Volume 107, November 17, 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

* * * * *

TO MOLLY.

(BY Q. H. GLADSTONIUS FLACCUS, JUNIOR.)

Sweet maid, your name I dream of incessantly, For, like your voice, it sounds very pleasantly, _Molli et canora voce dulcis,_ _Nomine dulcis es usque molli._

It has a charming old-fashioned smack to it, Beau BRUMMELL's age--it carries one back to it, Powder and patch, and rustic maiden, Name with the scent of the hayfields laden.

Then English maid was sweet as a maid may be, This age has changed her, made her less staid, may be, 'Mongst other follies now it's taught her How to become a "revolting daughter."

Poor blind revolting daughter! I pity her-- You're just as clever, probably prettier. In sweet content maid's sphere adorning, Yellow-Asterical problems scorning.

May these be "_fandi mollia tempora_," Your smile can make me proud as an emperor, But swift my cares, should you be frowning, I'll in deep waters (and strong) be drowning

Accept my ode! Don't "think it too odious," Sweet maid in name and voice so melodious, _Molli et canora voce dulcis,_ _Nomine dulcis es usque molli._

* * * * *

CLEARLY NOT _THE_ LEADER OF THE FLOCK.--Of course, the reverend gentleman cannot be considered as a shepherd as long as his name is _Head-lam_.

* * * * *

LETTERS TO A DÉBUTANTE.

DEAREST GLADYS,--You have made immense progress since you first came out. Still, you will be all the better for an occasional hint from your more sophisticated friend. Your brief engagement to the serious young stamp-collector was--whatever may be said against it--at least, an experience, and I don't at all disapprove of CISSY, and BABY BEAUMONT, and the other clever boys, but--why call Captain MASHINGTON "JACK"? That wonderful tennis-player, Mrs. LORNE HOPPER has merely, tacitly, _lent_ him to you, she will soon be in London again, and then, shooting and theatricals over, "JACK" will also go back to the city of mist and fog. You will be obliged to return him, whether "with thanks" or not. He is definitely charming, but charmingly indefinite, and, in fact, he is playing with you as you and ORIEL played with each other, as Miss TOOGOOD is now playing with ORIEL, and as someone (let us hope) will, some day, play with Miss TOOGOOD. Of course, as long as you both know it's a game and "play the rules" it's all right.

I enjoyed your letter telling me how "splendidly" the theatricals went off, and that "everyone said it was a great success." My dear child, you are delightful--quite refreshing; and have kept, in all its early bloom, your astonishing talent for believing that people mean, literally, what they say. How on earth can you, or any of the other performers, know whether it was a success or not? Of course everyone _said_ it was. Quite so; who would be rude enough to say it was a failure? The more atrocious the performance, the more praise it would get. Guests _invariably_ flatter amateurs to their faces; and, on the other hand, however admirable it may have been, they _never_ fail to abuse it to everyone else. I don't know whether it's jealousy, or simply irritation at being obliged to sit still (generally in the dark), and look on while others are showing off and enjoying themselves; but I _do_ know that they criticise severely, without exception, all amateur entertainments. As I am your most intimate friend, of course people think it safe to disparage you to me, and I have had various accounts. All the men agreed that it was "awful rot," and the women that it was quite absurd, very dull, and as long as the Cromwell Road; that our dear CISSY was quite too ridiculously conceited as a manager, attempting effects, suitable only for Drury Lane, on a tiny drawing-room stage; for instance, those dreadful stone steps, on which you were to "trip down," and over which you tripped up. You see, my informant caught you tripping!

CISSY, poor incompetent darling, made, it seems, touching attempts to be "topical," and "up to date," by allusions of the tritest and lamest description to the Empire, the CZAR, and dynamite, and by wearing a huge green carnation. The whole thing completely missed fire, I am told; and was the usual tedious exhibition of complacent young vanity. You're too sensible to be offended, dear, especially as I can no more form a judgment from _their_ description than from yours--knowing you all to be prejudiced. However, I quite believe you looked sweet in your pretty costume, and I wish I had been there to see the fun.

Last night, at dinner, I met your old admirer, Mr. GOLDBEITER. He told me he wanted to be married, and asked me "to look out for a nice wife for him." I am afraid the sort of man who says that lives to be an old bachelor. I could have looked after him better, but that on my other side was a person in whom I take great interest; that is to say, someone I have only just met. The LYON TAYMERS would like him. He is a writer, perfectly "new"; and at present the cause of great disputes as to who discovered him. He is beautiful, of course young, and will be very agreeable when he has settled on his pose; at present, he's a little undecided about it.

