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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, November 5, 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 103, November 5, 1892" ***

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VOL. 103.

November 5, 1892.


LUNCH (_continued_).--Perhaps the best piece of advice that I can
give you, my young friend, is that--for conversational purposes--you
should make a careful study of the natures and temperaments of your
companions. Watch their little peculiarities, both of manner and of
shooting; pick up what you can about their careers in sport and in
the general world, and use the knowledge so acquired with tact and
discretion when you are talking to them. For instance, if one of the
party is a celebrated shot, who has done some astonishing record at
driven grouse, you may, after the necessary preliminaries, ask him
to be good enough to tell you what was the precise number of birds he
shot on that occasion. Tell him, if you like, that the question arose
the other day during a discussion on the three finest game-shots of
the world. If you happen to know that he shot eighteen hundred birds,
you can say that most people fixed the figure at fifteen hundred.
He will then say,--"Ah, I know most people seem to have got that
notion--I don't know why. As a matter of fact, I managed to get
eighteen hundred and two, and they picked up twenty-two on the
following morning." Your obvious remark is, "By Jove!" (with a strong
emphasis on the "by") "what magnificent shooting!" After that, the
thing runs along of its own accord. With a bad shot your method is,
of course, quite different. For example:--

_Young Shot_. I must say I like the old style of walking up your birds
better than driving, especially in a country like this. I never saw
such difficult birds as we had this morning. You seemed to have the
worst of the luck everywhere.

_Bad Shot_. Yes--they didn't come my way much. But I don't get much
practice at this kind of thing--and a man's no good without practice.

_Y.S._ That was a deuced long shot, all the same, that you polished
off in the last drive. When I saw him coming at about a hundred miles
an hour, I thanked my stars he wasn't my bird. What a thump he fell!

_B.S._ Oh, he was a fairly easy shot, though a bit far off. I daresay
I should do well enough if I only got more shooting. I'm not shooting
with my own gun, though. It's one of my brother's, and it's rather
short in the stock for me.

That starts you comfortably with the Bad Shot. You soothe his ruffled
vanity, and give him a better appetite for lunch.

Now, besides the Good Shot, and the Bad Shot--the two extremes, as
it were, of the line of shooters--you might subdivide your sportsmen
further into--

(1.) _The Jovial Shot._ This party is on excellent terms with himself
and with everybody else. Generally he shoots fairly well, but there
is a rollicking air about him, which disarms criticism, even when
he shoots badly. He knows everybody, and talks of most people by
nick-names. His sporting anecdotes may be counted upon for, at any
rate, a _succès d'estime_. "I never laughed so much in my life," he
begins, "as I did last Tuesday. There were four of us--Old SANDY,
BUTCHER BILL, DICK WHORTLEBURY, and myself. SANDY was driving us back
from Dillwater Hall--you know, old PUFFINGTON's place--where we'd been
dining. Devilish dark night it was, and SANDY's as blind as a bat.
When we got to the Devil's Punchbowl I knew there'd be some warm
games, 'cos the horse started off full tilt, and, before you could say
knife, over we went. I pitched, head first, into DICK's stomach, and
SANDY and BILL went howling down like a right and left of rabbits.
Lord, I laughed till the tears ran down my face. No bones broken, but
the old BUTCHER's face got a shade the worst of it with a thorn-bush
on the slope. Cart smashed into matchwood, of course."

(2.) _The Dressy Shot._ Wonderful in the boot, stocking, and gaiter
department. Very tasteful, too, in the matter of caps and ties. May
be flattered by an inquiry as to where he got his gaiters, and if they
are an idea of his own. Sometimes bursts out into a belt covered with
silver clasps. Fancy waistcoats a speciality. His smoking-suit, in
the evening, is a dream of gorgeous rainbows. Is sometimes a very fair
shot. Generally wears gloves, and a fair moustache.

(3.) _The Bored Shot._ A good sportsman, who says he doesn't care
about sport. Often has literary tastes. Has views of his own, and is,
consequently, looked upon as a rather dangerous idealist by honest
country gentlemen, who confine their reading to an occasional peep at
the _Times_, and an intimate quoting acquaintance with the novels of
Mr. SURTEES. Often shocks his companions by telling them he really
doesn't care much about killing things, and would just as soon let
them off. However, he shows a perfectly proper anger if he misses
frequently. Is not unlikely to be an authority on sheep and oxen, and
may, perhaps, be accepted as the Conservative Candidate for his County
division, dumb but indignant County magnates finding that he expresses
their views better than they can do it themselves. Don't talk to
him about sport. Try him with books, interesting articles in the
Magazines, and so forth.

(4.) _The Soldier Shot._ This kind is generally a Captain, dresses
well, but not gaudily, and smokes big cigars. There seems to be a
general idea that a man who can teach privates to shoot targets must
be able to shoot game himself. Yet the Soldier Shot misses birds
quite beautifully. He will have often shot big game in India with
an accuracy that increases in proportion to the number of miles that
separate him from the scene of his exploits. After all, the ability
to "brown" a herd of elephants does not guarantee rights and lefts at
partridges. Apt to declaim tersely and forcibly about the hardships of
a military career.

(5.) _The Average Shot._ Talk to him about average matters, unless you
hear he is a celebrity in some other branch of sport. In that case,
get details from him of his last Alpine climb, or his latest run to
hounds, or ask his views on racing matters. Most average shots go
racing, and think they understand all about it.

I say nothing here about the Dangerous Shot, because it is never
right to get within talking distance of him. In fact, he ought not to
be talked to at all. I am not sure he ought to be allowed to live.
Still, his exploits furnish material for many an animated conversation
amongst the survivors.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: --"ANIMIS COELESTIBUS IRÆ!"


