Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 109.
OCTOBER 5, 1895.




[Illustration: THE WHEELING PASSION.

_Mr. Wheeler._ "I DON'T SEE WHAT THEY WANT TO BUILD A GREAT WHEEL LIKE
THAT FOR!"

_Mrs. Wheeler._ "NO. WHY COULDN'T THEY HAVE HAD A SAFETY, AND GEARED IT
UP TO ANY HEIGHT THEY LIKED?"]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                      CRYSTALISED PALACE'D FRUITS.

Mr. PUNCH heartily congratulates the Royal Horticultural Society on
their grand show of British-grown fruit (none "made in Germany"), and
the Crystal Palace Company on the excellent arrangements made for the
most advantageous display of these magnificent _fruits defendus_,--for
"forbidden fruit" they certainly are, as, much to the disgust, probably,
of the apothecaries and family doctors, the visitor may not taste any of
the luscious specimens attractively set before him. They are all "_les
pommes du voisin_," but though "forbidden" their appearance was anything
but "forbidding." It came to an end last Saturday, when it is reported
that all the fruits were safely got out of the building except one
sleepy pear, whom nothing could arouse.

                   *       *       *       *       *

THE INGOT AND OUTGOT SILVER CASE.--So far the police are to be
congratulated. The detectives have acted with all the readiness and
decision of a SHERLOCK HOLMES. Result so far is, that one HENRY
BAILEY--name of not particularly happy omen in connection with a certain
Old Bailey--is in custody, as also are four bars of silver. BAILEY was
taking four bars rest when arrested and removed.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                  THE RETREAT OF THE FIFTEEN THOUSAND.

                  (_A British Soldier's View of It._)

    ["The successful withdrawal, without a shot being fired, of the
    fifteen thousand men who held the long line from Peshawur to
    Chitral is a feat not less remarkable in its own way than their
    victorious advance."--_The Times._]

                 AIR--"_The Burial of Sir John Moore._"

    NOT a shot was heard, not a stroke we smote,
        As we trod our home-journey unhurried.
    The papers about us wrote thundering rot,
        But Sir ROBERT kept cool and unflurried.

    We'd had heat to encounter, and frost to fight,
        Alternately freezing and burning,
    And now UMRA KHAN and his hordes put to flight;
        We were quietly homeward returning.

    Through the Malakand Pass we as conquerors pressed,
        And had vanquished the foe where we found him.
    Now, the garrison rescued, the wrong redressed,
        Low retired, with his thousands around him.

    Few and short are the words he has said,
        From palaver no aid did he borrow;
    But many a face at their hearing flushed red,
        As will millions of others to-morrow.

    Six months of hard struggle for heart, hand, and head,
        Rough plodding, and comfortless pillow.
    Now the foe and the native would stay our home-tread;
        There's news to despatch o'er the billow!

    Lightly they'll talk of the deeds we have done,
        And, some of them, coldly upbraid us.
    But little we'll reck if JOHN BULL will read on
        The tribute Sir ROBERT has paid us.

    But half of our heavy task was through
        When Low passed the word for retiring;
    But the Fifteen Thousand in form withdrew
        Though without any fighting or firing.

    We do not much care if _we_ don't win renown,
        Nor shine over brightly in story;
    We ask not a line--we crave not a stone,
        But we leave dear Old England the glory.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                  THE RECENT ANYTHING BUT "DEAD-HEAT."

_First Sportsman._ Awfully hot at Newmarket last week!

_Second S._ Thought it would be. Had "nothing on," so stayed at home,
blinds down, windows open.

                           *       *       *

"SCRAPS FROM CHAPS."--"CORKED" STOUT.--The Mitchelstown Guardians were
debating on the stout supplied to pauper patients. A Mr. DINEEN
proposed, "That in future the Treble X stout manufactured by Messrs.
MURPHY, Cork, be used in the workhouse instead of GUINNESS'S." His
argument was that "it would help a local manufacture," and that "the
doctors all approved of MURPHY'S." The chairman suggested that they
might "be doing an injustice to the patients by taking in MURPHY'S
stout." Why not put the question to the patients? It is _they_ who will
have to "take in MURPHY'S stout," not the guardians, and they are not
likely to "do themselves the injustice" of refusing it if drinkable.
MURPHY'S stout is evidently a light brew, as it was "carried by one."
Another guardian described the resolution as a "blow which GUINNESS
didn't deserve"; but GUINNESS survived the blow, and went up ten points
on the Stock Exchange next day.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EUPHEMISM.

_Man in Boat._ "COME ALONG, OLD CHAP, AND LET'S PULL UP TO MARLOW."

_Man on Shore._ "I THINK I'LL GET YOU TO EXCUSE ME OLD MAN. I DON'T LIKE
SCULLING--IT--ER--HURTS THE BACK OF MY HEAD SO!"]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                            PLAYING AT WORK.

                            A NEW MORALITY.

    ["The working woman of to-day, be she journalist, teacher, or
    what not, is suffering terribly from fierce competition, and
    this is largely due to the fact that women who are merely
    working for pleasure enter the labour market."--_"An
    Old-Fashioned Woman" in the "Daily Chronicle."_]

    WHEN the Curse of Labour was laid on Man,
        Toil's visage glowered grimly,
    Alleviations of Fate's stern plan,
    The softening spirits in rear and van
    Of Labour's march through our Life's brief span,
        If seen, were glimpsed but dimly.
    Weariness followed, and dulness gloomed,
    On the path of mortals to hunger doomed,
    And poverty the spirit entombed
        As in all too premature charnel;
    The ache of limb and the fret of brain,
    The slow weak pulse, and the long dull pain,
    Grew all familiar; the spirit-strain,
    And the sullen revolt again and again,
        Of the spiritual and carnal.
    But though men knew that work and woe
        Were all too closely neighbour;
    One curse of Labour they did _not_ know;
    The black blight coming late and slow,
        Of the fools who _play_ at Labour!

    Labour! Faith,'tis no passing play
    But the pack-horse burden day after day
        To be grimly gravely lifted.
    A leaden weight, and a mill-wheel round,
    By the player at labour but seldom found,
        Or the amateur--though gifted.
    Who has not seen a street-child run
    To turn an organ-handle--for fun--
        With gay, erratic vigour?
    But the grinder who turns at it day by day
    Finds _Ah che la morte_ no pleasant play,--
        _He_ works at it---"like a nigger."
    So "well-to-do women who crowd the ranks"
    Of Labour are playing but childish pranks;
        They are butterfly despoilers
    Of the honeyed hives of the working bees;
    They lower the wage and lessen the ease
        Of the true fate-destined toilers.[A]

    "Work for mere _love!_" So the butterflies say,
    (Though they commonly stoop to the casual pay),
        Well, love _is_ blind--this sort of it.
    To teach for pin-money possibly's fun
    To those who're but dabblers when all is done,
    But the workers, when wages go down with a run,
        Can hardly see the sport of it.
    To play at philanthropy's mischievous, much,
    For sciolists mar whatsoever they touch;
        What if some Flower Girl Mission
    Destroy a trade, which seeks other lands,
    Or throw out of work some thousands of hands?
        Philanthropy hath no vision
    Save of its pretty and picturesque fad;
    And the destitute drudges, angry and sad,
    Whom deft flower-mounting once fed and clad
        Shall find redress a rarity.
    Don't play at Reform, it you love your neighbour!
    But well-to-do women, your "playing at Labour"
        Works worse than playing at Charity!
    Work? Well doubtless 'tis pleasant and "funny"
    For well,--"just a little pocket-money,"
    To ape the bees who _must_ make the honey
        Day in, day out, for a living.
    But workers who labour for "bread and cheese,"
    And not as a change from mere lady-like ease,
    Regard all such amateur, sham, busy-bees
        As needing, not praise, but forgiving.
    What if your work-dabbling, now quite the rage,
    Cut down the genuine workwoman's wage,
        Or pinch the poor ill-paid school teacher?
    "Every woman should work all she's able"?
    Maybe you need a new species of fable,
        A sager than copy-book preacher.
    "The Ant and the Grasshopper"? There lurketh Cant!
    If Grasshopper labour-spurts starve the poor Ant.
    If well-to-do woman work helps to spread want,
        This new-born blind zeal sense should bridle.
    There's fit work for all, some with spade, some with tabor;
    But Madam, if feminine "playing at Labour,"
    Whilst needless to you, wrecks one workwoman neighbour,
        By Jove, you had better be idle!

