Chapter 2

_The Y. M._ He don't know what he's lost by givin' way to his narsty temper--but there, _I_ forgive 'im! (_He begins to replace the remaining parcels in the chest; one packet escapes his notice, and is instantly pounced upon by a sharp, but penniless urchin._) Now, Gentlemen, I'm 'ere reppersentin' two Charitable Institootions--the Blind Asylum, and the Idjut Orfins--but I'm bloomin' sorry to say that, _this_ time, arter I've deducted my little trifling commission, there'll be a bloomin' little to 'and over to either o' them deservin' Sercieties; so, thenkin' you all, and wishin' you bloomin' good luck, and 'appiness and prosperity through life, I'll say good-bye to yer.

_The Sharp Urchin_ (_after retiring to a safe distance with his booty._) Theer's _summat_ inside of 'un--I can 'ear un a-rartlin' ... 'ow many _moor_ wrops! 'Tis money, fur sartin!... (_Removes the last wrapping._) Nawthen but a silly owld cough-drop! (_He calls after the_ Young Man, _who is retreating with_ Mr. Fairplay, _and his spotty friend._) I've a blamed good mind to 'ave th' Lar on ye fur that, I hev--a chatin' foaks i' sech a way! Why don't ye act honest?

[_Is left masticating the cough-lozenge in speechless indignation._

* * * * *

"THE SINS OF SOCIETY."

READ yesterday, in the _Fortnightly_, this article by OUIDA. Resolved to follow her teachings at once. Changed my "frightful, grotesque, and disgraceful male costume" for the most picturesque garments I had--a kilt, a blue blazer, and a yellow turban, which I once wore at a fancy dress ball. Then strolled along Piccadilly to the Club. Rather cool. Having abandoned "the most vulgar form of salutation, the shake-hands," bowed distantly to several men I had known for years--but they looked another way. Met a policeman. "Hullo!" he said. "Come out o' that! Your place is in the road." He mistook me for a sandwich-man! Explained that I was advocating a new style of dress. "Where's yer trousers?" he asked. "Trousers!" I cried. "Why, OUIDA"--but it was useless to explain to such a fool--so I left him.

At the Club, immense astonishment. Again explained. Members tapped their foreheads, and said I had better see the Doctor. Why? Then they all avoided me. Grand chance to show my ability "to support solitude, and to endure silence." Deuced dull, but it saved me from "the poisoned atmosphere of crowded rooms." Began to feel hungry about lunch-time, but happily remembered that "it is not luxury which is enervating, it is over-eating." Exhausted, but virtuous. Remembered that I had to dine at my aunt's. Awkward! Could I go in that dress? She is so prim, and so prejudiced in favour of trousers. Also she is so rich, and I was her heir. It needs money to obtain the luxury which the great teacher advocates. Hurried home, and put on hateful evening dress. Avoided hansoms, they being too much connected with one "ugly hurry-skurry," and drove to my aunt's in a damp, dirty four-wheeler. Even the new moralist herself would have been satisfied with the slowness of that.

At dinner sat between two charming women, evidently as clever as they were beautiful. Suddenly remembered that we "lose the subtle and fine flavours of our best dishes, because we consider ourselves obliged to converse with somebody," and after that did not speak a word. Charming women stared, and then each turned towards me a beautiful shoulder, and I saw her face no more. Was just enjoying the flavours when I recollected that nothing "can make even tolerable, artistically speaking, the sight of men and women sitting bolt upright close together taking their soup." We were long past the soup, but it was not too late. I left the table at once, and reclined elegantly on the floor, with my plate by my side. "AUGUSTUS," said my Aunt, "are you ill?" I shook my head; I could not speak, for I was just enjoying an unusually subtle flavour. Then one of the guests, a member of my Club, whispered to my aunt, and tapped his forehead. Then she tapped her forehead, and all the guests tapped their foreheads. I had finished that flavour, so I said, "My dear Aunt, I am not mad, I----" "Then," said she, "you must be intoxicated. Leave the house!" And, with the butler and the footmen escorting me to the street-door, I was obliged to do so.

