MEAT! MEAT!"MEAT! MEAT!"H-rc-urt. "NOW LOOK 'ERE—YOU JUST WAIT YOUR TURNS—OR YOU'LL NONE OF YOU GET NOTHINK!"
H-rc-urt. "NOW LOOK 'ERE—YOU JUST WAIT YOUR TURNS—OR YOU'LL NONE OF YOU GET NOTHINK!"
In the new Commercial Court. A thin sprinkling of Juniors, one or two Q.C.'s, Ushers, and the usual contingent of people from the street who are glad of shelter and a seat, and who do not even pretend to take any interest in the proceedings.
In the new Commercial Court. A thin sprinkling of Juniors, one or two Q.C.'s, Ushers, and the usual contingent of people from the street who are glad of shelter and a seat, and who do not even pretend to take any interest in the proceedings.
COY CLIENTS.
The Judge.Odd, that the mercantile community does not even now seem attracted to this Court. You are sure, Mr.Redbagge, that the inducements which we offer to litigants are widely known?
Mr. Redbagge, Q.C.The officer of the Court tells me, m'lud, that he has sent round circulars to every mercantile establishment in the City.
The Judge.Our scale of commissions is surely generous enough! By the new Rules of Court which I have made, a bonus of £500 is offered to any merchant who swears, on affidavit, that he was about to resort to arbitration but decided to come here instead. Then I think the plan of giving his head clerk one year's rent of his dwelling and a free fortnight at Yarmouth for himself and his family, as a reward for influencing his principal to resort to us, was rather adroit—eh, Mr.Redbagge?
Mr. Redbagge, Q.C.Excellent! And the boxes of chocolate to his door-keeper, and free tickets to the music-halls for other subordinate members of his establishment,oughtto have brought a plethora of business to this court.
The Judge.Quite so. Not to mention the fact that we pay counsel's and solicitor's fees out of public funds, instead of looking to the litigants themselves to provide them. Ifthatisn't cheap justice, I should be glad to know what is.
Mr. Redbagge(deferentially). And the mercantile classes must surely be aware that no Judge on the Bench has a greater knowledge of the law than your ludship.
The Judge(ignoring the flattery). Unfortunately the mercantile classes seem also to have a knowledge of the law, and not to like what they know of it. So they resort to the ruinous—I repeat, the thoroughly ruinous—practice of arbitration.
Mr. Redbagge.It is really a serious state of things, m'lud—for us, not for your ludship. "Those who live to plead, must plead to live"—and it's a little difficult to plead when—(breaking down)—there are no clients.
The Judge(soothingly). We must think of some other plan of attracting them, I suppose. How would it be if, instead of troubling them to come here, the Court offered to go to their offices and sitthere?Or perhaps a few baronetcies scattered about among them might have the desired effect. Well (rising) as there are no cases on our list, and no prospect of any, the Court is forced to adjourn!
[Does so.
ON THE ICE.
When the sun was shining brightly,When the world was gleaming whitely,And Jack Frost held Nature tightlyIn a vice,It was joy supreme, though fleeting,FairAmandato be greeting,When the country side was meetingOn the ice!Happy he whom smile the Fates on,Whom they showertête-à-têteson,How I used to whip her skates onIn a trice!And, as off we'd skim cross-handed,Leaving all my rivals stranded,I was glad, to be quite candid,On the ice!How we gave evasive answers,When they praised our skill as dancers,And to skate a set of lancersWould entice;How we thought them crude and "crocky"Loving pairs to try and jockeyInto wild delights of hockeyOn the ice!To the figure-skating shillingSnug inclosure we were willingTo subscribe—'twas cheap but thrillingAt the price:Yet the busy scandal-riggersWith sarcastic little sniggersTalked of people "cutting figures"On the ice!
When the sun was shining brightly,When the world was gleaming whitely,And Jack Frost held Nature tightlyIn a vice,It was joy supreme, though fleeting,FairAmandato be greeting,When the country side was meetingOn the ice!
