The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 22, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 22, 1892

Author: Various

Release Date: April 9, 2005 [eBook #15594]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 103, OCTOBER 22, 1892***

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

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 103.

October 22, 1892.

IN MEMORIAM.

William Hardwick Bradbury.

Born, Dec. 3, 1832. Died, Oct. 13, 1892.

"ANECDOTAGE."

Companion Paragraph to Stories of the same kind.

CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange," observed the brilliant author of the School for Scandal, "Right you are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue. "But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!" Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen, I'm not meself at all at all!"

THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.

SWORD AND PEN;

Or, The Rival Commanders.

(Extract from a Military Story of the near Future.)

Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him. He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might know his drill, he might have read his Queen's Regulations, but he had vague ideas of the power of the Press.

"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!' it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong. Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."

"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of men to argue, but to obey."

"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound too tightly to precedent."

The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.

"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you. I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."

"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be found in the most recent dictionaries."

And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.

"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.

"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they remain as they were."

"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man in the Cloak.

"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.

"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger.

"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that—"

"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they please, and they may rest assured that their communications will escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."

Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of command.

"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are you the Commander-in-Chief?"

"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress. "Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

Proem.

ON THE BAYS.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

THE WORTH OF VERSE.

Experienced Sportsman (on Pony). "WELL—HAD GOOD SPORT, FRED, OLD BOY?"

Inexperienced Fred. "NOT EXACTLY 'GOOD,'—BUT I THINK I'VE LET OFF ABOUT A HUNDRED CARTRIDGES."

Experienced Sportsman. "NOT SO BAD. S'POSE YOU MUST HAVE 'LET OFF' AN EQUAL NUMBER OF PARTRIDGES!"

IN A GHOST-SHOW.

Warlock's "Celebrated Ghost-Exhibition and Deceptio Visus" has pitched its tent for the night on a Village Green, and the thrilling Drama of "Maria Martin, or, The Murder in the Red Barn, in three long Acts, with unrivalled Spectral Effects and Illusions," is about to begin. The Dramatis Personæ are on the platform outside; the venerable Mr. MARTIN is exhorting the crowd to step up and witness his domestic tragedy, while the injured MARIA, is taking the twopences at the door; WILLIAM CORDER is finishing a pipe, and two of the Angelic Visions are dancing, in blue velveteen and silver braid, to the appropriate air of "The Bogie Man."

Inside.

The front benches are occupied by Rustic Youths, who beguile the tedium of waiting by smoking short clays, and trying to pull off one another's caps.

[The "old nipper" in question is, of course, MACBETH.

[The Curtain draws up, and reveals a small stage, with an inclined sheet of glass in a heavy frame in front; behind this glass is the Cottage Home of MARIA MARTIN.

"They catch one another's wrists, and walk up and down together."

[She is unfeelingly requested to speak up.

[MARIA is understood to demur, but finally agrees to the rendezvous, and retires into the Cottage. Old Mr. MARTIN comes out in a black frock-coat, and a white waistcoat—he has no neck-tie either, but the omission, in his case, merely suggests a virtuous economy. He feebly objects to MARIA being married in London, but admits that, "Perhaps he has no right to interfere with WILLIAM's arrangements," and goes indoors again. WILLIAM retires, and the scene changes to a 'very small street, which is presently invaded by a very large Comic Countryman, called "TIM," who is engaged to MARIA's sister NANNY.

[NANNY comes in and bribes him to remain by the promise of "cold pudden with plenty of gravy." Comic business, during which every reference to "cold pudden" (and there are several) is received with roars of laughter. WILLIAM CORDER, on the ingenious plea that he wishes to take some flowers up to London, borrows a spade and pickaxe from TIM, to whom it appears he owes ninepence, which he promises—like the villain he is—to repay "the very next time he sees him in Church."

ACT II.—The interior of the Red Barn. WILLIAM discovered digging MARIA's grave in his shirt-sleeves, and thereby revealing that his shirt-front is as false as his heart. He announces that "Nothing can shake him, now, from his pre-determined purpose," and that "the grave gapes for its coming victim."

Enter MARIA, disguised in a brown bowler hat and a very tight suit of tweed "dittoes," in which she looks very like the "Male Impersonator" at a Music-hall. The Audience receive her with derision and the recommendation to go and get her hair cut.

[After some pleading from MARIA, a desperate struggle takes place—that is, they catch one another's wrists, and walk up and down together. MARIA calls upon her Mother's spirit, whereupon a very youthful Angel is seen floating above the couple.

