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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, June 18, 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, June 18, 1892" ***

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

VOL. 102, JUNE 18, 1892***


VOL. 102

June 18, 1892



He is an elderly amiable little Dutchman in a soft felt hat; his name
is BOSCH, and he is taking me about. _Why_ I engaged him I don't quite
know--unless from a general sense of helplessness in Holland, and
a craving for any kind of companionship. Now I have got him, I feel
rather more helpless than ever--a sort of composite of _Sandford_
and _Merton_, with a didactic, but frequently incomprehensible _Dutch
Barlow_. My _Sandford_ half would like to exhibit an intelligent
curiosity, but is generally suppressed by _Merton_, who has a morbid
horror of useful information. Not that BOSCH is remarkably erudite,
but nevertheless he contrives to reduce me to a state of imbecility,
which I catch myself noting with a pained surprise. There is a statue
in the Plein, and the _Sandford_ element in me finds a satisfaction in
recognising it aloud as WILLIAM the Silent. It is--but, as my _Merton_
part thinks, a fellow _would_ be a fool if he didn't recognise WILLIAM
after a few hours in Holland--his images, in one form or another,
are tolerably numerous. Still, BOSCH is gratified. "Yass, dot is
ole VOLLIAM," he says, approvingly, as to a precocious infant just
beginning to take notice. "Lokeer," he says, "you see dot Apoteek?" He
indicates a chemist's shop opposite, with nothing remarkable about it
externally, except a Turk's head with his tongue out over the door.
"Yes, I, speaking for _Sandford_ and _Merton_, see it--has it some
historical interest--did VOLLIAM get medicine there, or what?" "Woll,
dis mornin dare vas two sairvans dere, and de von cot two blaces out
of de odder's haid, and afderwarts he go opstairs and vas hang himself
mit a pedbost," BOSCH evidently rather proud of this as illustrating
the liveliness of The Hague. "Was he mad?" "Yass, he vas mard, mit
a vife and seeks childrens." "No, but was he out of his senses?" "I
tink it vas oud of Omsterdam he vas com," says BOSCH. "But how did
it happen?" "Wol-sare, de broprietor vas die, and leaf de successor
de pusiness, and he dells him in von mons he will go, begause he
nod egsamin to be a Chimigal--so he do it, and dey dake him to de
hosbital, and I tink _he_ vas die too by now!" adds BOSCH, cheerfully.
Very sad affair evidently--but a little complicated. _Sandford_ would
like to get to the bottom of it, but _Merton_ convinced there is _no_
bottom. So, between us, subject allowed to drop. _Sandford_ (now
in the ascendant again) notices, as the clever boy, inscription on
house-front, "Hier woonden GROEN VAN PRINSTERER, 1838-76." "I suppose
that means VAN PRINSTERER lived here, BOSCH?" "Yass, dot vas it." "And
who was he?" "He vas--wol, he vos a Member of de Barliaments." "Was
he celebrated?" "Celebrated? oh, yass!" "What did he _do_?" (I think
_Merton_ gets this in.) "Do?" says BOSCH, quite indignantly, "he nefer
do _nodings_!" BOSCH takes me into the Fishmarket, when he directs my
attention to a couple of very sooty live storks, who are pecking about
at the refuse. "Dose birts are shtorks; hier dey vas oblige to keep
alvays two shtorks for de arms of de Haag. Ven de yong shtorks porn,
de old vons vas kill." _Sandford_ shocked--_Merton_ sceptical. "Keel
dem? Oh, yass, do anytings mit dem ven dey vas old," says BOSCH,
and adds:--"Ve haf de breference mit de shtorks, eh?" What _is_ he
driving at? "Yass--ven _ve_ vas old, ve vas nod kill." This reminds
BOSCH--_Barlow_-like--of an anecdote. "Dere vas a vrent to me," he
begins, "he com and say to me, 'BOSCH, I am god so shtout and my bark
is so dick, I can go no more on my lacks--vat vas I do?' To him I say,
'Wol, I dell you vat I do mit you--I dake you at de booshair to be cot
op; I tink you vas make vary goot shdeak-meat!'" Wonder whether this
is a typical sample of BOSCH's _badinage_. "What did he say to that,
BOSCH?" "Oh, he vas vair moch loff, a-course!" says BOSCH, with the
natural complacency of a successful humorist.

[Illustration: "Some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous

We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible implements of
torture, which seem to exhilarate BOSCH. "Lokeer!" he says, "Dis vas a
pinition" (BOSCH for "punishment") "mit a can. Dey lie de man down and
vasten his foots, and efery dime he was shdrook mit de can, he jomp op
and hit his vorehaid.... Hier dey lie down de beoples on de back, and
pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings go roundt, and preak deir
bones. Ven de pinition vas feenish you vas det." He shows where the
Water-torture was practised. "Nottice 'ow de vater vas vork a 'ole in
de tile," he chuckles. "I tink de tile vas vary hardt det, eh?" Then
he points out a pole with a spiked prong. "Tief-catcher--put'em in
de tief's nack--and ged 'im!" Before a grim-looking cauldron he halts
appreciatively. "You know vat dat vas for?" he says. "Dat vas for de
blode-foots; put 'em in dere, yass, and light de vire onderneat."
No idea what "_blode-foots_" may be, but from the relish in BOSCH's
tone, evidently something very unpleasant, so don't press him for
explanations. We go upstairs, and see some dark and very mouldy
dungeons, which BOSCH is most anxious that I should enter. Make him go
in _first_, for the surroundings seem to have excited his sense of the
humorous to such a degree, that he might be unable to resist locking
me in, and leaving me, if I gave him a chance.