When the sun was shining brightly,
When the world was gleaming whitely,
And Jack Frost held Nature tightly
In a vice,
It was joy supreme, though fleeting,
FairAmandato be greeting,
When the country side was meeting
On the ice!
Happy he whom smile the Fates on,Whom they showertête-à-têteson,How I used to whip her skates onIn a trice!And, as off we'd skim cross-handed,Leaving all my rivals stranded,I was glad, to be quite candid,On the ice!
Happy he whom smile the Fates on,
Whom they showertête-à-têteson,
How I used to whip her skates on
In a trice!
And, as off we'd skim cross-handed,
Leaving all my rivals stranded,
I was glad, to be quite candid,
On the ice!
How we gave evasive answers,When they praised our skill as dancers,And to skate a set of lancersWould entice;How we thought them crude and "crocky"Loving pairs to try and jockeyInto wild delights of hockeyOn the ice!
How we gave evasive answers,
When they praised our skill as dancers,
And to skate a set of lancers
Would entice;
How we thought them crude and "crocky"
Loving pairs to try and jockey
Into wild delights of hockey
On the ice!
To the figure-skating shillingSnug inclosure we were willingTo subscribe—'twas cheap but thrillingAt the price:Yet the busy scandal-riggersWith sarcastic little sniggersTalked of people "cutting figures"On the ice!
To the figure-skating shilling
Snug inclosure we were willing
To subscribe—'twas cheap but thrilling
At the price:
Yet the busy scandal-riggers
With sarcastic little sniggers
Talked of people "cutting figures"
On the ice!
All my heart, as I would hold herLittle hands in mine, a-smoulder—'Twas a fact I nearly told herOnce or twice:But, each time, what put a stopperOn my declaration properWas a sweet and timely cropperOn the ice!Then the thaw came. Oh, the bother!Oh, the words we had to smother!Ne'er again we'll find each otherHalf so nice:NowAmanda'salways seizingOpportunities of teasing;Oh, she wasn't half so "freezing"On the ice!
All my heart, as I would hold herLittle hands in mine, a-smoulder—'Twas a fact I nearly told herOnce or twice:But, each time, what put a stopperOn my declaration properWas a sweet and timely cropperOn the ice!
All my heart, as I would hold her
Little hands in mine, a-smoulder—
'Twas a fact I nearly told her
Once or twice:
But, each time, what put a stopper
On my declaration proper
Was a sweet and timely cropper
On the ice!
Then the thaw came. Oh, the bother!Oh, the words we had to smother!Ne'er again we'll find each otherHalf so nice:NowAmanda'salways seizingOpportunities of teasing;Oh, she wasn't half so "freezing"On the ice!
Then the thaw came. Oh, the bother!
Oh, the words we had to smother!
Ne'er again we'll find each other
Half so nice:
NowAmanda'salways seizing
Opportunities of teasing;
Oh, she wasn't half so "freezing"
On the ice!
Mrs. R. wants to know where that old quotation comes from, so applicable now—"And Freedom shrieked whenPaderewskiplayed!"Of course Freedom went into the free seats (if any) and shrieked with delight.
Mrs. R. wants to know where that old quotation comes from, so applicable now—
"And Freedom shrieked whenPaderewskiplayed!"
Of course Freedom went into the free seats (if any) and shrieked with delight.
Me andBrown, and sum two or three of our most intimet frends, has had a most liberal offer made to us, rite in the werry art of Sent Pancras, to go out a canwassing for the County Counsellers when the elections begins shortly.
County Councillor
I need scarcely say as they havent made much effect upon me, as I knows em too well from what I hear about em at our own Gildall and the Manshun House, but the terrems is suttenly werry liberal, both in refreshments and in promisses, but they all depends upon their suckcess, and from what I hears that aint likely to be werry great. Of course in the grand old Citty that wont be not nothink, but ewen in Sent Pancras I hears as it wont be any think werry grate. I've bin up to their own Gildall at Charing Cross again, but they does make sitch dredful long speeches that they quite tires me out, and they are all about such dredful tiresome subjecs that I soon gits weary on em.