[The Guardian Angel vanishes; WILLIAM gets a spade, and aims at MARIA, who takes it away, and strikes him; he is then reduced to the pick-axe, but she wrests this from him too, and hits him in the face with it. He pulls her coat off, and her hair down—but she escapes from him a third time—on which he snatches up a pistol, and fires it.

ACT III.—Interior of Old MARTIN's Cottage. He attempts to forget his anxiety about his daughter—who he fears, with only too much reason, has come to an untimely end—by going to sleep in a highly uncomfortable position on a kitchen-chair. The Murder is re-enacted in a vision, in dumb-show. The form of MARIA appears in the tweed suit, and urges him to search for her remains in the Red Barn.

[He calls the Comic Countryman to help him "to commence a thorough investigation"—which he does, in a spirit of rollicking fun befitting the occasion, as the Scene changes to the Red Barn.

[Roars of laughter when the Comic C. discovers the body, and implores it to "say summat!" Change of Scene. WILLIAM CORDER discovered At Home, in a long perspective of pillars and curtains, ending in a lawn and fountain.

[Enter Old MARTIN, who, by the simple method of changing his hat and coat, has now become a Bow-street Officer; he puts questions to WILLIAM, who at once betrays himself, and [pg 185] has to be searched. As a pair of pistols exactly resembling one that was left in the Red Barn, are found in his coat-tail pockets; his guilt is conclusively proved, and he is led away. The next Scene shows him in the Condemned Cell, resolving to sleep away his few remaining hours on a kitchen-chair. He has a vision of MARIA in tweeds, who exhorts him to repent. Old MARTIN, who is now either the Governor of the Gaol or the Hangman, enters to conduct him to the scaffold, and on the way he is met—to the joy of the Audience—by the Comic, C., who duns him for the ninepence. WILLIAM shakes his head solemnly, points to the skies, and passes on. The Comic C. then goes to sleep in a chair and has a vision on his own account, in which he beholds the apotheosis of MARIA—still in the suit of dittoes—and piloted by a couple of obviously overweighted Angels; and also the last moments of WILLIAM CORDER, who, as he stands under an enlarged "Punch" gibbet, pronounces the following impressive farewell before disappearing through a trap.

[And with this the Drama comes to an end, and the Comic Countryman begs the Audience to give the performance a good word to their friends outside.

BETWEEN THE ACTS; OR, THE DRAMA IN LIQUOR.

SCENE—Refreshment Saloon at a London Theatre. A three-play bill forms the evening's entertainment. First Act over. Enter BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON.

[Laughs at the recollection.

[Exeunt into Theatre. After a pause they return to the Refreshment Room.

[Exit ROBINSON.

[At all the places at the bar there is a general demand for alcohol.

"IN A WINTER (COVENT) GARDEN."

That indefatigable Showman, Sir DRURIOLANUS, the Invincible Knight, commenced his Winter Operatic Season on Monday, the Tenth, at Covent Garden, so as to be well in advance of Signor LAGO, who may now boast of having La Donna, Her Most Gracious MAJESTY, for his patron.

Monday Night.—The two RAVOGLIS in good form in the Orféo. Likewise the Player of the Big Drum made more than one big hit during the evening. "Che farò" was re-demanded. "Tired of 'Faro,'" quoth Mr. WAGGSTAFF—"why not make it 'Whisto,' or some other game?" Exit WAGGY. The Intermezzo of Cavalleria Rusticana of course encored enthusiastically. "Signor CREMONNINI," quoth WAGG, returning, "is not half the 'ninny' his name implies." And, indeed, from the moment he was heard singing "in his ambush" (as the Irish boy in the Gallery said of TOM HOHLER at the Dublin Theatre when he heard the Trovatore's voice behind the scenes) before the rise of the Curtain, everyone said, "This is the tenner for our money."

OPERATIC TACTICS.

Sir Druriolanus. "I Say, Bevignani, I think we've got the right pitch, eh?"

Tuesday.—The namesake of our own GEORGE AUGUSTUS, Mlle. ROSITA SALA, made a real hit as Leonora in Il Trovatore. "Handsome is as handsome does," and Mlle. SALA didn't act as "handsome" as she looked. Another "ninny" played to-night, namely GIANNINNI, all right vocally, but not much dramatically. "Il Balen" was encored when sung by a manly baritone with the feminine name of ANNA; i.e., Signor DE ANNA. He might advantageously alter DE-ANNA to APOLLO, that is if he could be sure of looking the part.