Not having read a line of his, or even knowing he was an author, I began with my usual formula, "I am _so_ interested in your work, Mr. DE TROUVAILLE" (he's French by descent). He was a little doubtful of me at first, but I think we shall become friends. He said nothing about having met me in a previous existence, did not ask if I believed in instantaneous sympathy, and omitted to inquire which was _not_ my day at home. So, you see, he is not quite like everyone else. Before the end of dinner, he had spoken, very respectfully, but not unfavourably, of my eyes, and he is going to send me his book, _Enchantment_. He belongs to the new literary school they call "Sensitivists." I wonder what it means! Good-bye, dear.

Ever your loving MARJORIE.

* * * * *

"NULLIS MEDICABILIS HERBIS," &c.--A youthful author suffering from a violent attack of the critics.

* * * * *

A POLITICAL CONFERENCE.

SCENE--_The interior of a classic Country Villa. Present--An aged, illustrious, but retired, Statesman and Leader, engaged now in thrumming a lyre. To him enter his youthful successor, with certain scrolls._

_Senex_ (_eagerly_). My _dear_ PRIMULA! _So_ glad you have come! The very man I wished to see. Be seated.

_Juvenis_ (_depositing scrolls_). A thousand thanks. Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear GLADSTONIUS.

_Senex_ (_cheerily_). Never better, thank the gods!--_and_ the ocularius!

[_Twangles nimbly._

_Juvenis._ Ah! CINCINNATUS, in retirement, pleased himself with the plough; _your_ recreation was wont to be the axe or the banjo; _now_ I perceive it is the--harp!

_Senex_ (_sharply_). Not at all, PRIMULA, not at all. _This_ is not a harp!

[_Plays and sings._

Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra Lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum Vivat et plures, age, dic Latinum, Barbite, carmen.

* * * * *

O decus Phoebi et dapibus supremi Grata testudo Jovis, O laborum Dulce lenimen mihi cunque salve Rite vocanti.

_Juvenis_ (_astounded_). Charming, I'm sure!

_Senex_ (_beaming_). Think so? I fear you flatter.

_Juvenis._ Not at all. You may say, with your new favourite--

"Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseres, Sublimi feriam sidera vertice."

_Senex_ (_modestly_). Very pretty! But I fear the ever-youthful Muses may disdain an Old Man's belated wooing.

_Juvenis_ (_slily_). Even a _Grand_ Old Man's?

_Senex_ (_shuddering_). Nay, no more of that, an' you love me. By the way, I wanted to consult you on a little musical matter.

_Juvenis_ (_dubiously_). Ah! Concerning yon Hibernian Harp, I presume?

_Senex_ (_impatiently_). Dear me, no! The Hibernian Harp be--jangled. As, indeed, it is, and unstrung into the bargain.

_Juvenis_ (_relieved_). Why, have you then, like the _other_ Minstrel Boy, "torn its chords asunder"?

_Senex._ Well, no, not that exactly. I fear its native thrummers will spare others that trouble. But--ahem!--it is the Horatian Lyre that interests me at present.

_Juvenis._ I see:--

"Quem virum aut heroa lyra vel acri Tibia sumis celebrare, Clio? Quem deum? Cujus recinet jocosa Nomen imago, Aut in umbrosis Heliconis oris Aut super Pindo gelidove in Hæmo?"

_Senex_ (_musingly_). Hum! I have not yet tried the Tibia--the shrill pipe--but I _may_.

_Juvenis._ Doubtless; and you are quite equal to it.

_Senex_ (_drily_). Thanks! But I've no wish, my dear PRIMULA, "to play the _rôle_ of elderly _Narcissus_." At present my part is only that of _Echo_--to the Venusian's vibrant voice.

[_Muses._

_Juvenis_ (_taking advantage of the opportunity_). Well, my dear GLADSTONIUS, there are one or two little matters upon which I want to take your opinion. For example, CÆCILIUS----

_Senex_ (_quickly_). "CÆCILIUS, who provoked the populace to such a degree, that CICERO could hardly restrain them from doing him violence." Do you want me to play the part of CICERO?

_Juvenis_ (_taken aback_). Well--ahem!--hardly _that_, perhaps. But----

_Senex_ (_interrupting him_). My dear PRIMULA, as I have already said in response to an appeal from a friend of the modern ORBILIUS (_not_ like HORACE'S pedagogue, "_Plagosus_," though), "After a contentious life of fifty-two years, I am naturally anxious to spend the remainder of my days in freedom from controversy."

