Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, December 13, 1890

STARLING was a pale, greasy man. He was a devil of a gyp. He went into GEORGE's bed-room and shook his master by the shoulder. GEORGE woke up.

"Bring me the College pump," he said. "I must have it. No, stay," he continued, as STARLING prepared to execute his orders, "a hair of the dog--bring it, quick, quick!"

STARLING gave him three. He always carried them about with him in case of accidents. GEORGE devoured them eagerly, recklessly. Then with a deep sigh of relief, he went stark staring mad, and bit STARLING in the fleshy part of the thigh, after which he fell fast asleep again. On awaking, he took his name off the College books, gave STARLING a cheque for £5000, broke off his engagement, but forgot to post the letter, and consulted a Doctor.

"What you want," said the Doctor, "is to be shut up for a year in the tap-room of a public-house. No water, only spirits. That must cure you."

So GEORGE ordered STARLING to hire a public-house in a populous district. When this was done, he went and lived there. But you scarcely need to be told that STARLING had not carried out his orders. How could he be expected to do that? Only fifty-six pages of my book had been written, and even publishers--the most abandoned people on the face of the earth--know that that amount won't make a Christmas Annual. So STARLING hired a Temperance Hotel. As I have said, he was a devil of a gyp.

The fact was this. One of GEORGE's great-great uncles had held a commission in the Blue Ribbon Army. GEORGE remembered this too late. The offer of a seat in the University Trial Eights must have suggested the blue ribbon which the University Crew wear on their straw hats. Thus the diabolical forces of heredity were roused to fever-heat, and the great-great uncle, with his blue ribbon, whose photograph hung in GEORGE's home over the parlour mantelpiece, became a living force in GEORGE's brain.

GEORGE GINSLING went and lived in a suburban neighbourhood. It was useless. He married a sweet girl with various spiteful relations. In vain. He changed his name to PUMPDRY, and conducted a local newspaper. Profitless striving. STARLING was always at hand, always ready with the patent filter, and as punctual in his appearances as the washing-bill or the East wind. I repeat, he was a devil of a gyp.

They found GEORGE GINSLING feet uppermost in six inches of water in the Daffodil Road reservoir. It was a large reservoir, and had been quite full before GEORGE began upon it. This was his record drink, and it killed him. His last words were, "If I had stuck to whiskey, this would never have happened."

THE END.

"IT IS THE BOGIE MAN!"--BLACKIE'S Modern Cyclopedia. Nothing to do with the Christy Minstrel Entertainment, but a very useful work of reference, issued from the ancient house of publishers which is now quite BLACKIE with age. We have looked through the "B's" for "Bogie," but "The Bogie Man" is "Not there, not there, my child!" but he is to be found in that other BLACKIE's collection at the St. James's Hall, which Bogie Man is said to be the original of that ilk. Unde derivatur "Bogie"? Perhaps the next edition of BLACKIE's still-more-Modern-than-ever Cyclopedia will explain.

PARS ABOUT PICTURES (by Old Par).--At the Fine Art Society's Gallery I gazed upon the pictures of "Many-sided Nature" with great content, and came to the conclusion that Mr. ALBERT GOODWIN was a many-sided artist. "Now," said I, quoting SHAKSPEARE--_Old Par's Improved Edition_--"is the GOODWIN of our great content made glorious." O.P., who knows every inch of Abingdon, who has gazed upon Hastings from High Wickham, who is intimate with every brick in Dorchester, who loves every reed and ripple on the Thames, and has a considerable knowledge of the Rigi and Venice, can bear witness to the truth of the painter. There are over seventy pictures--every one worth looking at.

["Business!" cries the Sweater, when remonstrated with for paying the poor Match-box makers twopence-farthing or twopence-half-penny a gross, whilst his own profits reach 22-1/2 to 25 per cent.--_Daily News_.]

PUNCH TO THE SWEATING SHYLOCK.

Eh? "Business is business"? Sheer cant, Sir! Pure gammon? Of all the inhuman, sham Maxims of Mammon, This one is the worst, For under its cover lurks cruelty callous, With murderous meanness that merits the gallows, And avarice accurst.

Oh, well, I'm aware, Sir, how ruthless rapacity Loves to take shelter, with cunning mendacity 'Neath an old saw; But well says the scribe that such "business" is crime, Sir, And such would be but for gaps half the time, Sir, 'Twixt justice and law.

Bah! Many a man who's sheer rogue in reality, Hides the harsh knave in the mask of "legality." When 'tis too gross, Robbery's rash, but austere orthodoxies Countenance such things as modern match-boxes Nine-farthings a gross!

