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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, January 16, 1892
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 102, January 16, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

January 16, 1892.



       *       *       *       *       *


SIR,--The proposal to extend the Cab Radius to five miles from Charing
Cross is good in its way, but it does not go far enough. My idea is
that the cheap cab-fare should include any place in the Home Counties.
Cabmen should also be prevented by law from refusing to take a person,
say, from Piccadilly to St. Albans, on the plea that their horse
"could not do the distance." All assertions of that kind should be
punished as perjury. Cabmen are notoriously untruthful. Why should
not Cab Proprietors, too, be obliged to keep relays of horses at
convenient spots on all the main roads out of Town in case a horse
really proves unequal to going fifteen miles or so into the country,
in addition to a hard day's work in London?--Yours unselfishly,

_St. Albans_. NORTHWARD HO!

SIR,--Why _will_ people libel the Suburbs, and keep on describing
them as dull? I am sure that a place which, like the one I write
from, contains a Lawn Tennis Club (entrance into which we keep _very_
select), a Circulating Library, where all the new books of two
years' back are obtainable without much delay, a couple of handsome
and ascetic young Curates, and a public Park, capable of holding
twenty-six perambulators and as many nursemaids at one and the same
time, can only fitly be described as an Elysium. Still, we _should_ be
grateful for better facilities for getting away from its delights now
and then, and this proposal to extend the Cab Radius has the warmest
support of Yours,


SIR,--By all means let us have cheaper Cabs in Greater London! The
County Council should subsidise a lot of Cabs, to ply exclusively
between London and the outskirts. Or why not a Government Cab Purchase
Bill, like the Irish Land Purchase one? We want a special Minister for
Public Locomotion--perhaps Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL would accept the

Yours, spiritedly, HAMPSTEAD HEATHEN.

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_A Market Place in Berlin._ German Students
    _carousing._ Emissary of the Emperor _seated at table apart
    watching them. Apprehensive_ Waiters _nervously supplying the
    wants of their Customers._

_First German Student_. Another flagon of beer, Kellner!

_Waiter_. Here, Mein Herr! (_Brings glass and, as he places it on the
table, whispers aside._) Oh, beware, my good Lord--this is your second

_First Ger. Stu._ (_with a laugh_). I know what I am about! And now,
my friends, I give you a toast--The Liberty of the Fatherland!

_Chorus of Students_. The Liberty of the Fatherland! [_They all

_Em. of the Emp._ (_apart_). Ha!

    [_He makes an entry in his note-book._

_First Ger. Stu._ And now fill another glass. Fill, my comrades--I
pray you, fill! Kellner! glasses round--for myself and friends.

_Kellner_ (_as before--supplying their wants and warning them_). Oh,
my gracious Lord, be careful! Your third glass--mind now, your third
glass; you know the risk you are running! But one false drop and you
are lost!

_First Ger. Stu._ (_as before_). Well, my good friend, be sure you
supply us with no drop that is not good! Ha, ha, ha! Eh, KARL! eh,
CONRAD! eh, HANS! Did you hear my merry jest?

    [_They all laugh._

_Em. of the Emp._ (_as before_). Ha! (_making an entry in his
note-book_). And they laugh at a witless joke! Good! Very good!

_First Ger. Stu._ (_joyously_). And now, my comrades, yet another
toast--The Prosperity of the People!

_Chorus of Ger. Stu._ (_raising their glasses_). The People!

    [_They all drink._

_Em. of the Emp._ (_apart_) Ha!

    [_He makes an entry in his note-book._

_First Ger. Stu_. And now, a final flagon! Kellner!

_Kellner_ (_as before_). Oh, high-born customer, beware! This is your
fourth glass! You know the law!

_First Ger. Stu._ (_as before_). That indeed I do! And I also know
that my daily allowance is--or rather was--twelve quarts _per diem_!
And now, comrades, our last toast--The Freedom of the Press!

_Chorus of Ger. Stu._ (_raising their glasses_). The Freedom of the

    [_They all drink._

_Em. of the Emp._ (_apart_). This is too much! (_He rises, and
approaches the Students_.) Your pardon, Gentlemen! But do you really
believe in the toasts you have just drunk?

_Chorus of Stu._ Why, certainly!

_Em. of the Emp._ What, in the Liberty of the Fatherland?

_Chorus of Stu._ To be sure--why not?

_Em. of the Emp._ And the Prosperity of the People--mind you, only the

_Chorus of Stu._ Exactly--don't you?

_Em. of the Emp._ And further. You wish well to the Freedom of the

_Chorus of Stu._ That was our toast! What next?

_Em. of the Emp._ (_producing staff of authority_). That, in the name
of His Majesty, I arrest you!

_Chorus of Stu._ (_astounded_). Arrest us! Why?

_Em. of the Emp._ Because, if you believe in the Liberty of the
Fatherland, ask for the Prosperity of the People, and admire the
Freedom of the Press, you must be drunk!--very drunk! In virtue of the
new law (which punishes the crime of intoxication), away with them!

    [_The_ Students _are loaded with chains, and imprisoned,
    for an indefinite period, in the lowest dungeon beneath the
    castle's moat. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

deciding on taking a Villa at Turbie, on the Riviera,--"Turbie, or not
Turbie, that is the question." He is now hard at work writing a new
Opera (founded, we believe, on _Cox and Box_), and "I am here," he
says, in his quaint way, "because I don't want to be dis-turbie'd."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE "RETURNED EMPTY."]

_Returned Prodigal sings, to the tune of "Randy Pandy, O!"_:--

  Well, here I'm back from Mashonaland!
    Mine's hardly a proud position.
  My ideas in going were vaguely grand,
    And--look at my present condition!

  I may cool my heels on this packing-case;
    'Tis a little mite like _me_, Sir!
  Say my "candid friends," as they watch my face,
    "O.I.C.U.R.M.T., Sir!"