It is all over. I know that my Aunt will bequeath her fortune to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ancient Buildings among the Jews, but I am consoled by the thought that I, at least, have followed the noble teachings of the New Morality.

* * * * *

"WHEN FOUND MAKE A NOTE OF."--By Captain SCUTTLE, to British East African Co.:--"Your Room is better than your Company."

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

THE title of Mr. CONAN DOYLE'S new book, _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, is incomplete without the addition of, "And the D.D., or Dummy Doctor," who plays a part in the narratives analogous to that of "Charles, his Friend," on the stage. The book is, in many respects, a thriller, reminding one somewhat of _The Diary of a Late Physician_, by SAMUEL WARREN. This volume is handsomely got up--too handsomely--and profusely, too profusely, illustrated. For both romancer and reader, such stories are better un-illustrated. A sensational picture attracts, and distracts. In this collection the Baron can recommend _The Beryl Coronet_, _The Red-Headed League_, _The Copper Beeches_, and _The Speckled Band_. The best time for reading any one of these stories is the last thing at night, before turning in. "At such an hour, try _The Speckled Band_, and see how you like it," says the Bold Baron.

The Baron's assistant dives into the Christmas Card Basket, and produces RAPHAEL TUCK AND SONS,--"Tuck," a schoolword dear to "our boys,"--who lead off the Christmas dance. Daintily and picturesquely got up, their Cards are quite full. Their Watteau Screens will serve as small ornaments afterwards. These "Correct Cards," with few exceptions, are not particularly for Christmas, but for all time. Here's Luck To RAPHAEL TUCK!

"Todgers's could do it when it liked," and so can Messrs. HUTCHINSON & Co. at this Fairy Tale time, when they bring out three capital books, edited by ALFRED H. MILES; _i.e._, _Fifty-two Fairy Tales_, _Fifty-two other Stories for Boys_, and _Fifty-two other Stories for Girls_. Why not Fairy Tales for a holiday task, and an examination in Fairy Lore, with a Fairy Lore Degree for the successful candidate?

Then come BLACKIE AND SONS with Plenty from HENTY--Mr. G. A. HENTY--who at Christmas-time is anything but a "Non-Henty-ty." _Beric the Briton_, _In Greek Waters_, _Condemned as a Nihilist!_--"Go it, HENTY!" The Baron cheers you onward.

_The Thirsty Sword_, by ROBERT LEIGHTON. It's a killing story.

_An Old-Time Yarn_, by EDGAR PICKERING, about the adventures of DRAKE and HAWKINS. HAWKINS, mariner, not Sir 'ENRY, the Judge. New yarn. Strong old salts--very refreshing.

_The Bull Calf_, brought out for JOHN BULL JUNIOR'S amusement at Christmas, and seasonably illustrated by FROST, is a queer sort of animal of the Two Macs Donkey breed. Right for NIMMO to have some fun at Christmas, according to old example, "_Nimmo mortalium omnibus horis sapit._"

What's in a name? not the first time this question has been asked and answered--but 'tis impossible for the Baron to avoid quoting it now, when in consequence of its title, he was within an ace of putting aside _The Germ Growers_, under the impression that it was a scientific work on Bacillus and Phylloxera. On taking it up, however, the Baron soon became deeply interested, but was subsequently annoyed to find how the artful author had beguiled him by leading up to a kind of imitation of the _In hoc Signo vinces_ legend, and had somewhat adroitly adapted to his purpose the imagery of one of the most poetic and sublime of ancient Scripture narratives; _i.e._, where the prophet sees the chariots of Israel in the air. One remarkable thing about the romance is the absence of "love-motive," and, indeed, the absence of all female interest. Here and there the Canon writes carelessly, as instance the following paragraph:--

"Then he got a little glass-tube into which he put something out of a very small bottle, which he took from a number of others which lay side by side in a little case which he took out of a pocket in the side of the car."

Apart from other faults, there are too many "whiches" here, and unlike his malignant hero, _Davoli_, the Canon doesn't seem to be well up in his "which-craft." Clever Canon POTTER must turn out from his Potteries some ware superior to this for the public and

THE BARON.

