Volume 109, October 26, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

WINTER COVENT GARDEN OPERATIC NOTES.

SIR AUGUSTUS ANGLO-OPERATICUS has done well at Covent Garden, and will probably go one better. To Miss ALICE ESTY, as _Elsa_, in _Lohengrin_, we say "_Esty perpetua_." All are good: and the houses have been apparently as good as the company. A season of German-French-Italian Opera in English is a risky venture for a winter season; still, if successful, and at popular prices, there is in it good promise for the future. The conductors are Messrs. FELD, HENSCHEL, GLOVER, and Mr. C. HEDMONDT, which sounds like an English rendering of _Tête Monté_. A _Tête Monté_ can carry many a project through triumphantly where a _Tête moins Monté_ would fail.

_Tuesday._--Excellent _Faust_. Mr. PHILIP BROZEL, first time in English, decidedly good. Sir DRURIOLANUS thought the old opera "wanted a fillip," and so gave us PHILIP BROZEL. KATE LEE a capital nurse, and FANNY MOODY a delightful _Marguerite_. OLITZKA a pleasing _Siebel_, and conductor GLOVER, as his name implies, keeping all hands well employed, and ready to give fits to any hand that might be "difficult." The remainder of the week "going strong."

In the interests of English opera, or rather of opera in English, we wish DRURIOLANUS COVENT GARDENSIS OPERATICUS, with _Messieurs Tête Monté et Cie._, every possible success.

* * * * *

THE AMNESIA BACILLUS.

IT was an alarming state of affairs. The first indications of the new epidemic were noticed in the autumn of 1895. A lady who mislaid her identity at Brighton, and failed to recover it for a whole week, had the doubtful distinction of being the initial case. Her example was very shortly after followed by a servant-girl who "lost her memory" at Three Bridges Railway Station. Not being properly labelled, there was naturally some delay before she was returned to her supperless and sorrowing mistress. Then the plague spread.

Among the first to suffer were the numerous class of persons who had been so unfortunate as to borrow money. The simple operation of transferring a half-crown or a fiver seemed to carry contagion with it. From the instant that the fatal coin was in the palm of the innocent and unsuspecting borrower, all recollection of his previous personality vanished. The unhappy victim had no resource but to start life afresh as he best could, with new struggles to face, new lenders thus to victimise him--and new capital (a paltry equivalent!) wherewith to mourn his hopeless loss of memory. It was observed that these sufferers were subject to recurrent attacks of the _amnesia bacillus_. Some scientific alienists went so far as to maintain that the complaint was no new one, but had been prevalent, in a more or less virulent form, ever since the first leather coinage was invented.

The Woman with a Past was the next to succumb. She was not quite so much _en évidence_ as in the two or three previous years; still, a considerable number of her carried on a contented, if obscure and occasionally chequered, existence. She only rarely imitated the _Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ in putting a violent end to her career. Then all at once she, too, caught the disease. All the romance fled out of her life, all the deep insight into masculine character, all the love-souvenirs, so interesting to herself--and to her female acquaintances. (_They_ did not forget any of these entertaining details, however.) But as far as she was concerned, her Past completely vanished, and, poor thing, like the half-crown borrower, she had to begin all over again. It was weary work, converting her future into a Past, or series of Pasts, and if she frequently failed in her task, we must put it down to the deadly and character-destroying bacillus.

Then the New Women took it severely, and quite forgot themselves. However, they have been so completely advertised and satirised of late, that there is no necessity to describe the symptoms of this class of patient any further. We might add, though, that in some cases the _sequelæ_ of the complaint aged the subject by ten or twenty years.

It was distressing to note that even the respected occupants of the Bench did not invariably escape; but they received the infection in a mild form. They fairly well managed to retain their dignity and personality, but they could _not_ remember the names of such common objects as an "oof-bird," or the meaning of so familiar a term as "going tommy-dodd." This was inconvenient, as it necessitated the employment of cockney interpreters.

It was a case of "dunno 'oo they are" with a good many other individuals and sections of the community.

One reverend gentleman had it badly, and turned litigant on the spot. Quite oblivious of his sacerdotal functions and character, he imagined that he would be a public benefactor if he went about suing unoffending 'busses for obstructing a minute portion of their window-lights with advertisements and notice-boards. This amused the public at first, but after a while he was voted a nuisance and a bore. Then the Salvationists caught the bacillus _en bloc_. One and all they thought they were musicians, and, as such, entitled to make Sunday a Day of Riot.

Amongst other unfortunate specimens of humanity were the shop-lifters, who fancied they were shop-walkers; the burglars, who habitually mistook their home address; the quarterly tenants, who, on the other hand, forgot to remain at home at periodical intervals; and our old friend 'ARRY, who forgot his manners and his h's.