    I'm the prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh!
    Returned to my native landy, oh!
  With a big moustache, and but little cash,
    Though the latter would come in handy, oh!
    Like the nursery Jack-a-dandy, oh!
    I may "love plum-cake and candy," oh!
  But tarts and toffies, or sweets of office,
    Seem not--at present--for GRANDY, oh!

  Well, I chucked them up,--was it _nous_ or _pique_?
    _Is_ the prodigal worst of ninnies?
  The fatted calf, and the better half
    Of his father's love--and guineas,--
  May fall to his share as he homeward lies,
    When the husks have lost their flavour.
  _My_ calf? Well, it does not greet my eyes,
    And I don't yet sniff its savour.
      I'm a prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh!
      Retired from Mashona-landy, oh!
    I'm left like a laggard. Grim RIDER HAGGARD
      (Whose fiction is "blood-and-brandy," oh!)
      Says Africa always comes handy, oh!
      For "something new." It sounds grandy, oh!
    But a telling new plot I'm afraid is _not_
      The fortune of GRANDY-PANDY, oh!

  Did they miss me much? Well, I fancy not;
    (Though a few did come to greet me;)
  The general verdict's "A very queer lot!"
    Nor is SOL in a hurry to meet me.
  _He_ does not spy me afar off. No!
    He would rather I kept my distance;
  And if to the front I again should go,
    'Twon't be with _his_ assistance.
      He deems me a troublesome GRANDY, oh'
      In political harness not handy, oh!
    I am out of a job, while BALFOUR is a nob,
      That lank and effeminate dandy, oh!
      Well, a prodigal son _may_ be "sandy." oh!
      I am off for a soda-and-brandy, oh!
    And a "tub" at my Club, where I'm sure of a snub
      From the foes of returning GRANDY, oh!

       *       *       *       *       *



_Journalist_ (_much worried_). "NO, MY DEAR, MUCH EASIER TO BE ALWAYS

[_He was about to add a personal illustration, but as, fortunately, he
didn't, the subject dropped._]

       *       *       *       *       *


_Question_. Have you a right to ask any question in Court?

_Answer_. Certainly, and the questioning is left to my discretion.

_Ques._ What do you understand by discretion?

_Ans._ An unknown quality defined occasionally by the Press and the

_Ques._ Is the definition invariably the same?

_Ans._ No, for it depends upon the exigencies of the Press and the
frivolity and fickleness of the Public.

_Ques._ Were you to refrain from questioning a Witness anent his
antecedents, and subsequently those antecedents becoming known, his
evidence were to lose the credence of the papers, what would be said
of you?

_Ans._ That I had neglected my duty.

_Ques._ Were you to question a Witness on his past, and, by an
interruption of the trial, that Witness's evidence were consequently
to become superfluous, what would then be said of you?

_Ans._ That I had exceeded my duty.

_Ques._ Is it an easy matter to reconcile the interests of your
clients with the requirements of Public Opinion.

_Ans._ It is a most difficult arrangement, the more especially as
Public Opinion is usually composed of the joint ideas of hundreds of
people who know as much about law as does a bed-post.

_Ques._ In the eyes of Public Opinion, whose commendation is the most

_Ans._ The commendation of a Judge, because it stands to reason
(according to popular ideas) that a man who knows his subject
thoroughly must be unable to come to any definite decision as to its

_Ques._ And in the eyes of the same authority, whose commendation is
the most valuable?

_Ans._ In the eyes of Public Opinion the most valuable commendation
would come from a man who is absolutely ignorant of everything
connected with a Counsel's practice, but who can amply supply this
possible deficiency by writing a letter to the papers and signing
himself "FAIR PLAY."

_Ques._ Is there any remedy for setting right any misconception that
may have occurred as to the rights and wrongs of cross-examiners?

_Ans._ Yes, the Public might learn what the business of a
cross-examiner really is.

_Ques._ I see, and having done this, can you recommend anything

_Ans._ Having learned a cross-examiner's business, the Public might
then have time to attend--to its own!

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Lower Hall of the Scuola di San Rocco, Venice.
    British Tourists discovered studying the Tintorets on the
    walk and ceiling by the aid of RUSKIN, HARE, and BÆDEKER,
    from which they read aloud, instructively, to one another.
    Miss PRENDERGAST has brought "The Stones of Venice" for the
    benefit of her brother and PODBURY. Long self-repression has
    reduced PODBURY to that unpleasantly hysterical condition
    known as "a fit of the giggles," which, however, has hitherto
    escaped detection._

[Illustration: "A Solemn Gentleman, with a troublesome cough, reading
aloud to his Wife."]

_Miss P._ (_standing opposite "The Flight into Egypt" reading_). "One
of the principal figures here is the Donkey." Where _is_ Mr. PODBURY?
(_To P., who reappears, humbly proffering a tin focussing-case._)
Thanks, but you need not have troubled! "The Donkey ... um--um--never
seen--um--um--any of the nobler animals so sublime as this quiet head
of the domestic ass"--(_here BOB digs PODBURY in the ribs, behind
Miss P.'s back_)--"chiefly owing to the grand motion in the nostril,
and writhing in the ears." (_A spasmodic choke from_ PODBURY.) May I
ask what you find so amusing?

