Then I saw, for my transgressions, I conceive! The police my cab were staying, I beheld the man in armour- Who looked as though his trappings And that usual mob was cheering, But I saw another sort o' men, Coat and Badge. After guardsmen, after rifles, And such unconsidered trifles, Scarcely fit to make a verse on, I declare Through our hearts there went a thrill; lips THE LORD MAYOR. When that splendid incarnation Slowly led, I felt a sense of wonder, Drive ahead!" NOT BART-ICULAR. THE following advertisement appeared in a daily paper a little while since: "A Baronet wishes to get into the House of Commons. If any one can tell him of a borough that can be had he will be very glad. This Baronet, from shortness of time, will not touch on his principles, but will state that he has a bitter dislike for the Ballot. He intends to attack the mismanagement of existing circumstances." The honourable gentleman wants a borough that would not object to a bart. and be open to a barter. No wonder he has a bitter dislike to the ballot! But really Parliament has not got the management of "existing circumstances" ! TO ADVERTISERS—Our largely increasing circulation compelling us to go to press earlier, no advertisements can be received after the Thursday previous to publishing day. London: Printed by JUDD & GLASS, Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietors) by THOMAS BAKER, at 80, Fleet-street, E.C.-November 11, 1865. QUESTIONS FOR THE SPHINX. accident. By those who enjoyed his personal acquaintance, it is not likely that DUFFINGTON DASH will be soon forgotten. The cold world, however, has not yet learnt his value, and it is our proud privilege, in H that the thing half the present hurried paragraphs, to lead the way to a juster appreciation of his talents in the art of epigram. man half beast, That EDIPUS contrived to diddle, Would but assist me in the least, Holds comet wines that priceless will be- And sips my unpretending GILBEY, With patterns and much verbal honey, Why can't he say he wants his money? To lower regions 'stead of upper- Or with his pretty housemaid marries- Why, when a critic what is true Has of a friend's productions spoken, Of "ancient friendships rudely broken,"- Why folks should fall who shouldn't stumbleWhy those who should be low are high, Why those who should be high are humbleWhy Lead goes up and Feather sinks All these are questions for the Sphinx. Why, when a Queen neglects her task Why, when a Minister's a dufferWhy, when poor men for justice ask Why when good men for bad ones suffer- A writer daren't say what he thinks THE ART OF EPIGRAM. THAT brilliant creature, DUFFINGTON DASH, ESQUIRE-the refined humourist, the cultivated musician, and the more or less profound We attribute his untimely philosopher-has departed this life. decease to a variety of causes, including a broken heart and a railway His own opinions respecting this peculiar form of wit and humour were fixed and immutable. The epigram was, in his eyes, a sacred thing. He loved it-aye, as many of us have loved a pet quadruped -with touching fidelity. We will endeavour to explain, as briefly as possible, his theory of composition. "An epigram," said he one evening, as we were accompanying him home from a large literary réunion, "should always be short. When the point has been once insisted on, the subject may be allowed to drop; for there are more epigrams than one in the world. He who has written one will in all human probability survive to write more; for he who is endowed with sufficient affluence of imagination to make a joke may possibly be possessed of sufficient facility in versifying to create a rhyme." He then proceeded to explain that the brevity of an epigram constituted both its charm and its difficulty. "If I wish," continued he, "to convey a happy thought in two or four lines, I find the space insufficient for detailing the circumstances under which that thought struck me. I, therefore, prefix a copious explanation in prose, by which means the reader is prepared for my point before commencing the epigram itself." We ventured to remind him that the same course had been adopted by COLERIDGE, whose brilliant squib respecting KUBLA KHAN derives its chief interest from exactly fortytwo lines of prefatory matter, including