The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch's Almanack for 1890, by Various

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Title: Punch's Almanack for 1890

Author: Various

Release Date: May 21, 2014 [EBook #45710]

Language: English

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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net

PUNCH'S ALMANACK FOR 1890

December 5th, 1889

LINLEY. SAMBOURNE. INVENT^R. ET. DEL^R. NOVEMBER 1889

FIFTY YEARS AGO.

To Paris in Thirty-Six Hours. First, Second, and Third Class Grande Vitesse.

FIFTY YEARS HENCE.

From London to Paris in—just time enough to allow of a comfortable Lunch and a quiet Cigar on board the Electric Plate-Glass Club Express.

MR. PUNCH'S TOUR ROUND THE WORLD.

"Mr. Punch," said poor old Eighty-Nine, who was growing feebler and feebler, "I am uneasy in my mind."

"Didn't know you had one," replied the Sage. "But what do you want with me?"

"You have been a great comfort to me—a very great comfort. I wish you would do something for my successor."

"What, Young Ninety? Well, I will keep a friendly eye upon him also."

"Yes, do. But I want you to begin at once. Help him through his life, as you have helped me."

"Why, certainly," said Mr. Punch, smiling. "All he will have to do will be, to put in an appearance with threepence at 85, Fleet Street, every Wednesday."

"But can't you give him a start off? Why not look round the world, and give him the result of your journey in the Almanack? Let him be remembered in the future as commencing with the Christmas of the 'Extra Extra,' as I shall be recalled in the coming ages as the year in which the Punch Staff went to Paris."

"How is it to be done?" asked the Sage.

"How is it to be done?" echoed poor old Eighty-Nine. "Why you have only to wish, and it is done! You know that your wishes are those which must be obeyed."

So, to oblige the fast-fading year, Mr. Punch wished himself in France. There he was in a moment! He had landed at Dieppe without undergoing the tortures of the steam-boat passage.

On the beach was seated a melancholy-looking tourist, who commenced, as Mr. Punch approached him, a weird nautical song, to the accompaniment of a concertina.
     It ran as follows:—

THE LAY OF THE CHANNEL-PASSAGE SALT.

"Bravo!" cried Mr. Punch, as the singer finished—"I quite agree with you. But now let me see what else is to be seen on the sands."

It was a gay scene—all the gayer for the delightful weather. Mr. Punch, knowing that his wishes must immediately be gratified, had taken care to desire beau temps en permanence.

"This is really very charming," murmured the Sage; "and I am not surprised that one of the brightest of my Artists chose it for his holiday resting-place last Summer—and, as I live, there he is! Halloa! Hi! Have you forgotten your old friend?"

"Forgotten you, my dear Mr. Punch!" said a gentleman of extreme elegance, approaching the Sage. "How could you think of such a thing? Why, you have had proofs of my goodwill every week for the last quarter of a century."

"So I have," returned Mr. Punch, heartily, "and have you anything from your portfolio you can show me?"

"What do you think of this?" And he showed him two Gauls, en costume de bain.

"What are these?" asked the Sage.

"I will tell you," replied the melancholy-looking tourist, approaching with his concertina. Then, in a soft voice, he sang the following lines, which he called

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

"Just so," observed Mr. Punch. "But I must be off."

"Going to Paris by the train de luxe! Ah, how different it used to be when our fathers were boys together. Do you remember the old-fashioned diligence? Some day we may travel by train across the sea."

"Well, I have a still easier mode of travelling. I can beat diligence and locomotive with a wish. I want to be in Paris!" In a moment, the Sage found himself seated under the Tour Eiffel amidst the ruins of the Exhibition. The confusion was indescribable.

"Dear me, I think I've had about enough of this!" said Mr. Punch. "I fancy I should like to be in Switzerland."

Hey presto! and the Sage was in the home of the picturesque—in the land of table d'hôtes of the first order, and of hotel prices of nearly the same altitude as the mountains.

"This is very perfect," observed the Sage to his faithful attendant. Toby growled. "There is nothing needed to complete my happiness."

"Except me—'scuse me—except me."

"You! And who may you be?"

"Not know me, Mr. Punch? Why, that is a good one!"

Then the First Gentleman in the World, who has appropriately been called the "pink," not to say the rose (of courtesy), recognised a well-known contributor to his pages. He gave this admirable type of a race that has its exponents in every country under the sun some excellent advice, and suggested that they might part company with mutual advantage.

"My good friend," said Mr. Punch, "I am quite aware that you are in the habit of corresponding with an intimate known as 'Charlie.' Oblige me with a duplicate of your next letter, and it shall be immortalised." It will be seen that Mr. Punch has kept his word.

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.

	'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND. Dear Charlie,—You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be bound. Not for Parry alone, mate, this time—I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss Round. Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie—guess it's a sight you'd enjoy To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy. 'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by rail, But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale; Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old chap; And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the rap. Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep, as you know, But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed Young Frow? I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came much of a spill; But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose 'Ill. But that's entry nous, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel,—no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' crevassy, I did do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie—Guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, Cos I would dance, and sing too-ral-li-ety, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them Guides, and no herror; they don't know their place, not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight.

'ARRY ON HORSEBACK.

Having disposed of 'Arry, Mr. Punch wished himself in the Celestial Empire. And in China the Sage found himself. Pagodas and pigtails met him on every side.

"Really, not half bad," murmured the Sage, and then, turning to Toby, he was surprised to find his attached attendant trembling from the tail backwards. "Ah, I see: a Celestial restaurant! No, no, my boy, don't be alarmed. They shan't eat you. If I want any food, it shall be some light refreshment—say a Feast of Lanterns."

"I'm pleased to see you looking so well, Sir," said a portly person, with a remarkably florid complexion, and wearing a suit of well-worn evening clothes, emerging from the restaurant. "I've been waiting for you, Sir, a long time."

"That you have, Robert—in the City and elsewhere. But what are you doing in China?"

"It's a long story, Mr. Punch; but if you don't mind eating this bird's-nest soup, which isn't bad, though not a patch upon our dear tuttle, I will tell you how I came to leave our glorious Corporation, and got into these outlandish parts."

Mr. Punch bowed, and discarding a pair of chopsticks for a spoon, toyed with the succulent preparation while he listened to

"Robert's Story about China."

MR. PUNCH'S PANORAMA OF THE YEAR 1889.

Prologue.

Mr. Punch to Toby.

Now for the rostrum! Follow my pointer, Toby, with thy recording pencil. Listen, O World, with ears attent, and eyes "sequacious of the—Truth-teller!" I speak urbi et orbi!

First, the newly-elected County Council, Ladies and Gentlemen! Ritchie's colossal Civic Symposium! "Ritchie's Folly," some hasty assayers of innovations may have been tempted to term it. But Punch is never hasty.

Macbeth at the Lyceum and Gladstone in Naples! Later on, "Macbeth" Irving visits the Queen—an honoured guest! The return of the dove—if the Brummagem Bruiser may be likened to the Bird of Peace. All, at any rate, welcome his wife, a true messenger of peace, let us hope, from across the Atlantic flood.

From West to North—the "Nitrate King." Let us trust he'll prove a "True North" to the multitudes who trust him. Next the Teuton Titan on the (Colonial) War-Path! Formidable competitor; but even Titans trip at times, eh, Orion? From Bismarck asking for Samoa to Chaplin "chucking" Protection is a transit. Big 'uns both—of a sort? But Boulanger, the pseudo-great General Boum, coming a cropper? Guarda, e passa!