Wednesday.—Lohengrin. MELBA as Elsa. WAGGSTAFF tried to make his usual pun on the name of Ortruda, but was "countered" by Young JUMPER who protested that he had heard it before and never wanted to hear it again. "I know what you're going to say," he exclaimed; "it's something about 'aught ruder!' I know!" "I've no doubt you do," returned the defrauded WAGGY, sarcastically, "for you're uncommonly like Othello, 'Rude am I in speech'—only," added WAGGSTAFF, "he apologised for it." Young JUMPER sniggered, his friends laughed, and the incident terminated. The Chorus seemed to have become Wandering Minstrels, so very uncertain were they.

Altogether, Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, with his successful Drury Lane Race-course, his Provincial Theatre, his Italian Opera, his Paper (not in the House, but his weekly one out of it), his Music-of-the-Future Hall, for which a temporary and limited licence has been granted, will—in a general-dealer kind of way—be having a good time of it till Pantomime Season slaps him on the back with a cheery "Here we are again!" and then he will have another and a better time. No doubt of Sir Gus's success, or in abbreviated proverbial Latin, "De Gus. non disputandum."

THE HEIGHT OF EXCLUSIVENESS.

Miss Prunes. "AH, DOCTOR, THESE HIGH SCHOOLS ARE SADLY MIXED! BUT, UNDER MY CARE, I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT YOUR LITTLE WARD WILL ASSOCIATE WITH DAUGHTERS OF GENTLEMEN ONLY!"

The Doctor. "THAT, MADAM, IS TO BE SELECT INDEED; SINCE I BELIEVE PALLAS ATHENE ALONE FULFILLED SUCH A CONDITION."

[For pedigree of Pallas Athene vide Classical Dictionary—Art. "Minerva."

COLUMBUS.

"ANECDOTAGE."

Companion Paragraphs to Stories of the same kind.

SIR WALTER SCOTT was never so well pleased as when meeting a brother author. One day he passed by a gauger, who was so careless in his duties that the author of Waverley was able to smuggle into Edinburgh some whiskey that was supposed never to have paid duty. On reaching Abbotsford, "the Wizard of the North" was informed that he had met one of the greatest poets of North Britain. "So I suspected," he replied. "It must have been BURNS." Sir WALTER was right—it was BURNS.

PITT, the younger, and FOX were both fond of port wine, and lost no opportunity of indulging in their favourite beverage. Meeting at CROCKFORD's one evening, PITT (being in straitened circumstances) proposed that they should play for a bottle of sherry. "No," said FOX, "if I must lose, I will lose in Claret!" and the rival Statesmen succumbed to intoxication.

WILBERFORCE, the well-known philanthropist, was accustomed to visit the prisons. At Newgate one day he met a well-known forger, and asked him "What he was in for?" "For the same reason that you are out," was the smart, but uncourteous reply.

NEW REGULATIONS FOR THE ENGLISH POLICE.

(Freely Adapted from the Irish Rules.)

1. Constables who are required to interfere in a street-row must have fourteen days' notice before they can be expected on the spot of the disturbance.

2. Policemen will parade the streets from 12 A.M. to 4 P.M., but will make themselves scarce in the event of meeting a party procession, or noticing the holding of a public demonstration.

3. Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, and all other fashionable trysting-places, shall be considered without the sphere of Police influence at times of political excitement.

4. Constables shall not congregate on land set apart for workmen's gatherings, except to organise strikes amongst themselves.

5. The labours of the Police shall not commence before sunrise, or continue after sunset; and it will be left to the sagacity of the Public to guard their own property during the hours that the Constables are off duty.

6. In the absence of the Civil Power, it will be considered contrary to professional etiquette for any respectable member of the criminal classes to carry on his unimpeded vocation.

THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

PRESENT PROPRIETOR (loq.). "SEE HERE, GOVERNOR! HE'S A LIKELY-LOOKING ANIMAL,—BUT I CAN'T MANAGE HIM! IF YOU WON'T TAKE HIM, I MUST LET HIM GO!!"

THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

[The Rev. Dr. SMYTHE PALMER, of Trinity College, Dublin, has just compiled a Book of Extracts, entitled The Perfect Gentleman.]

A Gentleman must be liberal, not to say lavish, to servants, porters, gamekeepers, and others, or he is "no gent." At the same time the Perfect Gentleman is never extravagant.