    [A] "In every branch of work we see well-to-do women crowding
        into the ranks of competition, in consequence of which wages
        are lowered, and women who really want work are left to
        starve." _Same Letter._

                   *       *       *       *       *

"ALAS, POOR YORICK!"--HARRY PAYNE, the last of the good old
JOEY-GRIMALDI school of Pantomime Clowns, "joined the majority," Friday.
Sept. 27. For many years past the Clown's Christmas welcome, "Here we
are again!" has been omitted, and, in the future, we are not likely to
hear the exclamation revived. Farewell, HARRY PAYNE, "a fellow of
infinite jest, and of excellent fancy!"

                           *       *       *

ENGLAND AND AMERICA.--Successful MARLBOROUGH Match, following upon
unsatisfactory DUNRAVEN race. Miss VANDERBILT decidedly winning.
_Entente cordiale_ restored.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A MOOT POINT.

_Mrs. Brown_ (_on her honeymoon_). "OH, AREN'T YOU GLAD, DARLING, WE
HAVE COME THIS DELIGHTFUL TOUR, INSTEAD OF GOING TO ONE OF THOSE STUPID
FOREIGN PLACES?"

       _Darling is not quite sure about it, as the hills are of terrible
            frequency, and, naturally, he tows his bride up every one._]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                        LETTERS FROM A FIANCEE.

DEAR MARJORIE,--Thanks for your kind letter. I was hoping you would be
pleased about my engagement.

It is most curious you should have guessed, without my telling you, and
without even seeing his photograph, that his name is ARTHUR. I must tell
you more about him. He is tall and handsome, also, _not at all
commonplace_. He looks a little like the old prints one sees in seaside
lodging-houses, called "_With the Stream_," or "_Against the Stream_,"
or "_Good-bye_," or "_The Return of the Black Brunswicker_." He looks,
in fact, far more romantic than the young men one generally sees: and
the key-note (if you will forgive the expression) of his character is
his great dislike to modern ideas, especially to anything he calls
"cynical." I met him first at Lady LYON TAYMER'S, but he has often
explained to me that that was entirely accidental; he was "taken" there;
he dislikes her set, and has an especial aversion to the clever young
men of the day. He has an excessive--and I must say I think
unnecessary--terror of being mistaken for one: and says that if he had
not heard it was the very latest thing he would never read anything but
SCOTT. To the bicycle and cigarette, for women, he has an equally strong
objection, and I think he often pretends not to see a joke because he
has a nervous suspicion of its being what _he_ would call the New
Humour. In the evening, on the balcony, he quotes BYRON, and in the
morning, in the garden, he reads WILKIE COLLINS or Mrs. HENRY WOOD. He
says he hopes I shall spend a great deal of time in the still-room, to
which I heartily assent, though neither of us know exactly what a
still-room is, but it sounds quiet. Women, ARTHUR thinks, should
preserve fruits, and a lady-like demeanour, and do plain needle-work, or
perhaps "tatting." Art embroidery he looks on with doubt, and I believe
he considers it _fast_. When I told him he seemed anxious I should not
_reap_ without having learnt to _sew_, he seemed hurt and we hastily
changed the subject. I was playing croquet with him--(croquet he
approves)--when he was lecturing on fruit-preserving. "Shall you really
expect me to make jam?" I said. "Would you be cross if I did?" he asked,
tenderly. "CROSSE! yes! and BLACKWELL, too, if you like," I answered in
my (occasionally) flippant way, which I always regret instantly after.
ARTHUR threw down his mallet. "This--GLADYS--this is the sort of thing
which--which--," &c. We had a short quarrel, and a long reconciliation.
ARTHUR is a _great dear_, you must understand, and I am very happy. He
does not show me the book of dried flowers nearly so often now, and has
written some verses about me, he is going to show them to me to-night.

ARTHUR is very interesting when he talks of _me_; it is when he
discusses abstract subjects--such as chemistry, or big sleeves--that he
is not quite so amusing. He _is_ dreadfully prejudiced about sleeves. Do
you think he will gradually get accustomed to them? I think he will by
the time they have quite gone out!

I am sure you will like dear ARTHUR. Of course one has to understand
him. When he came down to stay with us, I said, "You must be very tired
after your short journey," and I was surprised how much it annoyed him!
Don't say anything of that sort to him--_at first_. He is apt to take
things--just a little--seriously. It is rather a charming quality in a
man to whom one is engaged--don't you think so? Such a love as ours
cannot fail to have an ennobling effect: as ARTHUR says, it seems to
lift us above all thoughts of this world. Write soon. I am longing to
hear about the new skirts, and to show you my sapphire ring.

                                Your affectionate friend,       GLADYS.

                   *       *       *       *       *

FROM OUR OWN SCHOOLBOY, A STUDENT OF LEMPRIÈRE.--SIR,--I have heard Mr.
ARTHUR BALFOUR spoken of as "the _Loeda_ of the House of Commons." Who
is its Jupiter?

                   *       *       *       *       *

                               AT CROMER.

What middle-aged frequenter of the Old Ship, Brighton, does not recall
the bland personality of ARTHUR BACON, part proprietor and principal
representative of the landlordism of the excellent ancient hostelrie:--

    O don't you remember A. BACON BEN BOLT?
        So smiling, so shiney, and brown?
    How he chortled with glee when he saw us BEN BOLT,
        And charged us an extra half-crown.

The gammon of BACON was admirable; and his strict attention to the
duties of servants towards visitors to the hotel was "aside of BACON"
not to be forgotten. A. B. was an ideal landlord, ever ready at his door
to welcome the coming and speed the parting guest.

                                 * * *

[Illustration]

"The Grand" at Cromer is not an enormous hotel: it is a Semi-Grand. The
example of BACON aforesaid could be therefore easily imitated. Warned of
our arrival by letter, rooms secured, train punctual (from St. Pancras
to Cromer) to within ten minutes, we drove up to the door of the
Semi-Grand in our one-horse fly. Not a soul about. Surely the hotel is
open? Yes, the driver knew that much, "because he had taken some people
away from there in the morning." These might have been the last roses of
summer, the last visitors at the hotel for the season! We waited; no
signs of life. "Should he (the driver) ring?" Certainly: a most happy
thought. He descendeth; he ringeth. We wait. Then the sound as of a
somebody coming. "A Boots in sight appears. We hail him with three
cheers"--at least, we ask "if our rooms are ready," and the Boots is of
opinion that they are; whereupon another Boots appears, and the pair of
Boots lug our luggage into the hall, where we find an amiable lady with
keys in her hand who invites us to inspect certain apartments. Our
answer is an adaptation of _Hamlet's_ command to the _Ghost_, "Lead on,
we follow."