The ingenious Japs at a new work of Art—scarcely native this time. We'll hope their "New Constitution" may shape as well as their cabinets, and wear better than their locks and keys. Pantomime child-peris turned out—pro tem., thanks be—of their Stage Paradise. "See me reverse!"

Two openings,—Parliament and the Parnell Commission. And then—sinister sequel to the latter!—the flight of the pitiful Pigott. A far pleasanter picture is the return of generous D'Aumale to Chantilly. Scarcely less agreeable, to lovers of peace and of France, is the flight of the blatant firebrand Boulanger. Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!

Big brave boys these American Base-Ball players. Game may be acclimatised here, but they evidently thought our "climate" against them, and with reason. Loss of the Sultan,—not the Padishah himself, worse luck! He would be no loss. Cambridge winning "the classic race"! Bravo, Light Blue! Who mutters demur! Ah! you are a brunette, though a "fair" one, my dear, so Punch pardons you. The sight of your Gracious Queen enjoying her Royal self in Portugal, will, perhaps, put you in a better temper, Miss.

Two bad endings! Abolition of the Board of Works, and abdication of King Milan of Servia. Both can be well spared. But Bright, brave belligerent John, true, tenacious, trenchant,—no, we could ill spare him. What, Punch wonders, would the fighting Apostle of Peace have said of the "Naval Defence Bill" hard by? Well, we know what the Country said of it. And the escape of that Kane-Captained Rennie-engined Calliope,—England has not forgotten that yet, if the Admiralty has.

Opening of the Great—the Colossal, the Titanic, the World-witching, Republic-saving French Exhibition! As "Big" a thing as—as the Tour Eiffel itself! Can even Mr. Punch say more? It must have a paragraph all to itself. Well done, Lutetia! Well may you pro tem. at least, kick out politics.

Sandy "takes the floor," and his "Scotch Local Government Bill!" Hope he'll like it. He generally does like big things, be they Bills or Cabers! Better anyhow than Paddy relishes "Balfour's Battering-Ram," which comes next. And then, Gentlemen, the match at Brummagem between those two political pugilists, Churchill and Chamberlain! Fight unfinished, result as yet uncertain. National Portrait Gallery to be fitly housed at last. Then the picture takes us "across the herring-pond" to the great Washington Centenary. Four Millions more money for Ships, the opening of the Opera Season, the raising of the Rates; all matters of interest, painful or otherwise, to most of you, Gentlemen.

Abandonment of the Sugar Bill! Not one of the much-talked-of "sweets of office" this, eh? Ask Baron de Worms! Raid on the Betting Clubs! But the great Demon of Gambling, like the objects of the great Curse in Ingoldsby, "never" seems "one penny the worse." Opening of the Spanish Exhibition. Equipment of our Volunteers. Bravo, Lord Mayor Whitehead!

The Johnstown Floods, Gentlemen; too terrible to talk lightly of. Here is symbolised the discreditable Parachute Mania, which was a disagreeable feature of the dead year. May it die therewith! I hear a stir, a silken amongst my fair auditors. Yes, Ladies, the Marriage of the lucky Duke of Portland, lucky, as I said at the time, with both Bridal and Bridle. Another Dropped Bill, Gentlemen; this time the Land Transfer Bill, "knocked out" in the Lords by the "Sluggers" of Legal Privilege. Westward Ho! goes the ubiquitous, inexhaustible G. O. M. on party thoughts intent; whilst near him is shadowed forth the rise of that Irreconcileable, Socialistic new "Fourth Party," the avowed purposes of which probably sometimes "give him pause."

Great Show of the "Humorists in Art." Hope you all went to see it. If you didn't, 'twas your loss. Then—strange juxtaposition!—the Great Turf Libel Case! Can one "libel" the Turf? Mr. Punch wonders. Anyhow, "Donovan"—that Lucky Duke again!—wins the Derby. "Donovan" was evidently "on the job," not "out for an airing," eh? Visit of the Shah of Persia. You will not want me to say anything more about that threshed-out subject. The Labour Congress in Switzerland was less talked of, but probably quite as important, whilst the appointment of Her Most Gracious Majesty as President of the Royal Agricultural Society is of even greater home-interest.

Next comes the Great Event of the Year! Mr. Punch's Visit to the Paris Exhibition, already celebrated by him in proper time and shape! You all of you have its record, of course. If not—get it!!! That Balloon bore a happy party, and needed no parachute.

The Delagoa Bay Railway business, Mr. Punch's pictorial comment on which so infuriated mischievous Master Portugal! The Whitechapel Woe! Not a matter for words, Gentlemen, but deeds.

Hooray! Another Royal Marriage! The Wedding March, with a Fife accompaniment! And—quite "in a concatenation accordingly," though at t'other side of Panorama—the Golden Wedding of the G. O. M. Prospect and retrospect, both pleasant. Was it the tender association of sympathy which made the G. O. M. so eloquent in favour of the Royal Grants? Who knows? Anyhow, his more rampant "followers"—Labby among them—would have liked, for the moment, to "muzzle" the "old man eloquent"—as Monro did the London dogs. The Naval Review, and the German Emperor's brief visit, "synchronised," as the saps say; and then, as another "Big Thing," they made Chaplin Minister of Agriculture! "Capping the Climax," that! Hard-by another Great—or Big—Man, hews away at the Tithes Bill. Go it, Harcourt!

Following the example of another really Great Man, Mr. Gladstone goes to Paris, sees the Exhibition, mounts the Eiffel Tower, perorates pleasantly about the Two Republics, France and America. Or should we say, America and France? Arcades ambo? And the G. O. M. orating on them was very Arcadian indeed.

The miserable Maybrick Case calls for no comment here. The Great Strike does. Memorable event, Ladies and Gentlemen, which—as Truthful Thomas would say—"will have results." Ecclesiastical dress for ladies may interest the more "dressy" portion of my audience—or may not. The French Elections. Mr. Punch congratulates Madame La République whom primarily the Exhibitors, and secondarily the Urns, saved from chaos and General Boum-Boulanger! Balfour's little faux pas, in connection with an Irish University. That fish won't bite! "Outidanos" on the Triple Alliance! Outis—the Ulysses of Liberalism—defying the huge Polyphemus of Continental Despotism. So perhaps he, the Homer-lover, would picture it. Polyphemus may have a different opinion, perchance.

Railways in China! Ah! Mr. Punch thinks he has heard of that before. He hopes it may be true this time; though, to the Mandarin, the Locomotive is a Bogey, and the Line sacrilege. Arab advance on Suakin! Neither is that a novel item of news! Gallantly repelled this time, though, and partly, at least, by native valour. A good omen!

Trials at Maryborough, consequent on the lamentable Gweedore evictions, and yet more lamentable crime attending them. When will this sort of thing be wiped out of the panorama of the year?

Raid of the egregious McDougall, compound, apparently, of Bottom and Paul Pry. Well, all's well that ends well, eh, "Mister" Rosebery? Glad, anyhow, you are to boss the London County Council yet a little longer. You may be counted on to minimise the McDougall element.

