PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 103.

November 26, 1892.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. XVII.—TO FAILURE.

A Philosopher has deigned to address to me a letter. "Sir," writes my venerable correspondent, "I have been reading your open letters to Abstractions with some interest. You will, however, perhaps permit me to observe that amongst those to whom you have written are not a few who have no right whatever to be numbered amongst Abstractions. Laziness, for instance, and Crookedness, and Irritation—not to mention others—how is it possible to say that these are Abstractions? They are concrete qualities and nothing else. Forgive me for making this correction, and believe me yours, &c. A Platonist."—To which I merely reply, with all possible respect, "Stuff and nonsense!" I know my letters have reached those to whom they were addressed, no single one has come back through the Dead-letter Office, and that is enough for me. Besides, there are thousands of Abstractions that the mind of "A Platonist" has never conceived. Somewhere I know, there is an abstract Boot, a perfect and ideal combination of all the qualities that ever were or will be connected with boots, a grand exemplar to which all material boots, more or less, nearly approach; and by their likeness to which they are recognised as boots by all who in a previous existence have seen the ideal Boot. Sandals, mocassins, butcher-boots, jack-boots, these are but emanations from the great original. Similarly, there must be an abstract Dog, to the likeness of which, in one respect or another, both the Yorkshire Terrier and the St. Bernard conform. So much then for "A Platonist." And now to the matter in hand.

My dear Failure, there exists amongst us, as, indeed, there has always existed, an innumerable body of those upon whom you have cast your melancholy blight. Amongst their friends and acquaintances they are known by the name you yourself bear. They are the great army of failures. But there must be no mistake. Because a man has had high aspirations, has tried with all the energy of his body and soul to realise them, and has, in the end, fallen short of his exalted aim, he is not, therefore, to be called a failure. Moses, I may remind you, was suffered only to look upon the Promised Land from a mountain-top. Patriots without number—Kossuth shall be my example—have fought and bled, and have been thrust into exile, only to see their objects gained by others in the end. But the final triumph was theirs surely almost as much as if they themselves had gained it. On the other hand there are those who march from disappointment to disappointment, but remain serenely unconscious of it all the time. These are not genuine failures. There is Charsley, for instance, journalist, dramatist, novelist—Heaven knows what besides. His plays have run, on an average, about six nights; his books, published mostly at his own expense, are a drug in the market; but the little creature is as vain, as proud, and, it must be added, as contented, as though Fame had set him, with a blast of her golden trumpet, amongst the mighty Immortals. What lot can be happier than his? Secure in his impregnable egotism, ramparted about with mighty walls of conceit, he bids defiance to attack, and lives an enviable life of self-centred pleasure.

Then, again, there was Johnnie Truebridge. I do not mean to liken him to Charsley, for no more unselfish and kind-hearted being than Johnnie ever breathed. But was there ever a stone that rolled more constantly and gathered less moss? Yet no stroke could subdue his inconquerable cheerfulness. Time after time he got his head above the waters; time after time, some malignant emissary of fate sent him bubbling and gasping down into the depths. He was up again in a moment, striving, battling, buffeting. Nothing could make Johnnie despair, no disappointment could warp the simple straightforward sincerity, the loyal and almost childlike honesty of his nature. And if here and there, for a short time, fortune seemed to shine upon him, you may be sure that there was no single friend whom he did not call upon to bask with him in these fleeting rays. And what a glorious laugh he had; not a loud guffaw that splits your tympanum and crushes merriment flat, but an irrepressible, helpless, irresistible infectious laugh, in which his whole body became involved. I have seen a whole roomful of strangers rolling on their chairs without in the least knowing why, while Johnnie, with his head thrown back, his jolly face puckered into a thousand wrinkles of hearty delight, and his hands pressed to his sides, was shouting with laughter at some joke made, as most of his jokes were, at his own expense.

