Punch: Punch (101.1891)

December 26, 1891.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. iii

TT was the eve of the New Year, the Year of Grace 1892, and Mr. Punch, musing deeply upon the manifold duties opening
upon him with his opening Volume, nodded over his cigar, drowsed, and dreamed a dre im of the Old Dags and of the New,
"in visionary vagueness strangely blent." The substance of that suggestive Vision he thus dramatically sets forth ■—

Sceite—Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's Head Tavern. Enter Prince Albert Edward and Mr. Punch.
Prince. After you, Mr. Punch !

Punch. Though you be but Prince of Wales, yet are you the King of Courtesy!

Prince. Well quoted, i' faith! Verily this shadowy precinct smacks of antiquity, and suggesteth Shakspearian tags.
Punch. To a Prince of Wales, and his fidus Achates—naturally !
Prince. Yet art thou no Poixs !

Punch. No more than thou art a madcap Prince Hal.

Prince. Thou art perfect ! The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, Man, is not able to invent anything that tends
to laughter more than thou inventest. " At the old place, my Lord, in Eastcheap." How real it seems ! Mahatmas could
not outdo this, though they re-incarnated in all his tun of flesh the Fat Knight of Shakspeare's virile fancy. One fancies
one can hear the shout for " Francis ! " the drawer's cry of " Anon, anon, Sir ! " the shrill addition of the irate treble of
Dame Quickly, and the stertorous snore of Sir John Sack-and-Sugar from behind yon faded phantom arras !

Punch. Would we could, would we could ! I am of all humours that have show'd themselves humours, since the old
days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight; but, by my faith, the humour of the frolic

Fat Knight-- Prince. Hist! What is't that fetches breath so hard ?

Enter Shade of Falstafe from behind the Arras.

Punch. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been ?

Falstaff. A plague on all spooks ! say I. Give me a cup of sack, an ye love me. Is there no hospitality extant?

Punch. Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it?

Falstaff. Ah, art there ? What doth Gravity out of his bel at midnight ?

Punch. Looking for Levity, who, at holier hours, may hardly be encountered within the precincts of Cockcrowdom.

Falstaff. Fairly answered, i' faith. Well, if sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked '. If to be old anl merry
he a sin, then thou, Punch, art but a latter-day plump Jack thyself.

Prince. Bating the grossness, and retaining the humour without the humours, thy comparison is not so wholly unapt,
Sir John.