Outside at last, thank goodness! The Groote Kerk, according to BOSCH,
"is not vort de see," so we don't see it. _Sandford_ has a sneaking
impression that I ought to go in, but _Merton_ glad to be let off.
We go to see the pictures at the Mauritshuis instead. BOSCH exchanges
greetings with the attendants in Dutch. "Got _another_ of 'em
in tow, you see--and collar-work, _I_ can tell you!" would be a
free translation, I suspect, of his remarks. Must say that, in a
Picture-gallery, BOSCH is a superfluous luxury. He _does_ take my
ignorance just a trifle too much for granted. He _might_ give me
credit for knowing the story of ADAM and EVE, at all events! "De
Sairpan gif EVA de opple, an' EVA she gif him to ADAM," BOSCH
carefully informs me, before a "_Paradise_," by RUBENS and BRUEGHEL.
This rouses my _Merton_ half to inquire what ADAM did with it. "Oh,
_he_ ead him too!" says BOSCH in perfect good faith. I do wish,
too, he wouldn't lead me up to PAUL POTTER's "_Bull_," and ask me
enthusiastically if it isn't "real meat." I shouldn't mind it so much
if there were not several English people about, without couriers--but
there _are_. My only revenge is (as _Merton_) to carefully pick out
the unsigned canvases and ask BOSCH who painted them; whereupon, BOSCH
endeavours furtively to make out the label on the frames, and then
informs me in desperation, "it was '_School_.'--yass, _he_ baint
him!" BOSCH kindly explains the subject of every picture in detail.
He tells me a DROOCHSLOOT represents a "balsham pedder." I suppose
I look bewildered, for he adds--"oppen air tance mit a village."
"Hier dey vas haf a tispute; dis man say de ham vas more value as de
cheese--dere is de cheese, and dere is the ham." "Hier is an old man
dot marry a yong vife, and two tevils com in, and de old man he ron
avay." "Hier he dress him in voman, and de vife is vrighten." "Hier is
JAN STEEN himself as a medicine, and he veel de yong voman's polse and
say dere is nodings de madder, and de modder ask him to trink a glass
of vine." "Hier is de beach at Skavening--now dey puild houses on
de dunes--bot de beach is schdill dere." Such are BOSCH's valuable
and instructive comments, to which, as representing _Sandford_ and
_Merton_, I listen with depressed docility. All the same, can't help
coming to the conclusion that Art is _not_ BOSCH's strong point.
Shall come here again--alone. We go on to the Municipal Museum, where
he shows me what _he_ considers the treasures of the collection--a
glass goblet, engraved "mit dails of tobaggo bipes," and the pipes
themselves; a painting of a rose "mit ade beople's faces in de leafs;"
and a drawing of "two pirts mit only von foots."

Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house. "Lokeer. In dot house leef an
oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland,
yassir." Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting--at last.
There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous
but infinitely humorous nature. "Well, BOSCH, go on--what about the
old lady?" I ask, eagerly, as _Merton_. "Wol, Sir," says BOSCH, "she
nefer go noveres." ... That's _all_! "A devilish interesting story,
_Sumph_, indeed!" to quote _Mr. Wagg_.

But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a
schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas nod in
de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny.

       *       *       *       *       *

BY ONE OF THE UNEMPLOYED.--"It is a curious fact," wrote the Recording
Angel, a very superior sort of person to "the Printer's Devil," on
the _Daily Telegraph_, "that in Greater London last week the births
registered were just one more than twice the number of deaths. Thus
grows the population in this great Babylon." Very appropriate, in
this instance, is the title of "Great Baby-lon." If you put it down
an "e," my Lord, and spell it "berths," then these are by no means in
proportion to the unemployed youth in search of them.

       *       *       *       *       *


  There was a sound of revelry by day,
  And England's Capital had gathered then,
  Her Beauty and her Masherdom, and gay
  Spring's sun shone o'er smart women and swell men;
  A thousand shops shone showily; and when
  MAY came to Mayfair, FLORA to Pall-Mall,
  Shrewd eyes winked hope to eyes which winked again,
  And maids heard sounds as of the marriage-bell.
    But hush! hark! a harsh sound strikes like a sudden knell!

  Did ye not hear it? Is it howling wind?
  The tram-car rattling o'er the stony street?
  The groans of M.P.'s wearily confined
  To the dull House when night and morning meet,
  Dragged to Divisions drear with dawdling feet?

  No, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
  The street, the hall its echoes now repeat,
  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
    Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the Elections' opening roar!

  'Tis in our midst--that figure draped and dim,
  Whose mocking music makes us all afraid.
  "Death as the Foe!" Can it indeed be _Him_?
  Duller, more dirge-like tune was never played
  On strings more spirit-chilling. Feet are stayed
  Though in mid-waltz, and laughter, though at height,
  Hushes, and maidens modishly arrayed
  For matrimonial conquest, shrink with fright;
    And Fashion palsied sits, and Shopdom takes to flight.

  Ah! then and there are hurryings to and fro
  And gathering tears, and poutings of distress,
  And cheeks all pale, which some short hours ago
  Glowed with the deep delights of Dance and Dress;
  And there are sudden partings, such as press
  The hope from Spoons of promise, meaning sighs
  Which ne'er may be repeated; who can guess
  If ever more shall meet those mutual eyes,
    When Dissolution snaps the Season's tenderest ties?

  And there is scuttling in hot haste: the steed,
  The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,
  The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,--
  All the munitions of the Social War,
  Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar
  And near, the beat of the great Party Drum
  Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,
  While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,
    When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"

  "Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,
  Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,
  And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,
  When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,
  When diners-out are having a good time,
  When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;
  To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.
  Confusion on that wrangling party-band
    Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!

  Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!--
  All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;
  Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.
  How that dread dirge the ambient Summer fills
  Savage and shrill! Smart frocks, soft snowy frills,
  Long trains which dancing Beauty deftly steers.
  Through waltzes wild or devious quadrilles,--
  All vanish; bosoms white, beset with fears;
    Beat flight as that fell strain falls harsh on Beauty's ears.

