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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 15, 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, October 15, 1892" ***

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



October 15, 1892.



'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.

(_SECOND LETTER._)

[Illustration]

  DEAR CHARLIE,--The post-mark, no doubt, will surprise you. I'm
          still at the "Crown,"
  Though I said in my last--wot wos true--I was jest on the mizzle
          for town.
  'Ad a letter from nunky, old man, with another small cheque. Good
          old nunk!
  So I'm in for a fortnit' more sulphur and slosh, afore doing a bunk.

  Ah! I've worked it, my pippin, I've worked it; gone in for
          hexcursions all round,
  To Knaresborough, Bolton, and Fountains. You know, dear old pal,
          I'll be bound,
  As hantiquities isn't my 'obby, and ruins don't fetch me, not much!
  I can't see their "beauty," no more than the charms of some dowdy
          old Dutch.

  A Castle, all chunnicks of stone, or a Habbey, much out of repair,
  A skelinton Banquetting 'All, and a bit of a broken-down stair,
  May appear most perticular "precious" to them as the picteresk cops;
  But give me the sububs and stucco, smart villas, and
          spick-and-span shops.

  "Up to date" is our _siney quay non_ in these days. _Fang der
          sickle_, yer know.
  Wich is French for the same, I persoom, and them phrases is now
          all the go.
  Find 'em sprinkled all over the papers; in politics, fashion, or
          art,
  If you carnt turn 'em slick round yer tongue, you ain't modern, or
          knowing, or smart.

  Still a houting to Bolton ain't bad when the _charry-bang's_ well
          loaded up
  With swell seven-and-sixpence-a-headers. _I_ felt like a tarrier-pup
  On the scoop arter six weeks of kennel and drench in the 'ands of
          a vet;
  I'd got free of the brimstoney flaviour and went it accordin', you
          bet!

  'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest
          scene,
  'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly
          big green.
  Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha'
          sketched.
  Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos
          fetched.

  Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural
          Show,"
  So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and
          live poultry, yer know.
  Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart
          local band,
  Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave
          it a 'and.

  I do like to hencourage the joskins. One thing though, wos
          fiddle-de-dee,
  They 'ad a "Refreshment Tent," CHARLIE. 'Oh my! Ginger-ale and
          weak tea!
  Nothink stronger, old pal, s'elp me bob! Fancy _me_ flopping down
          on a form
  A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!

  This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and
          bands on the "Stray"
  (Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
  Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
  With a orful tremoler, my pippin!--yus, these are the pick of the
          pack.

  Bit sick of "_Ta-ra-ra_" and "_Knocked 'em_;" "_Carissimar_" gives
          me the 'ump,
  For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy
          old pump
  Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,
  To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's
          gay!

  At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate
          lot,
  For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's
          'ot;
  Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts,
          and such;
  Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny
          touch.

  But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT,
  All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always _quite_ wot
          yer want
  To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that
          gent--six-foot-four!--
  Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.--of course
          _hammytoor_.

  Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at
          _my_ chump.
  'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump
  Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I
          suppose,
  But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my
          nose.

  When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a
          blush--rose in bloom,
  'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the
          whole room,
  'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening
          'is wit
  On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom
          in a fit!

  One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man.
  They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a
          fan,
  Four six--foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run
          around--them's the "props,"
  And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf,
          though tip-tops!

  Bit sniffy fust off. "Oh!" sez they, "wot a most _hintellectual_
          game!"
  But I noticed that them as sneered most wos most anxious to win,
          all the same,
  The gent he stands slap in the middle, and tries to blow bubbles
          like fun,
  Wich his pardner fans over the tape; don't it jest keep the girls
          on the run!

  Every bubble as crosses the tape afore busting counts one to that
          pair,
  And the pair as counts most wins the prize. They are timed by a
          hegg-boiler. There!
  It _wos_ all a pantermime, CHARLIE, to see 'ow them gurls scooted
          round,
  Jest like Japanese jugglers, a-fanning the bubbles, as _would_ 'ug
          the ground.

  Some gents wos fair frosts at the bizness; one good-'earted trim
          little toff
  Would blow with the bowl wrong end uppards. His pardner went pink
          and flounced off.
  He gurgled away like a babe with a pap-bottle, guggle--gug--gug!
  And I 'eard 'er a-giving 'im beans as 'e mizzled, much down in the
          mug.

  Owsomever, it ain't for amusements as 'Arrygate lays itself hout;
  So, dear boy, it's for doses and douches; and there it scores
          freely, no doubt,
  Wy, there's thirty-two Springs in the Bog Field--a place like a
          graveyard gone wrong--
  Besides Starbeck, the Tewit, and others, all narsty, and most on
          'em strong.

  Since Sir SLINGSBY discovered the first one, now close on three
          cent'ries ago,
  Wot a lush of mixed mineral muck these 'ere 'Arrygate Springs 'ave
          let flow!
  Well, ere's bully for Brimstone, my bloater, and 'ooray for
          'Arrygate air!
  Wich 'as done me most good I don't know, and I'm scorched if I
          very much care!

  I know 'Arrygate girls cop the biscuit for beauty. They've cheeks
          like the rose,
  Their skin is jest strorberries and cream; it's the sulphur, dear
          boy, I suppose.
  As for me, I look yaller as taller alongside 'em CHARLIE, wus luck!
  I 'eard one call me saffron-faced sparrer, and jest as I thought
          'er fair struck.

  I'd nail 'em, in time, I've no doubt, when I once got the 'ang of
          their style.
  There's a gal at the Montpellier Baths. Scissoree! 'ow I've tried
          for a smile,
  When she tips me my tannersworth! Shucks! she's as orty and stiff
          as yer please.
  Primrose Dames isn't in it for snubs with these arrygant
          'Arrygatese!

  But I reckon my "Douche" is now due. Doctor BLACK's that
          pertikler, old man.
  These 'Arrygate doctors 'ave progrums--you've got to pan out to
          their plan.
  Up early, two swigs afore breakfust, and tubs when they tell yer's
          the rule.
  Well, the feller as flies to a Sawbones, and _don't_ toe the line
          is a fool.

