The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 18, 1893, by Various

E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 104.

February 18, 1893.

PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!

Picturing the Various Modes of Melodramatic Murder. (By Our "Off-his"-Head Poet.)

It may be this—that the Villain base

Has insulted the hero's girl;

It may be this—that he's brought disgrace

On a wretchedly-acted Earl.

I care not which it may chance to be,

Only this do I chance to know—

A cliff looks down at a canvas sea

And some property rocks below!

You say, perhaps, it is only there

From a love of the picturesque—

You hint, maybe, that it takes no share

In the plot of this weird burlesque;

But cliffs that tremble at every touch,

And that flap in the dreadful draught,

Have something better to do—ah, much!

Than to criticise Nature's craft!

The cliff is there, and the ocean too,

And the property rocks below.

(These last, as yet, don't appear to you,

But they're somewhere behind, I know.)

The cliff is there, and the sea besides

(As I fancy I've said before),

And yonder alone the Villain hides

Who is thirsting for someone's gore!

And now there comes to the Villain bold

The unfortunate Villain Two.

He's here to ask for the promised gold

For the deeds he has had to do.

But words run high, and a struggle strong

Sends the cliff rocking to and fro,

And Villain Two topples off ere long

To the property rocks below!

The scene is changed. The revolving cliff

Now exhibits its other side.

The corpse is there, looking very stiff—

Even more than before it died!

The crime is traced to the hero Jack,

Notwithstanding the stupids know

Deceased was thrown by the Villain black

To the property rocks below!

RHYMES FOR READERS OF REMINISCENCES.

If the day's (as usual) pitchy,

Take up Anne Thackeray Ritchie!

If you're feeling "quisby-snitchy,"

Seek the fire—and read your Ritchie!

If your nerves are slack or twitchy,

Quiet them with soothing Ritchie.

If you're dull as water ditchy,

You'll be cheered by roseate Ritchie.

Be you achey, sore, chill, itchy,

Rest you'll find in Mrs. Ritchie!

May her light ne'er shine with slacker ray,

Gentle daughter of great Thackeray!

"Words! Words! Words!"—The decision in "the Missing Words (and money) Competition" is, in effect, "No more words about it, but hand over the £23,628 to the National Debt Commissioners." Advice this of Stirling value.

You Fall, Eiffel!

Are the Panama sentences rather hard?

So Monsieur Eiffel pro tem. disappears.

To walk round about a prison yard

Is the Tour d'Eiffel for a couple of years.

Evident.—The little song for Mr. Harry Lawson to sing on reading Mr. Charles Darling's letter in the Times of Thursday last—"Charley is my Darling!"

A Real "Opening" for a Smart Young (Political) Man.—The settling, on rational grounds, of the great and much-muddled up "Sunday-Opening" Question.

Cue for the Critics (if the New Coinage does not seem an improvement upon the Jubilee failures).—Pepper Mint!

ICHABOD!

Oh, gaily did we hasten to the London Institution,

Expecting some amusement in our inartistic way,

And little did we reckon on the awful retribution

Which Mr. Henry Blackburn had in store for us that day.

We'd fondly looked towards him for an eulogistic blessing,

But got instead a general and comprehensive curse,

We are, as he informed us, with an emphasis distressing,

By nature inartistic, and are daily getting worse.

Thereafter he directed magisterial attention

Upon the hapless authors who a fleeting fame had got;

He drew no nice distinctions, nor selected some for mention,

But, with superb simplicity, he just condemned the lot.

Every man of them is sinning with an ignorance persistent,

Poet, novelist and critic, or whatever be their sphere,

Their "individuality" is almost non-existent,

And only on occasions, if at all, are they "sincere."

Well, what, then, is the remedy? Will Mr. Blackburn fix it?

Must all our fiction travel from the cultured Continent?

Or dares we snap our fingers at this haughty ipse dixit,

And read our inartistic books in very great content?

Mr. Perks, M.P., has undertaken to bring in a Bill for "the Abolition of Registrars at Nonconformist Marriages." If successful, the Ministers will lose their "Perks."

LUSUS NATURÆ.

In the Field's Dog-for-sale column, there recently appeared, wedged in between descriptions of vendible Beagles and Bloodhound Pups, the following remarkable advertisement:—

Most interesting canine specimen this. The Managers of the Zoological Gardens should at once apply, if by this time they have not already done so, and secured the "Forty-tonner Bloodhound," with complete inventory, "built by Fife of Fairlie."

Nursery-Rhyme for the Neo-Crinolinists.