_Juvenis._ Oh! Quite so--of course. But ahem!--the people are a little pressing----

_Senex._ Eh? To hurtful measures? What says AUGUSTUS's "pleasant mannikin" again, _à propos_?

[_Thrums._

Justum et tenacem propositi virum Non civium ardor prava jubentium, Non vultus instantis tyranni, Mente quatit solida neque Auster,

Dux inquieti turbidus Hadriae, Nec fulminantis magna manus Jovis Si fractus illabitur orbis, Impavidum ferient ruinæ.

_Juvenis._ Doubtless. One such as yourself, "retired from business," like your beloved HORACE on his Sabine farm.

"Ille potens sui Lætusque deget, cui licet in diem Dixisse Vixi;"

But of me it cannot--yet--be said--

"He, master of himself, in mirth may live Who saith, 'I rest well pleased with former days.'"

_Senex._ Hah! Sir JOHN BEAUMONT's version. Not so bad, but might be improved, I think. By the way, why should not you and I do the "Satires"--together?

_Juvenis._ Charmed, I am sure. Just now, however, I fear I'm a little too busy.

_Senex._ Pooh! Only occupies one's odd moments, and is as easy as shaving, or shaping a new Constitution. For example, I'll give you an impromptu version--call it adaptation if you like--of the first "Ad Mæcenatem":

"Mæcenas atavis edite regibus."

_Juvenis._ Oh! thanks, _so_ much! Only----

_Senex._ It won't take ten minutes. Listen!

[_Tunes up and sings._

AD ROSEBERIAM.

PRIMULA, from old Scotia sprung! My chos'n successor, though so young! "_You_, 'midst Olympian dust delight To whirl the chariot's rapid flight. _I_'ll watch your glowing axles roll Nicely around the close-grazed goal. You hold the palm of wondrous worth Which late I wore upon the earth: The Commons, now, sole crown desire, And to un-veto'd power aspire. You'll have enough to rule the deep And Gaul placate, and Libya keep. I'm now a swain who loves his toil, To tune his pipe, and tend his soil. Not Asia's wealth tempts me to sail O'er faction's deep, and brave the gale. Some say, though now, in love with ease, I shun the storms of party seas; That soon I'll summon the old crew, And rig our shattered bark anew. Too much I love this ancient wine, Pressed from the old Venusian's vine! Lo my free limbs at leisure laid! The old instruments that once I played, The harp, the banjo, hung aloft! Hibernian airs, though sweet and soft, And Ethiopian minstrelsy, No longer have much charm for me. Now I prefer the Lydian lyre, And of bland HORACE never tire. You youngsters like a martial life-- The trumpet-challenge and the strife; With ardour seek the tented plain. Your "gauntlet's down"! Good may you gain! For me, another line I choose, And, late in life, I court the Muse, Unmindful of Bellona's charms, And the old stir of War's alarm. Ah! once in full tilt I had borne Against CÆCILIUS full of scorn; But Music now seems more divine! With ivy-wreaths my temples shine. Far from the world's tumultuous throng, The nymphs seduce me with their song; Here in cool grove I'm going to dwell. Like HORACE, with "the sounding shell." I feel a wish--sweet leisure's fruit-- To tootle on Euterpe's lute; With Polyhymnia I desire To twangle on the Lesbian lyre. If, late, to lyric fame I rise, My brow indeed shall strike the skies."

There! What think you of that--for an impromptu?

_Juvenis_ (_rousing himself_). Oh, excellent--most excellent! How _do_ you do it? And now, my dear GLADSTONIUS, with your _kind_ permission, we will go----

_Senex_ (_promptly_). To dinner! Exactly, my dear PRIMULA.

Nunc is bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus, nunc Saliaribus, Ornare pulvinar deorum Tempus erat, dapibus, sodales.

Come along, my boy!!!

[_Skips away, followed slowly by his guest._

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

FASHION AND FELONY.

MR. PUNCH, SIR,--Magistrates are beginning, not a moment too soon, to protest against the ridiculous pockets in ladies' dresses, which afford such a temptation to the felonious classes! I should like to draw attention to an invention of my own which, I think, quite meets the difficulty. It is called the "Patent Unpickable Electrical Safety Pneumatic Combination Purse-Pocket," and it does not matter in the least in what part of the dress this pocket is placed. No sooner is the thief's hand in contact with the purse than a powerful voltaic circuit is at once formed, and by the principle of capillary attraction, coupled with that of molecular magnetisation, the hand is firmly imprisoned. Scientific readers will readily understand how this happens. In his efforts to release his hand the thief touches a button, when an electrical search light of five thousand candle-power is at once thrown around, a policeman's rattle of a peculiarly intense tone is set going, several land torpedoes discharge simultaneously from all sides of the dress, while the voice of a deceased judge issuing from a concealed phonograph pronounces a sentence of seven years' penal servitude on the now conscience-stricken depredator.

