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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 29, 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 29, 1892" ***

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

VOL. 103, OCTOBER 29, 1892***


VOL. 103

OCTOBER 29, 1892



ACT I. SCENE 2.--_Leonora's_ confidant evidently alive to the
responsibilities of her position. Watch her, for example, when her
Mistress is about to confide to her ear the dawn of her passion for
_Manrico_. She walks _Leonora_ gently down to the footlights, launches
her into her solo, like a boat, and stands aside on the left, a
little behind, with an air of apprehension, lest she should come to
grief over the next high note, and a hand in readiness to support her
elbow in case she should suddenly collapse. Then, feeling partially
reassured, she goes round to inspect her from the right, where she
remains until her superior has completed her confidences, and it is
time to lead her away. Operatic confidant sympathetic--but a more
modern heroine might find one "get on her nerves," perhaps. _Manrico_
a very robust type of Troubadour--but oughtn't a Troubadour to carry
about a guitar, or a lute, or something? If _Manrico_ has one, he
invariably leaves it outside. Probably doesn't see why, with so many
competent musicians in the orchestra, he should take the trouble of
playing his own accompaniments. And why does the Curtain invariably
come down as soon as swords are drawn? Tantalising to have all the
duels and fighting done during the _entr'actes._

[Illustration: Manrico, a rather full-blown "Ghost in Hamlet."]

ACT II. SCENE 1.--_Azucena_ insists on telling _Manrico_ a long and
rather improbable story of how, in a fit of absorption, she once burnt
her own son in mistake for the _Conte di Luna's, Manrico_ listens, as
a matter of filial duty--because, after all, she is his mother--but
he is clearly of opinion that these painful family reminiscences are
far better forgotten. Perhaps he suspects that her anguish may be
due to a severe fit of indigestion--the symptoms of which are almost
indistinguishable from those of operatic remorse. At all events, he
does not find his parent a cheerful companion, and, as soon as he
finds a decent excuse for escape, takes it.

SCENE 2.--The Cloisters of a Convent. _Enter_ the _Conte di Luna_,
with followers, to abduct _Leonora_. The followers range themselves
against a wall in the background, until the Count has finished
"_Il Balen_." If their opinion was asked, they would probably be
in favour of his making rather less noise about it, if he really
means business--but of course it is not _their_ place to interfere.
_Leonora_ enters to take the veil, with procession of nuns, preceded
by four female acolytes--or are they pages?--in white tights, carrying
tapers. The Count and his followers are evidently a little taken
aback--an abduction not quite so simple an affair as they expected.
While they are working themselves up to it, _Manrico_ appears, as the
stage-direction says, "like a phantom." In a helmet, with a horsehair
tail, and a large white cloak, he does look extremely like the
_Ghost_ in _Hamlet_, and which is, perhaps, why the Count, under the
impression that he is an apparition from some other Opera, allows him
to Walk off with _Leonora_ under his very nose. Swords are drawn--with
the usual result of bringing down the Curtain.

[Illustration: "Azucena," or, "My pretty Chain!"]

ACT III. SCENE 1.--Soldiers discovered carousing, as wildly as is
possible on four gilded cruets, and a dozen goblets. _Azucena_
is brought before the Count, and manacled. Operatic handcuffs--a
most humane contrivance--with long links, to permit of the freest
facilities for entreaty and imprecation. Soldiers, who have been
called to arms, but stayed, from a natural curiosity to hear what the
_Conte di Luna_ had to say to the Gipsy, go off, as she is led away
to prison, with a sense that they have seen all there _is_ to be
seen, and a vague recollection that there is some fighting to be done

SCENE 2.--_Leonora_, and _Manrico_ are about to be married; everything
prepared--four apathetic bridesmaids, and the four acolytes in
tights--who have possibly been kindly lent by the Convent for the
occasion--in a vacuous row at the back of the scene. Fancy _Manrico_
has forgotten to give them the usual initial brooches, and they feel
the wedding is a poky affair, and take no interest in it. _Leonora_
herself is in low spirits--seems to miss the confidant, and to be
oppressed with a misgiving that the wedding is not destined to come
off. Misgivings on the stage are never thrown away--the wedding _is_
interrupted immediately by a crowd of men, in small sugar-loaf caps,
who carry the bridegroom off to fight--whereupon, of course, the
Curtain falls.

[Illustration: Luna and the Star of the Evening.]

ACT IV. SCENE 1.--_Leonora_ listening outside the tower in which
_Manrico_ is being tortured, after having been taken prisoner in a
combat during the _entr'acte_. Here a confidant might have comforted
her considerably by representing that they couldn't be torturing the
poor Troubadour so _very_ seriously so long as he is able to take part
in a duet--but unfortunately _Leonora_ seems to have discharged the
confidant after the Second Act--an error of judgment on her part, for
she is certainly incapable of taking care of herself. A cool-headed,
sensible confidant, for instance, would have taken care that the
bargain with the _Conte di Luna_ was conceived and carried out in a
more business-like spirit.

"Now _do_ be careful," she would have said. "Make sure that the Count
keeps _his_ word before you break _yours_. Don't go and see _Manrico_
yourself--it _can_ do no good, and will only harrow you! If you
really _must_ go, don't take a quick poison first--or you'll die
in his dungeon, and spoil the whole thing!" Which is just what
_Leonora_--like the impulsive operatic heroine she is--proceeds to
do, and is cruelly misunderstood by _Manrico_, in consequence, besides
hastening his doom by disappointing the Count, whose irritation was
only natural, and pardonable, under the circumstances.

