E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      See 14544-h.htm or 14544-h.zip:
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/5/4/14544/14544-h/14544-h.htm)
      or
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/5/4/14544/14544-h.zip)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 102

APRIL 30, 1892

MR. PUNCH'S HEBRIDEAN SALMON-FLY BOOK.

STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PEN-HOLDER.

    (By Wullie White, Author of "They Taught Her to Death"
    "A Pauper in Tulle," "My Cloudy Glare," "Green Pasterns in
    Picalilli," "Ran Fast to Royston," &c., &c., &c.)

["I now send you," writes this popular and delightful Author, "the
latest of the Novels in which I mingle delicate sentiment with
Hebridean or Highland scenery, and bring the wisdom of a Londoner to
bear directly upon the unsophisticated innocence of a kilt-wearing
population. I am now republishing my books in a series. I'll take
short odds about my salmon-flies as compared with anyone else's, and
am prepared to back my sunsets and cloud-effects against the world. No
takers. I thought not. Here goes!"]

CHAPTER I.

I held it in my right hand, toying with it curiously, and not without
pleasure. It was merely a long, wooden pen-holder, inky and inert to
an unappreciative eye, but to me it was a bright magician, skilled
in the painting of glowing pictures, a traveller in many climes, a
tried and trusted friend, who had led me safely through many strange
adventures and much uncouth dialect. "Old friend," I said, addressing
it kindly, "shall you and I set out together on another journey? We
have seen many countries, and the faces of many men, and yet, though
we are advancing in years, the time has not yet come for me to lay
you down, as having no need of you. What say you--shall we start once
more?" I hear a confused sound as of men who murmur together, and
say, "We have supped full of horrors, and have waded chin-deep in
Zulu blood; we have followed the Clergy of the Established Church into
the recesses of terrible crimes, and have endured them as they bared
their too sensitive consciences to our gaze. We pine for simpler, and
more wholesome pleasures. Now," I continued, "if only Queen TITA and
the rest will help us, I think we can do something to satisfy this
clamour." For all answer, my pen-holder nestled lovingly in my hand.
I placed my patent sunset-nib in its mouth, waved it twice, dipped it
once, and began.

CHAPTER II.

The weary day was at length sinking peacefully to rest behind the
distant hills. The packed and tumbled clouds lay heavily towards the
West, where a gaunt jagged tower of rock rose sheer into the sky.
And lo! suddenly a broad shaft of blood-red light shot through the
brooding cumulus and rested gorgeously upon the landscape. On each
side of this a thin silvery veil of mist crept slowly up and hung in
impalpable folds. The Atlantic sand stretching away to the North shone
with the effulgence of burnished copper. And now brilliant flickers
of coloured light, saffron, purple, green and rose danced over the
heaven's startled face. The piled clouds opened and showed in the
interspace a lurid lake of blood tinged with the pale violet of an
Irishwoman's eyes. Great pillars of flame sprang up rebelliously and
spread over the burning horizon. Then a strange, soft, yellow and
vaporous light raised its twelve bore breech-loading ejector to its
shoulder and shot across the Cryanlaughin hills, and the cattle shone
red in the green pastures, and everything else glowed, and the whole
world burned with the bewildering glare of a stout publican's nose in
a London fog. And silence came down upon the everlasting hills whose
outlines gleamed in a prismatic--

"That will do," said a mysterious Voice, "the paint-box is exhausted!"

CHAPTER III.

I was shocked at this rude interruption.

"Sir!" I said, "I cannot see you, though I hear your voice. Will you
not disclose yourself?"

"Nonsense, man," said the aggravating, but invisible one, "do not
waste time. Let us get on with the story. You know what comes next.
_Revenons à nos saumons._ Ha, Ha! spare the rod and spoil the book!"

I was vexed, but I had to obey, and this was the result:

The pools were full of gleaming curves of silver, each one belonging
to a separate salmon of gigantic size fresh run from the sea. The
foaming Black Water tumbled headlong over its rocks and down its
narrow channel. DONALD, the big keeper, stood industriously upon the
bank arranging flies. "I hef been told," he observed, "tat ta English
will be coming to Styornoway, and there will be no more Gaelic spoken.
But perhaps it iss not true, for they will tell many lies. I am a
teffle of a liar myself."

And lo! as we watched, the grey sky seemed to be split in two by an
invisible wedge, and a purple gleam of light shot--

"Stow that!" said the Voice, "I have allowed you to put in a patch of
Gaelic, but I really cannot let you do any more sun-pictures. Try and
think that it is a close time for landscapes, and don't let the light
shoot again for a bit."

"All right," I retorted, not without annoyance, "but you'll just
have to make up your mind to lose that salmon. It was a magnificent
forty-pounder, and, if it hadn't been for your ridiculous
interruption, we should have landed him splendidly in another six
pages."

"As you like," said the Voice.

CHAPTER IV.

And now our journey was drawing to a close. Out of the solemn hush
of the purple mountains we had passed slowly southwards back to the
roar and the turmoil of the London streets. And many friends had
said farewell to us. SHEILA with her low, sweet brow, her exquisitely
curved lips, and her soft blue eyes had held us enraptured, and we
had wept with COQUETTE, and fiercely cheered the WHAUP while he held
WATTIE by the heels, and made him say a sweer. And we had talked
with MACLEOD and grown mournful with Madcap VIOLET, and had seen many
another fresh and charming face, and had talked Gaelic with gusto and
discrimination. And Queen TITA had sped with us, and we had adored
BELLE, and yet we cried for more. But now the dream-journey was past,
and lo! suddenly the whole heaven was blazing with light, and a bright
saffron band lay across--

"Steady there!" said the Voice. "Remember your promise!"

THE END.

SAINTS OR SINNERS?

[BY SPECIAL WIRE.]

MELBOURNE.--It is said, on good authority, that the favourite books of
the interesting prisoner now in custody are, the _Pilgrim's Progress_,
an Australian Summary of the _Newgate Calendar_, and the poetry of
the late Dr. Watts. He has also expressed himself as pleased with
Mrs. Humphrey Ward's latest work of fiction, though he does not quite
approve of the theological opinions of the writer.

PARIS, _Tuesday_.--The supposed author of the dynamite outrages, is
the recipient of numerous presents in prison, sent him by male and
female admirers, and persons anxious for his conversion and his
autograph. The edition of _Thomas à Kempis_, recently given him, is a
most valuable antique copy; but he complains of the print as unsuited
to his eyesight.

MELBOURNE. _Later_.--The Solicitor engaged on behalf of our
interesting prisoner has requested the Government to allow a
commission, consisting of the medical superintendents at Broadmore,
Hanwell and Colney Hatch, with six other English experts in insanity,
to come out to Australia to inquire into the mental condition of
the prisoner. A telegram has also been despatched to Lord SALISBURY
requesting that the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF ENGLAND and an Old Bailey
Jury may be sent out to try the case; otherwise there will be "no
chance of justice being done." The British PREMIER's reply has not yet
been received. It is believed that he is consulting Mr. GOSCHEN about
the probable cost of such a step.

MELBOURNE. _Latest_.--Through the instrumentality of an Official
connected with the prison, I am enabled to send you some important
information concerning our prisoner which you may take as absolutely
authentic. His breakfast this morning consisted of buttered toast,
coffee, and poached eggs. He complained that the latter were not
new-laid, and became very excited. It has also transpired that he is
strangely in favour of Imperial Federation, and he has declared to his
gaolers that "The friendship between England and her Colonies ought
to be cemented." This expression of opinion has created a profound
sensation.

THE POINT OF VIEW.

(_AS PRIVATE TOMMY ATKINS PUTS IT TO HIS COMRADE BILL._)

    [In the Report of Lord WANTAGE's Committee, it appears that
    our Home Army costs seventeen and a-half millions per annum.
    The Duke of CAMBRIDGE doubts if we could rapidly mobilise one
    Army Corps. Sir EVELYN WOOD holds half the men under him at
    Aldershot are not equal to doing a day's service, even in
    England. The Duke of CONNAUGHT says half the battalions under
    his command are no good for service, cannot even carry their
    kits, and are not fit to march. Lord WOLSELEY, it is stated,
    compares the British Army to a "squeezed lemon."]

  "Squeezed lemon!" _That's_ encouraging!
    Wish Wolseley knew 'ow much it's pleased us.
  I'd like to arsk _one_ little thing:
    I wonder who it is who's squeezed us?
  The whole Report's a thing to cheer;
    Makes us feel proud and pleased, oh! very!
  And won't the bloomin' furrineer
    Over our horacles make merry?

  Costs seventeen millions and a arf,
    And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink!
  That tots it up! They wouldn't charf,
    Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do _you_ think?
  Therefore, we're just a useless lot.
    After pipe-claying and stiff-starching,
  We _might_ be good for stopping shot,
    Only that we're not fit for marching!

  We cannot carry our own kits!
    I say, Bill, _ain't_ we awful duffers?
  Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits,
    Could more completely give us snuffers.
  CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD,
    All of a mind, for once, about us!
  What wonder Bungs dub us no good,
    And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us?

  I see myself as others see;
    A weedy, narrer-chested stripling,
  Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
    And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
  Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
    Wot can't go out without our nurses,
  But ups and pats us on the back
    In very pooty potry-verses.[1]

  We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
    (Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
  He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
    Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.
  So Tommy's best respects to _'im_,
    At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im.
  Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim,
    He _might_ not know us _when_ we meet 'im!

  But, Bill, if all this barney's _true_
    Consarnin' "Our Poor Little Army,"
  It must be nuts to Pollyvoo!
    _He_ needn't feel a mite alarmy.
  _Whose_ fault is it we cost a lot,
    And, if war comes, _must_ fail, or fly it?
  Well facts is facts, and bounce is rot;
    But, blarm it, BILL,--_I'd like to try it!_

  [Footnote 1: Mr. Kipling dedicates his "Barrack-Room Ballads"
  to "TOMMY ATKINS" in these lines:--

      I have made for you a song,
      An' it may be right or wrong,
    But only you can tell me if it's true;
      I've tried for to explain.
      Both your pleasure and   your pain,
    And, THOMAS, here's my best respects to you!

      Oh, there'll surely come a day
      When they'll grant you all your pay
    And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
      So, until that day comes round,
      Heaven keep you safe and sound,
    And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!]

[Illustration: THE STATE OF THE MARKET.

_Artist_ (_to Customer, who has come to buy on behalf of a large
Furnishing Firm in Tottenham Court Road_). "HOW WOULD THIS SUIT YOU?
'SUMMER'!"

_Customer._ "H'M--'SUMMER.' WELL, SIR, THE FACT IS WE FIND THERE'S
VERY LITTLE DEMAND FOR _GREEN_ GOODS JUST NOW. IF YOU HAD A LINE OF
_AUTUMN TINTS_ NOW--THAT'S THE ARTICLE WE FIND MOST SALE FOR AMONG OUR
CUSTOMERS!"]

