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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 10, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 10, 1891" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



VOL. 101.

October 10, 1891.



       *       *       *       *       *



    ["The Anthropoid apes, of which there was recently such a
    representative series in the Zoo, have dwindled sadly in
    numbers this year. The lamented decease of 'Sally' was
    referred to a few weeks ago; we have now to record the death
    of 'George,' the Orang-Outang."--_Daily News_.]

  Late for the Chimpanzee the requiem rang,
  Now the bell tolls for the Orang-Outang.
  Well may spasmodic sobs choke childhood's gorge,
  Now they who sighed for "Sally" grieve for "George."
  A "wilderness of monkeys" can't console,
  For Anthropoids defunct. Of Apedom's whole,
  One little Chimpanzee, one Gibbon small,
  (Who ought to write his race's "Rise and Fall,")
  Alone remain to cheer the tearful Zoo,
  And mitigate lone boyhood's loud bohoo!
  "Sally" adieu! to "George" a long farewell!
  Ah! muffle if you please their passing bell!
  Only one thought can cheer us in the least;
  "No doubt the stock will shortly be increased."
  Thanks, _Daily News_! Wipe, childhood, the wet eye,
  And Apedom for dead kin soften the Simian sigh!

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: A Native Hoister.]

  He was a gentle Fishmonger, and WILLIAMSON his name,
  No doubt you may have heard before his philanthropic game.
  The lack of oysters pained him much, for how could people royster
  And happy be in r-less months without the luscious oyster?

  A look of pain was in his face, a pucker on his brow,
  Long time he pondered very hard to try and find out how.
  At last he cried, "Eureka! from France I'll go and bring them,
  And into beds I've got at home without a murmur fling them."

  Then they came across the Channel, and he very sweetly said,
  "So glad to see you looking well, would you like to see your bed?
  For there, my little dears, you stay; you'll one day know the reason.
  I'll rouse you when the month of May makes natives out of season."

  The Fishmongers, the Worshipful, sent down a man to see,
  He wrung his hands and shook his head, and said, "Oh, miseree!
  It pains me very deeply, and it drives me to distraction,
  You've done what's wrong, and I shall have to institute an action."

  Then WILLIAMSON, he sobbed aloud, and shed a bitter tear,
  "Oh, hang it all," he cried, "why _must_ you come and interfere?
  I quite admit, however, that I see your point precisely,
  So don't let's quarrel, let's be friends, and bring the action nicely."

  They brought that friendly action, and the clever counsel tried
  To prove to FAUDELL PHILLIPS that the law was on his side.
  But the oyster-dealer found the law for him was one too many,
  So he had to pay the piper--to be quite exact, a penny.

  And you who love your oyster in the latter end of May,
  In June, July, and August, too, will sadly rue the day,
  For philanthropic folk will find it unremunerative
  To introduce in summer-time this Franco-English native.[1]

[Footnote 1: Oysters are to be six shillings a dozen this winter!! How
many of the ordinarily careless will now be compelled to go by RULES
without going in for Oysters. N.B.--"Action" in these verses is poetic
license for "summons."]

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_A Place of Meeting. Enter Parliamentary Leader and
    his Subordinate. They greet one another effusively._

_Leader_ (_cordially_). And now, my dear fellow, how are my interests?

_Sub._ (_with much heartiness_). Getting on capitally! Just been
writing to all the papers to say that it is stupid to call you "Old
Dot-and-go-one," because it is inapplicable to either your age or your
mode of controversy.

_Lead._ (_with a feeble smile_). That _was_ kind of you! But who had
said it?

_Sub._ (_airily_). Oh, someone of about fourth-rate importance! and it
had been quite forgotten you know. So I dragged it up again, and put
it all right for you.

_Lead._ (_shaking hands_). Thanks, so very much. But if persons had
forgotten it, why revert to it?

_Sub._ Oh, don't you see? Why, the point is, you are not a bit like
it-not a scrap like it! Next week I shall write and say that
it's rubbish to call you a turncoat, because you have always been

_Lead._ (_anxiously_). But _is_ anybody calling me a turncoat?

_Sub._ Not that I know of, but they might, don't you see. So it's as
well to be on the safe side. I shall say that, if any one _did_ call
you a turncoat, that the speaker would prove himself a liar! That
ought to give you a leg up, oughtn't it?

_Lead._ (_with some hesitation_). My dear friend, you are _most_ kind;
but if you don't mind, I would be so immensely obliged if you would
leave my interests alone.

_Sub._ (_with great cordiality_). What, leave your interests alone!
Never! You may be always sure of _my_ hearty support!

_Lead._ (_earnestly_). But as a personal matter, I must beg of you
kindly to leave me alone.

_Sub._ (_reluctantly_). Well, of course, if you make it a personal
matter, I must consent. But the Party will suffer.

_Lead._ (_dryly_). Possibly--from your point of view. [_Exeunt._

       *       *       *       *       *

JAWFUL NEWS!--_The Diminution of the Jaw in the Civilised Races_ is
the title of a pamphlet by Mr. F. HOWARD COLLINS. We haven't read
it; but if it be in favour of the diminution of "jaw," we heartily
recommend its study to all Members of Parliament, actual or intending,
and to all post-prandial speechmakers generally.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Bumble (after reading Dr. T. Orme Duffield's Report to the Vestry
of Kensington on the health and sanitary condition of the district),