The list of victims might be indefinitely extended. Once it was thought that they were responsible for their actions; but now, thanks to the progress of medical science, the _amnesia bacillus_ has been identified. It only remains for a new PASTEUR to invent some counteracting microbe.

* * * * *

CRAZY TALES.

The Duchess of POMPOSET was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views.

"POMPOSET," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"

(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought it _infra dig._, and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.")

"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."

"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"

"What is more, I have made up yours."

"To make up the mind of an English duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, JANE."

(That this aristocratic rib of His rib should have been named plain JANE was a chronic sorrow.)

"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay."

"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock--a revelation. I have fallen! Not once--but many times."

"Wretched woman!--I beg pardon!--wretched Grande Dame! call upon DEBRETT to cover you!"

"I am madly in love with----"

"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear----"

"Peace, peace!" said JANE. "Compose yourself, ducky--that is PLANTAGENET. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."

The Duke groaned.

"Horrid, awful slips!"

With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.

"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."

A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs.

With womanly impulse--flinging caste to the winds--JANE caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, PLANTAGENET. I have--been--learning--to--_bike!_ There! On the sly!"

The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.

"I am madly enamoured of--my machine."

The peer smoothed a ruffled top-knot with ineffable grace.

"Likewise am determined _you_ shall take lessons. Now it is no use, duky. I mean to be tender but firm with you."

The Potentate gave a stertorous chortle, and, stretching out his arms, fell in a strawberry-leaf swoon on the parquet floor, his ducal head on the lap of his adored JANE.

* * * * *

"HAPPY THOUGHT."--_Mem. (from note-book of careless man)._ When nothing else to do, wind up my watch. It saves time.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

MOUNT THE BUTTER-TUB!--Irish butter is on its trial, it seems. It has managed to get a bad name, because some of the makers or dealers become so attached to it they won't part with it for a month or so after it is churned--and when they _do_ part with it they pretend it's new. So the trustees of the Cork butter market suggest a "date-brand" as a means of restoring the damaged reputation of the Hibernian cow. It is quite obvious that if butter is to keep, it mustn't be kept--which sounds like a bull, but it's true. Now is the time for Irish patriots to come to the rescue of their firkins--to form a "Brand League" if necessary--and prevent the produce of Irish dairies being evicted from the markets of England.

* * * * *

WHY SHOULD GLASGOW WAIT?--The average time taken by a telegram to get from Glasgow to London, or _vice versâ_, is twenty-nine minutes, and the cry of the Glasgow Chamber of Commerce, in consequence, is "More wires!" The Chamber does not mind if they are overhead wires; all it objects to is, overdue wires. There has been a railway race to the north; but a telegraph race seems still more wanted just now. And the worst of it is that the lordly Stock-Exchange folk are specially provided with a wire that sends _their_ telegrams in five minutes. _Punch's_ advice to the Chamber of Commerce is--"wire in!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

BUMBLEDOM AND BRISTLES.--A strike of barbers has occurred at the Cork workhouse; no inmate cares to undertake the duty at the pay of one shilling a week; and the guardians are thinking of getting in outdoor relief for the chins of their paupers. Why not an "Irish Melody," to this effect?--

The barbers have struck, farewell to the shave, And the rate-supplied soap on the cheek of the brave.

* * * * *

A MAGNIFICENT OPPORTUNITY.--The enormous hotel, the neighbour and, it may be, the friendly rival of the Savoy Hotel _à la Carte_,--for friendship in opposition is possible though improbable,--is almost completed, but apparently it is still "a deed without a name." What is it to be called? The board, not of directors, but of advertisement outside, says, "_This Magnificent Hotel_," &c., &c. Well, gentlemen proprietors, why not take this description as the title? It does not look bad in French, "_L'Hôtel Magnifique_." And in plain English "_The Magnificent_" is a striking title, which can become popular as "_The Mag._" _Mr. Punch_, as General Hotel Inspector and Universal Board Adviser, offers the above suggestion.

* * * * *

"FINIS."

(_By an Old-fashioned Novel-reader._)

Oh! when we finished a tale of old, The thing was through, and the story told. But when we shut up a tale that's "New," There's little told, and there's nothing "through." With neither beginning, middle, nor end, We do not part with the book as a friend. _Finis!_ The word seems ironical sport, It is not finished, but snapt off short, Like the poor maid's nose by the blackbird's beak In the "_Song of Sixpence_." _That_ tale was weak, Ending in nought, like an alley blind. But our story-spinners appear to find Their moral there. Their tales don't close, But break off short--like the poor maid's nose! Ah me! for a few of the fine old chaps Who gave us meals, not mere dishes of scraps!

