The train starts every Saturday morning, under the guidance of an experienced punster. The departure of the train is always attended with immense laughter, and a tremendous rush to the booking-office. PUNCH, therefore, requests those who purpose taking places to apply early, as there will be no
[Illustration: RESERVED SEATS!]
N.B.—Light jokes booked, and forwarded free of expense. Heavy articles not admitted at any price.
*** Wanted an epigrammatic porter, who can carry on a smart dialogue, and occasionally deliver light jokes.
* * * * *
TO OLD FATHER TIME.
Linger a moment with us, I pray;
Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;
Dip, boy, dip
In the bowl thy lip,
And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.
Dip, dip, &c.
scythe fling down;
Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,
And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—
Fill, fill up,
The joy-giving cup,
Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine.
Fill, fill, &c.
Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;
Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass
To fill as we please,
And drink at our ease,
And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.
* * * * *
ROMEO AND JULIET.
Italy! land of love and maccaroni, of pathos and puppets—tomb of Romeo and Juliet—birth-place of Punch and Judy—region of romance—country of the concentrated essences of all these;—carnivals—I, PUNCH, the first and last, the alpha and omega of fun, adore thee! From the moment when I was cast upon thy shores, like Venus, out of the sea, to this sad day, when I am forced to descend from my own stage to mere criticism; have I preserved every token that would endear my memory to thee! My nose is still Roman, my mouth-organ plays the “genteelest of” Italian “tunes”—my scenes represent the choicest of Italian villas—in “choice Italian” doth my devil swear—to wit, “shal-la-bella!”
Longing to be still more reminded of thee, dear Italy, I threw a large cloak over my hunch, and a huge pair of spectacles over my nose, and ensconced myself in a box at the Haymarket Theatre, to witness the fourth appearance of my rival puppet, Charles Kean, in Romeo. He is an actor! What a deep voice—what an interesting lisp—what a charming whine—what a vigorous stamp, he hath! How hard he strikes his forehead when he is going into a rage—how flat he falls upon the ground when he is going to die! And then, when he has killed Tybalt, what an attitude he strikes, what an appalling grin he indulges his gaping admirers withal!