Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team





PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.



August 15, 1891.




A TERRIBLE TALE.

[Illustration]

  Alas! it had of course to be!
    For weeks I had not left my room,
  When one fell day there came on me
           An awful doom.

  A burly rough, who drank and swore,
    Without a word--I could not shout--
  Attacked me brutally, and tore
           My nails right out.

  Then, dragging me out to the air--
    No well-conducted conscience pricked him--
  He mercilessly beat me there,
           His helpless victim.

  With cruel zest he beat me well,
    He beat me till in parts I grew--
  I shudder as the tale I tell--
           All black and blue.

  But what on earth he was about,
    I could not guess, do what I would;
  But when at length he cleaned me out
           I understood.

  Yet do not shed a tear, because
    You've heard my story told in metre,
  For I'm a Carpet, and he was
           A Carpet-Beater.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.

_Thursday, June 12_.--Letters from Billsbury arrive by every post,
Horticultural Societies, sea-side excursions, Sunday School pic-nics,
cricket club _fêtes_, all demand subscriptions, and, as a rule,
get them. If this goes on much longer I shall be wound up in the
Bankruptcy Court. Shall have to make a stand soon, but how to begin is
the difficulty. Pretty certain in any case to put my foot down in the
wrong place, and offend everybody. Amongst other letters came this
one:--

    _4, Stone Street, Billsbury, June 10._

[Illustration: "I will give any security you like."]

Sir,--I venture to appeal to your generosity in a matter which I am
sure you will recognise to be of the highest importance. My services
to the Conservative Party in Billsbury are well-known. I can safely
say that no man has, during the last ten years, worked harder than I
have to promote Conservative interests, and for a smaller reward. My
exertions at the last election brought on a violent attack of malarial
fever, which laid me up for some months, and from which I still
suffer. The shaky character of my hand-writing attests the sufferings
I have gone through, and the shattered condition of my bodily health
at the present moment. I lost my situation as head-clerk in the Export
Department of the Ironmongers' Association, and found myself, at the
age of forty, compelled to begin life again with a wife and three
children. Everything I have turned my hand to has failed, and I am in
dire want. May I ask you, under these circumstances, to be so good
as to advance me £500 for a few months. I will give any security you
like. Perhaps I might repay some part of the loan by doing work for
you during the election. This must be a small matter to a wealthy
and generous man like you. To me it is a matter of life and death.
Anxiously awaiting your early and favourable reply, and begging you to
keep this application a secret,

I remain, Sir, Yours, faithfully, HENRY PIDGIN.

That sounded heart-breaking, but I happened to know that Mr. PIDGIN's
"malarial fever" was nothing but _delirium tremens_, brought on by
a prolonged course of drunkenness. Hence his shaky handwriting, &c.
BLISSOP had warned me against him. Wrote back that, in view of the
Corrupt Practices Act, it was impossible for me to relieve individual
cases.

Called on the PENFOLDS this afternoon. They are up from Billsbury
for their stay in London, and have got a house in Eaton Square. To
my surprise found Mrs. BELLAMY and MARY there. That was awkward,
especially as MARY looked at me, as I thought, very meaningly, and
asked me if I didn't think SOPHY PENFOLD sweetly pretty. I muttered
something about preferring a darker type of beauty (MARY's hair is as
black as my hat), to which MARY replied that perhaps, after all, that
kind of pink and white beauty with hair like tow _was_ rather insipid.
The BELLAMYS it seems met the PENFOLDS at a dinner last week, and
the girls struck up a friendship, this call being the result. Young
PENFOLD, whom I had never seen before, was there and was infernally
attentive to MARY. He's in the 24th Lancers, and looks like a barber's
block. Mrs. BELLAMY said to me, "I've been hearing so much about you
from dear Lady PENFOLD. They all have the highest opinion of you. In
fact, Lady PENFOLD said she felt quite like a mother to you. And how
kind of you to buy so many things from Miss PENFOLD at the Bazaar.
What are my father's noble lines?

  "True kindness is no blustering rogue that struts
  With empty mouthings on the stage of life,
  But, like a tender, timid plant that shuts
  At every touch, it shrinks from noisy strife."

(And so forth, I've forgotten the rest.) "I love kindness," continued
Mrs. BELLAMY, "in young men. By the way, will you excuse a short
invitation, and dine with us the day after to-morrow? All the PENFOLDS
are coming." I said yes, and made up my mind that I must settle
matters with MARY one way or another before complications got worse,
or young PENFOLD made any more progress. I felt all the afternoon as
if I'd committed a crime.

_Friday, June 13th_.--Three cheers. I've done it. Called on the
BELLAMYS to-day. Found MARY alone. She was very sarcastic, but at last
I could stand it no longer, and told her I had never loved and never
should love anybody but her. Then she burst into tears, and I--anyhow
she's promised to marry me. Have to interview Mrs. BELLAMY to-morrow.
No time to do it to-day, as she was out till late. Chuck her up!

Mother received the news very well. "Accepted you, my darling boy?"
she said. "Of course she did. How _could_ she do otherwise? Bring
her to see me soon. She shall, of course, have all the family jewels
immediately, and the dining-room furniture too. There'll be a few
other trifles too, I daresay, that you'll be glad of." Dear Mother,
she's the kindest soul in the world. _Carlo_ has been informed of the
news, and is said to have manifested an extraordinarily intelligent
appreciation of it, by insisting on a second helping for supper. He's
a remarkable dog.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SEMPER EADEM."