Don't quite see myself why the Count should be so horrified on
learning that the person he has just had executed was his long-lost
brother. It is not as if they had ever been friendly, or were at all
likely to become so, considering their previous relations. Depend
upon it, when he has time to think the matter over calmly, he will
recognise that things are better as they are, and that Fate has
solved his domestic difficulties in the only possible manner. A
Troubadour Brother, with a revengeful and quite unpresentable gipsy
foster-mother, would have proved very trying persons to live with.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir HENRY HAWKINS during part of the recent sensational trial at
the Ancient Bailey, making, of course not taking, notes. Sir HENRY
occasionally conversed with the Knight of Music. Did the latter hum,
_sotto voce_, "_And a good Judge too!_" with other selections from
_Trial by Jury_? Everyone glad Sir ARTHUR is so well. Perhaps after
this he will return to Real Eccentric Gilbertian Opera, and go away
for "change of air." The "Carte" is at the door, ready to take him,
but his original "Gee Gee" has gone to America.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE!"

  "This Garter, brighter from the knee
  Of him who uttered nothing--important."]

_"Mister" Rosebery, loquitur_:--

  A Star and Garter! Here's a go!
    Well, well, no doubt 'twas to be worn meant;
    And, as mere personal adornment,
  It does look smartish, dontcher know!

  All personal adornment's vain,
    Held Dr. WATTS, holds dear McDOUGALL;
    For dowdy dress and habits frugal
  Befit the Democratic strain.

  And I'm a Democrat--of course!
    The BENJAMIN FRANKLIN of the Peerage!
    And yet--ah! truly 'tis a queer age--
  Decoration has _some_ force!

  I wonder what the L.C.C.
    Will say to this! That I should spurn it?
    JOHN BURNS may swear I ought to burn it.
  Still--it looks natty round my knee.

  I need not wear it when I sit
    Among the broadcloth'd heirs of BUMBLE!
    But Foreign Minister too humble
  Were butt of diplomatic wit.

  Battersea's pride my pride may scourge.
    Well--he may find he's caught a Tartar.
    A robe--a coronet--a garter!--
  Materials for a new "PRIDE'S PURGE"!

  The keen-eyed Democratic lynx
    May watch me with alert suspicion,
    As but a half-disguised patrician,
  But--shame to him who evil thinks!

[_Left posturing complacently._

       *       *       *       *       *


_Sportsman_ (_with gun_). "HILLO, ALGIE, BEEN CUB-HUNTING? HOW DOES


       *       *       *       *       *



_Monday_.--To-day's meeting of the Council rather stormy. The
Council's Clerk of the Works, who superintends the fifty thousand
builders, bricklayers, &c., who are now employed directly by us,
reports that, unless the concessions demanded by the men are granted,
they will all go out on strike to-morrow. The concessions are--Free
beer three times a-day; half-holiday every other day at full day's
wages; and a month's trip to the Riviera in winter, paid for out of
the rates. Clerk of the Works (appointed, on elective principle, by
the men themselves) describes these demands as "highly moderate and
reasonable." Council unable to agree with him. After sitting for six
hours, amid frightful uproar, Council breaks up, without coming to any

_Tuesday_.--Workmen _have_ struck! Awkward, as they have just pulled
down north side of Strand, to make room for double lines of electric
tramways in centre of roadway, and whole street in an awful litter.
Begin to wish we had not "Abolished the Contractor" quite so hastily.

_Wednesday_.--Another meeting of Council. Quite unanimous to go on
resisting men's demands. Clerk of Works reports that the Council's
scavengers, plumbers, carters, lamp-lighters, and turncocks, are all
threatening to strike, in sympathy with bricklayers. In consequence of
evident enjoyment with which Clerk makes this announcement, proposal
to decrease his salary from that of a Lord Chancellor to that of a
Puisne Judge, carried _nem. con_. In spite of attacks on Council in
the Press, satisfactory that it knows how to keep up its dignity at
this crisis.

_Thursday_.--Matters getting serious. A deep fall of snow has
occurred, and Council's men refuse to clear it away, or let others do
the work! In addition, Strand tradesmen come in body to Spring Gardens
to say that "nobody can get near their shops, and they are being
rapidly ruined." Hastily-convened meeting of the Council. Proposal
to ask our old Contractor to rebuild Strand and clear snow away. Our
old Contractor declines to tender for the job! He says, "Council has
abolished the Middleman, and had better get on without him, if it
can!" Rude, but forcible.

_Friday_.--Council heroically decides to do the work itself. Am told
off by Chairman to help remove old bricks on the Strand site. Have
first to dig snow away to get at bricks. Intense amusement of hostile
crowd, from whom we are protected by a cordon of police. Bark my
shins badly against wheel of cart. Chairman--who has been extremely
energetic in running up and down a ladder with a hod of mortar over
his shoulder, which he thinks is bricklaying--falls from ladder and is
taken off to Charing Cross Hospital; amid shower of brickbats. Crowd
wants to know "which is McDOUGALL." When they find out, pelt him with
snowballs. BURNS--who has stuck loyally to Council--fiercely denounced
as a "blackleg" by crowd. Amusing at any other time. Home in evening
dead tired, under police escort. Find all my front windows smashed!
After all--_was_ it wise to abolish the Contractor?

_Saturday_.--Whole County Council, protected by several regiments from
Aldershot, a park of Artillery, and all the City Police (Council's
own Police being out on strike, in sympathy with bricklayers), manage
with great difficulty to fill ten carts with rubbish, and then adjourn
to Spring Gardens. Refreshments and free sticking-plaster handed
round before Meeting takes place. Meeting unanimously decides to
re-establish old Middleman system! Sir JOHN LUBBOCK humorously
suggests that it is, at any rate, better than the "muddle-man" system
which we have tried and found wanting. Bonus of £5,000 out of rates,
enthusiastically voted to any Contractor who will tender for job of
clearing snow and widening Strand.

_Later_.--High Court disallows our "precept" for the £5,000
bonus--says we must pay it out of our own pockets!

Wish I had never stood for London County Council!

       *       *       *       *       *


Another of our speshal lot is good old SAM, with his wunderfool
memmery. He won't tell not nobody his age. But he acshally swears
as he remembers the time when there wasn't not no Cabs, nor no
Homnybusses nor no Hallways, nor no Steam Botes, nor no Perlice, in
all Lundon! And when there was grate droves of Cattel and Sheep druv
thro' the streets, and people used to have to put up bars at their
doors to keep 'em out. And menny and menny a time has he seen a reel
live Bullock march into his Master's Counting 'Ouse, with his two wild
horns a sticking out, and as it was to narrer for him to turn hisself
round, he used to have to be backed out tale foremost, with a fierce
dog a barking at his nose.


