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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 21, 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, May 21, 1892" ***

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

VOL. 102, MAY 21, 1892***


VOL. 102

MAY 21, 1892



"She-Pantaloons? seedy? Now, do we _look_ like it?"

The speaker was a tall, robust maiden with fair hair; on her knee was
an edition (without notes) of the _Anabasis of Xenophon_, and by her
side was _Liddell and Scott's Lexicon_, in which she had just been
21 tracking an exceptionally difficult--but, let me hasten to add, a
perfectly regular--Greek verb to its lair. There were a considerable
number of roseate specimens of English womanhood in the library of
Girnham College, where, with some natural diffidence, I had ventured
to put the rather delicate question to which I received the above

For I had been much troubled in my soul about Sir JAMES CRICHTON
BROWNE's recent deliverances with regard to the injurious physical
effect of the Higher Education upon women, and, as a devoted--if
hitherto unappreciated--admirer of the Fair Sex, I felt I had a
theoretical interest in the question, and was bound to verify Dr.
BROWNE's views. The most obvious way of satisfying my anxiety was to
go to Girnham myself and ask the lady students what _they_ thought
about it, and so I did.

[Illustration: "I received the football in the pit of my stomach."]

"I quite agree," I said, mildly, as I unwound my comforter, "that your
course of studies seems to suit you remarkably well. Quite a bevy of
female admirable CRICHT--!"

The effect was immediate; an unmistakable rush of lexicons--or were
they Todhunters?--hurtled around my devoted head from the fair hands
of disturbed and ruffled girlhood.

"Pray don't mention that person again!" said my fair-haired
interlocutor, and I thought I wouldn't.

"Well, but," I began, with heroic daring, as I laid aside my
respirator, "as to weak _chests_ now?"

I was interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing, which I tried to explain,
as my young friends thumped my back with unnecessary zeal, was, owing
to my having imprudently ventured out without my chest-protector. As
soon as I was able, I feebly hazarded the suggestion that, for growing
girls, the habit of stooping over their books seemed calculated to
induce weakness in the lungs--but their roars of merriment at the idea
instantly convinced me that any uneasiness on this score was entirely

"You certainly all look remarkably well," I observed, genially,
"particularly sunburnt and brow--"

Here there was a roar of quite another kind. I endeavoured to protest,
as I got behind an arm-chair and dodged a Differential Calculus and a
large glass inkstand, that I hadn't meant to allude to the obnoxious
Physician at all, but had merely intended to convey my hearty admir--

"I know what you're going to say!" interrupted the fair-haired girl,
vivaciously. "And you had better not."

As she spoke, she raised me from my seat by the coat-collar with no
apparent effort, and deposited me on the top of a tall bookcase, from
which I found myself compelled to prosecute my inquiries.

"Nature has been very bountiful to you--very much so, I am sure," I
murmured, blinking amiably down upon them through the spectacles
I wear to correct a slight tendency to strabismus. "Still, don't
you--er--find that your eyes--"

I got no further; I thought some of them would have died!

"How about the effect of learning on your _looks_, now?" I next
inquired. "Is it true that classical and mathematical pursuits are apt
to exercise a disfiguring effect? Not that, with such blooming faces
as I see around me--er--if you will allow me to say so--"

But they wouldn't; on the contrary, I was given to understand,
somewhat plainly, that compliments were perhaps ill-advised in that

"Are you--hem--fond of athletics?" was the question I put next from my
lofty perch. "Do you go in for _games_ at all, now?"

"Of course we do!" said the fair-haired girl, affording a practical
demonstration of the fact by taking me down and proceeding with her
lively companions to engage in the old classical game of _pila_ or
[Greek: sphairistikae], the recreation in which Ulysses long ago found
Nausicaa engaged with her maidens. On this occasion, however, _I_
represented the _pila_, or ball, and although, in justice to their
accuracy of eye and hand, I am bound to admit that I was seldom
allowed to touch the ground as I sped swiftly from one to the other,
still I felt considerable relief when, on my urgent protestations that
I was fully convinced of their proficiency in this amusement, they
were prevailed upon to bring this pastime to a close.

"We are breaking the rule of silence in this room," said the
fair-haired one. "And you _do_ ask such a lot of questions! But, as
you seem curious about our athletic pursuits, come and I will try to
show you."

I crawled after my guide without a word, inwardly reflecting that
I was sorry I had spoken, and heartily cursing (though without
pronouncing it aloud) the very name of that eminent Physician, Dr.
CRICHTON BROWNE. She took me first of all to a field where a bevy of
maidens were engaged in a game of hockey.

"We are keen on hockey," said my guide, and, as she spoke, a girl,
flushed and radiant, caught me across the most sensitive part of
the shin with a hockey-stick. No need to ask _her_ if she felt well.
I limped away, and, in another part of the field, saw a comely and
robust maiden practising drop-kicks, utterly regardless of the fact
that I was looking on. I received the football in the pit of my
stomach, and the name of CRICHTON BROWNE died on my lips.

My guide smiled as she saw that I had taken in the scene that was
being enacted under my very nose.

"Do you play cricket?" she asked, with something like pity in her
eyes. I did _not_--but I was by this time in such condign fear of this
young Amazon that I was really afraid to admit my total ignorance of
the sport. She made me wicket-keep for her, _without_ pads, for an
entire hour, at the end of which I readily assented to an invitation
for further exploration.

We went through endless passages to an endless gymnasium, and every
now and then I came across an Indian club or a dumb-bell, wielded by
energetic female athletes. I should have liked to ask them whether
they felt well, but I realised--only just in time--that the question
would have been an impertinence.

"Are you getting satisfied?" said my unwearied guide, with another of
her smiles, "or, do you still think we are a puny misshapen race?"