I was told down at Gildall that one of our most poplar aldermen had quite made up his mind to try and turn out the Prime Minister, LordRoseberry, I think his name is, from representing a County Council, but there must have been sum mistake sum where, for Prime Ministers aint exactly the sort of gents as is ginerally selected to represent her most gracious Majesty theQueen, as I spose as thePrime Ministerdoes, and to be a County Counseller as well. No, no, them sort of things dont exacly go together. Our Gildall peeple dont seem werry much alarmed about the fuss has has been made about their Unyfecation, as I think they calls it, which is supposed to mean that they are all to be turned out of Gildall, and all London to be created into one great body of Common Counselmen! And what is to become of all our numerous Aldermen and Deppertys, and settera, not none of us knows a bit! But of course that's all nothink but mere nonsence, that helps to keep our reel gentlemen in good humer. They dont seem in werry bad sperrits, for sum of the most importentest of em all had a grand meeting on Tuesday last, and laid the werry fust stone of a butiful new Manshun, werry close to Gildall, which I am told is to cost about thirty-five thowsand pounds, and will take a hole year to bild, so that didn't look as if they were quite fritened out of their wits; and just to show the principle gents among em as there wasn't not nothink to fear, the nobel Gent as took the chair inwited amost a hundred of em to dine with him in the most scrumpsheous way possible, and drunk their helths all round! There was only just about harf a dozen of County Counsellers present, and they was just about as quiet as they ginerally is when reel gents is with em.
Browntells me as how as he hears that the Prince ofWalesis most strongly oposed to the Old Citty being interfered with, and that amost all the great House of Lords agrees with him, so there aint much fear of much being done, after all.
Robert.
An Appropriate Quotation to be placed on the Urn of the Ashes of one Cremated.—"Well done!"
I.—1894
(By Max Mereboom.)
"Linger longer,Lucy,Linger longer,Loo.How I'd like to linger longer,Linger longer,Loo!"—Old Ballad.
"Linger longer,Lucy,Linger longer,Loo.How I'd like to linger longer,Linger longer,Loo!"—Old Ballad.
"Linger longer,Lucy,
Linger longer,Loo.
How I'd like to linger longer,
Linger longer,Loo!"—Old Ballad.
Picture by Our Own Yellow-Booky Daubaway Weirdsley, intended as a Puzzle Picture to preface of Juvenile Poems, or as nothing in particular.
Picture by Our Own Yellow-Booky Daubaway Weirdsley, intended as a Puzzle Picture to preface of Juvenile Poems, or as nothing in particular.
I suppose there is no one that has not wished, from Time to Time, that someone else had lived in another Age than his own. I myself have often felt that it would have been nice to live in 1894; to have seen the "Living Pictures" at the oldEmpire, to have strained my Eyes for a glimpse ofMrs. Patrick Campbell, broken my Cane applaudingMay Yohé, and listened to theBlue Hungarianswhile dining, on a Sunday, at that quaint old Tavernthe Savoy. At that time the Beauties from New York had not quite lost their Vogue.Christopher Columbus, who discovered the United States, left it to the Prince ofWalesto invent their inhabitants: personally, I am more implected with their Botany; and am, indeed, at this moment, engaged in a study of the Trees in America. Much of this remote Period must remain mobled in the Mists of Antiquity, but we know that about then flourished the Sect that was to win for itself the Title of the "Decadents." What exactly this Title signified I suppose no two entomologists will agree. But we may learn from the Caricatures of the day what theDecadentswere in outward semblance; from the Lampoons what was their mode of life. Nightly they gathered at any of the Theatres where the plays of Mr.Wildewere being given. Nightly, the stalls were fulfilled by Row upon Row of neatly-curled Fringes surmounting Button-holes of monstrous size. The contrasts in the social Condition of the time fascinate me. I used to know a boy whose mother was actually present at the "first night" ofCharley's Aunt, and became enamoured ofMr. Penley. By such links is one Age joined to another!
I should like to have been at a Private View of the "New English Art Club." There wasCrotchet, the young Author of theMauve Camellia; there wereWalter Sickert, the veteran R.A.;George Moore, the romanticist;Charles Hawtrey, the tragedian, and many another good fellow. The period of 1894 must have been delicious.