Ah, them must have been rayther rum times, them must! How the peepel
got about he don't seem quite to remember; but he says, as how
as amost all on 'em lived at their warious shops and warehouses,
and so mostly walked. There was, it seems, a few ramshackel old
coaches, called Ackney Coaches--coz, they was all maid at Ackney, I
suppose--all drorn by two ramshackel old Osses, and with werry shabby
old drivers with wisps of stror round their shabby old hats. Then some
brite Genus went and inwented Cabs, and they soon cut out the Ackney
Coaches, which all went back to Ackney, and was never seen no more.
And then, sum ewen briter Genus went and inwented Homnybusses, and
they rayther estonished the Cabs, and what the next brite Genus will
inwent in that line, I don't know, and SAM don't know, and I don't
suppose as nobody else don't. But the most wunderfullest thing of all
must have bin the having of no Perlice! For SAM, acshally declares,
that before Perlice was inwented by Sir ROBERT PEEL--therefore
wulgarly called Bobbys and Peelers--the only pertecters as London
had at night was a lot of werry old men, all crissened CHARLEY, who
used to sit in little boxes, such as the Solgers has at the QUEEN's
Pallaces, with a little lantern hanging up in front, and when the
Church Clocks all struck the hour, they all used to git out of their
boxes and wark up and down the streets a calling out, "Parst Three
o'Clock!" or "Parst Five o'Clock!" as it mite happen to be, and then
go back to their little boxes, and hang up their lanterns, and quietly
go to sleep! Ah, them must have been werry nice times for Messrs.
DICK TUPPIN, JACK SHEPHARD, BILL SIKES, and Cumpny, unlimited. But,
SAM says, as they made up for it by hanging ewery body as stole amost
anythink, such as a sheep, or a fi-pound note, or a gold watch, and
that on Mondays, which was Hanging Days, he has offen and offen stood
at the hend of the Hold Baley and seen sum five or six pore retches,
with white nite caps on, all a hanging together! and he says it all so
serously that we are forced to bleeve him.

Then there's old slowcoach Jo, the tea-totaller. We all likes to work
with him, and for a werry good reeson. But he's rayther a comical
feller is Jo. He says, when peeple cums to know all the true fax of
the case, they'll willingly pay dubble price for tea-total Waiters.
And he reelly is such a poor simple fellow that I werrily bleeves
as he bleeves hisself when he says it. I carn't think what he
means by it; but BROWN says as it's a perfeckly shameful attack
on the charackter of all us Waiters as ain't such fools as to be
Tea-totallers, and that we really ort all of us to cut him. But
no--I'm in favour of Free Trade in Waiters as in Wine, and I shoud
think that, in this pertickler case, his hobstinacy brings its own
punishment. For what can be a creweller life for a poor Waiter to
lead, than to be constantly surrounded by harf emty bottels of most
bewtifool Wines, of all kinds, so as to suit the most fastidgeous
Waiter's taste, and not ellowd to taste ewen one glass of 'em! I
thinks as I've heard of sum unfortnit hindiwidial, in holden times,
as used to be seated down hevrey day to a werry scrumpshus dinner,
but, whatever he fixt his mind upon, the Doctor woudn't allow him to
taste it, not by no means. His name, I think, was SANKY PANSER, some
relashun of MOODY and SANKY, I sposes. His master's name was DAN
QUICKSHOT, ony another name, I bleeves, for BUFFALO BILL. But that was
nothink of a case to wun as my son WILLIAM told us of the other day.
It seems as there was, wunce upon a time, a Greshian Gent, by the
name of TANTLUS, who, becoz he was found out in helping hisself to sum
werry speshal brand of Neckter, was condemned to stand up to his neck
in water for ewer so many years; and altho he was so dredfool thusty
that he would have drunk a lot of ewen that cold, thin stuff, he
wasn't allowed not to taste a drop; and, not only that, but there was
a lot of most bewtifool frute a hanging jest above his pore hed, and
whenever he tried jest to pluck a bit of it, the crewel wind blowed it
away out of his reach. Hence the prowerb, "You be blowed!"

In course I don't pertend to know how these things was manidged in
former times, but I werry much douts whether ewen a Greshian Gent's
constitushun coud posserbly have stood it for ewer so menny years!


       *       *       *       *       *



  MAJOR LE CARON! Major! True, a greater
    Or more accomplished spy who ever knew?
  And so original! In fact, the _pater_
    Of all deception yields the palm to You!
  Courageous, honest, crafty, how you met
    Wile with wile wilier! And then, forsooth,
  You so transformed yourself to suit each set,
    That it is praise to say, "you lied like truth!"
  And in an honest cause! Renown'd Ulysses,
    That craftiest hero yields to you in guile.
  You touch the gold! You're not the man who misses
    A chance! You caught the wariest with your smile!
  "CARON!" The "h" is dropped, or we could fix
    (And so we can if Greek the name we make)
  You as the ancient Ferryman of Styx,
    Punting the Ghosts across the Stygian lake.
  The simile is nearly perfect, note,
  For you, with your Conspirators afloat,
  Were, as you've shown us, all in the same boat.

       *       *       *       *       *


The following correspondence and extracts have been sent to _Mr.
Punch_ for publication:--

I.--_Koniglich-Kaiserlicher Ober-Hof-Rath Doctor Hermann Dummwitz von
Hammelfleisch to The Emperor-King William the Second._


I have the honour to announce to your Majesty, that my spouse, the
beautiful and accomplished clergyman-daughter, ANNA ANSELMA, whom,
by your Majesty's ever-to-be-with-gratitude-remembered permission, I
last year to the altar led, is now of good hope, and will shortly, if
all should go well, add one to your Majesty's loyal and submissive
subjects. I make this announcement in accordance with your Majesty's
Hochzeit's Decree, Section 6.

