Book: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 26, 1892
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 26, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 102.
March 26, 1892.
YE MODERATES OF LONDON!
[Illustration: The Stay-at-Home Voter.]
Ye Moderates of London
Who sat at home at ease,
Ah! little did you think upon
The dangerous C.C.'s!
While comfort did surround you,
You did not care to go
To remote
Spots to vote
When the stormy winds did blow.
The voter should have courage
No danger he should shun;
In every kind of weather
All sorts of risks should run.
Not he! So bold Progressives
Will tax him, and he'll know
He must pay
In their way,
Which is neither sure nor slow.
But when the Thames Embankment,
The finest road in town,
Is riotous with tramcars,
Will _that_ make rates come down?
Will all these free arrangements,
Free water, gas, do so?
Oh, they may!
Who can say?
And the Companies may go.
When LIDGETT and McDOUGALL
Are censors of the play,
We can patronise the Drama
In a strictly proper way;
When PARKINSON's Inspector
Of Ballets, we shall know
He will stop
Any hop
If he sees a dancer's toe.
Such grandmaternal rulers
Will settle life for us,
And Moderates, escaping
All canvassing and fuss,
Can still, from cosy firesides,
Through three long years or so,
Watch whereat
Jumps the cat,
And which way the wind does blow.
* * * * *
LOCKWOOD THE LECTURER.
["Last Tuesday Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., delivered a
lecture entitled 'The Law and Lawyers of Pickwick,' to a large
gathering of the citizens of York, which place he represents
in Parliament."--_Daily Telegraph_.]
AIR--"_Simon the Cellarer._"
Oh, LOCKWOOD the Lecturer hath a rare store
Of jo-vi-a-li-tee
Of quips, and of cranks, with good stories galore,
For a cheery Q.C. is he!
A cheery Q.C. and M.P.
With pen and with pencil he never doth fail,
And every day he hath got a fresh tale.
"A Big-vig on Pig-vig," he quaintly did say,
When giving his lecture at York t'other day.
For Ho! ho! ho!
FRANK LOCKWOOD can show
How well he his DICKENS
Doth know, know, know!
_Chorus._--For Ho! ho! ho! &c.
* * * * *
HOSPITALITY A LA MODE.
["Programmes and introductions are going out of fashion at
balls."--_Weekly Paper_.]
SCENE--_Interior of a Drawing-room during a dance. Sprightly
Damsel disengaged looking out for a partner. She addresses
cheerful-looking Middle-aged Gentleman, who is standing near
her._
_She._ I am not quite sure whether I gave you this waltz?
_He._ Nor I. But I hope you did. I am afraid it is nearly over, but we
shall still have time for a turn. [_They join the dancers._
_She._ Too many people here to-night to make waltzing pleasant.
_He._ Yes, it is rather crowded. Shall we sit out?
_She_ (_thankfully, as he has not quite her step._) If you like. And
see, the band is bringing things to a conclusion. Don't you hate a
_cornet_ in so small a room as this? So dreadfully loud, you know.
_He._ Quite. Yes, I think it would have been better to have kept to
the piano and the strings.
_She._ But the place is prettily decorated. It must have cost them a
lot, getting all these flowers.
_He._ I daresay. No doubt they managed it by contract. And lots of
things come from Algeria nowadays. You can get early vegetables in
winter for next to nothing.
_She._ Yes, isn't it lovely? All these palms, I suppose, came from the
Stores.
_He._ No doubt. By the way, do you know the people of the house at
all?
_She._ Not much. Fact was, I was brought. Couldn't find either the
host or hostess. Such a crowd on the staircase, you know.
_He._ Yes. Rather silly asking double the number of people the rooms
will hold, isn't it?
_She._ Awfully. However, I suppose it pleases some folks. I presume
they consider it the swagger thing to do?
_He._ I suppose they do. Do you know many people here?
_She._ Not a soul, or--
_He._ You would not have spoken to me?
_She._ Well, no--not exactly that. But--
_He._ You have no better excuse ready. Quite.
_She._ How rude you are! You know I didn't quite mean that.
_He._ No, not quite. Quite.
_She._ By the way, do you know what time it is?
_He._ Well, from the rooms getting less crowded, I fancy it must be
the supper hour. May I not take you down?
