Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, September 3, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



September 3, 1892.



[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT.

_Obliging Country Butcher_. "LET ME CUT IT INTO CUTLETS FOR YOU,
MA'AM,--LEAVING JUST ENOUGH BONE FOR YOU TO HOLD 'EM BY, WHILE YOU'RE
EATING 'EM!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT GOING AWAY FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

_Cookson Gaze, Q.C._ Because MARIA votes Eastbourne vulgar, and the
girls (sorry now I sent them to that finishing-school at Clapham)
laugh so consumedly whenever I open my mouth to address a native if we
go to Trouville or Dinard.

_C. Jumper_. Because the Governor thinks three days in the year enough
for anybody.

_Eastend Dr._ Because that fiver will just give little SALLY the
breath of sea-air she wants, and she'll never make a good cure unless
she has it.

_Reg. Rake_. Because wife says she shall certainly accompany me.

_Barmaid_. Because I've just been ill for a fortnight from overwork,
and the Company say they can't give any more leave.

_Eastend Clergyman_ (_of any church._) Because there are hundreds who
want it more than I do, and I must help them to get a change first.

_Major Hornblower_. Because MACCRACSHOTT (the only man who has asked
me) was in the smoking-room the night I was fool enough to tell that
Snipe and Rhinoceros Story of PEYTON's in the first person.

_Quiverful_. Because there's another pair.

       *       *       *       *       *

EPITAPH ON AN OLD CRICKETER'S TOMBSTONE.--"Out at 70."

       *       *       *       *       *

MUSICAL NOTES.

_Popping a Question._--The _Daily News_, in its last week's "Music and
Musicians," informs us that "Mr. CHAPPELL has now definitely decided
that the season of Monday Popular Concerts shall this year commence
on a Tuesday." Sure then it must be Mister O'CHAPPELL, the CHAPPELL
by the hill-side, who arranges to have his first "Monday Pop" on a
Tuesday? If he be going out shooting on his own native heath, his name
O'CHAPPELL, then there's no reason why he shouldn't have his first pop
on a Tuesday, only it couldn't be his Monday Pop, could it now? Or if
he drinks _Mr. P.'s_ health in Pommery '80 (_grand vin!_), or let's
say Poppery '80, he could do so on a Tuesday, only it would no longer
be the "Monday Pop." That's all. Sure 'tis mighty confusing and upsets
the week entirely. If Tuesday is to have all the Pop, what's to become
of Monday? For further particulars inquire at the Pop-shop, Bond
Street.

The next great Musical Event is at the Gloucester Festival--it is
Dr. HUBERT PARRY "on the Job." This, though the work of a thoroughly
English Composer, may yet be considered as an "_Article de Parry_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"MARS IN OPPOSITION."--"Mother says I mustn't."

       *       *       *       *       *

THIS PICTURE AND THAT.

(_EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A LOVER OF THE BEAUTIFUL._)

_First Extract_.--Really an excellent notion to buy an estate, instead
of picking up what Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING calls a "smeared thing." Got
one, too, pretty cheap. Twenty miles from a railway station, but so
much the better. RUSKIN hates railway stations, and so do I. Never can
make them look picturesque. The Agent tells me my place is famous for
its sunsets; also good moonlight effects on occasions. Pretty village,
too, in the background. Altogether, most satisfactory. After all,
Nature is much better than Art.

_Second Extract_.--Dullerton-on-the-Slush is a charming spot, but
it has its drawbacks. Pretty, but damp. Fog interferes a good deal
with the sunsets, and hides the moon at the wrong moment. Village
deliciously out of repair. But tenants unreasonable. Offered to put up
some red brick roofs for them, which would have looked charming, but
they insist upon having slates. Wish they would consent to having
a few cows in the fields, but they say they prefer pigstyes. Have
consulted a builder and a gardener, and they think that they could
"run up" a stye between them, and cover it over with shrubs. Tenants
object. They say the pigs would not like it, and might eat the shrubs
with fatal results. All this annoying, but still the view from my
dining-room window charming. It reminds me not a little of CONSTABLE,
LINNELL, not to say Old CROME.

_Third Extract_.--Further troubles. Tenants are really very
disagreeable, and they have no feeling for Art. They have cut down
a lot of ornamental trees, and they won't grow the right sort of
crops,--I mean from a picturesque point of view. As agriculturists
they may be all right, but that's not my point. I did not buy the
estate to try how "roots" would thrive. Then they will burn weeds,
and hang out clothes to dry--clothes without any regard to contrast
of colour. Eyesores meet me everywhere. I am really not sure whether I
acted wisely in trusting to a House-agent instead of a Picture-dealer.
"Pictures by Nature" are not as reliable as they should be.