  Oh bother this sanit'ry bosh! Always piping the same dull old strains,
  One would think there wos nothink in life to be done but go sniffing the
  Wich my nose is a dalicot one, and I don't like the job, not by lumps;
  And I _won't_ be perpetual poked up by these peeping and prying old pumps.
  "Bumbledom and Disease!" I like that,--like the _Times_' dashed himperence,
      I think.
  We porochial pots is to pass all our time a-prospecting for Stink!
  Doctor DUDFIELD thinks WE should inspeck, periodical, all privit dwellings,
  Discover and show up defecks, sech as fumings and leakings, and smellings,
  As "lurk unsuspected about," which the tenants theirselves do not twig,
  And the landlords, in course, don't remove. Well, your tenant is mostly a
  And your landlord is sometimes a 'og; still between 'em _we_ jest slip
  But do dooty for both of 'em? Snakes! that is coming it slightly _too_
  The tenants 'old on jest as long as they can, and the landlords 'old orf.
  A sort of a ketchy sore-throat, or a bit of a qualm or a korf,
  Make some idjots go fair orf their chumps on diphtheria, and typhod and
  But then others, who don't like a hupset, put up with the lot, pooty much,
  Jest to save topsy-turvey and 'oles in the garden, and mud on the stairs;
  Landlords, likeways, is dabs at postponing, and patching, and 'ushing up
  But if _we_ are to spot wot goes quisby, and be the responsible chaps,
  Wheugh! we _should_ 'ave a regular beanfeast with sockets and air-pipes
      and traps!
  No, no, westry worrying sneaks, it won't work. As for "W.B.E."
  He may frighten the Kensington lot, he won't 'ave no effeck upon Me!
  Diphtheria be jolly well dashed! It is often, as DUDFIELD explains,
  Mere "follicular(--hem!--) tonsillitis." _Me_ bother my 'ed about Drains?
  Go to! I 'ave got other fish, in a manner of speaking, to fry,
  That L.C.C. gave itself airs and declared it would wipe my old heye
  With its bloomin' Big Pots and "Progressives." Aha! where the doose are
      they now?
  Mister ROSEBERY resigned, regular sick of bad manners and endless bow-wow;
  Now LIBBOCK and FARRER are orf. FARRER gave the _Times_ one in the eye,
  'Cos it seemed for to 'int even he of them precious Progressives wos shy.
  Swears their manners is quite up to dick, most consid'rit, and all that
      there stuff.
  Well they may 'ave been Brummels of course, but _he seems to 'ave 'ad
      quite enough!_
  'Owsomever, wotever the cause, now they're quit of the Great Toffy Three,
  They must 'ave a new Chairman, in course, and--ha! ha!--_wot_ a hopening
      for Me!!
  Porochial Bumble _must_ rule, spite of fads, in a steady and sane age,
  And 'aving a heye on High Orfice _I_ can't waste _my_ time on mere

    [_Kicks Report, and strikes an attitude._

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


  Ah! Pirate KID's Treasure _has_ done good we know,
  It suggested a rattling good story to POE.
  But the "Syndicate" started to seek where 'tis hid,
  Will probably find that same Treasure--"_all_ KID!"

       *       *       *       *       *





  Ten minutes here! The sun is sinking
  And longingly we've long been thinking,
        Of Tea, Tea, fragrant Tea!

  The marble slabs we gather round,
    They're long in bringing what is wanted.
  The china cup with draught embrown'd
    Our thirsty souls are wholly haunted
        By Tea, Tea, fragrant Tea!

  Now then, you waiter, stir, awaken!
  Time's up. I'll hardly save my bacon.
        Tea, Tea, bring that Tea!

  At last! The infusion's rayther dark.
    But hurry up! Can't stay for ever!
  One swig! Br-r-r-r! Hang the cunning shark!
    Will't never cool? Nay, never, never!
        Tea, Tea, scalding Tea!

  More milk; don't be an hour in bringing!
  Heavens! That horrid bell is ringing!
    "Take your seats, please!" Can't _touch_ the Tea!
  Cup to the carriage must not take;
    Crockery may be lost, or broken;
  Refreshment sharks are wide awake.
    But--many a naughty word is spoken
        O'er Tea, Tea, scalding Tea!

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTHING NEW.--The Editor of the _Gentlewoman_ announces a forthcoming
novel to be written by about a dozen or more novelists. _Mr. Punch_
highly commends this spirited enterprise. The scheme is not absolutely
a novelty, as in _Mr. Punch's_ pages some time ago, was there not
a "Limited Novel Co." of Authors and Artists to produce "Chikkin
Hazard?" They combined, but did not collaborate. But any way, success
to the _Gentlewoman_!

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHERE IS DAT BARTY NOW?"--After the recent suicide of _le pauvre
Général_, the Boulangist party cannot be said to have been left
without leaders, at all events, in England, as they have had leaders
in all the papers, and actually two in the _Times_.

       *       *       *       *       *


NO. X.

    SCENE--_A flight of steps by the lake in the grounds of the
    Insel Hotel, Constance. Time, late afternoon. A small boat,
    containing three persons, is just visible far out on the
    glassy grey-green water. BOB PRENDERGAST and PODBUBY are
    perched side by side on a parapet, smoking disconsolately._

_Podbury._ Do they look at all as if they meant to come in? I tell you
what, BOB, vote we row out to them and tell them they'll be late for
_table d'hôte_. Eh? [_He knocks out his pipe._

_Prendergast_ (_phlegmatically_). Only be late for it ourselves if we
do. They'll come in when they want to.

_Podb._ It's not safe for your sister,--I'm hanged if it is--going
out in a boat with a duffer like CULCHARD! He'll upset her as sure as

_Prend._ (_with fraternal serenity_). With pin-oars? Couldn't if he
tried! And they've a man with them, too. The less I see of that chap
CULCHARD the better. I did hope we'd choked him off at Nuremberg. I
hate the sight of his supercilious old mug!

_Podb._ You can't hate it more than I do--but what can I do?
(_Pathetically._) I've tried rotting him, but somehow he always
manages to get the best of it in the end. I never saw such a beggar to
hang on!