Yours, EDISON JUNIOR.

* * * * *

John Walter.

BORN 1818. DIED NOVEMBER 3, 1894.

["The unique characteristic of Mr. WALTER'S life was his relation to _The Times_."--_Obituary Notice in the Times Newspaper._]

Third of the name, and worthy heir To the Great Journal's power--and care, He, too, has passed, and left a void None else can fill. A life employed In arduous duty to that page Which holds the history of an age, Is sound State-service, and demands Acclaim from British hearts and hands. A sober, serious Englishman, Steadfast of purpose, firm of plan, He held his great inheritance With strong clean hands, with cool clear glance. Unmoved by the hot moment, blown By no chance wind, he held his own Determined course, despite disfame From lips whose praise he held as shame, Or right or wrong, his high intent, Shaken by no weak sentiment, To manly souls was manifest; And now he passes to his rest _Punch_ lays his laurel on the bier Of one whom sorrow shook, not fear; Whose record o'er earth's realms and climes Lives in those words "He was _The Times_!"

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

A deputy-assistant of the Baron has been perusing with great contentment _The Catch of the County_, by Mrs. EDWARD KENNARD, a lady who is already responsible for _The Hunting Girl_; _Wedded to Sport_, and a number of other romances dear to the heart of those who follow the hounds. The deputy-assistant reports that he was delighted with the newest of the authoress's novels, and found the three volumes rather too short than too long. Now that London is in the midst of November and its fogs, those who dwell near the frosted-silvery Thames can take a real pleasure in stories of the country. To sum up, _The Catch of the County_ must (to adopt the slang of the moment) have "caught on." A fact that must be as satisfactory to Mrs. KENNARD as to her readers. And when both supply and demand are pleased, Messrs. F. V. WHITE & CO., the publishers, must also (like _Cox_ and _Box_) be "satisfied."

A Baronitess writes: "Gaily-bound Christmas books have been facing me for some time, and, with an insinuating look, seem to say, 'Turn over a new leaf.' We do; many new leaves."

BLACKIE AND SON could be called first favourites in the boys' field of literature. They make a good start with _Wulf the Saxon_ and _In the Heart of the Rockies_, both by G. A. HENTY. They are both capital specimens of the Hentyprising hero.

_In Press-Gang Days._ By EDWARD PICKERING. A story, not a newspaper romance, though it is a new edition of the type of the wicked uncle, who makes use of "the liberty of the Press" to have his nephew bound--as if he were a book worth preserving--and taken off to sea. This proceeding made an impression on our good brave youth, who, after fighting with NELSON, learnt that "an Englishman should do his duty," escapes a French prison, and returns to "give what for" to his uncle.

Most interesting and practical is _The Whist Table_, edited by PORTLAND, especially to those whose only idea of the game is after the style of the man in _Happy Thoughts_ who knows that the scoring had something to do with a candlestick and half-a-crown. In this book they will find a helping hand which gives the "c'rect" card to play. Both these books, published by JOHN HOGG, are pig-culiarly good.

"A powerful finish," quoth the Baron, leaning upon the chair-arm, and, like the soldier in the old ballad, wiping away a tear which he had most unwillingly shed over the last chapter of _Children of Circumstance_, "a very powerful finish. There is some comedy, too, in the story (which, I regret to say, is spun out into three volumes)--rather Meredithian perhaps, but still forming some relief to the sicknesses, illnesses and deaths--there are certainly three victims of IOTA's steel and one doubtful--of which the narrative has more than its fair share." Of the comedy portion, the courtship of _Jim_ and _Rica_ is excellent. But where other novels err in superfluity of description and lack of dialogue, the fault of this one is just the other way, and the dialogues may be, not "skipped," but bounded over. Nothing of the earlier portion, nor the powerful final chapter of this story can be missed: as for the intermediate stage, when the intelligent and experienced novel-reader has once grasped the characters, he can drop in on them now and then, in a friendly way, and see how they are getting on.

