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 my first visit there. He had his study fitted up with bookshelves all round. Thackeray would invariably lead up the conversation with a reference to some poet. I thought him in error one day, so I said, 'I don't think that is the quotation.'

"I think so,' replied Thackeray. But there are his works on that shelf,' pointing to the door, on which were arranged shelves, as I thought; 'mount the ladder and see for yourself.'

"I did so, made a grasp for the volume, and found they were all dummies! Thackeray was delighted."

To-day Mr. Burnand sits in the identical chair once occupied by Mark Lemon, Shirley Brooks, and Tom Taylor, the latter of whom he succeeded as editor of Punch in 1880. It is an old-fashioned wooden armchair. Wednesday night the famous Punch dinner is held. About fourteen sit down at the ancient table, on which are cut the names of everybody—cut with their own hands—who have been privileged to find a seat there. One visitor invariably creeps into the editor's room—the Punch cat. It is the biggest cat in the neighbourhood of Fleet-street, and when Mr. Burnand is working it always perches on his chair. The Punch dinner is a suggestive meal. Everybody there contributes some idea. After dinner the members of the Punch staff go into committee on the political and social topics of the day. The result of this deliberation is the cartoon and second cartoon, or "Cartoon, junior," of the next number.

It is a remarkable fact that only one mishap in the principal cartoon has happened during Mr. Burnand's editorship. It was at the period when Khartoum was supposed to be all right and General Gordon safe. All England was expecting Gordon's release, and Punch appeared with a picture of him—triumphant. Mr. Burnand was on his way with Mr. Sambourne to an exhibition of pictures in Bond-street. Suddenly the newsboys were heard shouting. Their rapid and often unintelligible utterances were misunderstood by Mr. Burnand, who turned to his companion and said, "Well, we are all right with the cartoon."

But the boys drew nearer.

"I don't think that is what they are crying," Mr. Sambourne said. "I'll get a paper."

The paper contained the news of the death of General Gordon.

A Parisian paper, in commenting upon the prediction in Punch, said the cartoon "showed what all England was expecting."

I was just leaving The Boltons, and shaking hands with Mr. Burnand.

"How does one become a humorist?" I asked.

"Oh!" was the reply, "it comes from having a serious turn of mind and not yielding to it!"