  And June yet waves above them her green leaves,
  Dewy with Springtide's night-drops as they pass
  Grieving,--if aught that's modish ever grieves,--
  Over the unreturning chance. Alas!
  Their hopes are all cut down ere falls the grass.
  That with corn-harvest might have seen full blow.
  See how foiled Shopdom flies, a huddled mass
  Of disappointment, hurrying from the foe,
    Who all their Season's prospects shatters, and lays low.

  Last month beheld them full of lusty life.
  Beauty, and Wealth, and Pleasure, proudly gay;
  This music brings the signal-sound of strife,
  This month the marshalling to arms. Away!
  Party's magnificently sham array
  The muster of Mode's mob will soon have rent.
  Play on, O Phantom, ominously play!
  Death as the Foe! They fly before thee, blent,
    Maid, Matron, Masher, Mime, in general discontent!

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


DEBT.--"SIMPLE SIMON" writes: "A man owes me money which he cannot
pay. He lives in furnished lodgings, and has given me a Bill of Sale
on the furniture. Is this sufficient security? He also offers to
insure his life for £200 if I will advance him £100, which will be
the cost of the first premium, which he says is always heavy. I am
disposed to close with this offer. Am I prudent?"--Prudent is hardly
the word to describe you. We should not in your position make the
advance mentioned. A retreat would be much better tactics. We fancy,
from your description, that your friend would do well as a Company

STOCK-DEALING TRANSACTIONS.--"Will you advise me under the following
circumstances?" asks "CHEERFUL SOUL," on a post-card. "I placed £50
with an Outside Broker as a speculation for the rise in Cashville and
Toothpeka First Preference. Yesterday I received a note to say I had
lost my money, as 'cover had run off.' On repairing to the Broker's
Office, I was surprised to find it apparently deserted. What is my
remedy?"--We should imagine that the Broker had "run off" too. Your
remedy is--not to speculate again. "Flutters" lead to the Gutters.

       *       *       *       *       *



_His Curate_ (_reflectively_). "I CAN _QUITE_ UNDERSTAND _THAT_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_Pall Mall. Present, SECRETARY OF STATE and Military

_Mil. A._ I want to know your ideas about the Autumn Manoeuvres. Are
we to have any this year?

_Sec. of S._ (_with a melancholy smile_). That depends upon
circumstances not entirely under my control.

_Mil. A._ Oh, yes; I know. But Governments may come and Governments
may go, but the State flows on for ever. Whatever _you_ commence
_they_ will have to carry out.

_Sec. of S._ Can we have these Manoeuvres without expense?

_Mil. A._ Well, scarcely. For instance, there is the ammunition.

_Sec. of S._ Oh, we can get over that! Every soldier, when he is
supposed to fire, can say, "Bang!" or words to that effect. We might
add the direction to the new Provisional Drill-Book.

_Mil. A._ (_drily_). Yes, you might; and it would prove about as
useful as the other regulations in that remarkable volume! Well,
suppose the difficulty of ammunition surmounted, what next?

_Sec. of S._ Well, I suppose we shall have to spend some money on the
farmers for rights of way and the rest of it?

_Mil. A._ I suppose so, if you want the troops to move over an
unfamiliar country.

_Sec. of S._ But I am not sure I do. Why shouldn't they learn how to
defend Aldershot? Then it would cost nothing. What next?

_Mil. A._ Well, there will be the Commissariat expenses.

_Sec. of S._ Suppose food costs the same in most places. Besides,
isn't TOMMY ATKINS supposed to purchase his own victuals?

_Mil. A._ Yes, theoretically I suppose he is; but practically he--

_Sec. of S._ Oh, bother practice! Of course he must, somehow; he must
pay for the Commissariat out of his own pocket.

_Mil. A._ Well, then there is the question of transport. Of course,
many regiments have their own waggons and carts, but for a special
occasion I think it would be advisable if--

_Sec. of S._ (_interrupting_). What nonsense! Why, of course we will
make them all walk. It will do them a world of good!

_Mil. A._ Well, as we want to bring some from Scotland, it will
distinctly be a long walk--a very long walk indeed!

_Sec. of S._ (_heartily_). So much the better--so much the better!

_Mil. A._ (_sarcastically_). I fancy you will have to pay a large bill
in shoe-leather!

_Sec. of S._ (_aghast_). So we shall! Oh, bother the Manoeuvres just
now! The fact is, I have to think of other things!

    [_Scene closes in upon Secretary thinking of other things._

       *       *       *       *       *



MR. PUNCH's first example of the New Poetry was, it may be remembered,
in the rhymed, irregular style. It is not a difficult style. The
lines may be long or short; some may groan under an accumulation of
words, while others consist of merely two or three--a most unfair
distribution. The style of the following specimen, (also by Mr.
H-NL-Y) is, however, even easier to manage. There are no rhymes and
very few restrictions. The lines are very short, and a few words,
therefore, go a very long way, which is always a consideration, even
if you don't happen to be paid by the column. This style is very
fierce and bloodthirsty and terrible. Timid people are, therefore,
advised, for the sake of their nerves, not to read any farther.



      The Poker,
  I am the Poker the straight and the strong,
    Prone in the fire grate,
    Black at the nether end,
    Knobby and nebulous.

    Fashioned for fight
    In the Pit Acherontic:
    Many have grappled me,
    Poised me and thrust me
      Into the glowing,
    The flashing and furious
      Heart of the fire.
    Raked with me, prized with me,
      Till on a sudden
    Besparked and encircled
    With Welsh or with Wallsend,
      Shattering, battering
        They drew me away.
      Others in rivalry,
        Thinking to better
    The previous performance,
      Seized me again;
    Pushed with a leverage
      Hard on the haft of me,
    Till with the shocks
    Sank the red fire,
    Shivered and sank
    Subdued into blackness.
      That is my Toil;
    I am the Poker.