_Miss Fanny_ (_a gentle and most veracious Child_). "YAH! YOU CRUEL

_Master Victor_ (_an industrious but very touchy little Boy_). "YOU'RE



       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CABINET MEET.]

       *       *       *       *       *


    [It is rumoured that some of BUFFALO BILL's Broncos have been
    bought by the Cab Proprietors of London.]


       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_Trafalgar Square just before sunset. Police in
    abundance; number of Processionists in various parts of the
    open space seen to be dispersing._

_Police Inspector._ Now, my good friends, I am going to be as polite
as possible, but I must obey the regulations of the Commissioners of
Her Majesty's Works and Public Buildings. And I say you cannot speak,
because you have not given proper notice to the authorities.

_First Orator._ But I have--I tell you I wrote to the Commissioner
four days ago.

_Pol. In._ Oh, did you? Then that of course alters the case. What are
you, Sir?

_First Or._ I am the "Friends of the Horny Hands of Labour."

_Pol. In._ (_after referring to note-book_). Ah, I _thought_ I was
right. Your application came in second, Sir--the "Decayed Washerwomen"
got in before you. Look here. (_Pointing out regulation._) "Not more
than one Meeting shall be allowed at the same time, and if notices of
two or more Meetings are given for the same day, preference shall be
given to that Meeting of which notice shall have been first received."
So you see, Sir, you are not in it. Better luck next time. There is
another Bank Holiday six months hence.

_First Or._ But the "Decayed Washerwomen" are not here, and I--

_Pol. In._ Very sorry. Sir, but you must move on. (First Orator
_disappears with grumbling followers_.) I say, BILL, I do really think
these regulations are working quite pleasantly.

_Bill_ (_a subordinate_). Yes, Sir.

_Second Orator._ (_entering hurriedly, accompanied by some aged
females_). Here, I say, where are we to make speeches?

_Pol. In._ (_genially_). Nowhere, unless you have the proper
authority. Who may you be when you are at home?

_Second Or._ (_fussily_). Why, the "Decayed Washerwomen," to be sure.
Now, look sharp, and find us a place to deliver speeches. You know you
_must_ do it, by order of the--

_Pol. In._ Yes, I know. Well, what do you say to the top of that

_Second Or._ Now, none of your chaff. Mind, you are the servants of
the public, and--

_Pol. In._ Yes--but don't deliver a speech to me--I am not a "Decayed

_Chorus of Indignant Females._ We should think not. It would be a good
thing if you were!

_Second Or._ Now, look sharp. We have been longer coming than we
expected. The cabs and omnibuses were so troublesome. Now, where shall
I stand?

_Pol. In._ (_considering_). Well, I think you would be out of the way
if you got up there, and spoke to them down below.

    [_Points out elevated position in front of the National

_Second Or._ But they won't be able to see, much less to hear me!

_Pol. In._ Can't help that. The Commissioners of Her Majesty's
Works and Public Buildings don't provide telescopes nor yet
ear-trumpets.--_Bill_ (_saluting_). Sunset, Sir!

_Pol. In._ There, you see! Thought you would be too late. Time's up.
Glad to see you another day. But now--move on!

    [_And the Police Regulations are obeyed. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GOOD OLD (SUNDAY) TIMES REVIVED.--The specimen number of _The
Sunday Times_ as it was at its commencement in 1822, given on Sunday,
October 23rd, 1892, is most interesting. Theatrical advertising was
quite "a feature" at that time, when only two Theatres, Drury Lane and
Covent Garden, seem to have advertised. The names there are of EDMUND
KEAN simply as Mr. KEAN, of Messrs. DOWTON, HARLEY, YOUNG, MUNDEN,
Mrs. GLOVER, and of Madame VESTRIS as _Ophelia_. BRAHAM is there, as
also LISTON and Miss STEPHENS. Prize Fights are done in the good old
Tom-and-Jerry style, and the Police Reports are made so amusing as to
suggest that such a light touch as is occasionally given in the
"Day by Day" of the _Daily Telegraph_, might be nowadays welcome in
(Police) Court News. Altogether, a happy thought to reproduce the
_Sunday Times_ of 1822, and may the _Sunday Times_ of 1892 live up to
it, and be "going strong" in 1992! _Prosit!_

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: "A Guy in Spectacles and a Tall Hat."]

The proceedings of the Midnight Mass Meeting of Unemployed Guys
at Vauxhall on the fifth of November were of a somewhat disorderly
nature, several of the speeches being characterised by a distinctly
incendiary tone, as will be seen from the following account by _Mr.
Punch's_ Special Reporter, who was present throughout.

The Chair-guy (whose appearance was comparatively respectable) said he
was proud to occupy the chair--notwithstanding that the bottom was out
of it. (_Shame!_) Oh. he was used to that, although he could tell the
meeting he had driven his own donkey-cart once upon a time, if he had
come down to a wheelbarrow now! (_Cries of "Toff!" and "Aristocrat!"
from the more extreme Guys._) He did not understand those expressions
of disapproval--a wheelbarrow with one leg missing was surely an
unostentatious conveyance enough. Well, they had met that evening
to discuss the means to be taken to obviate the depression in the
important branch of out-door industry in which, if he did not mistake,
they were all interested. (_Hear, hear!_) That such depression
existed, and was on the increase, there was, unhappily, no doubt--it
was becoming more and more difficult, as they knew without his telling
them, for the steadiest Guy to maintain himself in a proper position,
without extraneous support. He knew, for a fact, that there were
hundreds of Guys at that very moment who, when their present job was
over, would find themselves--through no fault of their own--thrown out
of employment for another twelvemonth, at least. Did they call _that_
justice? (_No! and groans._) The whole system was iniquitous--the
question was, how they were to put a stop to it. He invited
suggestions from the Audience.