It was during one of his brief intervals of prosperity, at a meet of the Ditchington Stag-hounds that I first met Johnnie. He was beautifully got up. His top-hat shone scarcely less brilliantly than his rosy cheeks, his collar was of the stiffest, his white tie was folded and pinned with a beautiful accuracy, his black coat fitted him like a glove, his leather-breeches were smooth and speckless, and his champagne-coloured tops fitted his sturdy little legs as if they had been born with him. He was mounted on an enormous chestnut-horse, which Anak might have controlled, but which was far above the power and weight of Johnnie, plucky and determined though he was. Shortly after the beginning of the run, while the hounds were checked, I noticed a strange, hatless, dishevelled figure, riding furiously round and round a field. It was Johnnie, whose horse was bolting with him, but who was just able to guide it sufficiently to keep it going in a circle instead of taking him far over hill and dale. We managed to stop him, and I shall never forget how he laughed at his own disasters while he was picking up his crop and replacing his hat on his head. Not long afterwards, I saw our little Mazeppa crashing, horse and all, into the branches of a tree, but in spite of a black eye and a deep cut on his cheek, he finished the run—fortunately for him a very fast and long one—with imperturbable pluck and with no further misadventure. "Nasty cut that," I said to him as we trained back together, "you'd better get it properly looked to in town." "Pooh," said Johnnie, "it's a mere scratch. Did you see the brute take me into the tree? By Jove, it must have been a comic sight!" and with that he set off again on another burst of inextinguishable laughter.

About a week after this, the usual crash came. A relative of Johnnie was in difficulties. Johnnie, with his wonted chivalry, came to his help with the few thousands that he had lately put by, and, in a day or two, he was on his beam-ends once more. And so the story went on. Money slipped through his fingers like water—prosperity tweaked him by the nose, and fled from him, whilst friends, not a whit more deserving, amassed fortunes, and became sleek. But he was never daunted. With inexhaustible courage and resource, he set to work again to rebuild his shattered edifice, confident that luck would, some day, stay with him for good. But it never did. At last he threw in his lot with a band of adventurers, who proposed to plant the British flag in some hitherto unexplored regions of South or Central Africa. I dined with Johnnie the evening before he left England. He was in the highest spirits. His talk was of rich farms, of immense gold-mines. He was off to make his pile, and would then come home, buy an estate in the country—he had one in his eye—and live a life of sport, surrounded by all the comforts, and by all his friends. And so we parted, never to meet again. He was lost while making his way back to the coast with a small party, and no trace of him has ever since been discovered. But to his friends he has left a memory and an example of invincible courage, and unceasing cheerfulness in the face of misfortune, of constant helpfulness, and unflinching staunchness. Can it be said that such a man was a failure? I don't think so. I must write again. In the meantime I remain, as usual,

D.R.

Signs of the Season.—"Beauty's Daughters!" These charming young ladies are to be obtained for the small sum of one penny! as for this trifling amount,—unless there is a seasonably extra charge,—you can purchase the Christmas Number of the Penny Illustrated, wherein Mr. Clement Scott "our dear departed" (on tour round the world—"globe-trotting"), leads off with some good verses. Will he be chosen Laureate? He is away; and it is characteristic of a truly great poet to be "absent." And the Editor, that undefeated story-teller, tells one of his best stories in his best style, and gives us a delightful picture of Miss Elsie Norman. "Alas! she is another's! she never can be mine!" as she is Somebody Elsie's. Success to your Beauties, Mr. Latey, or more correctly, Mr. Early-and-Latey, as you bring out your Christmas Number a good six weeks before Christmas Day.

Motto for the Labour Commission.—"The proper study of mankind is—Mann!"

The New Employment.—Being "Unemployed."

A CABBIN' IT COUNCIL IN NOVEMBER.

CABBIN' IT COUNCIL.

(In November.)

REAL PRESENCE OF MIND.

Policeman X 24, drunk and almost incapable, is just able to blow his Whistle for Help!

LADY GAY'S GHOST.

Mount Street, Berkeley Square.

Dear Mr. Punch,

More than a fortnight ago I fled from the London fog, with the result that it got thicker than ever about me in the minds of your readers and yourself! I determined during my absence to do what many people in the world of Art and Letters have done before me, employ a "Ghost"—(my first dealings with the supernatural, and probably my last!). I wired to one of the leading Sporting Journals for their most reliable Racing Ghost—he was busy watching Nunthorpe—(who is only the Ghost of what he was!)—and the Bogie understudy sent to me was a Parliamentary Reporter!—(hence the stilted style of the letter signed "Pomperson." Heavens! what a name!)—I had five minutes to explain the situation to him before catching the train de luxe—(Lord Arthur had gone on with the luggage)—and I don't think he had the ghostliest idea of what I wanted!—the one point he grasped, was, that he was to use anonymous names—which he did with a vengeance!—My horror on reading his letter was such that I dropped all the money I had in my hand on the "red" instead of the "black"—and it won!—(I think I shall bring out a system based on "fright.")

