DOI Heft:
December 17, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0286
December 17, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
281
The Veg. JEnth. Only one brand—non-alcoholic, of course. Manu-
factured I believe, from— ab—oranges.
The Neoph. Exactly so. After all, I'd just as soon have bottled
ale—if they keep it, that is.
The Veg. Enth. Any quantity of it. What shall it be ? They 've
" Anti-Bass Beer," or " Spruce Stout; " or perhaps you 'd like to try
their "Pennyroyal Porter?" I'm rather partial to it myself—
capital tonic!
The Neoph. I—I've no doubt of it. On second thoughts, if you
don't mind, I'd rather have water. (To himself.) It doesn't look
Vegetarian!
The Veg. Enth. [more heartily than ever). Just as you please, my
boy. But you don't mean to say you've done !
The Neoph {earnestly). Indeed, I couldn't touch another morsel,
really!
The Veg. Enth. I thought that stew looked satisfying; that's
where it is, you see—a man can come bere and get a thoroughly
nutritious and filling meal for the trilling sum of fourpence—and
yet you meet people who tell you Vegetarianism is a mere passing
fad! It's a force that's making itself increasingly felt—you
must be conscious of that yourself already ?
The Neoph. (politely). Y-yes—but it's not at all unpleasant at
present—really!
Enter a couple of Red-faced Customers from the country, who
seat themselves.
First Redf. C. Well, I dunno how you 're feelin'—but I feel as
if I could peck a bit.
Second Do. I can do wi' soom stokin' myself. Tidy soort of a
place this. 'Ere, Missy !—(to one of the "Waitresses, who awaits his
commands with angelic patience) you may bring me and my friend
a choomp chop a-piece, not too mooch doon, and a sorsedger, wi' twe
pots o' stout an' bitter—an' lo-ook sharp about it!
[Sensation—the Waitress gives them, gently, hit firmly, to
understand that these coarse and carnivorous propensities
must he indidged elsewhere ; whereupon they depart, rebuked
and abashed, as Scene closes.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Tite Baron, on behalf of small Baronites, thanks Messrs. Cassell
& Co. for Fairy Tales in Other Lands, by Julia Goddard, as they
are dear old friends with new faces.
One of the Assistants in the Baronial Office says, that The Coming
of Father Christmas is most exquisitely heralded byE. F. Manning,
in the daintiest of books, 'lis published by Frederick: Warne
& Co. So if you warne't to make a nice present, you know where
to go and get it.
If Dean and Son are "limited," their stock is unlimited; and,
all things considered as far as possible, the Baron's Chief Retainer
opines that the picture-books from tbe Deanery of Dean and Son
are still tbe best, and, in kind, the most varied for children. " Which
nobody can Dean-y!" The Little One's Own Wonderland is a
delightful realm, wherein the very little ones can wander with
interest through coloured pictures and easy fairy tales. Among the
coloured picture series, the Old Mother Hubbard of 1793, with its
contrast, Old Mother Hubbard of To-day, is very amusing.
J. S. Fry and Sons send out through Sell's Advertising Agency
samples of their daintiest specialities in bonbonnieres. Being issued
by a Sell, one fears a take in ; but as 'tis all good, the agency of Sell
secures a Sale. The chocolates are sure to go down with everyone.
We all know what the sincerest form of flattery is, and certainly
our dear old pet, Alice in Wonderland, whose infinite variety time
cannot stale, will gracefully acknowledge the intenseness of the
compliments conveyed in Olga's Dream, as written by Norley
Chester, illustrated by Messrs. Furniss and Montagu (the illus-
trations will carry the book), and published by Messrs. Skeffington.
It would be a preternaturally wise child who could quite grasp
some of the jokes and up-to-date allusions. However, the real
original Alice (in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-glass)
with the great Master's, John Tenniel's, illustrations, is still,
as Mr. Sam Wetter said of the Governor, " paramount."
Light and airy are the Soap Bubble Stories blown by Fanny
Barry through her pen-pipe. Wonder is that, in this advertising
age, she didn't dedicate them to Pears.
The Baron's Assistant has a word to say about the Diaries for this
next year. If you want a useful Diary, the B. A. would recom-
mend the "Registered Back-loop Pocket Diary," got up, like a
sportsman, in the best of leathers by John Walker & Co., or, " as
Friend Johnnie observes," Henry Irving would say—"to put it
briefly, 'Walker—London.'"