    ["The position of the Jews in Russia becomes daily more
    terrible. An order that they are henceforth to work upon their
    Sabbath and holy festivals is about to be issued and put in
    force."--_Standard_.--"A most pertinent illustration of the
    falsity of repeated rumours and reports representing in some
    cases a strong disposition, and in others an actual decision,
    on the part of the CZAR and the Russian Government, to
    alleviate the miseries of the Jews."--_Times_.]

  Who said the scourge should slacken? Who foretold
  The goad should cease, the shackle loose its hold?
  The wish, perchance, fathered once more the thought,
  Though long experience against it fought.
  Not so! The CZAR's in Muscovy, and all
  Is well with--Tyranny! The harried thrall
  Shall still be harried, though, a little while,
  The Autocrat on the Republic smile;
  The Jew shall be robbed, banished, outraged still,
  Although the tyrant, with a shuddering thrill
  Diplomacy scarce hides, for some brief days
  Must listen to the hated "_Marseillaise_!"
  Fear not, Fanatic! Despot do not doubt!
  The rule of Orthodoxy and the Knout
  Is not yet over wholly. France may woo,
  Columbia plead, the Jew is still the Jew;
  And, spite of weak humanitarian fuss,
  CÆSAR be praised, the Russ is still the Russ!

       *       *       *       *       *

A GROUSE OUTRAGE.--Shooting them before the Twelfth.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WON'T WORK!"

AIR--"_ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNING_." _IRISH SPORTSMAN SINGS_:--

[Illustration]

         St. Patrick, they say,
         Kicked the snakes in the say,
  But, ochone! if he'd had such a hound-pack as mine,
         I fancy the Saint,
         (Without further complaint)
  Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine.
         Once they shivered and stared,
         At my whip-cracking scared;
  Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,
         Put the scumfish on me,
         And, so far as I see,
         There's scarce a dog-crayture
         But's changed in his nature.
  I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,
         But my chances of Sport
         Are cut terribly short
  On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

         With a thundering polthogue,
         And the toe of my brogue,
  I'd like to kick both of 'em divil knows where!
         Sure I broke 'em meself,
         And, so long "on the shelf"
  They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care.
         O'BRIEN mongrel villin,
         And as for cur DILLON
  Just look at him ranging afar at his will!
         I thought, true as steel,
         They would both come to heel,
         Making up for the pack
         Whistled off by false MAC,
  As though _he'd_ ever shoot with _my_ patience and skill!
         To me ye'll not stick, Sirs?
         What divil's elixirs
  Tempt _ye_ on the Twelfth in the morning?

         Plague on ye, come back!
         Och! ye villainous pack,
  Ye slaves of the Saxon, ye blind bastard bunch!
         Whelps weak and unstable,
         _I_ only am able
  The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch!
         Yet for me ye won't work,
         But sneak homeward and shirk,
  Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon!
         He'll sell ye, no doubt.
         Sure, a pig with ring'd snout
         Is a far boulder baste
         Than such mongrels! The taste
  Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on
         Will soon make ye moan
         That ye left _me_ alone
  On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO LORD TENNYSON.

_ON HIS EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6, 1891._

  Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[1]
    But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.
  And sweet thou singest as when fully ran
    Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse
  The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,
    On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,
  Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,
    It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.
  Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,
    Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"
  Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret
    The careless given boon. Not so with thee.
  Such immortality is thine as clings
    To "happy men that have the power to die."
  The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings
    Charms the world's heart. Such immortality
  Is better than unending lapse of years.
    For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth,
  Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears
    Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth,
  Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath
    Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou
  Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death,
    Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now,
  Great Singer, still we wish thee length of days,
  Song-power unslackened, and unfading bays!

[Footnote 1: "_Tithonus_."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.

_The Proprietor_. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, SHARDSON, I'M GETTING
SICK OF THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' SHOW! _THE KNACKER_ AIN'T SELLING A
SCRAP--NO NOTICE TOOK OF US ANYWHERE--NOT A BLOOMIN' ADVERTISEMENT!
AND YET THERE AIN'T 'ARDLY A LIVIN' ENGLISHMAN OF MARK, FROM TENNYSON
DOWNWARDS, AS WE 'AVEN'T SHOWN UP AND PITCHED INTO, AND DRAGGED 'IS
NAME IN THE MUD!"

_The Editor_. "DON'T LET'S THROW UP THE SPONGE YET, OLD MAN! LET'S
GIVE THE DEAD 'UNS A TURN--LET'S HAVE A SHY AT THACKERAY, BROWNING,
GEORGE ELIOT, OR, BETTER STILL, LET'S BESPATTER GENERAL GORDON AND
CARDINAL NEWMAN A BIT,--_THAT_ OUGHT TO FETCH 'EM A FEW, AND BRING US
INTO NOTICE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT HOE! RAIKES!--When King RICHARD--no, beg his pardon, Mr. RICHARD
KING--says, as quoted in the _Times_, "That he can only assume that
Mr. RAIKES purposely availed himself of a technicality to cover a
statement which was a palpable _suggestio falsi_," he throws something
unpleasant into the teeth of RAIKES. It is as well to remember that
rakes have teeth.

       *       *       *       *       *

"LATINÉ DOCTUS."--A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a
first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking,
as his friend, who met him on the _quai_, observed, "so changed he
would hardly have known him." "That's it," replied the staggering
graduate, "_quantum mutatus ab billow!_" Oh! he must have been bad!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG THAT BROKE MY HEART.