* * * * *

"POST OBIT."--The _Sheffield Daily Telegraph_ announces that the first piece of patronage in the district which has fallen to the new Postmaster-General is now being competed for. It is that of medical officer to the local post-office. Our contemporary announces that the applications, which are said to be very numerous, have all gone in. It is generally understood that the gentleman ultimately selected to undertake the duties of the post will not necessarily be connected with the Dead Letter Department.

* * * * *

A CLERICAL MISTAKE.

(_Fragment of a Romance found shortly after the holding of the recent Clerical Meetings._)

"You are most kind," said the guest, getting down from the dogcart and assisting the retainer to carry his portmanteau into the house.

"Not at all," was the reply. "If you are so good as to wait a moment, I will take the vehicle round to the stables and then show you your room."

The guest bowed his head gratefully, and yet with some embarrassment. Who was this retainer? He seemed to be a man of education, and yet---- He had no time for further thought, as the subject of his meditations returned to him.

"I was as speedy as possible," said he; "as I knew you would like to dress. The rector dines rather early, and is sure to be punctual to-night. This way."

And then the two young men marched up the staircase, and entered together the spare room.

"There!" exclaimed the retainer, as he finished laying out the contents of the guest's portmanteau. "Now all you have to do is to look sharp and get down into the drawing-room, before the arrival of the bishop. I shall try and snatch a few moments' doze, as I have been busy from the early morning."

"I really cannot sufficiently thank you," said the guest, hunting in his waistcoat pocket for a shilling. "But if you will allow me----"

"Oh, no thank you," interrupted the retainer, with a slight blush. "I really do not require a tip."

"But surely, from your multitudinous duties, you must be the butler?"

Then came the solution to the mystery.

"Oh dear no! I am not the butler! I am only the curate!"

* * * * *

A NEW SWAN SONG.

[Miss ANNIE SWAN says--"What appears to be required is, that the wife should have something of her own, given to her freely by her husband for her own use and benefit, absolutely apart from other moneys, that she should spend it as she chooses."]

Oh! give me something of my own, In which Man has _no_ part; Which I may hoard, or spend, or loan, And it shall ease my heart. And if you ask me whence 'twill come, And what will be my plan, I answer that that private sum Should come--of course--from Man! I'll grab it quick, I'll hold it tight, That welcome L. S. D., Concerning which Man's only right Is--_just to give it Me!_

* * * * *

PROBABLE.--New edition of "_Cornelius Nepos_," with notes by Lord HALSBURY, assisted by Mr. HARDINGE FRANK GIFFARD, _Sec. Comm. Lun._

* * * * *

PROVERBIAL CONSERVATIVE PHILOSOPHY.-- Sow Local Government in Ireland and it will come up Home Rule.

* * * * *

"COLLAR WORK"; OR, THE UNAPPRECIATED ENTERTAINER.

SCENE--_The after-deck of an excursion-steamer, which is on its return to Scarborough from Bridlington, where the excursionists have employed a shining hour in laying in copious luncheons at various restaurants and eating-houses. Owing to the tide, they have had to land and re-embark in small boats through a rather choppy bit of sea, the consequence being that the majority of the party--though not indisposed--are inclined to prefer meditation to moving about, probably on the principle of "letting sleeping dogs lie." After Flamborough Head has been rounded, a young man in a frock coat and a cloth cap, who has hitherto been regarded as perfectly inoffensive, suddenly brings out a pair of plush-covered tables from behind the funnel, and reveals himself in the unwelcome character of a professional conjuror._

_The Young Man_ (_clearing his throat and pointedly addressing a group of torpid tourists on the centre seats_). Ladies _and_ gentlemen, with your very kind permission, I will now endeavour to amuse you by exhibiting a few simple feats of ledger de mang to which I invite your closest attention (_the persons addressed instantly assume an air of uneasy abstraction_), as I find that the more carefully my audience watches my proceedings the less able they are to detect the manner in which the trick is performed.... I 'ave 'ere, ladies and gentlemen, a gingerbeer bottle, just a plain stone gingerbeer bottle of a pattern no doubt familiar to you all. (_He produces it, and it appears to be generally unpopular, as if it called up reminiscences of revelry which some would willingly forget._) I will now pass it around in order that you may satisfy yourselves that it is what it appears to be. (_To a_ Somnolent Excursionist _in a corner._) Will you oblige me, Sir, by kindly taking it in your 'and?