Perhaps in my Study I have fallen so deeply beneath the Spell of the Age, that I have tended to underrate its unimportance. I fancy it was a Sketch of a Lady with a Mask on, playing the piano in a Cornfield, in a low dress, with two lighted Candles, and signed "Aubrey Weirdsley," that first impelled me to research.
But to give an accurate account of the Period would need a far less brilliant Pen than mine; and I look toJerome K. Jeromeand to Mr.Clement Scott.
II.—TOORALOORA.A Fragment.
(By Charing Cross.)
"My hair?" she said. "It touches the ground."
As she spoke, she seized her fringe by the roots and flung it on the floor.
"A marvellous feat for a European," I murmured with some difficulty. "Will you have another drink?"
"Yes," saidTooraloora;"I make it a rule always to get intoxicated in a public-house."
I did not offer her a chair, I flung one at her head. That impulse towards some physical demonstration, that craving for physical contact which attacks us go suddenly with its terrific impulse, and chokes and stifles us, ourselves, beneath it, blinding us to all except itself, rushed uponTooraloorathen: and she landed me one in the eye. Now, this was the moment I had been expecting and dreading, practically, ever since her hand had left my ear the night before—this moment when it should strike me again. I do not mean consciously, but there are a million slight, vague, physical experiences and sensations within us of which the mind remains almost unconscious; and I have no pretensions to physical courage. For a second I felt the colour rise to my face. Every expletive that should have been forgotten, I remembered. My pulses seemed beating as they do in fever, my ears seemed full of sounds, and I felt the cold touch of the policeman's grasp like ice upon my shoulder as a voice murmured, "This means forty shillings or a month."... When we reached the station I flung myself upon the floor, leaning my head upon my hand, the white powder upon my coat still lingered. I seemed to hearTooralooramurmur, "'E don't know where 'E are!"
The following selections may assist the Art-student visiting Burlington House:—
No. 3. ByGeorge Romney. Not so much a "Rum Knee" as a queer left arm. Gout apparently, skilfully depicted.
No. 5. By SirHenry Raeburn, R.A.Lorenzo and Jessica, at 50 and 40 respectively.
No. 9. By SirJoshua Reynolds, P.R.A.Selected fromReynolds' Miscellany. Portrait of a gentleman in full uniform, out for a walk, on a stormy day, on the sea-shore. He is evidently saying, "Here's a nice predicament! I've powder on my hair, no hat, and it's coming on to pour cats and dogs."
No. 13. By SirJoshua Reynolds. A Portrait ofThe Marquis of Granby. Presented, of course, by Mr.Weller, Senior. Probably the original sign of the inn of which Mr. W. was proprietor.
No. 16. ByGeorge Romney.Portrait of Mrs. Farrer. Charming. Might go Farrer and fare worse.
No. 24. ByGeorge! . . . Romney.Portrait of Lady Hamilton."Unfinished"—but perfect.
No. 38. "A Constable"—who arrests our attention. This, you may depend upon it, is a Constablewith a warrant.
No. 50. ByRembrant. Man guarding a hawk. Very graceful, but a Hawk-ward sort of person.
No. 51. ByGerard Terburg. A lady, after taking something which has disagreed with her. "Prithee, why so pale?"
No. 68. ByVan der Helst. It is called a "Family Group,"—probably in consequence of the wife being shown as presenting her husbandwith a hare.
No. 73. ByDick Hals. Regard the wondrous collars. It is "Collar Day." Must have been the work of two artists, as this could have been painted by no oneHals(!!)
No. 94. By SirThomas Laurence, P.R.A."The bells are a ringing for Sarah." Curtain rises andSarahsteps forward to sing.
No. 122. ByJacob Jordaens. Splendid. "Try our stout,Jane!"
No. 126. ByJ. M. W. Turner, R.A."Snowstorm." Wonderful!! But where was the artist when he took it?
