Punch

STUDIES FROM MR. PUNCH'S STUDIO. No. XIV.-THE SMALLEST ANONYMOUS AUTHOR IN EXISTENCE. THOSE industrious persons who devote their best energies to solving riddles in weekly papers for the dazzling guerdon of a divided'guinea might employ their ingenuity to worse purpose than in the endeavour to ascertain the particular kind of author who forms the subject of this study, and a prize of sensational value might be offered with perfect security to the successful competitor.

Of course a great many whose delight is in the Retort Obvious, would write to connect this somewhat dubious distinction with the writer of this paper, but in that case he would, as the awarder of the prize, feel it his duty to adjudge all such answers incorrect. However, he thinks it advisable to propitiate any Edipus among his readers with what he believes are known as 66 additional lights."

This obscure, but not wholly uninteresting literary phenomenon, then, is a compound of

paradoxes. Unknown, even under so much as a nom de guerre or inverted initials, his works occupy the same shelves as the most popular novels of the day. He is as much read as anyone, yet there are none to praise his style or recommend him. Endowed with a conceit which approaches the sublime, he yet remains of his own free will a modest abstraction, and never gives the slightest clue to his identity. He is the most egotistic of altruists, a cynic with a flow of sloppy sentiment, a Puritan whose expressions verge at times upon the Aristophanic, an ardent grammarian and a shady speller, and through all these and countless other incompatible phases, he remains the same One and Indivisible Fool, and preserves unstained his escutcheon as a manysided but still unmistakable ass.

Are more lights wanted? They shall be given. The covers which enshrine some of his best productions, bear titles which convulsed all literary London in their day, and at JONES's Esplanade Library or BROWN'S Pump-Room Bazaar, are even now occasionally inquired for on wet afternoons. Yet it will be scarcely credited that he never received a single penny from a publisher for anything he has written, and that in spite of the circulation he has attained, a grateful country will never place his effigy upon a pedestal, or his name upon its Civil List! He does not even expect this himself.

Does the reader give it up? No, of course he guessed it long ago— but Mr. Punch at all events will not condemn him to pass a week upon tenterhooks. He hastens to announce that the form of anonymous small-authorship which it is intended to study here, is that exhibited by the versatile and indefatigable being who scribbles upon the margins of books which do not belong to him, remarks which are of no general interest.

Mr. Punch of course, is not unaware that many of our greatest writers have covered the books they have borrowed with marginal annotations that render them priceless for all time, but he considers it unnecessary to draw distinctions which are so obvious.

The Marginal Annotator of the baser sort is remarkable for his omnivorousness, he will annotate anything from Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour, to Daniel Deronda, THACKERAY to Uncle Tom's Cabin, Miss BROUGHTON to John Inglesant-it is all the same to him, and the stumpy lead pencil which seems to lend itself more readily to the flow of his ideas.

In his more reserved moods he simply confines himself to recording whether the author has or has not filled his intellectual void. If this has been accomplished, he writes "good," or underlines passages here and there, while in case of a failure, he inscribes upon the title-page the crushing condemnation, Rot!"

But this terseness of his will expand at times, often into autobiographical fragments of incalculable value and interest, as where after some vivid word-painting by Mr. BLACK or Mr. BLACKMORE, our Annotator good-naturedly informs us that he was in the neighbourhood himself some time ago, and stopped at the best hotel, but considers the description of scenery in the text rather exaggerated. He is great too on Ethics: "The author is wrong here," he remarks, opposite one of the profounder passages of GEORGE ELIOT, see article in this week's Family Herald on similar subject." Or, "why didn't she tell the Vicar at once that she was secretly married to the Baronet's foster-brother ?" Etiquette, too, is a strong point of his.

"No lady would have said this!" and "Not the act of a gentleman!" he comments severely at intervals.

He will often bitterly resent the behaviour of certain characters: "Why does the author make Mrs. Proudie so disagreeable ?" "I think Becky Sharp was a wretch!" "I hate Count Fosco!" he records on various margins.