  Reglar Doctor-Shop, 'Arrygate is; see their photos all over the
          town.
  Mine is doing me dollups of good; I'm quite peckish, and jest a
          bit brown.
  I'm making the most of my time, and a-laying in all I can carry.
  So 'ere ends this budget of brimstone and baths from your
          sulphur-soaked

'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FROG HE WOULD A-ROWING GO!

A SAD SONG OF THE INTERNATIONAL BOAT RACE.

(_WITH MR. PUNCH'S CORDIAL COMPLIMENTS TO THE VICTORIOUS FRENCH
EIGHT_.)

AIR--"_A Frog he would a-Wooing go_."

  A FROGGIE would a-rowing go,
            Heigho for Rowing!
  To see if Big BULLIE could lick him or no;
    With his boating form that's all gammon and spinach.
            Heigho for British Rowing!

  So off he set with his boating-cap,
            Heigho for Rowing!
  And swore at Big BULL he would just have a slap!
    Which BULL declared was all gammon and spinach!
            Heigho for British Rowing!

  "Pray, Mr. BULL, will you race with me?"
            Heigho for Rowing!
  Says BULL, "If you like, but 'tis fiddle-de-dee!
    For FROG against BULL is all gammon and spinach."
            Heigho for British Rowing!

  When they came to Andresy upon the Seine,
            Heigho for Rowing!
  Big BULL pulled his hardest, but pulled in vain,
    For he found his boasts were all gammon and spinach.
            Heigho for British Rowing!

  For in spite of the brag, and the bounce, and the chaff,
            Heigho for Rowing!
  The FROG beat the BULL by a length and a half,
    With your MOSSOP and JAMES, licked by BOUDIN and CUZIN,
            Heigho, says R.C. LEHMANN!

  "Pray, Mr. BULL, do you relish the spin?"
            Heigho for Rowing!
  (Said FROGGIE.) "And were you cocksure you would win,
    With your forty-one strokes all sheer gammon and spinach?"
            Heigho for British Rowing!

  "Humph! Regular take-down!" said Big Mr. BULL--
            Heigho for Rowing!
  "But, FROGGIE or not, by the lord you can _pull_,
    With your much-decried 'hang,'--'twas all gammon and spinach!
            Heigho for British Rowing!"

  "Ha! Ha!" cried the FROG, "the old fable, thought true"--
            Heigho for Rowing!
  "Is out of date now. I'm as big, BULL, as _you_,
    As an oarsman, which is _not_ all gammon and spinach!"
            Heigho for British Rowing.

  So that in the end (for the present), you see,
            Heigho for Rowing!
  Of the race between Big BULL and Little FROGGIE.
    BULL's fame, in a boat, seems all gammon and spinach.
            Heigho for British Rowing!
]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LOOKING AHEAD.

_Miss Golightly_ (_the Friend of the Family, and to whom Sir Percy
(the elder) has proposed_). "OF COURSE I'M AWFULLY OBLIGED, SIR
PERCY--BUT, SAY NOW, DON'T YOU THINK THERE WOULD BE SOME DANGER OF
MY FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOUR ELDEST SON?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. CHAUNCEY DEPEW, the well-known American lawyer, wonders why on
earth the British Government has not long ago given Home Rule to
Ireland. He encourages Mr. G.'s Ministry to do their best in this
direction, and chaunce-y it. We're always delighted to welcome Mr.
CHAUNCEY DEPEW in England, so let him come over with a Depewtation
to Mr. G. on the subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

EQUESTRIAN FRUIT.--At the Horticultural Show the Baroness
BURDETT-COUTTS exhibited a "Cob of ADAM's Early Maize." No particulars
are given. Was it 14'1 and a weight-carrier? Being ADAM's, it must be
about the oldest in the world. "Maize" may be a misprint for "Mews."
Next time the Baroness must send a pear.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROBABLE DEDUCTION.--A pertinacious Salvation Army Captain was
worrying a Scotch farmer, whom he had met in the train, with perpetual
inquiries as to whether "he had been born again of Water and the
Spirit?" At last, MCSANDY replied, "Aweel, I dinna reetly ken how
that may be, but my good old feyther and mither took their toddy
releegiously every nicht, the noo."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AUSTRO-GERMAN OFFICER'S VADE-MECUM.

_Q._ You have heard of the Ride from Berlin to Vienna, and _vice
versâ_?

_A._ Yes; and of the mishaps that befell many of the competitors.

_Q._ You mean their horses?

_A._ What applies to the one applies to the other.

_Q._ Some of the poor steeds died on the journey?

_A._ I daresay--of course, it was hard work.

_Q._ And you have read that, even when the poor horses were fainting
and refusing food, the riders still went on?

_A._ Of course. The riders had magnificent pluck and nerve.

_Q._ What, to observe the anguish of their chargers without emotion?

_A._ No! The idea! I mean they had pluck and nerve in spite of all
discouragement to push on to the winning-post.

_Q._ And what do you think this breaking down of the horses proved?

_A._ That, after all, the creatures were brutes--only brutes!

_Q._ Does not the suffering of these brutes suggest--

_A._ That the riders were brutes too?--Ah!

    [_No further question put, the Answerer having mastered the
    subject._

       *       *       *       *       *

IN EXCELSIS.--No better example of the methods employed by
Vivisectionists could be given than was presented at the Church
Congress last week, where in debate on this subject they were all
engaged in cutting up one another. The Bishop of EDINBURGH, denouncing
the morality of the Bishop of MANCHESTER and of Bishop BARRY, was a
rare sight. His Lordship said that the morality of these two Bishops
was "up in a balloon." Well, surely this is morality of the most
elevated description. These Bishops are not "_in partibus_," but _in
nubibus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN WATER COLOURS.--The East London Waterworks Company had a very
successful meeting the other day. _Inter alia_ the Chairman said,
that "the Waltham Well is a complete success." _Ergo_ let Well alone.
That from this source they still supplied "36 gallons per head." The
heads must be uncommonly hard to stand all this water on the brain. A
dividend of eight per cent. is, after all, a very pleasant draught.

       *       *       *       *       *

"GREEN THE GUIDE."