[Illustration: "Gets up and quits the room with dignity."]

_Prend._ What on earth made you ask him to come on here, after he
declared he wouldn't?

_Podb._ I! _I_ ask him? He settled it all with your sister. How could
_I_ help it?

_Prend._ I'd do _something_. Why can't you tell him right out he ain't
wanted? _I_ would--like a shot!

_Podb._ It's not so easy to tell him as you think. We haven't been
on speaking terms these three days. And, after all (_feebly_) we're
supposed to be travelling together, don't you know! _You_ might drop
him a hint now.

_Prend._ Don't see how I can very well--not on my own hook. Might lead
to ructions with HYPATIA, too.

_Podb._ (_anxiously_). BOB, you--you don't think your sister

_Prend._ HYPATIA's a rum girl--always was. She certainly don't seem to
object to your friend CULCHARD. What the dickens she can see in him,
I don't know!--but it's no use my putting _my_ oar in. She'd only jump
on _me_, y'know!

_Podb._ (_rising_). Then I _must_. If that's what he's really after,
I think I can stop his little game. I'll try, at any rate. It's a long
worm that has no turning, and I've had about enough of it. The first
chance I get. I'll go for him.

_Prend._ Good luck to you, old chap. There, they're coming in now.
We'd better go in and change, eh? We've none too much time.

    [_They go in._

    _In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors
    opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German
    and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English
    Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing.
    CULCHARD is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering
    the jokes in "Fliegende Blätter." PODBURY is at the bookcase,
    turning over odd TAUCHNITZ volumes._

_The Chaplain's Wife_ (_to the Curate, a new arrival_). Oh, you will
_very_ soon get into all our little ways. The hours here are _most_
convenient--breakfast (_table d'hôte_) with choice of eggs or fish and
coffee--really _admirable_ coffee--from eight to nine; midday dinner
at one. Supper at nine. Then, if you want to write a letter, the post
for England goes out at--(_&c., &c._) And on Sundays, eleven
o'clock service (Evangelical, of _course_!) at the--(_&c., &c._) My
husband--(_&c., &c._)

_First Old Maid_ (_looking up from a four days old "Telegraph"_). I
see they are still continuing that very interesting correspondence on
"Our Children's Mouths--and are they widening?" One letter attributes
it to the habit of thumb--sucking in infancy--which certainly ought to
be checked. Now I never _would_ allow any--

_The Chaplain's Wife_. Nor I. But corals are quite as bad. Only this
afternoon I was telling a Lady in this hotel that her little boy would
be much happier with a rubber ring. You get them at a shop in the
Hoch-strasse I can take you to it at any time, or if you like to
mention my name--(_&c., &c._)

_Second O.M._ One correspondent thought the practice of eating soup
with table-spoons tended to enlarge the mouth. I really believe there
may be something in it. [_A pause._

_The Curate_. The weather we have been having seems to have materially
affected the harvest prospects at home; they say there will be little
or no fodder for the cattle this year. I saw somewhere--I forget where
it was exactly--a suggestion to feed cows on chickweed.

_Podb._ (_at the bookcase_). Capital thing for them too, Sir. Know a
man who never gives his cattle anything else.

_The Curate_. Oh, really? And does he find the experiment answer?

_Podb._ They take to it like birds. And--curious thing--after he'd
tried it a month, all the cows turned yellow and went about chirping
and twittering and hopping. Fact, I assure you!

_The Curate_. Dear me--I should scarcely have--

    [_He gradually comes to the conclusion that he is being
    trifled with, and after a few moments of uncomfortable
    silence, gets up and quits the room with dignity._

_Podb._ (_to himself_). _One_ of 'em gone! Now if I can only clear
these old tabbies out, I can tackle CULCHARD. (_Aloud, to Chaplain's
Wife._) You don't happen to know if there's a good doctor here, I
suppose? A lady was saying in the Musik-saal--the lady with the three
daughters who came this afternoon--that she was afraid they were in
for bad feverish colds or something, and asking who there was to call

_The C.'s W._ Oh, I've no belief in foreign doctors. I always find a
few drops of aconite or pulsatilla,--I have my homoeopathic case with
me now. Perhaps, if I went and had a talk with her I could--[_She goes
out energetically._

_Podb._ Another gone! (_To the Old Maids._) So you ain't going down
to the Cloisters to-night? I'm told there's to be some fun
there--Hide-and-seek, or something--first-rate place for it,
especially now the moon's up!

_First Old Maid_. Nobody told _us_ a word about it. Hide-and-seek--and
in those quaint old Cloisters too--It sounds delightful! What do you
say, TABITHA. Shall we just--? Only to look _on_, you know. We needn't
_play_, unless--

    [_The Two Old Maids withdraw in a pleased flutter. PODBURY
    crosses to CULCHARD._

_Podb._ (_with determination_). Look here, CULCHARD, I'd just like to
know what you mean by the way you're going on.

_Culch._ I thought we were both agreed that discussions of this kind--

_Podb._ It's all bosh our travelling together if we're not to have any
discussions. You've been on the sulk long enough. And I'll thank
you to inform me what you're after here, going about alone with Miss
PRENDERGAST like this, in the Museum with her all the morning, and on
the lake again this afternoon,--it won't _do_, you know!

_Culch._ If she happens to prefer my society to yours and her
brother's, I presume you have no claim to interfere.

_Podb._ I don't know about that. How about Miss TROTTER?

_Culch._ If I remember rightly, you yourself were not insensible to
Miss TROTTER's--er--attractions?

_Podb._ Perhaps not; but I am not engaged to her--you _are_. You told
me so in the train.

_Culch._ You entirely misunderstood me. There was no definite
understanding between us--nothing of the sort or kind. In fact, it was
merely a passing caprice. Since I have had the privilege of knowing
Miss PRENDERGAST, I see clearly--

_Podb._ Then you mean to propose to her, eh?

