Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 8

the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold, whose lightest
word Would harrow up thy soul.
_P.A.-M._ (_eagerly_). The very thing for a melodrama. Delighted to
make your acquaintance--hem--in the Spirit!

_Master W.S._ Nay, good Master Player, this is scarcely business! If
anything in that line is to be done, I should do it. (_To Ghost of
HAMLET's Father_). Begone, Sirrah!
_Ghost._ Nay, this is professional jealousy! (_To P.A.-M._). I find thee
apt--
[_A book falls, and Master WM. SHAKSPEARE and Ghost of
HAMLET's Father vanish together._
_P.A.-M._ (_opening his eyes_). Was I dreaming? (_With a
recollection of "The Red Lamp"_) I wonder! [_Left wondering._
* * * * *
TAKING A SIGHT AT RINGANDKNOCK.
(_BY RUDDIER STRIPLING._)
After the roughness of the Atlantic, in which to my taste there is far too
much water moving about, I stepped on to America with considerable
relief. I was quite satisfied, after that excellent dinner, the first I had
enjoyed since Liverpool slid away eastward, to walk aimlessly through
the streets till I fell into the arms of a broad-shouldered, pug-nosed,
Irish New York policeman. I remember no more till New York passed
away on a sunny afternoon, and then I fell asleep again and slept till the
brakeman, conductor, Pullman-car conductor, negro porter and
newsboy somehow managed to pull me out into the midnight
temperature of 80 below freezing. It was just like having one's head put
under the pump, but it did not quite revive me, for I mistook my host in
his sleigh for a walrus, and tried to harpoon him with my umbrella.
After matters had been explained, we went off, at least I did, and never
woke up till I fell out into a snow-drift, just as we turned a corner at our
journey's end.
[Illustration: "Ta-ra-ra-Boom!"]
In the morning, I had some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and

that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet or
wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them,
whatever that may mean, till my head ached. I can't quite understand all
this now, but it seemed a very picturesque, impressionist description
when I wrote it. Then I went for a walk down Main Street. I think it is
about 400 miles long, for I got nowhere near the end, but this was
perhaps owing to my uncertainty as to which side was the pleasanter to
walk on. At last I gave it up, and sat down on the side-walk. Now, the
wisdom of Vermont, not being at all times equal to grasping all the
problems of everybody else's life with delicacy, sometimes makes
pathetic mistakes, and it did so in my ease. I explained to the policeman
that I had been sitting up half the night on a wild horse in New Zealand,
and had only just come over for the day, but it was all in vain.
The cell at Vermont was horribly uncomfortable. I dreamt that I was
trying to boil snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and to swim on
my head in deep water, with a life-belt tied to my ankles. There was
another man there, and in the early morning he told me about
Mastodons and Plesiosauri in a wood near the town, and how he caught
them by the tails and photographed them; and also that Ringandknock,
a mountain near, was mentioned by EMERSON in a verse, which I
remembered, because he made "co-eval" rhyme with "extended." Only
a truly great Philosopher could have done that.
It was all new and delightful; and it must have been true, because my
informant was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who refrained
from laughing at me. I have met very few people who could do that.
Next day all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends
conveyed me back to New York.
* * * * *
EPITAPH ON A DYER.
This Dyer with a dire liver tried To earn a living dyeing, and he died.
* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.
NO. VIII.--THE DUFFER AS A HOST.
Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and
anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like to
have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's
acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite them,
they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them. But
suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that is worse
than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. (who talks about his cases) and
his wife, who talks about her children. An old school-fellow, who has
no conversation