Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, May 16, 1891

Cruelty, cruelty, cruelty--all is cruelty! Boys are beaten; oxen are stabbed till the blood bursts forth; happy, industrious, dung-collecting beetles are bitten in two by careless, happy, beetle-collecting dogs--everything is wicked and cruel. The Kaffir has beautiful legs, but he will kick his wife, and TANT' SANNIE, alas! will not be there to drop a pickle-tub on his head. And over everything hangs that inscrutable charm which hovers for ever for the human intellect over the incomprehensible and shadowy. Omne ignotum pro mirifico, I might say, but I prefer the longer phrase.

And I stood at the gate of Heaven, I and TANT' SANNIE; and we spoke to everybody quite affably; and they all had time to listen to what we said, and to make suitable replies.

And I said, "Are we all here?"

And she said, "Not all."

And I said, "The absent are always in the wrong."

And she said, "I have heard that in French."

And I said, "Is not that impertinent?"

And she said, "No."

And a great Light fell across her face, as though a palm had smitten it, and the name of the palm was Hand, and its fruits were fingers five.

And again I addressed myself in terms of familiarity to the Ever-lasting, and I planted a book upon the clouds, where eight children lay prone with bees flying about their childish bonnets.

And there came a knock at my door.

"Eight o'clock!" said One. "Arise!"

"Nay," I answered; "it cannot be."

"But the water is hot within the can, and the table will be spread for them that break their fast."

"So be it. I rise." And behold it was a dream!

Far away the mother of the little nigger stood churning. Where is the mother of the little black nigger? She is churning slowly in the garden. But cannot the aunt of the good gardener churn herself? No; for she is in the orchard, plucking the apples, peaches, apricots, pears (Birnen), to give to the butler's grandmother.

And there came Life and The Ideal walking hand in hand. And behind them came Wealth and Vastness singing together. And Infinity was there, and Health, and Wisdom, and Love. And Reflection was mounted on a steed with Joy. And many other shapes followed, delicately arrayed in fine linen. And helmet-wearing Men in Blue marshalled the procession. And they spake roughly, saying, "Pass away there, pass away there!"

And I said, "Is this the Lord Mayor's Show?"

And One said, "No."

And I said, "Is it the Salvation Army?"

And again One said, "No."

And I said, "Is it SEQUAH?"

And One said again. "No."

And I said, "I have guessed enough."

And One said, "Yes."

But The Real was not there, and they passed away.

And One said, "I am Wealth," which was absurd, but No-one laughed. And they all danced a fandango on the points of their toes. And a shaft of light lay over them. And they wandered on. At last they came to a bad, wicked naughty, brimstone place. And I said to Some-one, "I like this. It seems a good place." And still No-one laughed. And Wealth touched me, and I was glad. And I said, "Give me millions, or buy a box of matches," and Law seized me and took me to the Cell. Then I said to the Beak, "Your Worship." And the Beak said unto me, "Begging again. Forty shillings." And again I woke. And it was all a striving and a striving and an ending in Nothing.

THE END.

Prête-moi ta plume! Could wit borrow a feather From Cupid's own pinion, 'tis doubtfullish whether A "_mot_" might be made which should happily hit The "gold" of desert; and Love, aided by Wit, Though equal to eloquent passion's fine glow, Might both be struck mute by the Muse of Dumb-Show. That "actions speak louder than words" we all knew; But now we may add, "and more gracefully, too." Performances fine Punch has praised in his day, But how few take the pas of the _Promise_--of MAY!

"NATIVE RACES AND THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC."--An important subject strangely omitted at the recent meeting of this Society was "The Consumption of Champagne on the Derby and Oaks Days." The Duke of WESTMINSTER will take the earliest opportunity of rectifying this error.

'Cute JOKIM the Cellarer keeps a large store Of choice Party Spirits, d'ye see; Scotch, Irish, and who can say how many more? An eclectic old soul is he. But mainly in "Blends" he is good, dark or pale, For he knows without them his best bottlings may fail; But he never faileth, he archly doth say, For he well knows what tap suits the taste of the day. And ho! ho! ho! his books will show He oft taps the barrels of Brummagem JOE!

JOE sits all the time in his own still-room, And a taster clever is he. 'Tis in vain that his enemies kick up a fume. And swear he is half a Torie. But there are sly meetings upon the backstair. And watchers say JOE is oft gossiping there. Now JOE distrusts someone who's Grand, and who's Old, And says that he must be kept "out in the cold." And ho! ho! ho! old JOKIM doth know That many a flask of his best comes from JOE.

'Cute JOKIM keeps blending JOE's taps and his own; Though knowing harsh rumours are rife; And Brummagem JOE is oft heard to declare, Their partnership may last for life. And JOKIM says, "some call Brum JOE a bad chap, But they'll soon learn to relish the taste of his tap, And while I may Brummagem JOE call my friend, I think I shall customers find for our 'Blend.'" While ho! ho! ho! he'll chuckle and crow; "What, turn up Brum JOE, my boys? No! no! no!"