ROBERT ON THE HARTISTIC COPPERASHUN.

Oh, ain't the Copperashun jest a cummin out in the Hi Art line! Why,
dreckly as they let it be nown as they was a willin to make room
in their bewtifool Galery for any of the finest picters in the hole
country as peepel was wantin to send there, jest to let the world
no as they'd got 'em, and that they wos considered good enuff by the
LORD MARE and the Sherriffs and all the hole Court of Haldermen, than
they came a poring in in such kwantities, that pore Mr. WELSH, the
Souperintendant, was obligated to arsk all the hole Court of common
Counselmen, what on airth he was to do with 'em, and they told him to
hinsult the Libery Committee on the matter, and they, like the lerned
gents as they is, told him to take down sum of the werry biggest and
the most strikingest as they'd got of their hone Picters and ang 'em
up in the Gildhall Westybool, as they calls it, coz it's in the East,
I spose, and so make room for a lot of the littel uns as had been
sent to 'em, coz they was painted by "Old Marsters," tho' who "Old
Marsters" was, I, for one, never could make out, xcep that he must
have well deserved his Nickname, considering the number of picters as
he must ha' painted. And now cums won of the werry cleverest dodges
as even a Welsh Souperintendant of Gildhall picturs coud posserbly
have thort on. Why what does he do? but he has taken down out of the
Gallery, won of the werry biggest, and one of the werry grandest,
Picters of moddern times, and has hung it up in the Westybool
aforesaid, to take the whole shine out of all the little uns as so
many hemnent swells had been ony too glad to send to Gildhall--"the
paytron of the Harts," as I herd a hemnent Halderman call it,--to give
'em the reel stamp as fust rate.

And now what does my thousands of readers suppose was the subjeck
of this werry grandest of all Picters? Why, no other than a most
magniffisent, splendid, gorgeus, large as life representashun of the
LORD MARE's Show, a cummin in all its full bewty and splender from the
middel of the Royal Xchange!!

But ewen that isn't all. For the Painter of this trewly hartistic
Picter, determined to make his grand work as truthful as it is
striking, has lawished his hole sole, so to speak, upon what are
undoubtedly the most commanding figures in the hole glorious display,
and them is the LORD MARE's three Gentlemen! with their wands of
power, and their glorious Unyforms, not forgetting their luvly silk
stockins; on this occasion, too, spotless as the rising Sun! To say
that they are the hobservd of all hobservers, and the hadmirashun of
all the fare sex, and the henvy of the other wun, need not be said,
tho they do try to hide their gelesy with a sickly smile.

Need I say that it is surrounded ewery day by a sercle of smiling
admirers, who, I have no doubt, come agane and agane, to show it to
their admiring friends; and, just to prove its grand success, the
werry last time as I was there, I owerheard a smiling gent say to his
friend,--"Well, TOM, as this is such a success, it would not supprise
me if the same hemnent Hartis was to paint the LORD MARE's Bankwet
next year, with all the Nobel Harmy of Waiters arranged in front!"
Wich Harmy will be pussinelly konduktid by your faithful

ROBERT.

[Illustration: THE POINT OF VIEW.

_Frenchman._ "WELL, MON AMI, YOUR SIR EVELYN VOLSELEY SAY YOU CAN GO
NOWHERES AND DO NOSING! YOU ARE A SKVEEZED LEMON!"

_Tommy Atkins._ "WELL, HANG IT, YOU BLOOMING FURRINEERS HAVEN'T ALWAYS
FOUND IT SO!"]

TELEPHONIC THEATRE-GOERS.

(_A SKETCH AT THE ELECTRICAL EXHIBITION._)

    SCENE--_The Exterior of the Telephone Music Room in the
    Egyptian Vestibule. The time is about eight. A placard
    announces, "Manchester Theatre now on"; inside the wickets a
    small crowd is waiting for the door to be opened. A Cautious
    Man comes up to the turnstile with the air of a fox examining
    a trap._

_The Cautious Man_ (_to the Commissionnaire_). How long can I stay in
for sixpence?

_The Commissionnaire_. Ten Minutes, Sir.

_The C.M._ Only ten minutes, eh? But, look here, how do I know
there'll be anything going on while I'm _in_ there?

_Comm._ You'll find out that from the instruments, Sir.

_The C.M._ Ah, I daresay--but what _I_ mean is, suppose there's
nothing _to hear_--between the Acts and all that?

_Comm._ Comp'ny guarantees there's a performance on while you're in
the room, Sir.

[Illustration: "How very distinctly you hear the dialogue, Sir, don't
you?"]

_The C.M._ Yes, but all these other people waiting to get in--How'm I
to know I shall get a _place_?

_Comm._ (_outraged_). Look 'ere, Sir, we're the National Telephone
Comp'ny with a reputation to lose, and if you've any ideer we want to
swindle you, all I can tell _you_ is--stop outside!

_The C.M._ (_suddenly subdued_). Oh--er--all right, thought I'd make
sure _first_, you know. Sixpence, isn't it?

    [_He passes into the enclosure, and joins the crowd._

_A Comic Man_ (_in an undertone to his Fiancée_). That's a careful
bloke, that is. Know the _value_ o' money, _he_ does. It'll have to
be a precious scientific sort o' telephone that takes _'im_ in. He'll
'ave _his_ six-pennorth, if it bursts the machine! Hullo, they're
letting us in now.

    [_The door is slightly opened from within, causing an
    expectant movement in crowd--the door is closed again._

_A Superior Young Lady_ (_to her Admirer_). I just caught a glimpse
of the people inside. They were all sitting holding things like
opera-glasses up to their ears--they did look so ridiculous!

_Her Admirer_. Well, it's about time they gave _us_ a chance of
looking ridiculous, their ten minutes must be up now. I've been trying
to think what this put me in mind of. _I_ know. Waiting outside the
Pit doors! doesn't it you?

_The Sup. Y.L._ (_languidly, for the benefit of the bystanders_). Do
they make you wait like this for the Pit?

_Her Admirer_. _Do they make you wait!_ Why, weren't you and I
three-quarters of an hour getting into the Adelphi the other evening?

_The Sup. Y.L._ (_annoyed with him_). I don't see any necessity to
bawl it out like that if we _were_.

    [_The discreetly curtained windows are thrown back, revealing
    persons inside reluctantly tearing themselves away from their
    telephones. As the door opens, there is a frantic rush to get
    places._

_An Attendant_ (_soothingly_). Don't crush, Ladies and
Gentlemen--plenty of room for all. Take your time!

    [_The crowd stream in, and pounce eagerly on chairs and
    telephones; the usual Fussy Family waste precious minutes
    in trying to get seats together, and get separated in the
    end. Undecided persons flit from one side to another.
    Gradually they all settle down, and stop their ears with
    the telephone-tubes, the prevailing expression being one of
    anxiety, combined with conscious and apologetic imbecility.
    Nervous people catch the eye of complete strangers across the
    table, and are seized with suppressed giggles. An Irritable
    Person finds himself between the Comic Man and a Chatty
    Old Gentleman.

_The Comic Man_ (_to his Fiancée, putting the tube to his ear_). Can't
get _my_ telephone to tork yet! (_Shakes it._) _I'll_ wake 'em up!
(_Puts the other tube to his mouth._) Hallo--hallo! are you there?
Look alive with that Show o' yours, Guv'nor--we ain't got long to
stop! (_Pretends to listen, and reply._) If you give me any of your
cheek, I'll come down and punch your 'ead! (_Applies a tube to his
eye._) All right, POLLY, they've _begun_--I can see the 'ero's legs!

_Polly_. Be quiet, can't you? I can't hold the tubes steady if you
will keep making me laugh so. (_Listening._) Oh, ALF, I can hear
singing--can't you? Isn't it lovely!

_The Com. M._ It seems to me there's a bluebottle, or something, got
inside mine--I can 'ear _im_!

_The Irr. P._ (_angrily, to himself_). How the deuce do they
expect--and that infernal organ in the nave has just started booming
again--they ought to send out and stop it!

_The Chatty O.G._ (_touching his elbow_). I beg your pardon, Sir, but
can you inform me what opera it is they're performing at Manchester?
The _Prima Donna_ seems to be just finishing a song. Wonderful how one
can hear it all!

_The Irr. P._ (_snapping_). Very wonderful indeed, under the
circumstances! (_He corks both ears with the tubes_). It's too
bad--now there's a confounded string-band beginning outs--(_Removes
the tube._) Eh, what? (_More angrily than ever._) Why, it's _in_ the
blanked thing! (_He fumbles with the tubes in trying to readjust them.
At last he succeeds, and, after listening intently, is rewarded by
hearing a muffled and ghostly voice, apparently from the bowels of the
earth, say_--"Ha, say you so? Then am I indeed the hooshiest hearsher
in the whole of Mumble-land!")

_The Chatty O.G._ (_nudging him_). How very distinctly you hear the
dialogue, Sir, don't you?

    [_The Irritable Person, without removing the tubes, turns
    and glares at him savagely, without producing the slightest
    impression._

_Another Ghostly Voice_ (_very audibly_). The devil you are!

_A Careful Mother_. MINNIE, put them down at _once_, do you hear? I
can't have you listening to such language.

_Minnie_. Why, it's only at Manchester, Mother!

_Ghostly Voices and Sounds_ (_as they reach the Irritable Person_).
"You cursed scoundrel! So it was _you_ who burstled the billiboom, was
it? Stand back, there, I'll hork every gordle in his--!" (_... Sounds
of a scuffle ... A loud female scream, and firing ..._) "What have you
done?"

_The Ch. O.G._ Have you any sort of idea what he _has_ done, Sir?

    [_To the Irritable Person._

_The Irr. P._ No, Sir, and I'm not likely to have as long as--

    [_He listens with fierce determination._

_First Ghostly Voice_. Stop! Hear me--I can explain everything!

_Second Do. Do._ I will hear _nothing_, I tell you!

_First Do. Do._ You shall--you _must_! Listen. I am the only surviving
mumble of your unshle groolier.

_The Ch. O.G._ (_as before_). I think it must be a Melodrama and not
an Opera after all--from the language!

_An Innocent Matron_ (_who is listening, with her eyes devoutly fixed
on the Libretto of "The Mountebanks," under the firm conviction that
she is in direct communication with the Lyric Theatre._) I always
understood _The Mountebanks_ was a _musical_ piece, my dear, didn't
you? and even as it is, they don't seem to keep very close to the
words, as far as I can follow!

_Ghostly Voices_ (_in the Irritable Person's ear as before_). "Your
_wife_?" "Yes, my wife, and the only woman in the world I ever loved!"