_Culch._ That is certainly my intention; have you any objection to

_Podb._ Only that I mean to propose too. I daresay my chances are as
good as yours--even now.

_Culch._ I doubt it, my dear fellow; however, don't let _me_
discourage you.

_Podb._ I don't intend to. (_The figure of Miss PRENDERGAST is seen
to pass the glazed doors, and move slowly across the Musik-saal;
both rush to the door, and look after her._) She's gone out into the
balcony. 'Jove, I'll go, too, and get it over!

_Culch._ I should not advise you to do so. It is possible she may have
gone there with the--er--expectation of being joined by--by somebody
else. [_He smiles complacently._

_Podb._ You mean she gave you a _rendezvous_ there? I don't believe

_Culch._ I did not say so. But I am not prepared to deny that I have
been waiting here with some such expectation.

_Podb._ (_holding the door_). If you go, I go too--that's all.

_Culch._ Don't be absurd. You will only be _de trop_, I assure you.

_Podb._ _De trop_ or not, I mean going--she shall choose between us.

_Culch._ (_turning pale_). I suppose you intend to enlighten her as to
my--er--little flirtation (before I knew _her_) with Miss TROTTER? Do
it, PODBURY, do it--if you think you'll gain any good by it!

_Podb._ Telling tales is not exactly in my line. But you don't go on
that balcony without me--that's all.

_Culch._ Well, listen to reason, my dear fellow. What you propose is
ridiculous. I--I don't mind conceding this: we'll each go, and--er tit
up, as you call it, which goes first.

_Podb._ Done with you! (_Produces a mark._) Sudden death. You're
Eagle--I'm the other Johnny. (_Tosses._) Eagle! Confound you! But I
mean to have my innings all the same.

_Culch._ You're perfectly welcome--when I've had mine. I'll--er--wish
you good evening.

    [_He stalks out triumphantly. PODBURY places himself in a
    position from which he can command a view of the Musik-saal,
    over the top of "über Land und Meer," and awaits results._

       *       *       *       *       *



My friend, THOMAS GIDLING, is something indefinite and authoritative
in the Post Office. He is a practical man. He can do fretwork, cook a
steak, clean boots, find out what's wrong with the gas, and understand
Waterloo Station; in an emergency he is invaluable. This is just as
well, because destiny has decided that the life of THOMAS GIDLING
shall be a series of emergencies. He has comfortable bachelor
quarters at the very top of Parkington Chambers, which are situated in


One night last winter I had been dining with GIDLING at his Club;
after dinner he proposed that we should go round to his flat for a
talk and a smoke. GIDLING, being practical, can make coffee, which is
a thing that they cannot do at GIDLING's Club, nor, indeed, at many
others. So I consented.

We had climbed painfully to the top of Parkington Chambers, and had
just got inside GIDLING's outer door, when we noticed a very marked
and curious smell. "There's something wrong about this," remarked
GIDLING, severely. I agreed with him, adding, out of a nervous
politeness, from which I suffer sometimes, that I rather liked the
smell, "Then you're an idiot," said GIDLING, who never suffers from
politeness at all. He opened the door of his sitting-room, and then we
saw at once what was the matter. The lower part of the chimney was on
fire; the fire-place was covered with glowing masses of soot which had
fallen. "HANKIN's had another nasty touch of that influenza," remarked
GIDLING. HANKIN is GIDLING's servant, and at regular intervals becomes
incapacitated for work. HANKIN himself says that it is influenza, and
speaks of "another of them relapses;" GIDLING thinks that it is as
a rule intoxication. As a matter of fact HANKIN would not be a bad
servant if his zeal was distributed over him rather more evenly. It
is always either excessive or defective. It comes out in lumps. In
neglecting to have the chimney swept HANKIN had shown defect; in the
way that he had piled up the fire he had shown excess. In subsequently
absenting himself from the flat he had shown a certain amount of
wisdom, for GIDLING was rather angry.

"Not but what I can put it all right," said GIDLING. "I'm a practical
man. Fire Brigade? I thought you'd suggest a few fire brigades. No,
not exactly. I'll show you how to stop a thing of this kind." He went
into his bed-room, and returned with the water-jug. An iron ladder
from the main staircase led through a trap-door in the roof. GIDLING
went up this ladder with the water-jug, while I waited to see the
result in the sitting-room, I could hear him walking about on the
roof, and I looked out for a deluge of water to descend down the
chimney into the fire-place. But no deluge came. Presently GIDLING
descended and entered the room with the empty water-jug.

"Did it splash much?" he asked. "No, there was no water came down at

"Oh? Then I've emptied this water-jug down the wrong chimney. We'd
better clear out of this."

At this juncture HANKIN returned, and GIDLING said a good deal to him.
HANKIN was left to put out the fire, and we went back again to the
Club. GIDLING seemed rather annoyed with me for laughing about his

"It's a deuced awkward thing," he said. "That water went down
somebody's chimney, and it's put somebody's fire out. That means
unpleasantness, you know, if he or she finds out who did it."

"Who live in the flats below yours?" I asked.

"An Art-student and her mother in the flat below mine--they are really
most charming people, and I hope to goodness it wasn't their chimney
that I poured the water down. I'm on rather friendly terms with them.
Then on the first floor there's BUDWELL. He's a conceited affected
ape. I only hope it was he who got the benefit of that water-jug. It's
rather amusing, you know. BUDWELL's very much in love with Miss VANE
(that's the Art-student), and she loathes him--at least I believe so.
Poor beggar!" GIDLING laughed, sarcastically. "Yes, I hope that was
BUDWELL's chimney, not the other."

