To the Unemployed.

Master plays the violin,And Missus the guitar.We are a merry family,We are! We are! We are!!

Master plays the violin,

And Missus the guitar.

We are a merry family,

We are! We are! We are!!

I drink his health, the health ofP. Hopps,Hop! Hop! Hooray! in beer, of course. This comes hopping you're well.

Yours ever,

Spring Bank, Out of Bounds.A. Hoppidan.

"Remember Mitchelstown!"And do not join a mob.But if you do, you're likely toGet "one" upon your nob.If not to get knocked down,And squelched, you greatly care,Remember, then, both Mitchelstown,And eke Trafalgar Square!

"Remember Mitchelstown!"And do not join a mob.But if you do, you're likely toGet "one" upon your nob.

"Remember Mitchelstown!"

And do not join a mob.

But if you do, you're likely to

Get "one" upon your nob.

If not to get knocked down,And squelched, you greatly care,Remember, then, both Mitchelstown,And eke Trafalgar Square!

If not to get knocked down,

And squelched, you greatly care,

Remember, then, both Mitchelstown,

And eke Trafalgar Square!

Sports and Anecdotes of Bygone Days.ByC. T. S. B. Reynardson. Without four initials Reynard's son ought to know by this time as much about sport as sly old Reynard himself. Illustrated, too, in colours, but not with his own brush.

Against "One Man Power," the cry is now raised,By moralists noted for meekness.Perchance the new protest were more to be praised,If directed against "one man weakness."The partisan man is so given to glower,At his bigger, or luckier, brother man,One fears that this railing against "one-man power,"Means craving the power for—anotherman.

Against "One Man Power," the cry is now raised,

By moralists noted for meekness.

Perchance the new protest were more to be praised,

If directed against "one man weakness."

The partisan man is so given to glower,

At his bigger, or luckier, brother man,

One fears that this railing against "one-man power,"

Means craving the power for—anotherman.

Chief Item in a Gladstonian Menu.—"A Chop and Chips."

A Perfect Pandemonium.—Demon-stration in Trafalgar Square.

THE "PONDS ASINORUM" AGAIN!Cabby."Oh! yer thinks Seven-and-Sixpence too much, do yer, for comin' all the way up to 'Ampstead! Well—'ere I stops till I'm paid, that's all!"

Cabby."Oh! yer thinks Seven-and-Sixpence too much, do yer, for comin' all the way up to 'Ampstead! Well—'ere I stops till I'm paid, that's all!"

As many married men have recently been sworn in as supplementary Policemen, and as ladies are usually entirely ignorant of law, it may be as well to give a list of the statutory regulations of the duties of Special Constables. Here they are:—

1. Special Constables will occasionally be expected to spend several hours every evening in the card-room of the Club in search of information.

2. Their duties may occasionally require them to pay a visit to Paris for a fortnight, or even three weeks, to study for themselves on the spot the working of the French Judicature Act.

3. It may be imperatively necessary for them to be present at the "first nights" of new pieces, when, they will be expected to take supper at the Club, so that they may have an opportunity of confidentially exchanging notes with their fellow-constables.

4. At any time they may be required not to dine at home, but, for purposes of the police, join a visit of inspection to dinners chiefly associated with bachelors.

5. Every Special Constable (if not already in possession of one) must be supplied with a latch-key, under a penalty of £20—payable by his wife.

6. It is strictly forbidden (and the offence, when proved, will entail a sentence of penal servitude for an indefinite period) for a Special Constable to give any information as to his movements to any one, inclusive of his wife.

7. It will be a part of his duty occasionally to come home with the man bringing the early morning milk.

8. Lastly, on extraordinary occasions, when it is necessary that he should be ready to return to his beat at a moment's notice, it is lawful that he should retire to bed in his boots.

Reasons Why.—TheChancellorof theExchequerwill accompany LordHartingtonto Ireland, first because he thinks that the latter's stolid style of oratory will have no effect on the impulsive Celt without a good deal of gushin'; and, secondly, because he wants to have his share of the anticipatedHartyreception.

I attended the Opening Night of the Promenade Concerts at Her Majesty's on Saturday week. A crowded house; everybody in the best of humours. Mlle.Elly Warnotstrilled her most brilliant "variations," MissFlorence St. Johncarried off the lioness's share of applause and bouquets. There was a new "Vocal valse," entitled "Laughing Beauties" in which a chorus of "ladies in costume" invited us to buy what the programme waggishly described as:—

"Sweet violets for the meek, tra, la, la, la, la,Fondivoryfor the weak, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho!"

"Sweet violets for the meek, tra, la, la, la, la,

Fondivoryfor the weak, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho!"

The programme, by the way, contained one or two other similar eccentricities. MissSt. Johnwas announced as inquiring in a song ofBehrend's, "Why do your big tearsfearsfall, Daddy?"—hardly a fair question to be addressed to any parent. Fortunately she preferred to sing the line in a less enigmatical form, but the gifted author ofDaddy, should insist on correcting his own proofs next time. Then we had a "descriptive Piece for Orchestra,"—The Bulgarian Patrol, in which the melody began faintly, and came nearer and nearer with the clank of metal, till it gradually died away again in the distance. "Oh, wot a novelty!" as I heard a street-vendor remark the other day concerning the "panorammer of the Lord Mayor's Show," he was offering to a dubious public. But the public at Her Majesty's applauded theBulgarian Patrolas impartially as they did his Turkish forerunner.

(Signed)A. BOUTIGO JONES.

Advice Gratis.—YoungHoffmannis Hoff! Gone from our gaze, perhaps, with aCook'sTicket. But, anyhow, the Juvenile Phenomenal Pianist has gone. Peace go with him—let him rest. Don't allow him to get within half a mile of a piano, or he is sure to go to pieces. All work and all play will make youngHoffmanna dull Young Man. Beware, O Parents and Guardians, in time.

