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









PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

OCTOBER 12, 1895.




[Illustration: TRUE LIBERALITY.

_Old Millionaire._ "GEORGE, I'VE JUST SENT A GUINEA TO THE 'BALACLAVA
VETERANS' HOME.'"

_His only Son and Heir._ "A _GUINEA_, FATHER? WHY, _I_'VE SENT MORE THAN
THAT, OUT OF MY MISERABLE HALF-PAY!"

_O. M._ "AH, BUT _YOU_'VE GOT GREAT EXPECTATIONS, GEORGE. _I_'VE GOT
NONE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A GRAND OLD GARDENER.

    ["Through the death of Mr. PETER GRIEVE we have lost one of our
    best-known landscape gardeners, also a distinguished hybridest
    and cross-breeder."--_Daily Chronicle._]

  Good gardeners grieve for Mr. PETER GRIEVE,
  Who landscape-gardening art has had to leave,
  To our regret. Hybridest and cross-breeder,
  He in the Garden-World was a great leader.
  "Suffolk Sir JOSEPH PAXTON" he was called.
  From many an English garden, snugly walled
  And florally embellished, plaints will come.
  He many a zonal pelargonium,
  Double petunia, and other blossom,
  Has left, of a new race, to deck earth's bosom.
  Better than selfish climb to place and power
  It is to bless our world with a new flower.
  Better than many Tsars, depend upon it,
  This Floral King deserves an ode or sonnet.
  PETER THE GREAT _was_ great, but one lived later
  Whom sorrowing _Punch_ dares dub "PETER THE GREATER!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE CULTIVATION OF BEES."--SIR,--I see this subject taken up in the
_Standard_, but have not had time to peruse the correspondence. I doubt
whether bees can be cultivated. I have seen a Learned Pig, Clever Cats,
Industrious Hoppers, all thoroughly trained; but never have I come
across a Cultivated Bee. The bee is too busy as a worker even to have
the leisure which cultivation requires. I have heard of a bee getting so
far in his education as to become a "Spelling Bee." But even the
"Spelling Bees" seem to have had their day and died out. Yours,

  A HUM FROM THE HUMMUMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTERS TO A FIANCÉE.

MY DEAR GLADYS,--I think your ARTHUR the ideal person to be engaged to.
He's serious, you say--he dislikes flippancy--he's inclined to be
literal.

Well, surely that's better than being a clown, a buffoon, a mere jester,
a Court Fool! How tired you'd get of the cap and bells! of having to
laugh, all through life, at your husband's jokes! ARTHUR is sensible;
calm in his affection. Is that a reproach? Should you like a
"Once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine" sort of villain as a
lover? Or a "ladies' man"--a warbler of love-songs--a universal provider
of compliments, flowers, pretty speeches,--a very WHITELY of gallantry?
You'd be bored to death: and dreadfully jealous as well.

As to your tastes not being identical, that doesn't really matter. Make
a few sacrifices of those things you don't care about; bicycling, for
instance, and skirt-dancing, and then, in return for such self-denial,
he'll probably waive his objections to afternoons, private views, or
even--in moderation--clever young men.

On some subjects, I know, sympathy seems impossible; for instance,
ARTHUR likes music, but detests concerts: while you, on the other hand,
while not caring for music are particularly fond of concerts. A little
mutual indulgence on both sides will soon put matters straight.

After a slight dispute never hold out an _instant_ after he shows
repentance. Also, _never avoid showing jealousy when you see he expects
it_. This is a valuable "tip." False pride on this subject is a fruitful
source of discord.

Do not disagree with his general principles. On the contrary, second
them; and give him convincing reasons for his own opinions. When it
comes to a particular application of them, that you really object to you
are sure to know how to act. Believe everything he says, and never
correct him about details, especially not if you know you are right. I
don't think I need advise you not to bring out authorities to show he is
wrong in the etymology of a word or any other subject of discussion, for
_that_ is absolutely suicidal, and you would be beyond the pale of
reason if you dreamt of such a thing.

Since your cousin FREDDY has been staying with you, I can understand you
find it rather awkward. I know FREDDY; with his love of practical jokes
(for which you, too, I am certain, have a secret _penchant_), and his
determined chatter about his rowing, his riding, and why he didn't back
the winner, and how it is he missed the Diamond Sculls, and so on, _ad
lib._ I can quite fancy he doesn't get on with ARTHUR, whom he must
despise for not having put a hair-brush in his bed the very first
evening.

You must have had a difficult day that Sunday that young DE VERNEY and
his sister came down. DE VERNEY, rosy-cheeked and babyish-looking, but
about whom a morbid interest centres, because he collects jewels, and
was said at one time to take morphia; and Miss DE VERNEY, who "writes,"
and is utterly amazed and contemptuous when she finds someone who has
never heard of her. If it were not for your mother, who forgets people's
characteristics, and explains them to each other a little wrong--which
often saves the situation--the day would have ended in utter want of
harmony. DE VERNEY left, pitying you, and his sister feeling sorry for
ARTHUR. I am glad you removed--though only just in time--an absurd
booby-trap FREDDY had placed in ARTHUR'S room, because ARTHUR had said
he "romped"; and when you and your future husband were alone, he said he
hoped your companions in the future would be of a very different calibre
to your present friends.

The depressing word "calibre," while cheering ARTHUR left you in lowest
spirits, but of course you agreed, and then had a toboganning match with
FREDDY the next morning before breakfast, and before ARTHUR had left his
room. Write and tell me how you are going on. Is any time fixed for the
termination of the engagement? I mean, of course, by marriage.