It turned out afterwards that it _was_ BUDWELL's chimney, and he found
out that it was GIDLING who had done the deed. So BUDWELL determined
on revenge. He climbed up on to the roof with a large bath-can of
water, intending to empty it down GIDLING's chimney. Chimneys ought to
be labelled. The whole of the contents of that can descended into Mrs.
VANE's fireplace. BUDWELL called and apologised, but it was of no use.
They considered it mean of BUDWELL to take revenge for what was only
a mistake on GIDLING's part; and they were not very well pleased
at having their own fire put out. "A chimney's not the place for a
cataract, you know, Mr. BUDWELL," said Miss VANE.

BUDWELL went back to his own flat and brooded over his misfortunes. He
had now grown still more angry with GIDLING, which was irrational of
him; and he determined to take a still fiercer revenge. Late at night
he conveyed the bath-can and several jugs, all full of water, on to
the roof. There was no fear of his selecting Mrs. VANE's chimney by
mistake this time. One by one he emptied the jugs and the water-can,
and then descended to his own flat, fiendishly triumphant, as he
thought of the havoc he must have made in GIDLING's fire-place.

But when he got to his own flat, he found that he had emptied all that
water down his own chimney.

After that he gave up his revenges, together with his affections and
his apartments. But GIDLING tells the story with considerable unction;
the facts of it were partly derived from BUDWELL's servant and partly
from Miss VANE--with whom GIDLING is beginning to be on more than
friendly terms.

       *       *       *       *       *


The Chair was taken by Mr. JOHN HORNER, P.R.I.N.T.C., lineal
descendant of the celebrated "Jack" of that ilk.


The President said he had no desire to waste the meeting's valuable
time. He would at once address himself (and the company present) to
the myth, if myth it could be called, which had immortalised his own
name. Need he say he alluded to the legend of "Little Jack Horner"?
(_Cheers._) Some commentators are of opinion that "HORNER." was a
typographical error for "HOMER." But the prefix; and the epithet
combined to militate against this ingenious and plausible, but
specious, theory. "HOMER" was not in any sense "Little," nor was his
Pagan name "JACK." Again, "Corner," in the second line, could not
in any language have ever rhymed with "HOMER." He knew that "Cromer"
furnished them with a rhyme for "HOMER;" but if this were accepted,
what became of the ancient Greek, of the Syriac, of the Phoenician,
of the Nimrodic legends, nay, of the very _Iliad_ itself, if "HOMER"
were a native of "Cromer"? (_Loud and prolonged cheers._) No!
"Jack Horner," or, as it was originally written, "Jakorna," was
of Scandinavian origin, and it was, in all probability, a mythmic
rhyth--No, beg pardon, he should say a rhythmic myth (_Cheers_)
sung by a wandering Sam Oar Troupe on their visiting Egypt and the
Provinces before the time of the Celtic-Phoenician O'SIRIS, or at
least before the reign of RAMESES THE FIRST, ancestor of the great
Scotch RAMSEY family--(_Cheers_)--at one of the social entertainments
given on a non-hunting day by that eminent sportsman NIMROD. Then
came the question of where was "the corner" in which Jakorna secluded
himself? Of course, Christmas, as differentiating this pie from all
others, was a modern substitution. The original word was probably
"Kosmik." (_The lecture was still proceeding when our Reporter left,
the dryness of the subject having unfortunately affected his throat._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CONNOISSEUR.



       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The 'tehorni narod'--the inconceivably ill-used, patient,
    long-suffering 'black people,' as the moujiks of White
    Russia are grimly denominated by their rulers--are dying by
    thousands, of sheer starvation, without a hand being stretched
    out by the 'Tchin' to rescue them from the greedy jaws of
    Death."--_Daily Telegraph_.

    The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebelling in

  "Little Father," we have suffered long, and  sorrowed,
    We the "children" of the wonderful White Tsar,
  Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed,
    Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War;
  We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses,
    We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn;
  Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble uses;
      Now we starve--and think--and burn.

  "Little Father," is your power then so paternal
    As in pious proclamation is set forth?
  If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
    Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
  Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
    Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
  Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
      And our weary tale of wrong?

  "Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
    While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
  We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
    The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.
  The golden price of it you hug most gladly.
    Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
  The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
      The pursuit of warrior fame?

  Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
    Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not;
  Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!
    And the end, O Tsar, is--where?--the purpose--what?
  The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
    The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
  And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
      Where the Lion lifts his head.

  And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying
    In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death.
  Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying!
    Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath?
  On armaments aggressive are you spending
    What might solace the "black people" midst their dead?
  Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
      Is there _nothing_ left for bread?

       *       *       *       *       *


    [There has been some correspondence lately about
    Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the _Evening News_ (who
    misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]

  Our THACKERAY in ancient days,
    Wrote of a very famous dish,
  And said in stanzas in its praise,
    'Twas made of several kinds of fish.
  A savoury stew it is indeed,
    And he's "in comfortable case"
  Who finds before him at his need
    A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.

  And now folks laud that dish again,
    And o'er it raise a pretty coil,
  While one rash man we see with pain,
    Would dare to make it minus oil.
  Oh! shade of TERRÉ, you no doubt
    Would make once more the "droll grimace,"
  At such a savage, who left out
    The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THOUGHT-WAVES." (_By an Un-Esoteric._)--The Theosophists talk mistily
about "the concentration of mind-force on a thought-wave"--which seems
only another way of saying that such minds are, at the time, "quite at

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.



       *       *       *       *       *


    (_A Fragment from a Romance dedicated by Mr. Punch to Mr.

"It is entirely your own fault," said the intruder, as he put another
silver tea-pot in his bag.

"I don't see that at all," replied the master of the house, moving
uneasily in his chair.