À proposof a certain Illustrious Sufferer.—Who shall decide when Doctors disagree? The Patient. This is the sad Moral,Mackenzie.

THE GRAND OLD JANUS.THE GRAND OLDJANUS."QUITE RIGHT, CONSTABLE!""QUITE WRONG, CONSTABLE!!"

"QUITE RIGHT, CONSTABLE!""QUITE WRONG, CONSTABLE!!"

Dear Charlie,

Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed.Went down to the Square, mate,—last Sunday,—and got a rare clump on the 'ed.Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin!Mecop it! It's too jolly rum.When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wotnextthere will come.It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; MisterBurleighand me was "mistook."Iwent jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook,Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob,And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob.'Ard lines, ain't it,Charlie, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy,And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy.A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me,But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher see.Don't you fancy the "Hunemployed," bunkum has nobbled me; not sech a mug!And as ferO'Brienand his breeches, I'm glad the fool's fairly in jug.No, no, Law and Horder's my motter, but wen a spree's on'Arry'sthere;And I thought, like a lot of the Swells, I should find one that day in the Square.Lord Mayor's Day with a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening too temptin' to miss.More pertikler wen all in "the Cause"—Law and Horder, I mean, mate—like this.I despises the Poor and the Spouters; to see their 'eds jolly well brokeIs fun, but a bash on one's own—well, there, somehow it spiles the whole joke.The Perlice wos too dashed hinderscriminate, that's where it wos, my dear boy;Wich they couldn't takemefor a Paddy or 'umbugging "Out of Employ."Wen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to 'ave knowed like a shot,By the Astrykan only, thatIwasn't one o' the Socherlist lot.I 'ate 'em, dearCharlie, I 'ate 'em! They wants to stop piling the pelf,Wen that is wot every dashed one of us wants to be piling hisself.No, Wealth is wotmustbe kep up and pertected, wotever goes wrong;And to talk of abolishing Millionnaires,Charlie,iscoming it strong.They are like prize Chrysanthemums,Charlie; for, if you want them, don'tcher see,You must nip off some thousands of buds to let one or two swell and grow free.Jest you turn a lot loose in yer garden, andthatain't the way as they'll grow;But if 'undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would not get no Show.That's Life in a nutshell, my bloater! All wants to be fust, but they can't;Most on us is wasters; the game of the snide un's to be a Prize Plant.Then you're mugged up to-rights and made muck of, but, oh, you must be a big ass,If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and grown under glass!Ask GentlemanJoe.Heknows better, he's finding it out more and more,And his Radical rot about "ransom" won't turn up agen; it don't score."Law and Horder's" the tip I can tell yer. I'm on to it fairly for one,And there's ony one thing I finds fault with; theydorayther bunnick up Fun!If heverythink's on the Q.T., and a Peeler is always at 'and—Andthat'sLaw and Horder you bet, as beknown to the rich and the grand—It's O.K. for the 'olders of ochre, who, if they've a mind for a spree,Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do ituponthe Q.T.But hus,Charlie, hus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm partial to Law,Wen it means keepingmyswim all clear, and a muzzling my henemy's jaw.Wy, nothink could easy be nicerer, then, don'tcher see, dear old pal;But supposing that game interferes withmylarks, ormylush, ormygal?Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting Laws, Prize Fight pervention, and suchThat some mealy-mouthed mugs are so sweet on; if they cop us, life ain't wuth much.Contrydicting myself? Oh, well,Charlie, I've sech a blarmed pain in my 'ed,And life looks a queer sort of mix wen you boss the whole bizness from bed.Danthe Dosser, who knows the Square well, 'aving slep in it night arter night,Sez the Golden Calf safely railed in by the Law is a 'eavenly sight.Acos Horder is 'Eaven's first Law, and, in conserkense, Law Earth's first horder;The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scapegoats is kep hout of the border.I can't git the 'ang of his lingo; his patter's all picter somehow,And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate,Idunno no more than a cow.But the Scapegoat, that'shim, I suppose, and he looks it; it's rough, as he says;No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o' thing kep up for days!But the Scapegoats must not kick up shindies, and stop up our streets and our squares,That's a moral. Perhaps there is grabbers as wants to swag more than their shares.I ain't nuts on sweaters myself, and I do 'ate a blood-sucking screw,Who sponges and never stands Sam, and whose motto's "all cop, and no blue."Still, this 'ere blooming Hanarchy,Charley, won't do at no figger, dear boy.A bit of a rorty romp round in the open a chap can enjoy,But brickbats and hoyster-knives? Walker! Not on in that scene, mate, not me!And a bash on the nob with a batton is notmyidea of a spree.To bonnet a lot of old blokes and make petticoats squeal is good biz,But a Crusher's 'ard knuckles a crunching yer scrag? No, I'm blowed ifthatis!Let 'em swarm "in their thousands"—the mugs!—and their black and red flags let 'em carry;But wen they are next on the job they will 'ave to look wide-oh! for'Arry.

Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed.

Went down to the Square, mate,—last Sunday,—and got a rare clump on the 'ed.

Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin!Mecop it! It's too jolly rum.

When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wotnextthere will come.

It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; MisterBurleighand me was "mistook."Iwent jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook,Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob,And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob.

It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; MisterBurleighand me was "mistook."

Iwent jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook,

Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob,

And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob.

'Ard lines, ain't it,Charlie, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy,And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy.A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me,But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher see.

'Ard lines, ain't it,Charlie, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy,

And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy.

A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me,

But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher see.

Don't you fancy the "Hunemployed," bunkum has nobbled me; not sech a mug!And as ferO'Brienand his breeches, I'm glad the fool's fairly in jug.No, no, Law and Horder's my motter, but wen a spree's on'Arry'sthere;And I thought, like a lot of the Swells, I should find one that day in the Square.