* * * * *

REFLECTION IN THE MIST.--You could have "cut the fog, it was so thick," is a common expression. But the fog, unwelcome as it always is, is not like an unwelcome acquaintance, who can be "cut" or avoided by turning down a street, or by pretending unconsciousness of his proximity.

* * * * *

QUESTION FOR A LEGAL EXAM.--If a farmer purchased a good milch cow reared at Dorking, what would be its (old style) legal produce? _Answer or Rejoinder._--Why, of course, some sort of Surrey-butter.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"DAVY JONES'S LOCKER."

DAVY JONES, _loquitur:_--

"_Fifteen men on the dead man's chest. Hey! ho! and a bottle of rum!"_ Faith, that's a chorus I can rattle off with zest. Gratefully it clatters upon DAVY'S tym-pa-num, Like a devil's tattoo from Death's drum! Fi! Fo! Fum! These be very parlous times for old legends of the sea. VANDERDECKEN is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any pikestaff they can't disestablish Me! DADDY NEPTUNE may delight in the Island trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed and fight, as in days of yore, When old CHARLIE DIBDIN'S fancy piped free songs of JACK and NANCY, of Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore; But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main, DADDY NEPTUNE must allow DAVY shares his empire now, or the _Sultan_ and the _Howe_ have gone down in vain.

DADDY NEPTUNE loves me not. Plumped by storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot in the days gone by, But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die? Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash, When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?

Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull, monster gun, all are mine ere all's done; and the millions madly spent On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent, To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the "Progress" some abuse, and the many crack up. Ah! NEPTUNE, sour old lad, DAVY JONES may well look glad at the modern Iron-clad, and thank ARMSTRONG and KRUPP!

Science and Salvage? Fudge! If _I_ am any judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge will not lose by _them_. NEP calls me callous mocker, but, according to _my_ Cocker, I may laugh, with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn. Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular goldmine" in one huge black hulk! Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a shark or ocean-rat, though old NEP may sulk.

Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha! Ho! ho! I keep my old office. Wives may weep, and the taxpayers moan; Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan? DAVY JONES is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge; He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood--and skill--constant sea-fights, or the spill of the _Royal George_.

Good old false last-century Chart! Though the conning may be smart, and the steersman play his part, Palinurus-like, Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell 'em, even DAVY JONES can tell 'em, they may sink or strike. Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we've had our day! Pass the rum and let's be gay. Not that "dead man's chest," ROBERT LOUIS grimly sings, like my "Locker Chorus" rings--mingling weirdly wedded things--grisly doom and jest!

* * * * *

On an Irish Landlord.

"Love thou thy Land!" So sang the Laureate. Were that sole Landlord duty, you'd fulfil it! But land makes not a Land, nor soil a State. Loving your land, how sullenly you hate-- The People--who've to till it! Of the earth, earthy is that love of soil Which for wide-acred wealth will sap and spoil The souls and sinews of the thralls of Toil. Churl! Bear a human heart, a liberal hand! _Then_ thou may'st say that thou dost "love thy Land."

* * * * *

WHEN a Stag has once been uncarted, and has been given so many minutes law to get away, the Huntsman may correctly allude to him as "The Deer Departed."

* * * * *

* * * * *

RECONCILIATION.

(_Scene from that new Screaming Farce "The Political Box and Cox."_)

["Mr. GLADSTONE (says the _Daily Chronicle_) has effected a formal reconciliation with the Member for Northampton. He visited Mr. and Mrs. LABOUCHERE, took tea with them, and had a long and very cordial interview. So far, indeed, as Mr. LABOUCHERE ever had any personal feeling in reference to his exclusion from the Ministry, it may be regarded as dead."]

_Box._ Although we are not destined to occupy the same--ahem!--Cabinet Council Chamber--at present, I don't see any necessity for our cutting each other's political throat, Sir.

_Cox._ Not at all. It's an operation that I should decidedly object to.

_Box._ And, after all, I've no violent animosity against _you_, Sir.

_Cox._ Nor have I any rooted antipathy to _you_. Sir.

_Box._ Besides, it was all--ahem!--Mrs.--ahem's fault, Sir!

