Punch (103.1892)

November 26, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

243

REAL PRESENCE OF MIND.

Policeman X 24, drunk and almost incapable, is just able to blow his Whistle

for Help !

C ABB IN' IT COUNCIL.

(In November.)

Grand Old Jar vie, loquitur:—

OLud! OLud! OLud I
As Tom Hood cried, apostrophising London),
November rules, a reign of rain, fog, mud,
And Summer's sun is fled, and Autumn's
fun done.

Far are the fields M.P.'s have tramped and
gunned on!
Mai wood is far, and far is fair Dalmeny,
And Harwarden,
Like a garden
(To Caucus-mustered crowds) glowing and
greeny

In soft September,
Is distant now, and dull; for 'tis November,

And we are in a Fog !
Cabbin' it, Council ? Ah! each absent
Member

May be esteemed a vastly lucky dog !
The streets are up—of course! No Irish bog
Is darker, deeper, dirtier than that hole
Sp-nc-r is staring into. On my soul,
M-rl-y, we want that light you 're seeking,
swarming

Up that lank lamp-post in a style alarming !
Take care, my John, you don't come down a
whopper !

And you, young R-s-b-ry, if you come a
cropper

Over that dark, dim pile, where shall we be ?

Pest! I can hardly see
An inch before my nose—not to say clearly.
Hold him up, H-rc-rt ! He was down

then, nearly,
Our crook-knee'd 1' crock." Seems going very

queerly,

Although so short a time out of the stable.
Ouiet him, William, quiet him!—if you 're
able.

This is no spot for him to fall. I dread
The need—just here—of "sitting on his
head."

Cutting the traces
Will leave us dead-lock'd, here of all bad
places!

Oh, do keep quiet, K-mb-rl-y I You 're
twitching

My cape again! Mind, Asq-th ! You '11 be
pitching

Over that barrier, if you are not steady.
Fancy us getting in this fix—already !,
Cabbin' it in a fog is awkward work,
Specially for the driver, who can't shirk,
When once his " fare" is taken.
I feel shaken,
'd rather drive the chariot of the Sun

(That's dangerous, but rare fun!)
Like Phaethon,
Than play the Jehu in a fog so woful

To this confounded " Shoful" !

LADY GAY'S GHOST.

Mount Street, Berkeley Square.
Dear Mr. Punch,

More than a fortnight ago I fled
from the London fog, with the result that it
got thicker than ever about me in the minds
of your readers and yourself! I determined
during my absence to do what many people
in the world of Art and Letters have done
before me, employ a "Ghost''—(my first
dealings with the supernatural, and probably
my last!). I wired to one of the leading
Sporting Journals for their most reliable
Racing Ghost—he was busy watching Nun-
thorpe—(who is only the Ghost of what he
was!)—and the Bogie understudy sent to me
was a Parliamentary Reporter!—(hence the
stilted style of the letter signed "Pomperson."
Heavens! what a name!)—I had five minutes

to explain the situation to him before catching
the train de luxe—(Lord Arthur had gone
on with the luggage)—and I don't think he
had the ghostliest idea of what I wanted!
—the one point he grasped, was, that he was
to use anonymous names—which he did with
a vengeance !—My horror on reading his letter
was such that I dropped all the money I had
in my hand on the "red" instead of the
" black "—and it won!—(I think I shall bring
out a system based on "fright.")

Of course all my friends thought Lord
Arthur and I had quarrelled, and I was
" off " with someone else!—What a fog , This

idea being confirmed by the following week's
letter, which was the well-meant but mis-
directed effort of my friend Lady Harriett
Entoucas, to whom I wired to "do some-
thing for me"—(she pretty nearly'did for me
altogether !)—there was nothing for it but to
come home—where I am—Lord Arthur
wanted to write you this week, but I thought
one explanation at a time quite enough—so
his shall follow—"if you want a thing done,
do it yourself! "—so in future I will either be
my own Ghost or have nothing to do with
them! Yours apparitionally,

Lady Gat.