_The Somnolent Excursionist_ (_who seems to be under the impression that he is being offered refreshment_). Eh? gingerbeer? No, thanky, never take it. [_He closes his eyes again._

_The Y. M._ (_to a_ Grumpy Excursionist _on a campstool_). Perhaps, Sir, you will oblige me by examining this bottle.

_The Grumpy Excursionist_ (_wrathfully_). Hang it all, Sir, do you suppose _I_'m any judge of gingerbeer bottles; take the beastly thing away!

_The Y. M._ (_cast down, but undeterred_). Well, you are all satisfied that it _is_ an ordinary earthenware bottle. Now I take this tin case--made, as you perceive, in two parts to fit closely round the bottle. I will just give you an opportunity of 'andling the case so that you may convince yourselves of its being perfectly empty. (_He proffers it for inspection, but everybody seems willing to take it on trust._) I enclose the bottle in the case--so--I make one or two passes--hey, presto--and, on opening the case, the bottle will be found to have vanished. (_It has--but nobody appears to regret its disappearance._) I close the case, which you all saw to be empty, once more, and what do I find it contain! (_He pulls out yard after yard of coloured ribbon, which falls absolutely flat, but if the tin case had emitted a column of smoke and a genuine Arabian djinn, it would probably fail just now to produce any deep impression._) I shall next produce a pack of ordinary playing cards, from which I will ask you, Sir, to be good enough to select a card, without letting me see it or mentioning which it is (_to the_ Grumpy Excursionist, _who brushes him away irritably as he would a bluebottle_). Madam, will you kindly----? (_to the_ Stout Lady, _who turns a shawled shoulder and feebly requests him "Not to come bothering_ her"). Perhaps _you_, Sir----? (_to a_ Cadaverous Tourist, _who intimates that he "never encourages cardplaying under any form"_). Thank you _very_ much (_to a_ Rubicund Tourist, _who accepts a card out of sheer good-nature_). Now I shuffle the cards again, cut them, and (_exhibiting a court-card with mild triumph_) unless I am mistaken, Sir, _this_ was the card you chose!

_The Rubicund Tourist._ Was it? I dessay, I dessay. I didn't notice particularly myself.

[_Upon this the_ Young Man _recognises that his conjuring fails to charm, and retires to the funnel in apparent discomfiture._

_Excursionists_ (_to one another_). Card-tricks are all very well in their proper place; but, when you come out for a blow like this, why.... If it had been a little _music_, now, or a song, or soomat o' that soart, it would ha' been nahce enoof.... (_With dismay._) Why, danged if he isn't going to give us anoother turn of it!

[_The_ Young Man _reappears, carrying two dismal old dummies with battered papier-maché heads, and preternaturally mobile jaws._

_The Y. M._ (_after planting these effigies in such a position as to depress as many as possible_). I now 'ave the pleasure of introducing to your notice two very old friends of mine, Mr. and Mrs. JEREMIAH JORDLES. (_The audience, not having energy enough to escape, submit in sombre resignation to these fresh tormentors, which goggle at them with cheerful imbecility._) Well, Mrs. JORDLES, Ma'am, and how do _you_ find yourself this afternoon? I 'ope you're enjoying this most delightful trip.

[_He bends his head deferentially for the answer, with a sympathetic movement of his own lips._

_The Female Figure_ (_with a waggling jaw, and in an impossible falsetto_). No, I _ain't_ enj'yin' this most delightful trip, so there. I believe I'm going to be ill in a minute. I feel that queer, I do.

_The Male Figure_ (_in a voice scarcely distinguishable from his introducer's own_). Queer? And no wonder, after taking all them pickled wornuts with yer sooet pudden!

[_The_ Stout Lady's _ample cheeks are contorted by a transitory spasm, and the_ Cadaverous Tourist _passes his hand across his mouth, which the Ventriloquist construes as reluctant tributes to his facetious powers._

_Female F._ Well, _you_ needn't talk, after all them jam puffs and the prawns you swollered, 'eds and all!

_Male F._ Ah, I _'ad_ a appetite. And I 'ate waste, I do. But lor, when I see her a swallerin' down that sorcer o' cockles just after clearing out the 'okypoky barrer, I knew she'd live to be sorry for it!

_The Stout Lady_ (_to the_ Cadaverous Man). They didn't ought to be allowed to go on like this. Downright vulgarity _I_ call it!

_The Cadaverous Man._ You are right, Mum It's quite enough to upset anybody. If he's going to make either of them images purtend to be unwell, I shall call the Captin and put a stop to it.