Greek Royal Wedding. Rare year this for what may be called Splendid Splices! Royal Princes, Princesses, and lucky Dukes well to the fore! As a set-off—alas!—Mr. Punch's Panorama has reluctantly, and delicately, to record many lamented deceases of great, or worthy, or well-beloved ones. Poor Crown Prince Rudolph, stout and eloquent John Bright, quaint and clever Pellegrini, the Vanity Fair Caricaturist, Lady Holland, of politico-social fame, Wilkie Collins, the master of ingeniously Sensational Romance; and last, but, to Mr. Punch and his young men certainly not least, Percival Leigh, of Comic Latin Grammar, and Mr. Pips's Diary fame—to the world, and, to his private friends, "dear old Professor," of pleasant and unfading memory.

Royal Globe-trotters again? The German Emperor visits Constantinople, and hob-nobs with the Sultan; the Prince of Wales is off to Egypt, where, perhaps, he hob-nobs with Father Nile. Thence returning, Punch hopes, happy, and with renewed stores of sturdy health!

Yet later in the year come two Big Shows, the Lord Mayor's to wit, with pretty reproductions of old English dresses and disportings, and that of the evergreen P. T. Barnum, with—well—with everything in the marvel line, if Mr. Punch may trust Phineas's posters.

The Public, anyhow, may trust Mr. Punch's! By such a Panoramic Poster even the Great Showman will admit himself outdone.

That is all, Ladies and Gentlemen, for the present. Mr. Punch, in conclusion, wishes you all a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!

n 22nd of February Session opened; date unusually late, but then remember our Autumn Session of previous year brought us up to Christmas Eve. Charles Lamb, arriving at office late in the morning, pleaded that he made up for it by going away early. House, going away late, returns little later. Very modest Ministerial Programme to commence with. How it has been carried out has been told from day to day with graphic minuteness and uncompromising fidelity by Mr. Punch's humble, but respected companion. "The Diary of Toby, M.P.," follows the British flag. It is read everywhere—by the pathless ice-floes of Canada, through the length of North and South America, in the cities of Australia, by the watch-fires of the Squatters, on Greenland's icy mountains, and eke on India's coral strand; where Punch appears weekly on the bookstalls, price threepence. It will, therefore, not be necessary to go much into detail, a brief summary sufficing.

At the outset Georgie Hamilton promises Bill to strengthen Navy; Lord Advocate mentions Scotch Universities Bill, with Scotch Local Government Bill to follow. Parnell puts in early appearance, challenging Balfour, amid wild cheers from Irish Members, to explain why Carew, M.P., at present in prison, had been deprived not only of his flannel shirt, but of his hair and moustache?

Debate on Address turns largely on Irish affairs. Suddenly, in full tide of attack, comes news of flight of Pigott. For awhile Pigott's presence fills the place; his name thrown at Balfour whenever he rises; cries of "Pigott!" punctuate Ministerial replies. Nevertheless, John Morley's Amendment to Address negatived by 339 votes against 260; Address being finally carried without a division.

Georgie Hamilton got on early with his scheme for strengthening the Navy. Twenty-one-and-a-half millions asked for, adding seventy ships to British Navy. Not all to be built at once; whole scheme to be accomplished by April, 1894. Bill, debated three several nights, finally passed. In accordance with pledge given last Session, Supply put in fore-front of business. House sat night after night, sometimes voting money, always talking. All kinds of questions came up in Supply; treatment of Irish prisoners; Ministers' alleged connivance with Times; above all, Pigott, by this time, huddled up in suicide's grave at Madrid. Special attack made on Attorney-General for his professional connection with the Times case. Harcourt led attack, Charles Russell taking notable part in it. But his friends stuck to him through thick and thin, and Vote of Censure defeated by large majority.

On 28th of March, came news of death of John Bright; fell like oil on troubled waters. Old Morality bore testimony to his worth. Gladstone pronounced a splendid eulogy; Hartington added a postscript; Justin M'Carthy spoke for Ireland; and Chamberlain, rising to height of occasion, informed the House, that Birmingham had never allowed the Statesman they mourned to pay any of the subscriptions ordinarily exacted from a Borough Member. Thereafter the House went on with its ordinary business.

On 16th of April, Goschen introduced Budget in smallest House gathered in similar circumstances for many years. Both ends made to meet by increase of Death Duties, and a little tinkering of the Malt Duty. About this time, the "Noble Baron," began to loom on horizon with his Sugar Bounties Convention. Much time wasted through remainder of Session over this matter. Government stood gallantly by "Noble Baron;" in the end, amid the jeers of Opposition, Sugar Bounties Bill withdrawn to avoid Ministerial defeat.

On 14th of May, Old Morality brought in Bill to establish Board of Agriculture for Great Britain, a measure which, happily passing, has dowered the country with Chaplin as Minister of Agriculture.

Early in July, came on proposal to make provision for eldest Son of Prince of Wales. Manifestations of opposition induced Government to present the matter in modified form of Motion for appointment of Select Committee to consider the whole question of provision for Members of Royal Family. This agreed to, after debate, in which Sage of Queen Anne's Gate came to the front, keeping his place throughout subsequent proceedings. Great efforts made to buy off opposition of this incorruptible person; hesitated for brief moment, when position of Treasurer of Her Majesty's Household dangled before his eyes. Principal public duty of Treasurer, is to bring in gracious replies from the Throne to Addresses from faithful Commons. In his mind's eye, Sage saw himself in Windsor uniform, with gold stripe adown trouser-leg, leaning lightly on white wand of office, as he stood at the Bar of the House awaiting the Speaker's signal to bring up gracious reply. For a moment he faltered, but only for a moment. "No," he said, "England expects every man to do his duty, and Labby will not disappoint expectation;" and he went straight off and put down five fresh Amendments. This, now published for the first time, is authentic.

These debates on the Royal Grants were, perhaps, the most animated of Session. Vote for Royal Family of course granted, but in face of significant minority of 116. Gladstone supported Government, marching into Lobby against large majority of his own following, who turned aside with the Incorruptible Sage. Oddest thing of all was to behold Irish Members voting with the Court Party—Joseph Gillis going out shoulder to shoulder with Arthur Balfour, and Tay Pay hobnobbing with Old Morality.

After this the Session languished. Old Morality expedited business by announcing that no fresh measures of importance would be taken. Members began to clear out, and early close of Session seemed imminent. But, towards end of July, when everybody thought business would be wound up, the Tithes Bill brought in, and stubbornly pressed. A difficult position for the Government. Bill hotly opposed by Liberals, and not loved by Conservatives. Gray, Conservative Member for Maldon, moved crucial Amendment, which was negatived only by critical majority of four in a House of 286 Members. Nevertheless Government still stuck to framework of Bill. Attorney-General tabled batch of Amendments which transmogrified the Measure. On 16th of August House faced by practically new Bill. This made matters no better. Liberals mollified, Conservatives angry. Next day, amid storm of jeering, borne with characteristic calmness by Old Morality, he withdrew the Measure.

After this it was all over, even the shouting, and on the very last day of August the Session of 1889 came to a close. Its final hours, otherwise peaceful, were fluttered by promise of a Measure endowing an Irish University, whereat there was much spluttering in political circles.

HYPNOTISM—A MODERN PARISIAN ROMANCE. (In Four Chapters.)