"Well, I have not time to argue with you," returned the other, as he
held up an enamelled ship of beautiful workmanship. "Dear me, this is
really very fine. I have never seen anything like it before! What is

"I got it at a sale in Derbyshire. I fancy it must be something like
the old Battersea enamel."

"Very fine! And solid silver, too! Well, in all my experience, and
I have been in the profession some twenty years, I have seen nothing
like it. Beautiful! Lovely!"

"If you had not tied my hands behind my back," explained the master
of the house, "I could show you, by lifting that lid, you would see
prettier subjects in the interior of the vessel."

"You certainly tempt me," answered the intruder, "to give you an
increased facility in moving. But it is against my rules. I always
work in a methodical manner, and one of my regulations is, before I
open the safe, I must bind the master of the house hand and foot in
an arm-chair. But what were we talking about?"

"You were saying," returned the other, with a sigh, "that it was my
own fault that I find myself in this painful, this ruinous position.
As a man of education I cannot see how you can advance such a

"But that's the point. I am _not_ a man of education. I don't know
how to play the piano, and can scarcely manage a free-hand sketch of
a cathedral. My Greek is shaky, and I speak French and German with an
accent enough to drive a linguist mad. No, no, you take my word for
it--this little incident would never have happened had you behaved
wisely, and like a public-spirited citizen."

"What do you mean?" asked the householder.

"Why, this, that if you had paid more to the School Board, I would
have received a better education, and have never been a housebreaker.
As it is, I am only making up the difference between the sum you have
paid, and the sum you should have expended."

And the burglar, helping himself to another silver tea-pot, continued
his lucrative work.

       *       *       *       *       *


  The "true sphere of woman"--so HARRISON says--
  In effect--is the family circle. Some praise;
  But to geometricians it strange may appear,
  For a "circle" is only a _part_ of a "sphere."
  Since woman appeared at the wickets, some think
  (Though male cricketers from the conclusion may shrink),
  That the true "sphere" of woman must be, after all,
  A leathern one--typed by a new cricket-ball.
  Young girls think a "Ball" of another guess sort
  Is the sphere in which woman may find truest sport.
  To harmonise all these opinions, 'tis clear,
  Is hard; but, whatever be woman's true sphere,
  Whether found in the dictum of "Positive" HARRISON,
  And what ladies call his "degrading comparison,"
  Or otherwhere,--this will be certainly found,
  If you'll let angry women alone they'll "come _round_."

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The German officials at the frontier, since the relaxation
    of the passport regulations, have been ordered to treat
    foreign passengers with every politeness."--_Daily Papers_.]

Mein Herr, will you do us the honour to descend from the
railway-carriage? It will be merely a matter of form. We need not
disturb those gracious ladies, your wife and daughters.

This is the best way to the Customs. You will notice that we have
swept the path that leads to the door.

Certainly, these arm-chairs are for the use of passengers. We have
placed them there ourselves, and can recommend them.

Is it asking too great a favour to beg you to lend me the keys of your
boxes? A hundred thousand thanks.

Your explanation is absolutely satisfactory. You are bringing these
sixteen unopened boxes of cigars home for your grandmother. It is a
most proper thing to do, and, under the circumstances, the duty will
be remitted.

And these three hundred yards of lace of various makes and ages? An
heir-loom! Indeed! Then, of course, the packet must pass duty-free.

As we have found nothing of consequence in this portmanteau of yours,
it will be unnecessary to search the nineteen boxes of that gracious
lady, your wife. No doubt she has obeyed your instruction not to
smuggle. We are absolutely satisfied with your explanations, and are
greatly obliged to you for your kindness and condescension.

This is the way to the carriage. We have placed steps before the door,
as without a platform it is difficult to ascend.

No, Mein Herr, it is utterly impossible! We are forbidden by the
EMPEROR himself to accept a gratuity.

Yes, Madam, it is indeed without charge. Do not tempt us. Instant
dismissal is the penalty.

Certainly, Mein Herr, you could get the same politeness before the
EMPEROR issued his Imperial instructions.

But then the charge was a thaler!

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["I do not wish to call Mr. GLADSTONE by a name which would
    be both tasteless and pointless."--_Mr. A.V. Dicey's Letter to
    the Times._]

  Tasteless and pointless, DICEY? Well, the time _is_ out of joint,
  And you were born to set it right, though _not_ with "taste" and "point."
  We cannot all do all things, Sir, and if you save the State
  (As the great Twin Brethren mean to in despite of HARCOURT's hate),
  What _does_ it matter, DICEY, if your letters are not quite
  In that style epistolary, which our fathers called "polite"?
  'Tis a little too meticulous--in you--and rather late,
  After giving Mr. GLADSTONE such a wholesome slashing "slate."
  Take heart of grace, dear DICEY, and don't let Sir WILLIAM's "point"
  In your tough (if tasteless) armour find a vulnerable joint.
  "Old Timbertoes" won't trouble, Sir, to wish that _you_ were dead,
  And his taste (_not_ point) forbids him to call you "Old Wooden-head!"

       *       *       *       *       *


    [A Visitor fishing off Deal Pier brought up a gold watch
    and chain on his hook. It is supposed to be one lost by a
    resident, but the lucky angler has not been seen since.]

  Paradoxical portent! Most worthy of rhyme
  Is this fortunate angler who tried to kill time.
  Fate made him the offer, and, wisely, he book'd it;
  He not only killed time, but he caught it,--and "hook'd it."