_She._ You are most kind! But do you know the way?
_He._ I think so. You see, I have learned the geography of the place
fairly well.
_She._ How fortunate! But if I accept your kindness, I think I should
have the honour of knowing your name.
_He._ Certainly; my name is SMITH.
_She._ Any relation of the people who are giving the dance?
_He._ Well, yes. I am giving the dance myself--or rather, my wife is.
_She._ Oh, this is quite too delightful! For now you can tell me what
to avoid.
_He._ Certainly; and I have the pleasure of speaking to--?
_She._ You must ask my _chaperon_ for my name. You know, introductions
are not the fashion.
_He._ And your _chaperon_ is--?
_She._ Somewhere or other. In the meanwhile, if you will allow me?
_He_ (_offering his arm_). Quite!
[_Exeunt to supper._
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY FOR CHILDREN.
NO. 1.--"LITTLE MISS MUFFIT."
[Illustration]
Little Miss MUFFIT
Reposed on a tuffet,
Consuming her curds and whey--
She had dozens of dolls,
And some cash in Consols
Put by for a rainy day.
But though calm and content
While she drew Three per Cent.,
The Conversion unsettled her mien,
And she said, "Though they've thrown us
This Five-Shilling Bonus,
I cannot brook Two pounds fifteen!"
Comes a Broker outsider--
Who chanced to have spied her,
And "Options" and "Pools" he extols--
When he pictures the profit
(Commission small off it),
She cheerfully sells her Consols.
Then she starts operations
With fierce speculations
In Stocks of all manner and shape;
But whatever she chooses
Her "cover" she loses,
And sees it run off on the tape.
So alas! for Miss MUFFIT--
She now has to rough it,
And never gets jam with her tea;
While the Bucket-shop Dealer
Employs a four-wheeler,
Regardless of _L._ _S._ and _D._
* * * * *
"THE FROGS" AT OXFORD.
SCENE--_Parlour of Private House, Oxford._ TIME--_Quite
recently. Cook wishes to speak to her Mistress._
_Cook._ Please, 'm, I should like to go out this evening, 'm, which
it's to see them Frogs at the New Theayter.
_Mistress._ But it's all Greek, and you won't understand it.
_Cook._ O yes, 'm. I once saw the Performin' Fleas, and they was
French, I believe, leastways a Frenchman were showin' of 'em, and
I unnerstood all as was necessary.
[_After this, of course she obtains permission._
* * * * *
Mrs. Ram's Uncle (on the maternal side) has recently joined the
religious sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. This has greatly
distressed the good Lady. "If it had been anything else," she says,
"a Moravian Missionary, or a Christian Brother-in-law, I wouldn't
have minded. But to think that an Uncle of mine should have become
a Yarmouth Bloater is a little hard on a poor woman no longer in her
idolescence."
* * * * *
[Illustration: WILFUL WILHELM.
_An Imperial German Nursery Rhyme. (From the very latest Edition of
"Struwwelpeter.")_
_Wilful Wilhelm._ "TAKE THE NASTY _PUNCH_ AWAY! I WON'T HAVE ANY
_PUNCH_ TODAY!"]
Young WILHELM was a wilful lad,
And lots of "cheek" young WILHELM had.
He deemed the world should hail with joy
A smart and self-sufficient boy,
And do as it by _him_ was told;
He _was_ so wise, he _was_ so bold.
If anyone dared stop his play,
He screamed out--"Take the wretch away!
Oh, take my enemy away!
I won't have any foes to-day!"
His old adviser WILHELM swore
Was a pig-headed senile bore.
_He_ meant to try another tack,
So his Old Pilot got the sack.
Nay more, one day, in a fierce squall,
He smashed his picture on the wall;
Tore up the papers when they said
He was a little "off his head."
He yelled, in his despotic way,
"Not any Press for me," I say!
"Oh, take that nasty _Punch_ away
I won't have any _Punch_ to-day!"
He deemed himself, and this was odd,
A sort of new Olympian god;
And when the wise, who watched his whim,
Sighed, "Have the gods demented him?
_Quem deus vult, et cetera_" he
Was just as mad as mad could be;
And, just like other angry boys,
Kicked over tables, smashed his toys,
And cried out, "Take the things away!