_The Irr. P._ (_pleased, to himself._) Come, now I'm getting
accustomed to it, I can hear capitally!

_The Voices_. Then why have you--?...I will tell you all. Twenty-five
years ago, when a shinder foodle in the Borjeezlers I--

_A Still Small Voice_ (_in everybody's ear_). TIME, PLEASE.

_Everybody_ (_dropping the tubes, startled._) Where did _that_ come
from?

_The Com. M._ They've been and cut it off at the main--just when it
was getting interesting!

_His Fiancée_. Well, I can't say I made out much of the plot myself.

_The Com. M._ I made out enough to cover a sixpence, anyhow. You
didn't expect the telephone to explain it all to you goin' along, and
give you cawfee between the Acts, did you?

_The Ch. O.G._ (_sidling affably up to the Irritable Person as he
is moving out_). Marvellous strides Science has made of late, Sir!
Almost incredible. I declare to _you_, while I was sitting there, I
positively felt inclined to ask myself the question--

_The Irr. P._ Allow me to say, Sir, that another time, if you will
obey that inclination, and put the question to yourself instead of
other people, you will be a more desirable neighbour in a Telephone
Room than, I confess I found you!

    [_He turns on his heel, indignantly._

_The Ch. O.G._ (_to himself_). 'Strordinary what unsociable people one
_does_ come across at times! Now I 'm always ready to talk to anybody,
I am--don't care _who_ they are. Well--well-- [_He walks on, musing._

[Illustration: QUITE NATURAL.

_Mamma._ "ETHEL DEAR, WHY WON'T YOU SAY GOOD-BYE TO THIS GENTLEMAN? HE
IS VERY KIND!"

_Ethel._ "BECAUSE, MUMMY DEAR, YOU TOLD HIM JUST NOW HE IS 'THE LION
OF THE SEASON,'--AND I AM SO FRIGHTENED!"]

"DE PROFUNDIS."

(_BY AN INDIGNANT "OUTSIDER."_)

  A masterpiece, worthy of TURNER,
    Was mine, there my friends all agree,
  No work of a pot-boiling learner,
        My "_View on the Dee_."

  A place on the line I expected,
    Associate shortly to be!
  Hang me, if it isn't rejected,
        And marked with a D!

  I will not repeat what I uttered
    When this was reported to me;
  The mere monosyllable muttered
        Begins with a D.

ON THE (POST) CARDS.

    ["Sir JAMES FERGUSSON does not hesitate to declare his opinion
    that rudeness or incivility on the part of a Post-Office
    servant is, next to dishonesty, one of the worst offences
    he can commit. This notice is not addressed to men alone.
    Of the young women employed by the department, there are, he
    says, some, if not many, whom it is impossible to acquit of
    inattention and levity in the discharge of their official
    duties. It is Sir JAMES FERGUSSON's intention to ascertain, at
    short intervals, the effect of this notice on the behaviour of
    Post-Office officials generally."--_Daily Paper_.]

    SCENE--_Interior of a Post Office. Female Employees engaged
    in congenial pursuits._

_First Emp._ (_ending story_). And so she never got the bouquet, after
all, and he went to Margate, without even saying good-bye.

_Second Emp._ (_her Friend_). Well, that was hard upon her!

_First Member of the Public_ (_entering briskly and putting coppers on
the counter_). Now then, three penny stamps, please!

_First Emp._ (_to her Friend_). Yes, as you say, it _was_ hard, as of
course the matter of the pic-nic was no affair of hers.

_Second Emp._ (_sympathetically_). Of course not! They are all alike,
my dear!--all alike!

_First Mem. of the Pub._ (_impatiently_). Now then, three penny stamps
please!

_First Emp._ Well, you are in a hurry! (_To her Friend_). And from
that day to this she has never heard from him.

_Second Emp._ And it would have been so easy to drop her a postcard
from Herne Bay.

_First Mem. of the Pub._ Am I to be kept waiting all day? Three penny
postage-stamps, please.

_First Emp._ (_leisurely_). What do you want?

_First Mem. of the Pub._ (_angrily_). Three penny postage-stamps, and
look sharp about it!

_First Emp._ (_giving stamp_). Threepence.

_First Mem. of the Pub._ (_furious_). A threepenny stamp! I want three
penny stamps. Three stamps costing a penny each. See?

_First Emp._ (_with calm unconcern_). Then why didn't you say so
before? (_Supplies stamps and turns to Friend._) Then MARIA of course
wanted to go to Birchington.

_Second Emp._ Why Birchington? Why did she want to go to Birchington?

_First Emp._ Well--_he_ of course was at Herne Bay.

_Second Emp._ Ah, now I begin to understand her artfulness.

_First Emp._ Ah, there you are right, my dear! She _was_ artful!

    [_Enter Second Member of the Public, covered up in cloaks and
    only showing the tip of his nose._

_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a feeble voice_). Can you tell me,
please, when the Mail starts for India?

_First Emp._ Well, the sea air _is_ the sea air. And that reminds me,
what do you think of this tobacco-pouch for--

_Second Emp._ (_archly_). For I know who! Why, you have got his
initials in forget-me-nots!

_First Emp._ I think them so pretty, and they are very easy to do.

_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a rather louder voice_). Can you tell
me, please, when the Mail starts for India?

_Second Emp._ I must say, dear, you have the most perfect taste.
Well, he will be ungrateful if he isn't charmed with them! Absolutely
charmed!

_Second Mem, of the Pub._ (_louder still_). Will you be so good as to
say when the Mail starts for India?

_First Emp._ Oh, you _are_ in a hurry! (_To Friend._) Yes, I took
a lot of trouble in getting the gold beads. There is only one place
where you can get them. They don't sell them at the Stores.

_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a loud tone of voice_). Again I ask you
when the Mail leaves for India?

_Second Emp._ And yet you can get almost anything you want there. Only
it's a terrible nuisance going from one place to another.

_Second Mem. of the Pub._ (_in a voice of thunder_). Silence! You are
an impudent set! You are calculated to injure the class to whom you
belong! I am ashamed of you!

_First Emp._ And who may you be?

_Second Mem. of the Pub._ Whom may I be? I will tell you! (_Throws off
his disguise_.) I am the Postmaster-General!!!

    [_Scene closes in upon a tableau suggestive of astonishment,
    contrition and excitement._

ITS LATEST APPLICATION.--Chorus for Royal Academicians, for Monday
next:--"Ta-R.A.-R.A.-Boom-to-day!"

[Illustration: HISTORY EXAMS.

(_Effects on Education of Modern Advertising._)

"WHO WAS BORN IN CORSICA?" (_Silence._) "TRY AND THINK--AND DIED IN
ST. HELENA?"

"OH, OF COURSE--I KNOW! THE GREAT SAPOLIO!"]

TO THE NEW "QUEEN OF THE MAY".

(A HYMN OF HONEST LABOUR.)

_After the Proclamation of the Anarchist Manifestoes, (With Apologies
to the Author of the magnificent "Hymn to Proserpine.")_

    ["For the third time the International mobilises its
    battalions.... Already the mere mention of the magical word
    'May-Day' throws the _bourgeoisie_ into a state of nervous
    trembling, and its cowardice only finds refuge in cynicism and
    ferocity. But whether the wretch (the _bourgeoisie_) likes
    it or not, the end draws nigh. Capitalist robbery is going
    to perish in mud and shame.... The conscious proletariat
    organises itself, and marches towards its emancipation.
    You can have it all your own way presently; proletarians
    of the whole world, serfs of the factory, the men of the
    workshop, the office, and the shop, who are mercilessly
    exploited and pitilessly assassinated.... For, lo! '93
    reappears on the horizon.... 'Vive l'Internationale
    des Travailleurs!'"--_Manifesto of the May-Day Labour
    Demonstration Executive Committee_.]

  Have we lived long enough to have seen one thing, that hate hath
          no end?
  Goddess, and maiden, and queen, must we hail _you_ as Labour's
          true friend?--
  Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who
          weep?
  Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and
          satisfied sleep?
  Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the
          dove,
  And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly
          love;
  But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold,
  Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold.
  We are sick of spouting--the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain,
  To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain.
  For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath,
  And they promise us love-inspired life--by the red road of hatred
          and death.
  The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth--so the chatterers
          say--
  Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the
          May!
  New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her
          snake-sceptre a rod,
  Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at
          her nod;
  But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare
  To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon _when_
          bare?

  Time and old gods are at strife; we dwell in the midst thereof,
  And they are but foolish who curse, and they are but shallow who
          scoff.
  Let hate die out, take rest, poor workers, be all at peace;
  Let the angry battle abate, and the barren bitterness cease!
  Ah, pleasant and pastoral picture! Thrice welcome whoever shall
          bring
  The sunshine of love after Winter, the blossoms of joy with the
          Spring!
  Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule
          us, and take
  The laurel, the palm, and the pæan; all bondage but thine we would
          break,
  And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our
          breath,
  That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms
          lurks--Death!

  A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood! Beautiful dream!
  But alas for this Promise of May! Do not Labour's Floralia seem
  As flower-feasts fair to her followers? Look on the wreaths at her
          feet,
  Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the
          street,
  Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of the May!
  And what means the new Bona Dea? and what would her suppliants say?
  Organised strength, solidarity, power to band and to strike,
  Hope that is native to Spring,--and Hate, in all seasons alike;
  Mutual trust of the many--and menace malign for the few.
  Citizen, capitalist,--ah! the hours of _your_ empire seem few,
  An empire ill-gendered, unjust, blindly selfish, and heartlessly
          strong
  For the crushing of famishing weakness, the rearing of
          wealth-founded wrong.
  Few, if these throngs have their will, for the fierce proletariat
          throbs
  For revenge on the full-fed _Bourgeoisie_ which ruthlessly harries
          and robs.
  'Tis fired with alarms, and it arms with hot haste for the
          imminent fray,
  For it quakes at the tramp of King Mob, and the thought of this
          Queen of the May.
  The bandit of Capital falls, and shall perish in shame and in filth!
  The harvest of Labour's at hand!--The harvest; but red is the
  And the reapers are wrathful and rash, and the swift-wielded
          sickle that strives
  For the sheaves, not the gleaners' scant ears, seems agog for the
          reaping of--lives!
  Assassins of Capital? Aye! And their weakening force will ye mee
  With assassins of Labour? Shall Brotherhood redden the field and
          the street?
  Beware of the bad black old lesson! Behold, and look close, and
          beware!
  There are flowers at your newly-built shrine, is the evil old
          serpent not there?

[Illustration: THE NEW "QUEEN OF THE MAY."]