_The Y. M._ (_with a tardy perception that he might have chosen a more generally agreeable topic, and meanly throwing the blame upon the innocent dummies_). There, Mr. JORDLES, Sir, that'll do. We don't care to hear what you and your good lady took by way of a relish; tell us about something else.

_Male F._ All right. There was a quart o' winkles, as wasn't over----

_The Y. M._ (_shaking_ Mr. JORDLES _up, and stopping his mouth_). 'Ush, Sir, 'ush! Beyave, now, and see if you can set quiet while Mrs. JORDLES sings us a little song.

_Male F._ What? 'Er sing! 'Ere, chuck me overboard, will yer? I've _'eard_ her.

_The Grumpy Exc._ (_in a savage undertone_). For heaven's sake chuck 'em _both_ overboard, and follow them!

_Female F._ Oh, dear, me sing? I'm all of a flutter like. Well, what shall I sing? Oh, I know. (_Quavering._) "_Where are the friends of Child'ood now?_"

_Male F._ Why, in gaol, doing time!

[Mr. Jordles _is reproved and corrected as before, but his senile flippancy only excites general disgust, and when he proceeds to boast that a beautiful young lady he met in Bridlington has fallen violently in love with him, the audience clearly resent the statement as an outrage to their intelligence. The Ventriloquist perseveres a little longer, though even his own belief in the dummies seems to be shaken, and at length he gives them up as hopeless, and carries them off ignominiously, one under each arm. Whereupon the party breathe freely once more, only to gasp in impotent horror the next moment, as the irrepressible_ Young Man _returns with a smaller figure, modelled and dressed to represent an almost inconceivably repulsive infant. He perches himself on the bulwark, and placing this doll on his knee, affects to converse with it, until its precocity and repeated demands for a cheesecake render it an object of universal loathing and detestation. However, its pertness suddenly begins to flag, as beads gather upon the Ventriloquist's pallid brow, and allowing the figure to collapse in a limp heap, he rises unsteadily to his feet._

_The Y. M._ (_in faltering tones_). Ladies and gentlemen, such a thing has reelly never 'appened to me before in the 'ole course of my professional career; but I feel compelled to ask you kindly to excuse me if I break off for a few minutes, 'oping to resume--and with your kind indulg----

[_Here he staggers feebly away and is seen no more, while a faint smile may be observed for the first time to irradiate the faces of the company, as they realise that their sufferings are more than avenged._

* * * * *

CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. IX.--PECKERS-UP!--ANTI-PRIG PHILOSOPHY--"TOMMY THE THUMPER"'S TALES--THE HAUNTED CAB.

A CABBY may be this or that; 'e's a chap as the world is much given to slang or to chaff; But there's one blessed boon as is usually 'is, 'e can do--what your prigs seldom can--a fair laugh. I 'ave known a good few of all sorts in my time; some scarce fit for to tool a old SAWBONES's gig, Some as smart as they're made; but I never yet met a true Cabby as answered percisely to "prig."

You look at a rank at a time fares is off, and the nosebags is on, and you find the chaps all A 'anging around with their 'ands in their pockets, 'ard by their pet pub, or close under a wall. They're looking about 'em, and passing the patter, and doubling sharp up at a wheeze or a joke; They may look on the lollop, but not on the sulk, nor they don't 'ang their 'eads like a ill-tempered moke.

But life's not _all_ laugh with 'em give you my word; summer's not all a beano, while winter is worse, And many a chap must drive 'ard through a sleet-storm when fur better fitted for blankets and nurse. Your fare snugged inside _may_ be grumpy and growly, a crack in the winder will give '_im_ the 'ump; But _you_ mustn't cuss, though you're soaked to your socks, and the rheumatiz racks your poor back at each bump.

Stillsomever to take the lot smilin' 's _our_ motter, though sometimes the smile sets a mossel askew. Old "TOMMY THE THUMPER"'s just left me. Queer egg! Sort o' parson one time, if all stories is true. But rum 'ot and religion don't mix none too well, as tomater-nosed TOMMY 'as reason to know. Still 'e '_as_ got the gift o' the gab, and no error, 'is yarns when 'e's on, make yer creepy and low.

TOMMY is one o' that mildewy sort as are gen'rally gloomy and down on their luck. 'E will tip you 'is graveyardy tales of old times, till you stand 'im a nobbler, or give 'im the chuck. Remembers the old body-snatchers, TOM does, and the BURKE and HARE yarns make you cold as a dab; But what 'e reeled out o'er 'is rum-'ot to-night was a gospel-true tale of a old Haunted Cab.