American Billionairess. "M. le Docteur, I see the Duc de Sept-Cadrans is a Patient of yours. I want him to Propose to my Daughter. A—any Fee that—a——" Professor of Hypnotism. "Madam, I vill ypnotise M. le Duc. Ve shall see!——"	"Sorry to trouble you again so soon, Monsieur? But my Daughter declares she won't accept M. le Duc, just because he's a Hunchback, an Idiot, and a Pauper!" "Madam, leave it to me. I vill ypnotise also your Daughter!"
The American Billionairess becomes Madame la Duchesse de Sept-Cadrans. She and her Husband are happy, although she has no Money, and there is no such Dukedom as Sept-Cadrans, for they have not yet lost their Illusions about each other.	And her lovely Daughter is now the proud and adoring Wife of the great Hypnotic Scientist, who thereby becomes an American Billionaire. They move in the smartest Society in Paris, and manage to do a great deal of good.

MR. PUNCH'S FOUR PRIZE MIDDLE-CLASS WIVES.

Mr. Punch left Mrs. Jones playing Lawn-Tennis with Mr. Jones—that the little Jones might be sound in Wind and Limb.	He found Madame Dubois keeping Monsieur Dubois' Books—in order that he may prosper and grow rich, and spare an extra Clerk.
He found Frau Müller cooking Sauerkraut and Sausages—that Herr Müller should eat of the best and cheapest and most digestible.	He found Mrs. van Trump reading Browning and Herbert Spencer—to be an Intellectual Companion for George P. van Trump, and his English Friends.

ROBERT'S STORY ABOUT CHINA.

The fact is, Sir, that I had got quite tired of hearing Gents all a grumbling at allers having the same kind of wittels at their Citty Bankwets: so I thort as I woud jest take a run hover here, jest to see what they had to hoffer by way of change; and so here I am, on my voyage of dishcovery.

I passes over that woyage, and my many blunders in trying to make myself hunderstood by the hignerent natives, and at once goes in to describe what was of coarse most hintresting to me, namely, the dinners. I dined wun day at the Shing-Cully Otel, which is a fust-class consern. I was told as all the Swells dined at the top of the house; so hup stairs I went, and sat myself down at a large tabel, with about 30 Chineese Gents, all drest in their riduklus kostoom of Jackets and pettycotes. They all stared at me as if I was sumthink werry strange, tho' drest in my ushal full hevening dress, with white choker. We only had 1 Maynoo for all of us, and had to chuse our Dishes, so I chose Birds'-nest Soup, Sharks' fins, as they hadn't got no Turbot, lots of frute, and Roast Puppy! We began with frute; but, before we ate any, we all took wine with one another! The Birds'-nest Soup must have been werry carefooly strained, for there wasn't not no twigs nor bits of straw, het setterer, in it. The Sharks' fins wasn't at all bad, but, as we wasn't allowd no knives or forks, but only 2 chop-sticks, as they calls 'em, I had sum difficulty in heating it. They then brort me some stewed sumthink, which was that oily that I didn't heat much of it. I ardly xpecs to be bleeved when I says that we had no tabel-cloth or tabel-napkins, but we each had a peace of common brown paper at the side of our plates, with which we all wiped our messy chop-sticks, and our oily mouths. The dux was werry good, so I had about harf a one. The Puppy Dog looked much like a Sucking Pig, but even the strong hunion sauce didn't hide the parfume enuff for me to be able to taste it. The wine wasn't anythink werry grand, but, what it wanted in flavior, it made up in strength, and many a eye began for to twinkle afore the dinner was over; and, judging from what I saw then, and at other times, I should think about the most commical hobjeck on earth is a drunken Chinyman. I was arterwards told that the propper place to get dogs and cats for dinner was in Jack-Poo-Kow. The idear of calling such horrid filth Kow, made me suspishus, so I found the place out, and, who should I see oppersite the winder where the dead dogs and cats is hung up to dry, but your own dog Toby! a barking at 'em with such hindignashun that I werrily bleeves that one word of incurragement from me wood have made him rush into the restaurant, and ewen praps attack the Hed Waiter! However, I perswaded him to leave the horrid place, and go home with me; but, on our way, we came to another of them, where a black cat was hanging up, when in Toby rushed, and, siezing it in his mouth, brort it out to me, and tore it lim from lim! Out came the Master, and 2 of his Waiters, and, little knowing who I was, seized me, and dragged me into the shop, and demanded 100 sents, or four shillings, for the black cat's body, and tuppence for its pair of eyes, which, it seems, are considerd a speshal lukshury? Toby, insted of looking ashamed of hisself for his shamefool conduck, trotted by my side, barking away, and looking as prowd as a Lord Mare's Coachman, till I lost him in the crowd.

I called one day by appintment upon a sillibrated Mandereen with 3 tales, who must therefore have bin a heminent swell. He was not a tome, but the servents showed me into a room where a most bewtifool Chineese Lady was a-lying on a Sofhy, with such darling little tootsy putsys as I never seed afore, and which I shood think wood suttenly prewent her from ever warking like a Cristian Lady. She wore all her bewtifool hare brushed off her bewtifool face as if she wanted it all to grow backards. I warked boldly up to her and sed, "Mandareeny tomy tomy?" to which she replied, "Ching-Ching-Changy-Wangy!" Not quite undustanding a word she said, I was about to take my leave by saying, "Bowy! Wowy!" when she got off the Sofhy and hobbling along to the door, placed herself against it, and patting my estonished cheeks said, "Oh, how nicey picey!" I was that estonished that I thort I shood have fainted, and ewen Toby, who I had took with me, stared at her with both his eyes, speshally when she put up her fan, when presently the door was forced open from the howtside, and who shood henter but the three-taled Mandareen hisself!

He looked fust at the bewtifool Lady, and then at me, and then, harf droring his grate big sword, and sounding the Gong most wierlently, in rushed about ½ a dozen servents, and after some most angry words of Chineese gibberish from their master, they all siezed me and dragged me to another room, where they took off both my boots and my stockings and laying me down on the flore, tho I had all my best clothes onn, they beat both my souls and my eels with sticks till I skreamed for mersy!

They then left me. I was that hurt both in my feet and my feelinx that I didn't kno what on airth to do. When presently in came one of them quite quietly and said in a whisper: "I spikes ze Inglesh, pore feller! and if you have sum munny I can get you what you calls a sub-sty-tooty for the rest of your punnishment." "How much will it be?" says I. "About 10,000 Cash?" says he. "10,000 Cash!" says I. "It's only 2 pound ten of your munny," says he. So, feeling as I shood suttenly die if I had to go through the same tortur again, I gave him the munny, and sure enuff he soon returned with a pore seedy-looking Chinaman who took my place, and my new friend took me out of the house by the back-door, and off I set and got home without hinterrupshun!

As soon as my feet got well I went to a werry sillybrated Phizzygonomist, I thinks they calls 'em, to have my fortun told. He werry kindly sed that my large mouth and chin, and my furm nose, and my large neck, was all most faverable sines; but added, as he was sorry to have to say, that as my eyes was not long ones, and had no large pewpils, I must most suttenly have a grate natteral taste for picking and stealing! Whether sich a rewelation was worth fifteen sents, or 7½d., I must leave you, Sir, to determine; all I can say is, that I thort it dear at the munny.

I bort wun day a most bewtifool Chineese rapper, and I used offen to go and sit on the steps leading to wun of their little tempels, with my air werry nicely drest by a air-dresser, and there, with Toby by my side, I used to sit and receeve the respecfool atenshuns of the estonished parsers-by.