(_A SKETCH ON A "ROYAL BLUE" CAR AT JERSEY._)

    _On the Car is, among others, an Elderly Gentleman, in a
    tall hat, with a quantity of wraps; a Stout Shopkeeper, with
    a stouter Wife; a Serious Commercial Traveller, and a couple
    of young "Shop-ladies"; a Morose Young Man, who has "got
    out of bed the wrong side" that morning, and another, who
    has begun his potations rather early, and is in the muzzily
    talkative mood. The Car is one of a long string of similar
    vehicles, and is proceeding at a rapid rate along one of the
    winding roads._

_The Muzzy Man_. Frivolous, am I? Well, we _came_ 'ere to be
frivolous--to a certain extent. Am I out of the way in anything I've
said? Because I woke this morning with a dry month, and I don't mind
saying I've had a little drop o' brandy since.

_His Neighbour_. You might let people find out that for themselves,
_I_ should think!

_The Muzzy M._ No--I like to be honest and straightforward, I do. I
don't want to be out of the _way_, you understand.

_The Shopkeeper's Wife_ (_to her Neighbour_). This is a pretty part
of the road we're on now--but, lor! there's nothing 'ere to come up to
the Isle of Man. Douglas, now--that _is_ a nice place, with all them
Music Halls! And the scenery--why, I'm sure I felt sometimes as if I
_must_ stop, just to _look_ at it!

_The Muzzy Man_. I consider scenery we're coming to most beautiful
I've seen for--for miles around. [_He goes to sleep._

[Illustration: "An elderly Gentleman, in a tall hat, with a quantity
of wraps."]

_The Shopkeeper_ (_to the Elderly G., who is shifting and turning
about uneasily_). Lost anything, Sir?

_The E.G._ No--thank you, no. I was looking to see whether GREEN the
Guide was on the car. (_Shouts of laughter are heard from the car
behind._) Ah, _that's_ GREEN the Guide! I wish he'd come on our
oar--very amusing fellow, Sir--capital company!

_The Morose M._ (_to the Young Lady 'on his Left_) Who's GREEN the
Guide?

_The Y.L._ Oh, don't you know? He comes with the cars and makes jokes
and all that. I hope he'll come to us.

_The Mor. M._ _I_ don't. I can do that sort of thing for myself if I
want to, I hope. [_With a scowl._

_The Y.L._ Well, there's no harm in _hoping_!

_The Serious Comm. T._ (_to his neighbour--one of the Shop-ladies_).
So you come from Birmingham? Dear me, now. I used to be there very
often on business at one time. Do you know the Rev. Mr. PODGER there?
A good old gentleman, he is. I used to attend his Chapel regular--most
improving discourses he used to give us. I am fond of a good Sermon,
aren't you? &c.

    [_He imagines--not altogether correctly--that he is producing
    an agreeable impression._

_A Young Man in a Frock-coat, Canvas-shoes, and Cloth-cap._
Scarborough? Yes, I've _been_ there--but I don't care about it much.
You have to _dress_ such a lot there, y' know, and I like to come out
just as I am!

    [_The conversation, notwithstanding its brilliancy, is
    beginning to flag--when the car is boarded by a stalwart
    good-looking man, carrying a banjo, and wearing a leather
    shoulder-belt with "GREEN the Guide" in brass letters upon
    it; the Elderly Gentleman, and most of the Ladies welcome
    him with effusion, while the Younger Men appear to resent
    his appearance._

_The Mor. M._ (_sotto voce_). If he's going to play that old
instrument of torture, I shall _howl_, that's all!

_Green the Guide_ (_in a deep baritone voice_). Well, Ladies
and Gentlemen, I congratulate you upon having a fine day for our
excursion. My glass went up three feet this morning.

_The Morose Man_ (_aggressively_). Was there whiskey inside it?

_Green the Guide_. No, Sir, it would have gone down suddenly if there
had been. (_The_ Elderly G. _asks for a song_.) I shall be delighted
to entertain you to the best of my ability. What would you like to
have?

_The Mor. M._ None of your songs--give us an imitation--of a deaf and
dumb man.

_Green the G._ (_with perfect good-humour_). I shall be happy to do
the deaf man, Sir,--if you'll help me by doing the dumb. (_The_ Mor.
M. _begins to feel that he had better leave_ GREEN the Guide _alone._)
Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'll sing you a good old-fashioned
hunting-song, and I'll ask you to join me in the Chorus.

    [_He sings "We'll all go out hunting to-day!"_

_The Mor. M._ (_after the First Verse_). The beggar don't sing so
badly. I will say _that_ for him! (_After the Third._) Capital voice
he has! Rattling good Chorus, too! "Join the glad throng that goes
laughing along, and we'll all go a-hunting to-day!" (_At the end._)
Bravo! encore! encore!

    [_His good-humour is suddenly and miraculously restored._

_Green the G._ (_in a tone of instruction_). You will notice that the
thistle is very abundant just here, Ladies and Gentlemen. The reason
of _that_, is that some years ago a vessel was wrecked on this part of
the coast which was sailing from Scotland with a cargo of thistledown.
(_Outcry of incredulity_.) If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman.

_The Coachman_ (_stolidly_). It's a fact, Gentlemen, I assure you.

_G. the G._ The soil of Jersey is remarkably productive; if you plant
a sixpence, it will come up a shilling in no time. The cabbages on
this island grow to an extraordinary height, frequently attaining
twenty feet--(_outcry_)--yes, if you measure up one side, and down the
other. (_They pass a couple of sheep on a slope._) The finest flock
of sheep in the island. The dark one is not black, only a little
sunburnt. The house you see on that hill over there was formerly slept
in by CHARLES THE SECOND. He left a pair of slippers behind him--which
have since grown into top-boots. There you see the only windmill in
this part of the island--there _used_ to be three, but it was found
there was not enough wind for them all. From here you have a clear
view of the coast of France; and, when the wind is blowing in this
direction, you have an excellent opportunity of acquiring the French
accent in all its purity. (_This string of somewhat hoary chestnuts
meets with a success beyond their intrinsic merits, the_ Morose Man
_being as much entertained as anybody._) On your right is an inland
lake of fresh water--

_The Muzzy Man_ (_waking up with sudden interest_). Can you drink it
with perfect impunity?

