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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 104.




January 21, 1893.




CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

THE KEEPER.

(_With an Excursus on Beaters._)

Of the many varieties of keeper, I propose, at present, to consider only
the average sort of keeper, who looks after a shooting, comprising
partridges, pheasants, hares, and rabbits, in an English county. Now it is
to be observed that your ordinary keeper is not a conversational animal. He
has, as a rule, too much to do to waste time in unnecessary talk. To begin
with, he has to control his staff, the men and boys who walk in line with
you through the root-fields, or beat the coverts for pheasants. That might
seem at first sight to be an easy business, but it is actually one of the
most difficult in the world. For thorough perverse stupidity, you will not
easily match the autochthonous beater. Watch him as he trudges along, slow,
expressionless, clod-resembling, lethargic, and say how you would like to
be the chief of such an army. He is always getting out of line, pressing
forward unduly, or hanging back too much, and the loud voice of the keeper
makes the woods resound with remonstrance, entreaty, and blame, hurled at
his bovine head. After lunch, it is true, the beater wakes up for a little.
Then shall you hear WILLIAM exchanging confidences from one end of the line
to the other with JARGE, while the startled pheasant rises too soon and
goes back, to the despair of the keeper and the guns. Then, too, are heard
the shouts of laughter which greet the appearance of a rabbit, and the air
is thick with the sticks that the joyous, beery beaters fling at the
scurrying form of their hereditary foe. It is marvellous to note with what
a venomous hatred the beater regards the bunny. Pheasant or partridge he is
careless of; even the hare is, in comparison, a thing of nought, but let
him once set eyes on a rabbit, and his whole being seems to change. His eye
absolutely flashes, his chest heaves with excitement beneath the ancient
piece of sacking that protects his form from thorns. If the rabbit falls to
the shot, he yells with exultation; if it be missed, an expression of
morose and gloomy disappointment settles on his face, as who should say,
"Things are played out; the world is worthless!"

[Illustration: On their Beat.]

All these characteristics are the keeper's despair; though, to be sure, he
has staunch lieutenants in his under-keepers; and towards the end of the
day he can always count on two sympathising allies in the postman and the
policeman. These two never fail to come out in the afternoon to join the
beaters. It is amusing to watch the demeanour of the beaters in the
policeman's presence. Some of them, it is possible, have been immeshed by
the law, and have made the constable's acquaintance in his professional
capacity. Others are conscious of undiscovered peccadilloes, or they feel
that on some future day they may be led to transgress rules, of which the
policeman is the sturdy embodiment. None of them is, therefore, quite at
his best in the policeman's presence. Their attitude may be described
as one of uneasy familiarity, bursting here and there into jocular
nervousness, but never quite attaining the rollicking point. You may
sometimes take advantage of this feeling to let off a joke on a beater.
Select a stout, plethoric one, and say to him, "Mind you keep your eye on
the policeman, or he'll poach a rabbit before you can say knife." This
simple inversion of probabilities and positions is quite certain to "go." A
hesitating smile will first creep into the corners of the beater's eye.
After an interval spent in grappling with the jest, he will become purple,
and finally he will explode.

During the rest of the day you will hear him repeating your little
pleasantry either to himself or to his companions. You can keep it up by
saying now and then, "How many did the constable pocket that last beat?"
(_Shouts of laughter._) Thus shall your reputation as a humorist be
established amongst the beating fraternity--("that 'ere Muster JACKSON, 'e
do make a chap laugh, that 'e do," is the formula)--and if you revisit the
same shooting next year, a beater is sure to take an opportunity of saying
to you, with a grin on his face, "Policeman's a comin' out to-day, Sir; I'm
a goin' to hev my eye tight on 'im, so as 'e don't pocket no rabbits," to
which you will reply, "That's right, GEORGE, you stick to it, and you'll be
a policeman yourself some day," at which impossible anticipation there will
be fresh explosions of mirth. So easily pleased is the rustic mind, so
tenacious is the rustic memory.

But the head-keeper recks not of these things. All the anxiety of the day
is his. If, for one reason or another, he fails to show as good a head of
game as had been expected, he knows his master will be displeased. If the
beaters prove intractable, the birds go wrong, but the burden of the host's
disappointment falls on the keeper's shoulders. His are all the petty
worries, the little failures of the day. The keeper is, therefore, not
given to conversation. How should he be, with all these responsibilities
weighing upon him? Few of those who shoot realise what the keeper has gone
through to provide the sport. Inclement nights spent in the open, untiring
vigilance by day and by night, a constant and patient care of his birds
during the worst seasons, short hours of sleep, and long hours of tramping,
such is the keeper's life. And, after all, what a fine fellow is a good
keeper. In what other race of men can you find in a higher degree the best
and manliest qualities, unswerving fidelity, dauntless courage, unflinching
endurance of hardship and fatigue, and an upright honesty of conduct and
demeanour? I protest that if ever the sport of game-shooting is attacked,
one powerful argument in its favour may be found in the fact that it
produces such men as these, and fosters their staunch virtues. Think well
of all this, my young friend, and do not vex the harassed keeper with idle
and frivolous remarks. But you may permit yourself to say to him, during
the day, "That's a nice dog of yours; works capitally."

"Yes, Sir," the keeper will say, "he's not a bad 'un for a young 'un.
Plenty of good blood in him. His mother's old _Dido_. I've had to leave her
at home to-day, because she's got a sore foot; but her nose is something
wonderful."

"Did you have much trouble breaking him?"

"Lor' bless you, Sir, no. He took to it like a duck to the water. Nothing
comes amiss to him. You stand there, Sir, and you'll get some nice birds
over you. They mostly breaks this way."