One of the prinsiple emusements of the hupper nobillerty is the flying of most bewtifool kites! I have heard of the same thing being dun in the great City of London, but I never seed it. I bleeves in both cases the kites is made of paper. Everybody smokes in China, Men and Women and Boys and Gals. Sum of the men has baccy-pipes so long that they uses them as Warking-Sticks!

I was rayther surprised to find as they warships the Griffin, jest such a wun as we has on the top of Tempel Bar, but which our peepel, as you kno, don't warship, not by no means. But the Chineese in their dense hignerence calls it a Draggon!

In short, Sir, I arives at the conclushun that the Chineese is about the rummest lot of peeple in the hole world, and anyboddy as wants plenty of fun had better cum here at wunce, but not stay long, and don't heat dogs or cats, or wisit Mandereen's Wives.

"Thank you, very much," said Mr. Punch, when Robert had finished speaking, "but I am afraid I can stay with you no longer. I wish to pay a flying visit to the Colonies. But first I must show Mr. Stanley that, great Discoverer though he may be, I can yet over-explore him!" Then, accompanied by his faithful Toby, he wished that they should be in Central Africa. Urged by his companion, in this instance, he took some copious notes. He preserved them, and they are thus able to be embodied in this veracious chronicle.

MR. PUNCH AND TOBY IN CENTRAL AFRICA.

truggle through the jungle; hardships beginning. Black-legs, engaged owing to strike amongst Dokkas, or native porters, fast dwindling, owing to energetic picketing with poisoned arrows from behind trees by small brown dwarfs. Pursued one, and after boxing his ears severely, dismissed him with threat of telling his mother. Jungle almost impassable. All heavier baggage sent on to Central Africa by Parcels Delivery. After four days' wandering, the Lady Guide, who had been represented as "thoroughly conversant with the district," began to cry and said she had lost the path. Dismissed her on the spot, paying her return fare, though under no legal obligation to do so. Really too ridiculous to attempt to conduct a party through the Dark Continent with nothing but an ordnance map of Epping Forest! Long and fruitless search for track; fortunately, just as despair reached climax, met a Koppah (or native policeman) and asked him—turned out to be only just round the corner.

On the main road again; Passed a native caravan of nomad Djipsis. Bought a hearth-brush and door-mat. At mid-day, took the sun with portable camera. Sun moved and spoilt negative. Made some observations.

Reached native village—N'yutoihigama. Much struck by native method of ascending palms for cocoa-nuts, carrying letters, wrestling, &c. Visited King Mahbul of Pigzinklovaland. Much interested by efforts of King with his three favourite wives, all under influence of Pombé or palm-beer, to roll into royal kraal.

On again; progress obstructed by the Nekkids of Nuffintowara, who seemed bent on giving battle. Sent messenger to King with present of shirt-studs, after which allowed to pass unharmed. Further on, stopped by band of Grimi-Grubbas, who evidently meant being nasty. Called to them pleasantly in native tongue, "Cheke-bobo-nangu-yanzi-toorali?" (Good-morning, have you used Scours' Soap?) Found they hadn't, and presented them with a packet, also with brushes and other articles of the toilette, of which they were in great need.

Came to open space near N'yumarkiti. Saw some Darckorsis running in and out of brushwood in highly suspicious manner. Found on inquiry that they were only "out for an airing" not "on the job." Much relieved. Conference with King M'rora of the Wezijiji tribe; trumpets sounded as soon as he was done.

Discovered large river of colour of strong green tea. Named it the Sir Wilfrid Lawson. Entered territory of the Rumboozi people. Their king, Mopzanbrumzi, offering his services as guide. Mopsanbrumzi most cordial, but much too drunk to be of any material assistance. Once powerful intellect now, alas! degraded. Made a long speech in the Ikkupi dialect—quite unintelligible. Mopzanbrumzi presented with a small tin of Royal Mail Red Paint, with which, when the expedition left, he was proceeding to decorate the vicinity.

On the lagoon. An adventure befell Toby, which, but for prompt action, might have had fatal termination; Toby mistook open mouth of hippopotamus for drain, and rushed down in search of rat. Hippopotamus closed mouth, with expression intimating plainly that "No contributions can be returned unless accompanied by stamps and directed wrapper." Toby's barking inside fainter. At length remembered having brought Report of Parnell Commission for private reading. Read Report to Hippopotamus slowly, until symptoms of weariness observable in huge pachyderm. Read on, and hippopotamus yawned; whereupon whistled to Toby, who ran up, not much the worse, except that frill had lost every vestige of colour.

Engaged native interpreter, as no conversation manuals published for countries in this district. Excellent fellow—clean, strictly honest, total abstainer; only one blemish—not discovered till later—a bit of a cannibal when he got the chance. Sent him on to announce our arrival to the Dilli-dillis, but found none in the neighbourhood when we came up—only some things which he said were fossils. Made no comment, but resolved to send them to Professor Huxley, and see what his opinion is.

Among the Bong Booshis; despatched Cannibal Interpreter to report; he returned, wiping his mouth, and announcing that they were "most agreeable, excellent, good people."

Could not understand why they all hid underground at our approach, and why the King so persistently sent word that he was not at home. Told Interpreter that, in our opinion, he was a little deficient in tact. Sent him to treat with a native chief, called Phatti, and had the mortification this time of surprising him in the act; no denial possible—he had his mouth full at the time! Told him that, if this occurred again, we should be exceedingly annoyed. Cannibal Interpreter penitent; lent him tract, Why I Became a Vegetarian, over which he shed tears.

Came to the M'yusikauli District. King Lessi came to meet us, and offered Mr. Punch a free pass over his domains. In the evening a grand performance, partly in our honour, partly to celebrate recent triumph over the G'yudi-g'yudis, who, under their chief Makdoogalla, had been waging war against the M'yusi-kaulis on the pretext that they were assuming an offensive demeanour. Heard afterwards that both sides claimed victory, but truce declared for a year. Performance magnificent—but much too long. Native dances by Ikika girls in pairs. T'seriokomiks and T'songandanzas also gave curious exhibitions of their powers. Hackiribats and Kunjeras (or native magicians) performed. A wild, weird, lurid scene, strange and fascinating—but a trifle slow.

In Ugoweh; met some Gitalongdo girls, but could not succeed in persuading them to enter into conversation.

On the River; saw Krûs practising in long canoes, and got out of their way. Descended cataracts; shot several rapids, and sent them home to be stuffed.

Came to Desert, and hired camel to go across on, (N.B. These animals are styled "Back-tryin"—which they are.) Only eighteen-pence an hour, which would have been reasonable enough, but quite impossible to sit out more than nine-penn'orth. Decided to take an ostrich for remainder of journey. Softer to sit. Ostrich a failure; ran for five hours in a circle, at express speed, and then suddenly turned shy, and buried its head in sand, without the slightest notice; foolish habit for any bird to acquire. Determined to try a quagga—quagga tried me, and very soon found me wanting, A quagga is a brute to buck! After all, came back to my old wooden mount—spot better than stripes, any day.

In the Jungle again. Discovered Colony of Highly-educated Anthropoid Apes. Lent them some copies of Punch, which are indispensable to all African travellers. Apes delighted—one large gorilla quite hysterical with laughter. Much gratified—till discovery that it was the advertisements which amused them most. Sense of humour of apes much exaggerated.