                                 * * *

We see: we refuse. These are _not_ the rooms we had ordered. "No, they
are not." So much is admitted. Then, perhaps, we had better depart and
seek hospitality elsewhere. Our beckoner would rather not put us to such
inconvenience, and soon discovers what will suit us exactly. So we take
them then and there. They _do_ suit us exactly: not down to the ground,
as they are first floor. A room with balcony, in the shade all day,
facing north, commanding a lovely sea view. What more could mortal
require?

                                 * * *

The air of Cromer, where there is "nothing between you and the North
Pole"--so any malicious reports to the contrary may be safely
disregarded--is most exhilarating. But the dust O! The dust! On with the
water-carts, and down with sandy dust! It is all sand--everywhere. As to
situation the Semi-Grand has a decided, and sea-sided, advantage over
the other hotels.

                                 * * *

Delightful view from front windows of the Semi-Grand. Of course the back
rooms are rather behind in this respect. Which is but natural.

                                 * * *

Civility, and a desire to please, are the characteristics of the working
staff at the Semi-Grand, directly you know them individually and
collectively. But, as the song says, "You've got to know 'em _fust_."

                                 * * *

With the arrangements of the _salle à manger_ as worked at the
Semi-Grand under the superintendence of a distinguished and invaluable
foreigner _garçon en chef_, very little fault can be found. The
experiments of the youthful and less-experienced subordinates who are
probably there to learn English, are interesting from a certain point of
view, which is attained when, under the guardianship of their chief, or
one of his trusty lieutenants, you have had everything you require.
_Then_ you can sit and watch the recruits at their _garçonic_ exercises.

                                 * * *

I wonder if the _Generalissimo_ has them out for drill every morning
before visitors are up? Are there any colleges, or barracks, for
waiters, where, as undergraduates, or recruits, they can learn their
business? From what I have seen I should say most probably not. But
there ought to be schools and colleges for waiters, with degrees
conferred and diplomas given. Switzerland would be the place wherein to
start this idea.

                                 * * *

Were it not for the refreshing breezes, which rival and excel those of
Margate, the Cromerites would be burnt to cinders. As it is, they are
generally a delicate improvement on the colour of their own lobsters
when boiled. "To this complexion must you come at last"--if you stay
long enough at Cromer.

                                 * * *

_A Curiosity at Cromer._--Exactly in front of where I am now seated,
enjoying the Cromeric morning breezes on the very edge of the cliff, and
at a distance of about twenty-five yards from the Cromer Sands, there
rises a remarkable wooden effigy, on the true import of which I
positively refuse to be enlightened by any native offering me a mere
matter-of-fact explanation.

                                 * * *

[Illustration: Did Napoleon ever try to land at Cromer, and lose his
_celebrated cocked_ hat in the attempt?]

The object, which I sketch on the spot, in order that an experienced
hand shall give it artistic merit, appears to be the gigantic wooden
case "made and provided" for equally gigantic cocked hat, originally
worn by a Titanic Admiral, long since laid up in sea-weed, with all the
rest of his uniform, in the locker of Mr. Davy Jones, Neptune's wardrobe
keeper. This huge object is stuck on a pole, either as marking the last
resting-place, there or thereabouts, of colossal Admiral aforesaid, or
it has been for ages left here as indicating the fate certain to await
the ruthless and recklessly wrecked invader. It may mark the spot where
quietly, one dark night, the Great NAPOLEON rehearsed, _all by himself_,
the invasion of England; being only too glad to escape in the early
dawn, leaving his cocked hat behind him, which, as a Napoleonic relic,
was inclosed in a wooden case of three times its size, and here exposed,
with the motto in best Cromeric French, addressed to NAPOLEON, should he
ever have attempted to repeat his visit:--

          "_Voici votre chapeau à cornes! Venez le prendre!_"

The inscription is, by flux of time and sea-water, almost, if not quite,
illegible.

                                 * * *

Or it may mark the spot, banned and anathematised, where was buried,
according to the awfully solemn Masonic ritual, _the mangled remains of
The Man who couldn't keep a secret!!_

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         ANGLING EXTRAORDINARY.

From _The Scotsman_, Saturday, September 21, under the heading
"Angling," appears this item of news from "Annan," placed between
fishing notes from "Loch Earn" and "Dhu Loch":--

    LOCH EARN.--Mr. WATSON, fishing on Lochearnhead Hotel water
    yesterday, killed thirty-two nice trout.

    ANNAN.--There were large supplies of all classes of stock. Best
    beef made 7_s._ 6_d._ to 7_s._ 9_d._ per stone, and mutton 7_d._
    to 7-1/2_d._ per lb. There was a crowded attendance of buyers
    from England and the South of Scotland, and the demand was good
    all through. Store cattle had a slow trade, and were bad to
    sell. Quotations:--Fat bullocks up to £15 17_s._ 6_d._; do.
    heifers up to £15 7_s._ 6_d._; do. cows up to £13 17_s._ 6_d._;
    calving heifers £12 12_s._ 6_d._ Lambs, 16_s._ to 29_s._ 3_d._;
    odd sheep, 33_s._ to 49_s._; rams, 43_s._ 6_d._; half-bred
    hoggs, 41_s._ 6_d._ to 44_s._; cross do., 37_s._ to 41_s._
    9_d._; Cheviots, 38_s._ 9_d._ to 41_s._ _9d._

    DHU LOCH.--On September 18, Mr. KYNASTON had fourteen fish,
    4-1/2 lb., heaviest 3/8 lb.; and on 19th, nine, 4 lb., heaviest
    1 lb.

"Fat bullocks up to £15 17_s._ 6_d._" would try the strongest tackle.
Splendid specimen of "Net Profits."

                   *       *       *       *       *

THE PUTNEY SPOOK.--Within the last week, so reported one of the
Day-by-Days in the _Daily Telegraph_, a ghost has been heard of at
Putney. Hundreds of _Hamlets_, _Marcelluses_, and _Barnardos_ (with
_Ophelias_, and other ladies) have gone out of their way nightly to see
the ghost. What should a riverside ghost be like? Obviously the
"main-sheet" from a sailing-boat is ready to hand, and for its head, at
any neighbouring boat-house, there is quite a choice of "sculls." If any
hair, there are the "row-locks." The ghost must not, in our opinion, be
expected anywhere with or against the stream, but in some "dead-water."
"Will the ghost walk to-night?" is now the Shakspearian inquiry; to
which the reply is, "Go to Putney!"

                   *       *       *       *       *

ANGELICAL!--Herr ANGELI, the Austrian portrait-painter, whose name, as a
"noun of multitude," suggests "several ANGELOS rolled into one," is now
the QUEEN'S painter _par excellence_. Consequently he should be known in
England as "_Her_ ANGELI." May all good ANGELI guard Her Gracious
MAJESTY! Still, clever as Brother BRUSH may be, it will take a lot of
"ANGELI" to equal one "ANGELO," which his Christian name was "MICHAEL."

