Punch (61.1871)

iv

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 30, 1871.

"I—I—this is a frightful dream," gasped Mr. Punch. "Bite me in my leg—at least, in the leg of my chair,
Toby, that I may wake. Am I in Wonderland, with darling Alice, or am I Through the Looking-G-lass, going to kill
the Jabberwock'? "

" Neither, my Beamish Boy. But you are hearing good sense. And," said the old gentleman, " will you be
good enough to take down that abominable caricature of me, I mean that Guy with the stick and lantern ? If there
was ever any fun in such presentments, it is as much worn out as a Pantomime joke."

" He scoffs at Pantomimes ! The world is at an end."

" I never scoff, but my imagination is equal to depicting even a better thing than a Pantomime. I rejoice that
such works as Pygmalion are beginning to find acceptation. It is a good sign."

" Christmas," said Mr. Punch, in the greatest rage, " you know what the servant in She Stoops to Conquer
says about the joke of Grouse in the gun-room. Now I've been laughing at you for years, and I 'm not going
to leave off now."

" Of course, Mr. Punch, I can say no more. A gentleman cannot dictate to his company, but he can choose it
I have protested against your old-fashioned notions of cheerfulness; I have now the honour to leave you to your own
Society."

" 0 Christmas ! " said Mr. Punch, bursting out with a Niagara of tears. " Are we to part thus? After so many
years! We have been friends together, We have laughed at little jests. Also We two have paddled in the burn
From morning until dine. To be wroth with those we love doth work like madness on the brain. May we ne'er want
a friend or a bottle to give him. The heart issues bills that are never protested When drawn on the firm of Wife,
Children & Friends. Friendship, on thee my anchor's cast, Thou wilt be with me till the last. Friend of the Brave,
in danger's darkest hour Intrepid Virtue (that 'a me) looks to thee for power. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide
—Revenge bis leader, and des-pair his—■—"

Mr. Punch has never been able to explain to himself, quite satisfactorily, by what process he passed from the
delivery of his essay on friendship to the following situation. But somehow he shook off a dreadful nightmare, and
found himself and Father Christmas, with a big bit of holly in his stiff old hat (no Gibus), pledging one another at
a table that was no other than Mr. Punch's

Jiktg-Jfirst Wurat