Reached the Kit'ldrumma District. Natives hostile at first; war-drums sounded incessantly. Fortunately fond of music, so easily pacified them by playing selection from "Tannhäuser," arranged for drum and panpipes by Liszt. Toby taking violent fancy to a "Spottiduff," or native dog, Spottiduff vanishing mysteriously shortly before dinner; find this animal considered a great dainty in this locality. Toby inconsolable.

Among the Ustingis. Received with great ceremony by their king—Chesipara. Palm wine (corked) handed round in liqueur glasses. Dinner beastly. Chesipara saying repeatedly that he "made no stranger of me"—he will, though, for the future. Exchange of presents. Gave Chesipara a silver-mounted dressing case (bankrupt stock—a bargain), a handsome coloured supplement, Muzzer's Darling (given away with Christmas Number of Timon), a microscope (object-lens missing—but he'll never miss it), a plated fish-slice, and a pair of nut-crackers. Chesipara, after a good deal of parade, presented me with a bunch of very indifferent bananas, and a brass collar, belonging to one of his wives, whom he had had killed on purpose! Told him, with much emotion, that I should never forget it.

Reached the Centre of Africa; found that luggage had not been forwarded after all! Had to borrow a clean shirt from Kollamangel chief, promised to return it on arrival at Coast. Difficulty with Tippoo-Tip of the Blackmaïlas, who refused to allow Mr. Punch to pass without tribute. Pacified him with palm butter and reached coast without further incident.

After leaving Tippoo-Tip, he continued his journey through the Colonies. Now he was taking tiffin in Calcutta, and a few minutes later found everyone asleep at Montreal. Christmas seemed to him to be being kept in Melbourne in the most sultry weather, and New Year's Day in Cape Colony was observed as a Midsummer festival. He had a general impression of constant change and constant improvement. The spirit of the mighty English Race seemed to be falling upon the world like a ray of glorious sunshine. This ray of light was continually increasing and beating back the darkness. And, as the Sage travelled through the air, he found everywhere content. It mattered not who the natives might be, they had but one flag, the Union Jack, one sovereign, the Empress-Queen Victoria!

"Rule Britannia!" cried Mr. Punch, enthusiastically. "But for all that, I wish I could have a few minutes to myself."

In a moment, he found himself seated amidst the eternal snows of the North Pole.

"Well, this is an ice place!" shivered the Sage. There was a roar of mighty laughter from the Aurora Borealis. It was the first time that the ancient jest had been uttered in those latitudes. The Sage blushed at his adoption of the venerable "Joe Miller," and wished himself back in Europe—in civilisation.

He found himself in Venice. Steam gondolas were travelling along the Grand Canal, and Cockneys were cutting their names on the sacred stones of the Church of St. Mark.

"It is becoming very English," murmured the Sage. "I suppose the next move will be to organise pigeon-shooting matches in front of the Café Florian, after turning the Doge's Palace into an illuminated Palace of Varieties."

Mr. Punch was disgusted, and began to think longingly of home.

"I have made a pretty fair round of the world, but I suppose I ought to do a little more in Europe—after all, it has the first claim upon my consideration. Let me consider—I think I should like to see a Greek robber in Athens."

Mr. Punch's Return.

In a moment the Sage found himself in an Athenian hotel, with the proprietor bowing obsequiously before him.

"Not very classical," he murmured. "I wonder what it was like in the days when the dead languages were alive, if not kicking. How I should like to see Athens in the time of Helen the fairest of the fair in everything—save in her conduct to Menelaus!"

Before he had time for further thought, he found himself in the far past, and thus had an opportunity of comparing the old with the new.

"Very pretty, but, on my word, comfort was a secondary consideration. But I have neglected Spain. I wish to see the loveliest view in good old Wellington's Peninsula."

Mr. Punch had expected to be carried into one of the courts of the Alhambra, but, in lieu of this, he found himself gazing at a lady, beautiful beyond compare. For a moment he was so lost in admiration, that he almost forgot himself, and was about to kiss her. Remembering, however, that he was a married man, and that his better half might object to the very natural, but (under the circumstances) highly improper transaction, he paused, and changed his kiss into a beaming smile. He was a little chagrined, however, to notice that the beautiful creature was so intent upon watching some distant attraction, that she had no eyes for him, nor, in fact, for anyone else.

"What can she be looking at?" he murmured. "How lovely she is with her heightened colour, her parted lips, her soul beaming through her lustrous dark eyes!"

Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust when he found that the lady was giving her entire attention to a bull-fight!

"I think I have had enough of this! We may have something of the same sort in our courts during a trial for murder; but, as a rule, our female blood-hungerers are either podgy matrons of sixty, or skinny old maids, of no (admitted) age at all! So give me England—dear old England!" He was set down at the Cannon Street Railway Station, and, collecting his luggage (which had followed by Grande Vitesse), he called a cab, and drove to Fleet Street.

And once more he was back in the ancestral halls, which had been decorated for the occasion with holly, and its white-berried companion. So, while Toby played "Home, Sweet Home!" Mr. Punch kissed Britannia under the Mistletoe, and wished her and the whole world, in a Wassail-bowl,

A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!

A HAGGARD ANNUAL.

(Specially written by Walker Weird, to usher in the Year 1890)

Unredd, the writer, and Spoylpaperos, the sketcher, were in the presence of a weird figure, that grotesquely genuflected before them.

"Fear not, my sons," explained the Weird, cutting a sad caper; "fear not. He-who-must-be-obeyed has need of ye. And, as He has need, ye must be well-bred," as we say in the yeast.

"And you are?—"

"The Ghost of a Joke!" murmured the extinct witticism, sadly; "and my name is Sillibilli." And then a strange thing happened.

All of a sudden the Writer and the Sketcher found themselves thrust into the presence of He-who-must-be-obeyed. After pushing down his two captives, Sillibilli himself fell upon his hands and knees, like a pig journeying to market. The men of the pen and pencil looked about them, and for miles could see nothing but prostrate forms. In front of them was a heavy white drapery, seemingly hiding a figure. At length the curtain began to move, and suddenly, from above its folds, appeared a most beautiful red nose—never had they seen such a long and curved nose. Then came a voice, sweet and soft, and yet full of power, reminding those present of something between a murmuring brook and a thunderbolt.

"Strangers!" said the voice, in English, but much purer and more classical English than the Arriarris talk, "Strangers, When is the portal to a saloon not the portal to a saloon? Tell me that, O Strangers!"

"When it is an Egyptian potsherd," stealthily whispered Sillibilli.

"Begone, thou white headed old fool!" cried He-who-must-be-obeyed, angrily. "It is not the answer; and, if it were, who art thou to thus reply? Begone, thou feeble cry of a donkey long defunct!" The voice rose in its anger clear and cold, and the Writer and the Sketcher fancied they could see two gleaming eyes above the drapery.

Sillibilli beat his stupid old head thrice on the ground, and crawled out of the apartment as he had crawled into it.

"It made a quaint gesture with the assistance of a palm-tree."

"Neither of ye know," continued the Lord of the beautiful red nose. "Then begone, and search for that joke—trace it to its source—to its saucy source."

There was a pause, and then a strange thing happened. A mighty shout of laughter rose from the very depths, and seemed to fill the entire universe. He seemed pleased, and gracefully inclined his nose as if acknowledging a compliment. Then he continued, less sternly,

"Away to the land of the Joks, and the Judimows—the Quipps and the Kranx. Away, to find a way!"