  Oh, and the burglar's head
    Often hath felt me,
    Hard, undesirable
    Cracker of craniums.
  I have drunk of the blood,
  The red blood, the life-blood
    Of the wife of the drunkard.
  Hoh! then, the glory.
    The joyous, ineffable
    Cup of fulfilment,
    When the policeman,
    Tall with a bull's-eye,
    Took me and shook me,
    Produced me in evidence,
    There in the dim
    Unappeasable grisliness
    Of the Police-Court.
  Women to shrink at me,
  Men to be cursed with me,
  Bloodstained, contemptuous,
    Laid on the table.
    I am the Minister,
      Azrael's Minister.
      I am the Poker.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


_Wednesday_.--Great German Night. Third Part of the Festival Play for
Four Nights by RICHARD WAGNER, with (thank goodness just to lighten
it) an English translation by the Messrs. CORDER.

"_Sursum Corder!_" A light and airy work as everyone knows is _Der
Ring des Nibelungen_, or _The Nibelung's Ring_, requiring all the
power of lungs to get the true ring out of the work. Hard work for
singers, more so for orchestra, and most so for audience. As for the
"Ring," there are a lot of animals in the Opera, but no horse, so the
Circus entertainment is not complete until _Brünnhilde_ shall appear
in the next part of the tetralogy, with her highly-trained steed.
Odd! Throughout two long (and, ahem! somewhat weary, eh?) Acts, not
a female singer visible on stage (though one sings "like a bird" off
it,--that is, quite appropriately, "at the wings"), and not until the
Third Act, does _Erda_ the witch "rise from below," and we all saw
her and 'Erd 'er. Then, later on, appears _Brünnhilde_, asleep, "in
a complete suit of gleaming plate-armour, with helmet on her head and
long shield over her body," a style of free-and-easy costume which, as
everyone knows, is highly conducive to sleeping in perfect comfort.
No wonder _Siegfried_ mistakes her for a man-in-armour out of the Lord
Mayor's Show, and exclaims,

[Illustration: Scenes in the Ring. Sir Alvary Siegfried, with Nothung
on, as Master of "the Ring," gives a Special Entertainment.]

  "Ha, a Warrior, sure!
  I scan with wonder his form!"

(I was scanning with wonder the verses,--but _passons!_)--he

  "His haughty head
  Is pressed by the helm!"

This at first sight looks nautical; and therefore his next question
is, "Can I speak to the man at the wheel?" He decides that, as the
sleeping warrior "heaveth his breast," and "is heavily breathing," it
will be a humane act to give him a little air,--[which is done in the
orchestra whatever air there is],--and then _Siegfried_ asks himself
if it won't be as well, or "better, to open his byrnie?" Those among
the audience who have been carefully reading the translation up to
this point, here look up and closely watch _Siegfried's_ proceedings,
being evidently uncertain as to what "his byrnie" may be. Some clever
person in Stalls observes that up to now, he has always thought that
"'byrnie' was the affectionate diminutive for a mountain 'byrne' in
Scotland." Which clever person had evidently much to learn. However
the effect of the operation for "byrnie" (which ought to have been
performed by Dr. BYRNIE YEO, ever ready to rescue a fellow-creature
in distress) is to show that the supposed Knight is a Lady. Whereupon
_Siegfried_ with "surprise and astonishment starts back" exclaiming:--

"This is no man! Burning enchantment"--he meant "Byrnieing"--"charges
my heart;"--(what charge does a heart make in these
circumstances?)--"fiery awe falls on my eyesight;" (bad symptoms
these!)--"My senses stagger and sway,"--So _he_ swaggers and stays.

It is some time before he can pull himself together, and then the
"Bewitched Maiden" awakes and addresses him bewitchingly. This causes
him to be taken with a fit of "exalted rapture," while the lady, on
her part, cannot help being "deeply stirred."

After a mad wooing, she laughs in a "wild transport of passion," calls
him a "high-minded boy," likewise "a blossoming hero," also "a babe of
prowess;" all which epithets, styles and titles, are in quite the vein
of _Falstaff_ addressing _Prince Hal_. Then, in return, _Siegfried_
can hit on no better compliment than to style her "a Sun" and "a
Star." Having thus exhausted their joint-stock of complimentary
endearments, they throw themselves into each other's arms. On which
situation the Curtain discreetly falls.

[Illustration: Sir Druriolanus Wagnerensis offering the Tea-tray-logy
to his Patrons.]

All very fine and large, of course. Orchestra splendid. _Siegfried_
and _Brünnhilde_ recalled four times. Everybody, including Mr. MAHLER
the Conductor, and Sir AUGUSTUS WAGNERENSIS, called before Curtain.
Madame ROSA SUCHER had her evening all to herself, to go wherever she
liked, as she had only to drop in at the Opera at 11 P.M., don her
armour in which to appear before the public at midnight, sing a
few solos, join in a duet, and be off the stage again by 12:30 A.M.

The English translation will repay perusal. There are in it some
really choice morsels. This subject must be considered at the earliest

The Singing Dragon is delightful throughout, and his death as tragic
as anything in _Pyramis_ and _Thisbe_ as played by _Bottom the Weaver
& Co_, _Limited_.