Do not leave without closely examining No. 181, byFrançois Clouet, "Portrait of a Princess." And do not neglect the "gems of the collection" in the Water-colour Room. This is full of "interesting and remarkable cases" which have been fully reported in all the papers. The exhibition is open till March 16. Don't miss it.
DE GUSTIBUS.DE GUSTIBUS.Little Binks."I only care to talk to Women who let me make Love to them."Big Bounderson."Ionly care to talk to Women who make Love toMe!"
Little Binks."I only care to talk to Women who let me make Love to them."
Big Bounderson."Ionly care to talk to Women who make Love toMe!"
Born, February 13, 1849.Died, January 24, 1895.
Gone!—like a meteor whelmed in night,Who should have shone as fame's fixed star!Unwelcome loss, when sons of lightSo few and so infrequent are.To flare athwart the startled sky,A prodigy portentous, fillsThe vision of the vulgar eye,The common soul with wonder thrills.And much of meteoric glareSeemed herald of that steadier course,Which, drawing less the general stare,Spoke to the wise of light and force.Now all's extinct in early gloom,Eclipsed in shadow premature.A brilliant soul, a bitter doom!And who shall read with judgment sureThe secret of the light that failed,The mystery of the fallen star?Though whilom worshippers have railed,Though clingers to the conqueror's carReviled a vanquished victor's name,The brightness of that brief careerDefies the dullards who defame,Confounds the incompetents who sneer.But yesterday, in sooth it seems,The promise of the platform's prideInspired a Party's youthful dreams,And filled to flood their hope's high tide.Now all is hushed,—save the sad voiceOf admiration and regret,Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise,Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!
Gone!—like a meteor whelmed in night,Who should have shone as fame's fixed star!Unwelcome loss, when sons of lightSo few and so infrequent are.To flare athwart the startled sky,A prodigy portentous, fillsThe vision of the vulgar eye,The common soul with wonder thrills.And much of meteoric glareSeemed herald of that steadier course,Which, drawing less the general stare,Spoke to the wise of light and force.Now all's extinct in early gloom,Eclipsed in shadow premature.A brilliant soul, a bitter doom!And who shall read with judgment sureThe secret of the light that failed,The mystery of the fallen star?Though whilom worshippers have railed,Though clingers to the conqueror's carReviled a vanquished victor's name,The brightness of that brief careerDefies the dullards who defame,Confounds the incompetents who sneer.But yesterday, in sooth it seems,The promise of the platform's prideInspired a Party's youthful dreams,And filled to flood their hope's high tide.Now all is hushed,—save the sad voiceOf admiration and regret,Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise,Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!
Gone!—like a meteor whelmed in night,
Who should have shone as fame's fixed star!
Unwelcome loss, when sons of light
So few and so infrequent are.
To flare athwart the startled sky,
A prodigy portentous, fills
The vision of the vulgar eye,
The common soul with wonder thrills.
And much of meteoric glare
Seemed herald of that steadier course,
Which, drawing less the general stare,
Spoke to the wise of light and force.
Now all's extinct in early gloom,
Eclipsed in shadow premature.
A brilliant soul, a bitter doom!
And who shall read with judgment sure
The secret of the light that failed,
The mystery of the fallen star?
Though whilom worshippers have railed,
Though clingers to the conqueror's car
Reviled a vanquished victor's name,
The brightness of that brief career
Defies the dullards who defame,
Confounds the incompetents who sneer.
But yesterday, in sooth it seems,
The promise of the platform's pride
Inspired a Party's youthful dreams,
And filled to flood their hope's high tide.
Now all is hushed,—save the sad voice
Of admiration and regret,
Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise,
Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!
He took a house in Hampshire. Why? Because he said he liked to visit his old Hants.
Sir,—I have recently seen letters and paragraphs in various newspapers instigating travellers going abroad to choose the Folkestone and Boulogne route instead of goingviâDover and Calais. I forget what particular reasons are given for advocating this substitution, nor do I care what they are or what they may be. Why? Because, first, undeniablyviâDover to Calais is the shortest route, and to those ofBritannias'ssons and daughters—gallant islanders all—who detest the sea as much as does the humble individual who now addresses you, the saving of twenty minutes or half an hour, or in some instances it may be even more, of the sea-passage would be well worth any extra expense (if extra expense there be, which, an' I remember rightly, is not the case), especially when aboard such steam-vessels as are now provided; though, be the steam-vessels what they may, there is still in one and all of them that peculiar flavour and motion about which I would rather not speak, or even think, lest I should be unable to finish this important letter.