"Gospel-true, on _my_ davy," is TOMMY's pet clincher. "Ah, JACK," 'e grumped out, as 'e stoppered 'is bowl With a forefinger brown as a rusty old spike; "you young chirpers ain't go neither fancy nor soul. Hagnostical lot, you smart 'Ansoms, as think you are HUXLEYS on wheels, I 'ave not the least doubt, But why ain't a cab just as like as a castle to 'ave its own ghost? Tell me that, 'GINGER GROUT'!"

"GINGER" shook 'is red 'ead and said nothink. Says TOMMY, "Old 'BARNEY THE BUNCH' was the sulkiest sort, 'E 'adn't no heart for a pal in distress, and 'e never liked 'parting' for friendship _or_ sport. But what 'e most shirked was all haccident cases. Well, Cabbies don't cotton to _them_, as a rule, But 'BARNEY THE BUNCH' was a bit _extry_-brutal; a reg'lar old flint-hearted, foxy-eyed fool.

"Bunched up on 'is box all alone one cold evening, when not a four-wheeler, 'cept 'is, was in sight, Old BARNEY was 'ailed by a poor shrieking creetur as 'eld a small girl in 'er arms, taller-white, With a small crimson cut on 'er poor little temple, arf hid by 'er goldian ringlets shook loose: 'The orspital--quick--for 'ev'n's sake!' pants the mother; 'Oh! don't lose a hinstant.' Lor, 'twasn't no use!

"BARNEY whips up 'is 'orse, and trots off, most deliberate, grunting as 'ow that 'is cab worn't a 'earse. Most superstitious old griffin the 'BUNCH' wos. Well there, the child died. But if ever a curse 'Ung over a cabby _and_ cab it wos 'isn. Oh yes, you may grin o'er your corfee and toast In this 'ere cosy shelter. But strange fares, at night-time, do not like to ride number two--with a ghost!

"All fancy? Then wy did _all_ talk of a kiddy with goldian curls, and of wild-woman cries? And wy did fares pull BARNEY up on the suddent, and scuttle with shuddersome looks and skeart eyes? And wy did old 'BARNEY THE BUNCH' take to boozing, and wy wos 'e found stony-stark _in_ 'is cab With eyes fixed on--nothink? Yus, _nothink_, of course! 'TOMMY THUMPER''s a fool to you young 'uns to blab."

Shut up like a rat-trap, and trotted off twist-ways, the "THUMPER" did, huffed in 'is boozy old style. A ghost-seer's dignitude does stand on end if 'e twigs that 'is cackle is met with a smile. But _I_ didn't grin--not contemphuously, leastways; I've seen fur too much to be big on the boast, And this I _do_ know, that your 'ard-'earted hunks will one day git 'is gruel--if not from a ghost.

Conscience, I tell you, can build spooks like Guy Foxes, or as the jim-jams makes green rats or snakes. _Real?_ Wot's "real"? Who's goin' to be cocksure wot's actual facks and wot's fancy's queer fakes? Only your ignerant, stuck-uppish shaller-pate. I never shirk no true orspital case; And if any ghost _should_ make free with my Forder--I 'ope I could look the spook fair in the face.

I '_ave_ saved lives by a hopportune hurry-up; so I imagine 'ave most of my mates. 'Ansoms are everywhere, like London sparrers, and five minutes' start sometimes dodges the fates. Gratitude don't grow on every gooseberry bush, and to 'ave just saved a life _or_ a leg _Mayn't_ mean a fiver, or even a fare, but wot flaviour it gives your next corfee and hegg!

I 'ave one "regular," crippled but rich, as I saved--so _'e_ says--from a fur worser fate. Only a fluke, as I tell 'im each Christmas, but somehow 'e won't wipe that job off the slate. Many a nice little extry it lands me; and as for 'is daughter, a brown-eyed young dove, Well, she is a fare as I'd not lose for somethink, _though_ bob-less; I'd much sooner drive 'er for love!

* * * * *

At the Aquarium the highly trained and well-educated horse, _Alpha_, finishes a wonderful performance by being dressed up as a nurse, and wheeling a pony, _Little Beta_, about in a perambulator. Clever _Alpha_ shouldn't be allowed to end by making such a donkey of himself. One of these days he'll be beaten by little _Beta_.

* * * * *

Mrs. R.'s nephew writes from Harrow that his aunt on returning from Homburg, observed cheerfully, "My dear, I feel as jolly as a sandbag."

* * * * *

* * * * *

NOW AND THEN.

_A Morality (after Morris) in Hyde Park._

"O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!" Sang Captain CHARLES MORRIS. But he was a swell, Filled with cockney, no doubt anti-democrat, spleen, At "an ass on a common, a goose on a green."

