SCENE XXVII.--_The Chinese Drawing Room.

_Miss Spelwane._ At last, Mr. SPURRELL! We began to think you meant to keep away altogether. Has anybody told you _why_ you've been waited for so impatiently?

_Spurr._ (_looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively_). No. Is it family prayers, or what? Er--are they over?

_Miss Spelw._ No, no; nothing of that. Can't you _guess_? Mr. SPURRELL, I'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, _great_ favour of you, I don't know why they chose _me_ to represent them; I told Lady LULLINGTON I was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you only would----

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). They're at it again! How many _more_ of 'em want a pup! (_Aloud._) Sorry to be disobliging, but----

_Miss Spelw._ (_joining her hands in supplication_). Not if I _implore_ you? Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, I've quite set my heart on hearing you read aloud to us. Are you really cruel enough to refuse?

_Spurr._ Read aloud! Is _that_ what you want me to do? But I'm no particular hand at it. I don't know that I've ever read aloud--except a bit out of the paper now and then--since I was a boy at school!

_Lady Cantire. What's_ that I hear? Mr. SPURRELL professing incapacity to read aloud? Sheer affectation! Come, Mr. SPURRELL, I am much mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here. Think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. Play upon us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further obstacles.

_Spurr._ (_resignedly_). Oh, very well, if I'm required to read, _I_'m agreeable.

[_Murmurs of satisfaction._

_Lady Cant._ Hush, please, everybody! Mr. SPURRELL is going to read. My dear Dr. RODNEY, if you _wouldn't_ mind just---- Lord LULLINGTON, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. SPURRELL? In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?

_Spurr._ (_to himself, as he sits down_). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (_Aloud._) Well, what am I to read, eh?

_Miss Spelw._ (_placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation_). You might begin with _this_--such a _dear_ little piece! I'm dying to hear _you_ read it!

_Spurr._ (_as he takes the book_). I'll do the best I can! (_He looks at the page in dismay._) Why, look here, it's _Poetry_! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line! (Miss SPELWANE _opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page_.) I say, this is rather curious! Who the dickins is CLARION BLAIR? (_The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips._) Because I never heard of him; but he seems to have been writing poetry about my bull-dog.

_Miss Spelw._ (_faintly_). Writing poetry--about your bull-dog!

_Spurr._ Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be--_Andromeda_!

[_Tableau._

* * * * *

"LIVING PICTURES."

The Downey ones, meaning thereby the photographers W. & D. "of that ilk," have produced some excellent photographic portraits in their fifth series recently published. THE CZAREVICH and The Right Hon. HENRY CHAPLIN, M.P., two sporting names well brought together, and both capital likenesses, though the Baron fancies that THE CZAREVICH has the best of it, for secret and silent as Mr. CHAPLIN is as a politician, yet did he never manage to keep so dark as he is represented in this picture. Here, too, is Mr. CHARLES SANTLEY--"_Charles our friend_"--looking like a mere boy with "a singing face," where "Nature, smiling, gave the winning grace." Mr. SYDNEY GRUNDY, _endimanché_, is too beautiful for words. But the picture of Mrs. BANCROFT, wearing (in addition to a trimmed fur cloak) a wonderful kind of "Fellah! don't-know-yar-fellah!" expression, at once surprised, pained, and hurt, does not at all represent the "little Mrs. B." whom the public knows and loves. "How doth the little busy Mrs. B. delight to bark and bite" might have been under this portrait, and DOWNEY must be more Downey another time, and give us a more characteristic presentment of this lively _comédienne_. The Right Hon. ARTHUR J. BALFOUR is the best of all. Capital. Just the man: "frosty but kindly." Then there is a first rate portrait of Miss FANNY BROUGH, and _after her_ comes the King of SAXONY!! O ALBERT of Saxony! after Miss FANNY BROUGH!! What'll Queenie CAROLINE say? Perhaps Messrs. DOWNEY, by kind permission of CASSELL & Co., will explain.