  The sword-edge and snake-bite, though hidden in blossoms, are
          hatred's old arms.
  And what is your May Queen at heart, oh, true hearts, that succumb
          to her charms?
  Dropped and deep in the blossoms, with eyes that flicker like fir
  The asp of Murder lies hid, which with poison shall feed your
          desire.
  More than these things will she give, who looks fairer than all
          these things?
  Not while her sceptre's a snake, and her orb the red horror that
          rings
  Devilish, foul, round the world; while the hiss and the roar are
          the voice
  Of this monstrous new Queen of the May, in whose rule you would
          bid us rejoice.

MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY FOR CHILDREN.

NO. II.--"LITTLE JACK HORNER."

          LITTLE JACK HORNER,
          He sat in the corner,
  And cried for his "Mummy!" and "Nuss!"
          For, while eating his cake,
          He had got by mistake
  In a horrid piratical 'bus.

          Now, some ten minutes back,
          You'd have seen little JACK
  From an Aërated Bread Shop emerge,
          And proceed down the Strand--
          Slice of cake in his hand--
  In a crumb-covered suit of blue serge.

          To be perfectly frank,
          He was bound for the Bank,
  For it chanced to be dividend day,
          And he jumped on the 'bus,
          After reasoning thus--
  In his logical juvenile way:--

          "Here's a 'bus passing by,
          And I cannot see why
  I should weary my infantile feet;
          I've a copper to spare,
          And the authorised fare
  Is a penny to Liverpool Street."

          As the 'bus cantered on,
          Little cake-eating JOHN
  In the corner contentedly sat,
          And with that one and this
          (Whether Mister or Miss)
  Had a meteorological chat.

          Came a bolt from the blue
          When, collecting his due,
  The conductor remarked, "Though I thank
          That young cake-eating gent
          For the penny he's sent,
  It's a _tuppenny_ ride to the Bank!"

          "You're a pirate!" sobbed JACK,
          "And your colours are black!"
  But he heard--as he struggled to speak--
          The conductor observe,
          With remarkable verve,
  That he didn't want none of his cheek!

          With a want of regard,
          He demanded JACK's card.
  And young HORNER was summoned next day,
          When the poor little lad
          Lost the battle, and had
  All the costs in addition to pay.

          Now the Moral is this:
          Little Master and Miss,
  Whom I'm writing these verses to please;
          If your tiny feet ache,
          Then a 'bus you may take,
  _But be sure it's an L.G.O.C.'s!_

A CURSORY OBSERVATION.

From the _Figaro_ for Dimanche, April 17, we make this extract:--

    "SPORTS ATHLÉTIQUES.--Le match international de foot ball
    entre le Stade Français et le Rosslyn Park foot ball Club de
    Londres sera joué demain sur le terrain du Cursing Club de
    France à Levallois. L'équipe anglaise est arrivée à Paris hier
    soir. Le match sera présidé par le marquis de Dufferin."

"The Cursing Club!" What an awful name! For what purpose are they
banded together? Is it to curse one another by their gods? to issue
forth on _premières_ to damn a new play? What fearful language would
be just audible, curses, not loud but deep, during the progress of
the Foot-ball Match over which the Marquis of DUFFERIN is to preside!
It is all over by now; but the result we have not seen. We hope there
is no Cursing Club in England. There existed, once upon a time, in
London, a Club with an awful Tartarian name, which might have been a
parent society to a Cursing Club. Let us trust--

    [*** The Editor puts short the article at this point, being
    of opinion that "Cursing" is only a misprint for "Coursing;"
    or, if not, he certainly gives _Le Figaro_ the benefit of the
    doubt. Note, also, that the match was to be played on "Cursing
    Club Ground," lent for the occasion, and was not to be played
    by Members of the "C.C."]

THE LAY OF THE LITERARY AUTOLYCUS.

(_SEE CORRESPONDENCE IN THE TIMES ON "LITERARY THEFTS."_)

_Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing._

  When books and magazines appear,
    With heigh! the hopes of a big sale!--
  Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year,
    And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.

  The white sheets come, each page my "perk,"
    With heigh! sweet bards, O how they sing!--
  With paste and scissors I set to work;
    Shall a stolen song cost anything?

  The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
    With heigh! with heigh! he _must_ be a J.--
  His Summer songs supply my wants;
    They cost me nought--but, ah! they _pay_.

I have served Literature in my time, but now Literature is in _my_
service.

  But shall I pay for what comes dear,
    To the pale scribes who write,--
  For news, and jokes, and stories queer?
    Walker! my friends, not quite!
  Since filchers may have leave to live,
    And vend their "borrowed" budget,
  For all my "notions" nix I'll give,
    Then sell them as I trudge it.

My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named me AUTOLYCUS, who,
being as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up
of unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors I procured this
caparison; and my revenue is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol
are too powerful on the highway; picking and treadmilling are terrors
to burglars; but in _my_ line of theft I sleep free from the thought
of them. A prize! a prize!...

  Jog on, jog on, the foot-pad way,
    In the modern Sikes's style-a:
  Punctilious fools prefer to _pay_;
    But I at scruples smile-a.

... Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a
very simple gentleman ... I understand the business, do it; to have an
open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand with the shears is necessary
for a (literary) cutpurse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out
the good work of other people. I see this is the time that the unjust
man doth thrive.

THE WELLINGTON MONUMENT.

  At last! How long ago the time
    When England's paltry meanness killed
  Her greatest Sculptor in his prime.
  And hid his work, now called sublime,
    In narrow space so nearly filled!

  When, using Art beyond her taste,
    Her greatest Captain's tomb he wrought,
  That noblest effort was disgraced,--
  It seemed to her a needless waste,
    The Budget Surplus was her thought.

  Now may she, with some sense of shame,
    Amend the errors of the past,
  Show honour to the Great Duke's name,
  Repair the wrong to STEPHENS' fame,
    And move the Monument at last!

"KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS."

It is believed that the Rossendale Union of Liberal Clubs, having
given a pair of slippers, a rug, and two pieces of cretonne to Mr.
GLADSTONE, will also make the following presents, in due course:--

_Sir W. L-ws-n._--Twelve dozen Tea-cosies, and ten yards of blue
Ribbon.

_Mr. L-b-ch-re._--A Jester's cap.

_Sir W.V. H-rc-rt._--A Spencer, without arms, but emblazoned with
those of the Plantagenets.

_Mr. M-cl-re._--A Hood.

_Mr. McN-ll._--A knitted Respirator, to be worn in the House.

_Lord R. Ch-rch-ll._--Twelve dozen table-cloths, twenty-four dozen
Dinner-napkins, and thirty-six dozen Pudding-cloths.

_Sir E. Cl-rke._--A scarlet Jersey, inscribed "Salvation Army."

_Mr. R. Sp-nc-r._--A Smock Frock.

_Mr. B-lf-r._--Some Collars of Irish linen, and one of hemp, the
latter to be supplied by the Irish patriots in America.

_Mr. E. St-nh-pe._--A Necktie of green poplin, embroidered with
shamrocks.

_Mr. M. H-ly._--An Ulster.

_Col. S-nd-rs-n._--A Cork jacket.

_Mr. W. O'Br-n._--A pair of Tr----rs, in fancy cretonne.

_Sir G.O. Tr-v-ly-n._--A Coat (reversible).

_Mr. C. C-nyb-re._--A Waistcoat (strait).

[Illustration: "UNDERSTOOD."

"I SAY, DUBOIS, YOU _DO_ KNOW HOW TO LAY IT ON THICK, OLD MAN! I
LIKE YOUR CHEEK TELLING MISS BROWN SHE SPOKE FRENCH WITHOUT THE LEAST
ACCENT!"

"VY, CERTAINEMENT, MON AMI--VIZOUT ZE LEAST _FRENCH_ ACCENT!"]

"THE (SOLDIERS') LIFE WE LIVE."

(_Imaginary Evidence that should be added to the Report of Lord
Wantage's Committee._)

_Chairman._ I think your name is RICHARD REDMOND?

_Witness._ I beg pardon, my Lord and Gentlemen--DICK REDMOND--simple,
gushing, explosive DICK.

_Chair._ Have you been known by any other name?

_Wit._ Off duty, my Lord, I have been called CHARLES WARNER. Nay,
why should I not confess it?--CHARLIE WARNER. Yes, my Lord, CHARLIE
WARNER!

_Chair._ You wish to describe how you were enlisted?

_Wit._ Yes, my Lord. It was in this way. I had returned from
some races in a dog-cart with a villain. We stopped at a wayside
public-house kept by a comic Irishman.

_Chair._ Are these details necessary?

_Wit._ Hear me, my Lord; hear me! I confess it, I took too much to
drink. Yes, my Lord, I was drunk! And then a Sergeant in the Dragoon
Guards gave me a shilling, and placed some ribands in my pot-hat,
and--well--I was a soldier! Yes, a soldier! And as a soldier was
refused permission to visit my dying mother!

_Chair._ Were there no other legal formalities in connection with
your enlistment? For instance--Were you not taken before an attesting
Magistrate?

_Wit._ No, my Lord, no! I was carried off protesting, while my
villanous friend disappeared with my sweetheart! It was cruel, my Lord
and Gentlemen! It was very cruel!

_Chair._ Did you desert?

_Wit._ I did, my Lord--after I had obtained a uniform fitting closely
to the figure; but it was only that I might obtain the blessing of my
mother! And when I returned home the soldiers followed me--and might
have killed me!

_Chair._ How was that?

_Wit._ When I had taken refuge in a haystack, they prodded the
haystack with their swords! And this is life in the Army!

_Chair._ Were you arrested on discovery?

_Wit._ No; they spared me that indignity! They saw, my Lord, that my
mother was dying, and respectfully fell back while I assisted the old
Lady to pass away peacefully. But then, after all, they were men. In
spite of their red patrol jackets, brass helmets, and no spurs, they
were men, my Lord,--men! And, as soldiers, after I had broken from
prison, and was accused of murder, they again released me, because
some one promised to buy my discharge!

_Chair._ And where are you quartered?

_Wit._ At the Royal Princess's Theatre, Oxford Street, where I have
these strange experiences of discipline, and where I am enlisted in
the unconventional, not to say illegal, way I have described, nightly;
nay, sometimes twice daily!

_Chair._ And why have you proffered your evidence?

_Wit._ Because I think the Public ought to know, my Lord, the great
services afforded by the most recent Melodrama to the popularity of
the Army, and--yes, the cause of recruiting!

    [_The Witness then withdrew._

HOW THEY BRING THE GOOD NEWS!

  All the papers teeming
  With, the news of DEEMING
    On the shore or ship;
  Telling of his tearing
  Hair that he was wearing
    From his upper lip.

  (T-SS-D, rush! Pursue it!
  Buy it, bring it, glue it
    On your model! Quick!)
  Telling how he's looking,
  How he likes the cooking,--
    Bah, it makes one sick!

