A BALLAD OF WEALTHY WOOING. Ah, why, my Love, receive me With such tip-tilted scorn? Self-love can scarce retrieve me From obloquy forlorn; 'Twas not my fault, believe me, That wealthy I was born. Of Nature's gifts invidious I'd choose I know not which; One might as well be hideous As shunn'd because he's rich. O Love, if thou art bitter, Then death must pleasant be; I know not... more...

THE NEW JOURNAL-INSURANCE. [Several newspapers have been roused to a sense of their duties to their readers by the insurance competition between The Chronicle and The Mail. We make a few preliminary announcements of other insurance schemes which are not yet contemplated.] VOTES FOR WOMEN.—A copy of the current issue nailed to your front door insures you absolutely against arson. THE STAR.—All... more...

Being gifted with decent taste and a sensitive eye, I have never been much beguiled By advertisements, crude in colour, and ten feet high (Which, in fact, I rather reviled); And, as for gigantic signs swinging up in the sky— They drove me perfectly wild! II. Then the lurid posters on paling and chimney-stack Were the terror of every town— Till a League was started by Mr. William Black For the... more...

A PLAY OF FEATURES. [Being Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER'S production of The Attack at the St. James's.] SCENE—Alexandre Mérital's house. ACT I. Daniel Mérital. My father is a wonderful man. Leader of the Social Party in the Chamber of Deputies, noted among his colleagues for his absolute integrity, supported by the millionaire newspaper proprietor, Frépeau, whose motives, between ourselves,... more...

NOT GOING AWAY FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Cookson Gaze, Q.C. Because MARIA votes Eastbourne vulgar, and the girls (sorry now I sent them to that finishing-school at Clapham) laugh so consumedly whenever I open my mouth to address a native if we go to Trouville or Dinard. C. Jumper. Because the Governor thinks three days in the year enough for anybody. Eastend Dr. Because that fiver will just give little SALLY... more...

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS. THE KEEPER. (Continued.) Is there no way, then, you may ask, in which the Head Keeper may be lured from his customary silence for more than a sentence or two? Yes, there is one absolutely certain method, and, so far as I know, only one. The subject to which you must lead your conversation is—no, it isn't poachers, for a good keeper takes the occasional... more...

"SOME DAY!" (Latest Egyptian Version of Milton Welling's popular Song.) Mr. Bull to Miss Egypt, sings:— I know not when the day shall be, I know not when we two shall part; What farewell you will give to me, Or will your words be sweet or tart? It may not be till years have passed, Till France grows calm, young Abbas grey; But I am pledged—so, love, at last, Our hands, our hearts must... more...

'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE. DEAR CHARLIE,—Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know wot'll come next! Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my text; But really life's turn-ups are twisters. You lay out for larks, 'ealth, and tin, But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected," romps in. Who'd ha'... more...

AT A HYPNOTIC SÉANCE. SCENE—A Public Hall in a provincial town. The Hypnotist—a tall, graceful, and handsome young man, in well-fitting evening clothes—has already succeeded in putting most of his subjects to sleep, and is going round and inspecting them critically, as they droop limply on a semicircle of chairs, in a variety of unpicturesque attitudes. The only Lady on the platform is evidently... more...

The Elysian Fields, a flower-gemmed bank, by a flowing stream, beneath the sylvan shade of unfading foliage. Mr. Punch—who is free of all places, from Fleet Street to Parnassus—discovered, in Arcadian attire, attempting "numerous verse" on a subject of National importance—to wit, the approaching Royal Marriage. Mr. Punch. Propt on this "bank of amaranth and moly,"Beneath the shade... more...