Part 2

"_Mr. Nemo, as a Solicitor in his office, is a very able man;_" _i.e._, That although Mr. NEMO, away from his profession, would shrink from doing anything calculated to get himself turned out of the West-End Club to which he belongs; in his _sanctum_ he would cheerfully sell the bones of his grandmother by auction, and prosecute his own father and mother for petty larceny, arson, or murder, always supposing he saw his way to his costs.

EPISTOLATORY.

"_A thousand thanks for your nice long, sympathetic letter;_" _i.e._, "Great bore to have to reply to six pages of insincere gush."

"_Please excuse this hurried scrawl;_" _i.e._, "That'll cover any mistakes in spelling, &c."

"_Only too delighted;_" _i.e._, "_Can't_ refuse, confound it!"

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* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)

THERE was some good racing at Newmarket last week, and, as usual, every single race proved up to the hilt the extraordinary accuracy of my forecasts. I said a year ago that "_Bandersnatch_ was a colt who hadn't a chance of winning a first-class race. Only a March hare or a Bank-holiday boozer would think of backing him." _Bandersnatch's name never even appeared on the race-card last week._ Mr. JEREMY says the colt is dead, as if that had anything to do with it; but of course if the gullish herd chooses to cackle after Mr. JEREMY it's no use trying to help them.

The hippopotamus-headed dolts who pinned their faith to _Molly Mustard_ must have learnt their lesson by this time. Of course _Molly Mustard_ defeated that overrated sham _Undercut_; but what of that? When _Undercut_ was placed second to _Pandriver_ at the North Country Second Autumn Handicap two years ago, I warned everybody that _Wobbling Willie_ who is half-brother to _Rattlepate_ by _Spring Onion_, ought to have made a certainty of the race if the gruel-brained idiots who own him had only rubbed his back with DAFFY'S Elixir twice a-day before going to bed. As it was _Wobbling Willie_ rolled about like a ship at sea, and Brighton Pref passed him in a common canter. That scarcely made _Molly Mustard_ a second _Eclipse_. The fact of the matter is she is a roarer, or will be before the season is over, and those who backed her will have to whistle for their money. All I can say is, that I hope they will like the trap into which their own patent-leather-headed imbecility has led them.

_Corncrake_ is a nice, compact, long-coupled, raking-looking colt, with a fine high action that reminds me of a steam-pump at its best. He is not likely to bring back much of the L3000 given for him as a yearling by his present owner, but he might be used to make the running for his stable-companion _Catsmeat_, who was picked up for L5 out of a butcher's cart at Doncaster.

For the Two Thousand I should have selected _Barkis_ if he had been entered. Failing him, there is very little in it. _Sandy Sal_ might possibly have a chance, but she has always turned out such an arrant rogue that I hesitate to recommend her. Mr. JEREMY plumps for _Old Tom_, and the whole pack of brainless moon-calves goes after him in full cry as usual. If _Old Tom_ had two sound legs he might be a decent horse, but he has only got one, and he has never used that properly.

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* * * * *

THE CHILDREN'S FANCY DRESS BALL.

ALL the grate LORD MARE'S and the good Lady Maress's hundreds and hundreds of little frends had their annual peep into Paradice last Wensday heavening, at the good old Manshun Howse, on which most interesting ocashun all their fond Mas and their stump-upping Pas sent them into the famous Egipshun All in such a warious combenashun of hartistick loveliness and buty as ewen I myself never seed ekalled! Whether it was the rayther sewere coldness of the heavening, or the niceness of the seweral refreshments as the kind Lady Maress perwided, or whether it was that most on 'em was amost one year older than they was larst year, in course I don't know, but they suttenly kept on a pitching into the wittels and drink in a way as rayther estonished ewen my seasoned eyes, acustomed as they is to Copperashun Bankwets, and settra. One little bewty of a Faery, with her lovely silwer wand of power, amost friten'd me out of my wits by thretening to turn me into sumthink dredful if I didn't give her a strawbery hice emedeately, which she fust partly heated, and then drunk, as their custom is, I spose. Then there was a lot of all sorts--niggers and sodgers, and three young ladies as mag-pies. Which last made me think that a young gent fond of using his fists might do wus than go as a burd prize-fiter. By the way, one likes condesenshun, down to a certain xtent, but whether it should hinclude a most bewtifool Princess a dansing with a pore littel white-faced Clown, is what I must leave others to deside; I declines doing it myself.