_Podb._ (_crimson_). I--I _beg_ your pardon--I don't know _what_ I was
laughing at exactly. (_Aside to BOB._) _Will_ you shut up, confound

_A Stout Lady, close by_ (_reading from HARE_). "The whole symmetry
of it depending on a narrow line of light." (_Dubiously, to her
Daughter._) I don't _quite_--oh yes, I do now--that's it--where
my sunshade is--"the edge of a carpenter's square, which connects
those unused tools" ... h'm--can _you_ make out the "unused tools,"
ETHEL? _I_ can't.... But he says--"The Ruined House is the Jewish
Dispensation." Now I should never have found _that_ out for myself.
(_They pass to another canvas._) "TINTORET denies himself all aid
from the features.... No time allowed for watching the expression" ...
(That reminds me--what _is_ the time by your bracelet, darling?) "No
blood, no stabbing, or cutting ... but an awful substitute for these
in the chiaroscuro." (Ah, yes, indeed! Do you see it, love?--in
the right-hand corner?) "So that our eyes"--(_comfortably_)--"seem
to become bloodshot, and strained with strange horror, and deadly
vision." (Not one o'clock, _really_?--and we've to meet Papa outside
Florian's, for lunch at one-thirty! Dear me, we mustn't stay too long
over this room.)

_A Solemn Gentleman_ (_with a troublesome cough, who is also provided
with HARE, reading aloud to his wife_).... "Further enhanced
by--rook--rook--rook!--a largely-made--rook--ook!--farm-servant,
leaning on a--ork--ork--ork--ork--or--ook!--basket." Shall I--ork!--go

_His Wife_. Yes, dear, do, _please_! It makes one notice things so
_much_ more!

    [_The Solemn Gentleman goes on._

_Miss P._ (_as they reach the staircase_). Now just look at this
Titian, Mr. PODBURY! RUSKIN particularly mentions it. Do note the mean
and petty folds of the drapery, and compare them with those in the
TINTORETS in there.

_Podb._ (_obediently_). Yes, I will,--a--did you mean _now_--and will
it take me long, because--

    [_Miss PRENDERGAST sweeps on scornfully._

_Podb._ (_following, with a desperate effort to be intelligent_). They
don't seem to have any Fiammingoes here.

_Miss P._ (_freezingly, over her shoulder_). Any _what_, Mr. PODBURY?

_Podb._ (_confidently, having noted down the name at the Accademia on
his shirt-cuff_). No, "Ignoto Fiammingo," don't you know. I like that
chap's style--what I call thoroughly Venetian.

    [_Well-informed persons in front overhear and smile._

_Miss P._ (_annoyed_). That is rather strange--because "Ignoto
Fiammingo" happens to be merely the Italian for "an unknown Fleming,"
Mr. PODBURY. [_Collapse of PODBURY._

_Bob_. (_aside to PODBURY_). You great owl, you came a cropper _that_
time! [_He and PODBURY indulge in a subdued bear-fight up the stairs,
after which they enter the Upper Hall in a state of preternatural

_The Solemn G._ Now what _I_ want to see, my dear, is the
ork--ork--angel that RUSKIN thinks TINTORETTO painted the day after he
saw a rook--kic--kic--kic--kingfisher.

    [_BOB nudges PODBURY, who resists temptation heroically._

_Miss P._ (_reading_).... "the fig-tree which, by a curious caprice,
has golden ribs to all its leaves."--Do you see the ribs, Mr. PODBURY.

_Podb._ (_feebly_). Y--yes. I _believe_ I do. Think they grew that
sort of fig-tree formerly, or is it--a--_allegorical_?

_Miss P._ (_receiving this query in crushing silence_). The ceiling
requires careful study. Look at that oblong panel in the centre--with
the fiery serpents, which RUSKIN finely compares to "winged lampreys."
You're not looking in the right way to see them, Mr. PODBURY!

_Podb._ (_faintly_). I--I did see them--_all_ of them, on my honour I
did! But it gives me such a crick in my neck!

_Miss P._ Surely TINTORET is worth a crick in the neck. Did you
observe "the intense delight in biting expressed in their eyes?"

_Bob._ (_frivolously_). _I_ did, 'PATIA--exactly the same look I
observed last night, in a mosquito's eye.

    [_PODBURY has to use his handkerchief violently._

_The Stout Lady_. Now, ETHEL, we can just spend ten minutes on the
ceiling--and then we _must_ go. That's evidently JONAH in the small
oval. (_Referring to plan_.) Yes, I thought so,--it _is_ JONAH. RUSKIN
considers "the whale's tongue much too large, unless it is a kind of
crimson cushion for JONAH to kneel upon." Well, why _not_?

_Ethel_. A cushion, Mother? what, _inside_ the whale!

_The Stout Lady_. That we are not _told_, my love--"The submissiveness
of Jonah is well given"--So true--but Papa can't bear being kept
waiting for his lunch--we really ought to go now. [_They go._

_The Solemn G._ (_reading_). "There comes up out of the mist a dark
hand." Have _you_ got the dark hand yet, my dear?

_His Wife_. No, dear, only the mist. At least, there's something that
_may_ be a branch; or a _bird_ of some sort.

_The S.G._ Ha, it's full of suggestion--full of suggestion!

    [_He passes on, coughing._

_Miss P._ (_to PODBURY, who is still quivering_). Now notice the end
one--"the Fall of Manna"--not _that_ end; that's "the Fall of _Man_."
RUSKIN points out (_reading_)--"A very sweet incident. Four or five
sheep, instead of pasturing, turn their heads to catch the manna as
it comes down" (_here BOB catches PODBURY's eye_) "or seem to be
licking it off each other's fleeces." (PODBURY _is suddenly convulsed
by inexplicable and untimely mirth._) Really, Mr. PODBURY, this is
_too_ disgraceful! [_She shuts the book sharply and walks away._

    _Outside; by the landing-steps._

_Miss P._ BOB, go on and get the gondola ready. I wish to speak to Mr.
PODBURY. (_To PODBURY, after BOB has withdrawn._) Mr. PODBURY,
I cannot tell you how disgusted and disappointed I feel at your
senseless irreverence.