    I paused in a crowded street,
    I only desired to ride--
  Only to wait for a Hammersmith 'bus
    With room for myself outside;
    When I caught the nastiest tune
    My ear had ever heard,
  And asked the Police to take it away,
    But never a man of them stirred.

    So the singer still sang on;
    She would not, would not go;
  She sang a song of the year before last
    That struck me as rather low.
    She followed with one that was high,
    That made the tear-drops start,
  That was "_Hi-tiddly-i-ti! Hi!-ti!-hi!_"
    The song that broke my heart!

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT is A "DEMOGRAPHER"?--Those Londoners who ask this question will
have already obtained a practical answer, as, this week, London
is full of Demographers, to whom _Mr. Punch_, Grand Master of all
Demographers (or "writers for the people"), gives a hearty welcome.
All hail to "The New Demogracy!"

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT.

[Illustration]

  Dear CHARLIE,--It's 'ot, and no error! Summer on us, at last, with a
      bust;
  Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin'
      thust.
  Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday
      still;
  So I'll pull out my _eskrytor_, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my
      quill.

  If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear
      old pal;
  Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.
  Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs.
      Well, it's true;
  But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?

  Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster--I did 'ope you'd shove in
      your oar.
  We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.
  'Ad a invite to 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party,
      yer know,
  Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let
      things go.

  Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?
  Wish you could 'ave seen us--and heard us--old boy, when aboard of
      our ship.
  Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot,
  And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.

  My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone
      wrong;
  I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed
      middlingish strong.
  'EMMY 'OPKINS, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,
  Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy
      blue.

  Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss EMMY; but that's only jest by the
      way,
  'ARRY ain't one to brag of _bong four tunes_; but wot I wos wanting
      to say
  Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our
      sort.
  Bosh! CHARLIE, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to
      spile sport.

  Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the
      strictest Q.T.
  Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of
      spree,
  Wy it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the ditherums,
      it do.
  I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's
      blue.

  Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,
  Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames
      banks with perlice;
  Who sneer about "'ARRY at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course,"
  As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm
      'oarse!

  Scrap o'sandwich-greased paper'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or
      "Bass,"
  Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the
      grass,
  Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies
      they are!
  Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart Banjo-twang makes 'em jar.

  I'm Toffy, you know, and no flies, CHARLIE; swim with the Swells, and
      all that,
  But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical
      rat.
  "Riparian Rights," too! Oh Scissors! They'd block the Backwaters and
      Broads,
  Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old BURNS
      busts their 'oards!

  Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's DANNEL, the
      Dosser, old chap.
  As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf
      a rap,--
  Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with _him_, CHARLIE; won't run to a pint
      o' four 'arf,
  And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his
      charf.

[Illustration]

  Sez DANNEL--and dash his darned cheek, CHARLIE!--"Monkeys like
      you"--meaning _Me_!--
  "Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree
  Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an
      excuse
  For exclusiveness, finds it in _you_, you contemptible coarse-cackling
      goose!

  "Riparian rights? That's the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course;
  But 'tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it
      force.
  You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you
      befoul;
  You--_you_, who'd make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday
      howl!

  "Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on
      their lawns,
  And 'ARRY's a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns;
  You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene,
  And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red
      through her green.

  "You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from
      Oxford or Bow,
  You're a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when
      you row;
  Your 'monkeyings' mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport,
  And there isn't an Eden on earth but's destroyed when it's 'ARRY's
      resort.

  "Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice;
  There's excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing
      voice,
  You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 'tis you
  Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the
      nymph-worshipping crew!"

  I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than
      arf
  Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf.
  But the cheek on it, CHARLIE! A Stone-broke! I _should_ like to give
      him wot for,
  Only DANNEL the Dosser's a dab orf of whom t'ain't so easy to score.

[Illustration]

  But it's time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it
      of late--
  Us on 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the
      ink-spiller's "slate."
  _I_ mean doin' them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting,
      that's flat.
  If I don't give them dash'd Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I'll 'eat my
      old 'at.

  Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat
      coke.
  These fussy old footlers whose 'air stands on hend at a row-de-dow
      joke,
  The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but "skylarking" song's better
      fun,
  And you carn't do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.

  As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair to the
      front;
  But we wosn't alone; lots of toppers, in 'Ouse-Boat, or four-oar, or
      punt,
  Wos a doin' the rorty and rosy as lively as 'OPKINS's lot,
  Ah! the swells sling it out pooty thick; _they_ ain't stashed by no
      ink-spiller's rot.

  Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of Bass, my
      dear boy,
  Lots of dashing, and splashing, and "mashing" are things every man
      must enjoy,
  And the petticoats ain't fur behind 'em, you bet. While top-ropes I
      can carry,
  It ain't soap-board slop about "Quiet" will put the clear kibosh on

  'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW TO SPEND A HOLIDAY ON SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES.

(_A PAGE FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENTHUSIAST IN SEARCH OF REST._)

    ["It is a good rule of practice to devote one portion of a
    short vacation to the serious and necessary business of doing
    nothing, and doing it very thoroughly too."--_Letter to the
    Times._]

At last my time for rest has arrived. Musn't be idle, though. Dr.
MORTIMER GRANVILLE says it would be most injurious to my health. Must
hunt up precedents for leisure leading to no results. Let me see--why
not try the British Museum? Sure to find something useful there--and
useless, which will be more appropriate.