  Telling of his bearing,
  How the crowds are staring,
    What may be his fate,
  Just what clothes he wore the
  Days he came before the
    Local Magistrate.

  And, verbatim printed
  All he's said or hinted
    As to any deeds;
  Such a chance as this is
  Not a paper misses!
    Everybody reads!

  Would they give such latest
  News of best and greatest
    Folks? What's that you say?
  Who would read of virtue,
  Or such news insert? You
    Know it would not pay.

  So, demand creating
  Such supply, they're stating
    All that they can tell;
  Spite of School-Board teaching,
  Culture, science, preaching,
    This is sure to sell.

[Illustration: THE END OF THE SEASON. AU REVOIR!]

[Illustration: STAIRCASE SCENES.--NO. 1. PRIVATE VIEW, ROYAL ACADEMY.]

THE YOUNG GIRL'S COMPANION.

(_BY MRS. PAYLEY,_)

II.--DINING-OUT.

I can quite understand that a young girl may not care much for the
mere material dinner. The palate is a pleasure of maturity. The
woman of fifty probably includes a menu or two among her most sacred
memories; but the young girl is capable of dining on part of a cutlet,
any pink sweetmeat, and some tea. But I must confess that I was
surprised at another objection to dining-out that a young girl, only
at the end of her second season, once made to me. She said that she
positively could not stand any longer the conversation of the average
young man of Society. I asked her why, and she then asserted that this
sort of young man confined himself to flat badinage and personal brag,
which he was mistaken in believing to be veiled. What she said was,
of course, perfectly true. Civilisation is responsible for the flat
badinage, for civilisation requires that conversation shall be light
and amusing, but can provide no remedy for slow wits; on the other
hand, the personal brag is a relic of the original man. The badinage
is the young man's defect in art; the brag is his defect in nature.
But I fail to see any objection to such conversation; on the contrary,
it is charming because it _is_ so average; you know beforehand just
what you will hear and just what you will say, and everything is
consequently made easy. The man puts on that kind of talk just as
he puts on his dress-coat; both are part of the evening uniform. The
motto of the perfect young man of Society is "I resemble." I pointed
all this out to the young girl in question, and she retorted that
it was a pity that silence was a lost art. However, she continued to
dine-out and to take her part in the only possible conversation, and
after all Society rather encourages theoretical rebellion, provided
that it is accompanied by practical submission.

From the point of view of sentiment, a dinner has less potentialities
than a dance; but the dinner may begin what the dance will end; you
set light to the fuse in the dining-room, and the explosion takes
place six weeks afterwards in someone-else's conservatory. Nothing
much can be done on the staircase; but, if you can decently pretend
that you have heard of the young man who is taking you in, he will
probably like it. If, after a few minutes, you decide that it is
worth while to interest the young man, discourage his flat badinage,
and encourage his personal brag. The only thing in which it is quite
certain that every man will be interested is, the interest someone
else takes in him. Later on, he will probably be induced to illustrate
the topic of conversation by telling you (if it would not bore you)
of a little incident which happened to himself. The incident will be
prettily coloured for dinner-table use, and he will make the story
prove a merit in himself, which he will take care to disclaim vainly.
When he has finished, look very meditatively at your plate, as if you
saw visions in it, and then turn on him suddenly with wide eyes--with
the right kind of eyelashes, this is effective.

"I suppose you don't know it, Mr. BLANK," you tell him, "but really I
can't help saying it. You behaved splendidly--splendidly!"

Droop the eyelashes quickly, and become meditative again. He will
deprecate your compliment a little incoherently.

"Not at all, not at all--Miss--er--ASTERISK--I really--assure
you--nothing more than any--er--other man would have done. Some
other people at the time told me"--(_laughs nervously_)--"very
much--er--what you have just said, but--er--personally,
I--really--could never see it, or of course I wouldn't have mentioned
it to you."

Your rejoinder will depend a good deal on how far you mean to go, and
how much of that kind of thing you think you can stand. If you like,
you can drop your handkerchief or your glove when you rise; it will
please him to pick it up for you, and he will feel, for a moment, as
if he had saved your life.

If you do not want to please the man, but only to show your own
superiority, it may perhaps be as well to remember that women are
better than men, as a rule, in flat badinage. Men talk best when they
are by themselves, but they are liable to be painfully natural at such
times. I had some little difficulty in finding this out, but I thought
it my duty to know, and--well, I _do_ know.

The correspondence that I have received has not been altogether
pleasant. I have had one letter from ETHEL (aged thirteen) saying that
she thinks me a mean sneak for prying into other people's Diaries.
I can only reply that I was acting for the public good. I have had
a sweet letter, however, from "AZALEA." She has been absolutely
compelled, by force of circumstances, to allow the distinct attentions
of three different men. She does not give the names of the men, only
descriptions, but I should advise her to keep the dark one. She can
see the will at Somerset House. "JANE" writes to ask what is the best
cure for freckles. I do not answer questions of that kind. I have
replied to my other correspondents privately.

REPULSING THE AMAZONS.

(_SEE CARTOON, "ARMING THE AMAZONS," DEC. 5, 1891._)

  Arming the Amazons against the Greeks?
  That PRIAM SALISBURY tried some few short weeks
  Before the present fray. FAWCETTA fair
  Had prayed; the question then seemed "in the air,"
  And PRIAM proffered then the Franchise-spear,
  (A shadowy one, that gave no grounds for fear,)
  To poor PENTHESILEA.
                      Now, ah, now
  ROLLITTUS moves, there's going to be a row,
  And lo! the mingled ranks of Greece and Troy
  Close 'gainst the Amazons. Her steed, a toy,
  A hobby-horse, that any maid may mount,
  Is not--just now--of any great account.
  Her phantom spear will pierce no stout male mail;
  But should ROLLITTUS _not_--(confound him!)--fail,
  A female host, well armed, and _not_ on hobbies,
  Might prove as dangerous as a batch of Bobbies.
  The fair FAWCETTA then must be thrown over;
  PENTHESILEA finds no hero-lover
  In either host. PRIAM, abroad, is dumb.
  Ah, maiden-hosts, man's love for you's a hum.
  Each fears you--in the foeman's cohorts thrown,
  But _neither side desires you in its own!_
  The false GLADSTONIUS first, he whom you nourish,
  A snake in your spare bosoms, dares to flourish
  Fresh arms against you; potent, though polite,
  He fain would bow you out of the big fight,
  Civilly shelve you. "Don't kick up a row,
  And--spoil my game! Another day, not now,
  There's a _dear_ creature!" CHAMBERLAINIUS, too,
  Hard as a nail, and squirmy as a screw,
  Sides with the elder hero, just for once;
  CHAPLINIUS also, active for the nonce
  On the Greek side, makes up the Traitrous Three,
  One from each faction! Ah! 'tis sad to see
  PENTHESILEA, fierce male foes unite
  In keeping female warriors from the fight;
  Yet think, look round, and--you _may_ find they're right!

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.


Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Clark and the Online

                            Funny Epitaphs.

                              COLLECTED BY

                        Arthur Wentworth Eaton.

                                BOSTON:
                        THE MUTUAL BOOK COMPANY.
                                 1902.

                            Copyright, 1885,
                       BY H. H. CARTER & KARRICK.

            _Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs._

                                      --_Richard II, Act III, Scene ii._

    _Duncan is in his grave;
    After life's fitful fever he sleeps well._

                                         --_Macbeth, Act III, Scene ii._

    _Let there be no inscription upon my tomb; let no man write my
    epitaph._

                                                       --_Robert Emmet._

    _Friend, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd
      So very much is said,
    One half will never be believ'd
      The other never read._

EPITAPHS ON MEN.

An old American epitaph:

    Under this sod, and under these trees,
    Lieth the body of Samuel Pease;
    He is not in this hole, but only his pod,
    He shelled out his soul and went up to God.

Another version:

    Under this sod, beneath these trees,
    Lyeth the pod of Solomon Pease.
    Pease is not here, but only his pod,
    He shelled out his soul, which went straight to his God.

    Here lies the body of Johnny Haskell
    A lying, thieving, cheating rascal;
    He always lied, and now he lies,
    He has no soul and cannot rise.

An Irishman wrote the following oft-quoted lines for his epitaph:

    Here I lays,
    Paddy O'Blase;
    My body quite at its aise is,
    With the tip of my nose
    And the points of my toes
    Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

In Ballyporen (Ire.) churchyard, on Teague O'Brian, written by himself:

    Here I at length repose,
    My spirit now at aise is;
    With the tips of my toes
    And the point of my nose
    Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

    Here lies Richard Fothergill who met a violent death. He was
    shot by a colt's revolver, old kind, brass mounted, and of such is
    the kingdom of heaven.

A Cornwall churchyard is enriched with the following dainty verses:

    Here lies entombed one Roger Morton,
    Whose sudden death was early brought on;
    Trying one day his corn to mow off,
    The razor slipped and cut his toe off.

    The toe, or rather what it grew to,
    An inflammation quickly flew to;
    The parts they took to mortifying,
    And poor dear Roger took to dying.

    The death angel struck Alexander McGlue
    And gave him protracted repose;
    He wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe
    And had a pink wart on his nose.

    No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space
    Over on the evergreen shore.
    His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
    At precisely a quarter past four.

At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:

    He lived one hundred and five,
    Sanguine and strong;
    A hundred to five,
    You live not so long.
    Dy'd March 4, 1687.

    This is all that remains of poor Ben Hough
    He had forty-nine years and that was enough.
    Of worldly goods he had his share,
    And now he's gone to the Devil's snare.

In an old cemetery in Lyme, Conn.:

    Close behind this stone
    Here lies alone
    Captain Reynolds Marvin,
    Expecting his wife
    When ends her life,
    And we both are freed from sarvin'.

    Here lies the body of Captain Gervase Scrope, of the family of
    the Scropes of Bilton, in the county of York, who departed this life
    26th August, Anno Domini 1705, aged 66.

    An epitaph written by himself, in the agony and doloroes paines
    of the gout, and died soon after.

    Here lies an old toss'd tennis ball.
    Was racketted from spring to fall.
    With so much heat and so much frost,
    Time's arms for shame grew ty'rd at last.
    Four kings in camps he truly served,
    And from his loyalty ne'er swerved.
    Father ruin'd, the son slighted,
    And from the Crown ne'er requited.
    Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood,
    Was too well known, but did no good.
    With long campaigns and paines o' th' Gout,
    He could no longer hold it out.
    Always a restless life he led,
    Never at quiet till quite dead.
    He married in his latter days
    One who exceeds the common praise;
    But wanting health still to make known
    Her true affection and his own,
    Death kindly came, all wants supply'd,
    By giving Rest which life deny'd.