"Quite satisfied!" I replied, faintly, as I endeavoured to unclose a
rapidly discolouring eye, "in fact, I begin to discredit that alarmist

Before I could complete the sentence, I found myself executing an
involuntary parabola over some adjacent parallel bars. My young
friend's brows had contracted into a frown, although she waited
politely for me to pick myself up.

"I thought we agreed not to mention that name!" she said, coldly.

I felt that any attempt to explain my innocence would be received
with quiet scorn. "I--I should like to ask you just one thing
more," I said, desperately, as I lay on my back, "I am really
entirely converted--quite ashamed. I do hope you won't think
me--er--inquisitive--but I have been so often told--it has been so
constantly asserted--" I found myself bungling horribly in my desire
not to offend.

"Pray go on," she said, "we try to be simple and sincere, and we are
always ready to satisfy an intelligent inquirer."

"Well," I said, desperately, "people _do_ say that you all
wear--er--blue stockings. But I am sure," I added quickly, "that it is
not true" ...

It was too late. When the friend who had smuggled me into the building
came to my rescue, he asked me, rather noisily, "if I was feeling
well?" I replied that I was not, and that I did not think I ever
should again. And I never have.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [A West-end hosier advertises suits of Pyjamas in his window
    as "the latest styles in slumber-wear."]

  All hail, O hosier; deem me not absurd
  That I should thank thee for so apt a word.
  'Tis thus that Modesty our language trims:
  Where men say "legs" she softly whispers "limbs."
  And, while they fume and rage in angry pother,
  Stills the big D---- and substitutes a "bother."
  Speaks not of "trousers"--that were sin and shame;
  "Continuations" is the gentler name.
  Turns "shirts" to "shifts," and, blushing like the rose,
  Converts the lowly stocking into "hose."
  Thus thou, my hosier, profferest me a pair
  Of these, the latest style of slumber-wear.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "AWEARY! AWEARY!"

_Miss Certainage_ (_who has been studying Schopenhauer, and has come
to the conclusion that there is nothing but sorrow in life, sadly_).


       *       *       *       *       *


(_SEE "TIMES," MAY 11._)


  Oh where, oh where is my little wee fund?
    Oh where, oh where can it be?
  With the pence cut short and the pounds cut long;
    Oh where, oh where can it be?
  I've travelled about with my little wee fund--
    It used to pay for me;
  But now it's gone I'm lorn and lone;
    Oh where, oh where can it be?

  I want to stump through Switzerland;
    On the 24th proximo.
  To Germany, Sweden, Norway, and
    To Denmark I want to go;
  I've held out my hat to every flat,
    And begged over land and sea,
  Humanity dunned, but I have no fund--
  Oh where, oh where can it be?

  If ever you see a stray bawbee
    Whenever, wherever you roam,
  Oh, tell him the woe that troubles me so,
    And say that it keeps me at home.
  I may mention that what you do, like a shot
    Must be done to be useful to me;
  At once send a cheque to save us from wreck,
    Or the Army will go to the D!

       *       *       *       *       *




14, 1892.

  From Forty-Two to Ninety-Two!
    A full half-century of story!
  And now, our Century's end in view.
    May's back once more in vernal glory,
  And with it brings your Jubilee,
    (_Punch_ came to his one year before you!)
  "Many Returns," Ma'am, may you see,
    And honoured be the hour that bore you!

  Good faith! it scarcely seems so long
    To us old boys, who can remember
  The tale, the picture, and the song
    We pored o'er by the wintry ember;
  And how our young and eager eyes
    Were kept from childhood's easy slumbers
  By the awakening ecstasies
    Of cheery coloured Christmas Numbers.

  We loved great GILBERT, Glorious JOHN!--
    Sir JOHN to-day, good knight, fine painter!
  Our eyes dwelt lingeringly upon
    His work, by which all else showed fainter.
  His dashing pencil "go" could give
    To simplest scene; a wondrous gift 'tis!
  How his bold line could make things live
    In those far Forties and old Fifties!

  And humorous "PHIZ" and spectral READ,
    Made us alternate smile and shiver.
  Ah! ghosts, Ma'am, then were ghosts indeed,
    Born of the brain and not the liver.
  You shared our LEMON and our LEECH;
    Our BROOKS for you ran bright and sunny.
  May you live long, to limn and teach.
    Be graphic, genial, sage, and funny!

  We like you well, we owe you much,
    True record, blent with critic strictures,
  And culture of the artist touch
    Through half a century of pictures.
  We wish you many gay returns
    Of this May day! You're brighter, plumper
  Than then; and _Punch_, who envy spurns,
    Drinks your Good Health, Ma'am, in a bumper!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ORME! SWEET ORME!"--_Orme_ is still off solid food, and is kept
alive entirely by Porter. It is the opinion of the best informed
that "Porter with a head on" will pull him through. Smoking is not
permitted in the stable, but there is evidence of there being several
"strong backers" about.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. John Hare, Lessee of the Garrick Theatre, in his evidence before
the Theatres and Music Halls Committee, described himself, according
to the _Times_ Report, as having "been for about thirty years an
actor, and for fifteen years a manager." This gives him forty-five
years of professional life, and saying, for example, that he commenced
his career as an actor at twenty, then his own computation brings him
up to sixty-five If this be so, then Mr. JOHN HARE, with his elastic
step, his twinkling eye, his clear enunciation, and his energetic
style, is the youngest sexagenarian to be met with on or off the
stage; and it is probable that when he reaches the Gladstonian age
he will be more sprightly than even the Grand One himself.

In answer to a question put by Viscount EBRINGTON, Mr. EDWARD TERRY
gave it as his opinion that "if officers"--he was speaking of the army
not the police--"were prouder of their uniforms, and did not take
the earliest opportunity of divesting themselves of them, the uniform
would be more respected." He ought to have put it, "would be uniformly
more respected." But how about the man inside the uniform? But why
should a soldier wear his uniform when off duty any more than a
policeman when off duty, or any more than a barrister should wear his
wig, bands, and gown, when not practising in the Courts? There is one
person who should always wear a distinctive uniform, and that is a
Clergyman, who is never off duty. Perhaps this is already provided for
by the Act of Uniformity.

Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD, after expressing his opinion that Mr. IRVING
had been "seeing visions,"--which of course is quite an Irvingite
characteristic,--proposed to put everything right everywhere, and be
the Universal Legislator and Official Representative of Everybody.
Salary not so much an object as a comfortable home, a recognised
official position, and "No Fees." (The Commission still sitting
may perhaps dissolve itself, and appoint the last witness as Sole
Theatrical and Music Hall Commissioner, with no power to add to his

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, May 9_.--House dealt with just now after
manner of Horticultural Exhibition at Earl's Court. Laid out as three
acres, through which JESSE COLLINGS might be expected to lead the cow.
But, as SQUIRE OF MALWOOD (a great authority on stock matters) says,
the esteemed quadruped is dead, abandoned by its protector at time of
disruption of Liberal Party. Exists now only in the form of carcass,
to be found rather in butchers' shops than on quiet pastures. Pity,
this. Difficult to imagine any better arrangement for what theatrical
people call "properties" than the cow--probably with a blue ribbon
round its neck--led through three acres of green meadow by JESSE
COLLINGS, in clean smock-frock, with a crook in his hand.

[Illustration: The Doctor-Baronet.]

Dr. CLARK says they don't drive cattle with crooks. But that's a
detail. CLARK sure to contradict in any case.

Things very quiet to-night; quite pastoral. Only one outburst; that
arose when FOSTER accused CHAMBERLAIN of saying the thing that is not.
CHAMBERLAIN hotly rose, and appealed to Chairman to say whether the
Doctor-Baronet was in order. COURTNEY said, since he was asked, he
must say he thought not. So FOSTER changed the prescription. CHAPLIN
much gratified at this speedy close of rupture that threatened
progress with Bill. Presided over discussion with urbanity that was

"Reminds me," said WILFRID LAWSON, looking across at Right Hon.
Gentleman seated on Treasury Bench, with deeply-bayed shirt-front,
and head closely bent over copy of Bill, "of a motherly hen gathering
its brood under its wings, and trying to make things comfortable all
round. Sometimes, when one of the brood grows a trifle importunate,
the motherly expression on the expansive face sharpens, and the
chicken is pecked at. But, on the whole, little to disturb the
serenity of the coop."

Never before thought of CHAPLIN as an old hen. But, really, with the
place permeated with agricultural and farm-yard associations, LAWSON's
idea not so far out of it as it might appear to the domestic circle at
Blankney Hall.

At half-past eleven those Scotchmen came up again. Upset the henroost,
devoured what was left of the cow, dug up the verdurous three acres,
and till two o'clock in the morning harried the Commissioners under
the Scotch University Act. _Business done_.--In Committee on the Small
Holdings Bill.

[Illustration: "Order! Order!"]

_Tuesday_.--Don't know what we shall do when WIGGIN leaves us, as
he threatens to do after Dissolution. Not much here just now, but
sometimes his face seen in House or Lobbies, piercing surrounding
gloom like what SWIFT MACNEILL distantly alludes to as "the orb of
day." Only WIGGIN could have thought of the little _divertissement_
that for a few moments raised depressed spirits of House this
afternoon. Resumed at morning Sitting (so called because it
takes place in the afternoon) discussion of Small Holdings Bill.
SEALE-HAYNE,--whose reputation as a humorist still lingers a tradition
in the playing fields at Eton, but whose subsequent political
career has subdued his vivacity,--moved Amendment. Something about
compensation for cow-sheds. COBB airily addressed the Committee; and
CHAPLIN whispered a few confidential remarks across Table.

Curious how this "eminent authority," as the MARKISS calls quite
another personage, has lost his voice since Bill got into Committee.
Seems so awestruck by enormity of his responsibility, not inclined to
raise his voice above whisper. Effort to catch purport of his remarks
completed depression under which Committee sinking. Went out to vote
as if they were conducting CHAPLIN to a too early funeral. Then it was
that an idea dawned on the mind of the wanton WIGGIN.

"_I_'ll show 'em sport, TOBY, dear boy," he said to me in passing.
"_I_'ll give their spirits a leg up!"

Forgotten about this in passing through Division Lobby; coming back
startled by angry roar. COURTNEY on his feet solemnly shouting "Order,
Order!" like minute-gun at sea. Nothing came of this; excitement
increased; COURTNEY crying "Order, Order!" in sterner voice. Looked
about for explanation, and lo! there was the waggish WIGGIN with his
hat cocked well on one side of his head, waddling down the floor of
the House past the Chair. You may do almost anything in the House of
Commons but walk about with your hat on, and here was WIGGIN, not only
doing it, but persisting in the offence, smiling back innocently on
the increasing circle of Members roaring at him, and COURTNEY, with
increasing stridency, shouting "Order!" behind his back. Having got
nearly to the Bar, the wily WIGGIN, affecting to wonder what all
the row was about, turned round and found himself pierced through
and through with the flaming eye of outraged Chairman. Pretty to
see how, all of a sudden, it seemed to flash upon him that _he_ was
the culprit, and that it was his hat at which Members, like so many
WILLIAM TELLS, were persistently tiring. The sunset face flushed
deeper still; with quick movement the wayward WIGGIN removed his
offending hat, and, bowing apologetically to the Chair, went forth
with quickened pace.

[Illustration: "No Forwooder!"]

Excellently done; took in the whole House, including Chairman. But
WIGGIN's benevolent intention secured, and, if only temporarily,
spirits of House jubilantly rose. _Business done_.--In Committee on
Small Holdings.