Take an omnibus. See one in the distance. Hail it. Conductor takes
no notice! Shout and hurry after it. Try to attract attention of the
driver. Failure. Capital commencement to my labours. Had my run for
nothing!

Victory! Stopped one partially occupied. No room outside. Enter
interior. Six passengers on one seat. Five on the other. The half
dozen regard me with contemptuous indifference. The five make no room.
Explain that I want a seat. Remark received in silence. Sit down on
knee of small boy. Mother (next him) expostulates--angrily. Chorus of
indignant beholders. Conductor is impertinent. Ask for his number,
he asks for my fare. Pay him. While this is going on, young woman has
entered omnibus, and taken vacant seat. Conductor counts places, says
there is no room. Can't carry me. Won't give back fare--has torn off
ticket. Says I must get out. Say I will report him. Impudent
again. Getting out drop ticket. Incident subsequently (to my later
satisfaction) leads to nothing!

Won't have anything more to do with the omnibuses. Enter hansom--old
man (the driver) smiles civilly when I say "British Museum." Now, I
must seriously rest. Go to sleep. Slumber until awakened by a jolt.
Look out. Find myself near the river. Strikes me that the Thames is
not close to the Museum. Appeal to cabman through the hole in the
roof. Difficulty in attracting his attention. Stop him at last. Ask
him why he did not take me to the Museum. He smiles and says he didn't
hear me--he is deaf! Very angry. He expostulates, civilly. He saw I
was asleep and didn't wish to disturb me! He has been driving up and
down the Thames Embankment for the last three hours--charge seven and
sixpence. Don't see my way out of the difficulty, except by payment.
He thanks me, and suggests that he shall now drive me to the Museum
for eighteen-pence. Very angry and refuse. He is hailed by someone
else, and is off to pick up his new fare. On consideration it seems to
me that my anger has led to nothing. Nothing--just what I wanted, but
not exactly at the right moment.

Rather hungry. Enter a restaurant. Crowded with gentlemen wearing
hats--who seem to be on intimate terms with the waiters. Get a bill of
fare which is thrust into my hands by an attendant loaded with dishes.
Let me see--what shall I have? "Lamb's head and peas." Have never
tried this dish. Might be good. Waiter (who seems to be revolving,
like the planetary system, in an orbit) reaches me, and I shout what
I want. He replies, "Sorry, Sir, just off," and vanishes. Look up
something else. "Liver and bacon." Not had it for years! Used to like
it. On reappearance of the planetary waiter, give my order. He nods
and vanishes. Wait patiently. Rather annoyed that my nearest neighbour
has used my part of the table for a dish containing broad beans. Glare
at him. No result. Planetary waiter has passed me twice--stop him
angrily the third time. He is less busy now--he pauses. He thrusts
bill of fare before me, and asks me "what I would please to want."
Explode and shout in tones of thunder, "Liver and bacon!" He
disappears, and comes back a few minutes later, saying, "Very sorry,
but when I first ordered it, liver and bacon _was_ on--now it's off.
Will I have a chop?" Reply angrily, "No." Same answer to "Steak,"
"Duck and green peas," "A cut off the beef joint," and "Irish stew."
Waiter asks (with forced civility), "What _will_ I have!" I return, as
I leave the restaurant, "Nothing!" On regaining the street (although
hungry) I am pleased to think that I am still obeying Dr. MORTIMER
GRANVILLE's directions!

No use trying cab or omnibus. Both failures. Why not walk? Good way
of wasting time, so begin to go northward, and in due course get to
Bloomsbury. Enter Museum. Umbrella seized. Approach Reading Room.
Civil attendant informs me that the Library is closed--taking stock,
or something! Then I have come all this way for nothing! Angry, but
inwardly contented. Doing nothing "very thoroughly!"

[Illustration]

Turn back. Why not go to a theatre? Certainly. Go to four in
succession, and find them all closed! Well, good way of wasting time,
Shall I visit one of the Exhibitions? Chelsea or Earl's Court? After
consideration, come to the conclusion that this would be worse than
doing nothing. Must draw the line somewhere!

After all, there is no place like home. Or shall I go to my Club? Yes.
Get there. Find it is being repaired, and that the members are taken
in somewhere else. Hate new scenes and new faces. Return to my first
idea, and make for my private address; but feel that it may be rather
dull, as my wife and the children are at the seaside. Still, somebody
can get me a little supper. At least, I hope so. Find my latch-key
is of no use, on account of the chain being up. Ring angrily, when
a charwoman in a bonnet appears, and explains that the servants,
not expecting me home so early, have gone to the play, having
locked up the larder. Charwoman agrees with me that it is
disgraceful--especially the locking up of the larder.

However, it can't be helped. Make up my mind to go to bed, and get
fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent
in doing absolutely nothing! Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER
GRANVILLE will be satisfied!

       *       *       *       *       *

"OUR CHILDREN'S EARS."

  Whether they'll be as long as those of Midas,
  Or stand out salient from either side as
  A close-cropped ARRY's, at right angles set
  To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet;
  But in one thing, at least, a score they'll chalk--
  They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!

       *       *       *       *       *

DEFINITION.--"_La haute Cuisine_"--the kitchen on the top flat of a
ten-storey'd mansion.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN INSINUATING WHISPER.