A Guy said that, in his opinion, their decline was entirely due to
their inability to supply themselves with the apparel necessary and
suitable to their calling. What were their duties? Why, to keep alive
the memory of their famous Founder, the author of the great, and
never-to-be-forgotten Gunpowder Plot--he need hardly say he alluded
to GUIDO FAWKES! (_Enthusiastic and prolonged cheering._) He was no
scholar himself--he had never enjoyed a University education--and he
did not pretend to be an authority on historical costume. Still, he
felt safe in asserting that a Guy who, like himself, was compelled to
represent their glorious Predecessor in an old tail coat, a pair of
baggy tweed trousers, and a pot hat with a hole through the crown,
did so under a cruel disadvantage. He had heard that, in former times,
every Guy was sent out provided, as a matter of course, with a dark
lantern and a box of matches. Who ever saw a Guy so equipped nowadays?
They had been robbed of the very implements of their trade by the
grasping greed of their so-called superiors. (_Shame!_) In his opinion
every Guy had a right to be furnished with the correct costume of
the period--whatever that might be--at the public expense. (_Loud

A Guy in a Cocked Hat said he did not think the previous speaker had
mentioned the real cause of their fallen fortunes--their _clothes_
were right enough; they had to thank their own shortsighted policy for
their present position--yes, he was there to speak plainly, as Guy
to Guy, and he told them that it was nothing short of social suicide
for a Guy to carry about a placard, such as he saw too many of them
wearing that evening, inscribed with the name of a recent murderer
or some other popular but ephemeral favourite. (_Some murmuring._)
_That_ was not the way to preserve the name and fame of their revered
Chief. No; let every Guy be true to himself and his order, let him
indignantly refuse to sully his descent by such vulgar and unworthy
devices, and then--(_Uproar, amidst which the Speaker was compelled to
resume his seat._)

A Guy in a Blue Mask, who carried a placard bearing the name of
the Ex-Premier, described the remarks of both his brother Guys as
pestilent drivel. It was not clothes that made the Guy. A Guy was a
Guy in any guise! (_Loud cheers._) But no Guy ever rose in the world
yet without combustibles of some sort inside him, and how many of
them ever knew what it was to get their fill of crackers? They were
starving amidst an abundance of squibs! Society was responsible, and
must be forced to do its duty. He had had enough of it, he meant to
get a good blow-out before he was much older, he could tell them, and
if the Government refused to provide it free, he must loot a firework
factory, that was all--he was ready to lead the way--if they would
follow! (_Applause._)

A Guy in a Yellow Mask said he was in favour of proceeding by
peaceable and constitutional methods if possible. Much could be done
by organising and bringing their grievances before Parliament, with
a view to remedial legislation. They might begin by agitating for
the Franchise. "One Guy, one vote!" would be a popular cry just now,
when some Electoral Reforms were believed to be in contemplation.
Fortunately they had a Home Secretary whom they might reasonably hope
to find sympathetic--he thought they should ascertain his views before
taking any other steps.

A Guy in a Pink Mask said he had organised till he was sick of it. As
for the Home Secretary, he happened to have headed a deputation to
the Home Office that very afternoon--and what did the Meeting think
was the result? Why, the Home Secretary had declined to receive him!
(_Shame!_) Ah, he might call himself a Radical--but did he treat a Guy
as a Man and a Brother? Did he recognise that, creatures of rags and
shavings as they were, they had their feelings? Not he! they were all
alike, these politicians, directly they got into office. How long, he
asked them, were Guys to be chivied, and harried, and moved along into
back-streets by the brutal minions of a corrupt middle-class? If they
wanted to get their rights, they must make themselves a nuisance to
the Authorities, like other people. It was all very fine to talk about
the Franchise, and "One Guy, one vote!" and all the rest of it, but
they all knew that Home Rule blocked the way at present. They must go
to Trafalgar Square in their thousands; it was the finest place for a
bonfire in all London, and they had been kept out of it long enough.
_He_ meant to go, if he had to be carried there! (_Loud cheers._)

A Guy in Spectacles and a Tall Hat, said that a demonstration in
the Square would, no doubt, be an excellent way of drawing public
attention to their wrongs. He advised that when they had succeeded
in capturing the Square, they should proceed to pass a resolution
calling upon the London County Council to find instant and permanent
employment for such Guys as were out of work. (_Cheers._) They could
do it easily enough if they liked, and he would tell them how. All
over London, nay, in the very Square itself, there were innumerable
pedestals at present usurped by Statues which were a disgrace to the
Metropolis. All the Council had to do was to remove those Statues from
positions they had so long abused, and promote the most deserving and
destitute Guys to fill their places. (_Uproar._)

A Guy in Fustian and a Red Comforter rose excitedly to protest against
the last speaker's proposals, which he declared were an insult to
their common Guyhood. They might have come down in the world, but
hitherto, whatever might be said of them, they had, at least, never
rendered themselves publicly ridiculous. Now they were asked to
degrade themselves by accepting the ignominious position of London
Statues! Was there a Guy who would ever hold up his head again, after
such an infamous surrender of his self-respect and independence?
He felt it his duty to denounce the Guy who was guilty of such a
suggestion as a wolf, in sheep's clothing, a base traitor to his
order, and a paid spy!