Once again came the roar of mighty laughter. From far, far away it came with a dreadful muttering noise, that grew and grew to a crash and a roar, which combined in itself all that is terrible and yet splendid in the possibilities of sound. Then it passed away, and disappeared in a murmured guffaw.

Then Unredd and Spoylpaperos, feeling sure of the presence of two gleaming eyes above the beautiful red nose, turned sharply round and fled.

And they journeyed on and on, through the snow and the ice, until they came to the land of the desert, in which they found themselves (strange to say) in a warmer atmosphere than that to which they had grown accustomed in the regions of the North Pole. Then a strange thing happened. They witnessed a fight between an elephant and a cat. The elephant managed to get well on the bank of the river which ran (conveniently) through the desert, in spite of the cat nipping on to one of its legs. Gradually the cat began to swallow the leg, then the body, then the head, until nothing but the trunk of the elephant was left. A strange thing had happened—the elephant had been swallowed by the cat!

"He was evidently going out of town," said Unredd, airily.

"So I see," replied Spoylpaperos, and he pointed to the trunk. Once more came the dreadful muttering noise that ended in a roar of laughter, and again a shadowy form floated past them—the Ghost of a Joke! And when they looked towards the cat it too had gone, having disappeared (so they subsequently ascertained) with a grin. They then knew the creature's breed—it was a Cheshire cat!

And now they were in front of the Sphinx, who was looking down upon them with a most fiendish and terrifying expression. Surrounding this ancient Egyptian Monument were numberless scrolls (many inscribed "Δεκλ.νεδ—Θανκς") sent there by a forgotten people. Unredd picked up one of comparatively modern date. It was a strange scroll, full of hieroglyphics and languages of many races. Here was the ancient Greek—and the more modern Arabic. There was something that seemed to be Russian—there a line that might be antediluvian Irish. All jumbled up together, in seemingly hopeless confusion.

"See," cried Unredd, excitedly, "I can make out 'When is the door of the neighbour'"—and then he stopped.

"Quite so," replied Spoylpaperos, "but it has no answer. Stay though—what is this? 'The duck of the gardener (gardener's duck) puts his head into the pond belonging to the grandmother of the sailor (sailor's grandmother) for the reasons of the diver (diver's reasons.)' This is very strange!"

"Indeed, it is," acquiesced Unredd, and then he cried, on making a farther discovery, "See the Author's name!"

And then they found inscribed on the scroll a word written as follows:—

Perfectly bewildered, they threw the paper away. Then a strange thing happened. All of a sudden, with one accord, they put to the Sphinx the question that He-who-must-be-obeyed had asked them. The mouth of the head seemed to move, and one of the huge eyelids appeared to quiver. Moreover, it made a quaint gesture with the assistance of a palm-tree. Then came a voice, saying, in hieroglyphics—

There was a pause, and then Unredd, in consultation with his companion, deciphered the meaning.

"You be blowed?" they both shouted, and the Sphinx gravely inclined its head. Then, of a sudden, after jumping from one mountain-top to another mountain-top, clinging to a precipice by their eyebrows, and sliding down a glacier and an avalanche, the two travellers came to the source of nothing, or, to use the local name, the source of the Nihil.

"When is a door not a door?" they asked, impelled as if by some hidden power.

Ded'-an-Gone; or, Jest Departed.

"In a moment the most beautiful Joke that ever was known appeared before them. It had the semblance of something they had seen before—lovely beyond compare. A flood of liquid laughter followed, and the Joke bathed in it, dancing about in the merry mixture most joyously. It was a dread and wonderful sight."

In a moment the most beautiful Joke that ever was known appeared before them. It had the semblance of something they had seen before—lovely beyond compare. A flood of liquid laughter followed, and the Joke bathed in it, dancing about in the merry mixture most joyously. It was a dread and wonderful sight.

They felt that but half their task was accomplished—but only half. Had not He-who-must-be-obeyed ordered them to seek out the solution of the Great Conundrum? That Great Conundrum had lived through the ages. It had been known to the Romans and the Greeks, and had died (for a while) with the Dead Languages. It had been buried in the land of the Assyrians, from whence had come a kindred spirit, the precursor of the Hibernian bull. That bull, which was in the changing seasons to cause roars of mighty merriment echoing into the far ages of the Future from the distant dimples of the Past. So, after their first surprise, they welcomed the gladsome Presence. They watched it as it jumped and leaped in the flood of liquid laughter. They were mad with a nameless delight, and danced round and round in a wild delirium of quaint possibilities! The Joke smiled upon them, and seemed to recognise in them the followers of the Great Jo-Mill-Ar, or One-who-has-caused-the-dullest-dogs to-shake-their-heavy-sides-with-tuneless-laughter.

Then the Joke grew in comeliness. The Question was only half of its stature—it required the Answer. They felt that the reply would come with the mighty murmur of merriment that the Writer and the Sketcher had already noticed. At length it was upon them. The Answer came!——

"They had their desert!"

"When it is an egress."

"Look!—look!—look!" shrieked Unredd.

The Joke was growing old before their eyes! The wit was shrivelling up! The fun was evaporating! Smaller and smaller it grew, until it was nearly gone.

"I will not die!" came a cry. "Generations yet unborn shall hear me. Many shall think me good—many shall be amused. Oh—h—h!" and the Joke had fallen flat! They knew its real name, then—it was "Ded an-Gone, the Jest Departed." And now it was still!

And so were Unredd and Spoylpaperos. Alas! for their melancholy fate—they had died of laughter! They had their desert!

INCIDENT IN THE INDIAN SPORTING TOUR OF ALIBI PASHA
(COLONEL ALIAS ALIBI).

ir,—You were sending your Correspondents all over the world, and you never did a better thing than when you summoned me to your presence, and said, "Colonel, are you ready?" and I replied, "I am!" If it hadn't been for my uncommon clearness of vision, the party of detectives whom you sent out in search of me would never have discovered me in my rocky lair on the southern coast of Cornwall, to which secluded spot I had for a time retreated, your Colonel en retraite, the only time he ever retreated in his life, and then not from foes, but from too many and too kind friends, in order to scheme out at my leisure a new and original plan for tracing the real and only source of the Nile at half the cost of Stanley's expedition, with double the profits. "The Genuine Nile Water Company Limited," and the "Nile Sauce for Cheops and Steaks," will be two of the greatest financial successes of this or any other time.

"Yeo ho, my boys! Yeo ho!" I shouted from the height above to four toiling minions in the cockle-shell of a boat below. My! how glad they were. Odds Colonels and cockle-shells! but, it I hadn't exerted my lungs, they'd have returned disconsolate to you, as you were waiting at the railway station, with your baggage all labelled, and your dog Toby waving adieux to your followers. What a wigging they'd have got! But, seeing me, you smiled as you wert wont to smile, and in two-twos the historic question was asked—"Colonel, are you ready?" (as I have already reminded you), and the equally historic answer had been given, "I am!"

"Yeo ho, my boys! Yeo ho!" I shouted.