Girls and Matrons, who wins the day,

Now Winter and Jeune have had their say?

Come with a hoop to concert or ball,

Come with balloon-skirts, or come not at all!

A Candid Friend.

Brown (pausing in his gigantic work). Well, tell me, honestly, have you any fault to find with it?

Why, on an Illustrated Paper, should the position of the reproducer of Artists' black-and-white work be a higher one than that of the Artists themselves? Because he undertakes "Graver" responsibilities.

BURIDAN'S ASS.

Long-patient Issachar, o'erladen muncher

Of heaps of "vacant chaff well-meant for grain,"

If, like the pious spouse of Jerry Cruncher,

You "flop," and, camel-wise, won't rise again

To bear big burdens that strength staggers under,

On fodder most inadequate, what wonder?

To wallop a poor "donkey wot won't go,"

The good old song suggests is cruel folly.

Give him some fragrant hay, then cry "Gee-woa!"

The lyrist hints, in diction quaintly jolly.

From starving moke you'll get no progress steady;

The well-fed ass responds to "Gee-up, Neddy!"

Poor brute, between two piles of sapless chaff,

While such big burdens weigh your weary shoulders,

Your choice is difficult! Cynics may laugh,

But pity for your plight moves kind beholders.

Cockneys cry, "Kim hup, Neddy!" or "Woa, Emma!"

But Punch compassionates your hard dilemma.

What choice between the chaff of arid Rad

And that of equally dry-and-dusty Tory?

Chaplin would feed you on preposterous fad,

And Gardner on—postponement! The old story!

While the grass grows the horse may starve. Poor ass!

Party would bring you to a similar pass!

"A certain Mister Jesse Collings" poses

As your particular friend and patron. Quite so!

Joseph and he cock their pugnacious noses

At their old Chief, venting their zeal (and spite) so.

Codlin—no, Collings—is the friend. "Lard bless 'ee,

Turn Willyum oop, and try Joseph and Jesse!"

"Willyum"—who wields a very pretty flail—

Drubs them delightfully, 'midst general laughter.

But oh, poor ass, aching from head to tail,

Pray, what the better is your state thereafter?

Buridan's Ass was surely your twin brother.

There's such small difference 'twixt one and t'other!

POLITICS IN PLAY.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I notice that that eminent author, Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, has written a play called The Bauble Shop, in which he has introduced the room of the Prime Minister in the House of Commons as one of his most striking tableaux. I have not yet had the advantage of seeing what I feel sure must be an admirable comedy, but in justice to myself I must ask you to publish a portion of a piece of my own, which seems to me to bear some resemblance to what I suppose I must call (as it has enjoyed priority of production) the Criterion original. I call my drama The Walking Gentleman, or the Young Premier, and I beg to submit to you the last Scene (a very short one) of the last Act. Here it is in extenso:—

Angelina (anxiously). And, will he never come! Ah! that House—that House! With its blazing beacon from the Clock Tower; it——(With a cry of joy.) Ah, he is here!

Edwin (entering hurriedly and taking Angelina in his arms). My own one! Yes, I say it advisedly, my own one! Mine—Mine—for ever!

Ang. Nay, Edwin; you forget the claims the Government—the country—have upon your time!

Edw. No, darling, I do not. The Division has been taken; it is all over. At the last moment I rose in my place in the House, and made purposely one of the most injudicious orations ever heard within those respected walls. I disgusted friends, alienated adherents, and in every possible manner strengthened the hands of the Opposition; and, darling we are beaten—yes, beaten—by a thumping majority.

Edw. Nay, do not weep. For thy dear sake I accepted the sacrifice. I am no longer leader of the House, I am no longer head of the Administration, and now I shall have ample leisure. Yes, darling, smile once more. Now I shall have time to be married. Now I can speak with hope of a honeymoon!

There, Mr. Punch! If that would not overwhelm the Stalls and Boxes with painful emotion, and bring down the Pit and Gallery with thunders of applause, I am a Dutchman!

MARY-ANNER ON THE COMING MODE.

Dear Polly,—This comes hooping—I mean hoping, as you're heard,

As the Queen and the Princess o' Wales declines to be absurd,

And put their foot in it—dear me!—I mean to put it down

Upon the coming Crinerline! A-arsting of the Crown

To hinterfere with hus, dear,—wich I means the female sect,—

In our Fashions, is fair himperence. But, wot can yer expect

From parties—wich they may be litterary, or may not—

As carn't see any beauty in balloon-skirts? Reglar rot!