I'll have nought but new toys to-day!"
"Prudence?" he yelled; "what do _I_ care?"
And here he kicked the old pet Bear
His sire and grandsire had so cherished,
Till the old policy had perished
With Wilful WILHELM, who preferred
The Eagles. With a pole he stirred
Big Bruin up. "Oh, _I_'ll surprise him!
And, if he growls, I'll 'pulverise' him."
Some thought that picking rows with Bruin
Meant folly, if it did not ruin;
But when they whispered words of warning,
Then Wilful WILHELM, counsel scorning,
Shrieked, "Take the nasty brute away!
I won't have any Bears to-day!"
Now, WILHELM, do not be absurd,
But listen to a friendly word!
You are a clever boy, no doubt,
And very smart, and very stout,
Like young AUGUSTUS, dainty eater,
Whose story is in _Struwwelpeter_.
Did'st ever read those truthful stories,
Good Dr. HEINRICH HOFFMANN's glories,
Which round the world have travelled gaily,
By Nursery pets consulted daily?
If not, just get "Shock-headed PETER";
Read of AUGUSTUS, the soup-eater,
And stuck-up "JOHNNY Head-in-Air,"
Who came down "bump" all unaware.
And "Fidgety PHILIP." You'll confess them
Pointed,--and don't try to suppress them,
Like Princes, party-men and papers
Which can't admire _all_ your mad capers!
My Wilful WILHELM, you'll not win
By dint of mere despotic din;
By kicking everybody over
In whom a critic you discover,
Or shouting in your furious way,
"Oh, take the nasty _Punch_ away!
I won't have any _Punch_ to-day!"
* * * * *
WHAT THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, MR. PUNCH, SAYS TO THE ARTISTS'
CORPS.--"Gentlemen, you would no doubt like a brush with the enemy, to
whom you will always show a full face. Any colourable pretence for
a skirmish won't suit your palette. You march with the colours, and,
like the oils, you will never run.' You all look perfect pictures, and
everybody must admire your well-knit frames. Gentlemen, I do not know
whether you will take my concluding observation as a compliment or
not, but I need hardly say that it is meant to be both truthful and
complimentary, and it is this, that though you are all Artists, you
look perfect models,"
* * * * *
[Illustration: CONSCIENTIOUS.
_Mr. Boozle_ (_soliloquises_). "MY MEDICAL MAN TOLD ME NEVER ON ANY
ACCOUNT TO MIX MY WINES. SO I'LL FINISH THE CHAMPAGNE FIRST, AND
_THEN_ TACKLE THE CLARET!"]
* * * * *
"BUTCHER'D TO MAKE--."
[On Monday the 14th a "lion-tamer" was torn to pieces in a
show at Hednesford.]
Shame to the callous French, who goad
The horse that pulls a heavy load!
Shame to the Spanish bull-fight! Shame
To those who make of death a game!
We English are a better race:
We love the long and solemn face;
We fly from any cheerful place,--
On Sunday.
But, other days, we like a show.
There may be danger, as we know;
We put the thought of that aside,
For noble sport is England's pride:
We'd advertise a railway trip,
To see a wretched tamer slip
And die beneath the lion's grip,--
On Monday!
* * * * *
A REALLY EXCEPTIONALLY REMARKABLE AND NOTEWORTHY FACT.--_To-day,
Thursday, March_ 17.--Fine Spring weather. Have sat for over
half-an-hour at a window looking on to the street, between 3.30 and
4.15 P.M., _and have not once heard either the whole or any portion of
the now strangely popular "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!"_ ... As I write this
... ha!... The grocer's book!... "Boom-de-ay" without the "Ta-ra."
The spell is broken! N.B.--As this delightful song has now a certain
number of Music-"hall-marks," the places where it is sung can be
spotted and remembered as "Ta-ra's Halls."
* * * * *
TO THE YOUNG CITY-MEN.
TO MAKE MUCH OF (LUNCHEON) TIME; OR, A COUNSEL TO CLERKS. (AFTER
HERRICK.)
Gather ye fish-bones while ye may,
The luncheon hour is flying,
And this same cod, that's boiled to-day,
To-morrow may be frying.