'JUST LOOK, LAURA! WHAT A LOVELY LITTLE DOG THAT OLD GENTLEMAN'S GOT!
HOW I WISH HE WAS MINE!" 'SHALL OI _GIT_ 'IM FOR YER, LYDY?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"

    [Lord TENNYSON, under this heading, writes appealing to
    Englishmen for subscriptions to the funds of the "Gordon Boys'
    Home" at Woking, which is in want of £40,000. Contributions
    should be sent to the Treasurer, General Sir DIGHTON PROBYN,
    V.C., Marlborough House, Pall Mall.]

  Are we sleeping? "_Have_ we forgotten?" Like the thrust of an Arab spear
  Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere.
  Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang,
  When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?

  Forgotten? So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay,
  With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay;
  Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we
  Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host _his_ eyes should never see.

  When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death,
  And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath;
  When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag,
  Till they saw o'er GORDON's citadel wave high--the MAHDI's flag.

  That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting
  Our England should not court again. The Laureate's accents ring
  With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part
  Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON's heart.

  "This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man." So then sang he
  Who sounds a keen reveille now. "Can you help us?" What say we?
  Oh, out on words, that come like WOLSELEY's host too late--too late!
  Do--_do_, in the simple silent way that made lost GORDON great.

  Surely these Boys that GORDON loved in the Home with GORDON's name
  Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England's fame;
  And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him
  Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!

  Fit task for patriot poet, this! TYRTÆUS never stood
  More worthily for heroic hearts or his home-land's highest good.
  Give! give! and with free hands! His spirit's poor, his soul is hard,
  Who heeds not our noblest Hero's appeal through the lips of our noblest Bard!

       *       *       *       *       *

A REMINISCENCE AND A QUOTATION.--It is reported that two Gaiety
burlesque-writers are about to re-do _Black-Eye'd Susan_ "up to
date," of course, as is now the fashion. As the typical melodramatic
tragedian observes, "'Tis now some twenty-five years ago" that FRED
DEWAR strutted the first of his five hundred nights or so on the stage
as _Captain Crosstree_, that PATTY OLIVER sang with trilling effect
her "_Pretty Seeusan_," and that DANVERS, as _Dame Hatly_, danced like
a rag-doll in a fantoccini-show. To quote the Poet CRABBE, and to go
some way back in doing so,--

  "I see no more within our borough's bound
  The name of DANVERS!"

Which lines will be found in No. XVII. of the Poet's "Posthumous
Tales."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN TRAVELLER.

  In a restaurant-Pullman he books
    His seat, a luxurious craze.
  Most travellers now take their Cooks,
    And everyone's going to Gaze.

       *       *       *       *       *

IBERIAN-HIBERNIAN.--Sir,--In Ireland since the time when the Armada
came to grief on its coasts, there have always existed Spanish names,
either pure, as in the instance of Valencia, or slightly mixed. In
Spain the Celtic names are found in the same way, and an instance
occurs on the border-land of Spain and Southern France, in the name of
the place to which the Spanish Premier has gone for his holiday, viz.,
Bagnères-de-Bigorre. If "Bigorre" isn't "Begorra," what is it? DON
PATRICK DE CORQUEZ.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

(_THOROUGHLY NEW STYLE._)

[Illustration]

  Belinda dear, once on a time
    I doted on your every feature,
  I wrote you _billets doux_ in rhyme
    In which I called you "charming creature."
  No lover half so keen as I,
    Than mine no ardent passion stronger,
  So I should like to tell you why
    I cannot love you any longer.

  When I was yours and you were mine,
    Your hair, I thought, was most delightful,
  But now, through Fashion's last design,
    It looks, to my taste, simply frightful!
  Though why this should be I don't know,
    For I can think of nothing madder
  Than hair decked out in coils that go
    To make what seems to be a ladder.

  Unhappy day, when first you dressed
    Your tresses thus--how you must rue it!
  For you yourself, you know, confessed
    It took you several hours to do it.
  Oh, tell me, is it but a snare
    Designed to captivate another,
  Or do you merely bind your hair
    Because you're bidden by your mother?

  Again--you will not take it ill--
    You are, my dear, distinctly dumpy:
  A flowing cape it's certain will
    Well--_not_ become one short and stumpy.
  Yet since, although you are not tall,
    You wear a cape, you may take my word
  That in the mouths of one and all
    You have become a very byword.

  So this is why my love has fled--
    If ever there should come a season
  When you shall show some sense instead
    Of such an utter lack of reason,
  If I should still be fancy free,
    Why then it's only right to mention
  That, if you care to write to me,
    I'll give your claims my best attention.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NOTE.--In _Black and White_ for August 8 there is a large picture
representing a group of English Dramatists, amongst whom please
specially notice a figure intended for Mr. W.S. GILBERT (it was
thoughtful and kind of the artist to put the names below), who is
apparently explaining to a select few why he has been compelled to
come out in this strange old coat and these queer collars. All the
Dramatists look as cheerful as mutes at a funeral, their troubled
expression of countenance probably arising from the knowledge that
somewhere hidden away is a certain eminently unbiassed Ibsenitish
critic who has been engaged to do the lot in a lump. From this
exhibition of collective wisdom turn to p. 203, and observe the single
figure of a cabman, drawn by an artist who certainly has a Keene
appreciation of the style of _Mr. Punch's_ inimitable "C.K."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "BURYING THE HATCHET".

(_Vide Report of the L.C. & D. Chairman's Speech, "Times," August
6._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LESSON FROM THE R.N.E.

(_FOR THE USE OF SAILORS PROPOSING TO JOIN THE ROYAL NAVY._)

[Illustration: Boxing the Compass.]