_Cox_ (_embarrassed_). Well--ahem!--my--er--loyalty--as a man of honour--to--er--that lady, Sir, forbids, Sir, my saying, or--er--permitting to be said----

[_Gradually approaching chairs._

_Box._ Ah, exactly, I _quite_ understand that. The truth is----

_Cox_ (_quickly_). A most excellent thing, in its way. I always see it.

_Box._ Very well, Sir!

_Cox._ Very well, Sir! [_Pause._

_Box._ Take a little jam, Sir!

_Cox._ Thank you, Sir!

[_Taking a spoonful. Pause._

_Box._ Do you sing, Sir?

_Cox_ (_modestly_). I have, in days gone by, done a little Negro Minstrelsy.

_Box._ Then give us a breakdown. _(Pause.)_ Well, well, perhaps the suggestion's a little inopportune. What is your opinion of smoking, Sir?

[_Produces cigarette._

_Cox_ (_tartly_). I think it is a pestilent practice, Sir!

_Box_ (_puffing_). So do some other singular people, Sir. To be sure, they may not so much object to it if the pipes are not loaded.

_Cox._ No--I daresay that _does_ make some difference.

_Box._ And yet, Sir, on the other hand, doesn't it strike you, as rather a waste of time, for people to keep puffing away at pipes (or Programmes) with nothing in 'em?

_Cox_ (_drily_). No, Sir--not more than any other harmless recreation--such, for instance, as posing as a Party leader, without any Party.

_Box_ (_aside_). Some of his own Party may be found a bit shaky. Next time I invite him, it may be to tea--and turn-out!

_Cox_ (_aside_). Let him put _that_ in his pipe (or cigarette) and smoke it!

_Box_ (_aloud_). Well, well, now we so thoroughly understand each other, what--even Programmes--shall part us?

_Cox._ Who--even--ahem! a certain Party, shall tear us asunder?

_Box._ COX!

_Cox._ BOX!

[_About to embrace._ BOX _stops, seizes_ COX's _hand, and looks eagerly in his face._

_Box._ You'll excuse the apparent insanity of the remark, but the more I gaze on your features, the more I'm convinced that you'd never be such a suicidal idiot as to--seek another Chamber?

_Cox_ (_winking_). Walker!

_Box._ Ah--tell me--in mercy tell me--have you such a thing as the "Strawberry Leaves" in your eye?

_Cox._ No!

_Box._ Then we _are_ brothers!

[_They rush into each other's arms._

_Cox._ Of course, we stop where we are?

_Box._ Of course!

_Cox._ For between you and me, I'm rather partial to the House.

_Box._ So am I--I feel quite at home in it.

_Cox._ Everything so clean and comfortable!

_Box._ And I'm sure its Mistress, Mrs.--ahem!--from what little _I've_ seen of her, is very anxious to do her best.

_Cox._ So she is--and I vote, Box, that we stand by her!

_Box._ Agreed! (_winks._) There's my hand upon it--join but yours--agree that the House is big enough to hold us both, then Box----

_Cox._ And Cox----

_Both._ Are satisfied! [_Curtain._

* * * * *

FACT, OR FUNK?

SIR,--Will you permit me to protest against the shocking insecurity of life and property in London? What are the Police doing? Only yesterday I was walking, _in the middle of the day_, in a rather quiet road in this suburb, when a _highway robber_, disguised as an ordinary beggar, asked me for a copper! His look was _most forbidding_, and he put his hand under his coat in a way that convinced me he was about to _draw a revolver_! I at once gave him my purse, with half-a-crown in it, which seemed to pacify him, and I am convinced that I owe my life to my _presence of mind_. The shock, however, has quite prostrated me, and my medical adviser has already paid me _three visits_, on the strength of it, and says I need "careful watching for some time." He has very kindly put off a holiday, in order to watch me, which is sufficient to prove what a _diabolical outrage_ I have been the victim of! Yours, indignantly, _Cozynook, Sydenham._ TABITHA GRUNDY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--We are coming to a really awful state of things in the Strand! A friend of mine (who does not wish his name mentioned) assures me that he was proceeding from the Gaiety Restaurant, where he had been lunching, towards Charing Cross, when he was "attacked by VERTIGO" in broad day-light! Comment is needless. If dangerous foreign bandits like this VERTIGO--who from his name must be an Italian--are permitted to plunder innocent pedestrians with impunity, the sooner we abolish our Police Force and save the expense, the better. NO ALARMIST.