Don't you fancy the "Hunemployed," bunkum has nobbled me; not sech a mug!

And as ferO'Brienand his breeches, I'm glad the fool's fairly in jug.

No, no, Law and Horder's my motter, but wen a spree's on'Arry'sthere;

And I thought, like a lot of the Swells, I should find one that day in the Square.

Lord Mayor's Day with a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening too temptin' to miss.More pertikler wen all in "the Cause"—Law and Horder, I mean, mate—like this.I despises the Poor and the Spouters; to see their 'eds jolly well brokeIs fun, but a bash on one's own—well, there, somehow it spiles the whole joke.

Lord Mayor's Day with a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening too temptin' to miss.

More pertikler wen all in "the Cause"—Law and Horder, I mean, mate—like this.

I despises the Poor and the Spouters; to see their 'eds jolly well broke

Is fun, but a bash on one's own—well, there, somehow it spiles the whole joke.

The Perlice wos too dashed hinderscriminate, that's where it wos, my dear boy;Wich they couldn't takemefor a Paddy or 'umbugging "Out of Employ."Wen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to 'ave knowed like a shot,By the Astrykan only, thatIwasn't one o' the Socherlist lot.

The Perlice wos too dashed hinderscriminate, that's where it wos, my dear boy;

Wich they couldn't takemefor a Paddy or 'umbugging "Out of Employ."

Wen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to 'ave knowed like a shot,

By the Astrykan only, thatIwasn't one o' the Socherlist lot.

I 'ate 'em, dearCharlie, I 'ate 'em! They wants to stop piling the pelf,Wen that is wot every dashed one of us wants to be piling hisself.No, Wealth is wotmustbe kep up and pertected, wotever goes wrong;And to talk of abolishing Millionnaires,Charlie,iscoming it strong.

I 'ate 'em, dearCharlie, I 'ate 'em! They wants to stop piling the pelf,

Wen that is wot every dashed one of us wants to be piling hisself.

No, Wealth is wotmustbe kep up and pertected, wotever goes wrong;

And to talk of abolishing Millionnaires,Charlie,iscoming it strong.

They are like prize Chrysanthemums,Charlie; for, if you want them, don'tcher see,You must nip off some thousands of buds to let one or two swell and grow free.Jest you turn a lot loose in yer garden, andthatain't the way as they'll grow;But if 'undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would not get no Show.

They are like prize Chrysanthemums,Charlie; for, if you want them, don'tcher see,

You must nip off some thousands of buds to let one or two swell and grow free.

Jest you turn a lot loose in yer garden, andthatain't the way as they'll grow;

But if 'undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would not get no Show.

That's Life in a nutshell, my bloater! All wants to be fust, but they can't;Most on us is wasters; the game of the snide un's to be a Prize Plant.Then you're mugged up to-rights and made muck of, but, oh, you must be a big ass,If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and grown under glass!

That's Life in a nutshell, my bloater! All wants to be fust, but they can't;

Most on us is wasters; the game of the snide un's to be a Prize Plant.

Then you're mugged up to-rights and made muck of, but, oh, you must be a big ass,

If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and grown under glass!

Ask GentlemanJoe.Heknows better, he's finding it out more and more,And his Radical rot about "ransom" won't turn up agen; it don't score."Law and Horder's" the tip I can tell yer. I'm on to it fairly for one,And there's ony one thing I finds fault with; theydorayther bunnick up Fun!

Ask GentlemanJoe.Heknows better, he's finding it out more and more,

And his Radical rot about "ransom" won't turn up agen; it don't score.

"Law and Horder's" the tip I can tell yer. I'm on to it fairly for one,

And there's ony one thing I finds fault with; theydorayther bunnick up Fun!

If heverythink's on the Q.T., and a Peeler is always at 'and—Andthat'sLaw and Horder you bet, as beknown to the rich and the grand—It's O.K. for the 'olders of ochre, who, if they've a mind for a spree,Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do ituponthe Q.T.

If heverythink's on the Q.T., and a Peeler is always at 'and—

Andthat'sLaw and Horder you bet, as beknown to the rich and the grand—

It's O.K. for the 'olders of ochre, who, if they've a mind for a spree,

Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do ituponthe Q.T.

But hus,Charlie, hus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm partial to Law,Wen it means keepingmyswim all clear, and a muzzling my henemy's jaw.Wy, nothink could easy be nicerer, then, don'tcher see, dear old pal;But supposing that game interferes withmylarks, ormylush, ormygal?

But hus,Charlie, hus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm partial to Law,

Wen it means keepingmyswim all clear, and a muzzling my henemy's jaw.

Wy, nothink could easy be nicerer, then, don'tcher see, dear old pal;

But supposing that game interferes withmylarks, ormylush, ormygal?

Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting Laws, Prize Fight pervention, and suchThat some mealy-mouthed mugs are so sweet on; if they cop us, life ain't wuth much.Contrydicting myself? Oh, well,Charlie, I've sech a blarmed pain in my 'ed,And life looks a queer sort of mix wen you boss the whole bizness from bed.

Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting Laws, Prize Fight pervention, and such

That some mealy-mouthed mugs are so sweet on; if they cop us, life ain't wuth much.

Contrydicting myself? Oh, well,Charlie, I've sech a blarmed pain in my 'ed,

And life looks a queer sort of mix wen you boss the whole bizness from bed.

Danthe Dosser, who knows the Square well, 'aving slep in it night arter night,Sez the Golden Calf safely railed in by the Law is a 'eavenly sight.Acos Horder is 'Eaven's first Law, and, in conserkense, Law Earth's first horder;The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scapegoats is kep hout of the border.

Danthe Dosser, who knows the Square well, 'aving slep in it night arter night,

Sez the Golden Calf safely railed in by the Law is a 'eavenly sight.