But what had he said had he lived in our days Of the scenes that Hyde Park in the season displays? Where the "goose on the green" is a Socialist scamp, And the "pig on the dunghill" a somnolent tramp.

O sweet _rus in urbe_, our London delight! A Ghetto by day, a Gehenna by night! Who cares for the meaningless trill of a lark, When the shriek of the spouter is heard in Hyde Park?

"In London the spirits are cheerful and light," O MORRIS, your lyre is not up-to-date--quite. You knew not how coarse _Boanerges_ can bawl, Saw not on the turf filthy vagrants asprawl.

In Liberty's name what strange license is shown To the scoundrels who swear, and the zealots who groan; On turf that is tender, 'midst leaves that are green, The sights are repulsive, the sounds are obscene.

Yes, MORRIS, that's what we now make of our Park; And as to the deeds that go on after dark, They would be far too gross for _your_ liberal Muse, And to sing them e'en satirists now must refuse.

You fancied each object in town a fresh treat; Had you seen a tramp huddled upon a park seat, You might not have felt so "revived by _that_ whim," And you certainly had not sat down after _him!_

Full many a trait of the times of gross GEORGE Makes humanity shrink, raises Liberty's gorge; But certain things now that to Park and Pall Mall come, In Freedom's name, truly are more free than welcome.

In a Park that is spacious, umbrageous, and green, Seats, sprawlers, and speeches, at least, should be _clean_. And oh what avail that 'tis fragrant and floral, If loungers are frowsy and manners immoral?

"In London, thank heaven! our peace is secure" You sang; and your London you knew, to be sure. But whether by daylight, or whether by dark, _Our_ peace is by no means secure--in Hyde Park!

Ah, MORRIS, we're freer, more human, more kind, Since you found your London so much to your mind. But, though to your days we've no wish to return, In the art of park-keeping we've something to learn.

* * * * *

THE POET-LAUREATE STAKES (_by "Our Special Commissioner"_).--There is not much to choose between the competitors for the above unimportant fixture. Ever since the publication of the weights _Sir Edwin Arnold_ has held the position of first favourite. He appears to have derived no harm from his recent journey to "India"; indeed, on visiting him at his new quarters in "the Tenth Mews" we found him in the pink of condition. Although _Mr. Austin_ has, owing to a strained cæsura, and consequent restriction to walking exercise, gone back in the betting, he is, nevertheless, looked upon in some quarters as a likely candidate; while _Sir Lewis Morris_ is very much fancied--by himself. A somewhat sensational wager of £3000 to £10 was booked against _Sir Lewis_ and _Mr. Henley_ "coupled."

* * * * *

CAUTION IN RIGHT DIRECTION.--Dear _Mr. Punch_,--The direction, written by a correspondent, on an envelope I found on returning from a short trip, suggested to me exactly the description of a sly puss (which I am not) of a young lady (which I am) who would be a perfect model of propriety ("that's me") in her own domestic circle, but

"Forward if away from home!"

There's a nice description! So misleading! I mention this as _something to be avoided_ by any one writing to a nice girl of his, or her, acquaintance, and placing _special posting directions on the envelope_.

Yours ever,

LALAGE.

* * * * *

COWARDLY ACTION ON THE PART OF A SOLDIER.--To "strike a tent."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PROBLEM PLAYWRIGHT'S VADE MECUM.

_Question._ Has the Problem Play a solution?

_Answer._ Certainly; it answers the purposes of the author and the manager.

_Q._ From this I take it that it is invariably successful?

_A._ Well, it is never a failure; or, rather, hardly ever.

_Q._ Can you make your meaning a little plainer?

_A._ If it is not invariably a triumph of coin, it is a success of esteem. The house is crowded for a couple of months.

_Q._ And after?

_A._ The Problem Play is not expected to have an after.

_Q._ What is the essence of such a creation?

_A._ The unconventional treatment of the conventional.

_Q._ Give an example?

_A._ Two men tossing up for a lady. In _Box and Cox_ the transaction was conducted with the assistance of a sixpence in the politest fashion imaginable; in a later version the affair could not be arranged without a pack of cards and much forcible language.

_Q._ Was the scene the same in both, like the situation?

_A._ No, in _Box and Cox_ the spot was a second-floor back; in the other, the interior of an observatory on the summit of a mountain.

_Q._ Can you mention any other characteristic of the Problem Play?

_A._ The dramatist should be daring. People should say of his work that it would have surprised their parents and startled their grandmothers into fits.

_Q._ How can this desirable end be attained?

_A._ By the playwright causing his heroine to throw a pocket-bible into the fire, or perform some other act of parallel eccentricity.

_Q._ Should the heroine have any peculiarity?