* * * * *

BATTLE WITH BACILLI.--Dr. ROUX has been successful against the Diphtheria Bacillus. He can afford to look on at any number of Bacilli and exclaim, "Bah! silly!" Unless he pronounces Latin _more Italiano_, and then he would say "Bah! chilly!" Which would signify that they were lifeless and harmless. "Bravo ROUX!"

* * * * *

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THE G STOCK FOR BEANFEASTS.

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BY OUR COVER SYSTEM we have never yet drawn blank. Surprise profits are made by all Investors who trust us with their balances, so that a swinging amount always stands to their credit. We have never yet received a check. Our Customers come to Order, but they never go to Law. In June, 1893, we received information about Grand Post Defs. and Tympanum Prefs., and a Bull-dozing Operation was decided on. As a consequence we were able to present all Subscribers with a £50 dumb-bell apiece, which has made them strong enough to _move a Market_.

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* * * * *

WE CAN SHOW YOU HOW YOU'RE DONE ON APPLICATION TO

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* * * * *

* * * * *

"WINDING 'EM UP."

["If he believed that the majority of the Liberal-Unionist party, or indeed any considerable section of them, held the opinion which was expressed by this writer in the _Times_, he, for one, would at once resign the responsible position which he held, and would claim to take up a more independent position, because he was certain that their efforts would be fruitless, and that they would not succeed in defeating the policy of Home Rule if they were to accept the negative position which had been suggested to them."--_Mr. Chamberlain at Durham._]

_Showman Joe soliloquiseth:_--

Waxworks indeed! Hah! I've took over the management of 'em, and I suppose, as _Misther Thleary_ said, I must "make the betht of 'em, not the wurtht." But I'm a bit tired of the job--sometimes.

Wish I could feel _Mrs. Jarley's_ pride in the whole bag o' tricks! 'Ave to _purtend_ to, of course. Can't cry creaky waxworks any more than you can stinking fish. But a more rusty, sluggish, wheezy, wobbly, jerky, uncertain, stick-fast, stodgy, unwillin' lot o' wax figgers I never did----Well, there, it tries a conscience of injy-rubber to crack 'em up and patter of 'em into poppylarity, blowed if it don't!

Kim up, Dook! Dashed if 'e don't look as if 'e fancied hisself the Sleepin' Beauty, and wanted to forty-wink it for another centry. Look at the flabby flop of 'im! Jest as though 'e wouldn't move if 'is nose wos a meltin'. Large as life, and twice as nateral? Wy, a kid's Guy Fox on the fifth o' November 'ud give 'im hodds, and lick 'is 'ead orf--heasy! Bin a-ileing 'is works this ever so long, and still 'e moves as if 'is wittles wos sand-paper, and 'is drink witrol. _Kim_ up!

As to the Markis, well, 'e's a bit older, but dashed if 'e don't move livelier--when 'e _is_ on the shift. At the present moment 'owever, utter confloption is a cycle-sprinter to 'im. As if a pair o' niddity-noddities in "negative" positions was likely to fetch 'em in front in _these_ days! Yah!

Should like to keep the Old Show a-runnin', too,--leastways, until I can start a bran-new one of my very own. Won't run to it _yet_, I'm afraid. Oh, to boss a big booth-full all to myself! I'd show 'em! This Combination Show--old stock-in-trade of one company, and cast-offs from another--ain't the best o' bisness arter all. But I _must_ keep 'em together as a going concern till I can run a star company of my own choosing. 'Ere, 'and us that ile-can again! Talk about rust and rickets!

Curting about to be rung up? Then I must get 'em in working horder somehow! 'Ang this Dook! Can't git anythink nateral out of 'im--'cept a yawn. _That_ 'e does as like as life. Kim up old nose-o'-wax and don't nod yerself into nothingness! 'Ow much _more_ ile do yer rusty old innards want to stop their clogging and creaking?

Proprietors beginning to pull long faces at my _pace_? 'Int that I'll shake the machinery to smithereens by too much haction? Well, I _am_ blowed! Wy, they'd slow down a sick snail, and 'andicap a old tortus, they would! Tell yer wot it is, if they don't give me a free 'and at the crank _I shall turn the whole thing up_, so _there_! Some nameless, nidnoddy, negative old crocks 'ave bin a-earwigging 'em, that's wot's the matter. But I give 'em the straight tip, if they lend a ear to them slow-going stick-in-the-muds, _I_ shall jest resign _my_ responserble persition, and take up a hindependent one--jine the Opposition Show, or p'r'aps start one o' my own, and _then_ where will they be, I wonder?