From a tombstone near Williamsport, Penn.:

                        Sacred to the Memory of
                             HENRY HARRIS,
                 Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris
                           And Jane his Wife.
   Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt in his bowels.

    Peaceable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, and
    respected by all who knew him, and went to the world where horses
    don't kick, where sorrow and weeping is no more.

    YATTENDON BERKS. 1770.

    O Death, thy call was soon,
      My pains were smart,
    But I, prepared,
      Was ready to depart
    In hopes to Heaven, there to sit
      With Saints and Angels bright,
    Singing Hallelujahs
      In which I took delight.

    Tread softly mortals o'er the bones
    Of this world's wonder, Captain Jones,
    Who told his glorious deeds to many
    Yet never was believed by any.
    Posterity let this suffice
    He swore all's true, yet here he lies.

    Here lies the body of John Bidwell,
    Who, when in life, wished his neighbors no evil.
      In hopes up to jump
      When he hears the last trump
    And triumph over Death and the Devil.

    Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
    An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man.

                                                          --_Goldsmith._

    Beneath this stone of granite hard
    Lies my own beloved pard.

    ON A MR. PECK

    Here lies a Peck, which some men say
    Was first of all a Peck of clay;
    This wrought with skill divine, while fresh,
    Became a curious Peck of flesh.
    Through various forms its Maker ran,
    Then adding breath made Peck a man;
    Full fifty years Peck felt life's troubles
    Till death relieved a Peck of troubles;
    Then fell poor Peck, as all things must.
    And here he lies,--a Peck of dust.

    Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,
      His age was five times ten,
    He ne'er did good, nor ever would,
      Had he lived as long again

    Here lies the body of John Smith. Had he lived till he got
    ashore, he would have been buried here.

    Here lies Dr. Trollope,
    Who made these stones roll up;
    He took a dose of jalop,
    And God took his soul up.

    John Macpherson
    Was a remarkable person;
      He stood six feet two
      Without his shoe,
      And he was slew
      At Waterloo.

    Here lies John Auricular,
    Who in the ways of the Lord walked perpendicular.

    Don't weep for me, my wife most dear,
      But still remember I lie here,
    Altho' cut down when little past my bloom,
      Shed not one tear upon my tomb.

From Harrow Churchyard :

    In memory of Mr. John Port, son of Mr. Thomas Port, of
    Burton-on-Trent, who, not far from this town, had both his legs
    severed from his body by the Railway Train. With greatest fortitude
    he bore a second amputation by the surgeons, and died from loss of
    blood.

    Bright rose the morn, and vigorous rose poor Port,
    Gay on the train he used his wonted sport.
    When noon arrived, a mangled form they bore,
    With pain distorted and o'erwhelmed with gore.
    When evening came to close the fatal day,
    A mutilated corpse the sufferer lay.

A miser:

    Here lies one who for medicine would not give
      A little gold, and so his life he lost:
    I fancy now he'd wish again to live
      Could he but guess how much his funeral cost.

    Here lies the body of Jonathan Near
    Whose mouth it stretched from ear to ear.
    Tread softly, stranger, o'er this wonder,
    For if he yawns, you're gone, by thunder!

Truro, Nova Scotia:

    Don't weep for me, Eliza dear,
    I am not dead, but sleeping here.
    As I am now so you must be,
    Prepare for death and follow me.

    OLIVER P. DONNALLY.

    A son that has been ever kind
    Has gone and left us all behind;
    Cease to weep, my Mother dear,
    For I am wrapped up and lying here.
    Dear Oliver has gone to rest
    In Heaven above with Angels blest;
    A place is vacant at our hearts.
    Which never can be filled.

From Banbury Churchyard:

    To the memory of Ric. Richards, who by a Gangreen first lost a
    Toe, afterwards a Leg, and lastly his Life on the 7th day of April,
    1656.

    Ah! cruel Death, to make 3 Meals of one!
    To taste and eat, and Eat 'till all was gone.
    But know, thou Tyrant! when the Trump shall call,
    He'll find his Feet, and stand when thou shalt fall.

The graveyard at Wigtown, Gallowayshire, Scotland, furnish the two
following:

    Here lies the corps of Andrew Cowan, of Croft Angry, who died
    June 6th, 1776, aged 70 years. And his son William lies beside him,
    who died the 21st February, 1778, aged 17 years.

    And his son John of honest fame,
    Of stature small and a leg lame;
    Content he was with portion small,
    Keeped shop in Wigtown, and that's all.
    Died August 21st, 1779, aged 32 years.

In Plymouth old churchyard :

    Here lies the body of
      Thomas Vernon,
    The only _surviving_ son of
      Admiral Vernon.

In New Hampshire:

    Here lies old Caleb Ham,
      By trade a bum.
    When Caleb dyed the Devil cryed:
      "Come, Caleb, come."

Lord Brougham (for an orator):

    Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes,
      My fate a useful moral teaches;
    The hole in which my body lies
      Would not contain one half my speeches.

On a bachelor:

    At threescore winters' end I died,
      A cheerless being, sole and sad;
    The nuptial knot I never tied,
      And wish my father never had.

    Here lies the body of Henry Round
    Who went to sea and never was found.

In Thetford Churchyard, Norfolk:

    My grandfather was buried here,
    My cousin Jane and two uncles dear;
    My father perished with an inflammation in his thighs
    And my sister dropped down dead in the Minories;
    But the reason why I'm here interr'd, according to my thinking,
    Is owing to my good living and hard drinking.
    If, therefore, good Christians, you wish to live long,
    Don't drink too much wine, brandy, gin, or anything strong.

The celebrated Daniel Lambert's epitaph, St. Martin's, Stamford Baron,
England:

                 _Altus in animo, in corpore maximus._

               In remembrance of that prodigy in Nature,

                            DANIEL LAMBERT.

   A native of Leicester, who was possessed of an exalted, convivial
                                 mind;
              and in personal greatness had no competitor;
  He measured 3 ft. 1 in. round the legs, 9 ft. 4 in. round the body,
                       and weighed 52 st. 11 lb.

             He departed this life on the 21st June, 1809,
                             Aged 39 years.

    As a testimony of respect, this stone is erected by his friend
    in Leicester.

    Man's life's a vapor, and full of woes,
    He cuts a caper, and down he goes.

John Knott, of Sheffield, England:

    Here lies a man that was Knott born,
    His father was Knott before him,
    He lived Knott, and did Knott die,
    Yet underneath this stone doth lie.

In a French cemetery there are the following concise inscriptions on one
tombstone. The epitaph is on husband and wife:

    I am anxiously expecting you.--A. D. 1827.
    Here I am!--A. D. 1867.

    GOVERNOR STOUGHTON.

    A man to wedlock unknown,
    Devout in religion,
    Renowned for virtue,
    Famous for erudition,
    Acute in judgment.

An old man:

    Lively I walked life's journey through
    Till I arrived at eighty-two;
    Then calm descended here to rest
    In hopes to be forever blest.

Hackett to the author of Dr. Mead's epitaph:

    Mead's not dead then, you say, only sleeping a little;
    Why, egad, sir, you've hit it off there to a tittle;
    Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt--
    Pluto knows who he's got, and will ne'er let him out.

Oldtown, Maine:

    ORONO, AN INDIAN CHIEF, 1801.

    Safe lodg'd within his blanket, here below,
    Lie the last relics of old Orono;
    Worn down with toil and care, he in a trice
    Exchang'd his wigwam for a paradise.

From St. Philip's Churchyard, Birmingham:

    To the memory of James Baker, who died January 27th, 1781.

    O cruel Death, how cou'd you be so unkind
    To take him before and leave me behind?
    You should have taken both of us, if either,
    Which would have been more pleasing to the survivor.

    Died, on the 14th inst., Henry Wilkins Glyn, aged 3 days and
    7 hours. After a long and painful illness, which he bore with
    Christian fortitude, this youthful martyr departed to his rest.

    Here lies the body of Jonathan Stout.
    He fell in the water and never got out,
    And still is supposed to be floating about.

    Here lies one Box within another;
          The one of wood
          Was very good;
    We cannot say so much for t' other.

Epitaphs on Women.

An epitaph from an Irish graveyard:

    Here lies the body of Lady O'Looney,
      Grand-niece to Edmund Burke,
      Commonly called "the sublime."
    She was bland, passionate, and religious,
                Also,
    She painted in water-colors.
                Also,
    She sent several articles to the Exhibition.
      She was first cousin to Lady Jones.
    And of such is the kingdom of heaven.
                                      Amen.

At St. Albans:

    Sacred to the memory of Miss Martha Gwynn,
    Who was so very pure within,
    She burst the outer shell of sin,
    And hatched herself a cherubim.

There is an epitaph of an eccentric character that may be seen on a
tombstone at the burying-grounds near Hoosick Falls, New York. It reads:

    Ruth Sprague, Daughter of Gibson and Elizabeth Sprague. Died
    June 11, 1846, aged 9 years, 4 months, and 3 days.

    She was stolen from the grave by Roderick R. Clow, dissected at
    Dr. P. M. Armstrong's office, in Hoosick, N. Y., from which place
    her mutilated remains were obtained and deposited here.

    Her body dissected by fiendish man,
      Her bones anatomized,
    Her soul, we trust, has risen to God,
      Where few physicians rise.

    Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,
    Who as a wife did never vex one.
    We can't say that for her at the next stone.

    Here lies the body of Ann Mann,
    Who lived an old woman,
    And died an old Mann.

Epitaph on Lady Molesworth. Burnt to death 6 May, 1763:

    A peerless matron, pride of female life
    In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;
    Who wedded, to threescore preserved her fame,
    She lived a phoenix, and expired in flame.

A Welsh husband thus sings above the grave of his better-half:

    This spot is the sweetest I've seen in my life,
    For it raises my flowers and covers my wife.

At Wolstanton:

    MRS. ANN JENNINGS.

    Some have children, some have none;
    Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

    This corpse
    Is Phoebe Thorp's.

In memory of the "Wigtown Martyrs:"

    Here lyes Margrat Willson, Doughter of Gilbert Willson, in
    Glenvernoch, who was Drowned Anno 1685, age 18.

    Let Earth and stone still witness beare
    Their lyes a virgine Martyre Here,
    Marter'd for owning Christ Supream
    Head of his church and no more crime
    But not abjuring Presbytry
    And not owning Prelacy.
    They her condemned by unjust law,
    Within the Sea Ty'd to a stake.
    The actors of this cruel crime
    Was Lagg Strachan, Winram, and Graham.
    Neither young years nor yet old age
    Could stop the fury of their rage.

From Nettlebed Churchyard, Oxfordshire:

    Here lies father, and mother, and sister, and I;
      We all died within the space of one short year;
    They were all buried at Wimble except I,
      And I be buried here.