Acos Horder is 'Eaven's first Law, and, in conserkense, Law Earth's first horder;

The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scapegoats is kep hout of the border.

I can't git the 'ang of his lingo; his patter's all picter somehow,And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate,Idunno no more than a cow.But the Scapegoat, that'shim, I suppose, and he looks it; it's rough, as he says;No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o' thing kep up for days!

I can't git the 'ang of his lingo; his patter's all picter somehow,

And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate,Idunno no more than a cow.

But the Scapegoat, that'shim, I suppose, and he looks it; it's rough, as he says;

No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o' thing kep up for days!

But the Scapegoats must not kick up shindies, and stop up our streets and our squares,That's a moral. Perhaps there is grabbers as wants to swag more than their shares.I ain't nuts on sweaters myself, and I do 'ate a blood-sucking screw,Who sponges and never stands Sam, and whose motto's "all cop, and no blue."

But the Scapegoats must not kick up shindies, and stop up our streets and our squares,

That's a moral. Perhaps there is grabbers as wants to swag more than their shares.

I ain't nuts on sweaters myself, and I do 'ate a blood-sucking screw,

Who sponges and never stands Sam, and whose motto's "all cop, and no blue."

Still, this 'ere blooming Hanarchy,Charley, won't do at no figger, dear boy.A bit of a rorty romp round in the open a chap can enjoy,But brickbats and hoyster-knives? Walker! Not on in that scene, mate, not me!And a bash on the nob with a batton is notmyidea of a spree.

Still, this 'ere blooming Hanarchy,Charley, won't do at no figger, dear boy.

A bit of a rorty romp round in the open a chap can enjoy,

But brickbats and hoyster-knives? Walker! Not on in that scene, mate, not me!

And a bash on the nob with a batton is notmyidea of a spree.

To bonnet a lot of old blokes and make petticoats squeal is good biz,But a Crusher's 'ard knuckles a crunching yer scrag? No, I'm blowed ifthatis!Let 'em swarm "in their thousands"—the mugs!—and their black and red flags let 'em carry;But wen they are next on the job they will 'ave to look wide-oh! for'Arry.

To bonnet a lot of old blokes and make petticoats squeal is good biz,

But a Crusher's 'ard knuckles a crunching yer scrag? No, I'm blowed ifthatis!

Let 'em swarm "in their thousands"—the mugs!—and their black and red flags let 'em carry;

But wen they are next on the job they will 'ave to look wide-oh! for

'Arry.

Cuttings and Slips.—The following were extracted from theManchester Evening News, Nov. 14:—

RESPECTABLE Woman WANTS WASHING, at Altrincham.

RESPECTABLE Widow WANTS WASHING for Tuesday.

The first one is not in a hurry; the second is, and names the day. Then or never. At first we thought it was a new form of advertising Somebody's Soap.

From a Distracted Grammarian with "To Be" in his Bonnet.

With you, O Superlative Maiden,There can no Comparison be;And though Grammar makes "You" Second Person,You are first of all Persons to me.At Present my life is Imperfect(Not Irregular,nota bené),But with you for Auxiliary, dearest,How Perfect our Future might be.Considering my Antecedents,Your Relatives can but Agree;And since I'm Defective in Number,You cannot Decline me, you see.I sigh; but by mere InterjectionsMy Case cannot influenced be:Then grant the Conjunction I plead for,And so with your Subject agree.

With you, O Superlative Maiden,There can no Comparison be;And though Grammar makes "You" Second Person,You are first of all Persons to me.

With you, O Superlative Maiden,

There can no Comparison be;

And though Grammar makes "You" Second Person,

You are first of all Persons to me.

At Present my life is Imperfect(Not Irregular,nota bené),But with you for Auxiliary, dearest,How Perfect our Future might be.

At Present my life is Imperfect

(Not Irregular,nota bené),

But with you for Auxiliary, dearest,

How Perfect our Future might be.

Considering my Antecedents,Your Relatives can but Agree;And since I'm Defective in Number,You cannot Decline me, you see.

Considering my Antecedents,

Your Relatives can but Agree;

And since I'm Defective in Number,

You cannot Decline me, you see.

I sigh; but by mere InterjectionsMy Case cannot influenced be:Then grant the Conjunction I plead for,And so with your Subject agree.

I sigh; but by mere Interjections

My Case cannot influenced be:

Then grant the Conjunction I plead for,

And so with your Subject agree.

Among the books with which the Prison Authorities should have supplied Mr.O'Brienought to have been a copy of "The Breeches Bible." When he comes out, will he commence a suit against the Government?

We'll state what we think of your BrummagemJoe.He's "so English you know,"—yes, "so English, you know."

We'll state what we think of your BrummagemJoe.

He's "so English you know,"—yes, "so English, you know."

"The Sleeper Awakened!" New Cantata, dedicated to the Right Hon.Henry Matthews, the Not-Yet-Quite-at-Home Secretary.

BY SIR J. E. MILLAIS, R.A.

(Suggested by this eminent "Sporting and Dramatic" Artist's "Portia" now being exhibited on all the bookstalls.)

LADY MACBETH."Or Anybody Else. Doesn't matter. Quite a——J. E. M."SHYLOCK; or, The Masher of Venice."Companion Picture to my 'Portia.' A very brilliant——J. E. M."

LADY MACBETH."Or Anybody Else. Doesn't matter. Quite a——J. E. M."

"Or Anybody Else. Doesn't matter. Quite a——J. E. M."

SHYLOCK; or, The Masher of Venice."Companion Picture to my 'Portia.' A very brilliant——J. E. M."

"Companion Picture to my 'Portia.' A very brilliant——J. E. M."