I'm a-pinin' for it, Polly, wich in course, my dear, I mean

That convenient, cleanly cover-all, wot's called the Crinerline!

It hides so much, my Polly; wich I'm sure, my dear, you'll twig!

As dear Lady June informs hus, the too-little or too-big,

The scraggy and the crummy ones, the lanky 'uns and the lumps,

Will be grateful for a fashion as is kind to bones and 'umps.

Eel-skin skirts may suit the swells, dear, and the straight, and slim, and tall,

And—well, them whose wardrobe's plentiful; they don't suit me at all;

Wich I'm four-foot-ten and stoutish, as to you is well beknown;

I'm a bit short in the legs like, my limbs do not run to bone.

Now my purse won't run to petticuts and cetrer hevery week,

As a pound a month won't do it. Ho! it's like their blessed cheek,

Missis John Strange Winter's Ammyzons as Lady June remarks—

To swear Crinerline is "ojus," dear, and 'idjous. 'Twill be larks

To see them a wearin 'ooped-skirts, as in course they're bound to do,

When they fair become the fashion. Yus, for all their bubbaroo.

The seving thousand Leaguers, and their Leader will cave in,

And wear wot now they swear is jest a shame, dear, and a sin.

I do not care a snap wot the opinion of the men is,

Nor yet for the hesthetecks, nor the toffs as play at Tennis;

I sez 'Ooped Skirts for hever! This Strange Winter's out o' tune,

I prefers the Summer, Polly, wich I mean dear Lady June.

Anti-Crinerline be jiggered! I've got one dear mother wore,

Though the steels is a bit twisted, and the stuff a trifle tore,

I can fake it up, when Fashion gives the watch-word, I've no doubt,

And I ony wish 'twould come, dear, with my first fine Sunday hout.

Drat these sniffy snapping Leaguers! Ho! they fancy they're high-tone,

But I'll give 'em the straight griffin. Leave our petticuts alone!

They may take it from me, Polly, they'll soon drop their bloomin' banner,

If all women show the sperrit of,

Yours trooly,

Mary-Anner.

Cue for Kennington (especially after the smart seconding of the Address in the Lower House).—"Mark—Beaufoy!"

An Example of a "Suspensory Bill" would be a small account from your haberdasher's for a pair of braces.

THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.

Lord Strath. (to himself). Don't want to make a fuss, but I suppose I ought to do something. Good little chap, my host—didn't like to tell me I'd made a mistake; but his wife's a downright vixen. Better make it right with her. (To Mrs. Tid.). I—I'm afraid I ought to have found out long before this what an intruder you must consider me; but your husband——.

Mrs. Tid. Pray say no more. Mr. Tidmarsh chose to act on his own responsibility, and of course I must put up with the consequences.

Lord Strath. (to himself). It's hard lines to have to leave Marjory like this; but this is more than I can——(Aloud.) After that, of course I can only offer to relieve you of my presence as soon as——

Mrs. Tid. (horrified). Not for worlds! I can't have my party broken up now. I insist on your staying. I—I have no complaint to make of your conduct—so far!

Lord Strath. Very kind of you to say so. (To himself.) Pleasant woman this! But I don't care—I will stay and see this out; it's too late to go in to the Cartouches now, and I won't leave Marjory till——(Aloud.) Miss Seaton—Marjory—I'm in a most awfully difficult position—do let me tell you about it!

Miss Seaton (penitently). Oh, Douglas, I—I know—I heard.... I'm so sorry—I mean, I'm so glad! Please forgive me for treating you as I did!

Lord Strath. You did let me have it pretty straight, didn't you, Marjory? But, of course, you thought me am impudent cad for calmly coming in to dinner uninvited like this—and no wonder!

Miss Seaton (to herself). He doesn't know the worst—and he shan't, if I can help it! (Aloud.) It doesn't matter what I thought—I—I don't think it now. And—and—do tell me all you can about yourself!

Uncle Gab. (to himself). For all the notice that stuck-up young swell takes of me, I might be a block of wood! I'll make him listen to me. (Aloud.) Ahem! My Lord, I've just been telling my niece here the latest scandal in high-life. I daresay your Lordship has heard of that titled but brainless young profligate, the Marquis of Manx?

Lord Strath. Manx? Oh, yes—know him well—sort of relation of mine. Never heard a word against him, though!

Uncle Gab. (in confusion). Oh, I—I beg your Lordship's pardon—I wasn't aware. No doubt I got the name wrong.