a little Greek, and an anecdote about a person from Porlock. "In short," said we, "an epigram should resemble a pot of anchovy-paste. However discursive may be the label upon the outside, the contents should be compressed into as small a space as possible.' He agreed with us-which is more than anchovy-paste ever did. We have now only two duties before us; to inform an eager public that DUFFINGTON DASH was of the middle height and impressive deportment, and to lay before the world a small sample of our lamented friend's genius. A collected edition of his verses will be published before long, at the request of numerous admirers. In the meantime, be contented, reader, with the following specimens: EPIGRAM I. (On sitting down to an early dinner one Friday, at the house of a Wesleyan friend, who resided, at that period, in Dalston, but who shortly afterwards changed his place of residence to Abney-park, owing to the extreme difficulty of procuring four-wheeled cabs in the former neighbourhood, especially on wet evenings.) When the pork and potatoes are both underdone, You should put off the feast till a quarter-past-one, NOTE.-Shortly after this little jeu d'esprit was penned, some remorseless wag brought it under the notice of the sensitive individual at whom its barb had been directed. From that moment a coolness sprang up between DUFFINGTON and his former host. Satire makes many enemies and few friends. EPIGRAM II. (On having my attention drawn by an intelligent passer-by to the dead body of a kitten which lay in the road [not far from the kerbstone] at the entrance of Austin Friars, one rainy afternoon in the month of August, 1862. N.B.--Austin Friars is near the Bank of England, and this kitten had evidently been born blind.) Here lies little Pussy, without a chief mourner, Far, far from her home and her father and mother; And rich Baron Hambro resides at one corner, While Foster, the chemist, resides at the other! NOTE.-It was in Austin Friars that DUFFINGTON received his mercantile education, and achieved that mastery over the Spanish tongue which was at one time the envy, admiration, and terror of half Madrid, and three-quarters of Barcelona. EPIGRAM III. (Written while coming out of a provincial theatre, many miles from the metropolis, after listening to the tragedy of Hamlet by SHAKESPEARE, in which piece the uncle of the principal character poisons his own brother in a garden for love of Gonzaga's wife. N.B.-The Duke's name is supposed to be Gonzaga.) So deep the anguish I did feel That hardly did I feel My neighbour stamp upon my ailing toe. NOTE. This is not one of DUFFINGTON's happiest. Probably it was written while in acute bodily pain. He was a martyr to corns. TOWN TALK. BY THE SAUNTERER IN SOCIETY. T happens most unfortunately for us that, decided on the next move, on the ques- It is a little hard to believe that he should have been so long in real ig norance of the fact that the Federals THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH-every one will remember how popular that nobleman made himself in reference to the Thames Embankment-has contrived to get his name mixed up with a queer scandal that is just now creating some excitement in the musical world. The University of Edinburgh have appointed to the Professorship of Music, rendered vacant by the death of MR. DONALDSON, a certain MR. OAKELEY, whom they elect with a great fanfarade of trumpets, about the difficulty of choice, &c. Among the candidates for the post were, besides others, HULLAH and MACFARREN, both known men-but the unknown relative of the bold-very bold, BUCCLEUCH, wins the day. The English School of Music has long been in a bad way, but the crowning insult has been reserved till now, when a university considers its interest of so little importance that it puts by recognised composers for a ducal duffer. DOES anybody remember a brief but brisk battle between the artists and a pseudo art-critic, who went about hawking friendly notices to painters weak enough to pay an exorbitant price for a worthless series of lectures? I'm afraid he is almost forgotten; but I came on him again the other day in that refuge for the destitute the Times supplement. He is as fine as ever, gliding with a noble disregard of the common rules of