_Cling-cling!_ Curting rising? Well, 'ere goes once more then! (_Winding hard and addressing audience_). "Ladies and gen'l'men! The Himperial and Royal Grand Unionist Combination Waxworks Show is about to start for the season! Largest and most life-like set o' wax figgers ever exhibited to a hadmiring public!! As I wind you will perceive hunmistakeable signs of hanimation in 'is Grace the Nobble Dook; arter wich, with your kyind permission, I shall take a turn at the Illustrous Markis!!!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHERE ARE YOU GOING, REVOLTING MAID?

(_New Song to an Old Tune, for the New Woman._)

[The _Quarterly Review_ says that man will not marry the New Woman, which must be the final blow to her ambition.]

"Where are you going, Revolting Maid?" "As far as I may, fair Sir," she said.

"Shall I go with you, Revolting Maid?" "You may follow--behind me, Sir!" she said.

"What is your object, Revolting Maid?" "_Emancipation_, Sir!" she said.

"Will you marry, Revolting Maid?" "Perhaps--on my own terms, Sir!" she said.

"And what may those terms be, Revolting Maid?" "Absolute Liberty, Sir!" she said.

"Then _I_ shan't wed you, Revolting Maid!" "Did anyone ask you, Sir?" she said.

* * * * *

TITLE FOR NEW LONDON JAPANESE JOURNAL (WEEKLY).--"_The Happy Dispatch_, edited by HARI KARI."

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE LEADERS.

When the much-enduring Dockers, In the city of the Smoke-Cloud, By the banks of the Tems-Ri-Va, Struck to gain a larger stipend, Lead them on did BURNSIWATHA.

And the ruler of these matters, Who is called the Bry-Tish-Pu-Blyck, Took the side of dock-gate casuals, Of the somewhat lordly stevedore, And informed the proud Dy-Reck-Tas That they soon must yield to reason; Gave its sympathy in gallons, Gave its coin to make a strike-fund; So the proud Dy-Reck-Tas yielded.

But when many moons had vanished, Came the rather wild KEIR-HAR-DI, Came TOM-MANN the earnest minded, Talked of "Independent Labour," Soundly rated BURNSIWATHA And all useful Labour-Members.

Then the strong man, BURNSIWATHA, Hurled their language back with interest, With the breathing of his nostrils, With the tempest of his anger, Hurled it back on his assailants. Said TOM-MANN was feather-headed, Said the rather wild KEIR-HAR-DI Was no better than a "bounder."

And the Independent Lab'rers, Not to be outdone in scolding, Scandalised poor BURNSIWATHA, Said they thought him quite conceited, Called him "Boss," likewise "Bull-dozing."

And the Bry-Tish-Pu-Blyck wondered At the manners of these leaders, At the Unionists' disunion. "Go, my sons," it said, "instanter, Go back to your homes and people; Slay all ravening labour-sweaters, All the Kum-Panies, the giants, All the serpents, the Emp-Loias; But, for goodness' sake have done with Petty piques and jealous slangings; Or, next time you ask for coppers For the holy cause of Labour, You will find these coppers wanting!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

BAYARD AND BOBBY.