Dear Mr. Punch,—What Greek philosopher was it who held that Water was the beginning and essence of all things? Our modern Sanitarians appear to agree with him. At any rate, if they do not look upon water as the great essence, they declare it to be the prime essential, and present fearsome pictures of the results of any deficiency in its plentifulness and purity.

But, Sir, between the Landlord who won't put it on, and the Water Company who will cut it off, what is a poor Tenant to do? In one day I read, first, that Mr.William Christieis summoned by the Sanitary Inspector of St. Saviour's, Southwark, for obstinately refusing to provide a suitable water-supply to twelve houses in Park Street, Southwark; secondly, that the East London Waterworks Company is summoned by a Mr.Ernest Bransemerfor cutting off the water at his house in Boundary Passage, Shoreditch, without lawful excuse. Looks encouraging, doesn't it? True, Mr.Kebbell, the Company's Solicitor, assured Mr.Hannaythat the Company was really in the right, and that the man had suffered from the fault of his Landlord. Perhaps so, in this case. Anyhow it seems to be admitted that the man suffered, and suffered unjustly. In this case, too, the Company (said its Solicitor) had been "very good," had paid the man and settled the matter. Mr.Hannayis reported to have said, "Really!" which seems almost to imply a mild surprise. Surprised at the "goodness" of a Water Company!!! Well, it is a painful fact that the prevailing faith in the proprietors of Waterworks is much of the complexion ofSam Weller'sin the "Waterworks" of the Mulberry One. Only that the Companies, as a rule, are not quite so ready to "turn it on at the main," as was the lachrymose and deceptiveJob Trotter.

"The Company do not fear the Magistrate's decision," said Mr.Kebbell, loftily. "It is the trial by newspapers which follows, which is so objectionable." Doubtless: from the Company's point of view. Whether the Consumer shares that opinion may be questioned, perhaps.

Anyhow,Mr. Punch, my own confidence in the "native worth" of Water Companies and Landlords, being a plant of slow growth, which, indeed, has hardly yet appeared above ground, I should like to call attention to the dilemma which the "tub"-loving, fever-fearing Tenant is liable to fall into between the two. If this savours of that obnoxious practice, "trial by newspapers," I am sorry; but really, Sir, the Tenant has his "trials," of another sort, which are very "objectionable" indeed, and which, I fear, without the publicity afforded by the Press, neither the justice of Landlords, nor the "goodness" of Water Companies could be implicitly trusted to relieve him from. At least, such is the experience of

Yours truly,Aquarius.

Hast thou seen that lordly castle,The home of Mr.Pyne;How round its patriot portalsThe Peelers prowl and whine?I suppose those brutal butchers,Without the slightest fail,Would stretch the M.P. on the rack,And afterwards impale?

Hast thou seen that lordly castle,The home of Mr.Pyne;How round its patriot portalsThe Peelers prowl and whine?

Hast thou seen that lordly castle,

The home of Mr.Pyne;

How round its patriot portals

The Peelers prowl and whine?

I suppose those brutal butchers,Without the slightest fail,Would stretch the M.P. on the rack,And afterwards impale?

I suppose those brutal butchers,

Without the slightest fail,

Would stretch the M.P. on the rack,

And afterwards impale?

Well do I know that castle,The home of Mr.Pyne;But of the Peelers with their rackThere's not a single sign.

Well do I know that castle,

The home of Mr.Pyne;

But of the Peelers with their rack

There's not a single sign.

Indeed! But at some high casementSurely you saw him stand,Or out from a towering rampartWaving a mailèd hand?

Indeed! But at some high casement

Surely you saw him stand,

Or out from a towering rampart

Waving a mailèd hand?

Ididsee him at the casement,And he wore no armour at all,But the Postman helps him haul the mailOver his castle wall!

Ididsee him at the casement,

And he wore no armour at all,

But the Postman helps him haul the mail

Over his castle wall!

And sawest thou on the turretHow he paced to and fro,All glorious in gold and purple,Like a Knight of long ago?

And sawest thou on the turret

How he paced to and fro,

All glorious in gold and purple,

Like a Knight of long ago?

He had a modern frock-coat on,Which wasn't much of a fit;And I think a Knight would have stopped to fight,And not run away from a writ.

He had a modern frock-coat on,

Which wasn't much of a fit;

And I think a Knight would have stopped to fight,

And not run away from a writ.

But do they not thirst, those Peelers,To tear him limb from limb;And level his antique castle,If once they could get at him?

But do they not thirst, those Peelers,

To tear him limb from limb;

And level his antique castle,

If once they could get at him?

That would not result from his capture;You seem to have been misled!It would merely entail a month in gaol,Or perhaps, likeO'Brien, in bed.

That would not result from his capture;

You seem to have been misled!

It would merely entail a month in gaol,

Or perhaps, likeO'Brien, in bed.

In theStandard'sreport of Mr.Labouchere'safter-dinner speech to the members of the Eleusis Club, the warier of the two Northampton Members observed, "that we lived in critical times, when it was absolutely necessary that Radicals should hang together." Mr.Laboucherespeaks trippingly, but he is not often to be caught tripping. The ConservativeStandardmissed an opportunity.

Latest Addition to Fairy Land.—Mr. Irish SecretaryBalfourmust be all over the country at once. For this he requires Seven (Land)-League boots.

The Real "Empire of the Hittites."—The prevailing passion for pugilists.

A sporting tandem-driving Doctor of our acquaintance calls his leader theHoss frontis.

"'HAD HIM THERE!"Free Kirk Elder."Eigh! Meenister, ah no like t'see ye Talkin' wi' yon Epeescopalian Priest!"Minister."Oo—I jeest offered to swap Collections wi'm, an' he said, 'Na, na! I ken your Flock ower weel!'"

Free Kirk Elder."Eigh! Meenister, ah no like t'see ye Talkin' wi' yon Epeescopalian Priest!"