_Saturday_.--Production of the Illustrious ISIDORE DE LARA's _Light
of Asia_. So the operatic day, that is Saturde-ay, finishes with
generally-expressed opinion that this Opera is a


Everything scenically and stage-managerially that could be done to
make _The Light of Asia_ brilliant, Sir DRURIOLANUS has done; but,
after a first hearing, it strikes me that, regarded as a work for the
stage, it is a mere _Night-light of Asia_, which, like _Macbeth's_
"brief candle," will go "out," and "then be heard no more." If,
however, it be relegated to the concert-hall, as a Cantata, _The
Light of Asia_ may appear lighter than it does on the boards of Covent
Garden, where, intended to be a dramatic Opera, it only recalls to me
the title of one of RUDYARD KIPLING's stories, viz., _The Light that

       *       *       *       *       *

"a Sutton person of his acquaintance."

       *       *       *       *       *


_Unfashionable Mother._ "WHAT A SWEET CHILD! HOW OLD IS SHE?"


       *       *       *       *       *


    (_As sung by the Champion Ulster "Comique," Colonel S-nd-rs-n,
    to the old tune of "De Groves of de Pool," written by "honest
    Dick Millikin."_)

  Whillaloo! If they droive us to foighting,
    'Tis ourselves who will lead 'em a dance,
  Till, loike the Cork bhoys, they're deloighting,
    _Back again_ to their homes to _advance_!
  No longer in beating such rebels
    We'll take than in baiting a bull.
  How they'll squake, in effeminate trebles,
    When Ulster's battalions are full!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  _We_ trate 'em as loving relations?
    _We_ trust to the "Union of Hearts"?
  _We_ heed the Grand Old One's orations?
    _We_ play the Minority's parts?
  _We_ bow to the yoke of TIM HEALY?
    _We_ stoop to the Papisthry rule?
  Faix! them who imagine it really
    Must fancy that "Orange" spells "fool."
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  _We_ consint to a sham House o' Commons
    Established on ould College Green?
  They fancy we're Radical rum 'uns!
    Allaygiance we owe to our QUEEN!
  But we're fly to _their_ thraitorous dodges;
    Our loyalty's edge would they dull?
  Fwit! We'll pour like a flood from our Lodges,
    And crack every "National" skull!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  We're all friends of Law and of Order,
    But would they wrench _us_ from the Crown?
  We'll soon be a-singing "_Boyne Water_,"
    And marching to "_Croppies, lie down!_"
  'Tis we have the Men and the Money,
    We don't _want_ to foight, we're quite cool.
  But, by Jingo, our foes will look funny,
    When Ulster turns out 'gin Home Rule!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  To-day in our myriads we muster.
    Friendly _warning_ is all that _we_ mean.
  About SOLLY's "incitement" Rads fluster;
    We're thrue to the Crown and the QUEEN:
  But Ulster no "pathriot" shall sever,
    And Ulster no "Papish" shall school.
  Whillaloo! Here's the Union for ever,
    And into the Boyne wid Home Rule!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  Och! Here's to Dutch WILLIAM the Pious!
    And here's to VICTORIA the Good!
  If they think we _won't_ foight, let 'em try us!
    They mock at an Orangeman's mood,
  But once set the Green 'gainst the Yellow,
    (Wid no one our coat-tails to pull,)
  And I pity the pathriots who bellow
    (Like bhoys in a bog) for Home Rule!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

  Come, all loyal props of the nation,
    Come fill up a bumper all round!
  Drink success to our great federation;
    With Brummy JOE's blessing 'tis crowned.
  _He_ says we are heroes, right stingo,
    _He_ vows W.G.'s an old fool.
  No, we _don't_ want to fight, but, by Jingo,
    Whin we _do_--it's all up wid Home Rule!
            Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
            [_Left "bombinating."_

       *       *       *       *       *


  Oh, the beautiful women, the women of ancient days,
    The ripe and the red, who are done and dead,
      With never a word of praise;
  The rich, round SALLIES and SUSANS, the POLLIES and JOANS and PRUES,
    Who guarded their fame, and saw no shame
      In walking in low-heeled shoes.

  They never shrieked on a platform; they never desired a vote;
    They sat in a row and liked things slow,
      While they knitted or patched a coat.
  They lived with nothing of Latin, and a jolly sight less of Greek,
    And made up their books, and changed their cooks
      On an average once a week.

  They never ventured in hansoms, nor climbed to the topmost 'bus,
    Nor talked with a twang in the latest slang;
      They left these fashions to us.
  But, ah, she was sweet and pleasant, though possibly not well-read,
    The excellent wife who cheered your life,
      And vanished at ten to bed.

  And it's oh the pity, the pity that time should ever annul
    The wearers of skirts who mended shirts,
      And never thought nurseries dull.
  For everything's topsy-turvy now, the men are bedded at ten,
    While the women sit up, and smoke and sup
      In the Club of the Chickless Hen.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN OLD SONG REVIVED.

COLONEL S-ND-RS-N _(the Irish "Lion Comique") sings_--

  BUT, BY JINGO, IF WE DO, ----"]

       *       *       *       *       *




  I am rather a "pootlesome" bat--
    I seldom, indeed, make a run;
  But I'm rather the gainer by that,
    For it's bad to work hard in the sun.

  As a "field" I am not worth a jot,
    And no one expects me to be;
  My run is an adipose trot,
    My "chances" I never can see.

  I am never invited to bowl,
    And though, p'raps, this seems like a slight
  In the depths of my innermost soul
    I've a notion the Captain is right.

  In short, I may freely admit
    I am not what you'd call a great catch;
  But yet my initials are writ
    In the book against every match!

  For although--ay, and there is the rub--
    I am forty and running to fat,
  I have made it all right with the Club,
    By presenting an Average Bat!