But there is yet another reason why the Dover and Calais route is the best of all ways to the Continent, and that is on account of the excellentdéjeuner—still, as I believe, unequalled at any port or at any station in Europe—served to the many poor hungry and thirsty travellers quickly, hotly, and as comfortably as the confounded bustling circumstances of travel will permit. Why the railway company which takes us to Paris cannot give us three quarters of an hour for our very necessary toilette (after the sea passage) and our food, and then do the journey in double quick time, or in the same time as now for the matter of that (for what does it matter to the accomplished traveller who "doesknow where he are" and where hewillbe, and has pre-ordered everything wisely and well?), and so get up to Paris in time for a little late supper and an early bed?
For those who value their digestions, and who love good food and drink, even when they have but a short time for refreshment, there is but one route to Paris from London, and that isviâCalais,i.e.viâthe buffet. Only,cher messieurs les directeurs de la ligne du Nord, cannot you possibly manage to extend our luncheon-time at Calais to just three quarters of an hour, instead of giving us only a beggarly twenty-five minutes at best, and do the thing well while you are about it? As to the Boulogne route, well, one goes to Boulogne to stay, and so the buffet,en passant, is of small importance.
May this reach the eyes and touch the hearts of all in authority, for it is acri du courfrom
An Inconstant Traveller.
Ah,Atalanta! timely wise,When the disdain within your eyesThat wondrous vision daunted,The golden apples, they whose spellBoth gods and mortals knew right well,Eternally enchanted,You instantly the race forbore,You made your choice for evermoreAnd gathered up the burden!The ancient spell had conquered you,The distant goal you did not rue,You won a dearer guerdon!Oh, modernAtalanta, stay,When withHippomenesto-dayYou arduously grapple!An instant ponder on your caseIf you should ever lose the race,And likewise lose the apple!
Ah,Atalanta! timely wise,When the disdain within your eyesThat wondrous vision daunted,The golden apples, they whose spellBoth gods and mortals knew right well,Eternally enchanted,
Ah,Atalanta! timely wise,
When the disdain within your eyes
That wondrous vision daunted,
The golden apples, they whose spell
Both gods and mortals knew right well,
Eternally enchanted,
You instantly the race forbore,You made your choice for evermoreAnd gathered up the burden!The ancient spell had conquered you,The distant goal you did not rue,You won a dearer guerdon!
You instantly the race forbore,
You made your choice for evermore
And gathered up the burden!
The ancient spell had conquered you,
The distant goal you did not rue,
You won a dearer guerdon!
Oh, modernAtalanta, stay,When withHippomenesto-dayYou arduously grapple!An instant ponder on your caseIf you should ever lose the race,And likewise lose the apple!
Oh, modernAtalanta, stay,
When withHippomenesto-day
You arduously grapple!
An instant ponder on your case
If you should ever lose the race,
And likewise lose the apple!
Skating.ANIMAL SPIRITS.No. II.—Skating.
No. II.—Skating.
In the Baron's Good Books.
In the Baron's Good Books.
Delightful reminiscences are these ofGeorge Augustus Sala's, told in his own peculiar rattling-off, running-on, one-anecdote-down-t'other-come-on style. Of all "people he has met" he has plenty to say, butnil nisi bonum; all writ with a magnum-bonum pen. Once he was a "Gipsy King, ha! ha!" but, long ago, as he tells us, he renounced all claims to the throne of Bohemia, abdicated, retired, and, no more a Rad, has led a Reformed Club life. Who wrote the burlesque Eugene Aram verses, ending with,—
"AndGeorge Augustuswalked before,With gyves upon his wrist"?
"AndGeorge Augustuswalked before,With gyves upon his wrist"?