Of course all my friends thought Lord Arthur and I had quarrelled, and I was "off" with someone else!—What a fog. This idea being confirmed by the following week's letter, which was the well-meant but misdirected effort of my friend Lady Harriett Entoucas, to whom I wired to "do something for me"—(she pretty nearly did for me altogether!)—there was nothing for it but to come home—where I am—Lord Arthur wanted to write you this week, but I thought one explanation at a time quite enough—so his shall follow—"if you want a thing done, do it yourself!"—so in future I will either be my own Ghost or have nothing to do with them! Yours apparitionally,

Lady Gay.

ALL ROUND THE FAIR.

No. II.

Inside the "Queen's Grand Collection of Moving Waxworks and Lions, and Museum Department of Foreign Wonders and Novelties."

The majority of the Public is still outside, listening open-mouthed to a comic dialogue between the Showman and a juvenile and irreverent Nigger. Those who have come in find that, with the exception of some particularly tame-looking murderers' heads in glazed pigeon-holes, a few limp effigies stuck up on rickety ledges, and an elderly Cart-horse in low spirits, there is little to see at present.

"It's quoite tri-ew!"

[The barrel-organ outside blares "God Save the Queen," and more Spectators come stumping down the wooden steps, followed by the Showman.

[Charles begins to click solemnly and move his head by progressive jerks to the right, while the Little Duke moves his simultaneously to the left, and a Courtier in the background is so affected by the scene that he points with respectful sympathy at nothing; the Spectators do not commit themselves to any comments.

Inside the Circus.

After some tight-rope, juggling, and boneless performances have been given in the very limited arena, the Clown has introduced the Learned Pony.

[The Pony trots round, and thrusts his nose confidently into a Small Boy's face.

In the Home of Mystery.

A small canvas booth with a raised platform, on which a Young Woman in short skirts has just performed a few elementary conjuring tricks before an audience of gaping Rustics.

[The ring widens a very little, and contracts again, while the Zulu performs a perfunctory prance to the monotonous jingle of his brass anklets.

[The booth is precipitately cleared.

"Write Letter Days" should be the companion volume to Red Letter Days, published by Bentley.

THAT IT SHOULD COME TO THIS!

Boy. "Second-Class, Sir?"

Captain. "I nevah travel Second-Class!"

Boy. "This way Third, Sir!"

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

The Smoking-Room.

The subject of the Smoking-room would seem to be intimately and necessarily connected with the subject of smoke, which was dealt with in our last Chapter. A very good friend of mine, Captain Shabrack of the 55th (Queen Elizabeth's Own) Hussars, was good enough to favour me with his views the other day. I met the gallant officer, who is, as all the world knows, one of the safest and best shots of the day, in Pall Mall. He had just stepped out of his Club—the luxurious and splendid Tatterdemalion, or, as it is familiarly called, "the Tat"—where, to use his own graphic language, he had been "killing the worm with a nip of Scotch."

"Early Scotch woodcock, I suppose," says I, sportively alluding to the proverb.

"Scotch woodcock be blowed," says the Captain, who, it must be confessed, does not include an appreciation of delicate humour amongst his numerous merits; "Scotch, real Scotch, a noggin of it, my boy, with soda in a long glass; glug, glug, down it goes, hissin' over the hot coppers. You know the trick, my son, it's no use pretendin' you don't"—and thereupon the high-spirited warrior dug me good-humouredly in the ribs, and winked at me with an eye which, if the truth must be told, was bloodshot to the very verge of ferocity.

"Talkin' of woodcock," he continued—we were now walking along Pall Mall together—"they tell me you're writin' some gas or other about shootin'. Well, if you want a tip from me, just you let into the smokin' room shots a bit; you know the sort I mean, fellows who are reg'lar devils at killin' birds when they haven't got a gun in their hands. Why, there's that little son of a corn-crake, Flickers—when once he gets talkin' in a smokin' room nothing can hold him. He'd talk the hind leg off a donkey. I know he jolly nearly laid me out the last time I met him with all his talk—No, you don't," continued the Captain, imagining, perhaps, that I was going to rally him on his implied connection of himself with the three-legged animal he had mentioned, "no you don't—it wouldn't be funny; and besides, I'm not donkey enough to stand much of that ass Flickers. So just you pitch into him, and the rest of 'em, my bonny boy, next time you put pen to paper." At this moment my cheerful friend observed a hansom that took his fancy. "Gad!" he said, "I never can resist one of those india-rubber tires. Ta, ta, old cock—keep your pecker up. Never forget your goloshes when it rains, and always wear flannel next your skin," and, with that, he sprang into his hansom, ordered the cabman to drive him round the town as long as a florin would last, and was gone.