                   *       *       *       *       *

               ROMEO ROBERTSON AND JULIET PAULA CAMPBELL.

_Mrs. J. P. C._ "O ROMEO, ROMEO! wherefore art thou ROMEO?"

_Romeo Robertson._ Because I have played it before: but "O JULIET,
JULIET! wherefore art thou JULIET?"

_Mrs. J. P. C._ Because you cast me for the part, and I wanted to play
it.

                                     _Shakspeare adapted to the Lyceum._

[Illustration: Master Romeo probably seventeen, and Miss Juliet
certainly fourteen years old.]

_JULIET_ is, according to her nurse, just fourteen years of age. The
story is that of "_Villikins and his Dinah":_--

    There was a rich noble in Verona did dwell,
    He had but one daughter an unkimmun fine young gal,
    Her name it was _Juliet_, just fourteen years old,
    With a werry large fortune in siliver and gold.
                Singing tooral li (_ad. lib._).

The southern girl of fourteen equals the northerner of nineteen; and
this must ever be the initial difficulty which few experienced
actresses, can surmount. _Juliet_ is, in fact, a single girl and a
married young woman rolled into one. "Single," "double," and "there's
the rub!"

Mrs. PAT CAMPBELL'S _Juliet_ takes the poison, but not the cake. Her
_Juliet_ has over her the shadow of _Paula Tanqueray_. From the
commencement, except in the Balcony scene, she is a _Juliet_ "with a
past." The balcony and the moonlight suit this _Juliet_. Good, too, is
she when, abjectly miserable, she crumples herself up all in a heap,
like the victim in a picture of Japanese torture, so that at any moment,
without surprising the spectator, she might turn heels over head and
straighten herself out at the feet of the irascible old _Capulet_. Once
again let me adapt a verse of the ancient ditty:--

    "Oh Papa, oh Papa, I've not made up my mind,
    And to marry just yet I do _not_ feel inclined."
    (_Aside._) To _Laurence_ the Friar I'll tell all my grief,
    And the reverend gent may afford me relief
                By singing (_as a duett_) tooral li tooral, &c.

Judging from the _Tanqueray_ model, Mrs. PAT CAMPBELL _ought_ to have
been at her best in the potion scene; but, she wasn't. As for the final
stabbing, she might as well have tickled herself with a straw and died
o' laughing.

[Illustration: Romeo Robertson ready for any undertaking. Vaults opened,
&c.]

Watching FORBES-ROBERTSON as _Romeo_, I could not help thinking what an
excellent _Hamlet_ he would make; perhaps when I see him in that
character, I shall remember how good he was as _Romeo_:--

    "_Hamlet Romeo amem, rentosus Romeo Hamlet._"

But that's another story; so suffice it that temporarily
FORBES-ROBERTSON is "Our Only _Romeo_."

The Rev. NUTCOMBE GOULD, as _Friar Laurence_, gives quite a new reading
of the part. His _Friar_ has ever a merry little twinkle in his eye, as
if quietly enjoying some intensely humourous idea. From this point of
view, Mr. NUTCOMBE GOULD'S _Friar_, being a sort of Rev. THEODORE HOOK,
ever ready with a practical joke and an impromptu, is admirable
and--inimitable.

_Mercutio's_ part is "full of plums"; but these, in Mr. COGHLAN'S mouth,
seemed rather to mar the distinctness of his utterance, as plums in a
mouth have a way of doing. The _Apothecary_, by Brother ROBERTSON, was
not so poor as he looked: but in spite of tradition as to the wondrous
excellence of this "bit of character," what is there to be done with it
except in a three minutes acting illustration of an artistic "make up"?
Were I offered the part I should bargain (after settling of course to
receive a thousand a week) for a scene so arranged as to show the
exterior and the interior of the shop. I would be "on" from the first,
visibly sleeping under the counter. The interior should be fitted up
with shelves just as _Romeo_ describes it. Then while _Romeo_ is
talking, my _Apothecary_ would be examining his "till"; he would turn it
upside down to show there was no cash; he would then in pantomime
explain how famished he feels, and would search, even in an old
mouse-trap, for a bit of cheese. At last, there being no dinner and no
hope of food, he, after a pantomimic exhibition of frenzied despair,
would be in the act of drinking from a large bottle, labelled
"_Poison,--for external application only_," when he hears _Romeo_
calling him. Then he starts: while there is life there is hope! he
answers the summons! And so forth. Then imagine the _Apothecary with the
money_ after _Romeo's_ departure!! As the scene is closing the
_Apothecary_ should be seen bucking himself up, and preparing to go out
to make a night of it at the nearest restaurant. Should Mr.
FORBES-ROBERTSON be making any alterations he is welcome to these
suggestions.

[Illustration: Mrs. Pat Juliet Campbell making herself into a Japanese
Puzzle as she takes a Father's Curse.]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                       "THE CRAWL TO THE SOUTH."

SIR,--In "the dead season," when despairing editors, or their
representatives, pant for something especially attractive, the maxim
acted upon by those whom Providence has afflicted with the "_cacoethes
scribendi_" appears to be, "_When in doubt, abuse the London, Chatham,
and Dover_." As a much-travelled Ulysses, experienced in "lines cast in
pleasant" and unpleasant "places," and as a sympathising
fellow-traveller with "A Season Ticket Holder,"--(a descriptive
signature rather suggestive of a "kettle-holder" that keeps your fingers
from being burnt,)--I, the Ulysses aforesaid, emphatically endorse all
that "S. T. H.," in the _Times_ of last Thursday, has written. Having
"crawled" North, South, East, and West, I can venture to affirm that the
L. C. & D.'s "Granville Express" is, as far as my experience goes, which
is co-extensive with the whole length of the line, up and down, about
the most punctual of time-keeping trains with which this Ulysses happens
to be acquainted. When "S. T. H." attests that "_for courtesy and
attention to the oft-times exacting demands of passengers the company's
staff will compare not unfavourably with those of the Northern
railways_," I beg "to say ditto"; with the proviso, that, personally, I
am, in a general way, of Mrs. MALAPROP'S opinion, that "caparisons are
odorous." Sir, addressing you, _Mr. Punch_, as Universal Chairman of All
Railways, if I wanted to pick out a fine specimen of Railway Troops, I
would go to the London, Chat-with-'em and Dover for both "Guards" and
"Line."
                              Yours,        AN INCONSTANT TRAVELLER.

P.S.--By the way, if names are for anything in the matter (and I object
to "calling names," though this _must_ be done at every station on the
line), then isn't the Brighton and S. C. the "Crawley" Line? I only ask.

                   *       *       *       *       *

EDUCATION NOT PRICE-LESS.--The _Methodist Times_ recently announced that
Mr. PRICE-HUGHES is about to publish an explanation of his suggestions
as to an "educational concordat." So the present form of the educational
question is, "'What Price' HUGHES?"

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EGOMANIA.

SCENE--_The Bar Parlour of the "Little Peddlington Arms" during a
shower._

_Little Peddlingtonian_ (_handing newspaper to Stranger from London_).
"HAVE YOU SEEN THAT ACCOUNT OF OUR FISHING COMPETITION IN THE _LITTLE
PEDDLINGTON GAZETTE_, SIR?"

"NO. I'M AFRAID I'VE NOT!"