  Your affectionate friend,       MARJORIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAXIMUS ORELLIUS.--The author of _John Bull and His Island_ has honoured
a _South Wales Daily News_ interviewer with many interesting personal
details. Mons. BLOUËT has a rooted aversion to chairmen, because "they
give a sort of formal tone to proceedings which I don't care for." Poor
chairmen! After all, this is only what they are intended for. Perhaps
another MAX--yclept NORDAN--can give some explanation for this
distinctly morbid dislike. One unlucky chairman is overwhelmed with
ridicule because, in an introductory speech, _he actually forgot the
French humorist's name_. "MAX O'RELL" contemplates changing his
profession to that of playwright, and has already written a play which
he airily describes as "a high-class comedy, dealing with the British
aristocracy." However, this is not his first dramatic venture, for, says
he, "in 1870 I had a comedy produced in Paris, but the war breaking out
my play came to what I think was an untimely end. I have been repeatedly
urged to write for the stage, but have hitherto been content with the
success I have attained in other directions." _Vivat modestia!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "GOLDEN GRAIN."

_Sir M-ch-l H-cks-B-ch, Chancellor of the Exchequer_ (_Reaper_).
"FIRST-RATE HARVEST, EH?"

_Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt._ "YES; AND HOW YOU PITCHED INTO _ME_ WHEN _I_ SOWED
IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW PATENT SPRING-HEELED "BIKE" FOR THE HUNTING
FIELD.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

In a recent number of _The Saturday Review_ I read a review of a book of
verse, which I need not particularise further, as I am not concerned to
affirm or to dispute the justice of the critic's estimate of it. I only
refer to it incidentally. The author, according to this reviewer,
possessed only the most elementary and commonplace notion with regard to
aptness of epithets or allusions. Instances were cited, and we were
further asked to believe that with this poet (I quote from the
_Saturday_) "the voluble thrush is a family man, and the bibulous bee is
a rover."

       ***

That sentence absolutely fascinated me. It continued to ring and ring in
my brain for hours afterwards. It became the refrain to everything I
read and everything I thought of. There was only one remedy. I promptly
applied it, made a copy of verses to suit the pursuing sentence, and was
cured of my ailment.

       *       *       *       *       *

A FAMILY MAN AND A ROVER.

  A rook and an oyster agreed to dispute
    As to which held the record for darting:
  The rook said "I'm off like a punt on a chute,"
    Said the oyster "I don't think I'm starting:
  That is, since I know I'm confoundedly slow,
    If the rook on the mark remains steady,
  I doubt if I'll wait till the starter says 'go,'
    I'll be off when he says 'Are you ready?'"
  Then the languishing leopard cried "Run while you can,"
    And the cricket remarked "Is it over?"
  But the voluble thrush was a family man,
    And the bibulous bee was a rover.

  A celibate snipe thought they'd better look sharp,
    But the oyster said "Who's for the grotto?"
  Thus evoking a smile from a casual carp,
    Who had "_carpe diem_" for his motto.
  And a hairy old, hoary old ourang-outang
    Grunted "Harmony, gents, or you'll bore us";
  And a bandy-legged beetle, when asked if he sang,
    Said he only obliged in a chorus.
  Then, to make matters smooth till the racing began,
    A dove, who had landed at Dover,
  Cooed "Voluble thrush, you're a family man,
    But, oh bibulous bee, you're a rover."

  The runners themselves were contending for fun
    On a track which was wooded with parquet:
  The odds at the start were a million to one,
    Which I quote as the state of the market.
  "Do you think they will win?" said a truculent shark;
    But the whale said, "I never think nuffing."
  "What a desperate race!" was the puffin's remark--
    He was palpably pained by their puffing;
  Yet it cheered the whole clan, while their races they ran,
    To know someone lived calmly in clover;
  For the voluble thrush was a family man,
    Though the bibulous bee was a rover.

  Round, round came the rook, who was heartily clapped
    He was winning, wings down, in a canter;
  The succulent bivalve was collared and lapped,
    In spite of his beard and his banter.
  But a rifle went off, and a dredger drew nigh;
    We shall never know which was the winner,
  For the rook's next appearance was made in a pie,
    And they served up the oyster at dinner.
  Which proves very plainly that life is a span;
    We are cattle, and Death is our drover.
  Fate waits for the thrush, who's a family man,
    And the bibulous bee, who's a rover.

       ***

No more this week. I am flying from a country where September fails to
provide anything but sunshine. Perhaps in Switzerland there may be snow
and a sweet foretaste of winter. At any rate, I am off to find out for
myself. My next "Roundabout Reading" will be done in the country of
Cantons. I shall study the _Referendum_ face to face!

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN RE DIGGLE _V._ THE PROGRESSIVES."--Mr. DIGGLE says, as long as
ratepayers support the Progressives, the rates will increase. _Ergo_, to
support the Progressives, and pay for it, is Re-diggle-ous! Quite so.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND.

ON A CALLANDER CHAR-À-BANCS.

    SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers
    bound for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the
    coach "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when
    the driver will consider them sufficiently wet to start._

_The Head Boots_ (_to the driver_). There's another to come yet; he'll
no be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and
surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye,
Sir, plenty of room on the second seats.

_The Surly Passenger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my
hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the
apron._) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!

_The Driver_ (_tranquilly_). Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet
domp.

_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over _me_. Haven't you
got a _dry_ one somewhere?

_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.

_The Surly P._ (_with a snort_). At Callander! Much good that is! (_With
crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me
I'd better get inside the boot at once!

[Illustration: "Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to
it."]

_The Driver_ (_with the air of a man who is making a concession_). Ou
aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.

    [_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take
    up a male and female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately
    behind the_ Surly Passenger.