We had _Mr. Punch_ in the course of the heavening, and both hold and young larfed away as ushal at his rayther rum morality. Then we had two most clever gents who dressed theirselves up before a large looking-glass to look like lots of diffrent peeple. The best couple I was told was two Gents named BIZMARCK and BULLANGER, one was said to be a reel Ero, and the other, a mere Sham, but I don't know werry much about such Gents myself, xcept that BROWN tried werry hard to make me beleeve that BIZMARCK, who was the reel Ero, used to think nothink of pouring a hole Bottle of Shampain into a hole Pot of Stout and drinking it all off at one draft, like a ancient Cole Heaver! We finished up with a lot of German Chinese, who jumped about and danced about and climbed up a top of one another, and then acshally bilt theirselves up like a house, and then all tumbled to pieces, reelly quite wunderfool, and not only the lovely little children, but ewen Common Councilmen, aye and ewen ancient Deputys, all stood round and larfed away and enjoyed theirselves, recalling to my sumwhat faltering memory the words of the emortel Poet, "One touch, of Nature makes the hole World grin."

ROBERT.

* * * * *

AN ECHO FROM THE LANE.

LAST week the Carl Rosa Opera Company (whose Managing Directors are AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, future Sheriff of London, with Sheriff's officers in attendance, to whom he might, on some future emergency, entrust the charge of Her Majesty's) continued its season of success with a solitary addition to the programme, _L'Etoile du Nord_. _A propos_ of this novelty, it may be hinted that although the _Catherine_ of Madame GEORGINA BURNS does not make us entirely forget ADELINA PATTI in the same character, the performance is, from every other point of view, completely gratifying. As "little _Peter_," Mr. F. H. CELLI is (as the comic songs have it) "very fine and large." Mr. JOHN CHILD, whose _Wilhelm_, in _Mignon_, lacked distinction, is more in his element as _Danilowitz_ the pastry-cook. The stage management (as might have been expected with AUGUSTUS to the fore) is admirable, the battle-scene at the end of the Second Act filling the house with a mixture one-tenth smoke to nine-tenths enthusiasm. By the time these lines are before the entire world, if all goes well, _Thorgrim_, by Mr. FREDERICK COWEN, will have been produced. As the work of a native composer, it should receive a hearty welcome, particularly on the boards of the National Theatre; but, sink or swim, the Carl Rosa Opera Company cannot possibly come to harm with its present popular _repertoire_. And, as good music is a boon to the London public, such a state of things is distinctly satisfactory.

* * * * *

"IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!"--It is a pity that Mr. LAW, the author of _Dick Venables_, did not take a little more trouble in the construction of his new piece at the Shaftesbury Theatre. It just misses being an excellent drama, and deserving the valuable assistance it receives from all concerned on the stage side of the Curtain. That the wife of a convict should take a house next door to her deeply dreaded husband's prison, that a jewel-collector should keep his precious stones in a side-board, that an Archdeacon should apparently have nothing better to do than play the kleptomaniac at Dartmoor, are facts that seem largely improbable; and yet these are the salient points of the latest addition to the playgoer's _repertoire_. For the rest, _Dick Venables_ is interesting, and admirably played. But whether, after the first-night criticisms, the piece will do, is a question that must be left to the future for solution.

* * * * *

HYPNOTIC HIGH FEEDING.

(_Being some Brief Diary Notes of a Coming Little Dinner (New Style), jotted down a few years hence._)

"YOUR dinner is served. Sir!"

It was the Professorial Butler who made this announcement with a solemn and significant bow. He had undertaken, for the modest fee of half-a-crown, to throw my four guests,--an Epicurean Duke, a couple of noted Diners-out, and a Gourmand of a high order well known in Society,--into a profound hypnotic sleep, under the influence of which, while supplied with a few scraps of food, and slops by way of drink, they were to believe that they were assisting at a most _recherche_ repast, provided by a _cuisine_, and accompanied by choice vintage wines, both of the first excellence.