Lord Strath. Ah—or the facts. Great mistake to repeat these things—don't you think? Generally lies.

Uncle Gab. (nettled). It's all very well for you to stand up for your order, my Lord; but it's right I should tell you that the Country doesn't mean to tolerate that den of thieves and land-grabbers—I need hardly say I refer to the House of Lords—much longer! We're determined to sweep them from the face of the earth. I say so, as the—ah—mouthpiece of a large and influential majority of earnest and enlightened Englishmen!

Lord Strath. (to himself). Fancy the mouthpiece has had quite enough champagne! (Aloud.) My dear Sir, you can begin sweeping to-morrow, so far as I am concerned. I'm no politician.

Uncle Gab. (warming). No politician! And yet you sit in the Upper House as one of our hereditary legislators, obstructing the will of the People! Do you mean to tell me there's no incongruity in that!

Lord Strath. A good deal, I daresay, if I sat there—only I don't—haven't had the honour of being elected at present.

Mrs. Tid. (hastily). He means he—he has other things to do, Uncle—don't excite yourself so! (To Lord S. in a whisper.) You're only exposing yourself by talking of what you know nothing about. Surely you know that Peers aren't elected!

Lord Strath. I was under the impression they were—in Scotland; but it's not worth arguing about.

Uncle Gab. You're evading the point, my Lord. I'm trying to put plain sense——

Lord Strath. (wearily). I know—but—er—why try? Wouldn't plain nonsense be rather more amusing—at dinner, don't you know?

Uncle Gab. (stormily). Don't think you're going to ride roughshod over me, my Lord! If you think yourself above your company——

Lord Strath. I assure you I've no idea what I've said or done to offend you, Sir. It was perfectly unintentional on my part.

Uncle Gab. (relaxing). In that case, my Lord, no further apology is needed. I—ah—accept the olive-branch!

Uncle Gab. (effusively). With all the pleasure in life, my Lord. And, without withdrawing in any sort or kind from any of my general opinions, I think I express the sentiment of all present when I say how deeply we feel the honour——

Lord Strath. (to himself). Good Lord—he's going to make a speech now! (Little Gwendolen enters demurely and draws up a chair between his and her mother's.) Saved, by Jove! Child to the rescue? (To her.) So you're going to sit next to me, eh? That's right! Now what shall I get you—some of those grapes?

Gwen. No, a baby orange with silver paper round it, please. What is it, Miss Seaton? [She rises and goes to Miss S.

Miss Seaton (whispering). Now, darling, be careful—you know what I told you—you mustn't tell tales or repeat things!

Gwen. Not even if I'm asked, Miss Seaton?... No?... Would you be displeased? Then I won't. (Returning to her seat and addressing Lord S. confidentially.) Do you know why I've come to sit next to you? Because I want to see how you behave. You aren't just like one of our regular dinner-party guests, are you, you know?

Lord Strath. (humbly). I'm afraid not, my dear; but you'll be kind to me for all that, won't you?

Gwen. (primly). Miss Seaton says we should never be unkind to anybody, whatever their position is. And I think you're rather nice. I wish Papa would have you to dine with us often, but perhaps you're expensive?

Lord Strath. (laughing). I don't know, Miss Gwennie, I've been feeling uncommonly cheap all the evening!

Gwen. (reflectively). Mamma always says everything's much cheaper at Blankley's.

Mrs. Tid. (to Uncle Gab.). Growing such a big girl, isn't she? and getting on wonderfully with her lessons. I must get her to recite one of her little pieces for you, Uncle, dear—she does it so prettily!

Uncle Gab. Hey, Gwen—I'll bet you one of these sugar-biscuits you don't know who it is you're chatting away so freely to!

Gwen. Oh yes, I do, Uncle; but I'm being very kind to him, so that he mayn't feel any different, you know!

Uncle Gab. Upon my word—what will you get into that little noddle of yours next, I wonder!

Gwen. (after deliberation). Preserved ginger, I think—I like ginger better than biscuits. (To Lord S.) You can reach it for me.

Uncle Gab. Come, come, young lady, where are your manners? That's not the way to speak to that Gentleman. You should say—"Will your Lordship be so very kind as to pass the preserved ginger?"

Lord Strath. (impatiently). Please don't, Gwennie! I like your own style much the best! [He helps her to the preserve.

Uncle Gab. You mustn't allow the child to take liberties, my Lord. Now, Gwen, suppose you tell me and his Lordship here something you've been learning lately—don't be shy, now!

Mrs. Tid. Yes, Gwennie—tell Uncle a little tale—repeat something to him, come, darling!