_G. the G._ Depends how far you are accustomed to it as a beverage,
Sir. (_The car stops at an hotel._) We stop here two hours, Ladies and
Gentlemen, to enable you to lunch, and examine the caves afterwards.
You can leave anything you like on the cars except five-pound
notes--and they _might_ get blown away!

ON THE WAY HOME.

_The Shopkeeper's Wife_ (_to her Husband_). Ah, TOM, it's just as
well you stayed behind--you'd never have got through those caves! You
wouldn't believe I could ha' done it unless you'd seen me--clambering
down iron ladders, and jumping on to rocks, and squeezing through
tunnels, and then up a cliff like the side of a house. I do _wish_ you
could ha' seen me, TOM!

_Tom_ (_philosophically_). Ah, well, I was very comfortable where I
was, settin' in the hotel room there, smoking my pipe. GREEN the Guide
gave us, "_Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep_," in first-rate style--he
is a _singer_, and no mistake!

_His Wife_. Lor, I wish I'd known he was going to sing--I'd ha' stayed
too! But here he is, waiting by the road for us--I do hope he's going
to sing again!

_Green the G._ (_mounting the car_). I fear I am an unwelcome visitor.

_The Eld. G._ (_graciously_). It would be the first time in your life
then, GREEN!

_G. the G._ Well, the fact is, I come to levy a little contribution on
behalf of myself and the Coachman. Times are hard, Gentlemen, and both
of us have large families to support. If you don't believe me, ask
the Coachman. (_The Elderly G. explains that his wrappings prevent
him from getting at his purse just then, while the others contribute
with more or less readiness and liberality_.) Many thanks. Ladies and
Gentlemen, on behalf of myself and the Coachman, and to express my
sense of your generosity, I will sing you the great Jersey National
Song, composed by myself, before leaving. (_He sings a ditty with the
following spirited Chorus_):--

  There the streets are paved with granite. So neat and clean
  And lots of pretty, witty girls, are always to be seen!
  With the brave old Mi-litia, Our foes to defy!
  And there they grow the Cabba-ges--Ten feet high!
  (_All together, Gentlemen, please_!) Yes, there they grow the
          Cabbages, there they grow the Cabbages, there they grow
          the Cabbages--Ten feet high!

Thank you, Gentlemen, I've sung that song a number of times, and I
never remember hearing the chorus better sung. If you don't believe
me, ask the Coachman.

_Coachman._ _I've_ never 'eard it better sung, Ladies and Gentlemen,
I assure you.

    [_GREEN the Guide descends in a blaze of popularity, and the
    "Royal Blue" rolls on in excellent spirits._

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITICAL TRAINING.

_Monday_.--Read Mr. CHAMBERLAIN's remarks on abstinence from bodily
exercise. Sold my bicycle, and gave away all my rackets, bats, &c.
Resolved to follow the latest system. Shall doubtless, by these means,
reach Mr. C.'s high position as a statesman and orator. Went out
in a Bath-chair. Five minutes after starting, man said he was not
accustomed to drag so heavy an invalid, and must rest a little. Tried
a speech--my maiden one--on the Disadvantages of Bodily Exercise. He
listened respectfully, and, when at last I had finished, said he quite
agreed with me, and that the fare was seven shillings.

_Tuesday_.--Have decided that exercise in a Bath-chair is quite
superfluous. Resolved to take exercise, for the future, in a hammock,
just outside the garden-door. Must practise speech-making to the
gardener. Good idea--Orchids. Asked him what he thought about the new
Orchid. Miserable fool answered, "Awkud, zur? Dunno waht thaht be."
I said that was "awkud," and had to laugh at the highly original
side-splitter myself, as he never saw it.

_Wednesday_.--Must really give up this long walk to the garden-door.
Shall never become a great statesman unless I do. Resolved to take
exercise in arm-chair in library. The children's governess came in
to fetch a book. Addressed her at some length on Free Education.
Afterwards, thought this subject was somewhat ill-chosen, as her
salary is so small.

_Thursday_.--Really cannot stand this walking up and down stairs.
Shall remain for the future in my bed-room and take exercise on sofa
by fireside, as I feel chilly. Page came in with coals. Reminded me of
Policy of Scuttle. Spoke of this at some length, and woke him up with
difficulty when I had finished. Felt rather unwell.

_Friday_.--Dressing and undressing is certainly needless fatigue,
and evidently causes this headache and general seediness. Shall take
exercise in bed. Felt worse. Female relatives anxious, and insist on
medical attendance. Assured them I was following the best system, and
answered their persistent demands by a short address on Home Rule.

_Saturday_.--Felt so bad at five this morning, that Doctor was
fetched. Tried feebly to address him on the Eight Hours' Question,
when he said he never had any time to think how long he worked.
Explained my new system to him. He said I should myself want a new
system to stand such a course of treatment. Then he pulled me out of
bed, and insisted on my walking ten miles as soon as I was dressed.
Felt much better. Shall abandon politics and become a farmer, having
just heard of an infallible system for growing wheat profitably.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "RESTORATION" PERIOD.--Will the Chairmen of the L.C. & D. and the
S.E. Lines unite their forces? After the meeting on this subject last
week, Sir EDWARD will have lots of reason to listen to. But apart from
every consideration of _mal de mer_, and "From Calais to Dover," as
the poet sings "'Tis soonest over," there is not anywhere a better,
and we, who have suffered as greatly as the much-enduring Ulysses,
venture to assert not anywhere as good a luncheon as at the
"Restauration" (well it deserves the title!) of the Calais Station.
Every patriotic travelling Englishman must be delighted to think that
some few centuries ago we gave up Calais. Had it been nowadays in
English hands, why it might even now be possessed of a "Refreshment
Room" no better than--any on our side of the Channel, for there is no
necessity to particularise. From Dover to Calais is the shortest and
best restorative'd route for the traveller, whether ill or well, at
sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTOES for the new Lord MAYOR. "_Nil obstet_," "_Nil fortius_," and,
from HORACE, "_Nil amplius oro_." This, in answer to thousands of
correspondents, is our last word on the subject; so after this (except
on the 9th of November), we say--_nil_.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUCH A "LIGHT OPERA!"

[Illustration: "Pity a Poo' Bar-itone!"]