I felt a little nervous as we proceeded to the dining-room, but as the Professor adroitly passed his hand over the head of each as he descended the stairs, and pointed out to me the dazed and vacant look that had settled on the features of all of them, I felt reassured, especially when they fell mechanically into their places, and began to peruse, with evident delight, the contents of the _Menu_, which ran as follows:--

SOUP.

Toast-and-water and Candle-ends.

FISH.

Herrings' Heads and Tails. Counter Sweepings.

ENTREMETS.

Rotten Cabbage-stalks.

ENTREE.

Odds and Ends of Shoe Leather.

ROAST.

Cat's Meat.

SWEET.

Old Jam-pot Scrapings on Musty Bread.

That they didn't all rise like one man with a howl of execration on reading this was soon explained when the Professorial Butler set down a soup-plate before the Epicurean Duke and with an insinuating smile, simply announced it as _Tortue claire_. It was clear from this that they were under the impression that they were partaking of a first-class little dinner, and had read the _Menu_ at the will of the Professorial Butler, as he subsequently explained to me in such fashion that the toast-and-water soup, in which the candle-ends played the part of green fat, appeared to them in the light of the finest "clear turtle." "And how about the Herrings' Heads and Tails?" I asked. "They take that for _Saumon de Gloucester, sauce Pierre Le Grand_," was the bland reply, a fact which at that moment the Gourmand endorsed, by smacking his lips and with an ejaculation of "Sublime salmon that! I'll take a little more," holding out his plate for a second helping. The Cabbage-stalks figured in their imagination as "_Asperges d'Italie, en branches glacees a la Tour d'Amsterdam_," while the pennyworth of plain cat's meat, passed more than muster as "_Filet de B[oe]uf en Diplomat, braisee a la Prince de Pekin_." The Shoe-leather and Jam-pot Scrapings brought the Menu to a triumphant close, with "_Ris de Veau pralinee au boucles Menschikoff_," and "_Bombardes Imperials de Peru_" respectively.

I confess, when I heard one of the Diners-out asking for Champagne, and saw his glass filled with Harvey's Sauce and water, with the announcement that it was _Dry Monopole Cuvee Reservee_, I felt some momentary misgivings, but they were speedily put to flight on my noticing the evident gusto with which he emptied his glass, at the same time pronouncing it to be "a very fine wine," which he assigned to the vintage of '76. I own too I felt a little nervous when the Professorial Butler, I think not without a sly twinkle in his eye, gave all the party a _liqueur_ of petroleum for Green Chartreuse, but they certainly seemed to find it all right, and so my apprehensions disappeared.

Thus my "Little Dinner" came at length to a conclusion. That it was an undoubted success, from a financial point of view, there can be no sort of doubt, for fourpence more than covered the cost of the materials, to which, adding the Professorial Butler's fee of two shillings and sixpence, brings the whole cost of the entertainment up to eightpence-halfpenny a head. It is true I have not heard whether any of my guests have suffered any ill-effects from partaking of my hospitality, but I suppose if any of them had died or been seized with violent symptoms, the fact would have been notified to me. So, on the whole, I may congratulate myself. I certainly could not afford to entertain largely in any other fashion, but, with the aid of the Professorial Butler, I am already contemplating giving a series of nice "Little Dinners," and even on a more extended scale. Indeed, with the assistance of Hypnotism, it is possible, at a trifling cost, to see one's friends. And in the general interests of Society, I mean to do it.

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BULLYING POOR "BULLY."