_Wednesday_.--Municipal Corporations Act, 1882 (Amendment) Bill first
Order of Day. Doesn't seem to promise anything exciting; Debate,
however, not gone far before discovery made that it hides a deep
design. Wouldn't think, looking at FORWOOD as he sits at remote end of
Treasury Bench, that he had anything to do with Hecuba, or Hecuba with
him. Only suspicious thing about him is, his extreme desire to keep
out of sight. When SPEAKER took Chair he was standing at Bar surveying
House, and wondering when it would be made. As soon as MATTINSON rose
to move Second Heading of Bill, FORWOOD. so to speak, went backward,
and planted himself well in shadow of SPEAKER's Chair.

Turns out in course of interesting Debate that, though the speech
on moving Second Reading is the voice of MATTINSON, the Bill is the
Bill of FORWOOD, whose interest in the political affairs of Liverpool
is said to be extensive and peculiar. NEVILLE puts it in another
way. "Whenever," he said, "any political manipulation is afoot in
Liverpool, be sure the Secretary to the Admiralty will not be far

[Illustration: "This Way to London!"]

At first, FORWOOD affected indifference to proceedings. "His Bill!
s'elp him, never seen it before. 'L'pool.' What's that?" But as Debate
went forward, and gentlemen opposite insisted on dragging him in, he
finally yielded, and taking off coat, "went for" other side. Rev. SAM
SMITH interposed with charming story about a gentleman whom Liverpool
Tories had appointed Chairman of Watch Committee, "he being solicitor
to the two largest publicans in Liverpool." That didn't at first sight
seem much to point, supposing even the united cubit measurement of
the worthy tradesmen exceeded twelve feet. But Reverend SAM went on
to explain what he meant was that, "between them, they owned about
120 public-houses." Curious movement in Strangers' Gallery as of
involuntary smacking of many lips, FORWOOD said this (which he
daintily alluded to as "an allegation") had been denied. SAM, couching
the retort in clerical language, said in effect, "You're another!"
whereupon Ministerialists roared, "Oh! oh!" and FORWOOD, now
thoroughly roused, proceeded to show that SAMUEL and his Liberal
allies were the real Gerrymanders, and that he, FORWOOD, was the
spotless advocate of the true interests of the Working-Man.

House began to look askance on S.S. Never suspected him of being a
man of that kind. Glad when painful discussion came to end. Bill
read Second Time; but jubilation of promoters suddenly chilled by
TIM HEALY, of whom no one was thinking at the moment, stepping in
and adroitly putting spoke in wheel of Bill, by moving to refer it
to Select Committee; which, being translated, means it will get no
Forwooder this Session.

_Business done._--TIM HEALY puts FORWOOD's clock back.

_Friday._--EDWARD WATKIN home from honeymooning trip. Pleased to find
his Bill giving the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire Railway
direct access to London passed all its stages in the Commons.

"It's a new way to London, good TOBY," he said, when I congratulated
him on the double event. "Some gentlemen who faint in St. John's Wood
objected on what I believe are called æsthetical grounds. But there
are several big towns between here and Sheffield wanted the short cut,
and I determined they should have it. Things looked bad last Session,
and perhaps some fellows would have given up. I have a little way of
never giving up, and it's astonishing how far it'll carry you. We're
not through the Lords yet,--though, as you say, we are through their
cricket-ground. But you'll see, before twelve months are over, I'll
bring a train straight from Sheffield into our own station in London,
and if you only live a little longer, you shall come with me on the
first trip from Charing Cross to Paris under the Channel Tunnel.
Everything, TOBY, _cher ami_, comes to the man who won't wait."

_Business done._--Small Holdings Bill practically through Committee.

       *       *       *       *       *



_April_ 2, 1894.--The County Council at yesterday's meeting discussed
the proposed new Tramway from Westminster Bridge to the Round Pond,
through the Abbey, St. James's Park and Rotten Row. Deputations from
all the artistic and archæological Societies presented petitions
against it, but the Council refused to read them. Deputations from the
Institute of Architects and the Society for the Protection of Ancient
Buildings also attended to give their views on the partial demolition
of the Abbey, but they quarrelled so much amongst themselves that
it was necessary to eject them, in order to prevent a free fight in
the Council Chamber. Three Labour Candidates were then received, the
Council standing respectfully, and stated that at least twenty-seven
persons residing in Southwark would benefit by the direct route to
Kensington Gardens. It was at once resolved that the Tramway should be

_May_ 2, 1901.--Yesterday an immense Demonstration of Working-Men was
held in Hyde Park to protest against the extension of the Tramways.
Mr. JOHN SCALDS presided, and observed in his speech, "What is the
good of taking the Working-Man from his own door to a park, if
there is no park at the other end, only asphalte and tramlines and
some stumps of trees cut down? What is the good of taking him to
Westminster Abbey, if Poets' Corner has been made into a tramcar-shed?
Besides, now the Working-Man is so much richer, and pays no rates or
taxes, he does not want trams. They are only fit for the miserable
Middle Class, and who cares about them?" This was greeted with loud
shouts of, "Down with the Council!" and the vast assemblage marched
with threatening cries and gestures towards the recently completed
County Council Offices. Our readers are aware that this sumptuous
building, which cost over two millions, occupies the site where St.
Paul's Cathedral formerly stood. It was found, however, that the
Council had suddenly adjourned, and that all the officials had fled.
The workmen accordingly entered, and, having voted Mr. SCALDS to the
chair, unanimously resolved that all the Tramways should be removed
and the Parks replanted and returfed. It was decided that nothing
could be done to replace the Cathedral or the Abbey, but it was
resolved that the following inscription should be placed on the ruins
at Westminster:--"To the lasting disgrace of the English Nation, this
Building, together with the other beautiful and interesting parts
of London, was ruined, for the sake of some impossible and imbecile
schemes, by an assemblage of the most Despicable Dolts that ever

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *

MIXED.--Under the heading "A Tragic Affair," it was recently stated
in a paragraph, how "a Lady had been shot by a discharged Servant." It
would have been better if the Servant, on being discharged, had gone
off and injured nobody.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IN DIFFICULTIES.