Had Sir ARTHUR written the music for _The Mountebanks_, and Sir BRIAN
DE BOIS GILBERT the book of _Haddon Hall_, both might have been big
successes So, however, it was not to be, and Sir ARTHUR chose this
book by Mr. GRUNDY, which labours under the disadvantages of being
original, and of not owing almost everything to a French source. It
isn't every day of the week that Mr. GRUNDY tumbles upon _A Pair of
Spectacles_ in a volume of French plays. The period to which the very
slight and uninteresting story of _Haddon Hall_ belongs is just before
the Restoration, but the dialogue of "the book" is spiced with modern
slang, both "up to date" (the date being this present year of Grace,
not sixteen hundred and sixty) and out of date. The "out-of-date"
slang, which is, "_I've got 'em on"_--alluding to the Scotchman's
trousers--has by far the best of it, as it comes at the end of the
piece, and enjoys the honour of having been set to music by the
variously-gifted Composer: so that "_I've got 'em on_," with its
enthusiastically treble-encored whiskey fling, capitally danced by
Miss NITA COLE as _Nance_, with Mr. DENNY as _The McCrankie_, may be
considered as the real hit of the evening, having in itself about
as much to do with whatever there is of the plot as would have the
entrance of Mr. JOEY GRIMALDI, in full Clown's costume, with "Here
we are again!" Of the music, as there was very little to catch and
take away, one had to leave it. Of course this seriously comic or
comically serious Opera is drawing--["_Music_," observes Mr. WAGG,
parenthetically, "cannot be _drawing_"]--and will continue to do
so for some little time, long enough at all events to reimburse
Mr. D'OYLY CARTE for his more than usually lavish outlay on the
_mise-en-scène._

  [Illustration:"Christmas is comin'!"
  The McClown of McClown dancing.
  The Reel Hit of the Opera.

In the Second Act, the mechanical change from the exterior of Haddon
Hall to the interior, must be reckoned as among the most effective
transformations ever seen on any stage. It would be still more so if
the time occupied in making it were reduced one-half, and the storm
in the orchestra, and the lightning seen through black gauze on stage
were omitted. The lightning frightens nobody, only amuses a few,
and in itself is no very great attraction. Even if these flashes
were a very striking performance; no danger to the audience need
be apprehended from it, seeing that Mr. CELLIER is in front as
"Conductor." Perhaps Mr. D'OYLY CARTE, noticing that Mr. GRUNDY calls
his piece "a light Opera," thought that, as it wasn't quite up to this
description, it would be as well if the required "light'ning" were
brought in somewhere, and so he introduced it here. If this be so, it
is about the only flash of genius in the performance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: POST-PRANDIAL PESSIMISTS.

SCENE--_The Smoking-room at the Decadents._

_First Decadent_ (_M.A. Oxon._). "AFTER ALL, SMYTHE, WHAT WOULD LIFE
BE WITHOUT COFFEE?"

_Second Decadent_ (_B.A. Camb._). "TRUE, JEOHNES, TRUE! AND YET, AFTER
ALL, WHAT IS LIFE _WITH_ COFFEE?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"CROSSING THE BAR."

IN MEMORIAM.

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

BORN, AUGUST 5, 1809. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1892.

"TALIESSEN is our fullest throat of song."--_The Holy Grail_.

  Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed
    In Autumn, when the songless woods are still,
  And with October's boding hectic flushed
    Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill
  Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land,
    His land, his England, which he loved so well:
  And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand
        The Poet's passing bell
  Sends forth its solemn note, and every heart
  Chills, and sad tears to many an eyelid start.

  Sad tears in sooth! And yet not wholly so.
    Exquisite echoes of his own swan-song
  Forbid mere murmuring mournfulness; the glow
    Of its great hope illumes us. Sleep, thou strong
  Full tide, as over the unmeaning bar
    Fares this unfaltering darer of the deep,
  Beaconed by a Great Light, the pilot-star
        Of valiant souls, who keep
  Through the long strife of thought-life free from scathe
  The luminous guidance of the larger faith.

  No sadness of farewell? Great Singer, crowned
    With lustrous laurel, facing that far light,
  In whose white radiance dark seems whelmed and drowned,
    And death a passing shade, of meaning slight;
  Sunset, and evening star, and that clear call,
    The twilight shadow, and the evening bell,
  Bring naught of gloom for thee. Whate'er befall
        Thou must indeed fare well.
  But we--we have but memories now, and love
  The plaint of fond regret will scarce reprove.

  Great singer, he, and great among the great,
    Or greatness hath no sure abiding test.
  The poet's splendid pomp, the shining state
    Of royal singing robes, were his, confest,
  By slowly growing certitude of fame,
    Since first, a youth, he found fresh-opening portals
  To Beauty's Pleasure-House. Ranked with acclaim
        Amidst the true Immortals,
  The amaranth fields with native ease he trod,
  Authentic son of the lyre-bearing god.

  Fresh portals, untrod pleasaunces, new ways
    In Art's great Palace, shrined in Nature's heart,
  Sought the young singer, and his limpid lays,
    O'er sweet, perchance, yet made the quick blood start
  To many a cheek mere glittering; rhymes left cold.
    But through the gates of Ivory or of Horn
  His vivid vision flocked, and who so bold
        As to repulse with scorn
  The shining troop because of shadowy birth.
  Of bodiless passion, or light tinkling mirth?

  But the true god-gift grows. Sweet, sweet, still sweet
    As great Apollo's lyre, or Pan's plain reed,
  His music flowed, but slowly he out-beat
    His song to finer issues. Fingers fleet,
  That trifled with the pipe-stops, shook grand sound
    From the great organ's golden mouths anon.
  A mellow-measured might, a beauty bound
        (As Venus with her zone)
  By that which shaped from chaos Earth, Air, Sky,
  The unhampering restraint of Harmony.

  Hysteric ecstasy, new fierce, now faint,
    But ever fever-sick, shook not his lyre
  With epileptic fervours. Sensual taint
    Of satyr heat, or bacchanal desire,
  Polluted not the passion of his song;
    No corybantic clangor clamoured through
  Its manly harmonies, as sane as strong;
        So that the captious few
  Found sickliness in pure Elysian balm,
  And coldness in such high Olympian calm.