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


  So high he floated, that he seemed to climb;
  The bladder blown by chance was burst by time.
  Falsely-earned fame fools bolstered at the urns;
  The mob which reared the god the idol burns.
  To cling one moment nigh to power's crest,
  Then, earthward flung, sink to oblivion's rest
  Self-sought, 'midst careless acquiescence, seems
  Strange fate, e'en for a thing of schemes and dreams;
  But CÆSAR's simulacrum, seen by day,
  Scarce envious CASCA's self would stoop to slay,
  And mounting mediocrity, once o'erthrown,
  Need fear--or hope--no dagger save its own.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM BRIGHT TO DULL.--In an interesting article on artificial
reproductions of Nature's treasures, the _Standard_ remarked that
"Real diamonds have been turned out of the chemist's retorts." What a
brilliant chemist he must have been! Probably of Hibernian origin, as
among conversational sparklers there are few on record more brilliant
than "Irish Diamonds." Stay, though! If the real diamonds were "turned
out of the chemist's retorts," then his retorts, without these flashes
of brilliancy, must have been a trifle dull, and he is no longer the
chemist we took him for. "But," to quote our KIPLING, "that is another

       *       *       *       *       *


    [M. ZOLA, in his new Novel, glorifies War, and the
    regenerative mission of human bloodshed.]

  "ZOLA on War," intensifies the "Hola!"
  Of purists who are all for "war on ZOLA!"
  Well, he whose pen is touched with tints from Tophet,
  Is the right man to pose as Red War's Prophet!

       *       *       *       *       *

A TRIFLE FOR _THE BUILDER_.--"When are houses like difficulties?" And
the practical man replies, "When they have to be 'faced.'"

       *       *       *       *       *


_Laconic Waiter_ (_thoroughly familiar with Sporting Major's taste in
Champagne_). "SEVENTY-FOUR, SIR?"

_Sporting Major_ (_down on his luck, after a bad week at Newmarket_).

       *       *       *       *       *



"Respected ANDREW LANG," writes the Baron's Assistant Reader, "I have
read your criticism in _Longman's Magazine_ upon Mr. BARRY PAIN's _In
a Canadian Canoe_. It's an ugly piece of bludgeon work, I admit, but
not convincing to anyone who has read the book of which you speak. You
tear away a line or two from the context, and ask your readers to say
if _that_ is wit or humour. How your admirers would have protested
had any sacrilegious critic ventured to treat one of your own immortal
works in this manner. _Essays in Little_, a book which, by the way,
appeared in the same series for which Mr. BARRY PAIN wrote, is a
pleasant and inoffensive compilation, but even _Essays in Little_
would have presented a sorry appearance if, let us say, ANDREW LANG
had reviewed it in this perfunctory and extractory and arbitrary
fashion. I remember that in that case the critics were respectfully
enthusiastic. Even Mr. BLUDYER would have doffed his cap, I fancy, to

  Who rhymes, researches and reviews,
  Who sometimes writes like Genesis,
  And sometimes in the _Daily News_.

For, after all, you stand high in the journalistic world. Your opinion
passes current in many a select circle. Not even your vagaries seem to
have power to offend the worshippers to whom your word has long been
a law, whether you spoke of golf, of salmon, of folk-lore or of books.
The censure of a BLUDYER (I wonder what has brought that formidable
name to my mind) can do little to discourage you. But Mr. BARRY PAIN
is a young writer. And yet some one remarked that _In a Canadian
Canoe_ was better even than _Essays in Little_, and the audacious
words were actually printed in a journal to which ANDREW LANG is
an occasional contributor. I myself have never dared to go so far.
There is something sacred about an established reputation. And I can
honestly say that I like the elegant airy trifles which your little
Muse has bestowed upon us, though I confess to a weariness when the
talk is too much of golf-clubs and salmon rods. And I admire your
appreciation of the original work of other men. In the present case
you and I disagree upon a question of taste. That is all. _Tant pis
pour moi_, I hasten to add. But I disagree in good company, for I note
with some amusement, that the PAYN whom you rightly praise, has a kind
and encouraging word for the PAIN whom you so vehemently disparage.
And in this case I will stake my all upon the eulogy of JAMES PAYN as
against the censure of ANDREW LANG. As you did me the honour to refer
to something I had written, I thought myself bound in politeness to
reply, and am

Your obedient servant,


       *       *       *       *       *


  'Tis nice "in a Canadian Canoe"
    To practise what the ribald call "canoodling;"
  But what the deuce does the Dominion do,
    "In _this_ galley," with this new game of "boodling?"
  "Paddle your own Canoe," dear, if you will,
  But kick all "cross coves" out, and trust to honest skill.

       *       *       *       *       *



DICK FIBBINS, my more or less "learned" instructor in practical law,
goes out to a good many evening parties, I find. Casually remarks that
he "danced three square dances, the other night, with old DAVIS's ugly
daughter, the Solor (legal slang for Solicitor), in Caraway Street."
It's DAVIS himself, not the daughter, that is the Solicitor, and, it
seems she introduced the gay FIBBINS to her Papa. Hence another brief,
a rather complicated one, on some dispute about a mortgage.


On the morning when the case is to come into Court, DICK the
Brief-hunter, who has promised to take me there, seems nervous. Yet he
is still confident that, if "old PROSER" is the judge, he will "pull
the thing off." It will be, apparently, a case of "Pull FIBBINS, pull

In Court I occupy a seat just behind him, because--as he
observes--I've been "grinding away at the case, and know the subject
down to the ground"--which I don't think _he_ does. I therefore am to
act as his reserves, also as his prompter, and to supply him with the
names of cases which he has forgotten, and which he wishes to quote.
Rather a responsible position. Should feel more confidence in result
if FIBBINS had told me of this prompter arrangement before the very
morning when the trial comes on.

"Old PROSER," appears to my untutored gaze to be rather a dignified
occupant of the Bench. I don't know whether he cherishes any personal
or professional animosity against DICK FIBBINS, but directly the
latter opens his mouth to begin, PROSER seems inclined to jump down

"A complicated case of foreclosure?" he growls. "You needn't tell us
that. All foreclosure cases are complicated. _I_ ever saw one yet that

FIBBINS goes along unimpeded for a minute or two, PROSER having thrown
himself back with an air of resigned inattention, one of the other
Judges taking furtive notes, and the third resting his elbows on his
desk, and his head on his elbows, and eyeing _me_ with a stony and
meaningless stare. Can he suddenly have gone mad?