Had the Captain only stayed with me a little longer, I should have thanked him for his hint, which set me thinking. I know Flickers well. Many a time have I heard that notorious romancer holding forth on his achievements in sport, and love, and society. I have caught him tripping, convicted him of imagination on a score of occasions; dozens of his acquaintances must have found him out over and over again; but the fellow sails on, unconscious of a reverse, with a sort of smiling persistence, down the stream of modified untruthfulness, of which nobody ought to know better than Flickers the rapids, and shallows, and rocks on which the mariner's bark is apt to go to wreck. What is there in the pursuit of sport, I ask myself, that brings on this strange tendency to exaggeration? How few escape it. The excellent, the prosaic Dubson, that broad-shouldered, whiskered, and eminently snub-nosed Nimrod, he too, gives way occasionally. Flickers's, I own, is an extreme case. He has indulged himself in fibs to such an extent, that fibs are now as necessary to him as drams to the drunkard. But Dubson the respectable, Dubson the dull, Dubson the unromantic—why does the gadfly sting him too, and impel him now and then to wonderful antics. For was it not Dubson who told me, only a week ago, that he had shot three partridges stone dead with one shot, and in measuring the distance, had found it to be 100 yards less two inches? Candidly, I do not believe him; but naturally enough I was not going to be outdone, and I promptly returned on him with my well-known anecdote about the shot which ricocheted from a driven bird in front of me and pierced my host's youngest brother—a plump, short-coated Eton boy, who was for some reason standing with his back to me ten yards in my rear—in a part of his person sacred as a rule plagoso Orbilio. The shrieks of the stricken youth, I told Dubson, still sounded horribly in my ears. It took the country doctor an hour to extract the pellets—an operation which the boy endured, with great fortitude, merely observing that he hoped his rowing would not be spoiled for good, as he should bar awfully having to turn himself into a dry-bob. This story, with all its harrowing details, did I duly hammer into the open-mouthed Dubson, who merely remarked that "it was a rum go, but you can never tell where a ricochet will go," and was beginning upon me with a brand-new ricochet anecdote of his own, when I hurriedly departed.

Wherefore, my gay young shooters, you who week by week suck wisdom and conversational ability from these columns, it is borne in upon me that for your benefit I must treat of the Smoking-room in its connection with shooting-parties. Thus, perhaps, you may learn not so much what you ought to say, as what you ought not to say, and your discretion shall be the admiration of a whole country-side. "The Smoking-room: with which is incorporated 'Anecdotes.'" What a rollicking, cheerful, after-dinner sound there is about it. Shabrack might say it was like the title of a cheap weekly, which as a matter of fact, it does resemble. But what of that? Next week we will begin upon it in good earnest.

On the Boxing Kangaroo.

FELINE AMENITIES.

"I've brought you some Lace for your Stall at the Bazaar, Lizzie. I'm afraid it's not quite Old enough to be really valuable. I had it when I was a little Girl."

"Oh, that's Old enough for Anything, dearest! How lovely! Thanks so very much!"

"LE GRAND FRANÇAIS."

["With all his faults, M. de Lesseps is perhaps the most remarkable—we may even say the most illustrious—of living Frenchmen."—The Times.]

SHORT AND SWEET.

["The Young Ladies of Nottingham have formed a Short-skirt League."—Daily Graphic.]

Faults o' Both Sides.—Ardent Radicals grumbled at the Government for not holding an Autumn Session. That was a fault of omission. Now touchy Tories are angry with it for showing too strong a tendency to what Mr. Gladstone once sarcastically called "a policy of examination and inquiry"—into the case of Evicted Tenants, Poor-Law Relief, &c. This is a fault of (Royal) Commission. Luckless Government! The verdict upon it seems to be that it

Notice.—The Twin Fountains of Trafalgar Square regret to inform the British Public that, although they have performed gratuitously and continuously for a number of years, they are compelled to retire from business, as they cannot compete with the State-aided spouting which takes place in their Square.

A Great "Treat."—Public-house Politics at Election time.

"LE GRAND FRANÇAIS!"

Jacques Bonhomme (regarding M. de Lesseps, apart). "BAH! I HAVE LOST MY MONEY! (Pause.) ALL THE SAME, I CANNOT DESIRE THAT HE, SO OLD AND SO DISTINGUISHED, SHOULD SUFFER!!"

