November 30, 1867,]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

225

needed to “cleanup” after her departure. Then there is Johnson,
froqi Gunter’s ; three-fourths of Johnson going down to my account,
and one-fourth of Johnson to my Aunt. Reckoning from head to foot,
and dividing Johnson into four, Johnson is mine down to the knees,
and the remainder is at my Aunt’s disposal. She is obliged to ask my
permission to use Johnson, or rather to use her part and lot in John-
son, with this formula, “ You don’t want Johnson (meaning my three-
fourths of Johnson), at this moment, do you, dear?” Then I answer
“ Yes” or “ No,” or I say, “ Why not send Henry ? ”

Henry is my Aunt’s page—a page pro tern., the son of our washer-
woman, who, looking forward to seeing her boy in service, is glad of
an opportunity of giving him some practice, for even a fortnight at a
time, under Johnson. He is provided by Government (I mean my
Great Aunt and myself) with a uniform, and may be described as
“ Our Militia.” He is called out for two months in the year, drilling
(so to speak), and living in barracks (the house near Berkeley Square)
for a fortnight at a time.

Be is a dullish boy, ready to grin at a moment’s notice, and easily
distracted from any work in hand. He has what Catholics call a
“ special devotion ” towards my Funny Friend. He worships Grigg,
and Grigg thoroughly appreciates such homage as even this poor
uneducated child can offer.

By the way. I’ve made it up with Grigg, and read him a lecture,
which I don’t think he’ll forget in a hurry. He owned that he had
been in the wrong (this was when we met on the steps of the Burling-
ton Arcade), and he begged my pardon, offering to go down on one
knee. “ To err,” said he, “is human”—here he stretched out his hand
in declamatory fashion, purposely, I believe, for he was obliged to
apologise to the tall beadle, whom lie addressed as “ My Lord Mayor ”—■
“ to forgive,” he continued, “ divine.” I was on the divine side ; and
so, really wishing to get rid of him, shook hands, and said “ Good-
bye.”

1 shan’t forget it in a hurry. I was in festive attire, being on
my road to call upon my Beautiful Friend (Miss Sophia Teresa
Chertton, the youngest of four—farther on in the book), and my
gay fawn-coloured trousers shone out beneath my snow-white vest
and purple-tinged coat, while my light grey gloves, giving airiness
to my hands, matched the revived gloss of my medium-crowned hat,
which again found its balance in the even polish of my last new
boots.

There were many people by the entrance of the Burlington Arcade.
Something stopped the way, when Grigg called me back with a “ Hi! ”
He was getting into his (hired) brougham. I returned, for I feared he
would send a policeman after me, or cry “ Stop thief! ” or, in fact,
play some infernal trick in spite of his recent penitence. I approached
within a couple of paces of him. His “ Hi! ” had attracted the
loungers, and from the step of his brougham he thus addressed me,
loudly, and with a frown, “Oh, by the way, send my coat home punc-
tually, or I won't have it at all.” Taken aback, I couldn’t help saying,
“What?” At this, he, having suddenly jumped inside, and shut the
door, looks out, pretending (the fool !) great anger, and repeats,
“ Punctually. And mind” he adds, “ that my trousers fit me this time.
Drive on! ”

This thing was not done in a corner, and I was the laughing stock (I
saw and felt the titter) of the crowd. Until, by way of proving I wasn’t
a tailor, I called a cab and told him loudly to drive to Belgrave Square,
where I wasn’t going originally, but it sounded well at the time, and I
turned him into another course when we’d got clear of these grinning
idiots.

This evening I dined at home alone in state, being waited upon by
Gunter’s Johnson now entirely mine, my Aunt not sharing her fourth
when out of Town, (“ Mine, mine ! ” as the Bottle Imp says in the
play, when he also adds, hoarsely, “ You must learn to love me! ”
which Johnson is trying to do at a pound a week and his board) and
the boy Henry.