Oh, ROBERT, in our hours of ease Butt of those outworn pleasantries, Not less with pride thy praise we hear Hymned in another hemisphere, When BAYARD, chivalrously graphic, Tells how you regulate the traffic. Firm as a statue on its plinth 'Midst the vertiginous labyrinth Of circus, street and bridge you stand, And rule the storm with calm, unarmèd hand. Rarely our soldiers of the law Do Themis' awful truncheon draw, Their Orphic whistle sùbdue can All save the crew of HOOLIGAN. Though western JONATHAN prefer A force not vainly _claviger_, Yet BAYARD, taught in English ways, That suaver regiment must praise That trusts to moral weight and nerve And keeps the bludgeon in reserve. Stalwart and patient 'midst the strife Of all our seething city life, When pageants twice or thrice a year Throw the whole Empire out of gear, Then, stolid symbol of good sense, A wonder-worker, _sans_ pretence, Fulfill'st authority's decrees, With thy familiar "Stand back, please!" And rather by that sober charm Than by the might of brawny arm, The many-headed own thy sway; They laugh, they jostle, and obey. Worthy thy deeds of loftier rhyme, Than topic-song or pantomime. Not quite sublime, but on the border, Type of our British law and order, Thy figure shall be graved upon The frieze of some new Parthenon, Wherein by glyphic art portray'd Reigns the ideal parlour-maid, Thy dauntless soul's domestic lure Trim, natty, roguish, and demure, Waiting the age's unborn LAYARD To illustrate the praise of BAYARD.

* * * * *

QUERY IN THE COUNTRY.--New agricultural version of an ancient cockney slang phrase--"Has your farmer sold his mangel?"

* * * * *

ADVICE TO ANY DRAMATIC AUTHOR WHO HAS WRITTEN A LENGTHY PIECE.--"Cut, and run."

* * * * *

THE TALE OF A VOTE.

Bedad, 'twas meself was as plaised as could be When they tould me the vote had bin given to me. "St. Pathrick," ses Oi, "Oi'm a gintleman too, An' Oi'll doine ivry day off a grand Oirish stew."

The words was scarce seen slippin' off of me tongue When who but the Colonel comes walkin' along! "Begorrah, 'tis callin' he's afther, the bhoy, Oi'm a gintleman now wid a vingeance," ses Oi.

The Colonel come in wid an affable air, An' he sat down quite natteral-loike in a chair. "So, RORY," ses he, "'tis a vote ye've got now?" "That's thrue though ye ses it," ses Oi, wid a bow.

"Deloighted!" ses he, "'tis meself that is g'ad, For shure ye're disarvin' it, RORY me lad. An' how are ye goin' to use it?" ses he, "Ye could scarcely do betther than give it to me."

Oi stared at the Colonel, amazed wid surprise. "What! Give it away, Sorr?--Me vote, Sorr?" Oi cries. "D'ye think that Oi've waited ontil Oi am gray, An' now Oi'm jist goin' to give it away?"

The Colonel he chuckled, an "RORY," ses he. But "No, Sorr," Oi answers, "ye don't diddle me." Thin he hum'd an' he haw'd, an' he started agin, But he'd met wid his equal in RORY O'FLYNN.

Thin the smoile died away, an' a frown come instead, But for all that he tould me, Oi jist shook me head, An' he gnawed his moustache, an' he cursed an' he swore, But the more that he argued, Oi shook it the more.

Thin he called me a dolt an' an ignorant fool, An' he said that Oi ought to go back to the school, An' he flew in a rage an' wint black in the face, An' he flung in a hullaballoo from the place.

Bedad, Oi was startled. Him beggin' me vote, An' he'd three of his own too!--The gradiness o't! Ye could scarcely belave it onless it was thrue, An' him sittin' oop for a gintleman too!

Was it betther he thought he could use it than Oi? Begorrah, Oi'll show he's mistaken, me bhoy. Oi'll hang it oop over me mantlepace shelf, For now that Oi've got it, Oi'll kape it meself.

* * * * *

THE ZUYDER ZEE.--"Wha' be the Zider Zee?" repeated a Devonian farmer. "Why, I always thought as the Zee of Exeter were the Zider Zee. Ain't it pratty well in the middle o' Zider Country?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

MAYENNAISE VERSUS MAYONNAISE.

(_Vide last Number of "Punch."_)

Dear _Punch_, your praise Of Mayonnaise Is certainly most telling: But don't it seem That such a theme Deserves the proper spelling?

I sometimes look At a cookery book By A. DUMAS, the younger; And find he says That May_en_naise (A certain cure for hunger)

Should be spelt so; Not with an _o_, But like Mayenne, that city, Whose siege's fame Supplied the name Mis-spelt now; more's the pity

Maybe D's right, Although it might Be just a yarn he's telling. So hope your bard Won't be too hard And simply "D" my spelling.