The Baron has recently received two books, not strictly speaking
" Christmas Books," though they are, et cela ra sans dire, books pub-
lished at Christmas-tide, the one practical and parliamentary, the
other philosophical and phenomenal; the former dedicated, to the
Right Honourable Arthur Balfour by Lucy, and the latter
dedicated to Lord Halifax by Lilly. Two prettier names for authors,
or rather, to judge of the writers' sex by the sound of the names, for
authoresses, could not well be chosen. But authors masculine they
are, the pair of them. Mr. W. S. Lilly is to be congratulated on
his very taking title. The Great Enigma, and all classes of readers
will be glad to be informed that it has nothing whatever to do with
the Irish Question. If any reader expects to find the Great Enigma
solved by the Lilly who toils and spins, then he must not be
surprised if the author says to him in effect, " Davus sum, non
(Edipus."
From A Diary of the Salisbury Parliament, by Mr. H. Lugy,
anyone can quaff or sip, just as his thirst for Parliamentary
knowledge may be feverish or moderate, but healthy. It is
thoroughly interesting, most amusing, and. really valuable for
reference withal. 'Tis written, too, in so impartial a spirit, that it
would be difficult to gather from these pages to which political Party
the Diarist belongs, but for his exuberant eulogy of the wonderful
Grand Old Man. Mr. Lucy is the Parliamentary Pepys. The
sketches are by an Old Parliamentary Hand, yclept Harry Furniss,
and assist the reader unfamiliar with the House of Commons to
form a pretty accurate idea of the men who are, and of the men
who were, and what they wear, and how they wear.
The most interesting part of James Payn's latest novel,
A Stumble on the Threshold, to Cambridge men or Camford men (for
in this story the names are synony-
mous), will be the small-beer chronicle
of small College life in their Univer-
sity some thirty years ago. The
slang phrases of that remote period
are perhaps somewhat confused with
those of a more modern time, just as
an old Dutch Master will introduce
his own native town and the costume
of his fellow-countrymen into a pic-
ture representing some great Scriptural
subject, thus bringing it, so to speak,
up to date, and giving us an artistic
realisation of what maybe concisely
termed " the historic present." In the
second volume (this novel is complete
in two volumes) the sketches of river-
life, including a delightful one of the
old lock - keeper, are refreshingly
breezy. The story, slight in itself, is ^ Reviewer,
skilfully worked out; and the only
disappointing part of it—that is, at least to the Baron's thinking—
is, that the villain of the earlier part of the tale does not turn up
again as the real culprit, though the Baron is certain that every
reader must expect him to do so, and must feel quite sure that, in
spite of the author's reticence on the subject, it was he who really
committed the murder, and escaped even the author's detection,
unless, out of sheer soft-heartedness towards the puppets of his own
creation, James Payn knowingly let him off at the last moment.
The judicial portion of the novel, including the scene in the Coroner's
court, is just what would have been expected from an impartial
"J. P."
A Degree Better.—The Degree of Doctor of Music is to be_ re-
vived at Cambridge. The duties will be to attend ailing Musicians
and Composers. When appointed, the Doctor will go out to Monte
Carlo, or thereabouts, to see how Sir Arthur Sullivan is getting
on. Sir Arthur will, of course, regulate his conduct at the tables
by the prescriptions of his Medical Adviser.
Mr. Waggstaff and his Doctor.—He was ordered by his Doctor
to walk two miles a day. " Can't do it in London," was the
patient's reply; " never walk more than one mile. But," he said,
brightening up, "I'll go to Paris, as one mile there is equal to
double the distance in England. How's that ? I '11 tell you. I do
half a mile out, half a mile back: one mile; et voild two /"
"Little Tich" and "Collins."—The former, not the Little
Tich of Drury Lane Pantomime, but Sir Henry Tichborne, Bart.,
has, for absence of mind and body, thus not fulfilling his duties as
High Sheriff, been fined by Mr. Justice Collins five hundred pounds
—quids pro quo—unless he can show some just cause or impediment.
" He wants TiCH-ing up a bit," thought Mr. Justice, but he didn't
say so. _
Reports of Crackers.—If among our old friend Sparagnapane
& Co.'s Crackers there are any that will "go off" better than others
it will be those called The True Lovers' Code Cosaques. This is the
latest addition to the School-Board Education Code for the Christmas
Holidavs.