    [_Intense excitement; charges and countercharges, and vain
    attempts by the Chair-guy to restore order. Several Guys,
    unable to control their indignation any longer, exploded, and
    the Meeting finally dispersed without attempting to pass any
    resolution, amidst a scene of indescribable confusion._

       *       *       *       *       *

SHAKSPEARE's verse, but there ain't any legs worth mentioning in
SHAKSPEARE's Plays. * * * What the people call dramatic poetry is a
collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No,
PIP. If I wanted that, I'd go to church. What's the legitimate object
of the Drama, PIP? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then
let us have plenty of leg-pieces, PIP, and I'll stand by you, my
buck!"--_Martin Chuzzlewit_.

N.B.--This is the Pip of our puzzle to Dickensian Students last week.
The reference, chapter and verse, was given immediately by Mr. COMYNS
CARR, who, on the spot received his reward, and went away rejoicing.
We regret that there are no second and third prizes, otherwise Messrs.
WALTER WREN and VAN TROMP would have been "placed."--ED.

       *       *       *       *       *


"The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE said, 'The extent to which Refreshers are
carried in these days makes my historical mouth water. In my younger
days at the Bar'--"


(_Cue for Song._)

"In my younger days at the Bar, Tra la la la!" &c.

       *       *       *       *       *



    [Lord SALISBURY, in his article in the _National Review_ for
    November, makes fun of Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON's assertion that
    the Government could, at a pinch, secure a majority in the
    Upper Chamber by elevating five hundred Sweeps (which Lord
    S. calls the "Black Peerage") to the House of Lords, with the
    assent of the Crown.]

  Five hundred? Good gracious! there's no need of that.
  "Black Peerage," indeed! Though as black as my hat,
  They could hardly be blacker than SALISBURY's lot;
  But to talk of such sooty recruits is sheer rot.
  That bad Upper House to reform--or degrade--
  We don't want the charge of this queer Dark Brigade.
  Five hundred? FRED HARRISON, you _are_ a green one!
  _I_'d settle the business with _one_ sweep--_a clean one_!

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: An Inhabitant of Noah's Ark.]

Thanks to Messrs. SIMS and RALEIGH and the Court Company for a good
hearty laugh, and many of them at their new three-act farcical comedy,
_The Guardsman_. It Raleigh is good, and Sims likely to be in for a
long run. Therefore, congratulations to Mr. CHUDLEIGH, who is in the
proud position of "Sole Lessee and Manager," of the Court. Odd, as a
correspondent remarked in a letter to _Mr. Punch_ last week, is the
coincidental resemblance of the master-motive of the plot to that of
_Incognita_ at the Lyric; viz., the young man refusing to marry the
girl with whom he is really in love, because he is in love with the
very same young lady without knowing her name or anything about her.
But hath not the old Spanish Comedy-writer, GONZALES, used it three
times? hath not his fellow-countryman, VEGA MORVEGA, used it in his
now obsolete play of _The Distressed Mother_? and hath not VODENDOL,
the Norwegian dramatist, absolutely nauseated us with it, not to
mention its constant use by that imitation of GOLDONI, Count ERFITO
D'ALUMINIO? And to come nearer home, did not the German--but why
pursue the "motive" until you run it to earth, and even then it won't
be killed, but will be flourishing thousands of years hence, when the
New Zealand playwright among the ruins of London shall take up his
note-book and commence a scenario on the old, but to him, quite
original idea.

[Illustration: Arthur Cecil's Collard Head à la G.O.M.]

Then, in the last Act of _The Guardsman_, if we have a French room
with half-a-dozen doors, leading to half-a-dozen different places,
with which arrangement not a few of us are familiar in pieces brought
over fresh from the Palais Royal, and occurring in farces of which
_Bébé_, _Anglicè Betsey_, at the Gymnase and Criterion is a type,
shall we complain? Shall we not rather laugh heartily over the good
old game of Hide-and-Seek, which on the stage is invariably the cause
of much amusement to one person for whom, at all events, I can answer?
What does it matter if to some it recalls a few farcical comedies all
excellent material? Not a bit! I gather from the genuine laughter and
applause of the crowded house at the Court, that this amuses and will
continue to amuse some hundreds nightly, as long as it is all done so
well, and at such high pressure, as it is now in _The Guardsman_. The
First Act is good; the Second is the best; but the Third is like the
last figure in an after-supper early-in-the-morning Lancers, ending
in a whirligig _galop_, when everything is fast and furious, and just
the tune and its measure taken _prestissimo_ and _fortissimo_ keep the
couples going till everybody is breathless and exhausted.

[Illustration: Miss Ellaline Terriss with her Special Train--to be
continued in our next.]

WEEDON GROSSMITH is excellent. In brief, he plays the part of a
thorough donkey, who wishes to appear "horsey." ARTHUR CECIL is
admirable as the Ex-Judge of the Divorce Court--suggesting the idea
of a gay old gentleman, who is still a bit of a dog--but a dog who
has had his day. If this is not his character, how is it he is on such
friendly terms with the _Modiste_, carefully played, and with great
spirit too, by Miss AGNES THOMAS? Mr. ELLIOT is all go and bustle; if
he were not so, pop would go the piece. The makeup of Mr. LITTLE for
the old Captain is uncommonly good; it is a small part, but, with
a LITTLE in it, it is big. Mr. NAMBY, as the Irishman, _Miles_,
first-rate; quite _Miles gloriosus_. But I can't go on with praise,
they're all so good, and ELLALINE TERRISS charming. Miss CAROLINE
HILL, fresher than the proverbial paint, makes a rattling part of
_Lady Jones_, and, as the motto of this Company is that of Racing
Eights, "Swing, swing together!"--which might, in another sense, have
been the refrain sung by a brazen band of Highwaymen in the good old
times--it is likely that they'll keep the Court-Boat going the pace,
with the tide of popular favour, for many months to come.