_The Female P._ (_enthusiastically, to her companion_). There's dear old
Mrs. MACFARLANE, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing
out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always _say_
about the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!

    [_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._

_Her Companion._ _That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the
garden _you_'re waving to. _She_'s keeping in-doors--and shows her sense
too.

_The Female P._ (_disgusted_). Well, I _do_ think after our being at the
farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_,
that is; get all they _can_ out of you, and then, for anything _they_
care----!

_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, Ma'am, but that
umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my
neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!

_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, Sir, but it's no worse for you
than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_
back, and _I_ don't complain.

_The Surly P._ I _do_, Ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the
poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.

_A Sardonic P._ (_in the rear, politely_). On the contrary, Sir, I find
it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't
doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.

_A Chatty P._ (_to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the
sake of conversation_). What fish do you catch in that river there?

_The Driver_ (_with an effort_). There'll be troots, an, maybe, a
pairrch or two.

_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?

_Driver_ (_cautiously_). Aye, it would be that.

_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.

_Driver_ (_evasively_). Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.

_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.

_Driver_ (_more confidently_). Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.

_Chatty P._ (_persistently_). You've seen goldfish--know what they're
_like_, eh?

_Driver_ (_placidly_). I canna say I do.

    [_They pass a shooting party with beaters._

_Chatty P._ (_as before_). What are they going to shoot?

_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse
drivin'.

_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and
yellow flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range
when they begin firing at the butts. I know they _have_ butts up on the
moor, because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after
that man throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse?_

_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, Mem; they'll jist be
phaysants.

_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It
_does_ seem so cruel to kill them!

_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.

_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally
different thing.

_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?

_Driver._ Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.

_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of
interests on the route, I must say.

_Driver_ (_modestly_). There'll be them on the corch that know as much
aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a
cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over
yonder?

_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.

_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it had ye looked.

    [_He relapses into a contented silence._

_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?

_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe
struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there
_Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his
way.

    [_The_ Surly Passenger _snorts as though he didn't consider this
    information_.

_The Lady P._ (_who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake"_).
_Fitz-James who?_

_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's
his name on the side of this one.

_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_
it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I
suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.

_The Driver_ (_to the_ Surly Passenger, _with another outburst of
communicativeness_). Yon stoan is called "SAWMSON'S Putting Stoan." He
hurried it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.

    [_The_ Surly Passenger _receives this information with an
    incredulous grunt_.

_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley,
some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!

_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, Mem; burrnt doon two or
three years back.

_The Lady P._ (_with a sense of the irony of events_). _Burnt_ down! A
Hydropathic! Fancy!

_Male P._ (_as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa_). There,
_that's_ Mr. FIGGIS'S place.

_His Comp._ What--_that?_ Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with
green Venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything!
Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_
parts, seemingly!

_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be
better than being in the Caledonian Road!

    [_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the
    caprices of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia
    and the Caledonian Road respectively._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WHEEL OF FATE.

(_A Fragment of an Old Romance, slightly Modernised._)

CHAPTER XXI.

"GRAMMERCY!" quoth the Baron D'AGINCOURT, as he rolled off his bicycle
into a potato-bed; "'tis a full-mettled steed! Methinks those varlets
have fed him with overmuch oil of late, so restive is he become. And,
lack-a-day! My doublet is besmirched with mire! Thou smilest, I see,
AGATHA. There is but scant reason for merriment, shameless girl!"

"Nay," replied the beauteous Lady AGATHA, as with exquisite skill she
rode her dainty steed (a thorough-bred Coventry) up and down the
terrace, "'twas not at thy mishap, dear father! Of a truth thou must be
sorely bruised. Was not that thy seventh fall this afternoon? If I
smile, 'tis but that I am happy."

"Humph!" said the Baron, as he hopped painfully behind his machine,
vainly endeavouring to mount anew. "Happy, eh? And wherefore? Whom hast
thou seen to change thy mood so greatly since this morning? 'Twas but a
few hours ago that thou wast weeping over some trifle of a spilt
oil-can. Ah, I am up at last!"

"I have seen none," said the lovely maiden, with blushing cheeks; "at
least, save only----" She hesitated, doubtfully.

"Whom, girl?" insisted her father.

"Sir ALGERNON FITZCLARENCE."

With a desperate swerve, the Baron rode towards her, his face purple
with passion.

"What, thou hast chosen to disobey me again? Talking with him whom I had
forbidden to come within twenty leagues of my castle! Now, by St.
Humber, both thou and he shall rue this day! I say that----"

The Baron's skill failed him once more, and he was shot off into the
gooseberry-bushes.

"Nay, hear me, dear father----"

"Cease!" roared the angry Baron. "What ho, there! Lead the Lady AGATHA,"
he commanded, as twenty men rushed forwards in answer to his summons,
"into the upper dungeon. And, varlets, bring me the sticking-plaster."

CHAPTER XXII.

'Twas midnight. Alone in the dismal cell to which her father's cruelty
had consigned her, the Lady AGATHA wept unceasingly. Sleep came not to
her weary eyes, she paced restlessly up and down, or gazed through the
narrow bars of the window over the moonlit landscape.

Suddenly she started! Was it fancy? Nay, 'twas a human voice, manly,
resonant, and strong, that sang beneath her window. She could catch some
of the words:

  "O sweetest blossom of the lea,
    O daintiest flower of the field!
  For love, for hopeless love of thee
    My reason must her kingdom yield" ...

Good heavens! It was ALGERNON FITZCLARENCE!

  "Across the land, across the main,
  A single steed shall bear us twain."

He was ascending by a ladder! His face appeared at the window!