That kind of conversation establishes good relations, always an important
thing. Or you may hint to him that he knows his business better than the
host, as thus:--

"I must have been in the wrong place that last beat. Not a single bird came
near me."

"Of course you were, Sir. I knew how it would be. I wanted you fifty yards
higher up, but Mr. CHALMERS, he would have you here. Lor, I've never known
birds break here. Now then, you boys, stop that chattering, or I sends you
all home. Seem to think they're out here to enjoy theirselves, instead of
doing as I tells 'em. Come, rattle your sticks!"

Thus are the little beaters and the stops admonished.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM A MODERN ENGLISH EXAMINATION-PAPER

_Which young Mr. D. Brown went in to floor, but which floored him._

_Question._ What is the meaning of "to deodorise." Give the derivation.

_Answer._ "To deodorise" is to gild the statue of a heathen deity.
Literally "to gild a god." This compound verb is derived from "_Deus_,"
dative "_Deo_," and the Greek verb "[Greek: dôrixô], _i.e._ to gild."

_Q._ What is a "Manicure"? Give its derivation.

_A._ It is another term for a Mad Doctor. Its derivation is
obvious--"Maniac Cure." The last syllable of the first word being omitted
for the sake of convenience in pronunciation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE COMING OF THE BOGEYS.

(_Mr. Punch's Dreadful New Year's Dream after a Surfeit of Mince Pies and
"Times" Correspondence._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COMING OF THE BOGEYS.

  I had a Dream, which was not all a Dream.
  (By Somnus and old Nox I fear 'twas _not_!)
  Common-sense was extinguished, and Good Taste
  Did wonder darkling on the verge of doom.
  I saw a Monster, a malign, marine,
  Mysterious, many-whorled, mug-lumbering Bogey,
  Stretched (like Miltonian angels on the marl)
  In league-long loops upon the billowy brine.
  Beshrew thee, old familiar ocean Bogey,
  Thou spectral spook of many Silly Seasons,
  Beshrew thee, and avaunt! Which being put
  In post-Shakspearian vernacular, means
  Confound, you, and Get out!!! The monstrous worm
  Wriggling its corkscrew periwinkly twists
  Of trunk and tail alternate, winked huge goggles
  Derisively and gurgled. "_Me_ get out,
  The Science-vouched, and Literature-upheld,
  And Reason-rehabilitated butt
  Of many years of misdirected mockery?
  You ask omniscient HUXLEY, cocksure oracle
  On all from protoplasm to Home Rule,
  From Scripture to Sea Serpents; go consult
  Belligerent, brave, beloved BILLY RUSSELL!
  Verisimilitude incarnate, I
  Scorn your vain sceptic mirth!
          Besides, behold
  The portent riding me, as Thetis rode
  The lolloping, wolloping sea-horse of old!
  Is it less likely that _I_ should remain
  Than _she_ return?"
          Then, horror-thrilled, I gazed
  At her, the Abominable, the Ogreish Thing;
  The soul-revolting, sense-degrading She,
  Who swayed and sickened, scourged and scarified
  The unwilling slaves of fashion and discomfort
  A quarter of a century since!
          She sat,
  A spectral, scraggy, beet-nosed, ankle-less,
  Obtrusive-panted, splay-foot, slattern-shape,
  Of grim Medusa-faced Immodesty,
  Caged cumbrously in a stiff, swaying, swollen,
  Shin-scarifying, hose-revealing frame
  Of wide-meshed metal, like a monster mousetrap--
  Hideous, indecent, awkward!
          Oh, I knew her--
  This loathly _revenant_, revisiting
  The glimpses of the moon. She shamed my sight,
  And blocked my way, and marred my young men's art,
  Twenty years syne and more. 'Twas CRINOLINA,
  The long-abiding, happily banished horror
  We hoped to see no more. _Shall_ she return
  To vex our souls, unsex our wives and daughters,
  And spoil our pictures as she did of old?
  Forbid it, womanhood and modesty!
  And if _they_ won't, let manhood and sound sense
  Arise in wrath and warn the horror off,
  Ere she effect a lodgment on the limbs
  Of pretty girls, or clothe our matron's shapes
  With shame as with a garment.
          "Get thee gone!"
  Cries _Punch_, and shakes his gingham in her face.
  "The Silly Season's Nemesis we may stand,
  But thou, the loathlier Bogey? _Garn away!_
  (As 'LIZA said to amorous 'ARRY 'AWKINS)
  Avaunt, skedaddle, slope, absquatulate,
  Go, gruesome ghoul--go quickly--and for ever!!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R.'S nephew read out an announcement to the effect that Messrs.
MACMILLAN were about to publish Lord CARNARVON'S "Prometheus Bound."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. R.'s excellent aunt. "That's very vague. Doesn't it
say how it's to be bound?--whether in calf or vellum?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE."

_Hostess._ "ER--ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE--ER--MR. CORNELIUS P. VAN DUNK, FROM
CHICAGO--MR. KEMBLE MACREADY KEAN, THE GREAT TRAGEDIAN, AND MANAGER OF THE
PARTHENON."

_Mr. Van Dunk._ "MR. KEMBLE MACREADY KEAN! SIR, YOUR NAME'S VERY FAMILIAR
TO ME, AND I'M PROUD TO KNOW YOU!--AND I SHALL TAKE AN EARLY OPPORTUNITY OF
ASKING YOU FOR SOME ORDERS FOR YOUR THEATRE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LAPSUS LINGUÆ.

    ["There is scarcely one of us who does not violate some rule of
    English grammar in every sentence which he speaks."--_Daily
    News._]


  Never we dreamt of this horrible blundering!
    Up to the present, we cheerfully spoke
  Quite unaware of our errors, nor wondering
    How many rules in each sentence we broke.