And I remain, &c. &c. &c., DUMMWITZ VON HAMMELFLEISCH.

II.--_William the Second to K.K.O.H.R.D.H.D. von Hammelfleisch._


I have received your letter. In accordance with Section 7 of my
Hochzeit's Decree, I graciously give permission for the birth of the
child referred to in your communication. I beg, at the same time, to
point out that, by my Supplementary Decree (Proportions of Sexes),
issued last week, it is necessary that the child should be a boy.
Communicate this at once to the Frau K.E. Ober-Hof-Rathin Doctorin

(Signed) WILLIAM I. ET R.

III.--_K.K.O.H.R.D. von Hammelfleisch to the Emperor-King, William the


Your with-satisfaction-received letter has been to my wife
communicated. She desires me to assure you that she is your Imperial
Majesty's obedient subject, (Signed) D. VON H.

IV.--_Extract from the "Reich's Anzeiger."_

"Frau ANNA ANSELMA VON HAMMELFLEISCH, having last week given birth to
a girl in contravention of his Imperial Majesty's Supplementary Decree
(No. 10. Proportions of Sexes), it is our painful duty to announce
that the Herr Doctor DUMMWITZ VON HAMMELFLEISCH has been dismissed
from his post as K.K. Ober-Hof-Rath, and will immediately be
prosecuted for the crime of _lèse Majesté_."

V.--_Extract from the "Reich's Anzeiger," a month later_

"The prisoner, HAMMELFLEISCH, was yesterday condemned to twenty years'
solitary confinement in the fortress of Spandau. The wretched man
acknowledged the justice of his sentence, and begged others to take
warning by his fate."

       *       *       *       *       *


_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Most delightful weather favoured us last week at
Gatwick and Sandown, and most of the horses I mentioned as worth
following either finished nowhere or were not there at all, which I
think is a fair average record for a Turf prophet! I heard at Sandown
that sweeping reforms are to be expected in Turf matters next Season,
but I will not harp too much on this string, as more able pens than
mine have undertaken it--though how a "pen" can harp on a string I
don't quite see--or _hear_, it should be.

I certainly think _Brandy_ would have won the Gatwick Handicap, but
I suppose the bottle is getting low, and is being reserved in case
the Cambridgeshire is run on a cold day! And that brings me to the
consideration of this great race. I do not propose to analyse the form
of all the horses, but will devote my attention to a few of the likely
ones--who should feel complimented thereat (I suppose a horse; can
feel a compliment just as well as it can a whip)--from which might
spring the winner. First and foremost, then, _La Flèche_ has, in my
opinion, enough weight to carry, even if the jockey is included, as I
believe is the case--and I was told by Sir CHARLEY WHITELEY, that to
win the Newmarket Oaks she had to be "bustled up"--a fashion which I
thought had quite gone out!--anyhow, many people think she is "not the
same mare she was"--though how they can have changed her I don't quite
understand, but it would not surprise me to find _Windgall_ the best
of the Baron's on the day.

There are several horses spoken of as "rods in pickle," but as a
rule, these animals stop at "rods" and never get to "poles" much less
"perches!" Should Sir JAS. MILLER win the race, the town may resound
with many a merry _Jödel_, but this is trying weather for voices,
though I believe he is running untried, but certainly trying! There
was some doubt as to the starting of a great favourite, owing to a
report that the owner had been "forestalled"--an excuse which always
sounds very weak to me, as surely if outsiders can back a horse at
a long price, the owner should also be able to do so, and thus put
backers "in the cart"--where _some_ of them would present a picture
which might lead people to think the "cart" was on its way to Tyburn!
There appears to be considerable doubt as to whether _Buccaneer_ has
eaten anything lately or not, so I must discard him; but I think if he
were given a sherry and bitters at once he might recover his appetite
and win, as he is known to be a "glutton" for work! JEWITT's best
will take some beating, when we know which it is, which we shall do
shortly, as no stable is more ready than this to let everyone into
the secret of their "good things;", so if some _Whisperer_, should
tell you that his _Suspender_ is broken, it is on the cards that the
_Pensioner_ may still be able to walk home in safety! But enough
of this (as your readers will doubtless say!)--and let us come to
the point as the knife said to the pencil--so I will conclude by
recommending a "maximum" on my choice, and as it is a foreign one, I
must necessarily break out into foreign poetry--(just as easy to--),

Yours devotedly,



  Le type le plus "noir" dans le monde,
    Le nomme, on dit, Le Chouan!
  Mais, roulé au dessous de l'onde,
    Devient "Blanc" comme _Kairouan_!

       *       *       *       *       *




  Too pretty Palmist, oh, refrain,
    Nor thus my Destinies importune
  To bare the map of trite and plain

  Methinks, that I, sweet sorceress,
    Whose weird persuasions fascinate us,
  Can read my stars without express

  "_I'm o'er ambitious_"--more than true;
    To fail, the lot of clever men 'tis.
  Who's _not_ a genius in his two-

  (_Your_ two-and-twenties bide above,
    While mine--I'm in the sere and yellow--
  But I was once the model of
            A fellow.)

  "_My line of head is vague; now quite_
    _Down in the depths, now past the skyline"--_
  Hard lines! The line that sways a kite
            Is my line.

  "_My line of heart is insecure_--"
    Let "_x_" be hearts; to render scarce "_x_,"
  Let "I"-s divide it; _eyes_ are your
            Unfair sex.

  "_My love will ne'er endure_:" you wrong
    My passion: sooth, it will, if you're it:
  Yet stay: to wed?--I couldn't long
            Endure it.

  "_My line of life is slurred and queer_."
    It always was--a hankey-pankey
  Of glories missed--a fine career,
            But _manqué_.