Then we meet him in his captious and carping mood; when, for example, he sneers, "The author appears to think partridge are shot with a breechloader!" or, "I was not aware you caught salmon with a worm!" Indeed he is always industrious in detecting and removing blemishes, and has been known to change "Oxbridge" to Cambridge, and "Camford" to Oxford, wherever he comes upon these palpable slips. It is sad to find from internal evidence that the Marginal Annotator's life has not been all sunshine, that he, too, has fulfilled the common doom-has loved and been betrayed! For how else can we explain such Byronic ejaculations as, "How like a woman!" “A lie! no woman is ever sincere-they are all hypocrites!" or such a passage as this, "The author must have known what it is to waste his affection upon a mere heartless doll, or he could not have described it so accurately!"

But the Marginal Annotator is full of contradictions, which if not wilful, are so glaring at times as to force upon us an uneasy impression that there may be two or more of him-worse still, that a female Annotator is not an utter impossibility. For some of the utterances are suspiciously feminine, while others are highly uncomplimentary criticisms, not of the printed text, but of foregoing marginal comments, which, unless the writer, like Mr. RUSKIN, is correcting the extravagance of his cruder youth, it seems difficult to accept as the work of the same hand.

However, there are solemn mysteries which we shall never be accounted worthy to penetrate in this lower life; the Marginal Annotator will never raise his mask, never inform us why or for whom he undertakes his supererogatory labours.

And it may be that, in some future stage of the world's progress, when posterity evolves the power to read the myriad characters which have so long sparkled undeciphered upon the scroll of Heaven, there too amongst those dread secrets will be discerned, scribbled in asteroids or dotted down in fixed stars, some such brilliant observation as," How true!" or, "What Bosh!" But even in apotheosis the Marginal Annotator will probably remain anonymous.

FUNNY LAW IN A COMIC COURT OF JOCULAR JUSTICE. SCENE-A Chamber in the Queen's Bench Division of the High Court of Justice. Theatrical Trial in progress. Everybody in good spirits except (possibly) the litigants. Famous Comedian has just entered the Witness-Box.

Mr. Keystone, Q. C. Ha! ha! Mr. FOOTLIGHT! Here we are again! (Laughter.) Well, and how do you find yourself to-morrow? (Roars of laughter.)

Mr. Footlight. My Lord, (laughter) am I bound (renewed laughter) to answer (continued laughter) that question? (Roars of laughter). His Lordship. It is not quite relevant, but no doubt the Counsel is following his instructions.

Mr. Keystone, Q.C. I am more likely to follow my nose. (Laughter.) Now, Mr. FOOTLIGHT, have you ever played Macbeth? (Laughter.) I am looking at you! (Roars of laughter.)

Mr. Footlight. I cannot (laughter) call to mind (renewed laughter) that I ever (continued laughter) have played Macbeth. (Roars of laughter.)

Mr. Keystone, Q. C. I suppose you couldn't play unless the proper cue were given you? (Laughter.)

His Lordship. "Play? "Cue?" But I've not yet heard a word about billiards. (Laughter.)

Mr. Keystone, Q. C. No, my Lord, but we're playing for the pocket. (Shouts.)

Mr. Footlight. And I'm always on the spot. (Convulsions of laughter. Two Ushers carried out, and their neckties undone.) Mr. Keystone, Q. C. Well, Mr. FOOTLIGHT, can you tell me if a herring and a half cost three-halfpence, how much twelve will come to? (Laughter.)

Mr. Rope. Really, I do not wish to interfere with my learned friend, but there is a limit to everything, and I think that limit has been reached. The Defendant is a foreigner, friendless, and not blessed with too much money, and

Mr. Keystone, Q. C. Not blessed with too much money! I like that! Why, without money she would have seen precious little of my learned friend on this occasion! (Laughter.) He would not have given her much rope. (Roars of laughter.) [And so on, and so on, for two or three days until the Trial closes in.

'ARD 'IT.-It is not true that Mr. H. A. JONES tried to obtain the services of Signor ARD-'IT-I as Musical Conductor at the Haymarket Theatre.