281
The Veg. JEnth. Only one brand—non-alcoholic, of course. Manu-
factured I believe, from— ab—oranges.
The Neoph. Exactly so. After all, I'd just as soon have bottled
ale—if they keep it, that is.
The Veg. Enth. Any quantity of it. What shall it be ? They 've
" Anti-Bass Beer," or " Spruce Stout; " or perhaps you 'd like to try
their "Pennyroyal Porter?" I'm rather partial to it myself—
capital tonic!
The Neoph. I—I've no doubt of it. On second thoughts, if you
don't mind, I'd rather have water. (To himself.) It doesn't look
Vegetarian!
The Veg. Enth. [more heartily than ever). Just as you please, my
boy. But you don't mean to say you've done !
The Neoph {earnestly). Indeed, I couldn't touch another morsel,
really!
The Veg. Enth. I thought that stew looked satisfying; that's
where it is, you see—a man can come bere and get a thoroughly
nutritious and filling meal for the trilling sum of fourpence—and
yet you meet people who tell you Vegetarianism is a mere passing
fad! It's a force that's making itself increasingly felt—you
must be conscious of that yourself already ?
The Neoph. (politely). Y-yes—but it's not at all unpleasant at
present—really!
Enter a couple of Red-faced Customers from the country, who
seat themselves.
First Redf. C. Well, I dunno how you 're feelin'—but I feel as
if I could peck a bit.
Second Do. I can do wi' soom stokin' myself. Tidy soort of a
place this. 'Ere, Missy !—(to one of the "Waitresses, who awaits his
commands with angelic patience) you may bring me and my friend
a choomp chop a-piece, not too mooch doon, and a sorsedger, wi' twe
pots o' stout an' bitter—an' lo-ook sharp about it!
[Sensation—the Waitress gives them, gently, hit firmly, to
understand that these coarse and carnivorous propensities
must he indidged elsewhere ; whereupon they depart, rebuked
and abashed, as Scene closes.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Tite Baron, on behalf of small Baronites, thanks Messrs. Cassell
& Co. for Fairy Tales in Other Lands, by Julia Goddard, as they
are dear old friends with new faces.
One of the Assistants in the Baronial Office says, that The Coming
of Father Christmas is most exquisitely heralded byE. F. Manning,
in the daintiest of books, 'lis published by Frederick: Warne
& Co. So if you warne't to make a nice present, you know where
to go and get it.
If Dean and Son are "limited," their stock is unlimited; and,
all things considered as far as possible, the Baron's Chief Retainer
opines that the picture-books from tbe Deanery of Dean and Son
are still tbe best, and, in kind, the most varied for children. " Which
nobody can Dean-y!" The Little One's Own Wonderland is a
delightful realm, wherein the very little ones can wander with
interest through coloured pictures and easy fairy tales. Among the
coloured picture series, the Old Mother Hubbard of 1793, with its
contrast, Old Mother Hubbard of To-day, is very amusing.
J. S. Fry and Sons send out through Sell's Advertising Agency
samples of their daintiest specialities in bonbonnieres. Being issued
by a Sell, one fears a take in ; but as 'tis all good, the agency of Sell
secures a Sale. The chocolates are sure to go down with everyone.
We all know what the sincerest form of flattery is, and certainly
our dear old pet, Alice in Wonderland, whose infinite variety time
cannot stale, will gracefully acknowledge the intenseness of the
compliments conveyed in Olga's Dream, as written by Norley
Chester, illustrated by Messrs. Furniss and Montagu (the illus-
trations will carry the book), and published by Messrs. Skeffington.
It would be a preternaturally wise child who could quite grasp
some of the jokes and up-to-date allusions. However, the real
original Alice (in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-glass)
with the great Master's, John Tenniel's, illustrations, is still,
as Mr. Sam Wetter said of the Governor, " paramount."
Light and airy are the Soap Bubble Stories blown by Fanny
Barry through her pen-pipe. Wonder is that, in this advertising
age, she didn't dedicate them to Pears.
The Baron's Assistant has a word to say about the Diaries for this
next year. If you want a useful Diary, the B. A. would recom-
mend the "Registered Back-loop Pocket Diary," got up, like a
sportsman, in the best of leathers by John Walker & Co., or, " as
Friend Johnnie observes," Henry Irving would say—"to put it
briefly, 'Walker—London.'"