       *       *       *       *       *



Deadly business, this Latin joking. One speech is bad enough, but
fifteen are absolutely crushing. Still it must be done. Shade of
CICERO, befriend me! Here goes:--

"What on earth can I say about the DUKE OF EDINBURGH? Mustn't offend
these blessed Royalties. Am told they never take kindly to jokes.
Let me see, he served on the _Euryalus_ (query? ought I to bring in
_Nisus_). Travelled a great deal--_multorum vidit et urbes_. _Mem._
Work this up. By the way, ALFRED's his name. Bring in ALFRED and the
cakes. ALFRED thrashed Danes. PRINCE OF WALES married a Dane. To be
worked up. Sailor-Prince: _mem._ _O navis referent, etc._ See also
VIRGIL's description of storm. Prince plays fiddle. Might say that
VIRGIL was poet _quem vicina Cremonæ Mantua genuit_. Did this, years
ago, for old JOACHIM, but can use it again. Never mind the _væ nimium
miseræ vicina Cremonæ_. Prince won't know about that. What's the best
Latin for Admiral? Daughter betrothed to Crown PRINCE OF ROUMANIA. Can
get in Roman legionaries. Ripping!!

"NORTHBROOK's fairly easy. Oxford man. Mustn't mention he only got
Second Class. Never mind, India will pull me through. Conquests of
ALEXANDER, and all that sort of thing. Must look up RUDYARD KIPLING
for latest tips. Dusky brothers (Query, _sub-fusci fratres?_) good
Academical joke this; sure to fetch the VICE-CHANCELLOR. Pity the
CHANCELLOR's so poor in Latin.

"CRANBROOK next. Bother all these brooks! He's a Viscount (_Vice-Comes_
DE CRANBROOK). Lord President of Council; looks after education.
That'll do it. Who's this fool that has sent a post-card asking me to
say something about _Educatio libera_? _Num est tuus servus canis ut
hanc rem faciat?_

"HENRY JAMES. Dear me! No University education. Must refer to CICERO
as a barrister. _Solicitor Generalis_ doesn't sound right somehow.
Refused to be Lord Chancellor. _Mem._ Get good joking Latin for
Woolsack. Factory and Workshops Act must see me through.

"JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. Hard nut to crack. Can't say I like him myself.
_Birminghamiæ decus; civium consensu ter_--What the dickens is
Mayor in Latin? Did anybody make screws in ancient Rome? _Mem._ Work
up orchids and eyeglass. _Una cum Cancellario nostro seni grandi
restitit._ Absolutely no literary distinction. Still, he's got a son
who was a Cambridge man. Must get in a sly dig at OSCAR BROWNING and
East Worcestershire. Something about old-age pensions. Bah, I hate the

"JOHN MORLEY. Humph! Delicate ground. Home Rule's got to be skimmed
over. Only consistent Home-Ruler of the lot (_sibi constat_). Books
by the dozen (_lucidus ordo, etc._). French Revolution (_res novæ_).
Ardent reformer (_res renovanda radicitus_). Ought to drag in
_impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis acer_. Better not, on second

"That's enough for one morning. Polish off the rest to-morrow.
_Mem._ WEBSTER won two miles against Oxford (_duo millia passuum;
Oxoniensibus triumphatus_, and a few japes about Isthmian games. Must
fetch them). Remember to give ROBY one or two for himself over his
Latin grammar. Mostly wrong. He'd better stick to making reels of
cotton. SEELEY and the others can wait."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HARDUP lately came into a large fortune, and changed his name to
SKATTERKASH. He has started a coach, and drives four duns. "The duns
used always to be after me," says he; "now I've got 'em before me.
It's a pleasant reminder of unpleasant times."

       *       *       *       *       *



_As they are, always._--Closed. Within, a solitary policeman, moping.
Without, the jaded citizens, gasping on a dusty road, and gazing
through the iron railings at the cool groves within. A mile away, or
nearer, some military bands (paid--by whom?--no matter--ultimately by
tax-payers, who don't get much for their money), bored to death for
lack of work, and any number of charitable institutions spending half
their funds in advertising for more.

_As they might be, sometimes._--Open. At the gate energetic policemen
taking the shillings of eager citizens who crowd in to sit and smoke
in the cool groves, lighted by inexpensive Chinese lanterns, and to
listen to the music of the military bands, now alert, cheerful and
occupied. Scattered through the cool groves a few energetic, but
unobtrusive, policemen, seeing that everyone behaves as quietly as at
the Fisheries or the Healtheries. And (the next morning) any number
of charitable institutions receiving the shillings thus virtuously and
profitably spent.

       *       *       *       *       *



There is no principle, no precedent, no reason why, if the majority
desire anything, a Legislative sanction should not be given to their

The majority in Ireland desire Home Rule.

Therefore, it would be an outrage to the minority to give Legislative
sanction to that desire.

[Illustration: Going to the Country with a Cry.]

       *       *       *       *       *

The influence of Women in politics must be elevating and refining.

That influence can be most effectively and legitimately exercised by
and through possession of the Electoral Franchise.

Therefore it would unsex and degrade women to give them the
Parliamentary vote.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is useless to receive a deputation (say, upon Eight Hours' Day
legislation) unless you "mean business" in that matter.

_I_ do not mean business in that matter--at present.

Therefore I shall be delighted to receive the deputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Liberal Legislation is bad for the country.

The present Government has successfully accomplished more Liberal
Legislation than any of its predecessors.

Therefore the country should vote for the present Government.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Gladstone Government of 1880 made many serious mistakes.

_I_ was a leading Member of that Government.

Therefore you cannot go wrong in following me now.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. C. made a slashing attack on Lord R., and addressed to him certain
awkward questions and posing arguments to which he is bound to attempt
an answer.

Lord R. made a dashing rejoinder to Mr. C., and devoted the whole of
his speech to answering Mr. C.'s questions and arguments.

Therefore Lord R. showed bad taste and temper, and wasted his own time
and the public's.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have altered my opinion of many men since 1885.