_Podb._ (_penitently_). I--I'm really most awfully sorry--but it came
over me suddenly, and I simply couldn't help myself!

_Miss P._ That is what makes it so very hopeless--after all the pains
I have taken with you! I have been beginning to fear for some time
that you are incorrigible--and to-day is really the _last_ straw!
So it is kinder to let you know at once that you have been tried and
found wanting. I have no alternative but to release you finally from
your vows--I cannot allow you to remain my suitor any longer.

_Podb._ (_humbly_). I was always afraid I shouldn't last the course,
don't you know. I did my best--but it wasn't _in_ me, I suppose. It
was awfully good of you to put up with me so long. And, I say, you
won't mind our being friends still, will you now?

_Miss P._ Of course not. I shall always wish you well, Mr.
PODBURY--only I won't trouble you to accompany me to any more

_Podb._ A--thanks. I--I mean, I know I should only be in your way and
all that. And--I'd better say good-bye, Miss PRENDERGAST. You won't
want me in the gondola just now, I'm sure. I can easily get another.

_Miss P._ Well--good-bye then, Mr. PODBURY. I will explain to BOB.

    [_She steps into the gondola; BOB raises his eyebrows in
    mute interrogation at PODBURY, who shakes his head, and
    allows the gondola to go without him._

_Podb._ (_to himself, as the gondola disappears_). So _that's_ over!
Hanged if I don't think I'm sorry, after all. It will be beastly
lonely without anybody to bully me, and she could be awfully nice when
she chose.... Still it _is_ a relief to have got rid of old TINTORET,
and not to have to bother about BELLINI and CIMA and that lot.... How
that beggar CULCHARD will crow when he hears of it! Shan't tell him
anything--if I can help it.... But the worst of getting the sack
is--people are almost _bound_ to spot you ... I think I'll be off
to-morrow. I've had enough of Venice!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Hard-riding Individual_ (_to Friend, whose Horse has
refused with dire results_). "HELLO! CHARLEY, OLD MAN, HOW ARE TURNIPS

       *       *       *       *       *


In the admirably-compiled columns of "This Morning's News," given
in the _Daily News_, we read with interest a paragraph occasionally
appearing, furnishing information as to prices current in the
Provision Market. We have made arrangements to supply our readers with
something of the same character, which cannot fail to be valued in the

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A Pair of 'Eels.]

From numerous sources of information, we learn that prime English beef
is underdone, which causes rather a run on mutton. _Revenons_, &c.,
is the watchword in many households. Poultry flies rather high for
the time of year, and grouse is also up. Grice--why not? plural of
mouse, mice--grice, we say, are growing more absent, and therefore
dearer. Black game is not so darkly hued as it is painted, and a few
transactions in wild duck are reported. Lard is hardening, as usual
in frosty weather. Hares are not so mad as in March, still, on the
approach of a passer-by, they go off rapidly. Rabbits, especially
Welsh ones, are now excellent. As Christmas recedes, geese have
stopped laying golden eggs. Turkey (in Europe, at least) is in high
feather. Brill is now in brilliant condition; soles are right down to
the ground, whilst eels begin to show themselves in pairs. Halibut
is cheap, but sackbut is scarce, and psaltery requires such prolonged
soaking before it is fit for the table, that purchasers fight shy of
anything but small parcels. As for plaice, a large dealer tells us he
has been driven to the conclusion that there is "no plaice like home."

       *       *       *       *       *

We hear of a curious incident in connection with the revival of _Henry
the Eighth_ at the Lyceum. On Saturday night, a gentleman who had
witnessed the play from the Stalls and carefully sat it out, demanded
his money back as he went out. He did so on the ground that he had
always understood that _Henry the Eighth_ was by SHAKSPEARE, and found
it credibly asserted that that gentleman had no part in the authorship
of the piece. Mr. BRAM STOKER, M.A., was called to the assistance
of the box-keeper, and ably discussed the point. Whilst declining to
commit himself to the admission that SHAKSPEARE had no hand in the
work, he quoted authority which assigned the authorship to FLETCHER
and MASSENGER; in which case, he ingeniously argued, the authorship
being dual, the price of the Stalls ought to be doubled. Conversation
taking this turn, the gentleman, whose name did not transpire,

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss JANE COBDEN, ex-Alderman of the London County Council, who has
long pluckily championed Woman's Rights, has now, according to an
announcement in the papers, determined to assert her own, and get
married. _C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas_--Aldermanic.

       *       *       *       *       *

A telegram from Berlin states that Dr. PFEIFFER, a son-in-law of
Professor KOCH, has succeeded in discovering the cause of influenza
and its infection in a bacillus, which, when seen under the
microscope, appears in the shape of a most minute rod. The best thing
that can be done with this rod is to put it in pickle, and keep it

       *       *       *       *       *

It is satisfactory to know that, at the approaching revival of
_Hubando, the Brigand_, the handkerchiefs used by the Brigands in
their famous scene of contrition at the end of the Third Act, are
entirely of British manufacture. We understand that they are from the
looms of Messrs. PUFF AND RECLAME.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the First Act of the same piece, it will be remembered that the
bridal party is captured whole by _Hubando_, disguised as a mendicant,
in the recesses of one of the forests of the Abruzzi. The real
pine-trees, which are to figure in the foreground of this striking
scene, have been grown, with immense labour and expense, in the
well-known nurseries of Messrs. WEEDEM AND POTTER, at Ditchington.
The mendicant's rags, it should be added, are from one of our most
celebrated slop-shops in the Ratcliff Highway.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Light-hearted Friend_. "I KNOW,--USED TO SIT AT CORNER OF STREET.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Champion Bill-Poster, loquitur_:--

  "Bill-stickers beware!" Ah! that's all very well,
    A wondrously wise, if conventional, warning.
  But _I_'m the legitimate "Poster"--a swell
    In the paste-pot profession, all "notices" scorning.
  A brush surreptitious, and Bills unofficial,
    No doubt, are a nuisance to people of taste,
  To Order offensive, to Law prejudicial,
    But who can object to _my_ pot and _my_ paste?