_Question_. I think you have been to the Royal Naval Exhibition at
Chelsea.

_Answer_. I have. I was induced to make the journey by an advertising
placard posted on two official boards outside the Admiralty.

_Q._ What was your first impression on reaching the grounds usually
open to the public, but now reserved for commercial purposes?

_A._ That the Public were extremely benevolent to permit so long an
infringement of their right of way and other privileges.

_Q._ After you had entered the Exhibition, what was your initial
impression?

_A._ That a great number of the exhibits were not very appropriate
advertisements.

_Q._ Did you see Seamen of the Royal Navy making an exhibition of
themselves in the Arena?

_A._ I did; and could not help contrasting with the feebly-histrionic
display the recent order in Paris forbidding the French soldiers to
take part in theatrical representations.

_Q._ Was the display of these seamen of the Royal Navy particularly
impressive?

_A._ No, and I fancy that some of the audience who had paid an extra
sixpence to see it from the Grand Stand, were slightly disappointed.

_Q._ Besides the cutlass and gun drill, did you see these seamen
(wearing Her Majesty's uniform), take part in any other performance?

_A._ I did, and for this, too, an extra sixpence was charged for the
use of the Grand Stand. They waded about in a sort of tank or large
bath with models of ironclads on their heads.

_Q._ So far as you could see was this last display conducive to the
maintenance of strict discipline?

_A._ I should say not, the more especially as I noticed towards
the close of the display that the men seemed inclined to indulge in
larking.

_Q._ Has this raree show caused you to wish to enlist in the Royal
Navy?

_A._ Certainly not. The gun and cutlass drill before a paying audience
reminded me of _The Battle of Waterloo_ at Astley's.

_Q._ But would you not like to join the Royal Navy, so that you might
be qualified to perform in a tank?

_A._ No; for on consideration I think if I wished to do anything in
the "comic water-tournament line," I could make better terms with Mr.
SANGER than the Lords of the Admiralty.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.--POPULAR PRICES.--Would any reader inform me what is
the lowest price at which _wholesome_ aërated waters are sold? I
have been drinking some "Shadwell Seltzer, special _cuvée_," at a
penny-halfpenny the syphon, and I fancy this may have something to do
with my present symptoms, which include partial paralysis of the left
side, violent spasms, an almost irresistible tendency to homicide,
together with excruciating pain in every part of the body. My doctor
says the lead in the syphons has "permeated my system." When I am
better, I intend to prosecute the manufacturer. My doctor discourages
the notion. He says he does not know if an action would "lie," but he
is sure the manufacturer would!--TEETOTALLER.

       *       *       *       *       *

HELVETIAN SIXTH-CENTURY MOTTO.--"_'Tell' est La Vie!_"--_en Suisse_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WORK FOR THE RECESS.

MISS PARLIAMENTINA PUTS HER HOUSE IN ORDER, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF THE
COMMITTEE ON VENTILATION, ETC.]

       *       *       *       *       *

OFF TO MASHERLAND.

(_BY OUR OWN GRANDOLPH._)

A FEW REMINISCENCES.

[Illustration: Grandolph and the Wild Turkey.]

Begin to regret dinners on board the _Grantully Castle_. The other
day was regretting the Amphitryon. Don't go so far back as the
Albemarle-Street Amphitryon, quite satisfied with a simple Donald
Currie. [_Mem._--The proverb hath much truth in it that saith, "Go
farther and fare worse."] Sick of chicken. With poetic epigrammacy
might say, "Quite sick Of chick." Stringy chickens, too! One has to
tug at them; sort of game of "poulet-hauly"--as DRUMMY would say.
Though were he here, I doubt if he would say anything. He certainly
would eat nothing: probably would only open his mouth to observe, "I'm
off!" and then we should see him no more. Quite right. So would I--but
for "my oath, my Lord, my oath!" (N.B.--This is a quotation. Sure
of it. Where from? Don't know. Tragedy probably; sounds tragic. No
matter. Can give it with effect in a speech, and Members turn to one
another and ask, "What's that from?" When they ask me confidentially
afterwards, I reply with an air of intense surprise, "What! don't
_you_ know! Well!!" and I turn on my heel, leaving CHUCKLEHEAD, M.P.,
annoyed with himself,--"_planté là_" as DRUMMY would say,--for being
so ignorant, and for having displayed his ignorance so palpably. Off
he goes to British Museum and searches for quotation. This gives him
opportunity of acquiring much useful knowledge, which, but for me,
he would not have had. Rather a long parenthesis this. So--on we goes
again.)

TO THE MINES.

_À propos_ of exploring, the other day, a digger's assistant came up
to me and inquired "If I had," as I understood him, "my gin pack'd."
I returned that I never took spirits. Found out subsequently that word
was spelt "_mijinpacht_," which is African-Dutch for "lease." Well,
why didn't he say so before? Of course I have, and plenty of 'em; else
why am I here?

To-day went to see the ore in the Robinson Crusoe Mines. As D.W. would
say, "The site strikes me with ore!"

Much interested, of course, in inspecting the Salisbury Mine.
Naturally, I put in my claim for the Salisbury. What's in a name and
a family, if one can't get some good out of 'em? Intend to start
the "Uncle Mine." Fine chance. Any place where there's a large and
fluctuating Pop-ulation (with emphasis on the "Pop"), the Uncle
Mine is a certainty." But Oh, for the "pop,"--I mean the dear old
fizz,--and the older it is, the dearer it is,--at the Amphitryon.

"IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?"

The Transvaal's the place for living in. Here life is life, be it
never so lively. The only nuisance is the Boer; and the Boer's a
hass, or rather a mule. That's my opinion of Boers individually and
collectively; I make no concessions to them; hang 'em, they've already
got enough. If this country had been in the hands of Englishmen, or
Americans, or both jointly (talking of jointly, we'd have had better
dinners than we get now but of this anon--) with a certain person whom
I can mention, and who is not a hundred miles distant from the present
writer at this moment, as Head of affairs, an Imperial ruler, with
power to add to his number (which number would be One, and would
remain so), then this country, in a very short time, would have ruled
the world. What ports, what champagnes, what railroads, what shipping,
what commerce, what an Imperial Parliament, with the Despot in the
Chair in both Houses, all speeches, except the Despot's, limited
to five minutes apiece, and no reduction on talking a quantity.
Oh, for one hour of this power, and the Amphitryon be blowed! Aha!
_Grandolphus Africanus Protector_ to begin with; _Grandolphus
Africanus Rex_ to go on with; and _Grandolphus Africanissimmus
Imperator_ to finish with!

REMORSE AND REGRET.

[Illustration: Grandolphus Africanus.]

Now to dinner! On what? Yah! tough beef, woolly mutton and stringy
chicken. And to think that but for the Boers, the beastly Boers,
we should have had the finest teal, wild duck, venison, goslings,
asparagus, French beans, best Welsh mutton, and real turtle soup every
day _au choix_!! But what did the Boers do? Why, they ascertained that
skins and feathers, and shells, were valuable, whereupon they went to
work, shot everything everywhere, sold skins and feathers, and shells!
So that deer and birds hadn't a chance. If they popped out, pop went
the guns like the original weasel, which some years ago was always
popping, and the poor dumb animals with the pleading eyes and the
tender flesh were slaughtered wholesale. In this manner, too, the game
soon came to an end, as it must do whenever the game is so one-sided
as it was here. Then, as I have said, the shells were valuable! The
shells! What chance had the tortoise and the turtle? "'Tis the voice
of the turtle, I heard him complain." (What's that from? That's from
WATTS--eh?) What chance had the peas, however wild? or a bean as broad
as one of ----'s after-dinner stories? Ah! it makes me sad and angry,
and once again I cry Oh, for an hour, and that the dinner-hour, aboard
the _Grantully Castle_! Ay! even though the G.O.M. were on board; for
he could appreciate the daily Currie which to me is now _perdu_. Well!
so to dinner "with what appetite I may," and then on to Pretoria,
of which place I think I shall change the name to Pre-radicallia or
Pre-fourthpartia. You see Pre-toria implies one who was Toryer than
a Tory. Aha! what is my scheme? Do you see the picture? GRANDOLPHUS
IMPERATOR REX AURIFERORUM MEORUM (Latiné for "Mines") surrounded by
his Pretorian Guards.

       *       *       *       *       *

SPORT TO US!

[Illustration: "What larks! Killed four-and-twenty blackbirds all in a
row! at one shot!!!"]

Went out shooting before dinner. Killed one wild turkey, after an
awful struggle, in which I very nearly got the worst of it; but
fortunately the turkey was unarmed, though for all that he used his
drumsticks in such a manner as in a little more would have brought
flocks of other furious wild turkeys on to the scene, had I not, with
great presence of mind and one small bullet out of my spring-pea rifle
managed to crack the parchment-like skin which covers his drum, and
at the same time broken one of his sticks. Then, he fell. Carried him
home on my back. What larks! Killed four-and-twenty blackbirds at
one shot as they were all sitting in a row on a rail. They were so
frightened of me, _it made 'em quail!!_ Wonderful transformation,
wasn't it? But fact, all the same. Four-and-twenty quail All on
a rail. Killed eighty "Koran," a Mahomedan bird, very scarce, and
therefore bring in a considerable Mahomet, or, (ahem) profit? See?
Shot a "Tittup"--so called on account of its peculiar action after
drinking; also three early German Beerbirds, or, as the Dutchmen call
them, "Spring-boks." There is another origin for this name, which is
also likely, and that is that they don't appear when there's an early
spring, but when the spring is rather backward then they come forward.
Whichever you like, my little dear, you pays your money, &c., &c.
After all these exciting adventures--"The game is cook'd, and now
we'll go to dinner!"--quotation from early Dramatist, by Yours ever,
[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

WORTH NOTICING.

  O poor Mr. ATKINSON, victim of fate,
    Who bowed when you ought to have lifted your hat,
  When the Session is over it's far--far too late,
    To give notice of this and give notice of that.
  Your attempts to be funny are amazing to see,
    It's a dangerous venture to pose as a wit.
  Though the voters of Boston _may_ love their M.P.,
    It _may_ end in their giving _you_ notice--to quit!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

_Short Papers in Magazines_.--"A starry night Is the shepherd's
delight," and as this sort of night is to the pastor, so are
short stories in Monthly Magazines to the Baron. Moreover, his
recommendation of them is, as he knows from numerous grateful
Correspondents, "a boon and a blessing" to such as follow his lead. He
owns to a partiality for the weird, and if he can come across a brief
"curdler," he at once singles it out for the delectation of those
whose taste is in the same direction. But no curdler has he come
across for some considerable time; but for short essays and tales
to be read by ladies in some quiet half-hour before toiletting or
untoiletting, or by the weaker sex in the smoking-room, the Baron
begs to commend "THACKERAY's Portraits of Himself," as interesting
to Thackerayans, and "A Maiden Speech," in _Murray_, for August, the
latter being rather too sketchy, though in its sketchiness artistic,
as, like _Sam Weller's_ love-letter, it makes you "wish as there was
more of it."