"Ah, darling AGATHA," he said, "news was brought me of thy parlous
state! But dry thy tears, my sweet! See"--he snapped the massive bars
with the little finger of his left hand--"the cage is broken. Two of the
swiftest Singers are saddled for us at the castle gate. Let us fly
together!"

       ***

Noiselessly the gallant steeds flitted along the road.

"Were't not best to light our lamps?" whispered AGATHA. "Methinks that
the sage councillors of the parish----"

"Nay, I fear them not," said the intrepid FITZCLARENCE. "Enough for me
is the light of thine eyes."

Suddenly their steeds slackened pace simultaneously, and a faint hissing
sound was heard. They looked at one another, and groaned.

"We are punctured!" cried Agatha. It was too true. At the foot of a
steep hill they dismounted, their tyres flabby, shapeless, useless.
FITSCLARENCE passed his hand over the ground.

"As I thought!" he said bitterly, "'tis thy father that hath contrived
this! He hath scattered tin-tacks broadcast over the road to foil our
attempt to escape! But we will baffle him yet."

For some minutes he worked his air-pump in silence. Suddenly a sound was
heard at which AGATHA grew deathly pale. It was the clear resonant note
of a bicycle bell!

"We are pursued!" she cried. "Let us fly, ALGERNON."

"We cannot," said her practical lover; "the tyres are almost empty. We
can but meet our doom bravely!"

Louder and louder came the noise of whirring wheels. Then--a whirr, and
the Baron, breathless, pale with terror, went by them like a flash of
lightning! FITZCLARENCE understood in a moment what had happened. The
Baron was but an unskilful rider, and had allowed his machine to run
away with him down the hill!

[Illustration: "He vanished over the cliff."]

To stop him was impossible. He went along the highway for thirty-two and
a half miles, and then, with a last despairing yell, he vanished over
the cliff, still seated on his steed, and was buried beneath the waves
of the English Channel. So FITZCLARENCE and AGATHA returned to the
castle, and lived happily ever after.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

In the _Nineteenth Century_ the Baron skimmed an article on "The
Gold-mining Madness in the City," by S. F. VAN OSS. There's a deal of
method in this madness. Isn't it rather presumptuous in a "Van Oss" to
advise Bulls and Bears not to make asses of themselves?

Amusing article in _Macmillan_ for this month on "Moll Cutpurse." Even
OLIVER, the Protector, couldn't protect himself from this nimble-handed,
light-fingered lady, who entertained very practical notions on the
Common-wealth.

Capital chatty book, published by ARROWSMITH (but evidently ought to
have been published by "CHATTY AND WINDUS"), is _Platform, Press,
Politics and Play_, by our worthy gossip, T. H. S. ESCOTT. "Just the
sort of book for a quiet half hour in these chill October evenings,"
quoth the

  BUSY BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PASTEUR.

    [M. PASTEUR, the great French bacteriologist, died at St. Cloud
    on Saturday, September 28.]

  At the great PASTEUR'S passing we must grieve
              _De tout notre cœur_:
  May the Good Shepherd's pastures fair receive
              _Notre Bon PASTEUR_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Cruel Jest.

_Householder_ (_to unfamiliar Gas Collector_). I don't seem to know your
face. Where's the usual man--JONES?

_Collector._ Laid up in bed.

_Householder_ (_bitterly_). Of course, with the old complaint--gas-trick
fever--eh?

    [_Exit New Collector, hurriedly._

       *       *       *       *       *

"ONE OF THE 'UPPER TEN.'"--"Rev. HERBERT BROOKE," we read in the _Daily
News_, has been "appointed to the chaplaincy of Les Avants, above
Montreaux, Switzerland." Above Montreaux! In such a position the
reverend gentleman will be a very high churchman. Likewise ought he to
be a very learned one, seeing that he is to be chaplain to _Les
Savants_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Member for SARK writes from the remote Highlands of Scotland, where
he has been driving past an interminable series of lochs, to inquire
_where the keys are kept?_ He had better apply to the local authorities
in the Isle of Man. They have a whole House of Keys. Possibly those the
hon. Member is concerned about may be found among them.

       *       *       *       *       *

TAKEN FOR GRANTED.--Although members of the London County Council, whose
business it is to attend to the "nice conduct" of theatres and
music-halls, may be said to have "given up all their wild proceedings"
of a year ago, their actions of late have, nevertheless, been
characterised by "unbridled license."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FELINE AMENITIES.

_Female Friend_ (_to fair Author of "The Woman who Durstn't"_). "NOW
YOU'VE HAD SUCH A SUCCESS, I SUPPOSE YOUR PUBLISHERS WILL TAKE ANY
RUBBISH YOU CHOOSE TO WRITE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MICHAELMAS TERM AT CAMBRIDGE.

According to orders issued September 29, Feast of St. Goose, the
Vice-Chancellor has given notice that during Michaelmas Term there will
be Congregations, when will be performed by the A. C. C. C. (Amateur
Cambridge Concert Club) the well-known Choral, "_Goosey Goosey Gander_."
(Music by GOOSENS.) The Volunteers will practice the Goose Step from two
to four every afternoon till further orders.

After exams, the ceremony of "Plucking" will take place in public.

Lectures on "_How to get your Goose Cooked_," with receipts for _Making
the sauce for the gander_, by M. C. A. (Master of Culinary Art).

Lecture on the right explanation of the treatise "_De Goose-tibus_."
[N.B.--_The undergraduate who comes out first in examination on this
subject will be entitled to wear a feather in his cap._]

Special Greek Kalendary Lecture on the history of "_Xerxes and the
Gandaræ_."

The subject of the Lecture on Horticulture will be "_The Growth of the
Great Gooseberry, and its Gradual Extinction_."

_Commercial History._ Subject: "_On Banking, and the Rise of the House
of Gosling_."

