A QUEER CHRISTMAS PARTY. I remember coming home and dressing to go out again. Of this so far I am sure. I remember too taking a cab; also the cab taking me. But oddly enough though I dined that evening with a very old friend, somehow I cannot for the life of me, at this moment, call to mind his name or remember where he lives. However, the evening was so remarkable that I at once sat down next day to... more...

STORICULES. I.—THE SUICIDE-ADVERTISEMENT. As you stood before the automatic machine on the station platform, making an imbecile choice between a packet of gooseberry nougat and a slab of the gum caramel, you could not help seeing on the level of your eye this notice:—"BLACKING-CREAM. ASK FOR HIGLINSON'S, AND TAKE NO OTHER." Similar announcements met you on every hoarding, in almost... more...

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. No. III. SCENE—On the Coach from Braine l'Alleud to Waterloo. The vehicle has a Belgian driver, but the conductor is a true-born Briton. Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER and his daughter are behind with PODBURY. CULCHARD, who is not as yet sufficiently on speaking terms with his friend to ask for an introduction, is on the box-seat in front. Mr. Trotter. How are you getting along,... more...

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY. Thursday, June 12.—Letters from Billsbury arrive by every post, Horticultural Societies, sea-side excursions, Sunday School pic-nics, cricket club fêtes, all demand subscriptions, and, as a rule, get them. If this goes on much longer I shall be wound up in the Bankruptcy Court. Shall have to make a stand soon, but how to begin is the difficulty. Pretty certain... more...

"Great Scot!" [Extorted, by circumstances beyond his control, from a stolid but unsuccessful Saxon Shootist at Bisley and Wimbledon, after the match at the latter place between picked twenties of the London Scottish and the London Rifle Brigade, won easily by the former team.] Oh! the Scot lot are all cracks at a shot, And extremely successful at Hunting the Pot. This particular "Saxon"... more...

THE PRINCE. (A Letter from Nicola Puncio Machiavelli to the Most Illustrious Vittorio Emanuele, Son of Umberto, King of Italy.) I. There never was, nor is at this day, any man in the world who is not either a Prince or not a Prince. Seeing, therefore, that your Highness appertains of right to the class of them that are Princes, and being ambitious to present to your Highness that which should have the... more...

A FIRST VISIT TO THE "NAVERIES." "Shiver my timbers!" said the Scribe. "Haul down my yard-arm with a marling-spike!" cried the Artist. And with these strictly nautical expressions, two of Mr. Punch's Own entered the Royal Naval Exhibition, which now occupies the larger portion of the grounds of the Military Hospital, Chelsea. That so popular a show should be allowed to... more...

MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN. (Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.'s Own Harmless Ibsenite.) No. IV.—THE WILD DUCK. ACT III. HIALMAR's Studio. A photograph has just been taken, GINA and HEDVIG are tidying up. Gina (apologetically). There should have been a luncheon-party in this Act, with Dr. RELLING and MÖLVIK, who would have been in a state of comic "chippiness," after his... more...

No. IV.—THE WILD DUCK. ACT I. At WERLE's house. In front a richly-upholstered study. (R.) a green-baize door leading to WERLE's office. At back, open folding doors, revealing an elegant dining-room, in which a brilliant Norwegian dinner-party is going on. Hired Waiters in profusion. A glass is tapped with a knife. Shouts of "Bravo!" Old Mr. WERLE is heard making a long speech,... more...

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY. [CONTINUED.] Thursday, April 16.—On looking through my book I find that I am now a member of ten Billsbury Cricket Clubs, to most of which I am a Vice-President. Not bad, considering that my average in my last year at school was four, and that I didn't play more than half-a-dozen times at Oxford. TOLLAND says there are many more Foot-ball Clubs than Cricket... more...