The handsome clock of ormolu
A quarter past is showing,
And soon 'twill be a quarter to,
When you must think of going.
That man eats best who eats the first,
When fish and plates are warmer,
But being cold, the worse and worst
Fare still succeeds the former.
Then be not coy, but use your lungs,
And while ye may, cry "_Waiter_!"
For having held just now your tongues,
You may repent it later.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.
THE HUMBUG-HUNTING FERRET. (_VIVERRA LABOUCHERIENSIS_.)
_The Times_ (_loq._). "AH! WONDERFUL INSTINCT, AND OCCASIONALLY
USEFUL. BUT I'M NOT PARTICULARLY PARTIAL TO HIM!"]
* * * * *
PONSCH, PRINCE OF OLLENDORF.
(_M. MAETERLINCK'S VERY LAST MASTERPIECE._)
The Belgian Master has tried, as he has already informed the world,
"to write SHAKSPEARE for a company of Marionnettes." Encouraged by
his extraordinary success, he has soared higher yet, and adapted
our greatest national drama for the purposes of the (Independent)
itinerant Stage. We are enabled by the courtesy of his publishers to
give a few specimen scenes from this _magnum opus_, which, as will
be seen, requires somewhat more elaborate mounting and mechanical
effects than are at present afforded by the ordinary Punch
Show. In M. MAETERLINCK's version, Ponsch becomes the Prince of
Half-seas-over-Holland; he is the victim of hereditary homicidal
mania, complicated by neurotic hysteria. Inflamed by the insinuations
of Mynheer Olenikke--a kind of Dutch Mephistopheles and Iago
combined--he is secretly jealous of his consort the Princess Joedi's
preference for the society of Djoe, the Court Jester and Society
Clown. Here is our first sample:--
_A Chamber in the Castle. Princess JOeDI discovered at a
window with DJOE._
_Joedi_. Lo! lo! a shower of stars is falling upon the fowl-house!
_Djoe_. Oh! oh! a shower of stars upon the fowl-house? (_A water pipe
in the back-garden bursts suddenly and splashes them._) Ah! ah! I am
wet all over! Have you a pocket handkerchief?
_Joedi_. Oh, look! a comet--an enormous one--has descended into the
water-butt! The sky is blood-red, and the moon has turned the colour
of green cheese. This bodes some disaster!
_Djoe_. It is unsettled--rainy--unpleasant weather. Can you lend me an
umbrella?
_Joedi_. I cannot lend you an umbrella, because I have lent mine to
the gardener's wife. Owls are roosting on the chimney-pots, and a
stickleback has jumped out of the pond. Hush, my Lord the Prince
approaches!
[_Prince PONSCH enters, bearing a stout staff, which he nurses
gloomily, like an infant; a hurricane is heard in the middle
distance; the waterpipe sobs strangely and then expires; a
blackbeetle comes out of a cupboard and runs uneasily about,
until a flash of lightning enters down the chimney and kills
it. PONSCH stands glaring at DJOE and the Princess._
_Djoe_ (_hastily_). There is going to be a storm. Do not forget what I
have uttered. Good evening!
[_He goes; the wind whistles a popular air through the
keyhole._
_Joedi_ (_nervously_). What an appalling evening! I have never seen the
like of such a sky.
_Ponsch_. There is something about you this evening--how beautiful you
are looking! Bring BEBBI-PONSCH.
_Joedi_ (_fetching the Infant Prince_). Here he is. Why do you look so
strangely at him?
_Bebbi-Ponsch_ (_a small, but important part_). Is Pa-a-par poo-oorly?
Won't he p'ay wiz me no mo-ore?
_Ponsch_. The soul of a little stage-child looms from under his green
eyes! OLENIKKE was right, and I-- No matter. I will open the window.
[_Opens it, and throws BEBBI-P. out. Sound of water-splash
audible._
_Joedi_. Oh my! Oh my! What have you done? He has fallen right into the
moat--on one of the swans!
_Ponsch_. Indeed--on one of the swans? (_A pot of mignonnette is blown
off the window-sill by a gust._) I will close the window. (_Closes it;
a hailstorm beats on the panes._) Is that really a hailstorm--or only
birds?
_Joedi_. I can hear nothing. (P. _strikes her suddenly on the head
with staff._) Someone is knocking at my door. Come in! I cannot see
anything now.