"IT'S A _VERY_ INTERESTING ARTICLE, SIR. IT MENTIONS MY NAME SEVERAL
TIMES!"]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

The Baron has dipped into a refreshingly light and airy volume called
_The Impressions of Aureole_, published by CHATTO AND WINDUS. Just the
volume for the tourist resting awhile from his London-seasonable
labours. _Aureole_ does a little bit of everything and enjoys it all.
She has the faculty of appreciation for scenes in town and country, at
home and abroad. She "sails away in a galliant ship" like _Roy Neil's_
bride into Icebergian regions, where "_we pray under our breaths for
illuminating sunshine and the ice bink is given us in half-miraculous
substitution_." "Half-miraculous" is good. Half a miracle better than no
miracle at all.

Then on another occasion writes _Aureole_:--

    "We find our way into a gleamy wood, and I gather some crimson
    berries, oozing from a cool green bank like drops of blood,
    while unfamiliar blossoms flourish in gay clusters at my feet."

"Personally," says the Baron, speaking for himself, "should not like to
gather 'drops of blood.'" Glad that the blossoms were so well behaved as
not to be familiar.

How delightful to be on board with our enthusiastic _Aureole_, and, if
she will only trust one with it, enjoy for a few moments the loan of her
"_ivory lorgnette_" with "_diamond initials_" which "_seem to gleam
responsively when_," says _Aureole_, "_I sweep the horizon with
ecstacy_."

_Aureole_, the gadabout and globetrotter, is delightful everywhere. The
one touch of domestic nature does come in now and again, and her "dear
BILL," her "handsome BILL," her rackety, good-half BILL, on being
reminded by _Aureole_ that they have to dine at the Savoy 7.30, exclaims
"Confound these blessed bothering _cafés_. This is five nights running.
Can't we chuck the thing?" Then _Aureole_ asks him "What on earth do you
want?" "'Want!' why a mutton chop, and a wife, and a whisky-and-soda,"
says BILL, brutally. And then they go to the "palace of luxury" and
"dine with seven other spirits more weary than ourselves." So they might
all dirge in chorus the old duet of "_Again we come to thee, Savoy!_"

The Masked Ball story is very well told--quite a little comedy; and of
course all the gay resorts at home and abroad are visited by the lively
_Aureole_. 'Tis a sketch of "How we live now," and must please a number
of people who are "in the movement," and a great many more who are out
of it, but who like to be up in what is going on, and to imagine that
they also could be of the gay world if only they chose. Fill me a bumper
of cold (not iced) champagne, which, to _Aureole_, quaffs

                          The appreciative      BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S. To those among his reading-friends who appreciate the clever and
amusing work of "GYP," the Baron strongly recommends _Le Coeur
d'Ariane_. No necessity to send to "Rue Auber" for it: _allez le
chercher chez_ M. ROQUES, 64, New Bond Street, and see that you get it.
The Baron wishes you _may_ get it, as you are certain to enjoy the book
immensely. Be prepared to be thoroughly _enjôlé_ by the artless _Ariane_.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                    ROEHAMPTON GATE AND THE L. C. C.

The public, represented by the First Commissioner of Works in the
Liberal Government, testified towards "Priory Lane" (if we remember
aright, a provokingly private road, leading, as a short cut, from
Wandsworth Common up to "Roehampton Gate," which is a closed entrance to
Richmond Park) what _Sam Weller_ might have correctly described as a
"Priory attachment"; but though its opening to the public would have
been granted freely by its owner, on condition that the London County
Council and Wandsworth authorities should make, repair, and keep in
order the road, the London County Council refused to take any part in
the matter, and so Priory Lane, "with bars at each end," remains a "spot
barred" to the Richmond Park-loving Londoner. The cost of making this
mile and a quarter is over-estimated at £2000. But as there are, as the
_Daily Chronicle_ describes it, "_bars at each end_," surely these
"bars," if properly licensed, would bring in a splendid revenue from
thirsty pedestrians, equestrians, and wheelers of all sorts and
conditions.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: POOR SMIKE!

MRS. NICKLEBY BALFOUR (_aside to_ JOHN BULL). "I AM VERY SORRY INDEED
FOR ALL THIS.... THE RATEPAYERS OUGHT TO BE THE BEST JUDGES--AND I HOPE
THEY ARE. OF COURSE IT IS A HARD THING TO HAVE TO KEEP OTHER PEOPLE'S
CHILDREN ... BUT IF IT COULD BE SETTLED IN A FRIENDLY MANNER, AND SOME
FAIR ARRANGEMENT WAS COME TO ... I DO THINK IT MIGHT BE VERY
SATISFACTORY AND PLEASANT TO ALL PARTIES."--_Nicholas Nickleby_, Vol.
II., p. 183.

"I am extremely anxious that something effectual should be done."--_Mr.
Balfour's reply to Lord Cranborne as to Government and Voluntary
Schools._ "The schemes, however, as they stand, are, for the purposes of
practical politics, incompatible."--_Times, September 20._]

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NICE FOR THE VISITORS."

(_Sketch outside a Fashionable Hotel._)]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          THE LAST OF MOWGLI.

    ["The Man-pack do not love jungle-tales."--_Rudyard Kipling in
    the P. M. G. of Sept. 26._]

                                 SACRED
                             To the Memory
                                   of
                                MOWGLI,
                Alias Little Frog, Manling, Nathoo, and
                         Master of the Jungle,
                                  Who,
                After lingering on in columns of print,
                         Came to a Doubtful End
             In a series of Asterisks in an Evening Paper,
                       And in the Paws of BALOO.
                                 He was
                        Of Uncertain Parentage,
                       Of Unprincipled Character,
                Of Carnivorous and generally Unpleasant
                                Habits,
                                  And,
                 Though he had one or two Good Points,
                     On the whole may be described
                                   As
                     A THOROUGH-PACED YOUNG RASCAL.
                                 He had
             (In common with the rest of the Jungle-People)
                A curious and somewhat incomprehensible
                      style of expressing HIMSELF
                     In Metaphors and Master-words,
                                 Which
                              After a bit
             Rather got on one's Nerves, unless, of course,
                      You like that sort of thing.
                            He was, however,
                  Considered by some to be Good Copy,
                             And, as such,
                        His Temporary Extinction
                Is mourned by his Sorrowing Editors and
                              Publishers.
                       He will probably reappear
                            At a later date
                    In three-and-sixpenny book-form,
                           Where we wish HIM
               All possible success and a few elucidatory
                               FOOTNOTES.

                                And now,
                 In the words of THE PANTHER BAGHEERA,
                        Is the Time of New Talk.

                   *       *       *       *       *

DARING PROPHECY.--When it happens, it will be remembered how _Mr. P.'s_
own prophet said of the retirement of President FAURE, that it was "a
Faure-gone conclusion." _Verb. sap._

                           *       *       *

NOTE.--That Russia was to be allowed to occupy Port Arthur seems to have
been a Port-"Arthurian legend."

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         SUMMER OUT OF SEASON.