I have no time to consider this interesting point, as FIBBINS is again
in difficulties about some precedent that he wants to quote, but which
he has forgotten, and turns sharply round on me, saying, in a fierce

"What the doose _is_ that case?"

I look hurriedly down on the sheet of paper on which (as I fancy) I
have jotted down the authorities bearing on the subject, and reply,
also in a whisper--"_Cookson and Gedge_."

"The Court, m'luds," FIBBINS airily proceeds, as if he were indebted
entirely to his own memory for the information, "held in _Cookson and
Gedge_ that a mortgagor who desires to foreclose--"

"Where is the case you mention?" suddenly asks the Judge who was
staring at me a moment ago. He is now engaged in first looking at my
instructor suspiciously, and then at me, as if he thought that there
was some horrible secret between us, which he is determined to probe
to the bottom.

"Volume Six of the _Law Reports_, m'lud."

"Page?" snaps PROSER.

"Page 184, m'lud. As I was saying, the Court there held that the right
to foreclose at any reasonable time is not taken away--"

This time the interruption comes from the Judge who I thought was
going mad, but who now seems to be preternaturally and offensively

"It would be odd," he observes, cuttingly, "if any Court _had_ decided
a point about mortgages in _Cookson versus Gedge_, because on looking
at the page to which you have referred us, find that _Cookson and
Gedge_ was _a running-down case_!"

I glance at the paper before me in consternation; another moment, and
the horrifying fact is revealed to me that the sheet of "authorities"
I have brought with me bears, not on the mortgage case now before the
Court, but on that previous six-guinea matter on which I had given
ROGERS & Co. my valuable Opinion gratis.

I hear DICK FIBBINS, in this trying position, with the eyes of three
Judges fixed on him, swearing at me under his breath in the most awful
manner. But why did he depend on _me_? Why didn't he get up the case

Deprived at one blow of most of his precedents, "shorn"--as the Breach
of Promise Reports puts it--"of its usual attractions," FIBBINS's
speech becomes an impotent affair. He has to quote such cases as he
can remember, and as neither his memory nor his legal knowledge is
great, he presents them all wrongly, and prematurely sits down. I
see PROSER's wrinkled countenance illumined with an exultant smile.
Just as I am moving out of Court (FIBBINS has to "move" _in_ Court),
because I am desirous of avoiding FIBBINS's wrath,--though I feel that
this _fiasco_ is more his fault than mine,--I hear the presiding judge
(the mad one) say to the Defendant's Counsel that he need not trouble
to address them. I know what _that_ means--judgment for the Defendant!

Chancing half-an-hour later to enter a Strand Restaurant, part of
which, I regret to say, is also a drinking-bar, I am startled at
beholding the identical form and features of FIBBINS himself. He
appears flushed--has two companions with him, to whom he is talking
excitedly. I hear the words--"idiot"--"jackass of a pupil"--"regular
sell"--and; but no, perhaps I had better not repeat all that I _did_
hear. I decide to seek refreshment elsewhere.

Over the subsequent scene in FIBBINS's Chambers I prefer to draw a
veil. It is sufficient to say that I was obliged to leave FIBBINS, and
thereafter received a solid half-year's instruction in the Chambers of
a learned Counsel who was not a briefless impostor.

I heard afterwards that he had added the story to his fund of legal
dining-out anecdotes, and had considerably amplified it. It came out
in a shape which made FIBBINS a hero, myself an imbecile of a rather
malicious kind, PROSER helplessly cowering under FIBBINS's wealth of
arguments, and the other two Judges reduced to admiring silence. I
take this opportunity of stating that if anybody "cowered" in Court on
that memorable occasion, it was certainly not poor old PROSER.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It is too early yet (says the _Telegraph_) to announce the
    title of the latest of the Laureate's plays, but this much may
    be said, that it is written partly in blank verse and partly
    in prose, that it is what is known in theatrical circles as
    a 'a costume play,' and that the scene is laid in England. It
    may, however, interest sensitive dramatists to know that Lord
    TENNYSON is liberal enough to place the stage detail wholly in
    the competent hands of Mr. DALY. He does not wince if a line
    is cut here and there, or protest if a scene or a speech has
    to be supplied."]

[Illustration: A cut here and there will be necessary.]

  Behold, I know not anything,--
    Except that if I write two Acts in verse,
    And two in prose, I might do worse
  Than having a Four Act song to sing.

  I leave the dress we know to-day;
    On English ground my scene I set,
    And wonder if I touch as yet,
  What we have termed a "_Costume Play!_"

  If I have over-writ, and laid,
    It may be here, it may be there,
    The fat too thickly on,--with care
  To cut it down be not afraid.

  But oh, if here and there I seem
    To have half-said what I should say,
    Give me the start--I'll fire away,
  And keep up the poetic steam--

  Ay! keep it up in lines that run
    As glibly from the Laureate's pen,
    That I shall by my fellow men
  Be greeted with "That's TENNYSON!"

In short, it will not be easy, from such scanty information as the
Noble Rhymester has as yet given to the public, to say precisely what
sort of a play this promised comedy, "half in prose, half in blank
verse," will prove itself to be; but it is to be hoped with _The
Promise of May_ still fresh in the memory of many a playgoer, that
the forthcoming effort may not, after all, turn out to merit the
unpromising title of _The Disappointment of December_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MYSTERIOUSLY MASONIC LINE.--"Oh, for a Lodge in some vast

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

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