_Ponsch_. Can you, indeed, see nothing? [_He strikes her again._
_Joedi_. Now I can see stars. I feel as if purple mills were going
round in my head. I shall never kiss anybody any more. Oh! oh! oh!
[_She dies._
_Ponsch_. She was a beautiful woman, do you know? Oh, how lonely I
shall feel hereafter! (_A black dog is heard scratching and sniffing
outside the door._) It is only Tobbi. Someone has trod on your toe,
my poor Tobbi. Come in. Give me your paw. (_Tobbi enters, and flies
suddenly at his nose._) Oh, my nose is bleeding! Let us go to the
pond. I do not know why I feel so melancholy this evening. [_He goes
out, pursued by Tobbi._
SAMPLE No. II.--_A Hall in Castle Ollendorff. A Marionnette
Theatre at the back of Stage. DJOE, a Belgian Bedell, and
Dutch Dolls-in-waiting discovered._
_Djoe_. Green flames are running along the walls, and blue globes are
bounding about the back garden. I have never seen such a night. Here
comes the Prince.
[_Enter PONSCH, conscience-stricken; all bow._
_Ponsch_. I am not melancholy, but I have hardly any hair. Let the
Play commence!
_Curtain of Marionnette Show rises; a Clown is seen chasing
a butterfly._
_A Councillor_. Oh! oh! oh! [_Uproar; the Clown and Butterfly are
withdrawn. A Skeleton appears on the Stage, and dances his head and
limbs off in a blue light._
_Ponsch_ (_rising_). That was done purposely! You are driving at
something. Confess it! Is there no topic more cheerful? I cannot bear
it any longer!
[_Knocks down DJOE with his staff. A combat, during which
DJOE several times obtains possession of the weapon, and
wounds PONSCH. N.B.--Note the striking resemblance here to
the similar, but very inferior, Scenes in "Hamlet."_
_The Dutch Dolls_ (_running about_). Both of them bleeding already!
There's blood on the walls already! Already blood on the walls! (&c.).
_The Bedell_. The Prince has slain DJOE. Take him into custody.
[_PONSCH strikes the Bedell down._
_The B._ Ha! ha! ha! (_Tries to rise--but is struck again_). Ha! ha!
(_PONSCH strikes once more._) Ha!
[_The Bedell dies; a draught enters under the door and
blows out two of the candles; a thunderbolt is heard coming
down-stairs, and the Ghost of JOeDI suddenly appears from
behind a tapestry representing "The Finding of Moses."_
_Ponsch_ (_to Ghost_). Have you any hearse-plumes at hand? Do not be
angry with me. Can you hear my teeth? I am only a poor little old man.
Will you please undo my necktie? (_cf. "King Lear"_). Let us go to
breakfast. Will there be muffins for breakfast?
[_Exit, leaning heavily on Ghost's arm._
_The Dutch Dolls_ (_with conviction_). One more such night as this,
and all our heads would have gone bald!
SAMPLE No. III.--_The Courtyard with a scaffold and gibbet.
A blood-red moon is sailing amid the currant-bushes, and a
shower of stars proceeds uninterruptedly. PONSCH discovered
looking through the fatal noose._
_Djakketch_ (_the Court Executioner_). Can you see anything through
the loop?
_Ponsch_. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere.
_Djak._ No; we are probably above the heads of the audience. But can't
you distinguish Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE?
_Ponsch_. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. SHAKSPEARE anywhere.
_Djak._ Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can you
see nothing?
_Ponsch_. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green.
_Djak._ Ay, ay! A Bayswater 'bus. They _are_ green. But don't you see
any of the general public?
_Ponsch_. I can see Mr. WILLIAM ARCHER, and some new Critics, and
unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with books of
the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets.
_Djak._ This is wonderful. No more errand-boys with baskets?
_Ponsch_. No more small children with babies!
_Djak._ No more small children? Do pray let _me_ look. (_PONSCH
retires, and DJAKKETCH puts his head through the loop._) Oh, I can
see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have all
been bored to death!
_Ponsch_. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little, and I
will fondle you. [_Pulls the cord towards himself._
_Djak._ Oh, what have you put round my neck? Oh me! You are going to
... oh, you _are_!