The Baron congratulates Messrs. MACMILLAN on a charming little book called _Coridon's Songs_, which are not all songs sung by that youthful Angler-Saxon whose parent was IZAAK WALTON, but also songs by GAY, FIELDING, and Anonymi. To these worthy Master AUSTIN DOBSON hath written a mighty learned and withal entertaining preface, the gems of the book being the illustrations, done by HUGH THOMSON in his best style, "wherewith," quotes the incorrigible Baron, "I am Hughgely pleased." 'Tis an excellent Christmas present, as, "if I may be permitted to say so," quoth the Baron, _sotto voce_, "to those whom Providence hath blest with friends and relatives expecting gifts in the coming 'festive season,' is also a certain single volume entitled _Under the Rose_, an illustrated work, not altogether unknown, as a serial, in _Mr. Punch's_ pages, and highly recommended by

THE JUDICIOUS BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."

* * * * *

RUS IN URBE.--Fancy there being a "Rural Dean of St. George's, Hanover Square"! His name was mentioned one day last week in the _Times'_ "Ecclesiastical Intelligence." It is the Rev. J. STORRS. Not "Army and Navy STORRS," nor "General STORRS," but "Ecclesiastical STORRS."

* * * * *

HAPPY APPLICATION.--Our Squire has a shooting party every Saturday to stay till Monday, and longer if they can. He calls it "The Saturday and Monday Pops."

* * * * *

GISMONDA.

(_To Mr. Punch._)

DEAR MISTER,--To you, who are a so great lover of the theatre, english and french, I send my impressions of the first of the new drama of Mister SARDOU. It is to you of to spread them in the country of the immortal SHIKSPIR. Allow that I render my homages to this name so illustrious, me who have essayed since so long time to speak and to write the language of that great author. And see there, in fine I can to do it!

It wants me some words for to praise the put in scene of this new drama at the theatre of Mistress SARAH BERNHARDT. _Gismonda!_ It is magnificent! It is superb! It is a dream! Ah! if your SHIKSPIR could see this luxury of decorations, this all together so glorious! Him who had but a curtain and an etiquette! And MOLIÈRE? And RACINE? Could they make to fabricate of such edifices, of such trees, of such furniture? They had not these--how say you in english--"proprieties," which belong to the proprietor? Yes, I think that I have heard the phrase, "offend against the proprieties." We never offend against them in the theatres of Paris; they are always as it should be. But here, at the Renaissance, Mistress BERNHARDT has done still more. Each scenery is a picture of the most admirables, a veritable blow of the eye.

I go to give you of them a short description. The first picture is the Acropolis, under the domination of the Florentines at the end of the fourteenth century. What perfume of poetry antique! What costumes! That has the air of an account of BOCCACCIO, of a picture of BOTTICELLI. One sees there the figures of ANGELICO, the colours of VERONESE. It is an ALMA-TEDDAMA of the middle age. And when Mistress BERNHARDT and her following, all resplendent of costume, are assembled upon the scene, one can see realised a group from the _Decameron_. And the second picture, and the third, and the fourth? Can I say more of them? They are superb. In the fourth there is a cypress high of six yards, there, alone, at the middle of the scene. One says he is natural. That may be. In any case he is marvellous. But the fifth picture, it is sublime! One cannot more! It is the last word of the modern theatre! It wants me the words, it wants me the place for to speak of it. SHIKSPIR alone would have could to render justice to this picture so ravishing.

As to the action of the piece, you will desire to know something. Frankly I tell you I observed it not. In the middle of this luxury of decorations there wander here and there some persons, dressed at the mode the most beautiful, who speak in effect not too shortly. There are veritable discourses--how say you _"conférences"_?--on florentine history, of the most interestings, but a little long. The brave Frenchmans pronounce the Italian names in good patriots. They imitate not the accent of our perfidious neighbours of the Triple Alliance. Ah no! They say them as in french. And what names! _Acciajuoli!_ It is like a sneeze. And Mistress BERNHARDT is gentle, caressing, passionate, contemptuous, and terrible turn to turn; she murmurs softly, and at the fine she screams. And Mister GUITRY is severe and menacing; he speaks at low voice, and at the fine he shouts. But after all what is that that is that that? One thinks not to it. The decorations, the costumes! See there that which one regards, that which one applauds, that which one shall forget never!

Be willing to agree the assurance of my high consideration.

STRAPONTIN.

* * * * *

MAYEN-AISY-NOW!

MISTHER PUNCH, SORR,--Frinchmen are that consaited they think no one can invint anything but thimselves. It's as well known as the story of Mulligan's leather breeches that the first Earl of MAYO inwinted Mayernase sauce (ah! bother the spellin' now), and called it after himself and his eldest son, Lord NAAS; faix, there ye have it, Mayonaas; and isn't it called Paddy Bourke's butther to this day all over County Kildare; and many a bite of could salmon have I ate wid that same; and don't believe, Sorr, thim that tell you it's onwholesome, for, if you'll get the laste sup of the crathur wid it, it's just as harmless as new milk from the cow; and shure it's meself that ought to know, bein' cook to a lady that has the best blood of ould Ireland in her body; and her husband--God help him, poor man!--is an Englishman; but we can't be all perfect, and whin I make thim sauces to his taste he just sends me out a glass of wine, wid his compliments, and wid mine to your honour,

I remane your honour's obadient Servant,

BETSEY DURNEY.