_A._ As a rule she should be a woman with a past.

_Q._ But has not this type been worked to death?

_A._ It has certainly seen much service, to that the newest kind of heroine is to be preferred.

_Q._ What is the newest kind of heroine?

_A._ The woman who, without having a past, has, under the influence of drink, seriously damaged the possibility of enjoying a future.

_Q._ When does the leading situation arrive?

_A._ At the end of the second act. What goes before and comes after that climax is, to a large extent, immaterial.

_Q._ What is the customary fate of the heroine after the leading situation?

_A._ On rare occasions, suicide "off." But the usual exit is a retreat in rear of the clergy.

_Q._ What is the customary effect of the Problem Play?

_A._ That for a considerably longer time than nine days it is a wonder. Every one talks about it, and many see it during that period. When the wonder is exhausted according to precedent the cause of the amazement is forgotten.

_Q._ And, when this last season arrives, what does the author do?

_A._ A dramatist, having written one Problem Play, usually writes another.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PROFESSIONAL AND JOURNALISTIC.--The Editor of an illustrated paper says that his only difficulty with his artists is "the Initial Difficulty." He now has on hand an illustrated alphabet ready for all emergencies.

* * * * *

THAT TUNE!

(_Sad Story of a Victim of "D----d Iteration."_)

_Tum-tum-tum-tiddle-um-tum-tum!_ 'Tis ground out twelve times over!! My nerves all twitch, my brain seems numb, Faith! I'm a music-lover; But that infernal organ-grind, With hideous iteration, Is driving me out of my mind, Into sheer desperation. _Tum-tum-tum-tiddle-um-tum-tum!_ _Tum-tum_--O this is maddening! It may be in some gloomy slum, The organ-grinder's gladdening. But to a poor suburban scribe, Intent on scribbling copy, 'Tis torture! Shall I try a bribe? Or seek oblivion's poppy? _Tum-tum-tum-tiddle-um-tum-tum!_ _Tum-tum-tum-tiddle_----Gracious! Those "tums" will split my tympanium, Eternally sequacious. Free country? Bah! When an organ-strain May blast, and blight and bore you, Till you get "tum-tum" on the brain? Ah! There's a picture for you! _Tum-tum-tum-tiddle-um-tum-tum!_-- (The writer, once thought clever, Is now at Hanwell, doomed to hum That hideous tune for ever!)

* * * * *

A STORY ANENT THE NORTH.--According to the _Dundee Advertiser_, Colonel NORTH has paid cash to the King of the BELGIANS, not for concessions of land near Ostend, but for similar advantages on the Congo. It has been rumoured that the purchase-money was ostensibly (or should it be Ostendsibly?) handed over for the possession of the former, and not the latter. But the rumour must be taken with reserve. Perhaps the report may have arisen from the fact that the Belgian watering-place is situated on the North Sea--a locality naturally associated with the name of the King of the Nitrates. Be this as it may, the gallant Colonel is certain to command the confidence of volunteers in the future as in the past. So far as he is concerned, shares (plough and other varieties) will be as popular as bayonets.

* * * * *

Stones in Sermons.

"Sermons in stones," the poet says; and when Smelfungus scolds, and rails, and girds, and groans at us, We feel that worst of sermonising men Is--throwing stones at us.

* * * * *

Mrs. R. observes of a respectable young man among her acquaintances, that she was sorry to hear he was incremated in a recent swindling case.

* * * * *

BIKE _v._ BICYCLE.

_Some Tennysonian Bouts-rimés._

[Mr. ERNEST SHIPTON, Secretary of the Cyclists' Touring Club, protests against the term "bike" as being unmitigated slang.]

Bike, bike, bike, By your leave, oh C. T. C. Quite too long for my tongue to utter Is "bicycle"--_bike_ for me!

O well for the slang-loving boy, That he "bikes" with his sister at play! O well for the lass or lad Who don't Mr. SHIPTON obey!

For, in spite of him, "bikes" go on, Thus called, over dale and hill; And "bicycles" soon will be vanished, and The voice of the pedant still.

Bike, bike, bike, _Mr. Punch_ says, oh C. T. C. And the tender grace of a term that is dead Will never come back to me!

* * * * *

TO SQUIRE PUNCH.--SIR,--I don't quite know how to spell the gentleman's names, whether its "TYCHO" or "TYKEO BRAHE," but, anyhow, he was a sharp chap, and all I want to learn for certain is, was he one of the good old genuine "Tykes," and a Yorkshireman?

Yours,

JOHN BROWDIE'S GRANDNEPHEW.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A ROMANCE OF THE FUTURE.