_Effie_ (_who can't make her sum come right_). "OH, I _DO_ WISH I WAS



       *       *       *       *       *


_Noble Owner_ (_watching the Favourite out for exercise_).
  Ah! don't look so bad, ARTHUR, after his spin!
  They are asking all round if he'll run, if he'll win.
  They would like much to know, I've no manner of doubt.
  Why, there isn't a Bookie, a Tipster, or Tout,
  Not to mention an Owner, or Trainer, or Vet,
  But desires the straight tip--which I wish they may get!
  If they knew he'd been "nobbled," they'd greatly rejoice;
  Then they'd back other cracks--_Dissolution_ for choice--
  With a confident mind. "Nobbled!" Ah! were they able
  To get at his groom, or sneak into his stable,
  How gladly some of them would give him a dose!
  That's right, ARTHUR; watch him, my lad, and--keep close!

_Trainer._ Ay, ay, Sir! They will not get much out of _me_, Sir!
  A still tongue to Tipsters and Touts is a teaser.
  They're awfully curious about _t'other_ horse;
  _Dissolution_, you know. Try to pump me.

_Noble Owner._                           Of course!
  Very natural, you know, _I_ should be, in their case.
  If they knew that this nag couldn't win the big race,
  Or was not meant to run, then their course would be clear.

    [_Espies_ Stranger _approaching._

  Hillo! Not too near, ARTHUR! (_Aside._) Whom have we _here_?

_Polite Stranger_ (_insinuatingly_).  Beg pardon, my Lord!
  A bit out of my track.
  Missed my way. But--ahem!--is that really the "crack"?
  Why, he _looks_ cherry ripe--at a distance. I've heard
  All sorts of reports--gossips _are_ so absurd!
  But--_would_ you mind telling me--_has_ the Great Horse
  Been really--got at? _Entre nous_, mind!--

_Noble Owner_ (_drily_).                   Of course!
  _Dissolution's_ shy backers would much like to know.
  But--_tell them who sent you to ask--it's no go!_

    [_Exit, leaving_ Polite Stranger _planté là._

       *       *       *       *       *



  Thou shalt not steal! That's a command
  Which grips us with an iron hand;
  And "he who prigs what isn't his'n,
  When he is cotched shall go to prison!"
  So runs the Cockney doggerel, clear
  If ungrammatical, austere,
  With not a saving clause to qualify
  Its rigid Spartan rule, or mollify
  Theft's Nemesis. Thou shalt _not_ steal!
  At least,--ahem!--well, all must feel
  That property in thoughts and phrases,
  The verbal filagree that raises
  Flat fustian into "oratory,"
  And makes the pulpit place of glory,
  Such property is not so easy
  To settle, and a conscience queasy
  O'er picking pockets, oft remains
  Quite unperturbed while--_picking brains!_
  A Sermon is not minted coin;
  It you may borrow, buy, purloin,
  In part or wholly, and yet preach it
  As your own work. Who'll dare impeach it,
  This innocent transaction? Not
  Your "brethren," save, perchance, some hot
  And ultra-honest (which means "rancorous")
  Parsonic rival. "How cantankerous!"
  The reverend Assembly shouts.
  It mocks at scruples, flames at doubts,
  Hints at the stern objector's animus,
  In the prig's praises is unanimous.
  Oh, Happy Cleric Land, where unity
  Breeds such unquestioning community
  Of property--in Sermons! True it
  Strikes some as queer; but _they all do it_,
  If one may trust advertisement,
  And an Assembly's calm content
  At what to the Lay mind seems robbery.
  Steal? Nay! But do not raise a bobbery,
  If hard-up preachers glean their shelves
  And take the credit to themselves.
  How wise, how good, how kind, how just!
  And how the poor Lay mind must trust
  Those who so skilfully reveal
  The _meaning_ of "Thou shalt not Steal!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"REGRETS AND GREAVES."--But for a recent trial, who of the outside
public would even have guessed that the unromantic and quite Bozzian
name of "Mr. and Mrs. TILKINS" meant the clever musician, Mr. IVAN
CARTEL and the charming and accomplished actress and soprano, Miss
GERALDINE ULMAR? The TILKINSES are to be congratulated on their
winning the recent action of _Tilkins_ v. _Greaves_ with the award
of one thousand pounds damage, which is the price the transmitter of
scandal to the _New York World_ has had to pay for his industry.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


Most Cookery-Books are bosh. I have read them all--from the [Greek:
Archimageiros] of FRANCATELLIDES (1904 B.C.) to the _Ayer Akberi_: or
_Million Recipes of RUNG JUNG JELLYBAG_, compiled in Sanskrit, Pali,
Singhali, Urdu, Hindustani, Bengali, and the Marowsky language, for
the "Kitchens measureless to man" (see COALRIDGE), of the Golden
Dome of Kubla Khan; from Mrs. GLASSE to Dr. KITCHENER; from UDE to
ALEXANDRE DUMAS; from CARÊME to Mrs. MARKHAM (who is said to have
adopted the pseudonym of "RUNDELL" for her culinary mistress-piece);
and from Miss ACTON (who was also the distinguished authoress of
_Austen Fryers, Pies and Prejudice, Sense and Saltcellars_, &c.) to
SOYER. The only modern culinary manual which (_with one exception_) is
worth anything is by Mrs. DE SALIS, whose name has a happy affinity
to that of The Only Trustworthy Authority as a Cookery-Bookerist, and
whose immortal contributions to mageiristic lore are appearing weekly
in _Sal---- (Here the M.S. is firmly scored out by the Editorial blue
pencil; but, faintly legible, is, "circulation, 2,599,862-3/8."_) From
this "Golden Treasury" of gormandising I have been permitted to cull
a few recipes. Here are two or three for scholastic bed-room suppers.
The first will be invaluable in Seminaries for Young Ladies:--


_Saucissons en Petite Toilette._--Purchase your sausages on the sly,
and keep them carefully in your glove-box, or your handkerchief case
till wanted. Prick them all over with a hair-pin before cooking.
Sprinkle them lightly with violet powder, and fry in cold cream
(bear's grease will do as well) on the back of your handglass over the
bed-room candle. If the glass gets broken, say it was the housemaid,
or the cat did it. Turn with the curling-tongs. When done to a rich
golden brown, put your sausages on a neatly folded copy of S----
(_Editorial blue pencil again_), and serve hot. Thin bread and butter,
plum-cake or shortbread may accompany this appetising dish, and a
partially ripe apple munched between each sausage will certainly
give it a zest; but it would perhaps be as well not to eat too many
chocolate creams afterwards.