Freddy (in his First Childhood). "GRAN'P'A, WHAT DID YOU DO IN YOUR CHRIS'MAS HOLIDAYS, WHEN"-(sniff)-" WHEN THE WIRES BROKE AN' YOU COULDN'T-COULDN'T GET SEATS FOR" (breaks down)-"THE PANTOMIME-BOO-00!"

Patriarch (in his Second). "WHAT DID WE DO, MY BOY! WIRES! WHY WE WALKED THROUGH THE SNOW, AND PAID OUR MONEY, AND TOOK OUR SEATS. NO WIRES AN' GIMCRACKS THEN, FREDDY!-CUTTING THE POOR COACHMEN'S HEADS OFF!-WIRES- -!"

[Dozes of placidly.

THE following advertisement offers a fine chance to some enterprising Bath Chair Sir GALAHAD:

MATH

ATRIMONY.-A WIDOW, COUNTESS, about 40, no family, pleasing, unpretending, cultured, domesticated, having lost fortune and home, wishes for the protection of a Protestant Husband, elderly or even invalid, requiring a cheerful, Christian, attentive, devoted wife.-Address, The qualifications of "elderly or even invalid" would seem to imply that the ruined but "unpretending" Countess was in the hopes of getting a Knight Hospitaller to come to her rescue. She ought to be overwhelmed with replies.

MOTTO FOR THE GLENBEIGH TENANTS.-Va Evictis!

AN APPEAL TO, APOLLO.

(From a Quiet Neighbourhood.)

A SCORE of organs all the day

Wheeze, hammer, reel, and grind itThe Chord the lady tried to play,

But failed, alas, to find it.

And nomad merchants roar, sans cesse,
Their barter-checking jargon,
Until I almost learn to bless

Their efforts when they are gone.
Their dainty-footed donkeys bray
As elsewhere bray no donkeys;
And German bands of demons play

In tottering time and wrong keys. With raucous voice he breaks my rest Who thunders forth the dirges

Of clothes that once, belike, were "best,"
The Rag-and-Boanerges.

O Phœbus, have them all convey'd
Afar, in peace, to fill a
Sahara of itinerant trade,

But spare the poet's villa!

A NEW "TANGLEWOOD TALE."-Somebody else is "keeping up the Classics," too, Mr. Punch is glad to see. In the Novelty Theatre (good ending for a hexameter" in Noveltate Theatro") last week was performed an English Play, called Dux Redux, or a Forest Tangle, written, and partly acted, too, by JAMES RHOADES. But who was the "Dux"? We don't see our way, even with RHOADES to keep us straight. Was it a political skit, and was the "Dux" W. E. G.? If so, why "redux"? Perhaps, TOMMY suggests, it was meant for "reduced." But in the Play there is a revolt of wood-cutters, and wood-cutters would never cut the Hawarden feller. We knew a Dux once at school, but he is not likely to play "Dux" again. Time has played ducks (and drakes) with him probably before now. Who was it ? If it supposed to be Mr. RHOADES'S magnum opus, why not have called it The Colossus of RHOADES, and have attracted attention that way. The result was, we believe, satisfactory.

A TRANSPONTINE STUDY.
You think she's a dainty dairymaid
From a Wattean-Dresden dairy.

A Nymph from a New Arcadia's glade,
Or a Savoy Theatre fairy;

A figure cut from a bon-bon box,

A cook, from a School of Cookery:
Oh no-she's a study in pink and white,
Of a girl from a London rookery.
Red-kerchieft youths, in furry caps,
Would woo and win-and whop her,
But her demeanour is perhaps
Discouragingly proper;

And when on gallant lover's breast
Reposing all her weight she 's,
In modest wise she drops her eyes,
But never drops her H's.

Her thoughts are, like her attic, high,
Expressed in language stately;
Though where she picks the language up
Has exercised me greatly.
And the dangerous classes worship her,
As Buddhists their Grand Lama;
And that is the London flow'r-girl's form
As seen in a melodrama.

WHAT steps should be taken to celebrate Her MAJESTY'S Jubilee? A whole flightif you would rise to the occasion.