  'Tis time that this Poster were up! _Slap-dap-slosh_!
    I think it a telling one. Brave, Big, Blue letters!
  Some rivals about, but _their_ programmes won't wash;
    Those Newcastle noodles must own us their betters.
  I'm Champion Bill-Poster! Even Brum JOEY,
    Who flouted me once will acknowledge that fact.
  My Bills are so goey, and fetching, and showy,
    My paste so adhesive, my brush so exact!

  _Slap-slop-slidder-slosh_! There's "stick-phast," if you like.
    Bill-sticking like this is an Art, and no error.
  Bold letters, brave colour! A poster to strike,--
    Admiration with some, and with some, perhaps, terror.
  I wish I quite knew that the former preponderate,--
    That is, _sufficiently_. Mutterings I hear,--
  But there, 'tis a Bill to admire, and to wonder at.
    Why, after five seasons' success, should I fear?

  Hist! What is that? Thought I heard a low grunt.
    Hope not, I'm sure, for I'm sick of stye-voices
  ARTHUR of those, has no doubt, borne the brunt;
    Now in a semi-relief he rejoices
  Pigs are fit only for styes and nose-ringing.
    Never let Irish ones run loose and root,
  Rather wish ARTHUR were less sweet on flinging
    Pearls before pigs; as well feed 'em on fruit.

  _Hrumph_! There. I thought so! _Hrumph_! _hrumph_! What a pest!
    Sure that big brute has his eye on my ladder.
  Has ARTHUR loosed him? He thinks he knows best,
    But a nasty spill _now_!--nothing well could be sadder
  Brutes always rub their broad backs and stiff bristles
    Against--anything that comes handy. Oh lor!
  How the brute shoulders, and snorts, grunts and whistles!
    Off to the gutter, you big Irish boar!

  Not he! He nears me! It _is_ ARTHUR's pet.
    Light ladder this; would capsize in a jiffy.
  His bristles he'd scrape and his tusks he would whet
    Against it, I wish he were drowned in the Liffey!
  _Whisht_! Get away! He's so heavy and big.
    There! round the ladder he's playing the fooler.
  Ah! there's the rub. PATRICK scumfish that Pig!
    If he doesn't mean deviltry I'm a--Home Ruler!
            [_Left fidgetting._

       *       *       *       *       *


  Unasked, the Tax-Collector wild
    Presents to smirking MARY his
  Demand--on what the Roman styled
    "_Kalendis Januariis_."

  Unasked, a Christmas-box to gain,
    Sweeps, lamplighters, and postmen come;
  Unasked--too often to remain--
    The wife's mammas of most men come.

  Unasked, it looms--that ophicleide
    From Germany, with melodies
  Whereat the cow of story died;
    Whereat a modern fellow dies.

  Unasked, partakes my Christmas cheer,
    (Whom oft, my front-door bell at, I've
  Surprised, the better much for beer)--
    My Cook's fraternal relative.

  Unasked, my bills appear in shoals,
    "_With compliments_" from creditors;
  Unasked, in verse I send my soul's
    Throbs--with a stamp--to Editors.

  Unasked, that editorial pack
    Return my "throbs" in heavy, new,
  Crisp envelopes, unstamped, alack!
    While I defray the Revenue.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. RAM's nephew was reading aloud the prospectus of the Clerical,
Medical, and General Life Assurance Society. She was much impressed by
the idea of Clerical Assurance, and expressed herself greatly pleased
at the Ven. Archdeacon FARRAR being one of the Directors. "But what
puzzles me," observed the excellent lady, "is a paragraph headed
'Disposal of the Surplice.' I know that, years ago, there was a
'surplice difficulty.' But I thought that had been disposed of. Or,"
she added, brightening up, as if struck by a happy solution of the
difficulty, "does it mean that the Clerical Assurance Society means to
take in washing? Most useful if they do, and so paying."

       *       *       *       *       *

DEFINITION OF "CHAFF."--The husk of Wit.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THERE'S THE RUB!"


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: The Magnetic Lady.]

"I once did manage to make a cast correctly," writes ANDREW LANG, in
his charming book anent the sport and pastime of fishing, and if ever
HENRY IRVING made a cast to catch the public, it is now, when he uses
as his bait SHAKSPEARE's _Henry the Eighth_, got up in a style which
emphatically "beats the record," so utterly "regardless of expense" is
it, with well-tried, responsible actors, in what may be called minor
parts, though the majority of the _dramatis personæ_ are on a fair
dramatic equality, and with Our ELLEN TERRY, as _Queen Katharine_, and
himself as the great Lord Cardinal.

[Illustration: "Go to," Norfolk and Suffolk!]

The first difficulty that HENRY IRVING had to face--literally to
face--was that by no sort of art could he make up his features to
be an exact portrait of CARDINAL WOLSEY. Personally, I prefer Mr.
IRVING's picture of WOLSEY to the extant portraits, which concur in
representing him as a heavy, jowly-faced man, who might be taken as
a model for one of GUSTAVE DORÉ'S eccentric-looking ecclesiastics in
the _Contes Drolatiques_, rather than as the living presentment of the
great Chancellor, Statesman, and Churchman who ruled a cruel, crafty,
sensual tyrant, and successfully guided the policy of England at home
and abroad. HENRY IRVING's _Cardinal_ is a grand figure, courtly,
though somewhat too cringing withal, evidently despising the various
means he uses to further the end he has in view, and looking upon the
Lords, Courtiers and all around him as merely puppets, whose strings
he holds to work them as he will.