  Now we can scarcely pronounce the admission that
    Grammar and parsing we freely neglect,
  Scarcely can dare to make humble petition that
    Someone or other will cure this defect!

  Often we err in the use of each particle,
    Seldom observe where our adverbs belong,
  Wholly misplace the indefinite article,
    In our subjunctives go hopelessly wrong!

  What can we do? Will the _Daily News_ qualify
    As an instructor in matters like these?
  How can we quickest successfully mollify
    Those whom our errors must sadly displease?

  Scarce can we venture the veriest platitude,
    May not its grammar be shamefully weak?
  You, _Mr. Punch_, can rely on our gratitude,
    If you will tell us--how _ought_ we to speak?

       *       *       *       *       *

A DARK SAYING.--Had HILDA DAWSON--who, as reported in the _D. T._ one day
last week, was haled before Sir PETER EDLIN--been a character in some play
of SHAKSPEARE'S, to whom the Bard had given these words to utter--"And this
is what you call trial by Jury! Why they are not fit to try shoemakers!"
what voluminous suggestions and explanations of the meaning of this phrase
would not the learned Commentators have written! What emendations,
alterations, or amendments of the text would not have been proposed!
Perhaps, some hundreds of years hence, this dark saying of HILDA DAWSON'S
will engage the close attention of some among the then existing learned
body of Antiquaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SOUNDS RATHER LIKE IT."--In France the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has
gone to the DEVELLE.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HAYMARKET HYPATIA.

That I never could struggle through CHARLES KINGSLEY'S novel _Hypatia_, is,
as far as I am personally concerned, very much in favour of my pronouncing
an unbiassed opinion on the "_new classical play_" ("Historical," if you
like, but not "classical," and there is not the slightest chance of its
becoming a "classic") written by G. STUART OGILVIE, entitled _Hypatia_, and
"_founded on_ KINGSLEY'S _celebrated Novel_," which "celebrated Novel" is,
for me at least, not only "celebrated," but "remarkable," as being one of
the very few works of fiction (excepting always the majority of KINGSLEY'S
works) completely baffling my powers of endurance.

[Illustration: The Tip for the Alexandr(i)a Park Meeting. "_Heraclian_ must
win." Notice the _Rara Nativa Oysteriana Shrub_ in the background.]

[Illustration: Cyrillus Fernandez Gladstonius Episcopus.]

Mr. STUART OGILVIE'S Drama may be a clever adaptation of a story difficult
to adapt; but that his play is powerfully dramatic, even when it arrives at
what, as I conceive, was intended to be its strongest dramatic situation in
the Second Scene of the Third Act, no one but an _Umbra_ (to be
"classical"), a sycophant, a "creature," or a contentious noodle, could
possibly assert. Yet, as a series of _tableaux vivants_, illustrating
scenes in the public and private life of _Issachar_ the Jew,--and that
Jew Mr. BEERBOHM TREE, so artistically made up as to be absolutely
unrecognisable by those who know him best,--the action is decidedly
interesting up to the end of the Third Act. After that, all is tumult. The
gay and seductive _Orestes_, Prefect of Alexandria (carefully played by Mr.
LEWIS WALLER) is slain, anyhow, all higgledy-piggledy, by the Jew,
_Issachar_, whose seductive daughter _Ruth_ (sweetly and gently represented
by Miss OLGA BRANDON) this gay LOTHARIO of a Prefect has contrived, not,
apparently, with any great difficulty, to lead astray, or, to put it
"classically," to seduce from the narrow path of such virtue as is common
alike to Pagan, Jew, and Christian. As for handsome _Hypatia_ herself,
magnificent though Miss JULIA NEILSON be as a classic model for a painter,
she is nowhere, dramatically, in the piece, when contrasted with the
unhappy Jewish Family of two. It is the story of _Issachar_, his daughter
and _Orestes_, that absorbs the interest; and, as to what becomes of
_Cyril_ and his Merry Monks, of _Philammon_ (which, when pronounced, sounds
like a modern Cockney-rendering of PHILIP HAMMOND, with the aspirate
omitted and the final "d" dropped), of old _Theon_ (who never appears but
he is immediately sent away again, and therefore might be termed
"_The-on-and-off-'un_"), and, finally, of even that charming specimen of a
Girton Girl-Lecturer on Philosophy _Hypatia_ herself, well--to adopt HOOD'S
couplet about the Poor in London,--

    "Where they goes, or how they fares, Nobody knows and nobody
    cares."

The entire interest is centred in _Issachar_, and had the author devised
some strong dramatic climax (such as occurs in that play of SARDOU'S where
SARAH B. stabs PAUL BERTON) with which to finish the piece, when the
Prefect should have been killed either by _Issachar_ or by _Miriam_ (SARDOU
would have made _Issachar's_ daughter the heroine--the SARA BERNHARDT of
the piece) then, in the penultimate Act, anything tragic, or otherwise,
might picturesquely and appropriately have happened to the classic Girton
girl, _Hypatia_, and Master _Phil 'Ammon_, the good young Monk so inclined
to go wrong, to the great contentment of the audience.

Mr. TREE makes a thoroughly oriental type of _Issachar_, and it is within
an ace of being a grand impersonation. What that ace exactly is, it is
somewhat difficult to say, but what _is_ wanting is wanting in his great
scene with his daughter. If the dramatist had given him such another final
chance as I have already suggested, the character might have been
dramatically perfected in Mr. TREE'S hands. As it is, both by author and
actor it is left "to be finished in our next."

Mr. TERRY is good as the amatory Monk, and Miss JULIA NEILSON is
statuesquely graceful as _Hypatia_. If I say "she is making strides in her
profession," I must be taken to allude not to her vast improvement
histrionically, but to the long steps which she takes across the stage.