* * * This Correspondence must now cease. This is the second time we've said this.--ED.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A TOUCHING APPEAL.

AIR--"_The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò._"

In the Kingdom of the Yellow, Where names end in ing and oo, With a phiz like saffron wood, Lived proud YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO. He was a thrasonic fellow; But when smitten he would bellow. Potted puppies were his food, Pickled mice he thought ate good. Boss of a big neighbourhood Was proud YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

He was jealous of a Jappy, Little cove, but full of go; Rather fond of throwing stones At big YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO. And that small but plucky chappie Made big YOUNGHY feel unhappy; And he growled, in grumbly tones, "Piecy Jap him pitchee stones! Me with Jappy pickee bones!" Said sore YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!

"YOUNGHY pitch in Jap PING-WINGLY!" But young Jappy had first blow, When it came to actual strife, Faced big YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO, Faced and fought him sharp and singly, Smote him till his nose felt tingly, He was fearful for his life, And he yelled "Ho! stoppy strife! Knuckles cut like lilly knife!" Said poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

Yes, the big boy pale and yellow "Kickee up hulla-balloo," "And he feelee velly cheap" Did poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO. He began to bleat and bellow, Overgrown and awkward fellow; For his guard he could not keep, From his eyes he scarce could peep, And the nose grew crimson--deep-- Of poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!

Little Jappy sparred up gladly, And he cried "Fight on, man, _do_! Your proposals come too late, Mr. YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO! I will give you beans, BUNG--badly!" (Here his nose Jap hammered madly.) "Yah! In fighting I'm your mate. You cave in a bit too late, I will whop you--if you'll wait. Bouncing YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!"

"Though you welly lilly body, Jap. you strikee biggy blow! Welly much hurtee--me no play!!" (Blubbered YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.) "Me topside feel niddy-noddy. Oh my nosy! Me will modify the words me mustee say. Will you pleasy go away? Me no likee! Me no play! Welly much hard! Boo-hoo!! Boo-hoo!!!"

On the slippery road and muddy, Jap then floored him with a blow. "_Ough!_ Won't _no_ one helpee me?" Howled poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO! Prostrate, with his nose-tip ruddy, And his mouth all swollen and--bluggy: "Foreign devils one--two--three! Barbarians flom beyond um sea! Can't um--won't um helpee me?" Bellowed YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

At the floored and roaring victim "Foreign devils" look askew, Hands in pockets buried well. Piteous YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO Hoped that from the mud they'd picked him. But laugh they, "Young Jap's fair licked him! _Shall_ we intervene? Ah, well, We'll _think_ of it. Time will tell. Meanwhile let him lie and yell, Yellow YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

(_By a Courteous Conductor._)

SECURING A "P. S."

I have supposed that you have been appointed Secretary to the Public Squander Department. You will have much to do, so the less you have to read, the better. Under these circumstances, I merely supply you at this moment with the following

_Examination Paper for Would-be Private Secretaries._

1. Give your autobiography, either as (1) a good story against yourself, (2) a minute in four lines, or (3) a long yarn suitable for filling up the time when things have to be kept going for three-quarters of an hour to accommodate your chief.

2. Describe your duties to your chief (1) when he is in town but wants to be thought away in the country, and (2) when you have to assist him as "Vice-chair" at a dinner party.

3. Given that you have for neighbours at a political banquet a race-horse owner, a supporter of the temperance cause, a theatrical proprietor, and a rural dean. Write an anecdote that will interest all of them, and cause the conversation between them to be general.

4. Take the following facts. Owing to a blunder, a ship has been sent to a wrong port, carrying a wrong cargo to a wrong receiver, who has sent it away, and thus prevented it being used for its right purpose. This trifling error of judgment has caused a war that could easily have been prevented. Explain all this away in such a manner that the statement when delivered by your chief shall be received with "general cheering" in the House of Commons.

5. Write a short essay showing your points and testing your capabilities.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

II.--PRELIMINARY CANTERS.