  So there, forbear to spell my fate;
    I've saved you that sibylline trouble;
  You could but this true estimate

  Still, if you clasp my hand, and plead,
    And, pouting, claim your second-sight, it
  May chance that though you may not read,
            You'll _write_ it.

       *       *       *       *       *



PAST (_Historical_).--General SIMEON SNOOKES was one of the greatest
Commanders that ever figured in an European war. His defence of
Herren-Bayoz, in 1796, will be long remembered by those of his
grateful countrymen who feared that the Corsican upstart would get
the upper hand in the semi-fraternal struggle in the Portugo-Hispanian
Peninsula. A service nearly as important was performed when SNOOKES
(then a Colonel), led the forlorn hope that gave PEGGE WELL BEY (the
Turkish conqueror) into the grasping hands of the British Government.
Yet still another victory was scored when Captain SNOOKES forced the
gates of Ram and Mar, and brought the proud Earls of the Five Free
Ports to their knees and their senses. That he should have received
the freedom of the City of London was as it should have been, and it
must have been gratifying to his sorrowing friends and relatives that
Royalty itself should have been represented at his obsequies. His fame
as a victorious General will never fade, and although his private
life may have been uninteresting, his connection with the noble
family of DE SCROGGYNS will for ever gain for him the respect of his

PRESENT (_Anecdotal_).--General SNOOKES--better known in the last
century as "SIMPLE SIMON"--was a most interesting personage. Of
his military career it is unnecessary to speak, as it was extremely
commonplace, and void of incident. He was a _petit maître_--and
numerous tales are told of his gallantry. On one occasion, meeting
Lady BESSIE FRIZZYHEAD; on the Green at Turnham, he called attention
to the fairness of the sunset. "Quite like cream, Lady BESSIE," said
the old _beau_, taking a pinch of snuff. "Whipped, you mean," replied
the malicious maiden, with a smile. "SIMPLE SIMON" simpered, but never
forgave the liberty. At another time the General was speaking to
the late Duke of York, when that illustrious personage commanded the
British Army. "I say, SIMMY," exclaimed H.R.H., "if the French invade
us, you must look after Number One." "You mean, Sir," was the prompt
answer, "Number One Hundred and One!" The King, hearing this anecdote
a little later, made "SIMPLE SIMON" his extra Equerry. But perhaps the
best story of all was that told of his interview with Dean SWIFT. "I
propose listening to your Reverence on Sunday," said the simple one.
"Oh, indeed!" replied the sarcastic ecclesiastic. "Then we shall have
a case of a _Gulliver_ come to judgment!" Many other good stories are
told of this General, whose career was rather in the drawing-room than
in the field of glory. He died in 1825, and was buried in Westminster
Abbey. At his funeral there was a large assemblage of the best-known
people of the day, and amongst them the Editor of the _National
Defender. "Sic transit gloria_," said some-one. "_Mundi_!" added the

FUTURE (_Conjectural_).--SNOOKES, SIMEON. No one knows who this person
was, but it is shrewdly conjectured that he may have had some official
connection (possibly as a Government contractor) with one of the
ancient wars. As his monument is defaced, and there are no records of
his family, it is useless to attempt to make his biography any fuller.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



AIR--"_The Death of Nelson_."


  Near NELSON's monument, with gloom opprest,
  The rowdy mourns a Question, now at rest.
  But ASQUITH's laurels shall not fade with years,
  Whose canny settlement the public cheers.


  'Twas in Trafalgar's Square,
  We heard the spouters blare,
    Each rough rejoicing then.
  They scorned churl WARREN's yoke,
  Of order made a joke,
    And claimed the Rights of Men.
  But ASQUITH came, the cool and brave,
  And poured oil on the troubled wave.
    His speech was just a beauty!
  Along each line this meaning ran:--
  "England respects true Rights of Man,
    But means enforcing Duty."

  No more rude mobs may roar,
  A nuisance and a bore,
    Where'er BURNS lead the way.
  As victory is this claimed
  By spouts, by cool sense tamed?
    All right! Let them hooray!
  But dearly is their conquest bought,
  'Twas scarce for this mad GRAHAM fought
    'Tis _fair_, though--there's its beauty.
  All just claims met by this shrewd plan,
  The speechifying Rights of Man,
    Plus the Policeman's duty.

  ASQUITH's clear, certain sound,
  Will spread dismay around;
    _Some_ circles. "We believed!
  ASQUITH was on _our_ side,"
  The roughs will say. "He's tried,
    And we--well, we're deceived.
  If we're _permitted_ in this Square
  To muster there, why should we care?
    The game has lost its beauty!
  Licence unfettered is _our_ plan.
  Who cares a cuss for Rights of Man,
    Checked by that bugbear Duty?"

       *       *       *       *       *



I am indignant--disgusted! I went last night to see a new piece,
called _The Guardsman_, at the Court Theatre, the plot of which,
reminded me--'tis merely a coincidence--of _Incognita_, now going
strong in St. Martin's Lane. The coincident being that a certain young
man won't marry an uncertain young lady whom they want him to marry,
because he is in love with quite another young lady (as he thinks) who
(the _incognita_) turns out to be the very lady whom he is required
to wed. However, that's not what I'm writing about. I leave criticism
to your "professional gent." Well, Sir, it was very amusing, and
very well acted. But from a military point of view, shameful,
Sir!--shameful! The people about me were laughing, and said that the
lines were good; that, take it all round, it ought to be a success;
that it was most amusing. But how could I appreciate anything when I
found a Captain in the Guards, on the Queen's Birthday, walking about
in plain leather boots! It was as bad, in my mind, as when Mr. CHARLES
WARNER, in the piece called _In the Ranks_, appeared as a private in
the same distinguished Regiment in patent leathers! And what was the
Captain doing, Sir, in mess uniform at his uncle's chambers, when he
was supposed to be on guard at the Tower? At least so I understood him
to be, but I may have been wrong. At any rate, an odd sort of place
to dine at, if he was not on duty, and if he were, he should not have
left his post. Moreover, where was his scarf, as orderly officer? But
perhaps he was not on duty, and had dropped in upon the mess (in the
height of the Season!) in a friendly sort of way. Well, that might
explain matters a bit, but not to my entire satisfaction. And my wife
tells me that it is rather late to make alterations in a Court dress
the day before the Drawing-Room. And she says, too, that she has never
been hustled and crushed when she has gone to Buckingham Palace. And
if it comes to that, Sir, I have accompanied her, and can vouch for
the strict accuracy of the statement. But these are minor matters.
What I _cannot_ stand are _The Guardsman's_ boots!