DEAR ED'TOR,--I write you a line to say I've jus' been 'sulted--grossly 'sulted--on Thames 'Bankmen'. Walkin' 'long--quite shober--sud'ly 'costed by man dressed like 'pleeceman. Said "lot bad krakters about"--took hold of my arm--wanted see me into cab. _I saw through him at once._ It was a plot! Wanted steal vabblewatch--forshately lef' watch home. Angry at not findin' watch--bundled me into cab anyhow--feel 'fects still. Whash Scolland Yard 'bout? Are spekbull citizens to be 'sulted by pleece--by me'dress-li'pleece, I mean? It's all true 'bout Lunn' bein' _most_ unsafe. Norra word' of 'xagg'ration! _Cre' 'xperto._ Thash Latin!--_Shows_ I'm spekbull. No more now! He'ache. Yours, RUM PUNCH.

* * * * *

Sir Gerald Portal.

OF Afric's districts C. and E., 'Tis clear to any mortal, We've but to keep our Afric key, And enter by our PORTAL.

* * * * *

THE following mysterious advertisement is cut from the _Grantham Journal:_--

WANTED, to Purchase, a HALF-LEGGED Horse, five years old, suitable for Building work, about 16 hands.--Address, &c.

Is the horse to have two legs? Not on all fours with nature? And the sixteen hands? Compensation for want of legs? Give it up!

* * * * *

THE NEXT ELECTION PIC-NIC.

(_By Our Own Prophetic Reporter._)

A FEW days since a "Grand Intellectual _Fête_" was given by the Flower League in advancement of the Patriotic Cause, in the grounds of the Duke of DITCHWATER. The Railway Companies afforded unusual facilities for securing a large gathering, and there was much enthusiasm amongst those who were present. To meet the requirements of decisions arrived at during the trial of recent Election Petitions, it was arranged that some one competent to undertake the task should introduce and explain the various distractions afforded for the entertainment of the very numerous company. Mr. A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR, Barrister, of London, kindly consented to act as lecturer, his professional engagements fortunately allowing him leisure to assume such a responsibility.

The Lecturer said that he was delighted to see so large a gathering. (_Cheers._) They quite reminded him of the clients who thronged his passage on the first day of Term, waiting for his chamber doors to open. (_Laughter._) There was nothing in the remark he had just made to provoke merriment. He wished it to be clearly understood that he appealed to their reason. (_Cheers._) It had been objected that some of the entertainments given at what had been called political pic-nics had nothing to do with the reasoning faculties of the spectators. This he emphatically denied. (_Applause._) Without wasting further of their time--(_"No, no!" "Go on."_)--he would come to his first illustration--the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia. (_Great cheering._) It was advisable that the bodies as well as the minds of children educated by the School-Boards should receive attention. Their bodies should be brought to as near perfection as possible; every muscle should be brought into play. To explain his meaning, he called upon the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia to illustrate the poetry of motion.

Upon this, five gentlemen in tights (understood to be the athletic kindred to whom the Lecturer had referred) performed a series of feats of strength, which included standing on one another's heads, jumping through hoops, and turning quadruple somersaults.

After their performances were over Mr. BRIEFLESS resumed.

The Lecturer said: He next wished to appeal to their reason--to challenge, so to speak, their senses on the power of foreign opinion. It was asserted that an Englishman cared only for his native land and the Press appertaining thereto. Now he (the Lecturer) had the greatest respect for the English Press--(_cheers_)--still he found that some of our foreign contemporaries were nearly as good. (_"Hear, hear!"_) He wished to introduce the Signora MANTILLA from Spain--(_applause_)--who had consented to sing a political song in Spanish, emphasizing her opinions by a dance after each verse. (_Great cheering._) The Signora MANTILLA then gave a demonstration, which was much appreciated.