Many men have altered their opinion of _me_ since that same date.

Therefore they are either fickle fools or idolatrous items.

       *       *       *       *       *

I followed my Leader until 1881.

Some follow him still.

Therefore either they don't know what they do, or don't mean what they

       *       *       *       *       *

If any logical-minded reader should object that these so-called
syllogisms are not really syllogisms at all, we should agree with
him. But then they are not only the brief and formal expression of
long-winded so-called arguments, which are not really arguments at
all, but which, veiled in floods of verbiage, are duly presented to
the public, from platform and Press, as though they really were so.
_Moral_:--The clear analysis of stump-oratory generally takes the form
of a _reductio ad absurdum_.

       *       *       *       *       *

is announced _A Play in Little_. At the Court they might announce a
LITTLE in a Play. [N.B.--For explanation see Cast under Clock.] Just
now, very little in any play.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Mistress_ (_to applicant for situation, who has been dismissed, from


       *       *       *       *       *

FROM A LAHORE PAPER.--"_Punch_," the writer ought to have said "_Mr.
Punch_,"--"possesses a battery of guns, and maintains a standing army
of 1,200 men." Quite correct. Wonderful how they get the news out
there. The guns fire a hundred jokes per minute; all killing ones. The
standing army do the thing well, and will stand anything (well-iced)
to all friends within reasonable limits, under command of _Mr. Punch_,

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY NATURAL.--Mrs. BROWN POTTER, tired of playing a Hero, is now
coming out as a Heroine before the Chaff'dsbury Theatre is shut up.

       *       *       *       *       *

_ROD and RIVER_ is the title of a useful book about fly-fishing (it
only needs "fly-leaves" for notes to make it perfect), written by a
Major bearing the appropriate name of FISHER. One note he might append
for the benefit of intending Etonians, that those who, not having
"passed" their swimming examination, venture to go on the "river", are
in danger of the "rod."

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. RAM was told that Mr. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN is a giant in intellect.
She said, "I don't know much about intellect, but he must be a very
big giant to carry an orchard in his buttonhole."

       *       *       *       *       *



  Oh, Flora, fair Goddess of Flowers, skies brighten, the gardens
          are glowing,
  And lo! 'tis the season of Flower Shows, when everything seems
  And what the dickens you've been up to with the dictionary, I'm
          dashed if there's any possibility of knowing.

  Talk about "Volapück." Why, it isn't a circumstance compared with
          the floral goddess's crack-jaw.
  I've been trying to read the account of a Flower Show to my wife.
          Now, at patter-songs I've a slick tongue and slack jaw.
  I can do "_John Wellington Wells_" pretty patly; but to read
          through a horticultural article
  Would give an alligator instantaneous tetanus; and of _meaning_
          the words seem to have no particle.
  I should like to be introduced, in its Bornean home, to the
          glorious plant called Cælo Dyana.
  But fancy a footman having to announce Madame SPATHOGLOTTIS
  Odont. Uro-Skinneri _sounds_ like something medical and epidermic,
          but then we're informed that its sepals and petals
  Are "reticulated in tender brown and broad rosy-mauve," which
          immediately sends one "off the metals."
  The Masdevallias may be a respectable family, though _I_ should
          not care to marry into it,
  But "the hybrid M. Mundyana representing M. Veitchii × M. Ignea"
          (though "a wonderfully glowing orange" by all accounts),
          sounds so exceedingly mixed and mongrel that I'd certainly
          eschew it.
  "A noble Catt: Gigas" _sounds_ rather aristocratic: "Catt:
          Jacomb," I suppose, is a sort of a relative;
  But Od. Citrosmum, sounds awfully odd, and is not _my_ notion of a
          reassuring appellative.
  And what _are_ you to make of Odont. crisp. Sanderæ, which,
          whomsoever "Sanderæ" may be, _I_ don't want to "crisp"
  "A sport of nature unequalled" they call him, and no doubt his
          _name_ is, for I can neither clearly articulate, stutter
          or lisp him.
  I've not a doubt that, whoever he is, he is probably liked and
          considered by some a gem.
  Gyp. Chamberlainianum has a political sound, and has a strong
          savour of a floral Brummagem.

  And then comes "Odont. vex. Bleui splendidissimum," which sounds
          like an appeal for "_Two Lovely Blue Eyes_."
  But if it means something entirely different, I shall hear it
          without the smallest surprise.
  In fact, looking further, I find, it's "an artificial hybrid from
          Odont. vexillarium × Odont. Roezlii." That's a staggerer.
  But Dend. phalænopsis Schroderæ Dellense is a still bigger
          horticultural swaggerer.
  O. Coradenei! likewise O. Crispum! I only wish that your
          Godmother, Flora,
  Would insist upon shorter and more intelligible names for her
          modern offspring. By bright Aurora,
  I can't go on worshipping at your floral shrine if the ritual is
          polyglot gibberish, and what's more, I won't, Ma'am.
  In the word (queerly spelt) of which you seem very fond, I
          earnestly say, Flower Goddess, Odont. Ma'am!!!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By Our Americanised Artist._)]

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: "Standing at Bar."]

_Thursday, June 9._--The great strength of the Liberal Party lies in
its illimitable resources of Leadership. When in ordinary times Mr. G.
is away, there is either the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD or JOHN MORLEY to take
his place. Now, in these last days of dying Parliament, the Squire
follows Mr. G.'s leadership even to extent of stopping away from
House. JOHN MORLEY been here for short while to-night, but as soon as
he saw House comfortably in Committee he, too, departed. Seemed as
if Opposition, thus deserted, would stagger blindly on till it fell
in some ditch. At critical moment BOBBY SPENCER quietly appeared
on scene; naturally and irresistibly dropped into seat of Mr. G. on
otherwise almost empty front Bench. No sounding of drums or braying of
trumpets. BOBBY quietly walks up, brushing past ATHERLY JONES standing
at the Bar, and takes his proper place.