House of Commons, January 25.-House meets on Thursday. Came down to take a look round, and see if I left any cigars in my locker last August. Capital place for keeping cigars if you like them a little dry. House itself comes up smiling at the beginning of new Session. Looks polished and clean as if it had never known an allnight sitting. Thought the policeman and I would have the place to ourselves. Seems to have occurred to others to come down and have a look round.

Here comes W. H. SMITH, walking on his toes as if afraid to disturb one of the Leaders of the Opposition. Doesn't see me at first, as I curl myself up in SPEAKER'S Chair. Looks cautiously round. Believes he's quite alone. Takes seat on Treasury Bench opposite brass-bound box.

"Mine!" he mutters to himself. "The seat that once was PEEL's and DISRAELI's, and GLADSTONE's, and

"SMITH'S!" I called out, peeping over the elbow of Chair. "My gracious! how you startled me, TOBY!" he said, jumping Knew you were there all the time, don't you know, but thought you were asleep. Just looked in, as I happened to be passing. Fine seasonable weather."

"Very," I said, "and a good deal of it."

Then there was a pause timidly broken by our new Leader.

"And how do you think I'll get on, TOBY? Do you suppose I'll make much of a mess of it?"

"Not at all," I said, taking the opportunity, in the absence of the SPEAKER, of cocking a hind leg over the arm of the Chair. "You'll do very well if RANDOLPH will let you alone."

"Ah!" said SMITH. And a look of anguish crossed his placid brow.

"You're a good, honest sort of fellow, of the kind the House likes.

Everybody but RANDOLPH will be glad to help you, and, besides, you Certainly," replied the eminent man, "but, I cannot quite won't be here very long. Don't be too apologetic. There's no understand why there should be such excitement about it. After all, danger of your being too bumptious. Give up your habit of sitting you can't get much variety out of sausages-the flavour of one must on the edge of the bench, as if you were not quite sure you had be very like the flavour of another. Much depends on the stuffing." any right to be there, and you'll do very well. Hallo! here's "You are too modest," said Our Representative. "Why, Mr. RANDOLPH!" BLOGGS, do you not know that all London is waiting for your next new sausage?"

ghastly pale, and instinctively

Ah! I think I've a letter to walking on tiptoe, disappeared

"Where ?" cried W. H., growing sitting on the edge of the bench. write." And our new Leader, again by the door at the back of the Chair. RANDOLPH halted in contemplative mood by the Cross Benches where Members stand when they've Bills to bring in, and await call from the SPEAKER. Must have seen W. H. SMITH gliding out, but hadn't caught sight of me in recess of the Chair.

"Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL!" I called out, in imitation of the tones of the SPEAKER, when he invites a Member to bring up his Bill. Pretty to see how he jumped. (What a day I'm having, to be sure!) "That you, TOBY?" he said. "Wish you wouldn't go playing these larks just now. Not quite up to fun. Temper a little spoiled, nerves slightly shattered by recent events. Know now something of the feelings of Richard the Third as depicted in SHAKSPEARE. Have my night-before-the-battle every twenty-four hours. Toss about on my bed for half the night. Then, when I fall asleep, comes the Markiss, with dishevelled hair, reproachful glance, and wringing hands, moaning with the ghost of Buckingham,

"The first was I that helped thee to the crown,
The last was I that felt thy tyranny.'

After him come Grand CROSS, and SMITH, and STANLEY, and all that
I have jumped upon, passing in mournful procession through the

room.

"Well, you'll have a chance of making it all up now. They'll want a little help in the Session, and you can be kind to them."

Yes, I know," said RANDOLPH, twirling his moustache, whilst a curious light shone in his eyes. Can't quite make out what this means, but fancy it doesn't forebode peace.

Looked in at the Lords, but nobody there. Only the memory of one who will come no more. Odd that the Conservative Party should have so little prized a man like STAFFORD NORTHCOTE. Won't easily, if ever, replace him. But happy deliverance for him. Had a bad time ever since DIZZY's protecting arm withdrawn. Turned up

"So they tell me," smilingly acquiesced the great Manufacturer. "So they tell me. Well, there is no secret. Here is the recipe." And the scientific caterer handed Our Representative a sheet of paper containing some writing.