The costumes are admirable, especially that of _Issachar_, on whose attire
the Messrs. NATHAN as Israel-lights-and-leaders must be considered high
authorities.

[Illustration: From an Ancient Vase found in the Haymarket.]

Mr. ALMA TADEMA, R.A., is responsible for the designs of the scenery by
Messrs. JOHNSTONE, HANN, HALL, and HARKER. [Great chance for 'ARRY 'ere!
"Scenery by 'ANN--a lady artist of course--then 'ALL and then 'ARKER, from
designs by HALMA TADEMA." "I s'pose HALMA'S a artistic shemale," 'ARRY
would say: "cos I know as there's another HALMA on the stage, leastways on
the Music 'All stage, and she's HALMA STANLEY."] Whatever the designing
ALMA may have done, I cannot say much for the reproduction of his favourite
game of marbles. The "marble halls" lack polish; but the Market Place, The
Court of _Hypatia's_ House, _Issachar's_ snuggery, and a Street in
Alexandria, are highly effective pictures. But I should like to know if in
Mr. ALMA TADEMA'S design for the Monk's dress, Mr. FRED TERRY found a small
black and silver crucifix of very modern workmanship suspended from the
girdle, as this religious emblem did not come into use until a much later
date. By the way, ecclesiastical ornaments must have been cheap in those
days to warrant _Bishop Cyril_ (strongly rendered by Mr. FERNANDEZ)
flaunting about the streets of Alexandria in such rainbow robes as, in a
later age, would have led people to imagine that he had just broken out of
the stained glass window of a Gothic Cathedral. Two thousand years hence
the New Zealand dramatist may represent the Archbishop of CANTERBURY as
walking about London in his lawn sleeves with coronation cope and mitre, or
Cardinal HERBERT VAUGHAN as wearing his scarlet hat and robes, and riding
in a Hansom cab, having been unable to pick up his own Cardinal's train.
All this were hypercriticism, but that the name of ALMA TADEMA, R.A., is a
public guarantee for academical accuracy.

Anyhow, _Hypatia_, if not "a famous victory"--is at least a fine spectacle,
with some fine acting in it, but this is mainly confined to Mr. BEERBOHM
TREE. As the very heavy father, Mr. KEMBLE has not been allowed half a
chance. Why should he not alternate characters with Mr. FERNANDEZ, and for
three nights a week appear as _Cyril_ the Bishop, while FERNANDEZ would be
_Hypatia's_ parent who has to grovel on the steps while his highly educated
child is lecturing, who has to comfort her in her terror, and be turned out
neck and crop whenever nobody on the scene wants him, which by the way,
happens rather frequently.

The music to a Drama is generally a minor affair, but, in this instance, it
is both major and minor, and has been specially written for the piece by
Dr. HUBERT PARRY. As this play is not an "adaptation from the French," the
music of this Composer is the only _article de Parry_ about the piece, and,
being strikingly appropriate, it proves an attraction of itself. It is
conducted by the Wagnerian ARMBRUSTER, who, with his Merry Men, is hidden
away under the stage, much as was the Ghost of _Hamlet's_ father whom
_Hamlet_ irreverently styled "Old Truepenny." Altogether a notable piece.
_Prosit!_

THE B IN A BOX.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY.

_Probable Development of the new "London Chamber of Arbitration," for the
economical Settlement of Disputes without recourse to Litigation_

[Illustration: "'Ave yer got sich a thing as a second-hand murder defence,
Guv'nor?"

"Could you direct me to the Breach of Promise Department?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The one volume entitled _My Flirtations_, written by MARGARET WYNMAN (so
like a real name!), and published by Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS, consists of
short stories setting forth the varied experiences of an uncommonly 'cute
young lady. It is a literary portfolio of lively sketches of men and women,
"their tricks and their manners," all most amusing, and told in a naturally
easy and epigrammatic style. Some of the characters are evidently
intended for portraits, which anyone living in the London world could
easily label--(which by changing "a" into "i" would be the probable
consequence)--were he not baffled by the art of the skilful writer, and by
the equally skilful illustrator--our Mr. PARTRIDGE--who have, the pair
of them, combined to throw the reader off the right scent. The one
mistake--not a fatal error, however,--which this authoress has made,
is that of getting herself engaged in the last story. Not married,
fortunately; only engaged. Consequently the match can be broken off. Let
her be "engaged" on another volume. She can be married at the end of
volume three, and may give us her experiences as the wife of Mr.
Whoever-it-may-be. Will the clever authoress accept this well-meant hint
from her literary and critical admirer, THE GALLANT BARON DE B.-W.?

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT WITH THE CHILDREN AT GILDHALL.

Well, I don't quite kno as I quite hunderstans what's bin a goin on in our
old Sacred Gildall, or weather it's all xactly what sum of our werry
sollemest Holldermen, or ewen our werry anshent Depputys, might admire; but
I must say, for myself, that too thowsand more owdashus boys, and larfing
gals, I never seed nor herd than I did on Toosday larst, for about fore
hours, in old Gildall aforesaid!

Jest to show how the werry best, aye and the werry wisest on us, gets
carried away by the site of swarms of appy children a enjoying thereselves,
as praps they never did afore, I feels myself compelled to state, that our
good kind Lord MARE was so delighted to see sich swarms of appy children
all round him and looking up to him so appy and so grateful, that, jest
afore it was time to go, he acshally told 'em a most wunderful story all
about two great Giants as lived in the rain of King LUD, on Ludgate Hill. I
was that estonished when he begun, as to amost think that GOG and MAGOG, as
stood on both sides of him, would begin to grin, but that was, of course,
only a passing delushun. But didn't all the children lissen with open
mouths when the Lord MARE told 'em that one of the Giants had too heads,
and the other three! and that a very good boy named JACK managed to kill
'em both!