The Baron has recently received two books, not strictly speaking
" Christmas Books," though they are, et cela ra sans dire, books pub-
lished at Christmas-tide, the one practical and parliamentary, the
other philosophical and phenomenal; the former dedicated, to the
Right Honourable Arthur Balfour by Lucy, and the latter
dedicated to Lord Halifax by Lilly. Two prettier names for authors,
or rather, to judge of the writers' sex by the sound of the names, for
authoresses, could not well be chosen. But authors masculine they
are, the pair of them. Mr. W. S. Lilly is to be congratulated on
his very taking title. The Great Enigma, and all classes of readers
will be glad to be informed that it has nothing whatever to do with
the Irish Question. If any reader expects to find the Great Enigma
solved by the Lilly who toils and spins, then he must not be
surprised if the author says to him in effect, " Davus sum, non
(Edipus."
From A Diary of the Salisbury Parliament, by Mr. H. Lugy,
anyone can quaff or sip, just as his thirst for Parliamentary
knowledge may be feverish or moderate, but healthy. It is
thoroughly interesting, most amusing, and. really valuable for
reference withal. 'Tis written, too, in so impartial a spirit, that it
would be difficult to gather from these pages to which political Party
the Diarist belongs, but for his exuberant eulogy of the wonderful
Grand Old Man. Mr. Lucy is the Parliamentary Pepys. The
sketches are by an Old Parliamentary Hand, yclept Harry Furniss,
and assist the reader unfamiliar with the House of Commons to
form a pretty accurate idea of the men who are, and of the men
who were, and what they wear, and how they wear.
The most interesting part of James Payn's latest novel,
A Stumble on the Threshold, to Cambridge men or Camford men (for
in this story the names are synony-
mous), will be the small-beer chronicle
of small College life in their Univer-
sity some thirty years ago. The
slang phrases of that remote period
are perhaps somewhat confused with
those of a more modern time, just as
an old Dutch Master will introduce
his own native town and the costume
of his fellow-countrymen into a pic-
ture representing some great Scriptural
subject, thus bringing it, so to speak,
up to date, and giving us an artistic
realisation of what maybe concisely
termed " the historic present." In the
second volume (this novel is complete
in two volumes) the sketches of river-
life, including a delightful one of the
old lock - keeper, are refreshingly
breezy. The story, slight in itself, is ^ Reviewer,
skilfully worked out; and the only
disappointing part of it—that is, at least to the Baron's thinking—
is, that the villain of the earlier part of the tale does not turn up
again as the real culprit, though the Baron is certain that every
reader must expect him to do so, and must feel quite sure that, in
spite of the author's reticence on the subject, it was he who really
committed the murder, and escaped even the author's detection,
unless, out of sheer soft-heartedness towards the puppets of his own
creation, James Payn knowingly let him off at the last moment.
The judicial portion of the novel, including the scene in the Coroner's
court, is just what would have been expected from an impartial
"J. P."
A Degree Better.—The Degree of Doctor of Music is to be_ re-
vived at Cambridge. The duties will be to attend ailing Musicians
and Composers. When appointed, the Doctor will go out to Monte
Carlo, or thereabouts, to see how Sir Arthur Sullivan is getting
on. Sir Arthur will, of course, regulate his conduct at the tables
by the prescriptions of his Medical Adviser.
Mr. Waggstaff and his Doctor.—He was ordered by his Doctor
to walk two miles a day. " Can't do it in London," was the
patient's reply; " never walk more than one mile. But," he said,
brightening up, "I'll go to Paris, as one mile there is equal to
double the distance in England. How's that ? I '11 tell you. I do
half a mile out, half a mile back: one mile; et voild two /"
"Little Tich" and "Collins."—The former, not the Little
Tich of Drury Lane Pantomime, but Sir Henry Tichborne, Bart.,
has, for absence of mind and body, thus not fulfilling his duties as
High Sheriff, been fined by Mr. Justice Collins five hundred pounds
—quids pro quo—unless he can show some just cause or impediment.
" He wants TiCH-ing up a bit," thought Mr. Justice, but he didn't
say so. _
Reports of Crackers.—If among our old friend Sparagnapane
& Co.'s Crackers there are any that will "go off" better than others
it will be those called The True Lovers' Code Cosaques. This is the
latest addition to the School-Board Education Code for the Christmas
Holidavs.