  Monday.—Am sick of paying all these doctor's bills. Have just seen an advertisement of The Domestic Doctor, a Dictionary of Medicine, issued in monthly parts. The very thing for a man like me, somewhat delicate. Hasten to secure Part I. Shall now be able to doctor myself and save all fees. Delightful! To celebrate emancipation ask Jones and Robinson to dinner at club. No need for economy now. Jolly good dinner. That club port is excellent. Tuesday.—Feel rather seedy. Pain in head. No appetite. Just the time to make use of Domestic Doctor. Capital book. Hullo! Well, I'll be hanged! Never thought of that. The beastly thing's alphabetical, and only gets to "Chilblain." No good to look out "Headache." Ah, perhaps "Ache." No go. "Appetite?" But appetite isn't a disease, except in men like Banting. Absolutely no use whatever. Still, will not be conquered. Shall get another part in a month. Until then take great care only to have complaints up to Ch. Can always fall back on Chilblain. Take it easy, with B. and S. in moderate doses when required, and begin to feel better. Wednesday.—Just cut my finger. Feel somewhat nervous. Remember vaguely that lock-jaw often follows a wound on the hand. Ha! My dictionary. "Cuts." Ah, no. "Cuts" come after "Chilblain." They will be in Part II. Bandage wound, and prepare for the worst. Sit with mouth wide open as best attitude for approaching lockjaw. Can then at least be fed. If, however, it really comes, shall be dead before Part VII. of the Dictionary is out. Anyhow, will not send for a doctor. Thursday.—Hooray! Finger and jaw both well. Somehow left boot feels uncommonly tight. Can't walk at all. That fool Phust has made this pair too narrow. Feels as though there were something on my toe. By Jove, so there is! Where's the Dictionary? Chilblain? Can't be a chilblain this mild weather. Of course not; it's a corn. Look out "Corn." Oh, hang it, just too far! But, bright idea, perhaps it's a bunion. Look out "Bunion." Hullo, what's this? "Bunion, see Corn." Well, of all the confounded——Positively can't walk till next month. Lie on sofa under open window to get as much air as possible. Fall asleep. Heavy shower comes on. Get quite wet. Friday.—Sneezing like mad, and coughing. Blow my cough! Blow my nose! No good looking out "Cold" or "Cough" in Dictionary, unless—of course "Catarrh." Seize my priceless treasure, and read, "Catarrh, Latin catarrhus, from Greek"—oh, hang the derivation!—"an affection of the mucous membrane, commonly called a cold. See Cold." Foiled again! Must do what I can with domestic remedies till Part II. comes out. Fires, hot grog, hot bath, hot gruel, lots of blankets. Nearly suffocated. Saturday.—Very much worse. Awful cough. Sit close to fire wrapped in thick dressing-gown. Jones looks in. "Hullo, old man," he says, "what's wrong? Seedy?" I choke out some answer. "Why don't you send for the doctor?" In my indignation nearly burst my head with coughing. At last show him Dictionary, and write on scrap of paper, "Can you suggest some complaint like mine beginning with A or B, or C up to Ch?" Impetuous fellow, Jones. Starts off wildly—"Influenza, Pneumonia, Pleurisy, Diphtheria, Sore Throat, Inflammation of the Lungs——" Then I manage to stop him, and to gasp, "Up to C." "No difficulty about that," says he. "Cold. Cough——" I shake my head feebly. "Well, then, Bronchitis." Of course. The very thing. Look it out. "Bronchitis, from Greek"—blow the derivation!—"inflammation of the membrane of the bronchia. This serious disease requires skilled attention. Keep the patient warm, and send at once for a medical man." What a miserable swindle, when I hoped to save all doctor's fees! Was warm before. Simply boiling with indignation now. Pass the book to Jones in speechless disgust. "Quite right too," he remarks; "just what I said. Capital book! I'll send the doctor as I go home." And so he does, in spite of my protests. Doctor comes and lays his head on my chest. Then he says, cheerfully, "Only a little cough. You'll be all right to-morrow. What's that you say? Bronchitis? Bosh!" Horsey Party. 'I want your Table d'Oat Dinner!' Horsey Party. "Aw—I want your Table d'Oat Dinner!" A LAWYER'S CHORTLE.(A long way after "The Throstle.")Vacation is over, vacation is over, I know it, I know it, I know it. Back to the Strand again, home to the Courts again, Come counsel and clients to go it. Welcome awaits you, High Court of Justice, Thousands will flock to you daily. "You, you, you, you." Is it then for you, That we forget the Old Bailey? Jostling and squeezing and struggling and shoving, What else were the Courts ever made for? The Courts 'twixt the Temple and grey Lincoln's Inn, They're not yet entirely paid for! Now till next year, all of us cry, We'll say (for a fee) what we're bidden. Vacation is over, is over, hurrah! And all past sorrow is hidden. The Pickwickian Examination Paper.—Pickwickian students are well to the front. The first answer to our question in last week's number was sent from Maidstone. Fitting that it should come from Dickens's favourite county, Kent. Yes. The only mention of champagne in Pickwick is when Mr. Tupman drank a bottle of it after an exhilarating quadrille. DAMON OUT OF DATE.Here is the lovely summer going by, And we know nought about it, you and I, Being so far away One from the other; yet to outward eye We both are summer gay. And people talk; although no pulses stir However much I laugh and dance with her, My temporary fate; And you, perhaps as carelessly, prefer That one your will to wait, Who, the dance over, from his strict embrace Gallantly frees you, mops his sun-tanned face, And asks in accents low Whether you'd like an ice, or what, in case You breathe a doubtful "No." Oh, the striped awning and the fairy lamp, The cool night fragrance, the insidious damp, And, more insidious still, The sweet effrontery of the beardless