_Fourth Extract_.--This is really too bad! A perambulating Circus
has pitched its tent on the Village Green! When I say tent, I make a
mistake; it is a beastly ugly iron thing, that looks simply hideous,
and from the durable stoutness of its construction, it evidently is
going to be a fixture for some time. My tenants support the Circus
people, and my Agent tells me, that if I interfere, my life will be
made a burden to me. It appears my tenants are "a very unruly lot when
they are irritated." Pleasant!

_Fifth Extract_.--The Circus won't go. And now I find I can't get any
of my rents. My agent tells me, that my tenants never would settle
with their last landlord. Besides, they expect me to pay for the
damage done to their dwellings by the floods. They say it was my
fault, because I would put up a bank and plantation in my back garden.
Only light in the general gloom is, the prospect my Agent holds out
to me of getting rid of the property for me to another lover of the
picturesque. Scarcely fair; but after all, or rather before all, must
take care of Number One.

_Last Extract_.--Hurray! Sold my estate to another fellow. However, on
looking over my accounts, I fancy I should have found it cheaper if,
in the first instance, I had bought a chromo lithograph!

       *       *       *       *       *

EPITAPH.--An Alpining Traveller sends us, on the "Bär" Hotel lately
destroyed at Grindelwald, the following adapted and reversified
quotation:--

  "Good-bye to the Bär--
  And it's moaning" we are!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SUMMER VOLUPTAS."

_Toby_ (_sings_). "MY BARQUE IS ON THE SEA!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

NO. I.--DISORGANISED.

  Still in London now you'll find me,
    Still detained against my will;
  And I wish, distinctly, mind me,
    To accentuate the "_still_;"
  It's a sort of consolation,
    As I sit, and fume, and frown,
  That the greatest botheration
    Of my life is out of town.


  He who used to grind "_She Wore a
    Wreath of Roses_" every day,
  And "Selections from _Dinorah_,"
    And--"_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay_."
  With his execrable smiling,
    And exasperating din,
  Must, I needs infer, be riling
    Some one else with grind and grin.

  He who seemed, in fact, delighted,
    And a kiss--the fiend!--would blow,
  When I got a bit excited,
    And exclaimed "_Al Diavolo_!"
  Who, with unabashed assurance,
    Only beamed the more, and kissed,
  If, incensed beyond endurance,
    In his face I shook my fist.

  He has earned his little outing,
    This excruciating cove,
  And his instrument is flouting
    Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove.
  For the moment I can get a
    Peaceful interim, and free--
  But he cherishes vendetta,
    This Italian count, to me.

  Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder,
    Had he ne'er relaxed his track;
  He'll return, that grinning grinder,
    Reinvigorated, back!
  Then, as I remarked before, a
    Spell of doom for me remains,
  With "Selections from _Dinorah_,"
    And his other worse refrains.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHY I DON'T GO OUT OF TOWN, FOR THE AUTUMN?--Because I've been pretty
well everywhere, but always _quite_ well in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BRIC À BRAC.

_Lady Croesus_. "OH, WHAT A SWEET TABLE! WHERE DID YOU GET IT, MY
DEAR? OH, I SEE HERE'S THE MAN'S CARD." (_Spelling the label._)
"'TABLE--LOUIS QUINZE.' LOUIS QUINZEY! WHAT A HORRID NAME! AND WHY
HASN'T HE PUT HIS ADDRESS?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GERMAN WATERS.

  A promenade with tongues alive
    That every phrase of OLLENDORFF use;
  And "_Luther's Hymn_" at half-past five
    To drag you from the arms of Morpheus;
  Fat Germans in their awful "Fracks,"
    Pale Frenchmen, too, a bit _décolletés_,
  And dapper Britons with attacks
    Of livers and digestions faulty.

  A garden fair with "Quellen" foul--
    _Ach, Himmel_! How they taste those "Quellen"!
  Then rolls and coffee, next a prowl
    Among the shops with JANE or ELLEN;
  The mid-day meal at _table d'hôte_,
    All windows closed--a climate hellish!--
  With dishes too crackjaw to quote,
    And sometimes difficult to relish.

  An afternoon of drowsy drives--
    How these poor foreigners love driving
  To places where, when one arrives,
    There's nought for which it's worth arriving!--
  A "Belvedere"--like Primrose Hill,
     A "Gartenhaus," tobacco-scented;
  Yet there they smoke, and moon, and swill,
    Quite adipose, and self-contented.

  A "Kursaal," very large, and fine;
    A Theatre, small, and shabby-splendid;
  More beer, more music, ditto wine
    (This latter can be much commended).
  The Military (each salutes!)
    With HANNCHEN on their arm or MARIE;
  I wonder where they get those boots--
    I mean, of course, the Military.