Minister."Oo—I jeest offered to swap Collections wi'm, an' he said, 'Na, na! I ken your Flock ower weel!'"

Dear Mr. Punch,

As an impecunious Peer, whose entire existence consists of one long struggle to provide for the necessities of a large family, need I say that my eye chanced upon the subjoined advertisement with a sense of relief and hopefulness that words almost fail to express? I quote it for your perusal. Here it is:—

WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR SONS.—Journalism.—Mr.David Anderson, 222, Strand, W.C., Author ofScenes in the Commons, &c., from 1879, a principal Leader Writer, Special Correspondent, and Critic of theDaily Telegraph, INSTRUCTS a limited number of YOUNG MEN in the practical and literary branches of Journalism. Prospectus free.An ordinary trained Journalist earns from £300 to £1000 a year.

An ordinary trained Journalist earns from £300 to £1000 a year.

That,Mr. Punch, is the question I have been asking myself for ever so long—"What on earthamI to do with my sons?" And this Mr.David Anderson, with a message that seems almost too good to be true, comes like the radiant genius on to the scene, and says, "Send them to me, your Grace, and I'll soon put 'em in the way of making from £300 to £1000 a year. What do you think of that?" What do I think of it? Well, all I can say is that it sounds to me like anAnderson'sFairy Tale!

Why, there's my elder son, the Marquis, just opened a market gardening business at Tooting in a small way, and though he drives his cart up to Covent Garden twice a week himself, I know he's not making a good thing of it.Plantagenet, my second, I'm not ashamed to own it, shoulders a butcher's tray;Bertramis a linen-draper's assistant in the Tottenham Court Road; andAlgernonis,faute de mieux, loafing about railway stations, following cabs, in the hope of picking up a stray sixpence now and then for carrying the luggage upstairs when they arrive at their destinations. Poor boy! I had always meant him to have a Commission in the Guards, but hard times have rendered that project impossible—and he has come to this!

With one hundred and seventy farms on my hands, the whole of my property mortgaged, my house in Belgrave Square given up, and my establishment confined to a couple of floors in a back street in Islington, the family has, I need hardly say, to accept its altered fortunes with equanimity. But, if Mr.David Andersonis to be trusted, surely a brighter prospect opens before us! How he manages his instructions "in the practical and literary branches of journalism," is to me a mystery. How does he teach his "limited number" of pupils to report—say, an inaudible speech? Then there is their practical training for a crowd. Does he lead them at the present moment, to Trafalgar Square, and teach them, in the event of a collision with the police, to continue their labours up a lamp-post? Again, how about initiating them into the work of a correspondent mounted on the field of battle? Would their experience on a hired cab-horse let loose in the midst of a procession of the Unemployed afford the many useful experiences in this direction? Then, how about the leader-writing? I do not say that the journalist, like the poet, need necessarily be born one, yet for all that, the art of literary composition is not one that can be readily acquired by anybody.

Take my own case. I have written alever du rideauin the shape of a farce, a light thing that plays only an hour and three-quarters, and though I have submitted it to seventeen managers in succession, I have never been able to induce one of them to try it even at a matinée. I have also written a pantomime and left it, endorsed with my title at the stage-door of a leading Metropolitan Theatre, from which however, notwithstanding that I have made repeated applications for it in person, I have never yet been able to succeed in getting it returned. But journalism is, I am aware, distinct from dramatic literature, and this inspires me with confidence. Indeed I shall lose no time in communicating with Mr.David Andersonand placing my four sons unreservedly in his hands. Even if they did not as "trained journalists" succeed in realising that brilliant level of £1000 per annum, with which his advertisement so alluringly concludes, they might possibly touch the figure half-way, and draw their modest five hundred a-piece. Need I say, my dear Mr. Punch, if they did, how they would restore the fortunes of a falling house, and in so doing, gladden the heart of yours hopefully,

A Duke in Difficulties.

The Too-Complete Letter-Writer.—M.Wilson.

MrNoman Luckier, the eminent astronomer, was walking in his garden. Suddenly he was staggered by a sharp blow on the head. Something fell at his feet. It was not his head. He picked it up. It was a meteoric stone. This set him thinking.

"Here," said he, as he rubbed his newly-acquired phrenological development with one hand and held the meteoric stone in the other, "is a solid, ponderable body, which I can handle, examine, and analyse, and it comes to me," continued the eminent scientist, extending his arms and looking round him, then directing his gaze upwards, his eye dilating with the grandeur of the discovery,—"it comes to me direct from the Cosmos!"

There was a chuckle from behind the neighbouring hedge, and, as the Philosopher returned to his sanctum to write a paper on the "Spectra of Meteorites," a small boy stepped cautiously out into the road, and hurried down the lane.

"Ooray!" muttered the small boy to himself; "the old gent don't know my name. What did he say about 'Crismas'?" And he vanished into space.

The Philosopher, with aching head, sat down to write, and penned these words,—

"Cosmical space is filled with meteorites of all sizes, flying about with immense velocities in all directions."

"Good Heavens! or, rather, Bad Heavens!" exclaimed a simple-minded visitor, to whom he read this statement, "why, 'Cosmical space' must be uncommonly like a proclaimed district in Ireland, or Trafalgar Square during a Socialist riot."

The Philosopher perceived that he was not in the presence of a sympathetic mind, and regretted having invited the visitor to lunch.

After lunch, Mr.Noman Luckierresumed his work. The simple-minded friend followed him into his study, seated himself in the most comfortable chair, lit a cigar, and produced from his pocket a handy-volume edition ofPickwick. Oddly enough he commenced reading the concluding portion of Chapter XXXVIII. of that immortal work, which records how an elderly gentleman of scientific attainments suddenly observed certain extraordinary and wonderful phenomena, which he immediately concluded "it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized the pen" and began writing "sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances ... which were to form the data of a voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe." Subsequently, after a sharp shock which "stunned him for a full quarter of an hour," produced bySam Weller'sfist, the scientific gentleman retired to his library, and there composed a masterly treatise which "delighted all the Scientific Associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science ever afterwards."