    ["There is a theory.... according to which Texas owes its torrid
    climate to the fact that it is separated only by a sheet of
    brown paper from a reservoir of heat not of solar origin. During
    the last few days it must have occurred to many to suspect that
    the partition between ourselves and that great store of caloric
    must by some untoward accident have been reduced to something of
    Texan tenuity."--_The Times._]

    The summer had gone, from city and park,
    But--in mid-September--_came back_ for a lark!
        And banged the thermometer up again.
    It made Mr. BULL mop, and puff, and perspire;
    It filled Mrs. BULL with amazement and ire,
        And throttled her poor old pug pup again.
    For fires had been lighted and top-coats put on.
    When--something amazing occurred in the sun,
        And "heat-waves" went wildly cavorting
    About our old planet in fashion quite frantic.
    The Briton was floored by the wonderful antic.
        Played midmost his season of sporting.
    "Eh? Ninety degrees in the shade--in September?
    So monstrous a marvel I do not remember!
        Here, put away bag, gun, and cartridges!
    Bring in a cider-cup--iced. My dear boy,
    Sport, at midsummer heat, who _can_ really enjoy,
        By Jove! It will roast the young partridges!"
    "A hundred and nine! Nay, a hundred and ten!
    By Jove, it will melt off the point of my pen!!!"
        The editor howled in his snuggery.
    The dandy in shirt-sleeves sat down to his dinner.
    The City Police grew perceptibly thinner,
        The cab-driver sported a puggaree.
    It played up the mischief with pleasure and work,
    It played into the hands of athletes in New York,
        Who licked molten Britishers hollow.
    It set the 'bus drivers indulging in naps,
    It made evening papers use up all their "caps,"
        And it hindered the flight of the swallow.
    It fogged all earth's creatures from mammoth to midge,
    It made the bees swarm under Blackfriars Bridge,
        And owls play strange freaks down at Chiswick;
    And when it got over a hundred and nine,
    It worked on some portly old buffers like wine,
        On some elderly fogies like physic.
    O summer's a guest we all part with in sorrow;
    But when she comes back the day after to-morrow,
        (Instead of in six months, or seven,)
    Before her late sorrowing mourners are ready,
    Society's course she is apt to unsteady,
        Till we wish her in Tophet--or heaven.
    But there is one thing our late summer has done:
    It has widened the realm of the Spirit of Fun!
        Ironical? Nay, not a particle!
    We'll pardon this "heat-wave" a lot of small crimes
    Because--_it has made our own serious "Times"
        Indulge in a humorous article!!!_

                   *       *       *       *       *

THE AGE OF LOVE (_computed by the Daily Telegraph_).--The time of the
Silly Season.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                   THE _VERY_ LATEST "HITTITE" SEAL!

[Illustration]

This most remarkable seal, while not, perhaps, affording a complete
solution of the "Hittite" problem, presents many features of the
greatest possible interest. In general form it is of the shape known to
the scientific world as the _Kennington Oval_, and the fact, in reality,
affords the key to the partial decipherment of the "Pictographs" on the
two faces of the seal.

At the upper part of the first face, shown above, is a double-headed
goddess, wearing a cap with horns, which would seem to indicate that the
well-known "Horns" at Kennington was, in early times, a temple dedicated
to the goddess who specially watched over the chances of some ancient
pastime to which these incised figures manifestly refer. Beneath this
goddess is a two-headed bird, hitherto supposed to be an eagle; but we
consider that its identity with the bird known to connoisseurs as the
"_Double-Duck_" is now fully established.

Beneath this, again, is a curious dwarf figure with straddling legs,
which, as occurring elsewhere, has been described as _homunculus_. He is
evidently engaged in practising the pastime above referred to. On the
right is a curious triangular object, in which we can scarcely be wrong
in seeing a primitive tent or pavilion, an adjunct of great importance
to the players in times of hunger.

The other face bears a spirited "Pictograph" of more than ordinary
realism, representing, we would suggest, the triumphal retirement of the
_homunculus_ at the conclusion of his performance, and the animated
figures above would seem to represent the rejoicing adherents of the
retiring player. The objects above have sorely puzzled the student, but
we think it may now be generally admitted that they depict the sun
setting in splendour behind a reservoir of some gaseous compound such as
may even now be seen at Kennington.

It is even suggested by some that the _homunculus_ may be actually a
portrait of some diminutive but distinguished Surri player of primitive
times.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                             WELCOME HOME!

It is with great satisfaction that we read, in the columns of the _South
Wales Daily News_, of a citizens' meeting in the Cardiff Town Hall, for
the purpose of discussing and arranging plans the object of which is to
give a suitable and cordial "Welcome-home Reception" to the noble owner
of _Valkyrie III._, upon his return from the United States. That
"gallant little Wales" should take the initiative in such a project is
only natural, and JOHN BULL congratulates TAFFY, and sincerely hopes
that his happily-proposed demonstration to the Glamorganshire peer will
be carried out with all the success it deserves. Lord DUNRAVEN has done
much for yachting, and his recent sportsman-like conduct under the
trying circumstances he encountered in the "trans-pond-tine drama," _The
America Cup_, fully merits recognition, not only from Wales, but also
from the rest of the United Kingdom. Slightly parodying BYRON, we might
address the following: lines to Miss COLUMBIA:--

    Laugh while thou canst--_another_ race
        May make thee Cup-less, pretty Yankee!
    But let the ships have "elbow" space
        Or else we'll have to say, "No, thank'ee."

                   *       *       *       *       *

GIL BLAS-É.--CHARLES LAMB declared the human species to be divided into
two distinct races, _the men who borrow_ and _the men who lend_, of
which he considered the former to be infinitely superior to the latter,
and consequently designated them the "Great Race." Now, undoubtedly the
great race in Paris at present is the female race, the race of lady
bicyclists who, not content with borrowing men's hearts, have
appropriated the masculine garment as well. The enterprising _Gil Blas_
newspaper recently "brought off" a novelty in the way of _Courses à
bicyclettes_ for opera dancers, which took place with great _éclat_ in
the Bois de Boulogne. The fair terpsichoreans, from "_prima ballerina
assoluta_, who is famous from St. Petersburg to Utah," to the humblest
_rat_, or ballet-girl, assembled in force, and, with "light fantastic
toe" and "twinkling foot" pressing the treadles of their willing
machines, keenly contested the various events, to the huge delight of a
concourse of frivolous _boulevardiers_. After the morning's sport the
_chic Bicycli-ennes_ were entertained at an elegant _déjeuner_, the
_menu_ of which, compiled by an Anglo-Parisian _gourmet_, comprised
among its appetising items a new dish, to wit, _oeufs Cocottes à "l'
Wheel_."

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

Relieved for a space by my own decree from the mere labour of searching
for topics in the newspaper press of the United Kingdom, I have been
seeking recreation in the pursuit, how often unavailing, of the
partridge. "Come down on Thursday next," wrote my friend, HARTEY, "for
four or five days. We are going to shoot our outsides." This was
sufficiently alarming, but it was obviously better than shooting our
insides, and accordingly on the appointed day the county of Norfolk
received me.

                           *       *       *

Would that it were sufficient on these occasions merely to arouse the
primitive sporting instinct of man, to revert to the fringe of barbarism
and to sally out, scantily clothed, with sling or bow or snare, in quest
of game. But alas, the curse of civilisation cannot be got rid of; one
has to think of cartridges, cartridge-bags, caps, boots, gaiters,
stockings, and heaven knows what besides. And in the end the odds are
quite ten to one that you forget your cartridge-magazine, or that your
beautiful new pair of patent hammerless ejector guns get left under the
seat of the railway-carriage and become for a day or two the sport of
station-masters and porters on the Great Eastern Railway.