Commemorative of Thamozine J., wife of James Vernon:

    'Tis with regret, dear Thamozine,
      Her voice no more to hear,
    I'll banish from my heart
      Her groanings in my ear.

    Her children were her care,
      To me she did request,
    Take care and with them share
      On your honesty I can trust.

    Poor Martha Snell, she's gone away,
    She would if she could, but she could not stay;
    She'd two bad legs, and a baddish cough,
    But her legs it was that carried her off.

    Here lies my wife, poor Molly, let her lie,
    She finds repose at last, and so do I.

In a Salisbury graveyard, upon a stone recording the death of a lady at
the age of sixty-four years, appears the following:

    So fair, so young,
      So gentle and so dear,
    So lovely, so early lost,
      May claim a tear.

From Childwald Churchyard, England:

    Here lies me and my three daughters,
    Brought here by using seidlitz waters.
    If we had stuck to epsom salts,
    We wouldn't have been here in these vaults.

Arlington, Massachusetts:

    Here lies the body of Mary Morgan.
    Like the morning dew she glistened,
    Exhaled, and went to heaven.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania:

MRS. MARTHA GIFFORD, 1810.

    Sickness sore, long time I bore
      Physician's skill in vain,
    Till God revealed his tender love
      And took away my pain.

    And now, I at my anchor ride,
      With many of the fleet;
    Once more, again, I will set sail
      My Saviour Christ to meet.

    Susan Tomkins, here she lies;
    Nobody laughs, and nobody cries.
    Where she's gone, or how she fares,
    Nobody knows, and nobody cares.

    Here lies the body of Mary Ann Lowder,
    Who died while drinking a seidlitz powder.
    Called from earth to her heavenly rest,
    She should have waited till it effervesced

In Charlestown, Virginia:

    She was taken sick the 11th of June,
      And only lived ten days;
    But she has gone to rest in heaven above,
      To sing her Saviour's praise.

Westfield, New Jersey:

    The dame that rests beneath this tomb
    Had Rachel's beauty, Leah's fruitful womb,
    Abigail's wisdom, Lydia's faithful heart,
    Martha's just care, and Mary's better part.

    Here lies the body of Mary Ann Ford,
    We _trust_ her soul is with the Lord,
    But if she's missed of eternal life,
    It's better than being John Ford's wife.

    Here lies the body of Mary Ann Bent,
    She kicked up her heels, and away she went.

From Smithfield, Rhode Island, 1796:

    While she was at a brook,
      And where she did not like to go,
    She from her friends was sudden took,
      Seized with a fit she's subject to.
    Her body in the water lay,
      Her weeping husband found the same,
    The means was used without delay
      To call her back, but all in vain.
    Her life to God she did resign,
      And angels bore her soul away.
    The grave her body now confines
      Shall rise triumphant the last day.

Epitaphs on Occupations.

On an old woman who kept a pottery-shop in Chester, England:

    Beneath these stones lies old Kathering Gray,
    Changed from a busy life to lifeless clay;
    By earth and clay she got her pelf,
    But now is turned to earth herself.
    Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
    Abate your grief and dry your eyes,
    For what avails a flood of tears?
    Who knows but in a run of years,
    In some tall pitcher or bread pan,
    She in her shop may be again?

On an undertaker:

    Here lies Rob Master. Faith! 'twas very hard
      To take away an honest Robin's breath;
    Yes, surely Robin was full well prepared,
      For he was always looking out for _death_.

Nell Bachelour, an Oxford pie woman:

        Here into the dust
        The mouldering crust
    Of Eleanour Bachelour's shoven;
        Well versed in the arts
        Of pies, custards, and tarts,
    And the lucrative skill of the oven.

        When she lived long enough
        She made her last puff,
    A puff by her husband much praised,
        Now here she doth lie
        And makes a dirt pie,
    In hopes that her crust shall be raised.

On a tramp:

    Here lies one that once was born and cried,
    Lived several years--and then--and then he died.

A photographer:

    Here I lie, taken from life.

A lawyer:

    Entombed within this vault a lawyer lies
    Who, fame assureth us was just and wise,
    An able advocate and honest too;
    That's wondrous strange, indeed, if it be true.

Another lawyer:

    See how God works his wonders now and then,--
    Here lies a lawyer, and an honest man.

A tailor:

    Fate cuts the thread of life, as all men know,
    And Fate cut his, though he so well could sew.
    It matters not how fine the web is spun,
    'Tis all unravelled when our course is run.

    Here lies an editor.

On a horse thief:

    He found a rope and picked it up,
    And with it walked away.
    It happened that to tother end
    A horse was hitched, they say.
    They took the rope and tied it up
    Unto a hickory limb.
    It happened that the tother end
    Was somehow hitched to him.

A wood-cutter at Ockham, Surrey:

    The Lord saw good; I was lopping off wood,
      And down fell from the tree;
    I met with a check, and I broke my neck,
      And so Death lopped off me.

A parish clerk:

    Here lies within this tomb, so calm,
      Old Giles; pray sound his knell;
    Who thought no song was like a psalm,
      No music like a knell.

On a parish clerk who loved backgammon, and was succeeded in office by a
Mr. Trice:

        By the chance of the die,
        On his back here doth lie
    Our most audible clerk, Master Hammond;
        Tho' he _bore many men_
        Till threescore and ten,
    Yet, at length he by death is backgammoned.
        But hark! neighbors, hark!
        Here again comes the clerk;
    By a hit very lucky and nice,
        With death we're now even
        He just stepped to heaven,
    And is with us again in a Trice.

A sailor:

    Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast,
    Poor Tom's mizzen topsail is laid to the mast;
    He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead;
    He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead.
    He ever was brisk, and tho' now gone to wreck,
    When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck.

An old school-mistress, in Dorchester:

    Here lies the body of Miriam Wood, formerly wife to John Smith.

    A woman well beloved of all
    her neighbors for her care of small
    folks' education, their number being great,
    that when she died she scarcely left her mate:

    So wise discreet was her behaviours
    that she was well esteemed by neighbors.
    She lived in love with all to die
    So let her rest to eternitye.

On a maid of honor:

    Here lies (the Lord have mercy on her)
    One of Her Majesty's maids of honour:
    She was young, slender, and pretty;
    She died a maid--the more's the pity.

    Here lies poor stingy Timmy Wyatt,
    Who died at noon and saved a dinner by it.

    In Memory of Mr. Joseph Crapp; shipwright who died ye 26th of
    November 1770 Aged 43 years.

        Alass Frend Joseph
    His End was Allmost Sudden
    As thou the mandate came
        Express from heaven
    his foot it slip--And he did fall
    help, help he cries--& that was all.

In the old church of Wrexham there was (in 1858) a tablet with the
following inscription:

    Here lieth, underneath these stones,
    The Beard, the Flesh, and eke the Bones
    Of Wrexham's Clerk, old Daniel Jones.

On an architect:

    Lie heavy on him, earth, for he
    Laid many a heavy load on thee.

On a watchmaker, 1802, Æt 57:

                   Here lies in horizontal position,
           the outside Case of George Routleigh, Watchmaker.
             Integrity was the Mainspring, and prudence the
                               Regulator,
                    Of all the actions of his life.
                     Humane, generous, and liberal,
                         his hand never stopped
                     till he had relieved distress.
               So nicely regulated were all his Motions,
                       that he never went wrong,
                        except when set a-going
                               by people
                       who did not know his Key:
                        Even then he was easily
                            set right again.
             He had the art of disposing his time so well,
                     that his Hours kept running on
                   in a continual round of pleasure,
                  till an unlucky Minute put a stop to
                             his existence.
                         He departed this life
                    in hopes of being taken in hand
                             by his Maker;
               and of being thoroughly Cleaned, Repaired,
                       Wound up, and Set a-going
                         in the world to come.

Over the grave of a Shropshire blacksmith:

    My sledge and anvil lie declined,
    My bellows too have lost their wind;
    My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,
    And in the dust my body's laid:
    My coal is out, my iron's gone,
    My nails are drove, my work is done.

A bone collector:

              Here lies old Jones,
    Who all his life collected bones,
    Till death, that grim and bony spectre,
    That all-amassing bone collector,
    Boned old Jones, so neat and tidy,
    That here he lies all bona fide.

Miscellaneous Epitaphs.

Essex, England:

    Here lies the man Richard,
      And Mary his wife,
    Whose surname was Prichard:
      They lived without strife;
    And the reason was plain,--
      They abounded in riches,
    They had no care nor pain,
      And his wife wore the breeches.

In Llangowen Churchyard, Wales:

    Our life is but a summer's day:
    Some only breakfast, and away;
    Others to dinner stay, and are full fed;
    The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed.
    Large his account who lingers out the day;
    Who goes the soonest, has the least to pay.

Middletown, Connecticut, 1741:

      Under this stone
      Lies my dear son
    Which was an infant flower;
      Whose dust God keeps
      Ev'n while he sleeps,
    Until the rising hour.

    Many a cold wind o'er my body shall roll
    While in Abraham's bosom I'm a feasting my soul.

    The rising morn can't assume
      That we shall end the day,
    Death stands waiting at the door
      To bear our souls away

    Here lies I,
    Killed by a sky-
    Rocket in my eye.

From the Baltimore _Sun_:

    He heard the angels calling him
      From the celestial shore,
    He flapped his wings and away he went
      To make one angel more.

    Shall all we die?
    We shall die all.
    All die shall we?
    Die all we shall.

    How sleep the brave who sink to rest
    By all their country's wishes blest,
    They sleep not in their regimentals,
    Such things being here not deemed essentials.

    It was a cough that carried him off,
    It was a coffin they carred off in.

On an infant eight months old:

    Since I have been so quickly done for,
    I wonder what I was begun for.

    Little Johnny had a purple monkey
      Climbing up a yellow stick,
    Little Johnny licked the purple paint off,
      And it made him deathly sick.
    They stirred him up with calomel,
      They tried to move his liver,
    But all in vain, his little soul
      Was wafted o'er the River.

Potterne in Wiltshire:

    Here lies Joseph Trowlup
    Who made yon stones roll up;
    When death took his soul up,
    His body filled this hole up.

From Massachusetts, where a sorrowing and pious parent inscribed the
following two lines to the memory of his dead child:

    We cannot have all things to please us,
    Poor little Tommy's gone to Jesus.

A sympathetic reader, mistaking the point of the lament, added the lines:

    Cheer up, dear friend--all may yet be well,
    Perhaps poor little Tommy's gone to Hell.

New Berne, North Carolina:

    Ingenious youth, thou art laid in dust.
    Thy friends, for thee, in tears did burst.

York, Maine:

    Although this stone may moulder into dust,
    Yet Joseph Moodey's name continue must.

In Biddeford churchyard, Devon:

    The wedding-day appointed was,
      And wedding clothes provided;
    Before the nuptial day, alas!
      He sickened and he die did.