And so all was ended but the cheering, and that the pore delited children
kept up till they all marched out, smiling and appy, and wishing as such
glorious heavenings was in store for them in grand old Gildall for many,
many years to come, and with sitch a Lord Mare to see as everything was
done as it had been done that jolly heavening.

ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

DWARFS.--Of course there are dwarfs. Lots of 'em all over the world. At
least no experienced traveller ever yet made a stay in any country without
becoming acquainted with plenty of people who were "uncommonly 'short' just
at that moment,"--"that moment" being when the impecunious traveller wanted
to obtain a slight loan. The author of _Borrow in Spain_ would have been an
authority on such a subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

TRANSFORMATION SCENE.--Dear Sir, I see by the paper that "Mr. EDMUND YATES
has been made a J. P." Odd! What does "J. P." stand for? Oh, of course,
"JOE PARKINSON." But does "E. Y." on becoming "J. P." cease to be
"MOI-MÊME"?--Yours, M. MUDDLE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TOO INQUIRING MIND.

"HOW WAS _I_ MADE, MAMMIE DARLING? WAS I _KNITTED_?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST TRADE OUTRAGE!

(_Scene from the New and Unpopular Sensation Drama of "The Monopoly-Monster
and the Maid Forlorn."_)

    ["A large number of complaints have reached the Board of Trade
    with regard to increase in the new rates adopted by Railway
    Companies as from January 1 ... among other complaints of increase
    of rates for the conveyance of milk, grain, hay and other
    agricultural produce, firewood, live stock, coal and coke, iron
    and hardware."--Sir COURTENAY BOYLE _to the Secretary of the
    Railway Companies Association_.]

  Oh! who'll bring a rescue or two to the help of a much-injured Maid,
  Thus cruelly bound hand and foot, and by miscreants ruthlessly laid
  On the lines, in the Pathway of Peril? The Monster snorts nearer! Bohoo!
  'Tis a Melodrame-crisis of danger!--and _who'll_ bring a rescue or two?

  The Maid (British Trade), has been harried and hunted by villains and
          robbers,
  By bold, bad, black-masked foreign foes, and by home-bred monopolist
          jobbers.
  In town or in country alike the poor dear has been chevied and chased.
  By rivals deceitful and dark, and by kindred deboshed and debased.

  She once was a proud reigning beauty, who now is a maid all forlorn,
  As hopeless and helpless, and tearful as RUTH midst the alien corn.
  Or poor Proserpine snatched by dark Pluto afar from the day and the
          light;
  Torn away--like this maiden--from Ceres, and wrapt--like this maiden--in
          night.

  Perchance she was just a bit haughty in virginal safety and pride;
  No rival too near her high throne, Prince FORTUNIO aye at her side;
  But now a poor PERDITA, prone at the feet of her foes she lies bound,
  And that melodramatic thud-thud draweth near--a most menacing sound!

  Ah! sure 'twas enough to deprive the Maid of Protection, her trust!
  But this is the last straw of burden that bows her poor back to the dust.
  That Monster _should_ be her sworn henchman, and now she lies bound in
          his path!
  Oh! where is the hero who'll rush to her rescue, in chivalrous wrath?

  Such champion always turns up--on the stage! CHAPLIN, WINCHILSEA, BOYLE,
  HOWARD-VINCENT & Co., here's your chance. Shall she be that big Monster's
          mere spoil?
  Ah! Surely the Maid is too lovely to leave to the murderous crew
  Of the Monster Monopoly's myrmidons! _Who_'ll bring a rescue or two?

       *       *       *       *       *

Her First Appearance.


  "What! a new Magazine!" just so,
  First number, January, "Oh!
  So far? yet farther sure will go
                    _The Mother._"

       *       *       *       *       *

"SCHOOL ATTENDANCE IN BAD WEATHER."--"SANDFORD" writes of this to the
_Times_. Why doesn't MERTON--our TOMMY MERTON--speak? And what has the
venerated Mr. BARLOW got to say?

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE SITUATION IN EUROPE."--Monte Carlo (_i.e._, for the winter months).

       *       *       *       *       *

ETHNOGRAPHICAL ALPHABET.

  A is an Afghan, whose knife bids one quail;
  B is a Boer, who made England turn pale;
  C is a Chinaman, proud of his tail;
  D is a Dutchman, who loves pipe and ale;
  E is an Eskimo, packed like a bale;
  F is a Frenchman, _à Paris fidèle_;
  G is a German, he fought tooth and nail;
  H is a Highlander, otherwise Gael;
  I is an Irishman, just out of gaol;
  J is a Jew at a furniture sale;
  K is a Kalmuck, not high in the scale;
  L is a Lowlander, swallowing kale;
  M a Malay, a most murderous male;
  N a Norwegian, who dwells near the whale;
  O is an Ojibway, brave on the trail;
  P is a Pole with a past to bewail;
  Q is a Queenslander, sunburnt and hale;
  R is a Russian, against whom we rail;
  S is a Spaniard, as slow as a snail;
  T is a Turk with his wife in a veil;
  U a United States' Student at Yale;
  V a Venetian in gondola frail;
  W Welshman, with coal, slate,--and shale;
  X is a Xanthian--or is he too stale?--
  Y is a Yorkshireman, bred by the Swale;
  Z is a Zulu;--and now letters fail.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST PARADOX.--JOHN STRANGE WINTER is taking Summer-y proceedings
against the Coming Crinoline. Henceforth she will be always known as "the
WINTER of our Discontent."