[Illustration: The Cardinal's _Train de Luxe_.]

Then, after seeing him as Sole Adviser of the Crown, after seeing him
as Highest Judge in the Ecclesiastical Divorce Court in such splendid
state as our Judge JEUNE may eye with envy, after seeing him in his
own Palace, most courteous as Grand Master and liberal Provider of
Right Royal Revels, he is exhibited to us in the deserted Hall, a
spectacle for gods and men (that is, shown to the Gallery and the rest
of the audience), the single figure of the Great Cardinal, fallen from
his high estate; and to him, in place of all his princely retinue,
comes his one faithful servant, CROMWELL, supporting his dying master,
for dying he is, as he staggers feebly from the Palace at Bridewell.
It is difficult to call to mind any situation in any play more
genuinely affecting in its simplicity than this. The audience is
held spell-bound,--yet, for my part, I should have welcomed a greater
variety in tone and action.

[Illustration: Ellen Terry as Kate.]

Miss ELLEN TERRY's _Queen Katharine_ is a "very woman." You can see
how she has caught the King, and how she still holds him. She loves
him, actually loves him, to the last to respect him is impossible, but
she respects herself; and it is just this love for him, for what he
was, not what he is, and her respect for herself, which Miss ELLEN
TERRY marks so forcibly. _Katharine_ is a foreigner, therefore is
her bearing, though stately, less stolid than that of the typical
English Tragedy Queen. The note of her dying scene, so striking by
its simplicity, is its perfect tranquillity. Who's _Griffith_? Why
the veteran HOWE (ah, Howe, When and Where did I first see you,
Sir? Wasn't it in the days when good old Mortonian farces were the
attraction at the Haymarket?) is "_the_ safe man," and excellently
well did he deliver his epitaph on _Wolsey_. But all are good, not
forgetting our old friend the sterling, that is the ARTHUR STIRLING
actor as _Cranmer_, and the youthful GILLIE FARQUHAR, unrecognisable
as _Lord Sands_, looking as ancient as if he were The Sands of Time.

This revival is bound to have a long--it may be an unprecedentedly
long--run. All of us dearly love a show. Moreover, 'tis educational;
and the School Board should issue an Examination-paper on the history
of HENRY THE EIGHTH and his times as exemplified by Mr. IRVING & CO.
at the Lyceum.


P.S.--The cost of production of _Henry the Eighth_ at the Lyceum was
£250,000 3s. 6¾d. Mr. IRVING's nightly expenses are £10,999 2s. 5½d. I
thought it had been more, but the above information comes to me from
a person whose veracity I should not like to question, except with the
boundless sea between us.

       *       *       *       *       *

CON. FOR THE C.O.S.--When SHAKSPEARE said, "The quality of mercy is
not strained," did he mean that it was not strained through a Charity
Organisation Society?

       *       *       *       *       *

"READING between the Lines" is a dangerous occupation--when there's a
Train coming.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



The Fairies who came to my Christening provided me with a large
collection of toys, implements, and other articles. There was a heart,
a tender one, a pen of gold, a set of Golf-clubs, a bat, wickets, and
a ball, oars and a boat, boxing gloves, foils, guns, rifles, books,
everything, except ready money, that heart could desire. Unluckily
one Fairy, who was old, deaf, plain, and who had not been invited,
observed, "It is all very well, my child, but not one of these
articles shall you be able to use satisfactorily." This awful curse
has hung heavy on my doom. With a restless desire to shine and excel,
at Lord's, on the river, on the Moors, in the forests, in Society,
on the Links, bitter personal experience and the remarks of candid
friends, tell me that the doom has come upon me. I am "an all-round
Duffer," as my youngest nephew, _ætat._ XI., freely informed me, when
I served twice out of court (once into the conservatory, the other
time through the study window). I was a Duffer at marbles, also
at tops, and my personal efforts in these kinds were constantly in
liquidation. But what are marbles and tops! The first regular game I
was entered at was Golf. Five is not too early to begin, and I began
at five by being knocked down with a club which another small boy was
brandishing. This naturally gave me an extreme zeal for the sport
of MARY STUART, the Great Marquis of MONTROSE, CHARLES EDWARD (who
introduced Golf into Italy), DUNCAN FORBES of Culloden, Mr. HORACE
HUTCHINSON, and other eminent historical characters.


Almost everybody now knows that Golf is not Hockey. Nobody _runs_
after the ball except young ladies at W--m--n! The object is to put
a very small ball into a very tiny and remotely distant hole, with
engines singularly ill adapted for the purpose. There are many
engines. First there is the Driver, a long club, wherewith the ball
is supposed to be propelled from the tee, a little patch of sand.
The Tee and the Caddie have nothing to do with each other; nobody
but a flippant Cockney sees any fun in plays upon words which, in
themselves, are only too serious. Then there is a weapon called a
Brassey. It is like unto a club, but is shod with brass, and is used
for hitting a ball in "a bad lie" among long grass or heather. A small
tomahawk, styled a Cleek, is employed when you don't know what else to
play with. The same remark applies to an Iron, which is very good for
missing the ball with, also for hitting to square leg when you meant
to go straight. A "Mashy" is a smaller "iron." The skilful use these
when the ball lies in sand, in gorse, or when they wish to make the
ball soar for a short distance and then fall dead. A Putter is a short
thickish club used for jogging the ball into the hole with. There are
plenty of other kinds of clubs, also spoons, but _these_ are enough to
break the heart of any Duffer.

I am an old player, of forty years' standing, but, like _Parolles_ I
was "made for every man to breathe himself on." When my form is espied
near the links, the players shirk off as if I were a leper. They are
afraid I may want to make a match with them, and there is no falsehood
from which they will shrink, in their desire to escape me. Even
Ladies,--but this is a delicate theme. Beginners breathe themselves on
me, and give me odds after two or three engagements.