As a Postscript, I may add a letter on the subject addressed to _Mr.

_Oct. 25th._


In the admirable letter of "AN OLD SOLDIER" in your paper this
week, there are a few unimportant errors due, no doubt, to your
Correspondent's age, and the shortness of memory consequent upon it
that mar, in a measure, the trenchant force of his criticism. I feel
sure he will pardon my reminding him that the Coldstream Guards do
_not_ wear varnished or patent-leather boots with a tunic, except
in "_Levée_ dress;" that Mr. CHARLES WARNER did not play a private
soldier in "the same distinguished regiment," but in the Grenadiers;
that a Captain could never, by any possibility be "on guard" at the
Tower; that the officer on duty at the Tower is called the "Picquet,"
and not the "Orderly" officer, and is never a Captain; that no
Guardsman has ever, in the memory of man, worn a "scarf" in uniform;
and that no soldier, worthy of the name, considers the mess of his own
Battalion "an odd sort of place to dine at," even "in the height of
the Season."

I may add that my mother tells me she has often had her Court-dress
altered on the very morning of the "Drawing-Room." With these few
trifling exceptions, "AN OLD SOLDIER's" letter is most accurate and

I am, Dear _Mr. Punch_, Your enthusiastic Admirer,


       *       *       *       *       *

"HERE WE ARE AGAIN!"--Last Friday, a Correspondent of the P.M.G.,
onboard the _Angola_, interviewed "the Marine-mystery, the
Sea-serpent," off the West Coast of Africa. It showed "two tremendous
green eyes." The narrator counts upon there being a considerable
amount of green in the eyes of those who don't happen to be
Sea-serpents--unless after using very strong glasses (hot) and plenty
of 'em.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT CORRECT."--In last week's number the title
of Picture, p. 198, should have been "Studies in _Contrapuntal_ (not
'Continental') Perspective;" and at p. 201, in EFFIE's reply to the
Governess, "AN" was a misprint for "no." This information will relieve
a vast number of perplexed inquirers.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE GENTLE EGOTIST.


_Elder Sister_. "I'M SORRY TO SAY IT'S _ME_, DOCTOR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["A quarter of a century hence, France will have more than
    four million trained soldiers, and Russia more than four
    millions and a half. We may deplore, as we will, this
    conversion of Europe into a vast camp, but the German
    Government, witnessing the development of such colossal armies
    on either hand, cannot be said to propose anything excessive
    or unnecessary when it asks, as it now does, for the
    means of raising the trained soldiers of the Empire to
    4,400,000."--_The "Times" on the German Army Bills._]

  Ride on! Ride on! "Tis a pace will kill!
  Like Smuggler BILL and Exciseman GILL,
  In the _Ingoldsby Legends_, you ride a race
  On a perilous path, at a breakneck pace,
  In a mingled spirit of hate and fear,
  Too hot to heed, and too deaf to hear;
  With a fierce red eye on each other cast,
  And a rate of going that _cannot_ last,
  On a road that leads, as such roads lead all,
  To a crumbling cliff, and a crashing fall.

  "The Road to Ruin? Pooh! preacher trite!
  'Tis a gallant race, and in glorious flight,
  With the clinkety-clank of scabbard and spur,
  O'er moor and meadow, by linden and fir,
  With the wind of speed blowing brisk in one's face,
  A Long-Distance Ride is a soul-stirring race!"

  Verily yes,--for the riders gay,
  Saddled softly, in armed array,
  Hand on the bridle, heel at the flank,
  And that martial music, clinkety-clank!
  Charming the ear in galloping time
  With the hoofs' hard rattle in clattering chime.
  Clumpety-clump! Clankety-clink!
  Out on the caitiff who'd pause or shrink!
  Clinkety-clank! Clumpety-clump!
  The stout steed's heart at his ribs may thump,
  In spasms the breath through his nostrils pump,
  The strained neck droop, though 'tis held at stretch,
  The labouring lungs in sheer agony fetch
  Blood-mixed breathings, red-dappled foam,--
  Let the lash descend, let the spur strike home!
  Are they not _racing_? Is not their pride
  Engaged in winning _this_ Long-Distance Ride?

  _Excessive_? No! Who dares hint so?
  The going's hot, and the steeds must _go_!
  Chargers entered for such a race
  Must not complain of the pounding pace;
  Must not grumble at crushing weight.
  Yes; they appear in a piteous state,
  Almost foundered, and well nigh blown,
  With the burden big o'er their shoulders thrown.
  Ever swelling, like miser's sacks;
  But why have horses such broad strong backs,
  If not to _bear_--to the death at need,
  Though lungs may choke, and though flanks may bleed?
  Ride, ye _militaires_, ruthlessly ride!
  Shouting Emperors hail with pride,
  "Gallant" riders, who lash and goad
  Their staggering steeds on this desperate road;
  Their whips are wet, and their spur-points gory,
  But--beasts must bleed, in the name of Glory!

  Beasts of burden, ye peoples, still
  Ridden hard by a ruthless will!
  Militarism is mounted firm.
  The saddled slaves may shudder and squirm,
  The bridled brutes may shy and shrink,
  The road is long, and the gulf's black brink
  Seems distant yet, and is scarcely seen
  By the rival riders, whose pride and spleen
  Blind them--save to each other's glare,
  To the pace they make, and the weight they bear,
  Those hot-urged horses! Lash and goad,
  Rash riders!--but, at the end of the road,
  When the growing burden's last possible pound
  Is piled; when the steed's last staggering bound
  Is made, when the last short, labouring breath
  Is breathed, when over, in shuddering death,
  The charger rolls, with a sickening crash,
  And responds no more to the spur or lash;
  And the gulf yawns close, sheer slope to air,
  Black, unavoidable, ruinous there--
  Then, gallant rider, how will _you_ fare?