       *       *       *       *       *

"GOOD BUS."--From the _Times_ money article we learn that PARR'S Banking
Co., Limited, is paying 19 per cent. The price of the shares, therefore,
must be considerably "_above par_." Capital this, for _Ma'_!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SHOCKING TRADE OUTRAGE!

(_Scene from the New and Unpopular Sensation Drama of "The Monopoly-Monster
and the Maid Forlorn."_)

  "OH! WHO'LL BRING A RESCUE OR TWO TO THE HELP OF A MUCH-INJURED MAID,
  THUS CRUELLY BOUND HAND AND FOOT, AND BY MISCREANTS RUTHLESSLY LAID
  ON THE LINES, IN THE PATHWAY OF PERIL? THE MONSTER SNORTS NEARER! BOHOO!
  'TIS A MELODRAME-CRISIS OF DANGER!--AND _WHO'LL_ BRING A RESCUE OR TWO?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SUBACIDITIES.

_Gladys._ "OH, MURIEL DEAR, THAT HEAVENLY FROCK!--I THINK IT LOOKS LOVELIER
EVERY YEAR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAY OF THE (MUSIC-HALL) LAUREATE.

  Ah! Who talks of the reversion of the Laurel,
    Of your MORRISSES, and SWINBURNES, and that gang?
  _I_ could lick them in a canter--that's a moral!
    I'm the most prolific bard who ever sang.
  Of the modern Music Hall I'm chosen Laureate,
    My cackle and my patter fill the Town;
  I'm more popular than BURNS, a thing to glory at;
    My name is PINDAR BOANERGES BROWN.

  You have never heard it mentioned? Highly probable
    A hundred duffers flourish on _my_ fame;
  But the Muse is _so_ peculiarly rob-able,
    And I am very little known--by name?
  But ask the Big BONASSUS--on the Q. T.--
    Or ask the Sisters SQUORKS, of P. B. B.
  And they'll tell you Titan Talent, Siren Beauty,
    Would be both the frostiest fizzles but for Me!

  Gracious Heavens! When I think of all the cackle
    I have turned out for the heroes of the Halls!!!
  No wonder that the task I've now to tackle--
    Something new and smart for TRICKSY TRIP!--appals.
  I have tried three several songs--and had to "stock 'em,"
    She's imperative; her last Great Hit's played out,
  And she wants "a new big thing that's bound to knock 'em."
    And "she'd like it by return of post!"--No doubt!!!

  She does four turns a night, and rakes the shekels;
    She sports a suit of sables and a brougham.
  Five years ago a lanky girl, with freckles,
    First fetched 'em with my hit, "_The Masher Groom_."
  And now her limbs spread pink on all the posters,
    And now she drives her pony-chaise--and Me!
  Poet-Laureate? I should like to set the boasters
    The tasks I have to try for "TRICKSY T."

  I am vivid, I am various, I am versatile;
    I did "_Up to the Nines_" for DANDY DOBBS,
  And "_Smacky-Smack_" for "TIDDLUMS,"--Isn't _hers_ a tile?--
    "_Salvation Sue_"--the stiffest of stiff jobs--
  For roopy-raspy-voiced and vain "OEOLIA,"
    Who dubs herself the SCHNEIDER-PATTI BLEND;
  And now, a prey to stone-broke melancholia,
    I sit and rack my fancy, to no end!

  My ink runs dry, my wits seem gone wool-gathering;
    And yet I know that over half the town
  _My_ "stuff" the Stars are blaring, bleating, blathering,
    Sacking a tenner where I pouch a crown.
  I know that my--anonymous--smart verses,
    Are piling oof for middlemen in sacks,
  My verse brings pros. seal-coats and well-stuffed purses
    My back care bows, whilst profits lade _their_ backs.

  If you'll show me any "Poet" more prolific,
    If you'll point to any "patterer" more smart,
  One whose "patriotic" zeal is more terrific,
    Who can give me at snide slang the slightest start,
  Who can fit a swell, a toff, a cad, a coster,
    At the very shortest notice, as _I_ can,
  Why, unless he is a swaggering impostor,
    I will gladly hail him as the Coming Man!

  But he'll have to be a dab at drunken drivel,
    And he'll have to be a daisy at sick gush,
  To turn on the taps of swagger and of snivel,
    Raise the row-de-dow heel-chorus and hot flush.
  He must know the taste of sensual young masher,
    As well as that of aitch-omitting snob;
  And then--well, I'll admit he _is_ a dasher,
    Who, as Laureate (of the Halls) is "on the job!"

    [_Left lamenting._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.

A STORY IN SCENES

    SCENE I.--_Breakfast-room at No. 92a, Porchester Square,
    Bayswater. Rhubarb-green and gilt paper, with dark olive dado:
    curtains of a nondescript brown. Black marble clock on grey
    granite mantelpiece; Landseer engravings; tall book-case,
    containing volumes of "The Quiver," "Mission-Work in Mesopotamia,"
    a cheap Encyclopedia, and the "Popular History of Europe." Time,
    about 9:45._ Mr. MONTAGUE TIDMARSH _is leaving to catch his
    omnibus_. Mrs. T. _is at her Davenport in the window_.

_Mr. T._ (_from the door_). Anything else you want me to do, MARIA?

_Mrs. T._ Don't forget the turbot--and mind you choose it yourself--and the
lobster for the sauce--oh, and look in at SEAKALE'S as you pass, and remind
him to be here punctually at seven, to help JANE with the table, and say I
insist on his waiting in _clean_ white gloves; and be home early yourself,
and--there, if he hasn't rushed off before I remembered half----(Mr. T.
_re-appears at the door_.) What is it _now_, MONTAGUE? I do wish you'd
start, and have done with it, instead of keeping JANE at the front door,
when she ought to be clearing away breakfast!