_Ponsch_. Oh, I _am_!
_Djak._ Then--oh!
_Ponsch_. Oh!
[_Exeunt all, except DJAKKETCH, who ceases kicking
gradually. A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the
corner; a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows._
FINIS.
* * * * *
HORACE IN LONDON.
TO A CRUSTED OLD PORT. (_AD AMPHORAM_.)
[Illustration]
Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me,
Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me,
Or passions that witch and defy us,
Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious.
Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it--an
Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan,
Befitting, whate'er be its label,
You, my good host, and the guest at your table.
Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age,
Dare you presume to resist such a beverage?
Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue,
Never imagined its vintage could hurt you.
Liquor like this from a bottle whose crust is whole,
Liquor like this rubs the rust from the rusty soul;
The faddist it mellows: the private
Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at.
Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis;
Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is,
Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,
Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder.
Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to
Bacchus, the _Pas-de-trois_ Graces, and Venus too,
With all of that classical ilk, man--
Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.
* * * * *
THE "TA-RA-RA" BOOM.
(_BY OUR OWN MELANCHOLY MUSER._)
I am shrouded in impenetrable _gloom_-de-ay,
For I feel I'm being driven to my _doom_-de-ay,
By an aggravating ditty
Which I don't consider witty;
And they call the horrid thing, "Ta-ra-ra-_boom-de-ay_!"
Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and _groom_-de-ay,
City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with _broom_-de-ay
Makes my nervous system bristle
As he tries to sing or whistle
That atrocious and absurd "Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!"
So I sit in the seclusion of my _room_-de-ay,
And deny myself to all--no matter _whom_-de-ay--
For I dread a creature coming
Whose involuntary humming
May assume the fatal form, "Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!"
Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses _bloom_-de-ay,
You will read upon a well-appointed _tomb_-de ay:--
"Influenza never lick'd him,
But he fell an easy victim
To that universal scourge--'Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!'"
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
One of the Baron's Assistant Readers has been reading a
really interesting, well written novel in two volumes, by MARY
BRADFORD-WHITING. It is called _Denis O'Neil_, and tells of the
adventures of a young Irish Doctor who gets entangled in the plots
of one of those Secret Societies that used to exist in "the most
distressful country that ever yet was seen," some twenty years ago.
The romance contains some clever sketches of character. The story
(published by BENTLEY) ends sadly, and those who want to find fault
with it will say it is too short.
[Illustration: Our Competition Novel.--Competitors at Work.]
The Leadenhall Press,--immortalised by its invention of that
invaluable work of art, "The Hairless Author's Paper Pad," which the
Baron herewith and hereby strongly recommends to Mr. GLADSTONE, who
has so much writing to do with a pad on his knee, and for this purpose
Mr. G. would find this the "_knee plus ultra_" of inventions,--this
same Leadenhall Press has recently published a story without a title,
offering a reward of L100 to any individual, or to be divided between
such individuals, as may guess it. The story is in effect about
a youth who lost his right eye in fighting another boy, and who
subsequently revenged himself by depriving his antagonist of an eye by
a violent stroke at Lawn-tennis. What can be the title? The Baron has
had the following suggestions made to him:--"Eye for an Eye," "The
Egotist," "My Eye!" "Aye! aye!" "Ocular Demonstration," "A Man of One
Eye-dear!" "Eyes Righted," "One Left," "The Other Eye," "Two Pupils
and One Eye," "You and Eye," "The Eyes Have It." The Baron "winks the
other eye," and will be very glad should any hint of his have assisted
a deserving person to gain the reward offered by Mr. TUER. _En
attendant_ the Baron has hit upon a still more novel idea. He will
write some contributions towards short stories, and his readers shall
finish them. The terms will be these:--The Baron commences a chapter,
or a few lines of it, and leaves it unfinished, then his readers shall
finish the sentence, and sometimes the chapter, for themselves. If the
sentence, or the chapter, as the case may be, _shall turn out to be
exactly what the Baron would have written had he continued it, then
he, the Baron, will award_ L100 _to the successful candidate, or will
award a division of that sum among the successful candidates. Every
competitor shall pay the Baron_ L50. _And to insure such payment,
each competitor's cheque for this amount must accompany his or her
contribution._