He must not work. At the same time he must not be an idler.

He is known by his scrupulous attention to the minutiæ of personal appearance, while "despising all outside show."

The Perfect Gentleman "never wilfully hurts anybody." No soldier, doctor, or schoolmaster can, therefore, ever be a P.G.

He is always perfectly open and frank. He is also sufficiently artful to conceal the fact that he considers the person he is talking to a mixture of a snob and a blockhead.

When his favourite corn is trodden on by a weighty stranger, he never utters any expression stronger than "Dear me!"

He never loses his temper.

He must know how to treat everyone according to their rank and situation in life, but show special courtesy to those who are his inferiors.

He must be well-born, although there are plenty of "Nature's Gentlemen" in the ranks of day-labourers.

He must be sufficiently wealthy to keep up a good position, while recognising the fact that money has nothing to do with true gentility.

He should also try and remember that no such jumble of contradictions as the Perfect Gentleman ever existed.

HIS BEST "SOOT."

Short-tempered Gentleman in Black (after violent collision with a Stonemason fresh from work). "NOW, I'LL ARSK YOU JEST TO LOOK AT THE NARSTY BEASTLY MESS AS YOU'VE GONE AND MIDE ME IN! WHY, I'M SIMPLY SMOTHERED IN SOME 'ORRID WHITE STUFF!! WHY DON'T YER BE MORE CAREFUL!!!"

EPIGRAMMATICALLY PUT.—An Asylums Board Manager wrote to the Times to complain of Mr. LITTLER, M.P., Q.C.'s charges against the Asylums and Fever Hospitals management. "Which is right, or which is wrong," to paraphrase Mr. Mantalini's words, is no business just now of ours, but the writer of the reply to the attack, might have summed up by saying "that to him, Mr. LITTLER, whatever his Christian names might be, appeared as a Be-Littler."

"MR. GLADSTONE ON RENTS IN WALES."—What the Right Honble. Mr. G. omitted to say, when speaking on this subject, was that "but a comparatively small rent in Wales would be produced by Disestablishment, whenever that event should happen, and that this would soon be mended."

TEMPERANCE RIDDLE.—Why is a man who is thoroughly good-natured and ever ready to oblige, likely to end as a confirmed drunkard? Because he is always willing.

A USEFUL EXPERIENCE.

YES OR NO?

["The hand-writing of well-educated Ladies is often disgracefully illegible."—A Ladies' Journal.]

The German and Horse-trying Ride.

["Most of the horses were standing, but propping themselves up against a wall or a post."—Standard, Wednesday, October 12th.]

A CORRESPONDENT signing "INNOCENTIA DOCET," wants to know if "the Hub of the Universe" is an official appointment that can only be held by a Mahommedan or a Mormon?

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS TO YOUNG SHOOTERS.

(By Mr. Punch's own Grouse in the Gun-room.)

And, next, my gallant young Sportsmen, just sharpen up your attention, and, if you have ears, prepare to lend them now. Be, in fact, all ears. At any rate, get yourselves as near as possible to that desirable condition, for we are going to discuss shooting-lunches, and all that pertains to them. Think of it! Are not some of your happiest memories, and your most delightful anticipations, bound up with the mid-day meal, at which the anxieties and disappointments of the morning, the birds you missed, the birds that, though they got up in front of you, were shot by your jealous neighbour, the wiped-eyes, the hands torn in the thorn-bushes, at which, as I say, all these are forgotten, when you lay aside your gun, and sit down to your short repose. Then it is that the talker shines supreme. All the conversation which may have been broken in upon during the morning by the necessity for posting yourself at the hot corner, or the grassy ride, or in the butt, or for polishing off a right and left of partridges, can then flow free and uninterrupted. Ah, happy moments, when the bad shot becomes as the good, and all distinctions are levelled! How well, how gratefully do I remember you! Still, in my waking fancies, there rises to my nose a savoury odour, telling of stew or hot-pot, and still the crisp succulence of the jam tartlet has honour in my memory. Ah, tempi passati, tempi passati! But away, fancy, and to our work, which is to speak of

Shooting-Lunches

in their relation to talk:—

(1.) Be extremely careful, unless you know exactly the ways of your host with regard to his shooting-lunch, not to express to him before lunch any very definite opinion as to what the best kind of lunch is. If, for instance, you rashly declare that, for your own part, you detest a solemn sit-down-in-a-farmhouse lunch, and that your ideal is a sandwich, a biscuit and a nip out of a flask, and if you then find yourself lunching off three courses at a comfortable table, why you'll be in a bit of a hole. Consistency would prompt you to abstain, appetite urges you to eat. What is a poor talker to do? Obviously, he must get out somehow. Here is a suggested method. Begin by admiring the room.