_Mr. T._ Very sorry, my love--I was just going, when I met a Telegraph-boy
with this, for you, I hope there's nothing wrong with Uncle GABRIEL, I'm
sure.

_Mrs. T._ Don't stand there holding it--give it to me. (_She opens it._)
"Regret impossible dine to-night--lost Great Aunt very suddenly.--BUCKRAM."
How provoking of the man! And I particularly wished him to meet Uncle
GABRIEL, because he is such a good listener, and they would be sure to get
on together. As if he hadn't all the rest of the year to lose his Aunt in!

_Mr. T._ That's BUCKRAM all over. Never can depend upon that fellow.
(_Gloomily._) Now we shall be thirteen at table!

_Mrs. T._ Nonsense, MONTAGUE--we _can't_ be! Let me see--Uncle GABRIEL and
Aunt JOANNA, two; the DITCHWATERS, four; BODFISHES, six; TOOMERS, eight;
Miss BUGLE, nine; Mr. POFFLEY, ten; CECILIA FLINDERS, eleven, ourselves--we
_are_ thirteen! And I know Uncle will refuse to sit down at all if he
notices it; and, anyway, it is sure to cast a gloom over the whole thing.
We _must_ get somebody!

_Mr. T._ Couldn't that Miss--what's her name? SEATON--dine, for once?

_Mrs. T._ The idea, MONTAGUE! Then there would be one Lady too many--if you
can _call_ a Governess a Lady, that is. And I do so disapprove of taking
people out of their proper station.

[Illustration: "Montague, _don't_ say you went and ordered him."]

_Mr. T._ I might wire to FILLETER or MAKEWAYT--but I rather think they're
both away, and it won't do to run any risk. Shall I bring home STERNSTUHL
or FEDERFUCHS? Very quiet, respectable young fellows, and I could let one
of 'em go off early to dress.

_Mrs. T._ Thank you, MONTAGUE--but I won't have one of your German clerks
at _my_ table--everyone would see what he was in a minute. And he mightn't
even have a dress-suit! Let me think ... _I_ know what we can do. BLANKLEY
supplies extra guests for parties and things. I remember seeing it in the
paper. We must hire a man there. Go there at once, MONTAGUE, it's very
little out of your way, and tell them to be sure and send a gentlemanly
person--he needn't talk much, and he won't be required to tell any
anecdotes. Make haste, say they can put him down to my deposit account.

_Mr. T._ I don't half like the idea, MARIA, but I suppose it's the only
thing left. I'll go and see what they can do for us.

    [_He goes out._

_Mrs. T._ I _know_ he'll make some muddle--I'd better do it myself! (_She
rushes out into the passage._) JANE, is your Master gone? Call him
back--there, I'll do it. (_She calls after Mr. T.'s retreating form from
the doorstep._) MONTAGUE! never mind about BLANKLEY'S. _I_'ll see to it. Do
you hear?

_Mr. T.'s Voice_ (_from the corner_). All right, my love, all right! I
hear.

_Mrs. T._ I must go round before lunch. JANE, send Miss SEATON to me in the
breakfast-room. (_She goes back to her desk; presently_ Miss MARJORY SEATON
_enters the room; she is young and extremely pretty, with an air of
dejected endurance_.) Oh, Miss SEATON, just copy out these _menus_ for me,
in your neatest writing, and see that the French is all right. You will
have plenty of time for it, as I shall take Miss GWENDOLEN out myself this
morning. By the way, I shall expect you to appear in the drawing-room this
evening before dinner. I hope you have a suitable frock?

_Miss Seaton._ I have a black one with lace sleeves and heliotrope
_chiffon_, if that will do--it was made in Paris.

_Mrs. T._ You are fortunate to be able to command such luxuries. All _my_
dresses are made in the Grove.

_Miss Seat._ (_biting her lip_). Mine was made when we--before I---- [_She
checks herself._

_Mrs. T._ You need not remind me _quite_ so often that your circumstances
were formerly different, Miss SEATON, for I am perfectly aware of the fact.
Otherwise, I should not feel justified in bringing you in contact, even for
so short a time, with my relations and friends, who are _most_ particular.
I think that is all I wanted you for at present. Stop, you are forgetting
the _menus_.

    [Miss SEATON _collects the cards and goes out with compressed lips
    as_ JANE _enters_.

_Jane._ Another telegram, if you please, M'm, and Cook would like to speak
to you about the pheasants.

[Illustration: THE POET LAUREATE OF THE MUSIC HALLS. A STUDY. [_See p. 33._

_Mrs. T._ Oh, dear me, JANE! I wish you wouldn't come and startle me with
your horrid telegrams--there, give it to me. (_Reading._) "Wife down,
violent influenza. Must come without her, TOOMER." (_Resentfully._) Again!
and I _know_ she's had it twice since the spring--it's too tiresomely
inconsid--no, it isn't--it's the very best thing she could do. Now we shall
be only twelve, and I needn't order that man from BLANKLEY'S, after all.
Poor dear woman, I must really write her a nice sympathetic little note--so
_fortunate_!


    SCENE II.--Mrs. TIDMARSH'S _Bedroom--Time 7:15._ Mrs. T. _has just
    had her hair dressed by her Maid_.

_Mrs. T._ You might have given me more of a fringe than that, PINNIFER. You
don't make nearly so much of my hair as you used to! (PINNIFER _discreetly
suppress the obvious retort_.) Well, I suppose that must do. I shan't
require you any more. Go down and see if the lamps in the drawing-room are
smelling. (PINNIFER _goes; sounds of ablutions are heard from_ Mr. T.'s
_dressing-room_.) MONTAGUE, is that you? I never heard you come in.