Uncle Gab. Hullo? 'Shan't' to your Mother? This how you bring the child up, Maria?

Mrs. Tid. Not when Mother asks you to, Gwen? And Uncle wanting to hear it so! No? Why won't you?

Uncle Gab. Hah—Miss Seaton seems the supreme authority here, evidently—better get her permission, Maria!

Miss Seaton (distressed). Indeed. I—I never meant—Gwennie didn't understand me quite—that is all!

Gwen. Oh, Miss Seaton! when you said I wasn't to tell tales or repeat things—you did say so!

Miss Seaton. Yes, yes, but that was a different kind of tale altogether, Gwennie,—you may tell a fairy tale!

Gwen. (obstinately). If I mayn't tell any kind of story I like, I shan't tell any at all—so there!

Uncle Gab. Pretty behaviour, upon my word! Children didn't behave like that in my young days, Maria! I should no more have dared to refuse to tell my elders anything they—but it strikes me you leave her too much with her governess—who, by the bye, has been going on with his Lordship in a manner that well, really I shouldn't have thought——!

Mrs. Tid. (mortified and angry). I am not at all satisfied with Miss Seaton in many ways, Uncle—you can safely leave her to me!

Lord Strath. (to Miss Seaton, as she passes, last but one). I—I suppose I shall get a word with you upstairs?

Mrs. Tid. (overhearing—to herself). I'll take good care he doesn't! (To Lord S., waspishly.) Let me advise you to be very careful!

Mrs. Tid. (detaining Miss Seaton). I hope you are satisfied with yourself, Miss Seaton? You ought to be, I'm sure—after encouraging my own child to disobey me, and behaving as you did with that most ill-bred and impertinent impostor!

Miss S. (indignantly). He is nothing of the sort! Mrs. Tidmarsh, you—you don't understand! Please let me tell you about him!

Mrs. Tid. I have no desire whatever to hear. I am only sorry I ever permitted you to dine at all. It will be a lesson to me another time. And you will be good enough to retire to your own room at once, and remain there till I send for you! [She passes on.

Miss Seaton (following). But I must tell you first what a mistake you are making. Indeed he is not——!

Mrs. Tid. I don't care what he is. Another word, Miss Seaton,—and we part! [She sweeps into the Drawing-room.

Miss Seaton (outside). I have done all I can! If I could only hope the worst was over! But it doesn't matter much now. I know I shall never see Douglas again!

"THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA" AT OXFORD.

The Oxford University Dramatic Society, unlike the Cambridge A. D. C., is compelled by the Authorities to walk only amidst the high peaks and sometimes monotonous solitudes of the legitimate drama. The Two Gentlemen of Verona, which was chosen for this term's performance, is, if the truth must be told, an uninteresting stage-play. The story is of the slightest; there is scarcely a genuinely dramatic incident from beginning to end. The audience wearies of a succession of pretty pictures and sentimental soliloquies or dialogues, mouths begin to gape, and the attention wanders. Is this sacrilege? If it be, I must be content to be sacrilegious. But there is scope for careful and graceful acting, and of this the O. U. D. S. took full advantage.

Mr. Whitaker's Valentine was a very pleasing performance. He spoke his lines admirably, grouped himself (if the Hibernianism be permissible) excellently, and showed himself in every sense a well-graced actor. Mr. Ponsonby's Launce, too, was capital, carefully thought out and consistently rendered. One or two of the actors in tights seemed unduly conscious of their hands and knees, but, on the whole, the acting was of good average excellence. The Ladies here are real Ladies, not stuffed imitations, as at Cambridge. Mrs. Sim, Mrs. Morris, and Miss Farmer, were all good. But the one really brilliant performance was that of Crab, the dog, by a wonderful Variety performer from the Theatre Royal, Dogs' Home, Battersea. If this gorgeously ugly, splendidly intelligent, and affectionately versatile animal is sent back at the conclusion of the run of the piece to be asphyxiated at Battersea, I shall never believe in the gratitude or humanity of the O. U. D. S.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