[Illustration: "CROSSING THE BAR."
  "TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL, AND AFTER THAT THE DARK"
  "AND MAY THERE BE NO SADNESS OF FAREWELL, WHEN I EMBARK."--TENNYSON.]

  Impassioned purity, high minister
    Of spirit's joys, was his, reserved, restrained.
  His song was like the sword Excalibur
    Of his symbolic knight; trenchant, unstained.
  It shook the world of wordly baseness, smote
    The Christless heathendom of huckstering days.
  There is no harshness in that mellow note,
        No blot upon those bays;
  For loyal love and knightly valour rang
  Through rich immortal music when he sang.

  ARTHUR, his friend, the Modern Gentleman,
    ARTHUR, the hero, his ideal Knight,
  Inspired his strains. From fount to flood they ran
    A flawless course of melody and light.
  A Christian chivalry shone in his song
    From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse,
  Whence there stand forth two figures, stately, strong,
        Symbols of spirit's stress;
  The blameless King, saintship with scarce a blot,
  And song's most noble sinner, LANCELOT.

  Lover of England, lord of English hearts,
    Master of English speech, painter supreme
  Of English landscape! Patriot passion starts
    A-flame, pricked by the words that glow and gleam
  In those imperial pæans, which might arm
    Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by his hand
  The simple sweetness, and the homely charm
        Of our green garden-land
  Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade,
  Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.

  The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold,
    Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn,
  Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold,
    Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn;
  Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill,
    Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run
  From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill,
        Still lakes that draw the sun;
  All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there
  Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.

  Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,
    To Beauty's Fairy World, in classic calm
  Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine
    By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,
  Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak,
    The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields
  Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy seek
        More than thy rich song yields,
  Of Orient odour, Faëry wizardry,
  Or soft Arcadian simplicity?

  From all, far Faëry Land, Romance's realm,
    Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill,
  The Poet passes--whither? Not the helm
    Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
  Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
    Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
  Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light.
        Grave eye, and gracious brow
  Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
  To face the Light that floods him evermore.

  Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
    Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
  Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas!
    Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream.
  But we--we hear thy manful music still!
    A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
  No sadness of farewell! Away regret,
        When greatness nears its goal!
  We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
  Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO MY SWEETHEART.

    ["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are
    still alive."--_Her Letter_.]

[Illustration]

  A Hothouse where some roses blew,
    And, whilst the outer world was white,
  The gentle roses softly grew
    To fragrant visions of delight.

  Some wretched florist owned them all,
    And plucked them from their native bowers,
  Then gaily showed them on his stall
    To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."

  _Some_ went beside a bed of pain
    Where influenza claimed its due;
  They drooped and never smiled again,
    The epidemic had them too.

  A gay young gallant bought some buds,
    And jauntily went out to dine
  With other reckless sporting bloods,
    Who talked of women, drank of wine;

  But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank,
    And told tales not too sanctified.
  Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
    Changed colour, faded, and then died.

  Yet roses, too, I gave to you,
    I saw you place them near your heart,
  You wore them all the evening through,
    You wore them when we came to part.

  But now you write to me, my dear,
    And marvel that they are not dead,
  Their beauty does not disappear,
    Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

    The reason's plain. Somehow aright
  The flowers know if we ignore them.
    The roses live for sheer delight
  At knowing, Sweetheart, that _you_ wore them.

       *       *       *       *       *

THOUGHTS--NOT WORTH A PENNY.

(_FRAGMENT FROM THE BURLESQUE-ROMANCE OF "NO CENTS; OR, THE NEW
CRITICISM."_)

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was
delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other
garments.

"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the
establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a
diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time--but
I get my money for my trouble."

"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not
devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"

And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business.
This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker.

"Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative
representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run.
I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and
pair, out of my takings."

"Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family.
Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and
Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest
abode of an Author.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why?

"Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice.

"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean
by that?"

"Why, one must live!"

"Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might
be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not
wanted."

"Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!"

"And, after all, what _is_ your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who
could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as
if you were a tradesman--a Tailor or an Upholsterer!"

"But am I not a man and a brother? Do I not get hungry, like anyone
else? Have I not a wife and family?"

"That is entirely beside the question," persisted the Critic. "All you
have to consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is not to be served
by paid votaries."

"Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking
his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and
I will be the Critic."

"Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that
means you would receive all the money."

"And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?"

"Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view
to obtaining cash."

"Indeed! Well, I am tired of work. You have nothing to do but
criticise. Let us swap positions."

"Are you mad?" shouted the Critic. "Why, I am fond of my work. You
don't imagine I am going to give up my salary to you? Why, it would
demoralise you. I know the drawback of the system." And the Author
applied himself to the study of the New Criticism, and it seemed as
great a mystery to him as ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of _the_
smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted
me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to
be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful
meeting ever held there--(the backers "went down" to a man, and so
did the excellent lunch--so what more _could_ you want?)--and, in
addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner
of the Cesarewitch!--they all named different horses, so that _one_ is
almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of
voice people adopt after a successful prophecy--(this does _not_ apply
to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)--"_There_!
I _told_ you it was a certainty for _Whiteface_!--couldn't lose!--_of
course_ you backed it, after what I told you!"--which of course was
the very reason why you _hadn't_ backed it; however--as he may really
be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a
ghastly smile, and say--"Oh, yes--I had a trifle on--but my _money_
was on _Blackfoot_ before you told me--but it got me out!"--and it
does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told
you "ought to have won a good stake!"

However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately
able to set aside all "information received," because I have had _a
dream_!--not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams
one reads about--(naturally _I_ should not have an inferior kind,
having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken
every night at bed-time)--in which the dreamer only sees _one_
horse--but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy
task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!

Well--I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves,
on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little _Golden
Drop_ of _Brandy_ as an _Insurance_ against restlessness--went
to sleep, and dreamt that my friends _Lady Villikins_ and _Madame
d'Albany_, with their maid _Helen Ware_, were attacked on their way
from _Illsley_ to _Weymouth_, by some _Dare Devil_ of a _Circassian_,
whose horse's hoofs rang in a _Metallic_ manner on the road! They were
rescued in the pass of _Ben Avon_ by the gallant _Burnaby_, who after
a long _Rigmarole_, squared their captor, _Roy Neil_, with a _Hanover
Jack_, and acted as their _Pilot_ to safe quarters at _Versailles_!
There!--that was my dream--and I think it points most conclusively
to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only
back them _all_, and there you are!--or at least you _may_ be. If
they don't care to do this, they can avail themselves of my verse
selection--which I did _not_ dream--and which, therefore, is _quite_
as reliable.