Lines written by a lady to console herself for the death of her father:

          It will not do to give way
          To _des_pair and grief,
      For according to God's ordination
    Our trials in life are trifling and brief,
      Compared to eternal damnation.

Lord Coningsby:

    Here lies Lord Coningsby, be civil,
    The rest God knows--so does the devil.

1767:

    Tho' Boreas' blasts and boistrous waves
      Have tost me to and fro,
    In spite of both, by God's decree,
      I harbor here below,
    Where I do now at Anchor ride
      With many of our fleet,
    Yet once again I must set sail
      My Admiral Christ to meet.

In Corley Churchyard, Warwickshire, England:

    These hillocks green and mouldering bones
    These gloomy tombs and lettered stones,
    One admonition here supply:
    Reader! art thou prepared to die?

    Sleep soft in dust, wait the Almighty's will,
    Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still.

Two children in Dorchester (a double inscription):

    Abel--his offering accepted is
    His body to the grave, his soul to blis
    On Octobers twentye and no more
    The yeare was sixteen hundred forty-four.

    Submite submitted to her heavenly king.
    Being a flower of that eternal Spring,
    Near three years old, she died in heaven to wait,
    The yeare was sixteen hundred forty-eight.

1808:

    Boreas' blasts and Neptune's waves
      Have tossed him to and fro,
    But, by the sacred will of God,
      He's anchored here below.

On a tombstone in New Jersey:

    Reader, pass on!--don't waste your time
    On bad biography and bitter rhyme;
    For what I _am_, this crumbling clay insures,
    And what I _was_, is no affair of yours!

From Portland, Oregon:

    Beneath this stone our baby lies,
      It neither cries nor hollers,
    It lived but one and twenty days,
      And cost us forty dollars.

    This world is a prison in every respect,
      Whose walls are the heavens in common;
    The jailor is sin, and the prisoners men;
      And the fetters are nothing but women.

Cornwall:

    Forty-nine years they lived as man and wife,
    And what's more rare, thus many without strife;
    She first departing, he a few weeks tried
    To live without her, could not, and so died.
    Both in their wedlock's great Sabbatic rest
    To be where there's no wedlock was blest,
    And having here a jubilee begun
    They're taken hence that it may ne'er be done.

    Here lies a Mother and two Babes,
    Who God has shortly called to their graves,
    In heaven we hope they are blest
    There to remain in eternal rest.

At Augusta, Maine:

    --After Life's Scarlet Fever I sleep well.

    Here lies John Ross,
    Kick'd by a hoss.

    Mammy and I together lived
      Just two years and a half;
    She went first--I followed next,
      The cow before the calf.

    I laid my wife beneath this stone
    For her repose and for my own.

    Beneath this stone a lump of clay,
      Lies Arabella Young;
    Who on the 24th of May,
      Began to hold her tongue.

    Here rests an old woman who always was tired,
    For she lived in a house where no help was hired;
    Her very last words were, "My friends I am goin'
    To a land where there's nothin' of washin' or sewin',
    And everything there shall be just to my wishes,
    For where they don't eat there's no washin' of dishes;
    The land with sweet anthems is constantly ringin',
    But having no voice I'll get clear of the singin'."
    She folded her hands, her latest endeavor,
    And whispered, "Oh nothin', sweet nothin forever."

At Kensington, N. H.:

    A live Dog is better than a dead Lion.

    Come drop a tear as you pass by,
    As you are now so once was I,
    As I am now you soon must be,
    Prepare for death and follow me.

      A zealous locksmith died of late,
    And did arrive at heaven's gate:
    He stood without, and would not knock,
    Because he meant to pick the lock.

    Here lies Matthew Mudd,
    Death did him no hurt;
    When alive he was _mud_,
    Now he's nothing but dirt.

    Here lies I and my three daughters,
    Kill'd by drinking Cheltenham waters;
    If we had stuck to Epsom salts,
    We'd not been a lying in these here vaults.

    Here lies William Smith,
    And what is somewhat rarish,
    He was born, bred and
    Hanged in this parish.

On Thomas Woodcock:

    Here lie the remains of Thomas Wood_hen_,
    The most amiable of husbands and excellent of men.

    N. B. His real name was Wood_cock_, but it Wouldn't come in
    rhyme.--_His widow._

On Dr. Walker, author of "English Particles":

    Here lie Walker's particles.

An Irish epitaph:

    Here lies the body of Jonathan Ground,
    Who was lost at sea and never found.

On a coroner who hanged himself:

    He lived and died
      By _suicide_.

On Dr. Fuller:

    Here lies Fuller's earth.

On a brewer:

    Poor John Scott lies buried here;
    Tho' once he was _hale_ and _stout_,
    Death stretch'd him on his _bitter bier_.
    In another world he _hops_ about!

    Here lieth Richard Dent
    In his last tenement.

    Here lies Tommy Day,
    Removed from over the way.

In New Jersey:

                               Julia ----
          Died of thin shoes, April 17th, 1839, aged 19 years.

On a covetous person:

    Of him within, nought e'er gratis was had,
    That you read this so cheap now makes him sad.

On John Shaw, an attorney:

    Here lies John Shaw,
    Attorney-at-law,
    And when he died
    The Devil cried
    "Give us your paw,
    John Shaw,
    Attorney-at-Law,
    Pshaw! Pshaw!"

From Philadelphia:

    In memory of Henry Wang, son of his Father and mother, John and
    Maria Wang.

    Died Dec. 31st, 1829, aged 1/2 hour. The first deposit of this
    yard.

    A short-lived joy
    Was our little boy.
    He has gone on high,
    So don't you cry.

            Against his will
            Here lies George Hill
            Who from a cliff
            Fell down quite stiff
    When it happen'd is not known
    Therefore not mentioned on this stone.

      Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
    Who, when she liv'd, did naught but scold;
    Peace, wake her not, for now she's still,
    She had, but now I have my will.

    This turf has drunk a widow's tear,
    Three of her husbands slumber here.

    It may be interesting to state that the tearful widow was still
    living with a fourth partner.

    Here lies Sir JOHN GUISE:
    No one laughs, no one cries:
    Where he's gone, and how he fares,
    No one knows, and no one cares.

On a celebrated cook:

    Peace to his hashes.

    "Underneath this ancient pew
    Lie the remains of Jonathan BLUE;
    His name was BLACK, but that wouldn't do."

    "Here I lie, and no wonder I am dead,
    For the wheel of a wagon went over my head."

    Here lies the body of MOLLY DICKIE, the Wife of HALL DICKIE,
    tailor

    Two great physicians first
    My Loving husband tried,
    To cure my pain----
    In vain,
    At last he got a third,
    And then I died.

    As I am now, so you must be,
    Therefore prepare to follow me.

Written under:

    To follow you I'm not content,
    How do I know which way you went.

    The manner of her death was thus:
    She was druv over by a Bus.

On Jonathan Fiddle, written by Ben Johnson:

    On the twenty-second of June
    Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.

On John Cole, who died suddenly, while at dinner:

    Here lies Johnny Cole,
    Who died, on my soul,
      after eating a plentiful dinner.
    While chewing his crust,
    He was turned into dust,
      with his crimes undigested--poor sinner.

    Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free,
      Who long was a bookseller's hack.
    He led such a damnable life in this world
      I don't think he'll ever come back.

    She lived genteely on a small income.

    Here lies my poor wife, much lamented
    She's happy, and I'm contented

On Burbridge, the tragedian:

    Exit Burbridge

A laconic epitaph:

    Snug.

    Since all that's mortal turns to dust
    Reader! be humble and be just;
    'Twill ease thy mind of anxious care
    And sooth thy passage--_God knows where!_

    On this marble drop a tear--
    Here lies poor Rosalind:
    All mankind were pleas'd with her
    And she with all mankind.

    Pray for me, old Thomas Dunn
    But if you don't, tis all one.

To the memory of Thomas Hause:

    "Lord, thy grace is free,--why not for me?"

This man dying greatly in debt, one of his creditors wrote underneath:

    And the Lord answered and said,--
    "Because thy debts aint paid!"

    Our bodies are like shoes, which off we cast,
    Physic their cobblers, and Death their last.

    Who lies here?--Who do you think?
    'Tis poor Will Gibson--give him a drink.
    Give him a drink, I'll tell you for why,
    When he was living, he always was dry.

    Old Vicar Sutor lieth here
    Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,
    Reader tread lightly on the sod,
    For if he gapes, you're gone by G--.

On John Phillips:

    Accidentally shot as a mark of affection by his brother.

    The little hero that lies here
    Was conquered by the diarrhoea.

    My wife lies here,
    All my tears cannot bring her back;
    Therefore, I weep.

    Died when young and full of promise
    Of whooping cough our Thomas.

    A rum cough carried him off.

    Grim death took little Jerry,
    The son of Joseph and Sereno Howells,
    Seven days he wrestled with the dysentery
    And then he perished in his little bowels

On a tombstone in Grafton, Vt.:

    Gone home below.

    Here lies Bernard Lightfoot who was accidentally killed in his
    forty fifth year.

    Erected by his grateful family.

In a churchyard near Boston, Mass.:

    Of pneumonia supervening consumption complicated with other
    diseases, the main symptoms of which was insanity.

In Nova Scotia:

    Here lies old twenty five per cent.
    The more he had the more he lent.
    The more he had the more he craved,
    Great God, can this poor soul be saved.

    A bird, a man, a loaded gun,
    No bird, dead man, thy will be done.

In a New York churchyard:

    We shall miss thee, mother.
    (Job printing neatly done.)

At East Thompson, N. Y.:

    Here lies one who never sacrificed his reason to superstitious
    God, nor ever believed that Jonah swallowed the whale

    Alpha White, weight 300 pounds.
    Open wide ye golden gates
    That lead to the heavenly shore,
    Our father suffered in passing through
    And mother weighs much more

    He's done a catching cod
    And gone to meet his God.

    He got a fish bone in his throat
    And then he sang an angels note

      Here lies Jane Smith,
    Wife of Thomas Smith, Marble Cutter
    This monument was erected by her
    husband as a tribute to her memory
    and a specimen of his work.
      Monuments of this same style are
      two hundred and fifty dollars.

    Here lies Dodge, who dodged all good
    And dodged a deal of evil.
    But after dodging all he could
    He could not dodge the devil.

    Sacred to twins Charlie and Varlie
    Sons of loving parents who died
    in infancy.

    Deeply regretted by all who never knew him.

Supplementary Epitaphs.

Blank pages for the convenience of collectors.

    Transcriber's Note:

    There are 18 blank pages at the end of the book with the header
        Supplementary Epitaphs.
        Blank pages for the convenience of collectors.

    Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
    possible.

    Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
    OE ligatures have been expanded.