Commended also by the Baron are "The Story of a Violin," by ERNEST
DOWSON, and "Heera Nund," by F.A. STEEL, in _Macmillan_. If "A First
Family of Tasajara" is continued as well as it is commenced in the
same above-mentioned Mac-azine, it will be about as good a tale as
BRET HARTE has ever written, and that is saying a good deal, mind you.

Unfinished Stories--that is, Stories finished in style, yet, as
another contradiction in terms, short stories without any end, are
rather the vogue nowadays in Magazines. Let me recommend as specimens
"Francesca's Revenge" in _Blackwood_, and "Disillusioned" in _London
Society_.

Don't tell the Baron that these hints are unappreciated. He knows
better. He can produce letters imploring him to read and notice,
letters asking him what to read, and letters complaining that his
advice is not more frequently given. Aware of this responsibility, he
never recommends what he has not himself read, or what some trusted
partner in the Firm of BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co. has not read for him.
_Verb. sap._

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS DECIMA-HELYETT-SMITHSON-JACKSON.

One or two of the especially well-informed dramatic critics who, of
course, had seen the original piece _Miss Helyett_ in Paris, asked
why the English adapter had taken the trouble to invent nine sisters
for the heroine; the nine sisters never being seen and having nothing
whatever to do with the plot. Here the well-informed ones were
to a certain extent wrong. In the original French piece, _Miss
Helyett_,--whose name, as is suggested by _Woman_, is evidently a
French rendering for "Miss ELLIOT," which M. BOUCHERON "concluded was
her Christian name"--speaking of herself, says to her father, "_Vous
savez bien, mon père, que vous n'avez pas de plus grande admiratrice
que votre onzième enfant._" And the Reverend SMITHSON tells her, a
little later, "_J'ai casé toutes tes soeurs très jeunes_--" and "_Je
ne devrais pourtant pas avoir de peine à trouver un onzième gendre._"

[Illustration: "Oh, shocking!!"]

That is why he is travelling to get an "_onzième gendre_" for his
"_onzième enfant_." The English adapter relieved Mr. SMITHSON of one
of his family, and so _Miss Helyett Smithson_ became _Miss Decima
Jackson_, i.e., the tenth, instead of the eleventh, of the worthy
pastor's family. The fact that all her sisters are married, makes
single unblessedness a reproach to her. No sort of purpose would
have been served by such a wholesale massacre of innocents as the
extinction of all _Pastor Smithson's_, alias _Jackson's_, ten "pretty
chicks at one fell swoop."

Miss NESVILLE, the foreign representative of _Miss Decima_ at the
Criterion, is uncommonly childlike and bland; moreover, she sings
charmingly; while of Mr. DAVID JAMES as the pastor _Jackson_ it may be
said, "Sure such a _père_ was never seen!" The Irishman, Mr. CHAUNCEY
OLCOTT, has a mighty purty voice, and gains a hearty _encore_ for
a ditty of which the music is not particularly striking. Mr. PERCY
REEVE has written words which go glibly to AUDRAN's music, and fit
the situations. The piece is capitally played and sung all round; and
marvellous is Miss VICTOR as the Spanish mother. The _mise-en-scène_
is far better here than it is in Paris, where this "musical-comedy" is
still an attraction.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW TO BE POPULAR.

(_ADVICE TO AN ASPIRANT._)

  Dear sir, if you long for the love of a nation,
    If you wish to be _fêted_, applauded, caressed;
  If you hope for receptions, and want an ovation,
    By the populace cheered, by Town Councils addressed;
  I can give you succinctly a certain receipt--
  Be detected at once and denounced as a cheat.

  It's as easy as lying; you eat all your cake, Sir,
    And you have it as well, which was never a sin,
  By adding a trifling amount to your stake, Sir,
    When the points of the cards show you're certain to win.
  You'll be slapped on the back by the "man in the street,"
  Who delights to sing pæans in praise of a cheat.

  They take the poor thief or the forger to jail, oh,
    Where he cleans out his cell and picks oakum all day;
  _You_ pose as a martyr and get a cheap halo
    Ready-made by the public, with nothing to pay.
  Believe me, dear Sir, there is nothing can beat
  For triumph and joy the career of a cheat.

       *       *       *       *       *

EXIT LA CLAQUE.--"_A partir d'apres demain samedi_," says the _Figaro_
for August 6:--"M. LEMONNIER, _le Directeur d'été et l'auteur de
Madame la Maréchale, supprime le service de la claque à 'Ambigu_."
When _Madame la Maréchale_ has finished her run, will the _claque_
be re-admitted to start a new piece? This is snubbing your friends
in a time of prosperity. If the _claque_ has the courage of its
opinions--but stay, can a _claque_ have any opinions? No: it must
follow its leader; and its leader obeys orders. If ever any set of
men came into a theatre "with orders," the _claque_ is that set. Poor
_claque_! Summoned in adversity, banished in prosperity, why not do
away with it altogether, and trust to public expression of opinion for
applause?

       *       *       *       *       *

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.