SAYS the Blackbird to the Bullfinch, "It is April; let us up! We will breakfast on the plum-germs, on the pear-buds we will sup." Says the Bullfinch to the Blackbird, "We'll devour them every bit, And quite ruin the fruit-growers, with some aid from the Tom-tit." Then these garden Machiavellis set to work and did not stop Till the promise of September prematurely plumped each crop. Ah! the early frost is ruthless, and the caterpillar's cruel, But, to spifflicate the plum or give the gooseberry its gruel, To confusticate the apple, or to scrumplicate the pear, Discombobulate the cherry, make the grower tear his hair, And in general play old gooseberry with the orchard and the garden, Till the Autumn crop won't fetch the grumpy farmer "a brass farden," There is nothing half so ogreish as the Bullfinch and his chums, Those imps of devastation--as regards our pears and plums. Poor "Bully," sung by COWPER in his pretty plaintive verse, It is thus thine ancient character they (let us hope) asperse. "The gardener's chief enemy," so angry scribes declare, And the cause why ribstone pippins and prime biggaroons are rare. Little birds, my pretty "Bully," should all diet upon worms, And grub on grubs, contented, not on fruit-buds and young germs Vain your pretty coat, my "Bully," beady eyes, and pleasant pipe, If you will not give our fruit-crops half a chance of getting ripe. Let us hope that they traduce you, all this angry scribbling host Of horticultural zealots who abuse you in the _Post_. The Reverend F. O. MORRIS takes the field in your defence, But they swear, though picturesquish, he's devoid of common-sense. _Punch_ inclineth to the Parson, and he doesn't quite believe All the statements of the growers and the gardeners who grieve Over "Bully's" depredations, for he knows that, as a rule, The birds' foe is a fashionable fribble, or a fool. From the damsels who despoil them for their bonnets or their cloaks, To the farmer who exterminates the dickies, and then croaks O'er the spread of caterpillars and such-like devouring vermin, They are selfish and shortsighted. So he'll not in haste determine The case against poor "Bully," or the Blackbird, or Tom-tit. Though they put it very strongly, _Punch_ would warn them--Wait a bit!

* * * * *

SPORTIVE CAPTAIN HAWLEY SMART takes a somewhat new departure in _Without Love or Licence_. There is less racing than usual in this novel, and there is a very ingenious plot, which we are not going to spoil the pleasure of the reader by divulging. The secret is well kept, and one is put off the scent till well-nigh the final chapter. The whole story is bright and dashing, abounding with graphic sketches of such people as one meets every day. The author is in the best of spirits--he evidently has a licence for spirits--and keeps his audience thoroughly amused, from start to finish.

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A SHORT SONG IN SEASON.

AIR--"_Ballyhooley._"

PHILLIPS thinks--(you're right, my boy!) Dingy London would enjoy More music, and proposals make (which charm me) For a Great Municipal Band, Which, under wise command, Might prove a sort of music-spreading Army. The critics all declare English taste for music rare, But the "Parks and Open Spaces'" sage Committee Hold a very different view, And, to prove their judgment true, Want a Metropolitan Band for the Big City.

_Chorus._

London-lovers high and low, Let us all enlist, you know, For the County-Councillor's schemes extremely charm me. Let us raise Twelve Hundred Pounds, And we soon shall hear the sounds Of the Music-lover's Metropolitan Army!

There's a moral to my song And it wont detain ye long; To PHILLIPS, L.C.C. send your subscription, (North Park, Eltham, S.E.), for That sagacious Council-lor Is a patriot of a practical description. When the money he has got, (And Twelve Hundred's not a lot,) Right soon he'll form a strong and sage Committee! And it will not be their fault If there's any hitch or halt In the Metropolitan Band for our Big City.

_Chorus._

Stump up, Cockneys, high and low We must all enlist, you know, For the sum required is nothing to alarm ye. So just do as you are bid, And subscribe Twelve Hundred "quid" For the Music-lover's Metropolitan Army!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Joints in our Social Armour_, by a Mr. JAMES RUNCIMAN, has an amusing "Dedication to W. S. and G. N. S." "Gentlemen," writes this seemingly new member of the brotherhood of letters, "this little book contains many things which have already pleased you, and all that may be good in them has really come from you." After this frank confession, one naturally desires to have the "good things" of "W. S. and G. N. S." first-hand, instead of what presumably must be a _rechauffe_. As the "good things," however, have to be picked out of a volume of 342 pages of wearisome reading about "The Ethics of the Drink Question," "The Social Influence of the 'Bar'" (Public-house, _bien entendu_), "Genius and Respectability," &c., &c., it is not an easy task to find them. For the rest, to the intelligent reader, the joints of Messrs. W. S., G. N. S., and JAMES RUNCIMAN are likely to prove veritable pieces de resistance. A cut from the joint in this instance is accordingly strongly recommended.

