ISO

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April 19, 1884.

CHEST LE PREMIER PAS/> &C.

Husband (airily, they had just returned from their Wedding Trip). “ If I’m not Home from
THE CLUE BY—AH—TEN, LOVE, YOU WON’T WAIT-”

Wife quietly). “No, Dear”-—(but with appalling firmness)—“I’ll Come for you! !”

[He was back at 9 '45 sharp!

MAD OR NOT MAD ?

Brown (closing his newspaper). Mad as a March hare, evidently !

Jones (smilingj. Oh, is that your verdict ? Based on what evidence ?

Brown (positively). Why, nobody would do and say such preposterous things who was sane]

Jones (coolly). Oh! is that all? Very inconclusive, I’m afraid. Doing and saying
preposterous things is no evidence of insanity.

Brown. How do you make that out ?

Jones. Why, look at my friend Smith! You don’t know him? Well, listen and judge.
Like Mr. Dick, he cannot get on for five minutes without bringing in by the head and
shoulders one particular subject, which is to him as King Charles’s head was to Betsy
Trotwood's demented friend. He ’ll bring it in a propos of a new book, or the Mahdi, or the
Ammoniaphone, or the price of meat, or prehistoric man, or the Boat Race, or Belt v. Lawes,

or anything else from the Egyptian Question
to the price of oysters. He could no more
keep it out of a paragraph than out of a
page or a volume. He has absolutely no
sense of proportion in language, nor any
feeling for fairness of spirit. He twists
everything into sinister relation to his sub-
ject with a persistent senselessness worthy
of a monomaniac. However innocently he
may start, he is bound to end with some
incongruous snap, or sneer, or flout or
chuckle directed at his ubiquitous bete noir.
He sees mischief, and meanness, and malice
aforethought in everything relating thereto.
No poor soul who fancies himself a flying
teapot pursued with murderous intent by
the Emperor of China, is less capable of
taking a fair view of facts or an undistorted
estimate of motives. Now, what would you
think of my poor friend Smith ?

Brown (with conviction). That he is a
monomaniacal madman.

Jones. Quite so. Yet he is not !

Broivn. What on earth is he then ?

Jones. A smart Party Journalist!

SONG BY A SILENT MEMBER.

Air—“ Love was once a little Boy.”

Time had once not far to fly—•

Hear, hear, hear, hear !

Ere we got into Supply—

Hear, &c.

Now that’s in a backward state,

Thank abundance of debate,

Not to call it needless prate.

Hear, &c.

When at length Supply we reach—
Hear, &e.

Then there’s further waste of speech—
Hear, &c.

So that measures get delayed;

Promised Bills, some left unpaid,
Wanted for the good of Trade.

Hear, &c.

Innocents like those we mourn.

Hear, &c.

Some of them are babes unborn;

Hear, &c.

Those of a vexatious sort;

Others happily cut short;

Bless long-breathed palaver for’t!

Hear, &c.

“ Do me no good.” cries the Mass,

Hear, &c.

Each, “whatever Bills they pass.5'
Hear, &c.

“ Never mind, so long as we
Are happy, and they leave us free,
What’s the odds to you and me ? ”
Hear, hear, hear, hear!
i

SANDWICHCRAFT.

We read in the papers that a series of
entertainments to Sandwich Men have
recently been given, and that they were
greatly delighted with the mental treat
afforded by the music of Beethoven,
Mozart, and Schubert, and the literature
of Shakspeare, Tennyson, and Dickens.
If at these gatherings there was a combi-
nation of Beethoven and Beefsteaks,
Mozart and Mutton-chops, Schubert and
Sandwiches, Dickens and Dutch cheese,
Tennyson and Tea, and Shakspeare and
Shrimps, we can imagine the entertainment
to be very satisfactory. But we fail to see
that Shakspeare would satisfy the cravings
of hunger, that Tennyson would quench
thirst, or that Mozart and Schubert would
he equivalent to a warm coat and a sound
pair of shoes.