My weapons and my sporting togs are always at hand, packed for travelling at the shortest possible notice. And here let me remark to you that, when you were in the desert, had you been armed with my patent revolving, twenty-times-a-second, double-action repeating rifle, the strange story of the conflict between yourself and the ostrich would have been utterly impossible. Excuse me, Sir, but, as it is, I consider it scarcely within the bounds of probability. I know probability will take big bounds, and I'm a bit of a traveller myself, but your escape uninjured from that wild bird, and the escape also of Toby, who is not a sporting dog, is one of the strangest tales on record, by the side of which, perhaps, even the daring exploit, which I am now about to narrate as a plain unvarnished tale, may seem a mere ordinary, every-day occurrence. But to proceed.

To India. I promised you my diary of sports and pastimes from the moment of my arrival. Here it is, from the first day to the moment of my posting you the last scrap by special messenger. Now, to commence * * * (We omit the first six hundred pages.) * * * The next day Swindlah Khan came to my Kabob where I was sitting, wiling away the time by teaching my favourite Cheetah the three-card trick, which the sagacious animal can now perform as easily as if he were the learnedest pig in Europe—(I am bringing him over, to back him for matches of this sort in England—shall probably get up a company to work it—Learned Pig and Cheetah Company (Limited). Capital, £280,000,000—but of this, more anon)—and, after accepting the puffum, which is always offered to a visitor filled and lighted, Swindlah waited for me to open the conversation.

"Swindlah, mebhoy," said I, addressing him familiarly, in his own native language, in which I am a proficient, and shall now give a translation, "What's up?"

"Alibi Pasha," he replied, bending his head, and looking out of the corner of his eyes—a trick he has when he means mischief—(I know the old rascal by this time)—"Is it on or off?"

For the moment I had forgotten our wager of the previous night. I confess I had imbibed so much loshun that for once and away I was not quite certain whether I was actually sober or not—nor, indeed, did I decide the point until I had argued it out myself, and settled that, if I went to bed in my bhootahs (worn here on the foot, and very much worn under it), I must be more or less inebriated, but that, if I assumed the ordinary shimmy dinnee—(do you remember my song on this Indian night-habit, to the tune of "Bonnie Dundee"?—it was in the cold weather, when the stinging winter night-fly is about, and I couldn't find the article of apparel anywhere,—

But, as I didn't quote this to Swindlah Khan, I only allude to it here, and you will find it in extenso, as they did in the linen-press, further on, during the course of these Memoirs)—and retired to my dhownee (bed), I must be all right. Dhownee v. Bhootah, and the first won. Yet next morning it was with difficulty I could exactly recall the term of the wager.

Waiting for the Colonel.

"Yes, Swindlah," says I. "It is the Wild Hog Hunt to which you are alluding." He bowed. "Fifty thousand lakhs of rupees," I continued, "which your executors pay to mine in case you come to grief, or mine to yours in case the like happens to me." Again he bowed, and I went on. "And if we both survive, the money is paid to whichever of us two kills the Wild Hog of Ghrûntah." We shook hands over it. I didn't, as a rule, shake hands with Swindlah Khan, who was the veriest old thief in all India, and an abominably cruel tyrant into the bargain.

A Strange Story.

The fact is, that this Wild Hog, which from time to time ravaged various parts of the country that trembled under the sway of Swindlah, was secretly fed, kept alive, and incited to ferocity by the minions of the cunning despot, who, when he wanted a larger loan than usual, or coveted the property of some private person, would privately order this Hog to be starved for a fortnight, and then suddenly let out to run a-muck.

Naturally the poor natives, and the rich ones too for the matter of that, clamoured for protection at the hands of their ruler, who pretended he could see no other way of dealing with the difficulty than by raising a force of sharpshooters, armed with lances and bows and arrows, no guns being permitted, as the noise would disturb the Swindlah, who, about this time, invariably feigned to be laid up at home with a bilious headache. His subjects had to subscribe for the support of these sporting warriors, and the money came in from all quarters into Swindlah's treasury for the purpose of killing this formidable scourge. The presence of this Wild Hog obstructed trade, as no Travellers, commercial or otherwise, would run the risk of encountering this dangerous monster. Of course, the Hog was never killed, as to have put an end to its existence would have been analogous to killing the Goose that laid the Golden Eggs. When I came into the country, Swindlah did his best to entrap me. I had thirty of the narrowest escapes that ever man experienced. (Here we omit 1200 pages of this most thrilling narrative.) Swindlah had dared me to kill the Wild Hog alone: I had replied, "Yes, but it must be worth my while. So make it a bet, which will slay the beast, you or I, and I'm on. And the entire beast must be brought back as evidence. A leg, or a tusk, or an eye, or a bristle won't do. It must be the whole Hog or none."

An Awful Boar for Travellers.

As I have said, so 'twas done. The barbarous Swindlah had determined on collaring my coin, and taking my life. He had secreted men in the jungles, in the passes, on the mountain-tops, to spear me, arrow me, shoot me,—if they could. What did I care? I had the whole country at my back, for they were ready to rise as one man—(and, as a matter of fact, only one man did rise, and he was beheaded at once by the nearest native policeman, who afterwards apologised handsomely to the family for the mistake),—and take vengeance on the tyrant. But this depended on my success; otherwise, so crushed and craven were even the noblest spirits among them, they dared not move one little finger. Shall I proceed? Yes. I bore a charmed life. The Wild Hog was wilder than ever. Mounted on my good old mare, Wheezer, which had carried me over many a stiff country in Old England, and accompanied by my faithful hound, Yelpa, I sought out the wild beast in his lair. Swindlah himself came by a circuitous route.

Suddenly there was an awful roar—I call it a roar, but it was really the noise of a volcano in action—and the place shook as though in the throes of an earthquake. Above me, on a rock, on the other side of a ravine (eighty feet by fifty) stood the huge monster, hideous, raging, tearing up roots, trees, stocks, stones, anything and everything. In all my life I never saw such a horrid boar! "At him, Yelpa!" I cried, giving at the same time my well-known whistle of attack. Yelpa cleared the ravine at a bound. Then followed an awful struggle. Swindlah below looked up in delight. "If the dog kills him, it's no bet!" he shouted.

"Come on, and kill him yourself, if you can!" I cried, putting Wheezer at the leap. My brave mare needed no spurs.

A HAZARDOUS LEAP!

At that moment Yelpa missed his footing and fell. In less than the 100th part of a second I had lassoed him round the collar, and saved my gallant and faithful friend; but there was no time for attending to his wounds, as at that instant the Wild Hog, frantic with rage, sprang from the rock straight at me, mouth open and bristles erect. One billionth part of a second of suspense, and the next minute my pig-sticking spear had passed through him, and Wheezer, I, and the Hog sank exhausted on the other side of the ravine, just as a shriek broke on my ear, and I was able to see that Swindlah's underbred horse having refused a narrower place lower down, had, in consequence (for this, strange as it may appear, was the first time that braggart Swindlah had ever been out riding) pitched Swindlah right over his head into the abyss below. I returned home in triumph. Bonfires and rejoicings all night. Torch and Nautch till daybreak. No one thought of looking for Swindlah till next morning, when nothing was found of him except his turban. His horse was browsing peacefully within a few yards of the spot where Swindlah had disappeared. The money I had fairly won was never paid, but the nobility and gentry subscribed towards a medal, which was struck in commemoration of the event. I send one to you, one to the Vatican, and a third to the British Museum. I need hardly say that after this—(We omit the remainder, as the work will probably be published in full at some future time).

AND

A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

MR. PUNCH APPEARS AT THE CARNIVAL OF NATIONS!

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