afford to be less particular. And the dessert is beautifully done!

IN THE SOUTH ROOM.

_The I. Y. P._ Why, here are "_Neptune's Horses" again!_ Don't you remember we saw a picture of them before? But I like this better, because here you get Neptune and his chariot.

_Her Mother._ He's made his horses a little too like fish, for my taste.

_The I. Y. P._ I suppose they _were_ a sort of fish--and after all, one isn't expected to believe in all that nowadays, is one? So it doesn't really matter.

_First Horsey Man._ Tell you what, Old Neptune'll come to awful grief with that turn-out of his in another second.

_Second H. M._ Rather--regular bolt--and no ribbons to hold 'em by, either!

_First H. M._ Rummy idea, having cockleshells on the traces.

_Second H. M._ Oh, I don't know--one of the Hussar regiments has 'em.

_First H. M._ Ah, so they have. I suppose that's where he got the idea.

[_They go out, feeling that the picture is satisfactorily accounted for._

_The P. P. (before a small canvas)._ Yes, this is the right thing at last. The paper doesn't seem to put it out in the least, and the sort of subject, you know, that _no_ one can object to. I've quite fallen in love with it. I don't care what it costs--I positively _must_ have it. I'm sure the wife will be as fond of it as I am. I only hope it's not sold--here, let's go and see.

[_They go._

AT THE SECRETARY'S TABLE.

_The P. P. (turning over the priced Catalogue)._ Ah, here it is! It's unsold--it's marked down at--(_his face falls_)--eleven--eleven --that's _rather_ over my limit. (_To his Friend._) Do you mind waiting while I try the paper on it once more? (_His Friend consents; the P. P. returning, after an interval_.) No, I had my doubts from the beginning--it _won't_ do, after all!

_His Friend._ But I thought you said the paper didn't put it out?

_The P. P._ It doesn't--but the picture takes all the shine out of the paper.

_His Friend._ I suppose you couldn't very well change the paper--eh?

_The P. P._ Change the paper?--when it's only been up a week, and cost seven-and-six the piece! My _dear_ fellow, what are you talking about? No, no--I must see if I can't get a picture to match it at MAPLE'S, that's all.

_His Friend (vaguely)._ Yes, I suppose they understand all that sort of thing there.

[_They go out, relieved at having arrived at a decision._

* * * * *

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE ON ULSTER.

TO MR. PUNCH, SIRR,--You're a patriot, divil a less.

Is it fair, I ask you, Sirr, is it fair to quote the Universal Bard against us Ulster, _et ne plus_ Ulster, Loyalists? Yet this is the line which a man who used to call himself "a friend of mine" sends me, and he puts a drawing with it, which I can't, and won't reproduce, representing a moon up in the sky, labelled "Home Rule," and a pack of wolves (a pack of idiots, for all they're like wolves, for that matter), on which he writes "Ulster," with their mouths open, looking up at it. And this, he says, is an illustration of a line in SHAKSPEARE,

"The howling of Irish wolves against the moon,"

which you'll find in _As You Like It_ (whether you like it or not),