       *       *       *       *       *


  CHARRINGTON forgot his manners,
  Pleading for the _Jolly Tanners_;
  He gave his tongue, at serious cost,
  The Licence which the _Tanners_ lost.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE ROAD TO RUIN.]

       *       *       *       *       *


_Irate Gillie_ (_on discovering in the distance, for the third time
that morning, a "Brute of a Man" moving about in his favourite bit of

       *       *       *       *       *



  O wealthy and world-weary triflers, O idle and opulent folk,
  For whom time is a foe to be slain, and life's self but a bore or
          a joke,
  Take yourselves, and your hearts, and your purses to Nazareth
          House and behold
  The brave service of well-bestowed time, the brave uses of
          well-applied gold!

  Where is Nazareth House, then, and what? 'Tis in Hammersmith,
          Madam, a place
  That you probably seldom illume with the light of your beautiful
  But _what_? That's a far larger question, full answer to which
          would take time.
  Far better go see for yourself. If there's aught of the moral
  In these gold-grubbing days, 'tis in scenes where love-service
          unbought and unpaid--
  A vastly unbusiness-like thing in the eyes of the vassals of
  Is devoted in silence unseen to the outcast, the old, and the poor.
  Five hundred such waifs are here housed, and _they yearn to find
          refuge for more!_
  That's the pith of the matter, dear Madam! And as for the rest,
          I've returned
  From a visit, and fancy your heart, like my own, would have
          lightened and burned!
  Had you walked through the wards, as I walked, with a Sister as
          frank and unfeigned
  As sweet Charity's servant should be. There was nothing o'er
          piously strained
  In this unrigid Refuge for helplessness. Cheeriness, confidence,
  Seemed to reign in these child-crowded rooms--in these wards where
          the aged, whose birth
  Dated well-nigh a century back, whether sewing, or smoking, or prone
  On the pallet of sickness, all _smiled_, and no soul seemed
          forlorn or alone.
  How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads
          tier above tier,
  With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear!
  Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not
          the old.
  There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere
          babies are bold
  With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and
  Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen
          tendance is _kind_,
  And sit silently placid, or burst into song of a heart-searching
  Muffled speech from unplumbed spirit-depths, yet inspired by the
          impulse of sport.
  Have a chat, my dear Madam--shrink not, they are women!--with
          age-wrinkled dames,
  Who are busily bed-quilting here, while the Autumn sun ruddily
  On the walls from the liberal windows. Bestow but a smile and a
  They'll respond with a jest and a smile, for there's life in each
          age-burdened breast,
  And confidence, comfort, and cheer. Here again clustered close
          round the fire
  Are a number of grizzle-look'd men, every one is a true "hoary
  Bowed, time-beaten, grey, yet alert and responsive to kindness of
  And see how old eyes can light up if you promise a pipe-charge
  For the comforting weed KINGSLEY eulogised is not taboo in this
  Where the whiff aromatic brings not cold reproval to Charity's face.
  Ah! the tale is o'erlong for full telling; but never a bright
  In London's chill leaf-strewn October was better bestowed. 'Tis a
  To be able to speak on behalf of Samaritan kindness so schemed,
  In a way in which lovers of man, not of mummeries, ever have
  On such wise, wide, benevolent lines, with no bondage of class or
          of creed.
  But the helpless Five Hundred still swell, and the Sisterhood feel
          sorest need
  Of enlarging their borders and branches. The children especially
  And for every poor, pale, helpless mite, who can here find a
          pallet and form,
  Home, food, clothing, schooling, life-settlement, _love_, there
          are hundreds for whom
  And their piteous appeal the response must unwillingly come, "No
          more room!",
  Room, not in their hearts but their wards is this unselfish
          Sisterhood's lack;
  There you, my dear Madam, can help, if your purse-strings a little
          you'll slack.
  The Home for Poor Age, Helpless Childhood, Incurable Sickness,
  Not on fees or on wealthy endowments, but alms and free service of
  Gifts, not only of money, but garments and furniture, beds,
          tables, chairs,
  The Nazareth ladies will welcome--Come! Is there a Christian who
  For God's poor and the Christ-welcomed children, who will not
          respond in some way
  To the modest appeal of these ladies, who care for the Waif and
          the Stray?

       *       *       *       *       *




    (_See Speech by Miss Cozens at Meeting of Woman's Emancipation
    Union at Birmingham, Oct. 27._)

  The time is come, beware of "us,"
    There's thunder in the air;
  Your future's in the care of "us;"
    Beware of "us"--beware!

  We'll cease to coax and "Cozen" you
    By fascinating smiles,
  And gaily now impose on you
    By dynamitic wiles.

       *       *       *       *       *



  After the labours of Vacation,
    Ten long weeks with nothing to do,
  I feel that I need some recreation,
    I'll sit in Court for a week or two:
      It's just as well, now and then,
      To show yourself to the public ken.
  Ah me! who would be
  Judge of the High Court, Q B.D.?

  But it's tiring work to sit on the Bench,
    Hearing the Counsel, day by day,
  Canting and ranting, while they clench
    Their fists, and thump and hammer away:
      Be their arguments weak or strong,
      Whatever I say I'm in the wrong.
  Ah me! who would be,
  A badgered Judge of the Q.B.D.?

  Whenever I crack a judicial jest,
    Witnesses, jurors, suitors smile,
  They quite understand I do my best,
    A wearisome action to beguile:
      "Silks" and "Juniors" seem to force,
      A jeering laugh as a matter of course.
  Ah me! who would be,
  A jocular Judge of the Q.B.D.?