In the arid life of the book-reviewer there is sometimes found the oasis of opportunity to recommend to a (comparatively) less suffering community a book worth reading. My Baronite has by chance come upon such an one in Timothy's Quest, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. The little volume is apparently an importation, having been printed for the Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. It is published in London by Gay and Bird, a firm whose name, though it sounds lively, is as unfamiliar as the Author's. Probably from this combination of circumstances, Timothy's Quest has, as far as my Baronite's quest goes, escaped the notice of the English Reviewer. That is his personal loss. The book is an almost perfect idyl, full of humanity, fragrant with the smell of flowers, and the manifold scent of meadows. It tells how Timothy, waif and stray in the heart of a great city, escaped from a baby-farm to whose tender cares he had been committed; how, in a clothes-basket, mounted on four wooden wheels, cushioned with a dingy shawl, he wheeled off another waif and stray, a prattling infant; and how, accompanied by a mongrel dog named Rags, the party made its way to a distant village, nestling in the lap of green hills with a real river running through it. Here boy and baby—and Rags too—find New England friends, whom it is a privilege for nous autres to know. Samanthy Ann is a real live person, and so is Jabe Slocum—a long, loose, knock-kneed, slack-twisted person, of whom Aunt Hitty Tarbox (whom George Eliot might have sketched) remarked he would have been "longer yit if he hedn't hed so much turned up fur feet." Timothy's Quest is the best thing of the kind that has reached us from America since Little Lord Fauntleroy crossed the Atlantic.

WITH "THE OLD MASTERS."

At Burlington House.—Real treat. No. 6. Portrait of Charles Dibdin, the Nautical Poet and Songster. Painted by Sir William Beechey, R.A. Appropriate, a "Beechey Head."

No. 11. "Girl Sketching." By Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A. Everybody knows that the sun stood still for Joshua; here you may see how, for Sir Joshua, the daughter stood still.

No. 36. Our old friend, "A Chat round the Brasero." By Phillip of Spain, i.e., John Phillip, R.A. It ought to have been called "A Good Story." No chatting is going on, but the worthy padre has just told them a story which, like the picture itself, is full of local colour. The padre has given a "Phillip" to the conversation.

No. 43. "Portrait of an Actor." By Zoffany, R.A. Who is the Actor? The Painter we know; but the Actor—? "Ars longa, vita brevis"—and "then is heard no more."

No. 48. Another Portrait of another Actor. By Zoffany. Name! Name! Did they both appear for "one night only"—come "like shadows, so depart"?

No. 75. "Portrait of a Lady"—an old lady, but such an old lady! By Rembrandt. What a cap! What a frill! What a pocket-handkerchief! Delighted to see such a specimen of "Old Dutch!" Homely old Dutchess!

No. 78. "The Fishmonger." By Van Ostade. The fish as fresh to-day as when it was originally bought.

No. 109. Wonderful! Van Dyck's "Burgomaster Triest." As the eminent critic and punster, Joseph Von Müller, observed to Van Dyck, "Dyck, my boy, thou wilt never paint a better than this Burgomaster of Triest if thou Tri-est ever so!"

Then quoth my companion, "Come to the Blake Collection." Ahem! Into the Black-and-White Room. Ugh!... "That way madness lies." No more to-day, thank you.

Beastly Superiority.—(Konundrum by the "Boxing Kangaroo," on hearing of the "Wrestling Lion.")—What is tamer than a tame lion? Why, of course, a Lion Tamer.

VALENTINE VERSES.

Do you like it? I wonder! Or think you it's stupid

To send such a commonplace gift as a Purse?

Do you sigh for the tinsel, and gauze, and the Cupid,

And the wonderful sentiments written in verse?

Well, suppose I had sent them. You'd murmur, "How pretty!"

Then not see them again as you put them away.

Shall I candidly tell you I thought 'twere a pity

Just to send you a gift that would last for a day?

But consider the times and the seasons—how many!

When a purse—something in it—will save you from fuss.

When you're posting a letter (to me), or a penny

You may want for a paper, a tram, or a 'bus.

When you've done with the purse, as you carefully lock it,

And look with all proper precaution to see

That the gold is still there, as it goes in your pocket,

Let a thought or two, sweetheart, come straying to me.

I've explained as I could. Do you still go on sighing

For the commoner Valentine—tinsel and gauze,

With the pictures of wonderful cherubim flying

In a reckless defiance of natural laws?

If you do—well, forgive me. Don't think me unkind. You

Know I'd not treat yourself in so heartless a style,

And so let this gift, as you use it, remind you

Of one whom you won, my dear, outright, with your smile.

Sir William Harcourt suggests that "Parish Councils will do everything for the distressed Agriculturists." Sir William should advertise the remedy out of his Farmercopœia—"Try Parish's Food for Agricultural Infants in distress."

A Meery Jest.—Said the Ameer to an English friend, "Yes, I am uncertain of my position. I Am 'eer to-day and gone to-morrow."