dinner; no wine, and no beer,

Not even a soda your spirits to cheer;

No water to wash in at Turin—just think!

On arrival in France, not a drop e'en to drink!

What wonder poor "PUNJAB," who hails from the "Garrick,"

Got hungry as VASHTI, and dry as a hayrick?

An Edition de Luxe, as a rule, is a sell,

But a Train de Luxe sure as a fraud bears the bell,

Which promises travel more cosy and quicker,

And leaves you half starved, without money—or liquor!

KILLING NO MURDER!—A Correspondent of the Times, protesting against the assumption of combatant rank by the Army Surgeons, writes:—"A military doctor is armed, and like others is entitled to defend himself when attacked, but that is a very different thing from giving him full licence to kill." The Correspondent evidently overlooks the powers afforded by a medical diploma!

"IT'S AN ILL WIND" &c.

"Partridge-shooting will be postponed in several districts till the middle of September."—Daily Telegraph, August, 28.
Chorus of Partridges. "LONG MAY IT RAIN!"

MISLED BY A MANUAL!

(THE LAMENT OF A WOULD-BE LINGUIST.)

A PRODUCT OF THE SILLY SEASON.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

London at the end of August is not particularly inviting, save in one respect—it is negatively pleasant to find that Matinées are all but suspended. I should say quite, were it not that the Shaftesbury Theatre on the 27th opened its doors at a quarter to three o'clock in the afternoon, for the performance of The Violin Makers, an adaptation of Le Luthier de Crémone, and the production of a "new and original Comedy sketch," in two Acts, called The Deacon, by HENRY ARTHUR JONES. The first piece I had already seen at the Bushey Theatre, with Professor HERKOMER, R.A., in the principal character. I had now an opportunity of comparing the Artist-Actor with the Manager-Actor, and must confess that I liked the former better than the latter. Mr. WILLARD as Filippo, was Mr. WILLARD, but Professor HERKOMER, shaved for the occasion, seemed to be anyone other than Professor HERKOMER. The mounting of the piece at Bushey was also greatly to be preferred to the mise-en-scène in Shaftesbury Avenue, and as the accomplished Artist-Actor had also supplied some exceedingly touching music to his version of FRANÇOIS COPPEE's Poetical Play, which was wanting two hundred yards from Piccadilly Circus, I was altogether better pleased with the entertainment served up with sauce à la Herkomer. I may be wrong in preferring the amateur to the professional, or I may be right—after all, it is merely a matter of opinion.

Mr. JONES is entirely justified in calling The Deacon a "sketch," as it can scarcely claim greater histrionic importance. I think I may take it for granted that a sausage-maker, from the nature of his employment, is usually presumed to be a man not absolutely without guile, and, therefore, Abraham Boothroyd, "Wholesale bacon-factor, Mayor of Chipping Padbury on the Wold, and Senior Deacon of Ebenezer Chapel," may perhaps be counted one of those exceptions that are said to prove the rule. According to Mr. JONES, this eccentric individual comes up to town to attend an indignation meeting held with a view to protesting against the conversion of Exeter Hall into a temple of the drama, and after dining with "a Juliet of fifteen years ago," and a new and quaint sort of Barrister, accompanies them to the play, and is so greatly pleased with the performances presented, to him, that, before the curtain falls, he announces his intention of repeating his visit to the theatre every evening until further notice! This may be true to human nature, because there is authority for believing that the said human nature is occasionally a "rum un"; but, without the precedent I have quoted, it is difficult to accept the sudden conversion of Mr. Boothroyd as quite convincing. I could scarcely have believed that Mr. JONES, who has done such excellent work in Judah, and The Middleman, could have been the author of The Deacon, had not his name appeared prominently on the playbill, and had not a rumour reached me that this "comedy sketch" had adorned for years, in MS. form, a corner of some book-shelves. I think, if the rumour is to be believed, that it is almost a pity that there was any interference with that corner—I fancy The Deacon might have rested in peace on the book-shelves indefinitely, without causing serious injury to anyone. But this is a fancy, and only a fancy.

I may add that Mr. WILLARD made the most of the materials provided for him; but whether that most was much or little is, and must remain, a matter of conjecture. On the whole, if I had understood aright what the sad sea waves were evidently attempting to say to me, I think I would not have attended on the 27th of August a London Matinée. But this is a thought, and nothing more. Believe me, dear Mr. Punch, yours, more in sorrow than in anger,

A CRITIC, LURED TO TOWN FROM THE COUNTRY.