Lectures on the Stage by Lord ACTON, with inquiry concerning the
Hisstrionic occasion when "The Goose" was first heard in a theatre. His
Lordship has been specially engaged by the A. D. C. to bring out a new
edition of Plays, under the heading of "_The Acton Drama_."

       *       *       *       *       *

COURT ON AGAIN.--Mr. GODFREY'S _Vanity Fair_ (a misleading title; and
the story is more nearly related to _Pendennis_ than to _Vanity Fair_)
is still "on" at the Court Theatre. Let Play-Inspector advise those who
have not seen Mr. ARTHUR CECIL as the imperturbable _Lord Nugent_, and
who have yet to witness the excellent acting of Mr. SUGDEN, wonderfully
made up as _The Duke of Berkshire_, who have still to see Mr. WILLIAM
WYES as _Brabazon Tegg_, and Mrs. JOHN WOOD as the eccentric _Mrs.
Brabazon Tegg_ (once a music-hall artiste), to go to the Court Theatre,
and enjoy a thoroughly good all-round performance.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE AT THE RECENT MEDICAL SESSION.--Among the names of the
distinguished lecturers during last week's Medical Session, occurred the
remarkable one of "Dr. GEORGE DE ATH." It is a pleasant way of putting
it. These two syllables cannot say of themselves, "_In Death we are not
divided_."

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A FRIEND OF MINE.

  Ah, cherubic little curate, in your surplice spick and span,
  Who has struck that happy medium 'twixt an angel and a man,
  Would it bore you much to tell me how you managed to attain
  To that turret of perfection which in time I hope to gain?

  For I see you in the pulpit, and I dote upon your word,
  And I listen to such eloquence as rarely I have heard;
  But at times there comes a whisper, like the flutter on the wind,
  Were you always, little curate, such a pattern of your kind?

  When a schoolboy, young and noisy, did you never tell a fib,
  Or use a KELLY'S literal "key" (ah, call it not a crib!)?
  Did you never, at a season when your age was hardly ripe,
  Encircle with your rosy lips a surreptitious pipe?

  And when you went to Cambridge was your 'Varsity career
  As spotless as your surplice, and as uniformly clear
  From a vestige of a blemish? Oh, you _properest_ of men,
  Were you never, never proctored--were you _always_ in at ten?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW LORD MAYOR ELECT.--A congratulatory chorus to the New Lord Mayor
elect, Sir WALTER WILKIN, should be at once written, composed, and
rehearsed in order to be sung on November 9, to the accompaniment of the
"trained bands." The words may be selected from SHAKSPEARE and MILTON;
the solos, consisting of a verse apiece, may

  "Amaze the Wilkin with their broken staves."

While some military poet could be fitly employed to celebrate the
glorious deeds of the New Lord Mayor, Sir WALTER WILKIN, Wictorious
Wolunteer, telling how

                              "With feats o arms
  From either end of London the Wilkin burns!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Pardonable Error in Orthography.

DEAR SIR CRŒSUS,--Mamma begs me to tell you that EMILY is to be married
on the 20th at Hanover Square, and hopes she may count on your presents.

  Yours truly,        JEMIMA SMITH.

_To_ Sir CRŒSUS DIVES, Bart., _Goldacre, Mintshire_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "GOOD DOG!"

L-RD S-L-SB-RY. "VERY USEFUL DOG THIS--I MAY WANT HIM AGAIN!"

"THE UNSPEAKABLE" (_over the wall--aside_). "OH, LOR!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Coster_ (_to acquaintance, who has been away for some
months_). "WOT ARE YER BIN DOIN' ALL THIS TIME?"

_Bill Robbins_ (_who has been "doing time"_). "OH I'VE BIN WHEELIN' A
BIT, OLE MAN--WHEELIN' A BIT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

HAPPY LOTS FOR HAPPY SCOTS.--The _Glasgow Herald_ has been making fun of
the Scotch--no, we mean the Scottish--no, we don't, we mean the
Scots--Professor. Here is its description of him:--

    He, and he alone, can lead a perfectly groomed life. He has an
    income of between £600 and £2,000 a year. At the outside his
    work, after he has fairly got settled down to it, means four
    hours a day for five days a week during six months of the
    year.... The modern Scotch professor in fact is, or ought to be,
    that "model man of the world," of whom all of us poor slaves of
    business and convention stand secretly in awe.

On the St. Andrews golf links he is to be seen on great occasions
"living up to his moustaches and knickerbockers." He has his London
club, mingles in the highest literary coteries, and is always talking
about "charming girls." Evidently the professorial chair in a Norbritish
University is a very comfortable kind of arm-chair, and our "Arts
Professor" a professor--and practiser, too--of various useful arts.

       *       *       *       *       *

WAIL FROM THE WEST.--They are trying at Bristol to move the G. W. R. to
give better train facilities between Bristol, Salisbury, Southampton,
and Portsmouth; and the Chamber of Commerce has sent in a memorial
asking for a "complete remodelling of the service between such important
centres of commercial activity," and complaining of the "unsatisfactory
service of trains on other parts of your system," particularly on the
Devizes, Marlborough, and Reading branch. Why, suggests the Chamber, not
run three fast trains a day up and down _viâ_ the new Holt Junction,
"instead of all trains going into Trowbridge, and waiting nearly an
hour." Why, indeed? West-of-Englanders seem to think that "your system"
needs strengthening, and so they are supplying a little bark as a tonic,
for "local application" only.

  To this Chamber of Commerce the fault of the Co.
  Is running too seldom, and moving too slow.

       *       *       *       *       *

EVIDENT, AS APPROPRIATE SITE.--"_Eely_ Place" for a _Conger_-regational
Chapel.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAST TURNPIKE.