scamp Who babbles at his will. Here, by the sea, which in the darkness sings, On the free breeze I give my fancy wings, And in a sudden shrine Your image throned appears, while the wind swings Its sea-incense divine. Breathless I worship in the waiting night The sparkling eyes, that sometimes seem all light, The cheek so purely pale, The sacred breast, than whitest dress more white, Where whitest thought must fail. Thin arms, with dimpled shadows here and there, The curl'd luxuriance of your soft, dark hair Its own bewitching wreath, And perfect mouth that shows, in smiles too rare, The radiant little teeth. You cannot live on dances and delights, Or fÊtes by day and dance-music by nights. Time foots it fleeter far Than all the surging crowd your beauty smites Like some coruscant star. The ruthless social dragon will not spare Your sweet girl nature, withering in the glare, Or peeping out by stealth. Wealth's prize is beauty, and to make all fair, Beauty's desire is wealth. I cannot keep a carriage for you, dear; No horses on three hundred pounds a year My lacking stables grace. Yet the swift Hansom to the whistle clear Will always speed apace. I cannot give you wines of vintage rare, There is no room for them beneath the stair Which is my cellar's space. Yet with Duke Humphrey we could often fare With more than ducal grace. Ah, loves, like books, are fated from the first, One gets no cup of water for the thirst The whole stream would not slake; Another dims with tears the springs that burst To sunshine for his sake. When this vain fervour sadly sobers down, I'll love you still, white maid, with eyes so brown And voice so passing sweet, And haply with Apollo's laurel crown My love's foredoomed defeat. When the "Cat" is not engaged in its employment— Right employment, Of laying its nine tails on brutal backs— Brutal backs, Street gangs of roughs are free to find employment— Bad employment, In beleaguering the cit's returning tracks— Homeward tracks. Our feelings we with difficulty smother—! 'Culty smother, At finding ruffian hordes at rowdy "fun"— Rowdy fun. Taking one consideration with another— With another, One feels that something stringent should be done— Promptly done! There's the pistol-bearing burglar boldly burgling— Boldly burgling, There's the female fiend engaged in cruel crime— Cruel crime. There's the bashed, half-throttled traveller lying gurgling— Faintly gurgling, And the "Cat" is lying idle all the time— All the time. There's the brutal bully kicking wife or mother— Wife or mother, The unnatural father torturing his son— Childish son! Ah, take one consideration with another— With another, It's surely time that something stern were done— Quickly done! When the "Cat" was laid about the brute garrotter— Cur garrotter, He soon found it inadvisable to choke— 'Ble to choke. And the lout who of street-outrage is a plotter— Callous plotter, Would not deem the nine-tailed lash a little joke— Pleasant joke. The woman-beating brute would hardly smother— Scarcely smother, His howlings when the lash was well laid on— Well laid on. So, take one consideration with another— With another, The "Cat" should once again be called upon— Called upon. The "corner-boys," and larrikins, and suchlike— Louts and suchlike, Who rove the streets at night in rowdy gangs— Robber-gangs, The tingling o' the nine tails might not much like— Would not much like, But that need not stir sentimental pangs— Maudlin pangs. "Gang-boy" to brute Garrotter is just brother— Simply brother. The "Cat" away such vermin prowl—for "fun"— Savage fun! Yes, take one consideration with another— With another, The "Cat" should wake again, says Punch for one— Punch for one! The policeman seems unequal to the job— Toughish job. The constabulary fails to quell the mob— Rowdy mob. So, as, very plainly, something must be done— Promptly done, The suggestion of the "Cat"'s a happy one— Happy one!
AGRICULTURAL MANNERS. AGRICULTURAL MANNERS.Scene—Hounds running across Land occupied by Non-sporting Tenant. Sportswoman. "Now, my Boy, open the Gate, please, and let me through." Young Hodge. "My Orthers is—'Jim, you oppens that there Gaate for no man!' And ar'm denged if ar dis for a Woman!" NOTE BY OUR OWN PHILOSOPHER.The breakfast-eating practical joker, who can be credited with the humorous invention of placing the shell of an egg (the edible contents of which he has previously extracted and swallowed) inverted in an egg-cup, so as to deceive the first hungry person arriving late into fancying that the others have considerately deprived themselves in order that he may not be without his favourite delicacy, this originator, I say, was decidedly a genius. His work after hundreds, nay, thousands of years, remains, fresh as is the new laid egg itself! After being used a million billion times, it gives now the same pleasure as ever it did when it first issued from the brain of its brilliant creator! Such a practical joke as this is "not for an age, but for all time," until there shall be no longer left a hen to lay an egg, or, if there be an egg left by the expiring hen, there shall be no longer a person remaining to eat the egg left by the egg-spiring hen; or, if the person and the egg be there, the last man and the last egg, there shall be no ten minutes allowed for refreshment, as there will be no more time for anything!! Socrates, Homer, Ovid, Horace, Plautus, Terence, Shakspeare, Watt, Sir Isaac Newton, cum multis aliis! their names are remembered, and their fame is to the end of the world! While, alas, the name of the True Wit who first chuckled over his stroke of genius, is lost for ever, no work of art perpetuates his name. But his humour is usque ad finem omnium rerum! Mrs. R. is not surprised that the Valkyrie did not win, when it broke its pinnacle and did not have a centipede. |
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