  The public, solicitors, counsel, frown
    And grumble and growl at the law's delay;
  I'm never allowed to stop in town,
    Off on Circuit I'm hurried away:
      Election Petitions I'm made to judge,
      On Irish Commissions I have to drudge.
  Ah me! who would be,
  A toiling Judge of the Q.B.D.?

  To a _cause célèbre_ I don't object,
    Leaders of fashion around me sit,
  My robes and ermine command respect,
    I rather fancy I'm making a hit:
      I feel there's a chance of getting, who knows?
      Into _Vanity Fair_ or Madame Tussaud's.
  Ah me! who would not be,
  A popular Judge of the Q.B.D.?

  When the Sittings are in full swing, I'm bound,
    From half past ten till the clock strikes four,
  In Court or in Chambers to be found,
    With half an hour for my lunch or more:
      Summons and motion and cause I hear,
      I'm only paid, five thousand a-year!
  Many a man would like to be,
  Judge of the High Court Q.B.D.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANTI-TEETOTAL OPERA, "_Eugène Onegin_" at the Olympic. Will it be
followed by _Ourjane Twobrandi_? and subsequently, by the celebrated
Opera, _Lotowiski_?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Ethel_ (_who has picked up a few sporting phrases,
and thinks she can instruct her Governess_). "NO, I HAVEN'T HEARD

       *       *       *       *       *


"For graphic touch and keen appreciation of humour, for easy
conversational narration, give me," quoth the Baron, "the papers
now being published in _Household Words_ (most appropriate place for
them), written by MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C. and Magistrate." His paper
on Ramsgate, telling how he travelled down, who his companions
were, is as thoroughly amusing and interesting as his tribute to
the health-giving climate of Ramsgate is true. These papers under
the comprehensive title of "Round London," are to be republished in
book-form by, as I believe, Messrs. MACMILLAN, and assuredly they will
be as popular as were the same author's "Leaves" and "Later Leaves."
False sentiment, MONTAGU WILLIAMS, as man or magistrate, does not
encourage. "Strongly do I recommend his 'Round London,'" says


       *       *       *       *       *

"THE MORRIS DANCE."--NEW FIGURE.--The _Premier Danseur_, holding
laurel-crown, dances up to WILLIAM MORRIS offering him the
laurel-crown. Will MORRIS? MORRIS won't. Premier retires gracefully,
and is seen approaching LEWIS MORRIS.

       *       *       *       *       *


  "How did I like that book?" I gained,
  From reading it, joy unrestrained;
  'Twas perfect--had it but contained
            An Index!

  Brilliant, yet also erudite,
  Profound, in facts, in diction light,
  Why failed its writer to indite
            An Index?

  'Twas history, on its social side,
  With stories, good to quote, supplied,
  Yet how quote anything, denied
            An Index?

  A book that "He who reads might run"--
  Its Printer, too--what made _him_ shun
            An Index?

  I missed a date, harked back. "A fad!"
  You'll say? Perhaps. It made _me_ mad.
  My hunt was vain, because, it had
            No Index.

  O Authors of instructive chat,
  Supply this want when next you're at
  A book! "_Bis dat qui citò dat_,"
            An Index.

       *       *       *       *       *


Answer any three of the following five questions:--

I. (_a._) What is a cassowary? (_b._) Does its internal construction
render it capable of anthropophagy? (_c._) Describe its habits, nature
and food, and draw an outline sketch of its skeleton.

II. (_a._) Give the latitude and longitude of Timbuctoo. (_b._) State
the number and religious belief of its inhabitants. (_c._) Discuss
its natural advantages; (i.), as a port, and (ii.) as a centre for
missionary enterprise.

III. (_a._) Is a missionary best when served (i.) _au naturel_; (ii.)
_à la maître d'hôtel_, or, (iii.) _aux petîtes livrettes de psaumes_?
Discuss the advantages of each method of preparation; (_b._) Quote any
advice given by (i.) LUCULLUS, or (ii.) EPICURUS on this subject.

IV. What version of the Prayer-book is in use amongst the natives of
Central Africa?

V. Discuss the authorship of the poem entitled _Timbuctoo_, and adduce
any reasons for believing JULIUS CÆSAR to have written it.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OTHER PAPER.--MR. NEWNES is bringing out a rival to the _Pall
Mall Gazette_, Is it to be published before the _P.M.G._, or later in
the day? If the first, its title might be _The Noon's Paper_; if the
latter, _The After-Newnes Paper_. Whichever you like, my little dear!
Mr. N. pays his money and takes his choice. Anyhow, "NEWNES' Paper" is
a marketable commodity.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The circumstances will indeed have to be very remarkable
    to take two Judges into Stepney."--_Baron Pollock, re Stepney
    Election Petition, Oct. 26._]

  I chanced to meet a man the other day,
    Whose store of legal knowledge was amazing,
  He stormed at me in quite the stormiest way,
    With, fiery indignation simply blazing.
  I wondered if he'd lost his (legal) hair
    (Forgive the phrase) against a demi-rep? Nay!
  They'd really ventured to presume to dare
    To ask a Judge or two to go to Stepney!

  Now if it had been merely Peekham Rye,
    They would have gone at once, and gone right gladly.
  Then Brondesbury, Barnet--New or High,--
    Or Shepherd's Bush would not have done so badly.
  Penge would have brought the Crystal Palace near,
    And Kensington's Olympia made their soul burn,
  They'd have enjoyed the jaunt to Greenwich Pier,
    And Heaven had been synonymous with Holborn.