_The Colonial Year-Book for 1890_ supplies a want that has long been felt by Britons in every quarter of the globe. Mr. TRENDELL, C.M.G., the author of this interesting work, deserves well of the Empire.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

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A FABLE FOR FANATICS.

THERE was a stream, now fast, now slow, But given at times to overflow; A freakishness that played strange pranks With the poor dwellers on its banks. There came two engineers. One said, "Embank it!" Wagging a wise head In the austere impressive way Of dogmatists, as who should say, "If there's an Oracle, _I_ am it." The other answered, "Nonsense! _Dam it!_" They did, and stood with hope elate, But presently there came a "spate;" The swollen torrent, swift and muddied, All the surrounding country flooded, Put a prompt stop to prosperous tillage, Drowned fifty folk, and swamped a village.

MORAL.

Some men's sole notion of improvement Is simply to arrest all movement. This craving crass the spirit stirs Of Tsars and of Teetotallers, Eight-Hour fanatics, and the like, Friends of the dungeon and the dyke. "_Dam it!_" That is their counsel's staple. (Mark, LUBBOCK; also, BLUNDELL-MAPLE!)

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NEWS FROM AIX-LES-BAINS.--"_Fireworks were let off._" As mercy is the Royal prerogative, we are glad to learn that it was exercised in the case of FIREWORKS on the birthday of the Princess BEATRICE.

* * * * *

BY ORDER OF F.M. COMMANDING-IN-CHIEF, PUNCH.--The Grand Military Exhibition, Chelsea Hospital, to be known as "The Sodgeries."

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, April 14._--Boys came back after Easter Monday; Head Master punctually in his place.

"Yes, dear TOBY," he said, as I respectfully shook his hand. "I am nothing if not a man of business. Done my duty to the country round Henley; now come up to do my duty in town at Westminster."

Not all the boys here. Some, including Oldest Boy, extending their holiday. Prince ARTHUR not turned up yet, nor GRANDOLPH, nor CHAMBERLAIN. Wide empty space on Front Opposition Bench where HARCOURT wont to sit. A dozen Members on Ministerial Benches; a score on Opposite side; others in ambush, especially on Ministerial side.

"AKERS-DOUGLAS, like _Roderick Dhu_, need only blow his horn and the glen is filled with armed men," said Colonel MALCOLM, who knows his Walter Scott by heart. The DOUGLAS being a man of modern ideas, doesn't blow his horn: would be unparliamentary; might lead to his being named and relegated to the Clock Tower. Effect brought about when bell rings for Division; then Members troop in in fifties. "What's the Question?" they ask each other, as they stand at Bar. Nobody quite sure. Some say it's wages of Envoy Extraordinary at Buenos Ayres; others affirm it's salary of Chaplain of Embassy in Vienna. A third believes it's something to do with the Nyassa region; a fourth is sure it's Turks in Armenia; whilst Member who has heard portion of one of several speeches delivered by SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE, says it's Motion made to provide a Chaplain for DRUMMOND WOLFF, whose forlorn condition, planted out amid Mahommedans in Teheran, SAGE has been lamenting. Few quite sure of actual question; fewer still heard it debated. But no time to lose. House cleared for Division. Must go in one Lobby or other; so Ministerialists follow each other like sheep; Opposition flock into other Lobby. Amendment (whatever it is) negatived by 134 Votes against 69.

In conversation about Vienna Chaplaincy WINTERBOTHAM comes to front. "Why," he asks, "should we support an English church in Vienna more than in other Continental towns, where the residents provide the funds? Not many months ago I was in the church at Vienna; called upon to hand the plate round, and there were only a few shillings to hand over to expectant parson."

"Very good story," said WILFRID LAWSON; "but if I was WINTERBOTHAM, wouldn't tell it again. _What became of the money?_"

_Business done._--Diplomatic and Consular Vote obtained.