* * * * *

'TOTHER WAY ABOUT.--Mr. LE GALLIENNE says, epigrammatically, that "Beauty is the smile on the face of Power." Humph! Gallant _Mr. Punch_ prefers to put it the other way, and say "Power is the smile on the face of Beauty!" Surely that is equally true. But it's a poor rule (or paradox) that won't work both ways.

* * * * *

MOTTO MOST PRACTICAL FOR ALL WHO ARE COMPELLED TO TRAVEL CONSTANTLY IN OUR METROPOLITAN PUBLIC CONVEYANCES.--"_In Omnibus Caritas._"

* * * * *

* * * * *

VERSE AND CHORAL SUMMING-UP.

[Of a recently protracted discussion in the _Times_ on "Anglican Orders," set to the air of what was once upon a time a popular song, entitled _Billy Barlow_.]

Of _my_ re-appearance, My friends, don't complain, I've turned up before, I shall turn up again! We are where we were When we started, and so For awhile bid good-bye To your WILLIAM BARLOW. O dear! Lackaday oh! What a puzzling old party was Bishop BARLOW!

* * * * *

Two "General" Favourites.

The one, Sir BOB REID, Q.C., M.P., "to be Attorney-General"; the other, FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., "to be Solicitor-General." REID and Right. Commercial value, one "Bob" and a "Frank," _i.e._ One-and-tenpence the pair.

* * * * *

FUTURE FAME.--Mr. T. E. ELLIS, M.P., "speaking at Colwyn Bay" (unkind of him, this, for what has Colwyn Bay done to him? Why not address Colwyn Bay personally instead of "speaking _at_" C. B.), spoke at the same time "at" the House of Lords. "Were the wishes of the people to be continually thwarted by an hereditary and irresponsible Chamber?" That's the style! Twopence coloured. Henceforth Mr. T. E. ELLIS, from being Nobody in particular, will now be known as "Somebody ELLIS."

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Now _that_," quoth the Baron emphatically, as he deposed _My Lady Rotha_ in favour of the next novelty, what ever it might be, "_that_ is a romance after my own heart. Mr. STANLEY WEYMAN, author of _A Gentleman of France_ and _Under the Red Robe_, has not as yet, excellent as were both those works, written anything so powerful, so artistic, so exciting, and so all-engrossing (no further participles or adjectives wanted at present) as _My Lady Rotha_." This romancer has the rare talent of interesting his reader as much in the action of his crowds as he does in the fortunes of his individuals. He is the Sir JOHN GILBERT of the pen; and the Baron cautiously expresses his opinion that _My Lady Rotha_ is not so very far off _Ivanhoe_. To compare with the works of other modern romancers, it may be safely said that, from Chapter XXVI. to Chapter XXIX. inclusive, the situations are as exciting as any ever invented by RIDER HAGGARD, LOUIS B. STEPHENSON, or JULES VERNE; "which" the Baron freely admits, "is saying a good deal,--_Treasure Island_ always excepted."

The Baron anticipates "Next please," with pleasure, but at the same time he would draw the attention of the prolific author to the ancient proverb "_festina lente_," which is not at variance with his exclaiming "On! STANLEY (WEYMAN) on!" and these are "the last words" (for the present on _this_ subject) of the

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

POSSIBLE DEVELOPMENTS.

[On hearing that an Archdeacon had withdrawn from the School-Board Controversy because he found himself opposed to his Bishop.]

The Archdeacon is "sorry he spoke." Not that he has changed his opinion--oh dear no! far from that. But the Bishop thinks otherwise, so the Archdeacon retires as gracefully as may be from the controversy. He is, he explains, as it were, the Bishop's "oculus"--the man to whom the Bishop can proudly point, and say "All my eye!" This theory of subordination of thought to one's superior is highly suggestive. For instance, who will be surprised to read the following highly authentic document, now made public for the first time.