_Soufflé de Fromage de Hollande._--This is a very favourite dish for
the dormitory in Young Gentlemen's schools. Procure, on credit, a fine
Dutch cheese, keep it carefully in your play-box or in your desk; but
don't let your white mice get at it. Before cooking in the dormitory,
you and your young friends can have a nice game of ball with the merry
Dutchman, only refrain from trying his relative hardness or softness
by hammering the head of MUGG, the stupidest boy in the school, with
it. Now cut up your cheese into small dice and carefully toast them on
a triangular piece of slate, which you will cause "GYP Minor" to hold
over a spirit-lamp. When, as the slate grows hotter, "GYP Minor" will
probably howl, box his ears smartly, and the cheese will thus become
a "_soufflé_," or rather "_soufflet_." Serve _à la main chaude_, but
I must indignantly protest against the practice of some youths of
eating peppermint drops with this "_plat_." A bath bun is much better.
Beverage, gingerbeer or a little ginger wine.

_Tournedos à la Busby._--It is a very astonishing thing that I never
could persuade school-boys that this is a most succulent, scholastic
supper-dish, exceptionally brisk and pungent in its flavour. Perhaps
their aversion to it is based on the fact that the _tournedos_ is
usually served very hot indeed towards the conclusion of the repast
by the Rev. Principal. It is accompanied by a brown sauce made of a
_bouquet de bouleau_ full of buds and marinaded in mild pickle.

_Curried Rabbit._--Proceed to Ostend and procure a rabbit; honestly if
possible, but procure it. Pinch its scut or bite its ears, and when
it exclaims, "Miauw!" it is not a genuine rabbit, but a grimalkin in
disguise. Some cats are very deceitful at heart. Bring your rabbit
home, and then send to the nearest livery stables and borrow a
curry-comb, then proceed to curry your rabbit. If Bunny resists, hit
him over the head with the comb. He will possibly run away to rejoin
his brethren at Ostend, or in New South Wales; but at all events you
will have the curry-comb. One can be good and happy without returning
the things you borrow. See my "Essay on Books, Cartes-de-visite,
and Umbrellas," in the next number of _Sala's J----_ (_Editorial
blue-pencil again_.)

_Potage à la Jambe de Bois_ (Wooden-leg Soup).--Procure a fine fresh
wooden-leg, one from Chelsea is the best. Wash it carefully in six
waters, blanch it, and trim neatly. Lay it at the bottom of a large
pot, into which place eight pounds of the undercut of prime beef,
half a Bayonne ham, two young chickens, and a sweetbread. To these
add leeks, chervil, carrots, turnips, fifty heads of asparagus, a few
truffles, a large cow-cabbage, a pint of French beans, a peck of very
young peas, a tomato cut in slices, some potatoes, and a couple of
bananas. Pour in three gallons of water, and boil furiously till your
soup is reduced to about a pint and a-half. As it boils, add, drop
by drop, a bottle of JULES MUMM's Extra Dry, and a gill of Scotch
whiskey; then take out your wooden leg, which wipe carefully and serve
separately with a neat frill, which can be easily cut from the cover
of _Sala's Jo----_ (_Editorial blue pencil again_), round the top. The
soup itself is best served in a silver tureen, or in a Dresden china
punch-bowl. The above obviously is intended neither for school-boys
nor school-girls, nor is it meant for the tables of the wealthy and
luxurious. It is emphatically a Poor Man's Dish, otherwise it would
never have found a place in the cookery column of that essentially
popular periodical, _Sala's Journal_. Hurrah! the Editor has
gone out to "chop," and there was no blue pencil to mar the last
touching allusions. N.B.--Circulation, eight millions, nine hundred
and thirty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-one and a-half.
Guaranteed by five firms of Magna Chartered Accountants.


       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. STUART RENDEL, having stated at Llanfair-Caerecinion that "a day
with Mr. GLADSTONE was a whole liberal education," the London School
Board has at last decided to alter the present system completely.
After many days' deliberation, it has been arranged to hire the Albert
Palace and Mr. GLADSTONE for a week. It is estimated that during six
days, all the children now in the London schools can, in detachments,
be squeezed into the building and spend a day there with the Right
Honourable Gentleman. Seats will be provided on the platform for the
Members of the Board, as this instruction would be a great benefit to
many of them. At the end of the six days the present work of the Board
will be finished, and it will adjourn for ten years, when another
week in the society of the Grand Old Educator will again suffice for
the needs of the rising generation. The numerous Board Schools will
therefore become useless, but it is not proposed to demolish them,
as experience has shown that they are sure to fall down of their
own accord before long. The sumptuous offices of the Board will be
converted into a Home for Destitute Schoolmasters.

We have reason to believe that Mr. GLADSTONE, after fulfilling his
engagement at the Albert Palace, will make a tour in the provinces,
and later on will have classes for journalists and other literary men,
whose style, in many cases, would be vastly improved by two minutes,
or even less, in the same room with him.

       *       *       *       *       *




  "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old.
  But something ails it now: the place is curst."

"_Hart-Leap Well," by Wordsworth._


  A residence for Tory, Whig or Rad,
  Where yet none had abiding habitation;
  A House--but darkened by the influence sad
    Of slow disintegration.
  O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear,
  A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
  And said as plain as whisper in the ear,
    The place is Haunted!