Yours more in anger than in sorrow,


_Mars Lodge, Cutsaddleborough_, _Tomatkinshire_.

       *       *       *       *       *


  If I were a missionary
    On the plains of Uganda,
  I'd leave that position airy
    Ere, at dawn, anew 'gan day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pip's our mutual friend_." In which of DICKENS's Novels does this

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SQUARED!"



       *       *       *       *       *




  "Wire in, my warblers!" PUNCHIUS cried. "To 'wire,'
  Though slangy, sounds appropriate to the Lyre."
  Then forth there toddled with the mincing gait
  Of some fair "Tottering Lily," him, the great
  New Bard of Buddha! Grave, and grey of crest.
  'Tis he illumes the nubibustic West
  With the true "_Light of Asia_"--or, at least,
  Such simulacrum of the effulgent East
  As shineth from a homemade Chinese lantern.
  No HAFIZ he, or SAADI, yet he _can_ turn
  Authentic Sanscrit to--Telegraphese,
  And make the Muse a moon-faced Japanese.
  Leaderesque love of gentle gush and "Caps.,"
  Is blent in him with fondness for the Japs.
  "Wah! wah! futtee!--wah! wah, gooroo!" he cried,
  And twanged his tinkling orient lyre with pride.


  No moaning of the _bards_! A pleasant quip!
    No manufactured gloom to dim that far light!
  Of dirge's luxury deprive my lip?
    So suns might say there shall be no more starlight!

  Lamping is _not_ required at day's full noon,
    Lanterns _are_ out of place in dawn's fair flush-light;
  But when dark night sets in, and there's no moon,
    There is a chance for stars, or even a rushlight.

  No moaning of the bards? That were hard lines
    For minor line-spinners, imperial TENNYSON!
  Owls only have their chance when day declines,
    That's why the night-birds crown thee with prompt benison.

  LEWIS has wailed and warbled--twiddlingly:
    ALFRED has--rootley-tootlely--wailed and warbled;
  WILLIAM's young Muse hath wept--then why not Me,
    Whose brow, not less than theirs, with woe is marbled?

  ROBERT and AUSTIN (DOBSON) took their turns;
    There is some talk, too, of Sir THEODORE MARTIN.
  Seeing _my_ lips, too, thrill, _my_ heart, too, burns,
    Why the great contest should I take no part in!

  May be I do not carry guns enough
    To epically glorify King ARTHUR,
  But I have penned some reams of rhythmic stuff
    Concerning (please admire the rhyme!) SIDDÁRTHA.

  (That, as an "assonance," is quite as good
    As "_sang_ it," and "_began_ it.") Ornamental
  And Eastern Mythos draws me; but I'm good
    At "Poems National and Non-Oriental."

  I love the Hindoos, I adore the Japs;
    I'm fond of scraps of Oriental lingo;
  Yet I'm a patriot, and have hymned, perhaps,
    As much as most, my native god, great Jingo!

  I think a Muse with twinkly almond orbs,
    Would--as a change--in England prove most fetching;
  Is it not plain Jap Art our Art ahsorbs!
    Why not in singing, then, as well as sketching?

  I'm sure my "GEISHA" is as good a girl
    As _Vivien_, or _Faustine_, or e'en _Dolores_.
  Is she more frail, less fair, that perfect pearl
    Of Singing Girls, Xipangu's great'st of glories?

  Knocks her nice little flat nose on the floor,
    In Japanese politeness, my "Half Jewel."
  ALGERNON's nymphs, in song or in _amour_
    Are always coarse and generally cruel.

  "_Pearls of the Faith_," is a most pious work,
    Although AL-MUTÂHÂLI is the stringer.
  But only he who hates "The Unspeakable Turk,"
    On _that_ account would blame the Christian singer!

  "Lotus and Jewel!" Doesn't that sound nice?
    My mild Jap Muse _may_ be a roguey-poguey;
  But there's no stimulus to pleasant vice
    About a holy Brahman or chaste Yogi.

  "Land of the Rising Sun," delightful "Third
    Kingdom of Merry Dreams," of you I'm amorous.
  Must _that_ exclude me from the Wreath? Absurd!
    I'm prettily pious, and I'm gently glamorous.

  My Knighthood proves that I am quite O.K.,
    My dear _D.T._ will answer for my morals;
  I'm steeped in Sanscrit lore, and so must say
    I can't see why I should not wear the laurels!

  "Quite so," said _Punch_. "I like your rhyme--and cheek;
  Still, there be others yet to hear--next week!"

       *       *       *       *       *


_The Governess_. "And now, what is a Parable, Effie?"

_Effie_ (_who has got rather muddled_). "A Parable? Oh, of course, a
Parable is a Heavenly story with an Earthly meaning!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

APOLOGIA ARRYGATENSIS.--"'ARRY in Arrygate" was so much sought
after everywhere that it was thought _Mr. Punch_ could not possibly
supply the great demand for this article with sufficient celerity
and dispatch. Hence it happened that the _Harrogate Advertiser_
enthusiastically reproduced the entire article as published in _Mr.
Punch's_ pages, without saying "with your leave, or by your leave,"
to the Proprietors representing _Mr. Punch_. So, _Mr. Punch_, always
kindly and courteous, was compelled in this instance to "know the
reason why." Whereupon _The Harrogate Advertiser_ acknowledged that it
did not "harrogate to itself" any sort of right to republish wholesale
without acknowledgment anything that has appeared in _Mr. Punch's_
pages, and at once handsomely apologised for this instance of
priggishness quite unprecedented in the _Harrogate Advertiser's_
columns (_Vide Harrogate Advertiser_, October 15). _Box_ and _Cox_ are
satisfied. _Causa flnita est. Vive_ 'ARRY! Likewise 'Arrygate! And,
know, all men, by these presents, that _Mr. P._ is quite wide-awake.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANECDOTAGE.--Said the Old Parliamentary Hand, entering Christ Church,
"I prefer _this_ House to the other!" It was _the_ success of the

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A COOL HAND.