Of course, you must not publish the receipt," Mr. BLOGGS Continued, with a little laugh, "because that would not be fair. Still you see it is simple enough. But I have by me a sketch which is at your service. I have here all the ingredients in miniature, and can make up my model sausage without even leaving my armchair." "But are you not nervous about the result?" Sketched by Mr. Bloggs. "Very. You would scarcely believe it, but

The Raw Material.

I have never been present at the selling of any one of my own sausages. I once went into a shop where they were exposed for sale, and on seeing a purchaser about to ask their price, I became so faint that I was obliged to leave immediately."

"Your nervousness is very strange, considering that your sausages are so popular."

'Perhaps the secret of their success is, I believe in them-I do most firmly." And here the eminent Manufacturer made a movement which seemed to denote that he was anxious to return to his work. Before I leave," said Our Representative, "if you have no objection, Mr. BLOGGS, I will ask you one question."

Certainly; I shall be most happy to answer as many questions as you are pleased to set me."

your own sausages?"
Well, then, may I put it to you? Have you ever eaten one of

"No," replied the Manufacturer, promptly. And then, as he bowed Our Representative out, he added, in a tone of evident conviction, "and, what is more, I don't think I ever shall!"

a letter he wrote to me more than four years ago, at the close of the Autumn Session, when the Closure was discussed, and RANDOLPH mouthed against it. Might have been written four weeks ago. Just there are any left in town to visit the Prince of Wales's, the home ALICE in Wonderland will continue to delight children as long as the same worry, and just the same patient, brave spirit, making of the BRUCE, which is crowded every afterthe least of personal discomfort, and hoping for the best. About this time RANDOLPH and his merry men had been "going for " him with additional ferocity. His health showed signs of breaking down. He was setting out on an expedition to summer seas, and a few lines were written in the Diary, wishing him a good time, and renewed health. Then came his letter, in his painstaking, neat handwriting :30, St. James's Place, S W., Nov. 22, 1882. DEAR TOBY-Very many thanks for the kindly words in Punch. TOBY, M.P., I look upon as a most valuable Member of the House, and sincerely trust that the Clôture may never be applied to him.

Ridentem dicere verum

Quid vetat ?

I need hardly say that I am much touched by the kindness shown to
me by so many of my friends, including my enemies. The life in
the House of Commons has many trials, but I find them much more
than compensated for by the many pleasant feelings which they
evoke. I hope to be back in my place at the opening of next Session,
and prepared to endure any amount of fire " From the Cross Benches,"
or any other part of the House.

Believe me, Yours very faithfully,
STAFFORD H. NORTHCOTE.
Alas! Requiescat. No more 'next Session" for him.
For us, what promises to be a lively one begins on Thursday.

eight years of age must have read LEWIS
We suppose that all children over
CARROLL's book, so thoroughly conversant
It's a splendid re-advertisement for the
are they with its scenes and characters.
book, and the Christmas CARROLL ought to
be grateful to Mr. SAVILE CLARKE, the
is not a work to please the elders. What
dramatiser of this work. But, mind you, it
delights the little ones will not suit their
parents and guardians, who must be con-
tent with taking a back seat, and being
enchanted to see a theatre filled with
children thoroughly enjoying themselves.

It is all very well for anyone, say over thirty, to take up the book, look at Mr. TENNIEL'S wonderfully fancy pictures, and to select here and there some nonsensical prose and funny verse. But to sit out nearly three hours of inconsequent dialogue and utterly idiotic songs, given with only one rest of ten minutes between the two Acts, strikes us as an uncommonly good preparation for being entered on the books of Colney Hatch. And then from the experienced playgoer's point of view-for whom it was never written, and never intended, so he'd better not go and see it,-what effective chances have been lost! and, with the exception of the Gryphon, the Mock Turtle, the Hatter, the March Hare, and Tweedle-dum and Tweedledee, how unsatisfactory are the realisations of Mr. TENNIEL's ideals! Why, the Chess Queens look like bottles of salad mixture, and the Pawns like overgrown fungi! Then the song of the JabberwokTHE recent great demand for pork-sausages having aroused-oh dear, oh dear!-utterly lost. It ought to have been declaimed curiosity in this branch of industry, we sent one of Our Represen- to music by a good reciter, and the fight with the Monster should tatives the other day to wait upon Mr. BLOGGS, the eminent have been shown by means of a magic lantern and electric light, or Manufacturer, to ask him a few questions.