The simple-minded friend, having finished his cigar, replacedPickwickin his pocket, and, smiling gently, stole out of the study on tiptoe, leaving Mr.Noman Luckierprofoundly absorbed in his "Preliminary Notes."

The boy, whose name was notCosmos, is still at large,—and so isCosmos, very much so.

Dear Mr. Punch,

A very intelligent threadbare man, evidently something of a scholar, has just put me in possession of a manuscript of incalculable importance. It is a drama calledPiccoviccius, evidently of the Elizabethan era, though brought into harmony with modern diction and orthography by a later hand. A careful perusal of this priceless survival makes it certain thatShakspearewas not only familiar with it, but that he drew very largely from it even to "cribbing" the names of many of the characters bodily. This is not so remarkable, considering the very slight rightShakspearehas, in the opinion of the best critics, to the authorship of his own plays, as the fact thatDickensalso had studied Piccoviccius, and founded upon it hisPickwick Papers, with an effrontery almost worthy of the Swan of Avon himself. Here is a slightly-edited selection from the First Act, so your readers can judge for themselves.

Yours, bursting with importance,Roderick Tweddle.

P.S.—I have just founded a Piccoviccius Society. The subscription is £2 2s., paid in advance. Members can read their own papers at any time, and have them printed, at a reduced price, in our "Transactions."

Ber.News, news, myRomeo! The world's upso down.DukePiccovicciushath broke the law,Is under guard, and will be banished.Rom.Banished? Great Heaven!Ber.Banished, certainly As eggs dissemble not their property.Rom.But why, how, when and where? What did the Duke?Ber.Thou knowest the scheme he long had pondered on,To go among his people, like themselves,As went through Bagdad's streets the Caliph wise.Rom.Yea, I remember; and the hour arrived,When, having delegated his main pow'rsToJingulus, and the Exchequer's chargeTo carefulDodsonand to subtleFogg,He, with no rites of State observ'd, set forthWithTupman,Snodgrass,Winkle, in his train;Tupman, who to experience in loveStill superadds the ardour of the boy;Snodgrass, the poet-treasurer of thought,And singer of an unexpressive song,AndWinkle, Nimrod's peer. These four set forth,Due to return the seventh day from hence;But I that selfsame hour came hitherward,And since have heard no news of Court at all.Ber.Thus then I briefly tell thee what hath pass'd.There came last week with 'plaining to the CourtA comely widow, who made oath that oneWho sojourned as a lodger in her houseHad promised marriage, but had gone away;Left her, and left his promise unfulfill'd.Guided by her, the officers had goneTo seize the culprit, and had found 'twas noneButPiccoviccius, whom she claim'd with tears.So he and those three lords were strait convey'dUnto the Court, and put to interrogatories,When this preliminary was advanced:—The Duke had lodging inBardella'shouse—So is the widow named; and on a dayCame these lords, usher'd byBardella'sson,Unto his chamber, but on the threshold stay'dStill asLot'swife, in mere astonishment.For there their staid and reverend leader stood,Silent as they, supporting in his armsThe buxom widow, in a swoon of bliss.Thus had they stood, confounded and amazed,Till life returning gaveBardellaspeech,But that the urchin, in a filial frenzy,Butting like petulant kid, assailed the Duke,And with the puissance of his puny armsAvenged imagined injury. Then they,Roused by the pious howlings of the boyAnd agonised appeals of whom he smote,Bore off the pigmy valour, and the mother,Reviving, led away. The Duke averr'dThat, breaking to her of his new-found wishTo take into his service oneWellerius,A shrewd and faithful henchman, she at onceThrough rapid stages of affection ran,And threw herself, in fine, upon his neck,And thus was found, he speechless with surprise,They, after, silent, striving to believe.Rom.It is a tale incredible and bald.Ber.Why so thought many; but thisJingulusIs all compassion for the widow's case.DodsonandFogg, his seconds in the realm,Albeit unuséd to the melting mood,Do keep turned on, sans intermission,Salt pity's main. The people whisper change,And what they whisper they are fain to make.The nobles huddle in uncertainty,Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leavesAre I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laidLong odds upon the widow.Rom.'Tis not death?Ber.Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaksA promise made to wed, to exile goes.Rom.Will not the widow take a forfeiture?Ber.It cannot be. There is no power in BrentfordCan alter a decree established.Besides, the very object of the lawIs to prevent the payment of a priceFor feelings wounded. The stern punishmentMakes flighty wooers careful, and restrainsThe plots of scheming spinsters, who deriveNo personal advantage from their suit.Rom.Then am I shent!

Ber.News, news, myRomeo! The world's upso down.DukePiccovicciushath broke the law,Is under guard, and will be banished.

Ber.News, news, myRomeo! The world's upso down.

DukePiccovicciushath broke the law,

Is under guard, and will be banished.

Rom.Banished? Great Heaven!

Ber.Banished, certainly As eggs dissemble not their property.

Rom.But why, how, when and where? What did the Duke?

Ber.Thou knowest the scheme he long had pondered on,To go among his people, like themselves,As went through Bagdad's streets the Caliph wise.

Ber.Thou knowest the scheme he long had pondered on,

To go among his people, like themselves,

As went through Bagdad's streets the Caliph wise.

Rom.Yea, I remember; and the hour arrived,When, having delegated his main pow'rsToJingulus, and the Exchequer's chargeTo carefulDodsonand to subtleFogg,He, with no rites of State observ'd, set forthWithTupman,Snodgrass,Winkle, in his train;Tupman, who to experience in loveStill superadds the ardour of the boy;Snodgrass, the poet-treasurer of thought,And singer of an unexpressive song,AndWinkle, Nimrod's peer. These four set forth,Due to return the seventh day from hence;But I that selfsame hour came hitherward,And since have heard no news of Court at all.