Yet I don't know why I am so bad. True, I am short-sighted, never see
the flag at the hole, play in the wrong direction, and talk a good
deal on topics of academic interest during the round. The Golfer's
mind should be a blank, and generally is "blank enough," like _Sir
Tor's_ shield. My mind is, perhaps, too active--that may be what
is the matter with me. It is the same thing at whist--but of this
hereafter. My Caddie, or arm-bearer, has his own views about the
causes of my incompetence.

"Ye're no standing richt. Ye haud yer hands wrang. Ye tak' yer ee off
the ba'. Ye're ower quick up. Ye're ower slow doun. Ye dinna swing.
Ye fa' back. Ye haud ower ticht wi' yer richt hand. Ye dinna let your
arms gang easy. Ye whiles tap, and whiles slice, and whiles heel, or
ye hit her aff the tae. Ye're hooking her. Ye're no thinking o' what
ye're doing. Ye'll never be a Gowfer. Lord! ony man can lairn Greek,
but Gowf needs a heid."

Here are fifteen ways of going wrong, and there is only one way of
going right! Fifteen things to think of, every time you take a driver
in hand. And, remember, that is not nearly all. These fifteen fatal
errors apply to long driving. You may (or at least _I_ may, and do)
make plenty of other blunders with the other weapons. Say the ball
lies in sand--"a bunker," technically. If you hit it whack on the top,
it disappears in a foot-mark. If you "tak' plenty o' sand," why, you
_get_ plenty of sand in your mouth, your eyes, down the back of your
neck, and the ball is no forwarder. If you strike her quite clean,
she goes like a bullet against the face of the bunker, soars in the
air, falls on your head, and you lose the hole! Oh, Golf is full of

Suppose we play a round. The ball is neatly "tee'd" on a patch of
sand. I approach, I shuffle with my feet for a secure footing, I
waggle my club in an airy manner. Then I take it up and whack it down.
A variety of things _may_ occur. I may smite the top of the hall, when
it runs on for twenty yards and lies in a rut on the road. I may hit
her on the heel of the club, when she spins, with much "cut" on, into
the sea. I may hit her with the toe of the club, when she soars to
square leg, and perhaps breaks a window. I used to try running in at
the ball, as if it were a half-volley at Cricket, but that way lies
madness. However, suppose that, in a lucid interval (as will happen),
I hit her clean. She soars away, and falls within forty yards of a
meandering burn. The hole, the haven where one would be, is beyond the

I seize a cleek or an iron, it turns in my hand, cuts up the turf, and
the ball rolls half a dozen feet. My opponent has crossed the burn.
I try again; a fearful misdirected shot; the ball soars over the
burn and lands in a road behind the hole. There is no hitting out of
this road, or, if one does hit a desperate blow, the ball lands in
an eccentric sand-hole, called the Scholar's Bunker. We start for
the next hole. _Même jeu!_ Now we are in the gorse, now among the
Station Master's potatoes, now in the railway, where all hope may be
abandoned, now in bunkers many, now missing the ball altogether, when
you feel as if your arms had flown off. As for "putting" the short
strokes on the green, near the hole, if I hit sharp, the ball runs
over the hole yards and yards beyond, or if I hit mild, it stops with
an air of plaintive resignation, after dribbling for a foot or two.
And the worst of it is that, sometimes, you will play as well as
another for half-a-dozen holes. Then one thinks one has The Secret!
But it falls from us, vanishes, we are topping and slicing, and
heeling, and missing again as sorrily as ever.

The beauty of Golf is that there are so many ways of going wrong, and
so many things to think of. A person of very moderately active mind
has his ideas diverted by the landscape, the sea, the blossom on the
gorse, the larks singing overhead, not to mention the whole system
of the universe. He forgets to keep his eye on the ball, in devoting
his energy to holding tight with his left, and being slow up. Or
he remembers to keep his eye on the ball, and forgets the other
essentials. Then an awful moment comes when he loses his temper.
Thereby all is lost, honour (not to mention "the honour,") and
everything. People in front, old people, are so provoking. They potter
tardily along, pass ten minutes in considering a putt, shout and swear
if you hit into them, and are not pleased if you sit down and smoke
while you wait. The only entity that I don't lose my temper with is my
partner. The worse he plays, the better am I pleased to have a brother
in adversity. The subjective Golfer, however, is certainly a bore. He
is "put off" by every simple circumstance, by his opponent wearing an
unbecoming cap and the like. Afterwards, he will hold forth for hours
on all his sorrows and all the sins of others. The Duffer is more
modest and less apologetic. He is kept always playing (as I said)
by the diabolical circumstance that he has lucid intervals, though
rarely, when he plays like other people for three or four holes.
I once, myself did the long hole in--but never mind. Nobody would
believe me. The most amiable of Duffers was he who, after ten strokes
in a bunker, cut his ball into three parts. "I am bringing it out," he
said, "in penny numbers."

The born Duffer, I speak feelingly, is incurable. No amount of odds
will put him on the level even of Scotch Professors. For the learned
have divided Golf into several categories. There is Professional
Golf, the best Amateur Golf, Enthusiasts' Golf, Golf, Beginners'
Golf, Ladies' Golf, Infant Golf, Parlour Golf, the Golf of Scotch
Professors. But the true Duffer's Golf is far, far below that. A
Duffer like me is too bad for hanging. He should be condemned to play
for life at Chorley Wood, or to bush-whack at Bungay.

       *       *       *       *       *

FREE AND EASY THEATRES.--We have no sympathy whatever with the idea of
a Théâtre Libre or with a Free-and-Easy Theatre, but we shall be very
glad when all Theatres are made Easy, Easy, that is, as to sitting
accommodation, and Easy of egress and ingress. But if the space is
to be enlarged, will not the prices have to be enlarged too? 'Tis
a problem in the discussion of which _The Players_, which is a new
journal, solely devoted to things Dramatic and Theatrical, would find
congenial employment.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The water in the canals is two feet in depth, and is kept at
    a temperature of sixty degrees."