    ["The last of the old turnpike trusts is to terminate on the 1st
    of November."--_Daily News._]

  Remember, remember the first of November!--
    The old turnpike system grew old, ripe, and rotten;
  But man loves to dream by the Past's waning ember,
    And turnpikes, though troublesome, won't be forgotten.
  Like old inns and highwaymen, stocks and stage-coaches,
    The white turnpike bars have their memories fragrant;
  But on quaint antiquities Progress encroaches.
    The knight of the road, and the picturesque vagrant,
  The "Highflyer" coach and the postchaise have vanished;
    And now the old turnpike is destined to follow.
  When from his snug box the last toll-taker's banished,
    One feels the Romance of the Road will sound hollow.
  The toll was a nuisance, the toll-keeper grumpy,
    He turned out to pocket his coppers and tanners
  With curt elocution which made one feel jumpy;
    There wasn't much charm in his dress or his manners.
  His "stand and deliver" made timid folk quiver,
    And when not despotic he mostly looked drowsy;
  He'd keep you a-waiting till all of a shiver,
    Then yawn on you, looking forbidding and frowsy.
  And yet his snug box and white bars had attractions.
    The gleam from his fire, the red rose o'er his portal,
  Would make you forgive his rough ways and exactions,
    And TURPIN and _Weller_ have made him immortal.
  His locks, bolts, and bars were extremely obstructive,
    But then his white apron and mannerless greeting--
  In retrospect--take on a something seductive.
    Sure oft on our highways his spook, slowly fleeting,
  With glimmering shirt-sleeves and coin-chinking pocket,
    Will haunt the lone traveller; make him remember
  The jolly old days of the fast-rattling "Rocket,"
    And heave one sad sigh for this fatal November.

       *       *       *       *       *

"APPROBATION FROM SIR HUBERT STANLEY IS PRAISE INDEED!"--Sir ARTHUR was
highly pleased with the Leeds Festival chorus-folk. "I praise you," he
said to them, "from the bottom of my heart." Praise from "the top of a
heart" would be nothing, but to pump it up, from the depths, expresses
the profundity of admiration. Then added Sir Arthur, "The greatest
privilege of my life is"--now just pause; think what could possibly be
"the greatest privilege" of Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN'S life? The privilege of
musical genius? No. Give it up? Yes. Then read on. "The greatest
privilege of my life is that His Royal Highness will, at my request,
tell you what he thinks of the chorus." O immortal _Jabberwock!_

  "O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
    He chortled in his joy."

Whereupon H. R. H. observed, most discreetly, "It is not for me to make
criticisms; that I leave to your amiable conductor." Bee-ew-tiful!! This
chorus will "get a bit above itself." Dangerous precedent, O amiable
conductor!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCENES AT THE UGANDA EXHIBITION OF 1900.

No. I.--THE OPENING CEREMONY WENT OFF WITH GREAT ÉCLAT.]

       *       *       *       *       *

SMORLTORKIANA.

    ["Count Smorltork--the famous foreigner--gathering materials for
    his great work on England!... 'Have you been long in England?'
    asked Mr. Pickwick. 'Long--very long time--fortnight--more.' 'Do
    you stay here long?' 'One week.' 'You will have enough to do,'
    said Mr. Pickwick, 'to gather all the materials you want in that
    time.' 'Eh, they are gathered,' said the Count."--_Pickwick._]

  The Smorltork race have multiplied
    Since DICKENS wrote about them.
  They prate and rate on every side;
    Fools read, and wise men doubt them.
  _To_ every land _from_ every land,
    Post-haste, the prattlers travel.
  They take a week to understand,
    A fortnight to unravel,
  A month, at most, to write a book
    That sums up all creation;
  They fathom England in a look.
    And France in a sensation.
  But most of all they seem to love
    To cross the wide Atlantic.
  _Then_ Jove and all the gods above
    Must roar at Smorltork antic.
  SMORLTORK--a Briton or a Frank,
    A scribe or a fanatic--
  The Yankee race will gauge, grade, rank,
    In summary emphatic.
  He, like a cockney sparrow, cocks
    His eye at all around him,
  As Pharisee his sense it shocks,
    As Philistine, confounds him.
  In seven hours he sums a State,
    In seven days the lot of them;
  And his next business is--to "slate"
    And talk prodigious rot of them.
  At a huge, motley continent
    He gives a glance quite cursory,
  And vows it seethes with discontent,
    And is corruption's nursery.
  He finds New York a Tammany den,
    Chicago just a Hades;
  The Yankees not quite gentlemen,
    The Yankee girls scarce ladies.
  Slave to the sex, the male, he vows,
    Is but the female's poodle;
  And when not worshipping his spouse,
    He bows the knee to "Boodle."
  The labouring East, the lawless West,
    He scans in a "split second,"
  And in "two jiffs" of scampering quest
    The Stars and Stripes are "reckoned."
  They're "gathered" in his shallow brain,
    Like pea-nuts in a pannikin.
  Bah! SMORLTORK is a vapid, vain,
    Vituperative mannikin.
  "Potry, poltic, science, art,
    _All_ tings"--from pigs to pictures--
  He bans in criticisms "smart,"
    And sciolistic strictures.
  Of courtesy the open shame,
    Of feelings coarse affronter.
  He's only fit to play the game
    Of Mrs. LEO HUNTER.
  For when to other lands he strays,
    The fool insults their banners,
  Because _he_ doesn't like their ways,
    Nor understand their manners.
  Peripatetic _Podsnap_, he
    Makes _Punch's_ nerves feel tinglish,
  Who naught of good abroad can see
    Because it is not "English."
  Ah, Brother JONATHAN, old friend,
    The Smorltork chitter-chatter
  Some day, like Tammany, will end,
    Meanwhile it doesn't matter.
  The SMORLTORKS are a shallow set,
    Cantankerous and cranky;
  But _Punch_ takes not from them, "you bet,"
    His notions of things Yankee!