GALLANTRY REWARDED.

Lady (having had a fall at a Brook, and come out the wrong side,—to Stranger, who has caught her Horse). "Oh, I'm so much obliged to you! Now, do you mind just bringing him over?"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Books from the publishing house of Fisher Unwin are always goodly to look upon, the public having to thank him for something new in form, binding, and colour, in other series than the Pseudonym Library. In a new edition of The Sinner's Comedy, just issued at the modest price of Eighteenpence, he has solved a problem that has long baffled the publisher, and bothered the public. Few like the appearance of a book with the pages machine-cut; fewer still can spare the time to cut a book. Mr. Fisher Unwin compromises by presenting this dainty little volume with the top pages ready cut, the reader having nothing to do but to slice the side-pages, a labour which no book-lover would grudge, seeing that it leaves the volume with the uncut appearance dear to his heart. The story, told in 146 pages, is, my Baronite says, worthy the distinction of its appearance. The characters are clearly drawn, the plot is interesting, the conversation crisp, and the style throughout pleasantly cynical. The author, John Oliver Hobbes, has a pretty turn of aphorism. "A man's way of loving is so different from a woman's"; and again, "Genius is so rare, and ambition is so common." Here be truths, old enough perhaps, but cleverly re-set.

Some people complain that politics are dull. They should read the parliamentary and extra-parliamentary utterances of the Member for Wrottenborough. They appear weekly in that rising young paper, the Sunday Times, and an extremely readable selection of them has lately been published "in book form," for the enlivening of the Recess. Adapting the Laureate's lines, the Baron would say,—

For whimsical audacity, and quaint unexpectedness. Mr. Pain, in his latest book, Playthings and Parodies, would be hard to beat. In this there is a good back-ground of shrewd observation. He does not propose to make your flesh creep, or your eyes run torrents. He simply succeeds in making you laugh. In "The Processional Instinct," Mr. Pain informs us that he has discovered that our private life is circular, and our public life is rectilineal. Shakspeare, who, being for all time, and not merely for an age, recommends this author to the general public when he says that everybody "should be so conversant with Pain."

The Memories of Dean Hole is rather a misleading title; "but," says the Baron, "I suppose the term 'Reminiscences' is played out. The word 'Memories' seems to suggest that someone, whether Dean Hole, or Dean Corner, or any other Dean, had more than one memory, as indeed those persons appear to possess who mention their 'good memory for names,' and their 'bad memory for dates,' and vice versâ. Soit!" quoth the Baron, in excellent French, "you may take it from me (if I'll part with it) that the Hole book is by no means a half-and-half sort of book, but is vastly entertaining." The stories of "The Cloth" form the most entertaining part of the work. The Baron wishes success to this work of the Dean in Holey Orders, and suggests that the volume should be re-entitled Gathered Leaves from Dean Hole's Rose Garden, a better title than "Reminiscences."

Marion Crawford's Don Orsino (published by Macmillan & Co.) would be worth reading were it only for the colour of its word-painting, and for its high-comedy dialogue. Yet is Mr. Crawford rather given to pause in his story, for the sake of moralising on the tendencies of the age; and the reader, patient though he may be, when he has become interested in the personages of the novel, does not care to be button-holed by a digression. Marion Crawford's recipe for commencing an amorous duologue (early in Vol. III.), which is to lead up to a declaration of love, is deliciously ingenious. It begins with the gentleman taking a seat, and his first remark is upon the chair. Mr. Crawford evidently remembers the old story of how the tenor who knew but one song, "In my Cottage near a Wood," used to introduce it into any scene of any Opera by the simple process of making his entrance alone and finding a chair on the stage. "Aha!" quoth he. "What's this? A chair? and made of wood! Ah! that word! how it reminds me of my 'umble home, 'my cottage near a wood.'" Cue for band; chord; song. In this instance, the love-scene, admirably led up to on the above plan, is strikingly powerful; it is the work of a master-hand. The dénoûment is both artistically original and, at the same time, ordinarily probable. May all readers enjoy this excellent novel as much as has the sympathetic

Baron de Book-Worms.

Classical Question.—If some schoolboys, home for Christmas holidays, wanted Sir Augustus Druriolanus to give them a Christmas Box (not a private one at the Pantomime), what Ancient Philosopher would they mention? Why—of course—"Aristippus."

A LABOUR OF LOVE.