composition from the dignified distance of the third person into the interested importunity of the first. PARTNERSHIP. No charge to parties investing, nor any charge to parties re- Ile has evidently renounced art-criticism as a chimerical speculation, WHAT splendid speeches GLADSTONE has been making! How Oxford must blush now to think she rejected such a scholar and such an orator for one who will do her most credit by his silence. The time will come when the speeches of our political Chrysostom, the Goldenmouth of Parliament, will be read by an enlightened and educated generation, that will wonder how we could talk of the orators of the past while his voice was ringing in our ears. Mind you, I say this with no reference to politics. I SAID the other day I would take a survey of the Winter Exhibition at the French Gallery, and I have kept my word-and don't mind how often I repeat the process. SANDYS' "Mary Magdalen" is a picture such as one can expect to see about once in a lifetime. I'd give many of the much-prized Old Masters for it without grudging. Then there's a joint-production in the form of a screen, on which a friendly coterie have expended some good painting, and some quaint fancies. When I purchase it I shall have the quotations from SHAKESPEARE, given in the catalogue, illuminated on the gold frame, for they are very aptly culled from a writer who, in spite of the talk, is very little read. HooK, HUGHES, CALDERON, WATSON, LUCAS, and DILLON also contribute capital work. FRITH and WARD are vulgar and meretricious, and, in fact, the R.A.'s and "swells," as a rule, have failed. WHEN I make a mistake I don't scruple to correct it. I accused the proprietor of the French Gallery of disingenuously cribbing somebody else's title, whereas it appears "The Winter Exhibition" is a title that has always belonged to 120, Pall-mall. IN consequence of the retirement of MISS NEILSON, the Lyceum is obliged to come out with a poor adaptation. This is disappointing to could hardly help himself under the circumstances. However, there's those who, like myself, look to FECHTER for something good-but he plenty without that:-a new comedy at the Prince of Wales (though Lucia is attractive enough without any other aid), and Rip Van Winkle ought to be enough at one time. The world will be glad to learn that MR. JEFFERSON settles in England, whereby this country is the richer by a good actor. theatrical manager has not been without its effect. A glance at the I AM glad to see that the lecture which FUN delivered to a certain bills will show that "Never too late to Mend" is now prefaced every night by "An Ample Apology." The Serf has been mercifully removed from the Olympic boards-if the new piece is no better, at all events, it can't be worse, and it will be new, which is a relief; after a long attack of neuralgia one is rather grateful than otherwise for a sharp twinge of rheumatism, if only for the change. THE WATCH CRY. ACT I.-Interior of an Inn, terrace at the back. Beyond terrace, a hilly Enter LEONE SALVIATI, disguised as an improvisatore. LEONI.-I will. Listen. The five brothers swore to defend Cosmo di Medici. In doing so three of them were killed, and two survive. Have I well earned my money? ALL.-You have! LEONE.-Have I told you enough? LEONI (confidentially to audience). I have clandestinely married COSMO. As everybody is trying to assassinate me, and as a murderer is planted at every corner, I begin to think that I am betrayed. MYST. P.-Here is a passport; it will take you across the frontier. LANDLORD. I have been and murdered somebody in a wood. LEONE.-I am tired. LEONE. So do I. What can it be? [Falls senseless. ACT II.—Apartment in the D'Albizzi Palace. Enter MYSTERIOUS P. MYST. P.-Fifteen years are supposed to have elapsed since the last act. Cosmo rules in Florence, and is going to marry Bianca, the widow of Leone Salviati. Enter Cosмo and BIANCA. [Exeunt Cosmo and BIANCA. MYST. P.-There is a page, Silvio, who is very fond of Bianca. I think it is only right that Cosmo should know it. Enter Cosmo and BIANCA. [Exeunt Cosmo and BIANCA. MYST. P.-In a casket in Cosmo's sleeping-room are some papers that will establish something. How shall I get at them? Enter Cosmo and BIANCA. [Exeunt CosмO and BIANCA. MYST. P.