Yours, devotedly, LADY GAY.

CESAREWITCH SELECTION.

  Oh, _Weymouth_ is a pleasant _place_,
    And bathing tents are handy;
  When coming out, if white your face,
    Why, take a nip of _Brandy_.

P.S.--This advice is not intended for confirmed Topers.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SUR LE TAPIS."--If the new Carpet Knight, Sir BLONDEL MAPLE--which is
our troubadourish way of spelling it--be exceptionally successful on
the Turf, isn't he just the man to "make his 'pile' and cut it"?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CONTENTED MIND.

_He_. "A--THE FACT IS, I DON'T CARE FOR POPULARITY. I ONLY WISH MY
BOOKS TO BE ADMIRED BY THOSE WHOSE ADMIRATION IS REALLY WORTH HAVING!"

_She_. "AND WHO ARE THEY?"

_He_. "THOSE WHO ADMIRE MY BOOKS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Not the least interesting figure in the circle of _The Racing Life of
Lord George Bentinck_, which Messrs. BLACKWOOD produce in a handsome
volume, is that of JOHN KENT, who, under the editorship of Mr. FRANK
LAWLEY, tells the story. KENT was trainer to Lord GEORGE during
the period when, to quote the characteristic Disraelian phrase,
his Lordship became "Lord Paramount of the Turf." It is forty-four
years since Lord GEORGE was found lying dead on his face in the
water-meadows near Welbeck Abbey. Yet KENT remembers all about
him--his six feet of height, his long black frock-coat, his velvet
waistcoat, his gold chain, and his "costly cream-coloured satin scarf
of great length, knotted under his chin, with a gold pin stuck in
it." These scarves cost twenty shillings a-piece, and it was one of
Lord GEORGE's fancies never to wear one a second time. When he died
whole drawersful of them were found, and honest JOHN KENT purchased
half-a-dozen from his Lordship's valet, who seems to have kept his
eye on them. Did he ever wear them on Sundays? My Baronite who has
been reading the book trows not. JOHN KENT knows his place better
than that, and when he goes the way that masters and servants tread
together, the scarves will doubtless be found tucked away in _his_
chest of drawers. My Baronite is not able to take the same lofty view
of the defunct nobleman who played at politics and worked at racing as
does his faithful old servitor. Lord GEORGE seems to have been, as the
cabman observed of the late JOHN FORSTER, "a harbitery gent," kind to
those who faithfully serve him (as one is kind to a useful hound),
but relentless to any who offended him or crossed his path. Moreover,
whilst, as his biographer devoutly says, he purified the turf, he was
not, upon occasion, above fighting blacklegs with their own weapons.
The book gives clear glimpses of men and times which, less than half
a century dead, will never live again. It pleasantly testifies that,
though no man may be a hero to his valet, Lord GEORGE BENTINCK remains
one in the eyes of his trainer.

The Baron not having read a three-volume novel for some considerable
time, may safely affirm, instead of taking his oath, that Mrs.
OLIPHANT's _The Cuckoo in the Nest_ is one of the best he has come
across for quite two months. It opens well, and if it drops a bit
about the middle, there are all sorts of surprises yet in store for
the reader, who, the Baron assures him or her, will be rewarded for
his, or her, perseverance.

The Baron begs to recommend the latest volume of the Whitefriars
Library, called _King Zub_, by W.H. POLLOCK. _Zub_ is a wise poodle,
and the waggish tale of the dog gives the name to the collection.
_The Fleeting Show_ is quite on a par with _The Green Lady_ in a
former collection by the same author, and such other stories as _Sir
Jocelyn's Cap_ and _A Phantom Fish_ will delight those who, like the
Baron, love the mixture as before of the weird and the humorous. In
the _Phantom Fish_ there is much local dialect, and The Baron coming
across the expression, "a proper bender," is inclined to ask if this
is not Zummerzetsheer for, and only applicable to, a running hare? The
Baron remembers the expression well, though 'tis years since he heard
it, and owns to being uncertain as to whether it is not Devonian or
Cornish. That he heard it applied to a hare apparent he is prepared
to make oath and say; but he is not in the least prepared to assert
that it is not generally applied as an expression of admiration for
adroitness in avoiding pursuit. "Be that as it may, give me _King Zub_
and the other stories, a good fire, a glass of spiritual comfort, a
cosy chair, and a soothing pipe, and I am prepared to spend a pleasant
evening," says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S DEER-STALKING PARTY.]

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)

In our last (it is _Mr. Punch_ who speaks), we indicated very briefly
the conversational possibilities of the Gun. It must be observed, that
this treatise makes no pretensions to be exhaustive. Something must,
after all, be left to the ingenuity of the young shooter who desires
to talk of sport. All that these hints profess, is to put him in the
way of shining, if there is a certain amount of natural brightness to
begin upon. The next subject will be--

CARTRIDGES.

[Illustration]

To a real talker, this subject offers an infinite variety of
opportunities. First, you can begin to fight the battle of the
powders, as thus:--

"What powder are you shooting with this year, CHALMERS?"

"Schultze."

"How do you find it kill?"

"Deadly--absolutely-deadly: best lot I've ever had."

You need not say anything more now. The discussion will get along
beautifully without you, for you will have drawn, (1), the man who
very much prefers E.C., which he warrants to kill at a distance no
other powder can attain to; (2), the man who uses E.C. or Schultze
for his right barrel, and always puts a black-powder cartridge into
his left; (3), the detester of innovations, who means to go on using
the good old black-powder for both barrels as long as he lives; and
(4), the man who is trying an entirely new patent powder, infinitely
superior to anything else ever invented, and is willing to give
everybody, not only the address of the maker, but half a dozen
cartridges to try.