From seven till ten, and sometimes to eleven, For "six bob" a week. Ah! such life must be heaven; Whilst as for your "profit," That's bound to approach five-and-twenty per cent., That Sweaters shall thrive, let their tools be content With starvation in Tophet.

To starve's bad enough, but to starve and to work (Mrs. LABOUCHERE hints), the most patient may irk; And the lady is right-- Business? On brutes who dare mouth such base trash, Mr. Punch, who loves justice and sense, lays his lash, With the greatest delight.

He knows the excuses advanced for the Sweater, But bad is the best, and, until you find better, 'Tis useless to cant Of freedom of contract, supply and demand, And all the cold sophistries ever on hand Sound sense to supplant.

A phrase takes the place of an argument often. And stomachs go empty, and brains slowly soften, And sense sick with dizziness, All in the name of the bosh men embody In one clap-trap phrase that dupes many a noddy, That--business is business!

Business? Yes, precious bad business for them, Sir, Whose joyless enslavement you take with such phlegm, Sir, Suppose, to enhance Their small share of ease, such as you, were content, Sir, To lower a trifle your precious "per cent.," Sir, And give them a chance!

In Camp and Studio, Mr. IRVING MONTAGU, some time on the artistic staff of The Illustrated London News, gives his experiences of the Russo-Turkish Campaign. He concisely sums up the qualifications of a War Correspondent by saying that he should "have an iron constitution, a laconic, incisive style, and sufficient tact to establish a safe and rapid connecting link between the forefront of battle and his own head-quarters in Fleet Street or elsewhere." As Mr. IRVING MONTAGU seems to have lived up to his ideal, it is a little astonishing to find the last chapters of his book devoted to Back in Bohemia, wherein he discourses of going to the Derby, a Hammersmith Desdemona, and of the Postlethwaites and Maudles, "whose peculiarities have been recorded by the facile pen of DU MAURIER." But as the author seems pleased with the reader, it would be indeed sad were the reader to find fault with the author. However, this may be said in his favour--he tells (at least) one good story. On his return from Plevna to Bohemia, a dinner was given in his honour at the Holborn Restaurant. Every detail was perfect--the only omission was forgetfulness on the part of the Committee to invite the guest of the evening! At the last moment the mistake was discovered, and a telegram was hurriedly despatched to Mr. MONTAGU, telling him that he was "wanted." On his arrival he was refused admittance to the dinner by the waiters, because he was not furnished with a ticket! Ultimately he was ushered into the Banqueting Hall, when everything necessarily ended happily.

One might imagine that Birthday Books have had their day, but apparently they still flourish, for HAZELL, WATSON, & VINEY publish yet another, under the title of Names we Love, and Places we Know. The first does not apply to our friends, but to the quotations selected, and places are shown by photos.

Of many Beneficent and Useful Lives, you will hear "in CHAMBERS,"--the reader sitting as judge on the various cases brought before him by Mr. ROBERT COCHRANE.

Unlucky will not be the little girl who reads the book with this name, by CAROLINE AUSTIN.

Everybody's Business, by ISMAY THORN, nobody likes interference, but in this case it proved the friend in need.

Chivalry, by LÉON GAUTIER, translated by HENRY FRITH, is a chronicle of knighthood, its rules, and its deeds. To the scientific student, Discoveries and Inventions of the Nineteenth Century, by ROBERT ROUTLEDGE, B.S., F.C.S., will be interesting, and help him to discover a lot he does not know. Those who have not already read it, A Wonder Book for Girls and Boys, by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, will have a real treat in the myths related; Tanglewood Tales are included, and these are delightful for all. Rosebud, by Mrs. ADAMS ACTON, a tale for girls, who will love this bright little flower, bringing happiness all around.

Holly Leaves, the Special Number of The Sporting and Dramatic, is quite a seasonable decoration for the drawing-room table during the Christmas holidays.

My faithful "Co." has been reading Jack's Secret, by Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON, which, he says, has greatly pleased him. It has an interesting story, and is full of clever sketches of character. Jack, himself, is rather a weak personage, and scarcely deserves the good fortune which ultimately falls to his lot. After flirting with a born coquette, who treats him with a cruelty which is not altogether unmerited, he settles down with a thoroughly lovable little wife, and a seat in the House of Lords. From this it will be gathered that all ends happily. Jack's Secret will be let out by MUDIE's, and will be kept, for a considerable time--by the subscribers.