The Vicar. "And were you at the Ball last Night, Mrs. Ramsbottom?"

Mrs. R. "Oh, yes; I was Shampooing Eight Young Ladies there!"

LOCAL COLOUR.

Mr. Alfred Austin, in his new poem, Fortunatus, the Pessimist, has hit upon a new notion, to say nothing of a novel rhyme. Sings he:—

This opens a polychromatic vista to the New Poetry. Technical Art comes to the aid of the elder Muses. The products of gas-tar alone should greatly regenerate a something time-worn poetic phraseology. As thus:—

Verily (as Touchstone says), "I'll rhyme you so, eight years together, dinners and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted." And if it is "the right butterwoman's rate to market," or "the very false gallop of verses," it is at any rate good enough for a long-eared public or a postulant for the Laureateship.

WAR ON A LARGE SCALE.

(An Account of the Conflict, from the Diary of an Inhabitant of Herne Bay.)

Monday.—Extremely awkward—the entire British Fleet have come ashore; and, as it is impossible to move them on account of their enormous tonnage, this will entail a loss of £24,000,000,000!

Tuesday.—Troubles never come singly! The French, taking advantage of the temporary suspension of our naval operations, have declared war. This means the utter ruin of the bathing season, not only at Herne Bay, but Southend, and the Isle of Thanet.

Wednesday.—As I expected! The French Fleet are coming up towards London. They are sure to pepper us as they pass. As every gun carries several hundred miles, I do not see how books can be uninterruptedly issued from and returned to the Circulating Library.

Thursday.—Our first slice of luck! The entire French Fleet during the mist last night came into collision with the Nore Light, and sank immediately. I was surprised at their sparing the Reculvers and the local bathing-machines, but now the mystery is explained.

Friday.—Just learned that the great gun of Paris, which carries forty-four thousand miles, is to be tried for the first time to-morrow. It would have been used earlier, had it not been necessary to raise a foreign loan to supply funds to load it. Trust it won't be laid in our direction. This war has already caused the Insurance Companies to double their charges! Too bad!

Saturday.—All's well that ends well. Hostilities are at an end. This morning all the glass in the windows were broken at 8 o'clock. Ten minutes later the Champs Elysées was deposited half a mile from Birchington. We now know that the great Paris gun burst on its first discharge, and France exists no longer as a country, but as a "geographical expression" is deposited in various parts of Europe.

REAL AND IDEAL.—"A Really Hard-Headed Man"—the Iron-skulled individual now exhibiting at the Aquarium. If his will is as iron as his head, what a despot he would be! If France is tired of her Republic, she might try the Iron-Headed Man as a ruler. There is the chance, of course, that he might turn out a numskull, and be only King Log, after all.

A GENTLEMAN WHO "TAKES LIFE EASILY."

A REMINISCENCE OF THE BASEBALL SEASON.

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

["Do the poor make the slums, or the slums make the poor?"—Henry Lazarus, in "Landlordism."]

THE LAST DISCOVERY.

(A Sequel to a recent Lecture. By Mr. Punch's Prophetic Reporter.)

The enormous crowd cheered again and again. It was furious. The enthusiasm spread from throng to throng, until a mighty chorus filled every portion of the land. And there was indeed reason for the rejoicing. Had not the great Arctic Explorer come home? Had he not been to the North Pole and back? At that very moment were not a couple of steam-tugs drawing his wooden vessel towards his native shore? It was indeed a moment for congratulation—not only personal but national, nay cosmopolitan. The victory of art over nature belonged to more than a country, it belonged to the world!

And the tugs came closer and closer, and the cheers grew louder and louder. Then the vessel bearing the Explorer was near at hand. The crowd joyously jumped into the water, and raising him on their shoulders, bore him triumphantly to land.

How they welcomed him! How they seized his hands and kissed them! How they cried and called him "Master," and "Victor," and "Hero!" It was a scene never to be forgotten!

When the excitement had somewhat subsided, they began to ask him questions. At last one of them wished to know how he contrived to find the North Pole and get back in safety?

"You intended to drift?" said they. "Great and glorious hero, victorious victor, triumphant explorer, did you do this?"

"I did," was the reply.

"And tell us what was your method of obtaining the knowledge you now possess? Oh, great chief, how did you manage it?"

Then came the answer—

"By sitting still, and doing nothing!"

And now it being dark, they separated to illuminate their homes in honour of the fresh industry—an industry admirably adapted to that great and contented class of the community, the Unemployed!

☞ NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.