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO OF STALKERS.--"Going for deer life!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Curate._ "SO SORRY TO HEAR YOUR HUSBAND'S MET WITH AN
ACCIDENT, MRS. SNAPE."

_Mrs. Snape._ "YES, SIR, 'E'S VERY BAD, PORE MAN! 'E WUR WORKIN' ON THE
RAILWAY LINE TH' OTHER DAY AN' A ENGINE COME ALONG AN' RUN CLEAN OVER
'IS PORE LEG; AN' NOW 'E'LL BE LAID UP ABED FOR WEEKS. IT'S WHAT I
B'LIEVE THE DOCTORS CALLS _LOCOMOTIVE ATTACKS YE!_]

       *       *       *       *       *

NET PROFITS.--Mr. CUMMING MACDONA, M. P.'s recent letter to the _Times_
about the hundred French boats that he saw starting from Dieppe for a
three months' fishing cruise off the west coast of Ireland, has led to a
demand by Irish papers for Government help to Irish fisheries. Why, they
ask, should money be given to farmers and not to fishers? The _Cork
Constitution_, however, goes to the root of things by saying that "want
of enterprise and thrift," not want of pence, leads to Irish fish being
caught by the anglers of Dieppe. The State has already constructed
improved harbours and light railways. It is for the fisher-folk to
respond by getting boats and nets, and using them; until which time the
early Gaul will get the best haul.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIMS REEVES AT THE EMPIRE.

  My pretty JANE! My pretty JANE!
    The contract did I sign!
  So meet me, meet me at the Empire!
    I sing at half-past nine.
  It may be earlier, or later, JANE.
    For time your SIMS sims to defy,
  But read the posters of the Empire--
    The boom will catch your eye!

       *       *       *       *       *

MUSICAL NOTE.--A "_Mass in B_" has been composed by MASS-EN-ET.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SHAKSPEARIAN LINE.--The one that takes you to Stratford-on-Avon.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

    ["Gentlemen, the way to see London is from the top of a
    'bus--from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen!"--_Mr. Gladstone to
    American Visitors._]

No. VII.--'BUSSES, BILKS, AND BOOSYS.

  Top of a 'bus! Well, I've nothing to say against knifeboards or
          garden-seats, quite the contrairy.
  Looked at as look-outs on London itself, _as_ a city, they're easy,
          commanding, and airy.
  G. O. M. hit it in once to those Yankees. But still, if you'd view
          London _life_, as a wholer,
  Not mere bricks and mortar and lamp-posts, I'll back what cute
          BENJAMIN D. called the London Gondōler.

  _I_'ve drove the Grand Old One, though 'e's such a walker 'e don't
          give the wheels so much work as did DIZZY.
  But I'd like to stick 'im some hours on _my_ perch with my 'ed at 'is
          elber. Ah, _then_ we'd be busy.
  The 'bus 'as the pull of us one way, you see; _our_ fares can't git
          mounting the roof; they're insiders!
  But Cabby looks inside _and_ out, and that way gits the bulge on the
          rest of the drivers and riders.

  Moresomeover the 'busses and trams keep the main, whilst we 'Ansoms
          can take all the short-cuts and bye-ways;
  And when you know sububs and slums, you're aware London life don't all
          run in the big stream of 'ighways.
  Its creeks and its backwaters, ditches and dykes, they teem, fairly
          teem, though their dwellers--poor cusses!--
  Can only just ketch the tram-bells in the distance, and ain't never
          bossed from the knifeboards of 'busses.

  That's just where swell ink-slingers miss the true London. That wasn't
          the way though with good CHARLEY DICKENS.
  _Pickwick_ is one of the books in our Shelter, and _Pickwick_, I 'old,
          gives the reader rare pickins.
  When drying my legs over corfee and heggs I git a larf out o' that
          patter o' _Sammy_.
  It ain't quite _our_ up-to-date kibosh, o' course, but the way as that
          _Sam_ chewed the rag was just jammy.

  Knowed some queer things about London, _'e_ did, _'is_ London, of
          course, cabrioleys and such-like.
  _My_ survey's "extensive," and likeways "pecooliar," in that me and
          _Sammy_ seem much of a much like.
  A whip, like old _Weller_, I do not, like 'im, do the same bit o'
          road, come-day-go-day together.
  I know, in my line, every inch of the town, at all times o' day, and
          in all sorts o' weather.

  I'd just like a turn "Round the Town" with young _Sam_, or a talk over
          sossige and mashed in our Shelter;
  Comparing of notes, with the Growler for chorus, I 'aven't no doubt we
          should come out a pelter.
  "Cabby," they sing, "knows 'is fare." I should think so, or else 'e
          must be a blind mug or a babby.
  And who, from a dook to a chorister minx, 'asn't, one time or other,
          _been_ "fare" to a Cabby?

  I've driven the dook and the damsel together, as fur as that goes. And
          the dook was that squiffy
  'E wanted to go me "dooks up" for the fare. But that would 'ave
          brought down the slops in a jiffy.
  You mustn't 'ave _much_ flesh and blood, as a Cabby, I tell you. At
          scrapping we're most of us 'andy;
  But knockin' out nobs, as a rule, doesn't pay, when said nobs 'ave
          been mixing champagne and neat brandy.