_Irrepressible Pupil_. "Poor Stuff, Sir, this Virgil. Don't you think

_Suffering Coach_ (_who can scarcely believe his ears_). "Poor Stuff,
Sir! Virgil--poor Stuff! _What do you mean_?"

_Irrepressible Pupil_ (_unmoved_). "Seems to me, Sir, it's merely a
Literal Translation of some of the best English Cribs!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It is to be sincerely hoped that there is no truth in
    the rumour that a paper for children will shortly make its
    appearance, entirely written and illustrated by children under
    fifteen years of age."--_St. James's Gazette, October 12th._]

  Why, churlish critic, do you hope sincerely
    The rumour, which you mention, is untrue?
  Mere prejudice makes you regard severely
    The cause of liberty which we pursue.
  We are, _The Prattler_ will establish clearly,
    Quite competent to edit a review;
  The age of greatest wisdom will be seen
  To be decidedly below fifteen.

  _We_ never showed, as we need hardly mention,
    That fabled ignorance about the stars,
  From earliest days we spoke about 'declension,'
    And argued on the atmosphere of Mars;
  While parents we put up with, more attention
    We paid towards another kind of "pars.";
  Full soon was lit the journalistic flame,--
  We lisped in leaders, for the leaders came.

  That foolish custom, which, at present smothers
    Our youthful genius, we shall supersede.
  Here are some papers which, with many others,
    Will make _The Prattler_ eminent indeed;--
  A series on "The Management of Mothers,"
    Will meet, we hope, a long-experienced need;
  Elsewhere we'll note, in some attractive way,
  The latest long-clothes fashion of the day.

  Instruction in the art of window-breaking,
    And modes to tame a fiery governess,
  Descriptions of perambulator-making--
    No need on details to lay further stress,
  You'll own our journalistic undertaking,
    Must prove an unequivocal success;
  While you, who uttered this untimely sneer,
  Will blush, apologise, and disappear!

       *       *       *       *       *



  When you, my first brief, were delivered,
  Every fibre in me quivered
  With delight. I seemed to see
  Myself admitted a Q.C.;
  Piles of briefs upon the table,
  More work to do than I was able;
  Clients scrambling for advice,
  Then LORD CHANCELLOR in a trice.

  I seized my virgin pencil blue,
  Marked and perused you through and through.
  The story brief, instructions short,
  Defendant in a County Court,
  It needed not an ounce of sense
  To see that you had no defence.
  But, erudite in English law,
  I fashioned bricks without the straw.

  Around my chamber-floor I sped.
  Harangued the book-case on each head;
  On hearing me had cried a go.
  Then I must own that I was nettled--
  Out of Court the case was settled.
  All my points were left unmade,
  And the fee is left unpaid.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Professor LOMBROSO writes in the _Revue des Revues_ that all
    women are liars. Mr. VICTOR HORSLEY writes in the _Times_ that
    one of Miss COBBE's statements is a lie.]

  Shameful, shocking, rude Professor!
  CRICHTON BROWNE--your predecessor
  In attacks, would-be suppressor
            Of the higher
  Education--once compared them
  To the Pantaloon, and scared them,
  But he was polite, and spared them
            Words like "liar."

  Lie, indeed! There is a middle
  Course--say "fib" or "tarradiddle,"
  "Not quite true," "A sort of riddle
            Facts to smother."
  We, who love the fair romancer--
  Be she talker, singer, dancer,
  What you will, she's sweet--we answer,
            "You're another!"

  As for you, rough Mr. HORSLEY,
  Arguing so very coarsely,
  May I say yours is a worse lie,--
            Rhyming badly?
  You, so skilled in vivisection,
  Could cut up Miss COBBE's objection,
  With your tongue in some subjection,
            Not thus madly.

  Why, LOMBROSO would despise you,
  Though he is so rude. These "lies" you
  Freely write make folks surmise you
            An impostor,
  Not the lady. You've not "licked" her.
  (Slang to suit you) though you're VICTOR.
  Since you stoop to contradict her
            Like a coster.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



  A mysterious thing
    For our commonplace day,
  Is the lady I sing
    In the following lay.

  While I'm shooting the grouse,
    Or enjoying the sea,
  She takes care of my house
    For a nominal fee.

  For ten shillings a-week
    Does this wonderful woman
  Undertake, so to speak,
    An existence inhuman.

  Like their dwellings the rabbits
    Deep in darkling retreats,
  This weird widow inhabits
    Subterranean seats.

  What with humour "contrary,"
    Or ironic despair,
  She denominates "airey"--
    From its absence of air!

  It would give _me_ the blues
    Household gods to uphold
  With a _Lloyd's Weekly News_
    Of some fifty days old.

  In a Stygian gloom,
    Far from sun and ozone,
  She sits locked in her room,
    Uncompanioned, alone.

  At a knock, at a call
    How she shivers and starts!
  She's "that nervous"--and "Hall
    Of 'er fambly 'as 'earts."

  Not till gloaming obscure
    Cools hot London at last,
  Hies she forth to procure
    Her ideal repast.

  "_A red 'erring, an inion,
    Just of dripping a bite_"
  --This is not my opinion,
    Hers _verbatim_ I cite.

  But I fancy, though loth to
    Thus detract from her merits,
  (And I've her solemn oath too!)
    That she's "partial to sperrits."

  For once suddenly coming
    (She supposed me away)
  I was struck by her humming
    "_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"

  And not humming it only;
    Also _dancing_ the same,--
  This bereaved, honest, lonely
    Deferential dame!