                           *       *       *

"Shooting the outsides" is a sport by itself. Your one desire is to keep
the birds off the land of your neighbours; the one desire of the birds
is to seek that land. Your best covey gets up and pops comfortably into
a lovely root-field a couple of hundred yards away, but you cannot go
after it, for the field belongs to another property, and the derisive
birds can chirp and run at their ease, while you tramp on, shotless,
under a broiling sun. However, the outsides have to be made good, and
now and then a slice of luck rewards you. For instance, if a
neighbouring vicar has given notice that after a certain date he means
to shoot over his own glebe, your delight is all the keener when you all
but annihilate a large covey of birds whose home is on the glebe.

                           *       *       *

There is much humour in dogs. Your own retriever, whom you have broken
yourself, is of course the quietest and best-behaved dog in the world.
He also possesses the surest nose and the softest mouth. Why, then, does
he choose a moment when everybody is looking to run in wildly and
disturb every bird in the field? Or why, when you have sent him in
pursuit of a runner, does he lie down and pant, while the keeper's dog,
a tangled door-mat of the poodle species, solidly, and without
ostentation, tracks down the wounded bird, and finally deposits it at
the keeper's feet, just as you are assuring everybody that there is not
a vestige of scent, and that no dog could possibly be expected to work
in such weather.

                           *       *       *

Then, again, I want to know this about partridges. How is that, when
they are driven to the guns, they always select a novice and unanimously
fly over his head? There is an unerring instinct about them. Your novice
may disguise himself in all the sport-stained paraphernalia of a veteran
shooter. Bless his simple heart, he can't deceive the birds. They come
to him and court the death that never comes with a heroic persistency.
When he has attained to the status of a veteran, and the birds about him
are scarcer, he will look back with a fond regret to the days of his
bird-frequented novitiate.

                           *       *       *

The long and the short of it is that partridges possess a cunning
amounting to genius. Under a soft and guileless exterior the partridge
hides a store of deceitful wiles that might put SHERLOCK HOLMES or any
of his countless imitators to shame. His one object is not to be killed,
and this he pursues with a ferocious pertinacity against which keepers,
beaters, dogs and guns match themselves in vain. Here, then, is a ballad
of the cunning partridge.

                           *       *       *

    The partridge is a cunning bird.
        He likes not those who bring him down:
    From age to age he has preferred
        The shots who blaze into the brown,
    Whose stocks come never shoulder-high,
        Who never pause to pick and choose,
    But on whose biceps you descry
        The black, the blue, the tell-tale bruise.

    Or should a stubborn cartridge swell,
        And jam, as it may chance, your gun,
    The sly old partridge knows it well,
        "Great Scott!" he seems to chirp "here's fun."
    He gathers all his feathered tribe,
        They leave the stubble or the grass,
    And with one wild and whirling gibe
        Above your silent muzzles pass.

    Your scheme you carefully contrive,
        And, while each beater waves his flag,
    Your fancy, as they duly drive,
        Already sees a record bag.
    But, lo, they baulk your keen desire,
        For, though with birds the sky grows black,
    Not one of them will face the fire,
        And every blessed bird goes back.

    For partridges I'll try no more;
        Why should I waste in grim despair?
    Take me to far Albania's shore,
        And let me bag the woodcock there.
    Or on the Susquehanna's stream
        I'll shoot with every chance of luck
    The gourmet's glory and his dream,
        The canvas-back, that juicy duck.

    Yea, any other bird I'll shoot,
        But not again with toil and pain
    I'll tramp the stubble or the root,
        Nor wait behind a fence in vain.
    For of all birds you hit or miss
        (I've tried it out by every test),
    Again I say with emphasis
        The partridge is the cunningest.

                           *       *       *

So much for the partridge. Before many weeks are over it is quite
possible that I may have to promote the pheasant to the top rank of
cunning. And this I know full well about my friend the pheasant, that,
although he is a large bird and seems to fly slowly, he is a very hard
bird to hit, as he ought to be hit. And most of us find it much easier
to hit the immeasurable space by which every bird on the wing is
surrounded.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          RAILWAY TRAVELLING.

SIR,--Whenever I find a Pullman car I invariably travel in it. It is
only a shilling or two over the ordinary fare, but oh the luxury! So,
with the ancient Roman, who knew all about it, I exclaim:--

    "_Pullman qui meruit ferat._"

The translation is evident, and I present the motto to the Company
generally.

                                                    A TRAVELLING FELLOW.

                   *       *       *       *       *

RECULER POUR MIEUX SAUTER.--The thermometer (according to the _Daily
Chronicle_) about ten days ago "went back a little in order to make a
bigger spring." It succeeded in making a second summer.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FIN DE SIECLEISM.

_Sympathetic Lady._ "I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD HOLIDAY, MISS SMITH."

_Overworked Dressmaker._ "OH YES, MY LADY. I TOOK MY MACHINE WITH ME,
YOU KNOW!"

_S. L._ "WHAT A PITY; YOU SHOULD GIVE UP NEEDLE AND THREAD WHEN YOU'RE
OUT FOR A----"

_O. D._ "OH, I DON'T MEAN MY SEWING MACHINE! I REFER TO MY BICYCLE!"]

                   *       *       *       *       *

                      "SIC TRANSIT GLORIA HOODI."

A traditional relic of the picturesque poacher prince of Sherwood
Forest, were it even "no bigger than an agate-stone on the forefinger of
an alderman," would, we presume, be worthy of jealous preservation. It
is, therefore, the more surprising that Yorkshiremen have not taken
adequate means for the protection of "a _massive_ piece of millstone
grit which, from time immemorial, has stood on a rising ground
overlooking the Aire Valley." Reclining in the shade of this historic
stone--named after him--"bold ROBIN HOOD would, with his Maid MARIAN,
sup and bowse from horn and can," using it as a kind of half-way house,
so to speak, on his journeys to York. But oh, shade of Friar TUCK, thou
genial exemplar (dare we hint it?) of what is known as the "sporting"
parson--a type, alas! rapidly becoming as extinct as thyself--the Vandal
hordes, in the shape of the Bradford Corporation, have come with their
destroying trail of dynamite, and, under base pretence of making way for
a water conduit, _have cloven the Robin Hood stone into four parts!_ Not
until the blasting powder was in position did the people realise the
full horror of the dread deed about to be wrought; and then, to save
that which once sheltered an outlaw, they sent for a policeman, who, of
course, arrived "after the blast was over." "The occurrence has caused a
feeling of indignation throughout the district," says the _Yorkshire
Post_, adding, "and it is unlikely that the incident will be passed over
in silence." It certainly was not accomplished "in silence"! Yorkers!
why did you not shut the stable door _before_ the steed was stolen?

                   *       *       *       *       *

                 THE THREE WEIRD WRITERS OF DRURY LANE.

    SCENE--_Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane. Any time
    before the production of "Cheer, Boys, Cheer."_

[Illustration:

INGREDIENTS
FOR
DRAMA]

_First W. W._ (_Sir Druriol nus_). When shall we three meet again?
          In thunder, lightning, shine, or rain?

_Second W. W._ (_C. Raleigh_). When the hurly-burly's done,
          When by play we've lost or won.

_Third W. W._ (_H. Hamilton_). 'Twill be settled by the run!

_First W. W._ Where the scenes?

_Second W. W._ (_happily_). From Polo go

_First W. W._ (_excitedly_).             To Matabele!

_Third W. W._ (_grandly_).                            Rotten Row!

_First W. W._ To WORTH of Paris!