"By Jove, what a jolly little room this is. It's as spick and span as a model dairy. I wish you'd take me on as your tenant, CHALMERS, when you've got a vacancy."

CHALMERS will say, "It's not a bad little hole. Old Mrs. NUBBLES keeps things wonderfully spruce. This is one of the cottages I built five years ago."

There's your first move. Your next is as follows. Every rustic-cottage contains gruesome china-ornaments and excruciating-cheap German-prints of such subjects as "The Tryst" (always spelt "The Trist" on the German print), "The Saylor's Return," "The Warior's Dreem," "Napoleon at Arcola," and so forth. Point to a china-ornament and say, "I never knew cows in this part of the country were blue and green." Then after you've exhausted the cow, milked her dry, so to speak, you can take a turn at the engravings, and make a sly hit at the taste in art generated by modern education. Hereupon, someone is dead certain to chime in with the veteran grumble about farmers who educate their children above their station by allowing their daughters to learn to play the piano, and their sons to acquire the rudiments of Latin: "Give you my word of honour, the farmers' daughters about my uncle's place, get their dresses made by my aunt's dressmaker, and thump out old WAGNER all day long." This horrible picture of rural depravity will cause an animated discussion. When it is over, you can say, "This is the very best Irish-stew I've ever tasted. I must get your cook to give me the receipt."

"Ah, my boy," says CHALMERS, "you'll find there's nothing like a stew out shooting."

"Of course," you say, "nothing can beat it, if you've got a nice room to eat it in, and aren't pressed for time; but, if you've got no end of ground to cover, and not much time to do it in, I can always manage to do myself on a scrap of anything handy. Thanks, I don't mind if I do have a chunk of cake, and a whitewash of sherry."

Thus you have fetched a compass—I fancy the phrase is correct—and have wiped out the memory of your indiscretion. Of course the thing may happen the other way round. You may have expressed a preference for solid lunches, only to find yourself set down on a tuft of grass, with a beef sandwich and a digestive biscuit. In that case you can begin by declaring your delight in an open-air meal, go on to admire the scenery, and end by expressing a certain amount of judicious contempt for the Sybarite who cannot tear himself away from effeminate luxuries, and the trick's done.

But this subject is so great, and has so many varieties, that we must recur to it in our next.

IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX.

Hairdresser. "SAY THEN, SARE ZAT YOU ARE RASÉ—SHAVE,—IS IT THAT I SHALL CUT YOU OFF YOUR 'AIR?"

Mr. Brown (an old-fashioned Englishman, on his first Visit to Paris—startled). "HEY! WHAT! CUT MY HAIR OFF! NONG, MOSSOO—COMPRENNY?—NONG! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO LOOK LIKE ONE OF YOUR FRENCH POODLES?"

TO OUR GUERNSEY CORRESPONDENTS.

MR. PUNCH is sorry to find that his fancy sketch of a Guernsey Car drive has been taken so seriously in some quarters as to give pain and offence which were very far from being intended. He begs to assure the honourable fraternity of Car-proprietors and drivers in the island, that he did not mean to suggest for a moment that there was the slightest real danger to the public who patronise those highly popular and excellently-conducted vehicles, or that any actual driver was either intemperate or incompetent; and that, should such an impression have been unfortunately produced—which he hopes is impossible—no one would regret so unjust an aspersion more sincerely than Mr. Punch himself.

THE GOLFER'S DREAM.

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—Your marvellous judgment in the selection of your "staff"—(I believe that is the correct term to use in speaking of those who write for the paper, though as a rule a staff is wooden-headed, which I am sure none of your contributors are!—I can answer for one!)—has again placed you in the position envied of all Journals, viz.,—(why do people put "viz.," and not "namely"?—it is silly!) that of affording "information" given by no other Journal! All of which preamble means,—(by the way, why "pre-amble"?—if one is a speedy writer, why not "pre-canter"?)—that Punch, in the person of LADY GAY—(that may seem a little mixed, but it isn't)—was the only Sporting Paper which tipped the winner of the Cesarewitch!