I said, when I last took up my pen as a veracious chronicler of the recent history of Mudford (for this is the name of our village; not elegant, perhaps, but none the less true to life), that my meeting deserved a chapter to itself. It does. It deserves, in point of fact, many chapters, though I only purpose to give it one. But it must be the third chapter, and not the second. For before this meeting was held, many things happened, and as I look back I often wonder how it was that I was enabled to endure all the trials and tribulations which Fortune had in store for me, and that I am spared to write this unpretending account of all that happened. I say this, because I have been reading of late historical romances, and I find from them that a little moralising is never out of place in the course of a story.

The first thing I did was to issue a bill, stating that the meeting would be held. It was headed, "Mudford," and announced that I--described as TIMOTHY WINKINS, Esq., J.P. (for I boast that proud distinction through an error of the Lord Chancellor of the period, who mistook me for a member of his party, which I was not)--that I would explain the provisions and working of the Parish Councils Act, that "questions would be invited at the close," and that "all persons were cordially invited to attend." I sent a copy of this to every one in the village, and then fondly imagined that I should hear no more about the matter till the fateful night approached. In that I was mistaken, however.

Next morning, as I was sitting in my study--curiously enough getting ready some notes for what was to be my epoch-making speech--I saw coming up the drive two ladies, whom I recognised as Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, both ladies, I remembered, who had made themselves prominent in politics in the village, Mrs. HAVITT as a leading light of the Women's Liberal Federation, and Mrs. MARCH as a Lady Crusader (is that right?) of the Primrose League. A moment later, and those ladies were ushered into my room.

"We've come," said Mrs. HAVITT, cutting the cackle, and coming at once to the 'osses, "we've come to see you about that meeting."

"Oh, indeed!" I murmured. "Yes, the meeting."

"We notice," said Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, taking up the running, "that you only say 'persons' may attend the meeting. Now we're very much afraid that women won't understand that they may come."

"But surely," I protested, feebly, "a woman is a person."

"Well, we think" (_this as a duet_) "that you ought to say that 'all persons, men or women, married or single, are invited to attend.'"

I was a good deal staggered, and thought of asking whether they wouldn't like the name of the village altered, or my name printed without the J.P., but I refrained. I promised to print new bills, and I did it. I thought it would be a poor beginning to a peaceful revolution to have an angry woman in every household.

Those were my first visitors. After that I had about two calls a day. One day the Vicar dropped in to afternoon tea, to congratulate me on my public spirit. I confess I felt rather pleased. I had evidently done the right, the high-minded, the patriotic thing. My mind became filled with visions of myself as Chairman of the Parish Council, the head man of a contented village. Just before he left, however, the Vicar suggested that I should advise the electors to elect into the chair someone who had had previous training of what its duties and responsibilities were, and I suddenly remembered that the Vicar was the present Chairman of the Vestry. Then somehow I guessed why I had been favoured with a visit. The curious thing was, that my next caller (who arrived half an hour afterwards) came to say that the most satisfactory thing in the whole Act was, that the clergyman could not take the chair. Then my memory once more told me what manner of man I was talking to--he was a prominent local preacher. I was being nobbled.

And so it went on. My answer to all who came was, that they could come and ask me questions at the meeting. Is was a convenient plan enough--at the time. Yet my suggestions--like chickens and curses--came home to roost--at the meeting. And that, as I have said, is the third chapter.

* * * * *

ATHELSTAN THE READY.--MR. ATHELSTAN RILEY.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH ON BILLIARDS.

["The billiard-season has set in in real earnest."--_Daily Paper._]

Come, people all, both old and young, An hearken to my lay! And give you ear while I give tongue And sing a song that ought to be sung, And say my simple say.

I sing a song of a noble game, Whose charms few men withstand-- Billiards!--sport of ancient fame, Beloved of knight, admired of dame, Adored in every land!

The world's great games are numbered six-- Cricket, chess, and whist, Football, golf--but Billiards licks With three small balls and two long sticks, And subtle play of wrist.

In some, the mind plays chiefest part, In others, muscles rule; In Billiards muscle joins with art, Combining head and hand and heart, In pyramids and pool.

So Winter, hail! Though thou be keen, Thou'rt not so keen as PEALL, As he plays the spot on cloth of green, And makes such breaks as ne'er were seen, Until our senses reel!

Hail, ROBERTS, MITCHELL, DAWSON, too, And others of your sort!-- _Punch_ welcomes you, the leading few, But thinks of the Rest as he gives the Cue:-- "Uphold your noble sport!--

"Preserve its reputation free From every act that's mean.-- Conform to honour's just decree, And curse the man (and curst be he!) Who fouls the table green!"

* * * * *

What wonders will the year reveal? A "Half-a-million Up?" A hundred-thousand points to PEALL Will ROBERTS yield--then show his heel, And win the Diamond Cup?