_To the Editor of the Once a-Month Review._

DEAR SIR,--With reference to my article "Is Horse-racing Justifiable?" I desire to make known that while I still strongly adhere to my views therein expressed as to the wickedness of the turf, I shall, for the reason I am about to mention, take no further active part in the controversy. I find that the PRIME MINISTER is the owner of some racehorses (a fact previously unknown to me), and as I am his "dextera," if it is not presumptive to say so, it would clearly be unbecoming on my part to take up any antagonistic position. However much I may regret having to take this course, I am sure you will agree with me that it is the only one which is open to me.

Yours faithfully, W-LL-AM V-RN-N H-RC-URT.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Last Sunday evening I fully intended going to church. I put on my most attractive bonnet, and an absolutely bewitching jacket, when I discovered that JIM (he's my husband, you know) did not intend to go out. As I had read a little while before the new archidiaconal theory of obedience, that of course prevented my going out. Clearly as I am JIM'S "better-half" I couldn't go anywhere that _he_ didn't go. Please, _Mr. Punch_, was I right? Or can it be that the archdeacon was wrong?

Yours very perplexed, ETHEL DINMERE.

* * * * *

A PHALSE NOTE ON GEORGE THE FOURTH.

(_A Brown Study in a Yellow Book._)

Nay, but it is useless to protest. Much bosh and bauble-tit and pop-limbo has been talked about GEORGE THE PHORTH. THACKERAY denunciated him in his charming style (we never find THACKERAY searching for the _mot juste_ as for a wisp of hay in a packet of needles), but inverideed he was not sufficiently merciful to the last gentleman in Europe. We must not judge a prince too harshly. How many temptations he had with all the wits and flutterpates and malaperts gyring and gimbling round him! GEORGE was a sportsman. He would spend the morning with his valet (who was a hero to him), assuming gorgeous apparel, and tricking himself, with brush and pigment, into more charm. He was implected with a passion for the pleasures of the wardrobe, and had a Royal memory for old coats. Then he would saunter into WHITE'S for ale and tittle-tattle, and drive a friend into the country, stopping on the way for _cursory_ visits at the taverns; I mean, swearing if the ale was not good. He had his troubles. Queen CAROLINE was a mimsy, out-moded woman, a sly serio, who gadded hither and thither shrieking for the unbecoming. Mrs. PHOX ensorcelled GEORGE with her beautiful, silly phace, shadowed with vermeil tinct and trimly pencilled. There was no secernment between her soul and surface; she was mere, _insouciant_, with a rare dulcedo.

GEORGE collected locks of hair and what not, and what _not_. He gave in his bright flamboyance a passing renascence to Society. But the Victorian era came soon, and angels rushed in where fools had not feared to tread, and hung the land with reps, and drove Artifice phorth, and set MARTIN TUPPER on a throne of mahogany to rule over them.

In the tangled accrescency of GEORGE'S degringolade--in fact when he was dyeing--he thought he had led the charge of Waterloo! Tristfully he would describe the scene, referring to the Duke of WELLINGTON for corroboration. An unfortunate slip, for it is well known the old soldier was never there himself.

It is brillig, and from my window at the Métropole, Brighton, I see the trite lawns and cheeky minarets of the Pavilion. I can see the rooms crusted with ormolu, the fauns foisted on the ceiling, the ripping rident goddesses on the walls. Once I phancied I saw a swaying phigure, and a wine-red phace....

P.S.--I like to phancy the watchful evil phaces of my Criticks as they read this article. Phair men, but infelix, they will lavish their anger in epigramme. Not that I care a little tittle about adverse remarks kicked from a gutter into a garret! But! But let them not outgribe too soon, but rather dance and be glad, and trip the cockawhoop. For! For, slithy toves as they are, they will read it with tears and desiderium, unless I do as did ARTEMUS of shameful memory, and in jolliness and glad indulgence whisper to them--

THIS IS A GOAK!

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE VIGILANT.

I've a natural eye for evil, And folly I love to shoot, And to prod for a latent weevil In the wholesomest-looking root.

My _ipse dixit_ must always fix it-- The song, the dance, the cup; And my back gets stiffer the more you differ From the standard that I set up.

I went to the "halls" crusading, And I found what I meant to find. I had said they were all degrading, And I never alter my mind.

In virtue strong I gazed at the throng Of smoking chatters and grinners; With a righteous frown my soul looked down On the publicans and the sinners.