Dining under these circumstances of pomp is nervous work, and I
have once or twice a sort of notion that the boy Henry is so far forget-
ting himself as to try to make Johnson laugh by tickling. It’s sneak-
ish to turn suddenly, or I would. Johnson coughs. Henry sniffs.
I don’t think there’s fair play going on behind my back with the salad.
I try to read during dinner, and keep the soup waiting until I can
decide upon a book. I’ve read all the works in our house, and I’ve
seen all the newspapers. I ultimately select the works of Massinger
and Ford (“ Good opportunity this,” I say to myself, “ to read Mas-
singer and Ford,”) in one very large volume which knocks over the
water bottle when rested against it, and is too heavy for a tumbler.
So I support it with three volumes of Plutarch's Lives (“ also a good
opportunity for reading Plutarch's Lives: will do it quietly after
dinner. Try Julius Caesar, if it’s there,”) and attempt a desultory
study. Whether it is that the action of dinner is totally at variance
with serious reading, or whether the presence of Johnson (entirely
mine) and the boy Henry possesses some counteracting influence
over me, I don’t precisely know, but I can’t read four consecutive lines
comfortably, or with any but the most confused idea of their sense. I
keep up the farce of reading, acting, as it were, a part before the

limited audience of Johnson and the boy. It seems to me—like
Saint Anthony in the song, when molested by evil spirits,

“ But the good Saint Anthony kept his eyes
So closely fixed on his old black book,”

Which is my case precisely.

“ Shouts nor laughter, groans nor cries.

Could ever draw from him a look."

Of course, if Johnson and the boy Henry were to take to this
course of proceeding, i.e.—shouting and laughing, groaning and crying
—it would draw from me a look.

But (it occurs t,o me while pretending to read) if they did suddenly
break out, what should I do ? What should I do, when it came to the
point ? Supposing Johnson began shouting and laughing, and the
boy Henry groaning and crying, or by permutation and combination
the boy Henry shouting and groaning, and Johnson laughing and
crying, that is, a couple of wildly hysterical servants, what should I do ?
Call for a policeman—where ? Go out for one, and leave the house in
charge of one poor cook in the power of demoniac hirelings ? Send
the cook out—how am I to get at her ? Can I leave the room to be
ravaged by these hysterically possessed ? If I ring she wouldn’t
attend, because they are up here, and she wouldn’t understand my
ringing. No, ’twould certainly be better not to allow them “to draw
from me a look.”

However, I am but dreaming over my book, with a sort of waking
indigestion (I must not read during dinner) and neither Johnson nor
the boy Henry are doing anything but clearing away the cutlets and
substituting a pheasant and puree of chestnuts. I expect my Late
Friend (of course “late” so I’ll allow him plenty of law) to arrive
some time after dinner. We are to discuss our holiday tour.

*** You see even the photograph of my Late Friend comes in, con-
sistently, too late for this present Number.

ADVICE TO AN EMPEROR.

Sire, my good brother, health and benediction, as your friend
At Rome says. May it please you to a warning voice attend ?

His most dear son he calls you; so he’s grandsire to your own.
Would you have that young gentleman succeed you on the throne ?

To making that seat safe for him devote, then, all your care,

And pease to intermeddle for his grandpapa’s elsewhere.

Between the two consider what a hazard you do run.

You have your Holy Father to decide on, or your son.

Small of successor is the chance to Pio Nono’s crown ;

You, if you mind what you’re about, may hand your sceptre down.
If you had rather not, obey the bidding of the Black,

Crusading for the Pope-King with a priest upon your back.

Feels France, yourself who what you are created by her voice,

No share when her Elect forbids another people’s choice,

Sends forth her sons, her sister’s sons, with mission to enslave,

And sully with their cousins’ blood the fingers of the brave ?

Will battle won by numbers and the Chassepot rifle make
Weight against Bismarck’s triumph and the Mexican mistake ?

Set at defiance by the strong, foiled, baffled, do you seek
Prestige lost to recover by coercion of the weak ?

All mighty fine this trick may be, but glory it is none.

And not the way to settle your dominions on your son.

Throw the Jack Priest that rides you, if you would that boy should
reign,

And not yourself be, possibly, mere Bonaparte again.

TELEGRAPHY AND TORTOLA.

The Atlantic Cable does tell such lies !—to this country; let us hope
not from it. Query—What are the comparative numbers of falsehoods
on an average daily issuing from this end of the Cable and that ?

All the electric wires, however, from abroad, bring so many false
messages, that “ telegram” will soon be synonymous with “ crammer.”
Whenever anybody says the thing which is not, his hearers will observe,
“ That’s a Telegram! ” and when you tell a girl anything that she
doesn’t believe, she will exclaim, “ Oh, you Telegram! ” instead of
“ Oh, you Story ! ”

Nil Desperandum.

Our friend Blackstone Coke is at length rewarded for the patience
he has shown in waiting for employment since he was “ called.” He has
become a Revising Barrister. Yesterday, we found him correcting a
proof.