Or greater marvel still, I wot-- Will players cease to growl When fluke occurs, or when you "pot" The white, and swear it's mean (it's _not_) And loud "Whitechapel!" howl?

All such as these would _Punch_ beseech-- (He dwells on this behest)-- To drop such foolish ways, and preach To all "good form," that happy each May go for his Long Rest!

* * * * *

* * * * *

CURIOUS.--A lady who had read the two recent controversies anent the Lords and the Empire got slightly muddled. "Well, I've never seen anything wrong," she said, "in Promenade Peers."

* * * * *

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Florence! O glorious city of LORENZO the Magnificent, cradle of the Renaissance, birthplace of DANTE, home of BOCCACCIO, where countless painters and sculptors produced those deathless works which still fascinate an admiring world, at last I approach thee! I arrive at the station, I scramble for a _facchino_, I drive to my hotel. It is night. To-morrow all thy medieval loveliness will burst upon my enraptured eyes.

In the morning up early and out. Immediately fall against a statue of a fat man in a frock coat and trousers. Can this be MICHAEL ANGELO'S _David_? No, no! It is _Manin_ by NONO. Turn hastily aside and discover a quay. Below is a waste of mud, through which meander a few inches of thick brown water. The Arno! Heavens, what associations! Raise my eyes and perceive on the opposite bank a gasometer. Stand horror-stricken in the roadway, and am nearly run over by a frantic bicyclist. Save myself by a great effort and cling for support to a gaslamp until I can recover from the shock. Resolve then to seek out the medieval loveliness. Start along the quay. Ha, there is a statue! Doubtless by MICHAEL ANGELO. Hardly; the face seems familiar. Of course, it is GARIBALDI! Turn and fly up a narrow street. Here at last is something old, here at last are the buildings on which DANTE may have looked, in which FRA ANGELICO may have painted, here at last----. Why, what's this? It's an omnibus. It fills the street. Wedge myself in a doorway, and when it has passed within three inches of my toes, hurry down a side street, a still narrower one. Here, perhaps, BENVENUTO CELLINI devised some glorious metal work. Ha, there is a silversmith's even to this day! Look! what are those things in the window, above the inscription "English Spoken"? They are teapots from Birmingham! Resolve to avoid small streets, and hurry on to large open piazza. Now for some architecture by GIOTTO, some sculpture by DONATELLO! Yes, there is an equestrian statue. Doubtless one of the MEDICI. At last! No, it's not. It's VICTOR EMANUEL. At least, the inscription says so, though the likeness, not being a speaking one, gives no information. Turn sadly aside and contemplate some melancholy modern copies of the regular architecture of rectangular Turin.

Begin to feel depressed. Have not yet found the romantic medievalism. Somewhat revived by _déjeuner_, resolve to seek it in the suburbs. Of course, Fiesole. A pilgrimage to the home of FRA ANGELICO. Sublime! Will go on foot, avoiding the high road. Climb by narrow ways, past garden walls. Behind them may be the gardens where BOCCACCIO'S stories were told; down these narrow roads FRA ANGELICO may have passed. How exquisite to meditate far from the tourist crowd! Filled with enthusiasm, and gazing at the beautiful blue sky, arrive at the top, and stumble headlong over some obstacle in the road. It is the rail of a tramway! Stagger feebly to the Piazza just as the electric tramcar bumps and rumbles up the hill. From it descends a crowd, carrying, not lilies, as in ANGELICO's pictures, but Bædekers. And I hear no tale from the _Decameron_, but a mingled confusion of strange tongues. "_Ja, ja, ja_; what a squash; _nous étions un peu serrés mais enfin_; _ach wunderschön_; _un soldo signore_; _ja, ja, ja_; wal, I guess this is Feaysolay, _che rumore nel tram_; I say, let's buy one of these straw fans for Aunt MARY; they're awfully cheap, only half a franc, and look worth half-a-crown; _ah voilà le café_; _wollen sie ein Glas Bier trinken_; _ja, ja, ja!_" Resolve to abandon search for medieval loveliness, and go down sadly in the tramcar.

But one art remains. In the country where VERDI still writes I can at least enjoy music. So after dinner seek the Trianon. It sounds like a music-hall; but then here, even in a music-hall, there must be music. As I enter, a familiar sound bursts upon my ear. The singer is Italian, the words are French, but the tune is English. She is singing "_The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo_."

A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.

* * * * *

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. R. sadly, when her advice had not been taken by her daughter, "I'm a mere siphon in the family!"

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)