Loftily, proudly, lonely I bore what I had to bear, For I knew that I was the only Respectable Person there!

That the others were not respectable Was easy and plain to see, For they frankly found delectable What didn't appeal to me.

Yet none of the revellers stonily, Or scornfully seem'd to stare, They took no note of the only Respectable Person there.

My vigilant virtue perchance may hurt you By putting constructions worse on The pose or picture that draws no strictures From the non-respectable person.

But my earliest vigilance wakèd To look askance at the nude, As another name for naked, And therefore distinctly rude.

From an icy peak of stupendous cheek On an alien world I glare, And never feel lonely, although I'm the only Respectable Person there!

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WONDERFUL FEAT OF STRENGTH.--The strong man supporting four men on a chair is nothing in comparison with _an entire train "held up" by four men_! This was reported in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ last Saturday as having occurred to a "Texas Pacific train." The armed robbers went off with 20,000 dollars. Nice "Pacific" train to travel by!

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HEIRLOOMS.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Mr. and Mrs. BEERBOHM TREE, and their Olive Branch little Miss TREE, on the valuable _souvenirs_ of their Balmoral performance presented them by HER MAJESTY, which, from all others, will distinguish this particular "Family TREE."

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MORBIDEZZA.

Morbid fleshliness is mark Of the modern (sham) Art-lover. Vulgar seems the soaring lark, Music (and meat) are in the plover. Painters once made pink the flesh Of their Titianesque creations; Caught in Sham's sepulchral mesh Art now raves of _Green_ Carnations!

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FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

_At Lugano._--Geographically this seems to be Italy. But people remind one always of the artificial frontier which makes it Switzerland. What's that matter? Get up early. Ha! there it is. Cloudless sky! And such a blue! Ultramarine at a guinea the thimbleful. Hurry down to enjoy its beauty as long as possible. Fortunate I did so, for by ten o'clock it has all vanished. Go up a hill. View from top would be fairly clear for Helvellyn. But for Italy! Amiable and chatty Italian reminds me that I am not in Italy. Ah, of course not. Will get there as soon as I can. Meanwhile mope in hotel, for it is now raining steadily. Not a magnificent mountain downpour, with thunder and lightning, howling of wind, crashing of elements, alarums and excursions, and that sort of thing; only a quiet, steady rain, which would be disliked even in Ambleside. But in Ambleside there would be a fire. Here I sit in a draughty, chilly corridor, with some melancholy Germans, all of us wearing overcoats indoors. They remind me that I am not in Italy. Anyone could see that.

_At Pallanza._--Here on Lago Maggiore there must really be the ROWBOTHAM effects. My room looks over the lake. "_La vista è bellissima_," says the waiter in the evening. Hooray! Now to forget the gloom of Switzerland and England. Wake early. Misty morning. Good sign of fine weather probably. Into bed again. Wake again. Only half-past seven. Still misty. Into bed again. Wake once more. Still misty. Evidently quite early. Hullo! still half-past seven. Watch stopped. Ring. "_Si, Signore_," says the chambermaid, in the mixed dialect which she has invented for foreigners, "_il est dieci heures_." Ten! By Jove! With that fog? She assures me it will clear away, "_se non oggi, domani_." _Bellissima vista_ looks exactly like Derwentwater in rain. Grey water, grey sky, grey mountains, wreathed in grey mist. It does not clear to-day, so it may to-morrow.

Next day even worse. Fog greyer, and rain with it. Mud everywhere. Notice a practical German tourist with three umbrellas strapped on his knapsack. Wise man! He knows this climate, and also the advantage of a change of clothes, or of umbrellas. So useful to have a morning umbrella, an afternoon umbrella, and a sort of evening-dress umbrella to bring down to the _table d'hôte_. When tired of gazing at the mist, I read a three days old _Times_, preserved in the reading-room. Hullo! what is that sound? A piano-organ! Heavens! To think that I should have travelled hundreds of miles from London to hear the grinding of an organ while I read the _Times_ in a fog! Why, in Kensington Gardens I could have done as much.

A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.

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[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]