  "_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"
    In my desolate hall;
  I, though prone to be gay,
    Didn't like it at all.

  "Which," she said, "it was Fits--
    The Sint Biteus"--her fling!--
  Yes! The Caretaker, it's
    A mysterious thing.

       *       *       *       *       *




How well I remember a certain day in the by-gone years, when for the
first time a great truth suddenly burst upon me in all its glory. The
morning's sport had been unsuccessful. We were all fairly tired, and
some of us, in spite of the moderate temperature, were perspiring
freely. For we had been walking up late partridges most of the
morning, with just an occasional shot here and there at pheasants in
covert. Now, late partridges are perhaps the least amenable of created
things. They cherish a perfectly ridiculous conviction that nature,
in endowing them with life, intended that they should preserve it,
and consequently they hold it to be their one aim and object to fly,
whirring and cheeping, out of sight, long before even an enthusiastic
shot could have a chance of proving to them how beautifully a bird can
be missed. For some reason or other, our host had refused or had been
unable to drive the birds. One result was that we had tramped and
tramped and tramped, getting only rare shots, and doing but little
execution. Another result was, that the place was simply littered
with lost tempers, and we sat down to lunch very much out of conceit
with ourselves, our guns, our cartridges, the keepers, the dogs, and
everything else. The pleasant array of plates and glasses, and the
savoury odours of the meats mitigated, but did not dispel the frowns.
Then suddenly there dropped down amongst us, as it were from the
sky, the Great Woodcock Saga. In a moment the events of the morning
were forgotten, brows cleared, tempers were picked up, and an eager
hilarity reigned over the company, while the adventures of the
wonderful bird were pursued from tree to tree, from clump to clump,
through all the zig-zags of his marvellous flight, until he finally
vanished triumphantly into the unknown.

Now the Great Woodcock Saga is brought about in this way:--First
of all suppose that a woodcock has shown himself somewhere or other
during the morning. If he was seen it follows, as the day follows
the night, (1), that _everybody_ shot at him at the most fantastic
distances without regard to the lives and limbs of the rest of the
party; (2), that (in most cases) everybody missed him; (3), that
everybody, though having, according to his own version, been
especially careful himself, has been placed in imminent peril by the
recklessness of the rest; (4), that everybody threw himself flat on
his face to avoid death; and (5), that the woodcock is not really a
bird at all, but a devil. The following is suggested as an example of
Woodcock-dialogue, the scene being laid at lunch:--


_First Sportsman_ (_pausing in his attack on a plateful of curried
rabbit_). By Jupiter! that was a smartish woodcock. I never saw the
beggar till he all but flew into my face, and then away he went, like
a streak of greased lightning. I let him have both barrels; but I
might as well have shot at a gnat. Still, I fancy I tickled him up
with my left.

_Second Sportsman_ (_a stout, jovial man, breaking in_). Tickled _him_
up! By gum, I thought _I_ was going to be tickled up, I tell you. Shot
was flying all round me--bang! bang! all over the place. I loosed
off twice at him, and then went down, to avoid punishment. Haven't a
notion what became of him.

_Third Sportsman_ (_choking with laughter at the recollection_). I saw
you go down, old cock. First go off, I thought you were hit: but, when
you got that old face of yours up, and began to holler "Wor guns!"
as if you meant to bust, why I jolly soon knew there wasn't much
the matter with _you_. Just look at him, you chaps. Do you think an
ordinary charge of shot would go through _that_? Not likely.

_Fourth Sportsman_ (_military man_). Gad, it was awful! I'd rather be
bucketed about by EVELYN WOOD for a week than face another woodcock. I
heard 'em shoutin', "Woodcock forward! Woodcock back! Woodcock to the
right! Woodcock to the left! Mark--mark!" Gad! thinks I to myself, the
bally place must be full of 'em. Just then out he came, as sly as be
blowed. My old bundook went off of its own accord. I bagged the best
part of an oak tree, and, after that, I scooted. Things were gettin'
just a shade too warm, by gad! A reg'lar hail-storm, that's what it
was. No, thank you, thinks I; not for this party--I'm off to cover. So
that's all _I_ know about it. Thanks, TOMMY--do you mind handin' round
that beer-jug?

_First Sportsman_ (_rallying him_). Just think of that. And we're all
of us taxed to keep a chap like that in comfort. Why you're _paid_
to be shot at--that's what you're _there_ for, you and your thin red
line, and all that. By Jupiter! we don't get our money's worth out
of you if you're going to cut and run before a poor, weak, harmless

    [_Military Sportsman is heavily chaffed._

_Military Sportsman_. Oh, it's all very well for you Johnnies to gas
like that--but, by Gad, you didn't seem over-anxious to stand fire
yourselves. Why your teeth are chattering still, BINKS.

_Binks_. Ah, but I'm only a poor civilian.

_Military Sportsman_. Well, I cut and ran as a civilian. See? Did
anyone shoot the bloomin' bird, after all?

_The Host_. _Shoot_ him? I should think not. The last I saw of him he
was sailing off quite comfortable, cocking snooks at the whole lot.
Have another go of pie, JOHNNY?

So that is the Great Woodcock Saga, the absolute accuracy of which
every sportsman is bound to recognise. And the great truth that
burst upon me is this, that if you want to restore good temper to a
shattered party, you must start talking about woodcocks. If you saw
a woodcock in the morning, talk about that one. If not, begin about
the woodcock you saw last week, or the woodcock somebody else missed
the week before. But whatever you do, always keep a woodcock for
a (metaphorically) rainy day. Bring him out at lunch next time you
shoot, and watch the effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

"GRIEVANCES OF CIVIL SERVANTS."--Sir, seeing this heading in the
_Times_ to a letter which I didn't stop to read, I can only say, for
my part, that us servants as is really civil ought not never to have
any "grievancies." Tips is the reward to "_civil_ servants."--Yours,

       *       *       *       *       *

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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