However, it was written for the children, and not for their seniors, and the children could go and see it over and over again, and never be tired. We recommend the Papas and Uncles who take them, to see a little bit of the beginning, then to retire to their Club, and, if they indulge in such a habit, smoke, or read the papers, and return in time to see Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee in the Second Act. For which tip they'll thank us.

MS., Printed Matter, or Drawings, be returned, unless accompanied
Copies of MS. should be kept by the Senders.

MUCH IN POINT. IN the now historical case of Brett v. The Holborn Restaurant, the Plaintiff alleged that a needle and thread had been served up with his spinach and quail, and that he had swallowed and suffered. "One swallow makes one suffer" sometimes, and the unfortunate Mr. BRETT had been undoubtedly a sufferer.

There is a slang phrase, "getting the needle,"-meaning, "being angry," often used by ARRY. Well, might a man "get the needle," who had indeed actually swallowed one. There is a dinner called " potatoes and point,' which sounds the nearest thing to "spinach and needles," but the Holborn never professed to serve either of them. But as far as the Holborn Restaurant was concerned in the matter of the needle, the Jury, though they followed the thread of the argument about the needle, were unable to see the point, and the Chief Justice shutting up the needle-case, observed in effect, that "it was needles-he should say needless-to proceed any further," except to the Holborn Restaurant, where, as he had heard from his Brother PUNCH, and as was pretty clear from the evidence in Court, they served very many and uncommonly good

dinners.

Mr. Justice PUNCH concurred, and added, that had the Restaurant been situated in Threadneedle Street, this accidental circumstance might have had its weight. Quail was not, to his mind, associated with Needles-they were not a sea-bird; nor was it of the Pin-tail family. It was true that the French for spinach was épinards, and here, undoubtedly, there was a "pin" in the middle. But a pin was not a needle, and this made, not a mere pin's point of difference, but an essential and vital distinction between this and such a possible case. When he (Mr. Justice PUNCH) went to the Holborn he should always ask, at the right season of the year, with the poet HORACE-a great gourmet, by the way

"Qualem commendes?"

DEAR CHARLIE,

'ARRY IN THE WITNESS-BOX.

DESSAY you'll remember I told you a good bit ago,

'Ow I served on a Jury. Well, chummy, they nailed me agen, dontcher know.
Not quite on the same little lay, though; they 'ooked me as Witness this round,
In the case of McSlobber v. Muggins; you've 'eard of that case, I'll be bound."
It was pasted all over the place, and the name of Yours Truly, dear boy,
Has bin printed in all the dashed papers, a barney you'd think I'd enjoy.
Not a bit on it, CHARLIE, believe me! I don't mind a 'ealthy trot out,
But this bizness has bloomin' well broke me, and jolly nigh give me the gout.
Poppylarity's pleasant, my pippin, and "ARRY" ain't one o' them sort

As is frightened to spread theirselves out; quite contrairy, it's proper 'igh sport.
When I got the soopeener, I tell yer, I chi-iked and chortled with glee,
And if ever a feller stood up and shook 'ands with hisself, it was me.

Thinks I, now then 'ARRY, my sparkler, you want to strike one,-here's yer
chance!

The brocoli-wigs must jest watch it; way-oh! won't I lead 'em a dance!
Them Kew Seas is wonderful clever, and dabs at a snack or a joke,

But if 'ARRY don't romp round the lot on 'em-well, I'll go home and eat coke.