_Mr. T.'s Voice_ (_indistinctly._) Only just this moment come up, my dear.
Been putting out the wine.

_Mrs. T._ You always _will_ leave everything to the last. No, don't come
in. What? How can I hear what you say when you keep on splashing and
spluttering like that?

_Mr. T.'s Voice_ (_from beneath a towel._) That dozen of Champagne Uncle
GABRIEL sent has run lower than I thought--only two bottles and a pint
left. And he can't drink that _Saumur_.

_Mrs. T._ Two bottles and a half ought to be ample, if SEAKALE manages
properly--among twelve.

_Mr. T.'s V._ Twelve, my love? you mean _fourteen_!

_Mrs. T._ I mean nothing of the sort. Mrs. TOOMER'S got influenza
again--luckily, so of course we shall be just twelve.

_Mr. T.'s V._ MARIA, why didn't you tell me that before? Because I say,
look here!----

    [_He half opens the door._

_Mrs. T._ I won't have you coming in here all over soap, there's nothing to
get excited about. Twelve's a very convenient number.

_Mr. T.'s V._ Twelve! Yes--but how about that fellow you told me to order
from BLANKLEY'S? He'll be the thirteenth!

_Mrs. T._ MONTAGUE, _don't_ say you went and ordered him, after I expressly
said you were not to mind, and that I would see about it myself! You heard
me call after you from the front door?

_Mr. T.'s V._ I--I understood you to say that I was to mind and see to it
myself; and so I went there the very first thing. The Manager assured me he
would send us a person accustomed to the best society, who would give every
satisfaction. _I_ couldn't be expected to know you had changed your mind!

_Mrs. T._ How _could_ you be so idiotic! We simply can't sit down thirteen.
Uncle will think we did it on purpose to shorten his life, MONTAGUE, do
something--write, and put him off, quick--do you hear?

_Mr. T.'s V._ (_plaintively_). My love, I _can't_ write while I'm like
this--and I've no pen and ink in here, either!

_Jane_ (_outside_). Please, Sir, SEAKALE would like a word with you about
the Sherry you put out--it don't seem to ta--smell quite right to him.

_Mrs. T._ Oh, never mind Sherry _now_. (_She scribbles on a leaf
from her pocket-book._) Here, JANE, tell SEAKALE to run with this to
BLANKLEY'S--quick.... There, MONTAGUE I've written to BLANKLEY'S not to
send the man--they're sure to keep that sort of person on the premises; so,
if SEAKALE gets there before they close, it will be all right.... Oh, don't
worry so.... What? White ties! How should _I_ know where they are? You
should speak to JANE. And do, for goodness sake, make haste! _I'm_ going
down.

_Mr. T._ (_alone_). MARIA! hi.... She's gone--and she never told me what
I'm to do if this confounded fellow turns up, after all! Hang it, I must
have a tie somewhere!

    [_He pulls out drawer after drawer of his wardrobe, in a violent
    flurry._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RAILWAY SERVANT'S VADE MECUM.

(_For Use in the Training School when the proposed Institution has been
established._)

_Question._ What are the duties of a Porter?

_Answer._ To move passengers' luggage with the greatest possible
expedition.

_Q._ Is there any exception to that general rule?

_A._ Yes, when the passenger is late, and there seems some doubt about the
bestowal of a tip.

_Q._ How would he inform passengers that they have to change carriages for,
say, Felstead, Margate, Highgate, Winchester and Scarborough.

_A._ By shouting, in one word, "Change-Felgit-Highchester-and-Boro!"

[Illustration]

_Q._ If he had to call a Cab for an elderly Lady with three boxes, or a
military-looking Gentleman with an umbrella, which passenger would first
claim his attention?

_A._ Why, of course, the Captain.

_Q._ What is the customary charge of a Guard for reserving a compartment?

_A._ A shilling for closing one of the doors, half-a-crown for locking
both.

_Q._ What are the duties of a Booking-Clerk?

_A._ If very busy, a Booking-Clerk may walk leisurely from one pigeon-hole
to the other, and ask the passenger to repeat his demand, and then take
some time in finding the required amount of change. If the passenger is
irritable, and in a hurry, the Clerk can stop to explain, and remonstrate.
In the case of an inquiry as to the progress of the trains, a busy
Booking-Clerk can refer impatient passengers to the time-table hanging
outside the station.

_Q._ When is a Booking-Clerk usually very busy?

_A._ When he happens to be in a bad temper.

_Q._ Ought a suggestion from the Public that the Public will write to his
superiors have any effect upon a Booking-Clerk?

_A._ Not if the Public has just taken an express ticket in London either
for Melbourne, Australia, or Timbuctoo.

_Q._ What is the best course for the Public to pursue under such
circumstances?

_A._ To bear it either with or without a grin.

_Q._ Is there much point about a Pointsman?

_A._ Not after he has been on duty some eighteen hours.

_Q._ And does his application of the break suggest anything?

_A._ Yes, a break in this catechism. More on a future occasion.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SUGGESTION FOR PANTOMIME.--The good Fairy, Sir DRURIOLANUS, triumphing
over Evil Spirits, King Fog, Frost ("he's a nipper, he is!"), and Slush,
the obstructionists. Evil Spirits disappear, Good Spirits prevail, and, as
_Kate Nickleby's_ lunatic lover observed, "All is gas and gaiters!" Messrs.
DAN LENO and CAMPBELL are doing great business just now. _Vive_ DRURIOLANUS
PANTOMIMICUS IMPERATOR!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Meeting between the "Unemployed and Mr. GLADSTONE." What a contrast!

       *       *       *       *       *

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.