  There speech grew wild and rankly as the weed,
  GRAHAM with TANNER waged competitive trials,
  And vulgar bores of Billingsgatish breed
    Voided spleen's venomed vials.
  But gay or gloomy, fluent or infirm,
  None heeded their dull drawls, of hours' duration.
  The House was clearly in for a long term
    Of desolate stagnation.
  The SPEAKER yawned upon his Chair, he found
  It tiring work, a placid brow to furrow,
  To sit out speeches arguing round and round,
    From County or from Borough.
  The Members, like wild rabbits, scudded through
  The lobbies, took their seats, lounged, yawned--and vanished.
  The Whips like spectres wandered; well they knew
    All discipline was banished.
  The blatant bore,--the faddist, and the fool,
  Were listened to with an indifferent tameness.
  The windbag of the new Hibernian school
    Railed on with shocking sameness.
  The moping M.P. motionless and stiff,
  Who, on his bench sat silently and stilly,
  Gawped with round eyes and pendulous lips, as if
    He had been stricken silly:
  No cheery sound, except when far away
  Came echoes of 'cute LABBY's cynic laughter,
  Which, sick of Dumbleborough's chattering jay,
    His listeners rambled after.
  But Echo's self tires of a GRAHAM's tongue,
  Rot blent with rudeness gentlest nymph can't pardon.
  Why e'en the G.O.M. his grey head hung,
    And wished he were at Hawarden.
  Like vine unpruned, SEXTON's exuberant speech
  Sprawled o'er the question with the which he'd grapple;
  PICTON prosed on,--the style in which men preach
    In a dissenting chapel.
  Prince ARTHUR twined one lank leg t'other round,
  Drooping a long chin like BURNE-JONES's ladies;
  And HARCOURT, sickening of the strident sound,
    Wished CONYBEARE in Hades.
  For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
  A sense of imminent doom the spirit daunted,
  And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
      The House is Haunted!


  Oh, very gloomy is this House of Woe,
  Where yawns are numerous while Big Ben is knelling.
  It is not on the Session dull and slow,
    These pale M.P.'s are dwelling.
  Oh, very, very dreary is the gloom,
  But M.P.'s heed not HEALY's elocution;
  Each one is wondering what may be his doom
      After the Dissolution!

  That House of Woe must soon be closed to all
  Who linger now therein with tedium mortal,
  And of those lingerers a proportion small
      Again may pass its portal.
  There's many a one who o'er its threshold stole
  In Eighty-Six's curious Party tangle,
  Who for the votes which helped him head the poll
      In vain again may angle.
  The GRAHAMS and the CALDWELLS may look bold,
  So may the CONYBEARES, and COBBS and TANNERS;
  But the next House quite other men may hold,
      And (let's hope) other manners.
  They'd like to know when this will close its door
  Upon each moribund and mournful Member,
  And who will stand upon the House's floor
    After, say, next November.
  That's why the M.P.'s sit in silent doubt,
  Why spirits flag, and cheeks are pale and livid,
  And why the DISSOLUTION SPOOK stands out
    So ominously vivid.
  Some key to the result of the appeal
  They yearn for vainly, all their nerves a-quiver;
  The presence of the Shadow they all feel,
    And sit, and brood, and shiver.
  There is a sombre rumour in the air,
  The shadow of a Presence dim, atrocious;
  No human creature can be festive there,
    Even the most ferocious.
  An Omen in the place there seems to be,
  Both sides with spectral perturbation covering.
  The straining eyeballs are prepared to see
    The Apparition hovering.
  With doubt, with fear, their features are o'ercast;
  SALISBURY at Covent Garden might have spoken,
  But, save for Rumour's whispers on the blast,
    The silence is unbroken.
  And over all there hangs a cloud of fear,
  The Spook of Dissolution all has daunted,
  And says as plain as whisper in the ear,
    The House is Haunted!

       *       *       *       *       *




_Husband_ (_who does not quite see it_). "THANKS! THANKS! VERY MANY

       *       *       *       *       *


"Upon what principle," one of my Baronites writes, "do people
collecting a number of short stories for publication in one volume,
select that which shall give the book its title?" Of course I know,
but shan't say; am not here to answer conundrums. After interval of
chilling silence, my Baronite continues, "Lady LINDSAY has brought
together ten stories which A. & C. BLACK publish in a comely volume.
She calls it _A Philosopher's Window_, that being the title of the
first in the procession. I have looked through the _Philosopher's
Window_, and don't see much, except perhaps a reminiscence of
_A Christmas Carol_. There are others, far better, notably 'Miss
Dairsie's Diary.' This is a gem of simple narrative, set in charming
Scottish scenery, which Lady LINDSAY evidently knows and loves. There
is much else that is good. 'The Story of a Railway Journey,' and 'Poor
Miss Brackenthorpe,' for example. All are set in a minor key, but it
is simple, natural music."

B. DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE HAUNTED HOUSE.]

       *       *       *       *       *




Any woman, my dear young girls, can marry any man she likes, provided
that she is careful about two points. She must let him know that she
would accept a proposal from him, but she must never let him know that
she has let him know. The encouragement must be very strong but very
delicate. To let him know that you would marry him is to appeal to his
vanity, and this appeal never fails; but to let him know that you have
given him the information is to appeal to his pity, and this appeal
never succeeds. Besides, you awake his disgust. Half the art of the
woman of the world consists in doing disgusting things delicately. Be
delicate, be indirect, avoid simplicity, and there is hardly any limit
to your choice of a husband.