Rom.Yea, I remember; and the hour arrived,

When, having delegated his main pow'rs

ToJingulus, and the Exchequer's charge

To carefulDodsonand to subtleFogg,

He, with no rites of State observ'd, set forth

WithTupman,Snodgrass,Winkle, in his train;

Tupman, who to experience in love

Still superadds the ardour of the boy;

Snodgrass, the poet-treasurer of thought,

And singer of an unexpressive song,

AndWinkle, Nimrod's peer. These four set forth,

Due to return the seventh day from hence;

But I that selfsame hour came hitherward,

And since have heard no news of Court at all.

Ber.Thus then I briefly tell thee what hath pass'd.There came last week with 'plaining to the CourtA comely widow, who made oath that oneWho sojourned as a lodger in her houseHad promised marriage, but had gone away;Left her, and left his promise unfulfill'd.Guided by her, the officers had goneTo seize the culprit, and had found 'twas noneButPiccoviccius, whom she claim'd with tears.So he and those three lords were strait convey'dUnto the Court, and put to interrogatories,When this preliminary was advanced:—The Duke had lodging inBardella'shouse—So is the widow named; and on a dayCame these lords, usher'd byBardella'sson,Unto his chamber, but on the threshold stay'dStill asLot'swife, in mere astonishment.For there their staid and reverend leader stood,Silent as they, supporting in his armsThe buxom widow, in a swoon of bliss.Thus had they stood, confounded and amazed,Till life returning gaveBardellaspeech,But that the urchin, in a filial frenzy,Butting like petulant kid, assailed the Duke,And with the puissance of his puny armsAvenged imagined injury. Then they,Roused by the pious howlings of the boyAnd agonised appeals of whom he smote,Bore off the pigmy valour, and the mother,Reviving, led away. The Duke averr'dThat, breaking to her of his new-found wishTo take into his service oneWellerius,A shrewd and faithful henchman, she at onceThrough rapid stages of affection ran,And threw herself, in fine, upon his neck,And thus was found, he speechless with surprise,They, after, silent, striving to believe.

Ber.Thus then I briefly tell thee what hath pass'd.

There came last week with 'plaining to the Court

A comely widow, who made oath that one

Who sojourned as a lodger in her house

Had promised marriage, but had gone away;

Left her, and left his promise unfulfill'd.

Guided by her, the officers had gone

To seize the culprit, and had found 'twas none

ButPiccoviccius, whom she claim'd with tears.

So he and those three lords were strait convey'd

Unto the Court, and put to interrogatories,

When this preliminary was advanced:—

The Duke had lodging inBardella'shouse—

So is the widow named; and on a day

Came these lords, usher'd byBardella'sson,

Unto his chamber, but on the threshold stay'd

Still asLot'swife, in mere astonishment.

For there their staid and reverend leader stood,

Silent as they, supporting in his arms

The buxom widow, in a swoon of bliss.

Thus had they stood, confounded and amazed,

Till life returning gaveBardellaspeech,

But that the urchin, in a filial frenzy,

Butting like petulant kid, assailed the Duke,

And with the puissance of his puny arms

Avenged imagined injury. Then they,

Roused by the pious howlings of the boy

And agonised appeals of whom he smote,

Bore off the pigmy valour, and the mother,

Reviving, led away. The Duke averr'd

That, breaking to her of his new-found wish

To take into his service oneWellerius,

A shrewd and faithful henchman, she at once

Through rapid stages of affection ran,

And threw herself, in fine, upon his neck,

And thus was found, he speechless with surprise,

They, after, silent, striving to believe.

Rom.It is a tale incredible and bald.

Ber.Why so thought many; but thisJingulusIs all compassion for the widow's case.DodsonandFogg, his seconds in the realm,Albeit unuséd to the melting mood,Do keep turned on, sans intermission,Salt pity's main. The people whisper change,And what they whisper they are fain to make.The nobles huddle in uncertainty,Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leavesAre I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laidLong odds upon the widow.

Ber.Why so thought many; but thisJingulus

Is all compassion for the widow's case.

DodsonandFogg, his seconds in the realm,

Albeit unuséd to the melting mood,

Do keep turned on, sans intermission,

Salt pity's main. The people whisper change,

And what they whisper they are fain to make.

The nobles huddle in uncertainty,

Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.

On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,

The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leaves

Are I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laid

Long odds upon the widow.

Rom.'Tis not death?

Ber.Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaksA promise made to wed, to exile goes.

Ber.Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaks

A promise made to wed, to exile goes.

Rom.Will not the widow take a forfeiture?

Ber.It cannot be. There is no power in BrentfordCan alter a decree established.Besides, the very object of the lawIs to prevent the payment of a priceFor feelings wounded. The stern punishmentMakes flighty wooers careful, and restrainsThe plots of scheming spinsters, who deriveNo personal advantage from their suit.

Ber.It cannot be. There is no power in Brentford

Can alter a decree established.

Besides, the very object of the law

Is to prevent the payment of a price

For feelings wounded. The stern punishment

Makes flighty wooers careful, and restrains

The plots of scheming spinsters, who derive

No personal advantage from their suit.

Rom.Then am I shent!

But here the plot thickens, and we are plunged into theTwo Gentlemen of Verona,Hamlet,As You Like It,andA Winter's Tale, with a strong infusion of Dingley Dell, and the Fat Boy floating round, like a materialisedAriel. I ask,Who are the plagiarists?

R. T.

Pointing finger

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

Transcriber's Note:Alternative spellings were retained.Punctuation was made consistent.

Transcriber's Note:

Alternative spellings were retained.

Punctuation was made consistent.

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