For confirmation of this I refer the sceptical to my last week's letter, in which I stated that in dreaming of the race I dreamt that "Burnaby came to the rescue"—and if this is not giving the winner, I should like to know what is! It is true I made Brandy my "verse selection," but that would only mislead the people who go no further than the surface (not of the brandy), as anyone who gave the matter a moment's thought would realise that Brandy is always applied after a rescue! I hear there was a "ton of money" for the winner just before the start, but I did not see anyone carrying it about, so I suppose it was what they call "covering money," which, I presume, is covered over for safety, as it would be risky to walk about a race-course with a ton of loose money—not that I suppose anyone who goes racing would touch it, but it might be lost! Anyhow, there was a ton of money for the winner after the race, which his owner had to take, willy-nilly, or HOBSON's choice!

The pleasantest feature of the meeting, however, was the re-appearance of H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, which was also pleasantly marked by one of his horses winning a race! The Public having anxiously "watched" for H.R.H., the success of The Vigil was received with enthusiasm!

Next week takes us to Gatwick and Sandown—(or rather the train takes us—another absurd expression)—the last day of the latter Meeting being devoted to "Jumping Races," which is the contemptuous way some people speak of the winter branch of our National Sport!—forgetting that it demands the two most desirable qualities in a horse, speed and endurance—whereas the modern flat-racing has degenerated, for the most part, into scrambles and gambles, where speed is the only requisite!—but more of this anon—but not anonymous, as I believe in signed articles, as the apprentice said! (Not BRADFORD!)

The most important race at Gatwick—(delightful place to go racing—lots of room to move about in)—is the Thousand Pound Handicap, in which race Brandy is worth keeping an eye on, as she ought to beat Burnaby at the difference in the weights—other horses that might make their mark during the week—(especially now the ground is soft)—are, Pilot, Golden Garter—(I never was guilty of such extravagance as that)—Queen of Navarre—(she might have been)—Meadow Brown, Terror, and Seawall, the last three in the "Jumping Races"—and, in conclusion, the inevitable rhythmical winner, from

Yours devotedly,
LADY GAY.

Orleans Nursery Selection.

DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE.

"I SAY, GUV'NER! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BE TOOK DOWN FOR HALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS?"

MY SEASON TICKET.

WRITTEN A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

(From a Collection of Communications supplied by our Prophetic Compiler.)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—Pray protect the Griffin! Those Goths and Vandals, the Members of the Corporation of the City of London, will remove it, unless you intervene. This beautiful work of Art, that stands on the supposed site of the mythical Temple Bar, is to come down. What would our ancestors say if they were here? Would they not frown at their degenerate descendants? Every student of history knows that this Griffin was put up by universal consent, and considered one of the finest works of art of the nineteenth century. As, indeed, it was. It is full of historic memories. It was here that WELLINGTON met NAPOLEON after Waterloo; and here, again, was the Volunteer Movement inaugurated, when Mr. Alderman WAT TYLER, putting himself at the head of the citizens, called for "Three cheers for the Charter and the Anti-Corn-Law League!" The beautiful bas-reliefs that used to represent the occasions have disappeared, but their subjects are tenderly cherished. If the Corporation must pull down something, let them destroy the recently-erected Mansion House! but spare, oh spare, the Griffin!

Yours truly,
A STUDENT OF THE LORE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

The Palace, Brixton.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—It is time for a protest! One of the most beautiful erections of the nineteenth century (the old South Kensington Railway Station of the District Railway) is to be removed! Instead of the picturesque iron roof, we are to have some abomination in stone! Can this be? It is said to be falling to pieces under the ravages of Time. If this be really the case, why not let it be restored? There was no more picturesque outcome from the nineteenth century than these pretty arrangements in metal. The last generation swept them away by scores, by hundreds, by thousands—they did not even spare the Brompton Boilers! Let not such a reproach be applicable to us. We pride ourselves upon our love of Art and veneration for the antique and the beautiful, and yet we would pull down a building that for a century has been the admiration of all with a soul for Art and a mind for appreciating the sublimest efforts of genius in its highest sense! This must not be.

Burlington House,

Yours truly,
A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN.

From 1 to 1000, Piccadilly.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I have had the advantage of reading the above letters before publication, and am of opinion that they are not one whit more nonsensical than letters about the Foudroyant and the Emmanuel Hospital that were printed early in the nineties. You may make what use you please of this communication.

Yours respectfully,
THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST.

The Earth (Branch Establishment, Mars and Jupiter).

☞ 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.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 103, OCTOBER 22, 1892***

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