You cannot make much of "charges" of powder. Good shots are dogmatic
on the point, and ordinary shots don't bother their heads about it,
trusting entirely to the man who sells them their cartridges. Still
you might throw out, here and there, a few words about "drams" and
"grains." Only, above all things, be careful _not_ to mention drams
in connection with anything but black powder, nor grains, except with
reference to Schultze or E.C. A laboriously-acquired reputation as a
scientific shot has been known to be ruined by a want of clearness on
this important point.

"Shot." Conversationally much more valuable than powder. "Very few
people agree," says a well-known authority; "as to what is the best
size of shot to use, and many forget that the charge which will suit
one gun, and one description of game, will not do as well for another.
Usually, one gun will shoot better one size of shot than will another,
and we may safely say, that large bores shoot large shot better than
do smaller bores." This last sentence has the beautiful ring of a
profound truism. Lay it by for use, and bring it out with emphasis in
the midst of such disagreement and forgetfulness as are here alluded
to. "If a shooter is a good shot," says the same classic, "he may
use No. 6 early in the season, and only for partridges--afterwards,
nothing but No. 5. To the average shot, No. 6 throughout the season."
This sounds dreadfully invidious. If a good shot cannot kill grouse
with No. 6, how on earth is a merely average shot to do the trick?
But, in these matters, the conversationalist finds his opportunity.
Only they must not be pushed too far. There was once a party of
genial, light-hearted friends, who went out shooting. Early in the
day, slight differences of opinion made themselves observed with
reference to the size of shot. Lunch found them still more or less
good-tempered, but each obstinately determined not to give way even by
a fraction on the point under discussion.

[Illustration]

Afterwards they began again. The very dogs grew ashamed of the
noise, and went home. That afternoon there was peace in the world of
birds--at least, on that particular shooting--and the next morning saw
the shooting-parties of England reduced by one, which had separated
in different dog-carts, and various stages of high dudgeon, for the
railway station. So, please to be very, very careful. Use the methods
of compromise. If you find your friend obstinately pinned to No. 5,
when you have declared a preference for No. 6, meet him half-way,
or even profess to be converted by his arguments. Or tell him the
anecdote about the Irishman, who always shot snipe with No. 4,
because, "being such a little bird, bedad, you want a bigger shot to
get at the beggar." You can then inform him how you yourself once did
dreadful execution among driven grouse in a gale of wind with No. 8
shot, which you had brought out by mistake. You may object that you
never, as a matter of fact, did this execution, never having even shot
at all with No. 8. Tush! you are puling. If you are going to let a
conscientious accuracy stand in your way like this, you had better
become dumb when sporting talk is flying about. Of course you must not
exaggerate too much. Only bumptious fools do that, and they are called
liars for their pains. But a _little_ exaggeration, just a _soupçon_
of romance, does no one any harm, while it relieves the prosaic
dullness of the ordinary anecdote. So, swallow your scruples, and

  Join the gay throng
  That goes talking along,
    For we'll all go romancing to-day.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

DOE VERSUS ROE(DENT).

    ["The basements of the Royal Courts of Justice have lately
    been invaded by swarms of mice. They have become very
    audacious, and have penetrated into the Courts themselves,
    whose walls are lined with legal volumes, the leaves of which
    provide them with a rich feast."--_Daily Paper_.]

  For students of the law to "eat
    Their terms" is obviously right,
  But to devour the books themselves
          Is impolite.

  Unfortunately Mr. STREET.
    Who planned the legal edif-[=i]ce,
  Designed a splendid trap for men,
          But not for mice.

  To view the Courts at midnight now,
    The Courts all in the stilly Strand,
  With rodents squeaking out their pleas,
          That _would_ be grand!

  No Ushers 'ush them; they consume
    The stiffest calf you ever saw,
  Developing, these curious beasts,
          A taste for Law.

  They fill--perhaps--the box wherein,
    Twelve bothered men have often sat,
  And try, with every proper form,
          Some absent cat.

  A fore-mouse probably they choose,
    The culprit's advocate deride,
  And fix upon that cat the guilt
          Of mouseycide.

  At the Refreshment-bars, perchance,
    They eat the cakes, and drink the milk,
  And in the Robing-room indulge
          In "taking silk."

  The Judges' sacred Bench itself
    From scampering feet is not exempt;
  With calmness they commit, of Court,
          Frightful "contempt."

  Through _Byles on Bills_ they eat their way;
    Law "Digests" they at will digest;
  Not even _Coke on Littleton_
          Sticks on _their_ chests!

  Wanted--the stodgiest Law-book out!
    The Judges soon _must_ note these facts,
  And try a copy of the Ju-
          -dicature Acts!

       *       *       *       *       *

WHY THE FRENCH WON THE BOAT-RACE.

(_ANSWERS SUPPLIED BY AN UNPREJUDICED BRITON._)

[Illustration]

Because the English Eight had had no practice on the Seine.

Because the Londoners had had a fearful passage crossing the Channel.

Because they smashed their boat, and had to have it repaired.

Because the English steering might have been better.

Because the weather was intolerable, and chiefly affected the
Englishmen.

Because the Londoners had no chance of pulling together.

Because the French knew the course better than the English.

Because the race should have been rowed weeks before.

Because the race should not have been rowed for months.

Because the British naturally liked to see the foreigners win.

And last (and least), because the French had by far the better crew!

       *       *       *       *       *

ECCLESIASTICAL INTELLIGENCE.--The style, title, office, and dignity
of Archbishop of Canterbury, with all appurtenances thereto belonging,
with all emoluments, spiritualities and temporalities appertaining,
have been conferred by letters patent, under supreme authority,
according to Act V. Henricus Noster in such cases made and provided,
on the Rev. Mr. VINCENT, in consequence of the retirement of the Right
Rev. ARTHUR STIRLING from the said office; the duties of which he so
recently and so effectively performed between the hours of ten-thirty
and eleven-fifteen every night for several months at the Theatre Royal
Lyceum. We are in a position to add, that his resignation of this
high and valuable office, has not taken place in consequence of any
question as to the validity or invalidity of orders ("not admitted
after 7·30"), nor has this step been rendered imperative by reason of
any "irregularity" in "properties" or "appointments."

       *       *       *       *       *

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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