_Second W. W._ (_receiving a note from the Musical Director_). GLOVER calls!

_Third W. W._ (_having had a line from a Costumier_). What! BOSCH!

_All three_ (_solemnly dancing round the cauldron_).

    Polo, gold mines, Rotten Row,
    Costumes grand, comedian low,
    Round about the country go!
    The Weird Writers hand in hand
    Posters stick throughout the land.
    Us they'll write about, about!
    Three to one, it will be fine!
    Writers three we thus combine!
    Piece! The curtain's up!

                                                     [_They vanish._

And the melodrama,--showing how a match was broken off at a Polo
gathering, and how many times in one evening Mr. HENRY NEVILLE
can take off his hat in a wonderful variety of courteous ways, and
how he gets taken off himself by a Matabelian shot; showing, too, how
funny Mr. GIDDENS and Mr. LIONEL RIGNOLD can be, and how admirably
Miss FANNY BROUGH behaves as an eccentric lady of fashion
in exceptionally trying circumstances; how good as a villain CHARLES
DALTON is; how strikingly DRURIOLANUS has managed stage effects,
and how admirably his auxiliaries have done their work,--the melodrama,
containing all this and very much more, achieves a distinct
success.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Poor Mrs. LANGTRY! "What all my pretty chicks at one fell swoop!" "The
pretty chicks" would be represented by "a pretty _cheque_." Lots more
where they came from, and their fair owner may yet sing about them
triumphantly to the tune of "_Lillie-bulero_," or any other that takes
her fancy if she objects to the original air as being out of date. Why
not a new version of "_Ti-a-ra Boom-de-ay_"?

                           *       *       *

"AN INTOLERABLE NUISANCE."--The _Pall Mall Gazette_ is to be felicitated
upon a praiseworthy but, unfortunately, unsuccessful attempt to
institute a campaign against the organ fiends haunting our streets. But
the letters which, under the heading "An Intolerable Nuisance," poured
in briskly at first, have finally "ceased and determined." We have been
told of a village, "in the Ausonian hills," peopled by retired
organ-grinders who, having amassed a fortune--resulting from bribes,
given by the despairing citizen, as an inducement to the torturer to
remove himself "to the next street"--repair thither to enjoy an _otium
cum dignitate_, untroubled by any qualm of conscience for the suffering
inflicted by them upon patient Britons. Will some _Novum Organon_ tell
us the whereabouts of this Utopia, and let us thither banish in
shiploads these "intolerable nuisances."

                   *       *       *       *       *

           CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

                         (_By "Hansom Jack."_)

                       No. VI.--FARES AND FINDS.

_The Mistery of a Hansom Cab?_ Oh yes, _I_'ve read it; or leastways
    dipped into it.
Rayther perlice-newsy sort of a story; strong flaviour of murder and
    unsweetened gin to it.
"Less cab than _license_," young MULBERRY sniggers. Young MULBERRY
    fancies 'imself as a joker.
Still, we do 'ave some rum finds in our cabs, from a set o' false teeth
    to a red-ended poker.

Give me a shiver the latter thing did, I 'ad just dropped one fare and
    'ad took up a foller.
First was a gloomyish kind of a cove with a oystery heye and cheeks
    saller and oller;
Second as smart a young minx as you'd meet. I 'ad 'ardly whipped up when
    I 'eard such a squeaking,
And sharp through the trap shoved a scarlet-hued _summat_. It give me a
    turn, in a manner o' speaking.

Parties are wonderful partial to prodding with brolly or walking-stick,
    ah yes, _and_ rifles.
Fares when they want you to pull up 'ave got little thought for your
    eyes and they don't stick at trifles.
But this was a rayther unusual prodder! "'Old 'ard, Miss," I says.
    "Wot's this 'ere little caper?"
"Oh, Cabby!" she squeals, "put me down! It's a 'orror--I found in the
    corner 'ere--wropped in brown paper!"

Out she would git; when, a puffin' and wheezin', up came the old buffer
    who'd left it behind 'im.
"That's _mine!_" 'e gulps, and 'e grabs it like winking. "Ah, my poor
    JOEY! I wish I could find _'im_
One 'arf as easy. The cleverest clown, Miss, in England; and this was
    'is favrit hot poker.
All 'e 'as left to remember 'im by!"--an' 'e 'ugged it. I pitied the
    saller old joker.

But Miss, she turned rusty, and cut up 'er didos. "You ought to know
    better," she sniffed. "It's just ojus
To leave 'orrid objecks like that in a cab; though I own it's well
    fitted, and 'ighly commojus;
But lor', _'ow_ it scared me!" "Well, lydy," I says, being roughed up a
    bit by 'er stuckuppy manner,
"It wouldn't 'a' bit you, or burnt you, if you 'adn't _opened_ it, I'll
    bet a quid to a tanner."

Whereon she flounced off without paying no fare. "Humph!" snorts the old
    gent, and forks over a shilling.
Talk about 'onesty! Give the respectables charnce of a _safe_ bite, and
    ain't they just willing?
'Onesty's scarcer than millions, I reckon. You just leave a purse or a
    pencil-case 'andy
For fares to lay 'old on, and see if there's much of a choice 'twixt
    poor Cabby and polished-up dandy.

But t'other evening, a 'igh-nosed old dowager tipped me bare fare, and
    away she was sailing
When I twigged a smart seal-skin bag in 'er 'and as I _knew_ my last
    fare--who seemed toddly and ailing--
Had carried before, and it chinked as she shook. "Excuse _me_," I says,
    "but that bag, mum--I'll trouble you!"
Lord, if you'd seen 'er flush up and go fluttery! 'Taint only snobs
    as'll dodge you and double you.

Nobs very often are spry on the nick. Klepto-something or other they
    call it in _their_ case.
Old BILLY BOGER 'as told me that once 'e was landing a 'eavyish trunk up
    a staircase,
And 'eard the young lady fare whisper 'er Ma, "Oh, _see_ wot I've found
    in the cab!"--"_'Ush_, my darling!"
The old dutch garsps out. And old BILL did'nt get it--the
    bracelet--without lots o' sniffing and snarling.

Yah! They are dreadfully down on poor Cabbies who don't toe the mark in
    the matter o' pickings,
But what with the Burlington bilks, and the toffs as you can't trust too
    fur when there's prospeck of nickings,
And all the mean fakes that a cabby is fly to, in fares who're well-off
    and did ought to know better,
The rank doesn't think much of hupper-class 'onesty, give you _my_ word.
    Now I'm off for a wetter!

                   *       *       *       *       *

GOOD REASON FOR NOT QUARRELLING LAST WEEK.--"It was too
hot for 'words'!"




                           Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 160, "calving heifers £12 12_s_ 6_d._" was replaced with
"calving heifers £12 12_s._ 6_d._".

On page 160, "heviots, 38_s._ 9_d._ to 41_s._ 9d." was replaced with
"heviots, 38_s._ 9_d._ to 41_s._ 9_d._".

On page 161, "cacoèthes" was replaced with "cacoethes".

On page 161, "Ulyssess" was replaced with "Ulysses".

On page 161, "oderous" was replaced with "odorous".

On page 162, the quotation mark after "a whisky-and-soda, says BILL,
brutally." was moved to after "a whisky-and-soda,".

On page 165, "_Mr. P. s_ own prophet" was replaced with "_Mr. P.'s_ own