All the notabilities of his earlier days were mentioned in that poem, at least so I believe, for does it not belong to a date when the Baron had not come within measurable distance of his title when he watched the great guns from afar with awe; when he saw them in the Cyder Cellars and at Evans's, both of which night resorts he, having been first taken there by a kindly but injudicious man-about-town, subsequently patronised on such holidays as were offered to him by the jovial nights after the Eton and Harrow matches at Lord's, and on the eve of such a festival as the University Boat Race. The Baron in those happy days and nights was attired in the costume in whichRichard Doylehas dressed youngClive Newcomewhen he accompanied his father, the Colonel, on that ever memorable evening to The Cave of Harmony, and heard the song that made him so wrathful. There are no Cyder Cellars, Coal Holes, and Evans's nowadays, which owlish resorts were strictly restricted to the use of the male sex, young and old. But even if a kind, considerate legislature does insist on extinguishing the lights, and turning us out in the streets at 12.30 precisely, are morality and health so very much benefited by the process? Isn't it cheerful to read of the pleasantly convivial late hours in the Georgian Augustan Era? The celebrities at home and abroad that he knew were legion, and I'll be bound (as the Book said) that he hasn't emptied his memory stores by many a cupboard full. There is one sentiment which appeals to the Baron's head, heart, and pocket, and delighteth him hugely—it isGeorge Augustus'srighteous denunciation of "the unjust and iniquitous income-tax." The Baron says ditto to Mr G. A. S. at p. 310, vol. ii.Inter alia, the autobiographist is correct in saying thatMadison Morton'sBox and Coxwas concocted fromUne Chambre à Deux Lits"and another French farce," of which, as he doesn't give the name, the Baron will here take the liberty of mentioning it. It was a farce with music, that is to say acomédie-vaudeville en un acte, written by Messrs.LabicheandLefranc, and produced at the Palais-Royal in 1846. Its name wasFrisette.Box and Coxwas produced in 1847 at the Lyceum. Very little furniture for the English farce was taken fromUne Chambre à Deux Lits, but packages of dialogue were handed in toBox and CoxfromFrisette.
The Baron de B.-W.
["Amongst the candidates for the Regius Professorship of History at Cambridge is Mr.Oscar Browning."—Daily Paper.]
The History Professorship—Who'll from thePremierget the post?Here's Mr.Oscar Browning, oneWhose name is chosen from the host.But should Lord R. o'erlook his claim,Oh! will O. B. be wildly riled.In fact, willOscar BrowningthenDevelop intoOscar Wilde?
The History Professorship—Who'll from thePremierget the post?Here's Mr.Oscar Browning, oneWhose name is chosen from the host.
The History Professorship—
Who'll from thePremierget the post?
Here's Mr.Oscar Browning, one
Whose name is chosen from the host.
But should Lord R. o'erlook his claim,Oh! will O. B. be wildly riled.In fact, willOscar BrowningthenDevelop intoOscar Wilde?
But should Lord R. o'erlook his claim,
Oh! will O. B. be wildly riled.
In fact, willOscar Browningthen
Develop intoOscar Wilde?
Costly Colours.
Could some reader inform me whether it would be of any use to request the Works Committee of the London County Council to paint my back door for me? It has become a little discoloured through age, and a local carpenter has offered to put on "two coats of good sage-green enamel paint" for five-and-sixpence. But as I see that the Works Committee only spent £2,186 over the painting of Hammersmith Bridge, I fancy that it would be cheaper to employ them, if I could. It is pleasant to think what exceptionally fair wages they must have paid over this job (using the word in its natural meaning), and how much time the poor men engaged in it must have been able to give to their family circles. This is as it should be.
True Progressive.
Niagara Hall.
They say the sham ice here is almost perfect, very nearly as good as the real ice, in fact so little is the difference between the real and sham that a skater, unless he had tried it, would hardly real-ice it! The band plays, "Hwfa (Williams) of thee I'm fondly dreaming!" as thepatineursandpatineuseswho have paid their three or five shillings glide about at the rate of either eighteenpence or two-and-sixpence a foot.