_Vidé the Press on "Venice at Olympia."_]


  O Jane, thou jewel of my heart--
    Thou object of my hopeless passion,
  Though Fate decrees that we must part,
    I'll leave thee in some novel fashion!
  I will not do as others do
    When cheated of prospective bridal,
  And quit the Bridge of Waterloo
    With header swift and suicidal.

  I will not seek--as others seek--
    Some public-house in mean and _low_ street,
  And drink--till haled before the Beak
    Who patiently presides at Bow Street.
  I will not throw--as others throw--
    My manly form, without compunction,
  Before the frequent trains that go
    At lightning speed through Clapham Junction.

  For though my spirit seeks escape
    From all the carking cares that vex it,
  I will not plunge thee into crape
    By any ordinary exit:
  So when--in slang--I "take my hook,"
    Detesting all that's mean and skimpy, a
  Reserved and numbered seat I'll book,
    And hie to Venice at Olympia.

  I'll see the Show that draws the town--
    Its pageantry delight affording--
  As per the details noted down
    Where posters flame on every hoarding;
  And then the sixpence I will pay,
    Which in my pocket now I'm fondling,
  And try upon the water-way
    The new experience of gondling.

  I know that death will seem delight
    When in the gondola I'm seated,
  For up to sixty Fahrenheit
    The Grand Canal is nicely heated;
  So--sick of life's incessant storm,
    Impatient of its kicks and pinches--
  I'll plunge within the water warm,
    And drown--in four-and-twenty inches!

       *       *       *       *       *



After copious draughts of novels and romances which, the morning
after, leave the literary palate as dry as a lime-kiln, or as Mrs. RAM
would say, "as a lamb-kin," the Baron, thirsting for a more satisfying
beverage, took up a volume, which he may fairly describe as a youthful
quarto, or an imperial pinto, coming from the CHAPMAN AND HALL
cellars, that is, book-sellers, entitled _On Shibboleths_, and written
by W.S. LILLY. In a recent trial it came out that Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH
is the accredited and professional reader for Messrs. CHAPMAN AND
HALL. Is it possible that this eminent philosophical Novelist is
indebted to a quiet perusal of _Shibboleths_ for some of the quaint
philosophical touches not to be read off schoolboywise, with hurried
ellipses, blurting lips, and unintelligent brain, if any, which make
_One of Our Conquerors_ and others, worth perusal? Be this as it may,
which is a convenient shibbolethian formula, the Baron read this book,
and enjoyed it muchly. There is an occasional dig into the Huxleian
anatomy, given with all the politeness of a Louis-the-Fifteenthian
"M.A.," otherwise _Maître d'Armes_, and a passing reference to "The
People's WILLIAM" and the carrying out of the People's will--which is
quite another affair,--all, to quote Sir PETER, "vastly entertaining."
The chapter on the Shibboleth "Education" is, thinks the Baron, about
the best. Mr. LILLY is a Satirist who, as GEORGIUS MEREDITHIUS MAGNUS
might express it, is, in his fervour, near a truth, grasps it, and is
moved to moral distinctness, mental intention, with a preference of
strong, plain speech, and a chuck of interjectory quotation over the
crack of his whip, with which tramping active he flicks his fellows
sharply. With which Meredithism concludes


       *       *       *       *       *


SIR,--The amazing popularity of the Costermonger Songs seems to me
a significant phenomenon. While no humane person would deny to the
itinerant vendor of comestibles that sympathy which is accorded
to the joys and sorrows of his more refined fellow-creatures, it
is impossible to view without alarm the hold which his loose and
ungrammatical diction is obtaining in the most cultured _salons_ of
to-day. Anxious to minimise the danger, yet loth to check a sentiment
of fraternity so creditable to our common humanity, I have devised
a plan by which Mr. CHEVALIER's songs may he rendered in such-wise
that while all their deep humanity is preserved, their English is so
elevated as to be innocuous to the nicest sensibility. Permit me to
give, just as a sample, my treatment of that very popular ballad,
known, _rubesco referens_, as "_Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road_."
Not being a singer, I have adopted Mr. CLIFFORD HARRISON's charming
plan of speaking through the music of the song, and this is how _I_
render the chorus:--

"'How is it with you?' was the universal exclamation of the residents
in the vicinity.

"'With whom, WILLIAM, have you made an appointment?'

"'Have you, WILLIAM, purchased all the house-property in this

"Were my risible faculties exercised?--you ask me. Nay. Indeed I was
actually apprehensive of a fatal issue.

"So striking was the effect produced upon those in the ancient Cantian

This, Sir, not only gives the sense, but gives it, I venture to claim,
in a form fit for the apprehension of the most refined. Judging,
too, by the reception it met with at our recent Penny Readings, I
am convinced that Mr. CHEVALIER's peculiar humour is thoroughly
preserved, for, indeed, many of the audience laughed till I became
positively concerned for their safety.


       *       *       *       *       *


That fiendish malefactor, the Influenza Bacillus, has been caught
at last! The peculiarity about him, confound him, is said to be
his "immobility." Ugh! the hard-hearted infinitesimally microscopic
monster! No tears, short-breathings, sighs, no groans, no sufferings,
nothing will move him. There he remains, untouched, immobile.
But there was one hopeful sign mentioned in the _Times_ of last
Saturday--the Bacillus was found "in chains, and in strings." Let the
chains be the heaviest possible till he can be tried by a Judge and
Jury; and don't resort to "strings" till the supply of chains has

       *       *       *       *       *

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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