Oh, CHARLIE!!! Wot swivel-eyed jossers the best on us is, mate, at times!
Owsomever I'd better look slippy, and rumble along with my rhymes.

I got myself up a rare buster, tan kids and a brown Hinverness,

With a lovely black Hastrykan collar; you know I'm a whale at smart dress.

Can't say as I made the sensation I 'oped. The old mivvy called Law
Is a sawdusty kind of a sell, with no soul above parchment and jaw.

I'd to 'ang round that Court for three days, CHARLIE, elbered, drove here and
shoved there.

Yah! A Witness must be a job-lot if he ain't wuth a stool or a chair.

The Beak and the Barristers-dash 'em!-sat snug as old china on shelves,
A-passin' smart compliments round, and a-crackin' bad jokes to theirselves.
When the Bench or the Bar made a wheeze, they all roared, the Beak wagged
his white pow,

And that beast of a Husher cried "Horder!" as though hus poor coves made
the row!

There wos close on a score of hus witnesses, such a rum regiment, dear pal,
There wos parsons, and potboys, a cabman, two toffs, and a nervous old gal.
The old mivvy went orf in highstericks, the toffs lost their 'eds and talked
stuff,
And the parson got awfully mixed and flung out of the box in a huff.
The plaintiff hisself wos so flummoxed, he seemed to go slap orf 'is chump,
And leaked orkurd facts like a sieve when the Counsel jest put on the pump.
He couldn't keep cool at the "nasty ones," spluttered, went red in the face,
And jolly nigh mucked the whole game in his fear of not making a case.
Thinks I, well it all 'angs on me, that's a moral. I'll make 'em sit up!
They won't put the kibosh on me, that's St. Paul's to my tarrier pup.
Well, they called me; I twirled my moustachers, and tipped a sly wink round the
As much as to say,
Court,
"That rot's over, and now, rorty pals, you'll see sport."
They did, CHARLIE, oh! yus they did, mate; but I wos the wictim, wus luck!
A rat in a pit wos a king to me. Not that I shied or lost pluck;
No fear, that is not 'ARRY's form. But oh, scissors! that bloomin' old Beak!
He boshed all my patter to putty, and snubbed all my snideness as cheek.
He 'adn't no eye for a "Star," CHARLIE; that's where it wos, dontcher see?
at his best, in his patter-song, "Sparks on the
believe the Big BOUNCE
Spree,"
Would just ha' bin clean chucked away on 'im. Jibbed when I put on the pace,
And "cut" all my cackle, dear boy, till I felt I could sit on his face.
Disgustin'!" Jest answer my question," the Counsel sez, "straight!" "Oh,
I'm fly,
But I give up that speshal conundrum. You ask me another!" sez I.
Then, Oh, wasn't the fat in the fire, CHARLIE? Wigging? That isn't the word.
If I 'adn't dried up, they'd 'ave offed me to gaol for "Contempt " like a bird.
That mucked me, took all the romp out of me somehow. I fair lost my tip,
And went slopping all over the shop, letting all sorts o' secrets let slip.
Sez Old SIXANDEIGHTPENCE, quite tart, as I wobbled away from that Box,
"You've jest lost us the case, Master 'ARRY!" I felt I could sink in my sox.
And that's wot these Jossers call Justice! Wot's wus, every pal as I meet
Sez, "Hullo! Saw your name in the paper. You nice cup o' tea!"-ain't it
think I must trot out of town, for much more of this chaff I can't carry,
And when Justice next wants a Witness, I 'ope it won't drop upon

sweet?

'ARRY.

And if the Manager did recommend the bird, he should certainly eat it, even though it had been shot with a needle-gun, without fear of it or its surrounding "spinach." The Jury very properly gave a verdict for the Holborn Restaurant. Had it been for the Plaintiff, it would have been recorded as Needles and Spinach ; TOO MUCH TO EXPECT.-According to all accounts (including the builders') but, as it is, the Jury's opinion of the case might perhaps the coming Cab ought to be a success. But it will indeed be perfect if it have been less politely expressed by Gammon and Spinach. succeeds in doing away with all growlers.

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Punch, Volume 92