-I have it. There is a poor devil who has been imprisoned for fifteen years in the underground dungeons of this palace, so he is, of course, the very man for my purpose. Besides, he is dumb-so dumb that he can neither read nor write. [Exit Myst. P. Enter SILVIO. SILVIO (confidentially). It is all right between Bianca and me, for I [NOTE-Unfortunately, on the occasion of our visit to the Lyceum Theatre, the curtain fell a few minutes before the piese was finished, and the following lines were consequently cut out.] am the son of the late Leone Salviati, and she is my mother, and a MYST. P. (taking casket).-Empty! Foiled! And I can establish nothing! Enter Cosmo and BIANCA. Exit Mr. Widdicomb. MYST. P.-It works bravely! ACT III.-The Deepest Dungeon beneath the Castle Moat. LEONE.-Escape! I was confined here for fifteen years, and I know every stone in the place. It never occurred to me to do so, although it is the simplest thing in the world; but I had reasons of my own. SILVIO.-But how? LEONE.-You have only got to get out of that window, by tearing your blanket into strips. Notwithstanding that this is the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat, there is a fall of a hundred feet or so from the window. SILVIO. But who are you? Cosmo (to LEONE). Your troubles now shall end, and joys begin, [LEONE changes to Harlequin. (to MR. WIDDICOMÈ).— [BIANCA changes to Columbine. Now, Mr. Widdicomb, I'll change you soon Into a feeble, crazy Pantaloon! [WIDDICOMB changes to Pantaloon. (to MYST. P.) Rally. Coloured Fire. Comic Business. Eggs-traordinary Bargain. "Egg of the Moa or Dinornis, from New Zealand. Mr. J. C STEVENS has received instructions to offer for sale by auction at his Great Room, Covent-garden, on Friday, the 24th day of November, 1865, at two o'clock, a specimen, nearly perfect, of this very rare and remarkable egg, the bird of which is now presumed to be quite extinct. The egg has just arrived, per ship Ravenscraig, and is probably the Dinornis ingens of Owen. The egg will be on view the day prior and morning of sale." (Here follows an account of the discovery of the egg, from the Wellington papers.) This egg, the bird of which is presumed to be extinct, which is nearly a perfect specimen, and is probably the Dinornis ingens, whatever that may be, of Owen, has no yolk inside it, and the shell is cracked, which cheering facts are supposed to increase its value in the eyes of a virtuoso or a collector. It-the egg, and not the virtuoso or collectorhas been insured for a thousand pounds. How refreshing it is to hear that it has "just arrived," per ship Ravenscraig (this ought to be Ravens(cr)egg), and is probably, &c.' The estimated value of this exquisite specimen of what might have been a bird had it been hatched, and lived to have feathers and to moult, is enormous. One amiable enthusiast he is still at large, and treated in the kindest manner by his family-has offered £250 for it, but that paltry sum has been refused indignantly, and the egg is still open to competition. No family should be without one, and doubtless the egg, which is "probably the Dinornis ingens of Owen"-remember that-will become the prize of some fortunate capitalist. It will be cheap at £500. Possibly if it fetches a decent price it will incite an emulation in the breasts of the natives of New Zealand to discover more Moas-may we say Moa Moas?-indeed the sale by auction of the eggs of extinct birds is what London Arabs would call "a new lay." Poor Deer! "PROFESSOR GAMGEE is appealing to any public-spirited nobleman, who may be able to spare a deer from his park, to send one or two to the Albert Veterinary College, with a view to determine whether the MYST. P. (aside.)-Good-he advances! (Aloud.) "Twas I that animal is liable to infection by the cattle plague." Perhaps this is the blunted the edge of your razors every morning! LEONE.-YOW!!! yow!!! yow!!! yow!!! MYST. P. (aside.)--Good-he advances! (Aloud.) 'Twas I that sent organ-grinders to play under your window! LEONE-TOO much! too much! (Rushes at Myst. P., but seeing trap avoids it.) No, you don't! MYST. P.-Foiled! GRAND TRANSFORMATION SCENE!!! The prison wall opens and discovers Cosmo DI MEDICI and BIANCA sur- CURTAIN. very coolest "appeal" ever made in the interests of (veterinary) |