  Oh! had it been Soho or Maida Vale
    It would have been of course another story. A
  Delightful trip to Euston could not fail
    To please as much as Broad Street or Victoria.
  Belgravia would have suited very well,
    They could have done with Balham, Bow, or Brixton,
  With Flower-laden Battersea. But tell
    Me if you can--oh! why was Stepney fixt on?

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: "I was that staggered, that I could 'ardly answer

Well, it isn't for one like me to say as how as good luck means wirtue
rewarded, cos I have, in my long xperiense, seen not a werry few cases
where it wasn't so--no, not by no manner of means.

But this I can most trewly say, that my slice of luck during this
larst munth is worthy of being called a reel staggerer! And this is
how it cum about:--

The Amerrycain Gent, at the Grand Hotel, wanted a change for about a
weak or two, and he naterally arsked me what he shood do. I made lots
of wise suggeshons, in course, such as Margate, and Grinnidge, and
Hern Bay, and other hily arristercratick places, but they none on 'em
woodn't do. So presently he calls out, "Did you ever go to Ireland?"
I was that staggered, that I coud ardly arnser him; but then I says,
"Yes, Sir--but it were sum time ago." Then he staggers me much more
wiolently, for he says, says he, "Why shoudn't you go with me then,
and be my Wally!" When I recovered my breth, I says, "I don't know
as our gentelmanly Manager here woud spare me." So he says, "I'll
soon see about that." So he rings the bell wiolently, and arsks
for him--and he cums--and, to my serprize, he doesn't make not no
objecshun at all, which was, in course, werry complementary to me,
and, strange to say, no more did Mrs. ROBERT, when I told her of it.

Well, I passes over all prelimmenerry derangements, till we finds
ourselves on board a lovly steemer, bound for Old Ireland, as we allus
calls her, tho' I don't spose as she's any older than the rest on us.
It was that ruff that I perposed waitin till the sea got smooth; but
my Master ony larft, and sed I shood be all rite if I follered his
adwice, as he was used to the sea, and rayther liked it a little
ruffish. So he got me a sheet of brown paper to put on my manly chest,
and gave me some champane, and one glass of Perettic Sline, I think he
called it, and, with their ade, I got over much better than I xpected.

We went as strate as we coud go to the Lakes of Killarny, and if that
isn't jest about as lovly a plaice as the hole world can show, why
then let sumbody show me another as is. If anyboddy arsked me if it
never rained there, truth wood make me say yes, it most suttenly does
sumtimes, but then so it does ewerywheres in ollidy time excep where
it's most speshally wanted.

My Guvner's fust harty larf was at dinner on the fust day, when he
told me to ring for sum pepper. TIM the Waiter arnsered the bell, and
I told him what was wanted, and I scarce xpecs to be bleeved when I
says, as he cums back and he says, says he, "If you plase, Sir, sure
the Pepper's engaged!" I thort the Guvner wood ha larfed hisself
hill, but he soon recovered, and said, "Thin niver mind TIM, we'll
do without it to-day, but let us have fust turn at it to-morrow."
"Suttenly, your honour," says TIM, and wanishes.

The next day, after driving us round the naybourhood, he came in
without being arsked, and goes to the fire and warms his hands, and
then says with a broad grin, "Sure it's a jolly lucky cupple as you
are, for the rains a bustin down like thunder!" When handing the
unpeeled Potatows to the Guvner he wood pint his finger at one and
say, "That's a rale buty, Sir!"

I spose as the Guvner was rayther libberal to TIM, when we left, as
all reel gennelmen allus is, for the tears acshally came into the
pore feller's eyes, and he blessed us both, and wished as a few more
genelman like _us_ woud sumtimes wisit poor old Ireland!

We stayed about a fortnight, but we didn't see another Waiter like
poor TIM, who was the werry fust humane being as hever called me a
gennelman, pore feller! but we had a werry nice time of it on the
hole, which I may p'raps elude to sum day, when things ain't quite so
brisk as they is just now, and I must say as my Guvner behaved like
the reel Gennelman as he is, when we cum for to settel up.


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["I have even gone so low as 1d. a course ... with enough
    success as to elicit effusive eulogies from some distinguished
    literary persons ..."--_Mr. Ernest Hart in "Where are the
    Cooks?"--Daily Graphic, Oct. 18._]

  Oh! where are the Cooks; where on earth can they be?
    Pray, hark to the Housekeeper's pitiful moan.
  Mr. HART seems to know, and he tells us, with glee,
    Of a plan which is his, and is his, too, alone.
  It's a plan for a dinner, that's easily shown
    To be cheap, and of pleasure the joy-giving source,
  'Tis a wonderful plan--hear the epicure groan--
    It costs just exactly one penny a course.

  The dinner's Hartistic. Sweet HART says that he
    Had a meal fit to soften the heart of a stone,
  There were guests men of letters, and lofty degree--
    Who wore pleased, and not only saw fit to condone,
  But who ransacked each country, land, continent, zone,
    For encomiums of praise, till they really grew hoarse.
  But would they have done so, had only they known
    It cost just exactly one penny a course?

  Yes, a penny a head. It's not easy to see
    How it's done for the price of a bun or a scone.
  When the Mistress and Cook find it hard to agree,
    And the former of these is provokingly prone
  With the latter to pick a most terrible bone,
    When it seems that disaster must follow perforce,
  Oh! whisper them this in a Hart rending tone--
    It costs just exactly one penny a course!


  O Host, if all other ideas have flown,
    Remember this plan as a final resource,
  Be Harty! Be Earnest! Make _his_ plan your own!
    It costs just exactly one penny a course!

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

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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