I need say nothing about detrimental people. The conflict between a
daughter and her parents on this point--so popular in fiction--very
rarely takes place. It is well understood. You may fall in love with
the detrimental person, and you may let him fall in love with you. But
at present we are talking about marriage. Never marry a man with the
artistic temperament. By the artistic temperament one means morbid
tastes, uncertain temper and excessive vanity. It may be witty at
dinner; it _must_ be snappish at breakfast. It never has any money.
In its dress it is dirty and picturesque, unless under the pressure of
an occasion. It flirts well, but marries badly. I have described, of
course, rather a pronounced case of artistic temperament. But it is
hardly safe to marry any man who appreciates things artistic, because,
as a rule, he only does it in order that people may appreciate his
appreciation; and after a time that becomes wearisome.


Do not marry an imperial man. The young girl of seventeen believes in
strength; by this she means a large chin and a persistent neglect of
herself. She adores that kind of thing, and she will marry it if she
is not warned. It is not good to fall in love with Restrained Force,
and afterwards find that you have married Apathy.

The man whom you marry must, of course, have an income; he should have
a better social position than you have any right to expect. You know
all that--it is a commonplace. But also he must be perfectly even.
In everything he should remind you constantly of most other men.
Everything in him and about him should be uniform. Even his sins
should be so monotonous that it is impossible to call them romantic.
Avoid the romantic. Shun supreme moments. Chocolate-creams are very
well, but as a daily food dry toast is better. Seek for the man
who has the qualities of dry toast--a hard exterior manner, and an
interior temperament that is at once soft and insipid. The man that
I describe is amenable to flattery, even as dry toast is amenable to
butter. You can guide him. And, as he never varies, you can calculate
upon him. Marry the dry-toast man. He is easy to obtain. There are
hundreds of him in Piccadilly. None of them wants to marry, and all of
them will. He gives no trouble. He will go to the Club when he wants
to talk, and to the theatre when he wants to be amused. He will come
to you when he wants absolutely nothing; and in you--if you are the
well-bred English girl that I am supposing--he will assuredly find it.
And so you will both be contented.

Do not think that I am, for one moment, depreciating sentiment. I
worship it; I am a sentimentalist myself. But everything has its
place, and sentiment of this kind belongs to young unmarried life--to
the period when you are engaged, or when you ought to be engaged.
The young man whom I have described--the crisp, perfect, insipid,
dry-toast man--would only be bored by a wife who wanted to be on
sentimental terms with him. I remember a case in point. A young girl,
whom I knew intimately, married a man who was, as a husband, perfect.
They lived happily enough for three or four years; she had a couple
of children, a beautiful house, everything that could be desired. And
then the trouble came. She had been reading trashy novels, I suppose;
at any rate, she fell in love with her own husband. She went in daily
dread that he would find it out. I argued with her, reasoned with her,
entreated her to give up such ruinous folly. It was of no use. She
wrote him letters--three sheets, crossed and underlined. I warned her
that sooner or later he would read one of them. He did; and he never
forgave her. That happy home is all broken up now--simply because that
woman could not remember that there is a time for sentiment and a
time for propriety, and that marriage is the time for propriety. The
passions are all very well until you are married; but the fashions
will last you all your life.

I have no more to say on the choice of a husband. It is quite the
simplest thing that a young girl has to learn,--you must find a quite
colourless person, and flatter him a little; his vanity will do the
rest. And when you are married to him, you will find him much easier
to tolerate than a man who has any strong characteristic. Do not get
into the habit of thinking marriage important; it is only important in
so far as it affects externals; it need not touch the interior of your

I have received several letters. ELLA has had poetry sent to her by
her _fiancé_, and wishes to know if this would justify her in breaking
the engagement. I think not. She can never be quite certain that it is
the man's own make; and, besides, plenty of men are like that during
the engagement period, but never suffer from it afterwards. The other
letters must be answered privately.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Have you heard the Yankee threat to suppress the Cigarette?
    Ten dollars tax per thousand--as the French would say, _par
  Is the scheme proposed, forsooth, to protect the Yankee youth
    From poisons just discovered in his _papier pur fil_!

  Such things might well have been in staring emerald green,
    Or even in the paler tint that's christened "_Eau-de-Nil_,"
  But it simply makes one sick to imagine arsenic
    Is lurking in the spotless white of _papier pur fil_!

  Strange the smoking French survive! Surely none should be alive;
    Fair France should be one mighty _morgue_ from Biarritz to Lille,
  If there's also phosphorus, bringing deadly loss for us,
    In Hygiene's new victim, luckless _papier pur fil_.

  Yet some Frenchmen live to tell they are feeling pretty well;
    From dozing _Concierge_ at home to marching _Garde Mobile_,
  You might safely bet your boots that, with loud derisive hoots,
    They'd scout the thought of poison in their _papier pur fil_.

  Then how foolish to conclude that, because they hurt the dude,
    Smoking all day in the country, half the night as well _en ville_,
  After dinner Cigarettes, two or three, mean paying debts
    Of nature, or mean going mad, from _papier pur fil_!

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR,--I am going to start a Caravan! It's all the go now, and nothing
like it for fresh air and seeing out-of-the-way country places. What's
the good of _Hamlet_ with all the hamlets left out, eh? We shall sleep
in bunks, and have six horses to pull us up any _Bunker's Hill_ we may
come to. I intend doing the thing in style, like the Duke of NEWCASTLE
and Dr. GORDON STABLES, No gipsying for yours truly! I've been
calculating how many people I shall want, and I don't think I can get
on comfortably without all the following (they'll be _my_ following,
d'ye see?):--

1. Head Driver; 2. Understudy for Driver; 3. Butler; 4. Footman; 5.
Veterinary Surgeon; 6. Carpenter (if wheel comes off, &c.); 7. Handy
working Orator (to explain to people that we're not a _Political_
Van); 8. Electrician (in case horses go lame, and we have to use
electricity); 9, 10, 11. Female Servants.

The Servants will have to occupy a separate van, of course. They'll
be in the van and in the rear at the same time! I'll let your readers
know how we get on. At present we haven't even got off.

Yours jauntily, THE HIGHWAY-MAN (_pro team_).

       *       *       *       *       *

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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