  The boosys and bilks try our tempers, I tell you. But tempers are
          luxuries, like sparrer grass is.
  If you've seen a helderly, hamorous gent, _on_ the tiddley, you know
          what a worriting ass is.
  Argue for hours about sixpence, 'e will, then 'unt all 'is pockets,
          and find 'e aint got one.
  Collapse in a corner, and fall fast asleep, with a boiled baby smile
          on 'is chump. _'E_'s a 'ot one.

  Hit 'im? Oh no! 'E may waste you a hour, and then offer a drink, which
          'e 'asn't the price of,
  And maunder and mumble till you are arf mad; but if an old stager
          you'll take the advice of,
  You _won't_ knock 'is 'ead off! It's tempting, I know, and sometimes
          you would give twice the fare for the pleasure;
  But squiffy old gents are the magistrates' pets, they've got money--at
          'ome--and, what's more, lots of leisure!

  "TREACLE" now, can't 'old 'is tongue with old Tiddleys. Poor "TREACLE"
          was once a smart gentleman farmer,
  And kep 'is own dog-cart. 'E's got one fair daughter, who, even in
          chocolate cotton's a charmer.
  Ah! sweet as fresh 'ay, in a manner o' speaking, is young BESSIE
          FINCH, though she's but a machiner.
  Its curious 'ow sulky old "TREACLE" lights up when 'is gal BESSIE
          brings 'im 'is poor bit o' dinner.

  'E was just taking up an old Tiddley one time when Miss BESSIE turned
          up, and the bosky old geeser
  Made eyes at the maid, and said just arf a word, when poor TREACLE'S
          fist caught 'im a slap on 'is sneezer
  As made 'im see stars. 'Twas a trifle too previous, p'r'aps, for a
          sulky old chip of a Cabby;
  A 'ero don't _look_ like a 'ero somehow when 'is phiz is wind-blue and
          'is billycock shabby.

  Old Tiddley was quite a respectable gent, a benevolent buffer, who
          lived out at Clapham;
  And when subub saints 'ave been dining a mossel, it won't do for
          grumpy old Growlers to slap 'em.
  So "TREACLE," as usual, got toko, you see, likeways missed a good
          fare, 'long o' bein' too 'asty;
  Which shows as a Cabby 'is temper must check, and in trifles must not
          be _too_ ticklish or tasty.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR FAMILY EXCHANGE COLUMN.

[The _Review of Reviews_ has started a Baby and Matrimonial Exchange.]

WANTED IMMEDIATELY, a Complete Set of Ancestors, by Advertiser, who is
giving up Business and going in for High Finance. Crusaders or
Plantagenets Preferred, or County Family of not less than Three Hundred
Years Standing, on Approval. Guaranteed Pedigree Required. Will offer in
Exchange 100,000 £1 Consolidated Gold Mine Shares.--Address, "South
Africa," 507, Boom St.

I WILL GIVE UP All Rights in my Mother-in-Law in return for Second-hand
Safety Bicycle, or 10_s._ Cash.--ED., Angelina Villas.

A BOON TO TESTATORS!--What Offers? A Poor Relation is Willing to Adopt
Wealthy Old Lady (without encumbrance), having recently had a difference
with his Relatives. Will Gladly exchange Views on the subject with any
Benevolent and Elderly Gentlewoman.--"Legatee," c/o SMITHERS,
Tobacconist, Old Kent Road.

[Illustration]

CHANCE FOR PHILANTHROPISTS!--Absolutely Given Away!! After-season
Clearance. Professional Man wishes to part with the last of a large
assortment of Indigent Relatives. Excellent Opening for Capitalist.
Warranted a Steady and Reliable Applicant for Assistance. No Charitable
Old Maid should miss this Opportunity.--Address "Ratepayer," care of
SMITHERS, Tobacconist. O. K. Road.

TWINS!--TWINS!!--TWINS!!!--Do you Want a Pair of Twins, quite new, with
good strong voices and hearty appetites? They would appeal _to_ any
Mother's Heart. Must reduce establishment. Would hand over to any young
Married Couple with a Vacancy. Will take Fox-terrier or Prize
Bantam.--"Pater," Letter Box 8 W.

WILL ANYONE oblige me with a Third Cousin-Twice-Removed, as my
collection of specimens is incomplete? Have Half-step-sister-in-law
(very rare variety, and very little worn) to spare.--"G.," "Family Tree"
Inn, Hanwell.

GEORGE has a Smart and Good-looking Sister, whom he would be glad to
swap for some Other Fellow's Sister, of similar appearance. Best Man
also wanted.--Address, Bray House, Strand.

TO SELL OR EXCHANGE, a Job Lot of Uncles, mostly Wrong 'Uns. Would do
for Sandwich-Men or Supers. No cash offer refused.--"A Dutiful Nephew,"
1, Queer Street.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING ATTRACTIVE IN A NAME.--Among the directors on the Board of the
Mount Torrens Gold Mining Co., Limited, occurs a delightful name which
we have not seen in real life since it first appeared in _Strapmore_
many years ago. It is "ALF PINTO"; the surname is "LEITE," and he is
"Director of the Miner's Dream Gold Mines, Limited,"--why limit a
"dream"? Is it not delightfully attractive? We trust "ALF PINTO" will
find plenty of _Whole Quartz O!_ and that the success of the "M. T. G.
M." may be the exact opposite of its two first initials, _i.e._, not "M.
T." but quite full, up to the brim.

       *       *       *       *       *

CANADIAN COPYRIGHT.--_The Author_ says "the much-vexed question of
Canadian copyright has at length made some steps towards a settlement."
Mr. CAINE, who has sailed for Canada, as one of the "settlers," is equal
to "two single gentleman rolled into one," being certainly CAINE and,
most decidedly, Able.