[Illustration: "Question! Question!"]

Effect upon House instant and soothing. Prince ARTHUR looks up
relieved. No one more interested in presence of strong hand on the
rein of Opposition than the Leader of the House. Business immediately
settles down to even and rapid pace. It is generally understood that
BOBBY is desirous that the Government shall have every assistance
given them in disposing of the remaining business. ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS
shows himself a little restive. Here is a great opportunity fleeting
past; vote after vote put from Chair agreed to almost as rapidly as it
can be recited. After half-a-dozen have been galloped through, ALPHEUS
CLEOPHAS moves uneasily in his seat. Anxiously watches the youthful
figure seated on front Bench. Bang goes another Million. ALPHEUS
CLEOPHAS can sit it no longer; jumps up and wants to know something.
BOBBY, half-turning, regards him with grave eyes. Speaks no word, but
ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS knows what is passing through his mind; his fluent
speech falters; presently he sits down, shrivelled up, as it were,
under the reproachful glance of the new Leader. Thus the hours pass,
and the votes too, till by midnight all the money is voted for the
Navy, and whole blocks of Civil Service Estimates have been passed.

[Illustration: Poltalloch.]

_Business done._--Supply voted with both hands.

_Friday._--Army Estimates on in Committee of Supply. Gather from
general conversation that things are awful. FRASER, V.C., says they
are going to the dogs. WALTER BARTTELOT "going," as he sometimes asks
permission to do, "one step farther," says they've gone. STANHOPE
evidently expecting an assault on his Department, brought in with
him a stout stick. "When JULIUS 'ANNIBAL PICTON got up just now, and
gave a brief _résumé_ of the operations in which his great ancestor
defeated FLAMINIUS and SERVILIUS at the Lake of Thrasymenus; pretty
to see how STANHOPE almost involuntarily made a pass at him with the

"Question! Question!" cried STUART WORTLEY, from behind the SPEAKER's

"This is the question," retorted J.A.P., "or it is at least leading
me up to it. I am about, Mr. COURTNEY, to show how, supposing the War
Office at Carthage had been managed on the same principles as those
which govern the conduct of the Right Hon. Gentleman, my illustrious
ancestor, instead of routing the enemy, would have fled from the face
of FLAMINIUS, scuttled off before SERVILIUS, and would never have
lived to vanquish VARROW at Cannes."

"You rather had STANHOPE there," said POLTALLOCH meeting J.A.P. in
the Lobby afterwards, and shouting down at him a few words of hearty

_Business done._--Another gallop through the Votes.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Phantom Lodge, Ascot._



Here I am once more at Ascot--beloved of Women and Milliners!
_Ascot_, I mean, not _myself_, as I'm thankful to say women don't
like me--Milliners don't count as women, of course, being so very
liberal-minded; and that's the advantage of being "somebody," and
having a figure--you can get all your gowns on the condition of
telling everyone (in strict confidence) who "built" them! I had a
most fatiguing day yesterday, as, after arriving, I had to show the
Baroness all my Ascot "confections," and I made the poor dear quite
jealous, which, of _course_, vexed me, as she is quite my dearest
friend! I was much gratified to see my protest against these
"glove contests" so admirably and cleverly "seconded" (I'm afraid
that's a fighting expression) by one of your wonderful Artists in
Black-and-White (black and blue it might have well been on this
occasion)--though, by the way, he must have been present himself, or
he wouldn't have seen how ashamed of his own face every man was! We
shall have the dear wretches wearing veils next, I suppose!

On every hand I hear great complaints of the "moderate lot"
our English Three-year-olds have turned out; and the Vicomte DE
FOSSE-TERRE (a descendant of the historical QUEEN OF NAVARRE) quite
upset our dinner-party last night by claiming immense superiority
for the French horses of the same age--why should this be?--I don't
consider the French ahead of us in politeness, so why should they be
so in breeding? However, the fact remains, that no English Horse will
run in the French Derby this year!

Lord STONEHENGE tells me we may expect the "Dissolution" very shortly,
and I'm sure the poor Members must be glad of it, for this weather
makes one long to dissolve--though I must say it seems to me an absurd
time to choose, as it will stop the Season and upset everybody's
arrangements! These things will be better managed when we get a "House
of Peeresses" at the head of affairs--and _that_ is only a question of
time, I feel sure!

But now to glance at the Ascot Programme--it is such a lengthy and
important one, that a mere glance will be quite sufficient for me,
whereas a _man_ would study the thing for a week and then know nothing
about it! I will just mention a few horses that my readers will do
well to "keep their eye on," that is if they can--for really at Ascot
one does not pay much attention to the races--and in conclusion I
will give my "one-horse selection" for the _last_ in the Gold Cup. The
expression "one-horsed," is, I believe, generally used contemptuously,
but it must serve till I find time to think out another, which is
impossible at present, as the luncheon-gong has just sounded, and
I have visions of a lobster-salad and iced Hock-Cup! And now to
prophesy? On the "_Queen's Birthday_" a "_Sprightly_" "_Buccaneer_"
gave an "_Order_" to attack "_Harfleur_", captured the town, and at
the end of the "_Comedy_" paid the "_Bill_!"

  Yours devotedly,


  The bloom on the leaf of a first-rate cigar
    Is expressed by the trade as "Flor Fina,"
  But the sight, to a racing-man, finer by far
    Is the bloom of the mare "_Caterina_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

GOOD NEWS!!--"Apprehended Great Cyclone!" So ran the heading of
a paragraph in the _Daily Telegraph_ last Friday. We trust this
turbulent person once apprehended, will be sentenced and imprisoned.

       *       *       *       *       *

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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