  Lawn-Tennis and an "English Club,"
    Frequented now by Lords and Princes,
  Where every snobling likes to rub
    His elbows with a Peer, who winces;
  The tittle-tattle of the cliques,
    Some half-proposals for our daughters--
  Such is the life that makes for weeks
    A fortune--for the German Waters!

       *       *       *       *       *

CHOOSING HIS WORDS.

(_MADE IN GERMANY._)

According to the _Hochliche Zeitung_, His Imperial Majesty said that
although the sky was apparently cloudless, the atmosphere might be
charged with electricity. He knew what that electricity denoted. There
were thunderbolts in the clouds and thunderbolts on earth. Those
on earth meant war and invasion. He warned those who threatened the
Fatherland, that there were a million of swords ready to spring forth
from a million of scabbards. It was well enough to be neighbourly
when those who lived in your vicinity were benevolently inclined. But
when they showed a disposition to be offensive, then it was necessary
to sharpen your swords and keep your power dry. They had already
conquered France, and were not afraid of Russia. Besides, the Army
contained young soldiers who would be the better for a real campaign.
He himself had no objection to visiting Paris and St. Petersburg, as
a German Emperor should--at the head of a German Army. Still he might
again remark, it was splendid weather, he saw nothing but blue sky.

[Illustration: Nose Everything.]

According to the _Nichtgeboren Zeitung_, His Imperial Majesty said
that, although the sky was apparently cloudless, he recognised dangers
a-head. He was willing to put himself forward as the Leader of the
toilers. It was their duty to secure the best possible constitution,
and then to force that constitution upon all neighbouring people, if
needs be, at the point of the bayonet. He was not an alarmist, and
said exactly what he meant. He had no wish to beat about the bush. War
was the Hand-servant of Peace, and the sooner that servant came back
the better. He did not wish to threaten, but he told Russia and France
that Germany was ready to begin, when and where they chose to meet
him. But he might again remark it was splendid weather, and he saw
nothing but blue sky.

_Authorised Version_ (_all others declared to be misleading and
inaccurate_).--His Imperial Majesty merely observed that it was a fine
day.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON BOARD A YACHT.--The conversation at lunch-time had turned on recent
publications. A learned Theban from Oxford inquired of the Skipper,
if he had seen the "_Rig-Veda_." "What sort of Rig's that?" asked the
Skipper, a bit puzzled. But the Oxonian wisely declined a rigmarole
explanation, and told him that all further inquiries must be made to
Professor MAX MÜLLER.

       *       *       *       *       *

FEELING THEIR WAY.

(_A STUDY IN THE ART OF GENTEEL CONVERSATION._)

    SCENE--_The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. Time--evening.
    Mrs. ARDLEIGH (of Balham), and Mrs. ALLBUTT (of
    Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation,
    in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and
    ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At
    present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common
    bond in Cookery._

_Mrs. Allbutt._ You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you;
squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the
butter in the pan, make a paste of it with _dry_ flour.

_Mrs. Ardleigh._ It sounds delicious--but you never can trust a Cook
to carry out instructions exactly.

_Mrs. All._ I never _do_. Whenever I want to have anything specially
nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He
appreciates it. Now _some_ men, if you cook for them, never notice
whether it's you or the Cook. My husband _does_.

_Mrs. Ard._ I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure _I_ should
never--

_Mrs. All._ Oh, it takes time, of course--but what does that matter
when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne
pepper?--because that's a _great_ improvement!

_Mrs. Ard._ I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than
anything--and that's eggs.

_Mrs. All._ (_with elegant languor_). I hardly ever eat an egg.
Oysters, now, I'm _very_ fond of--_fried_, that is.

_Mrs. Ard._ They're very nice done in the real shells. Or on scollops.
We have silver--or rather--(_with a magnanimous impulse to tone down
her splendour_), silver-plated ones.

_Mrs. All._ How funny--so have we! (_Both women feel an increase of
liking for one another._) I like them cooked in milk, too.

    [_The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they proceed,
    as usual, to the subject of ailments._

_Mrs. Ard._ My doctor _does_ do me good, I must say--he never lets me
get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you
up.

_Mrs. All._ That's like _my_ doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't
keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no
time. That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of
every Season.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_feeling that Mrs. ALLBUTT can't be "anybody very
particular" after all_). What--to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you
get tired of it? I should.

_Mrs. All._ (_with dignity_). I didn't say I always went to Margate.
On the contrary I have never been here before, and shouldn't be here
now, if my doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_reassured_). I only came down here on my little girl's
account. One of those nasty croopy coughs, you know, and hoops with
it. But she's almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air.
Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet a soul one
knows!

_Mrs. All._ Well, that's the charm of it--to me. One has enough of
that during the Season.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_recognising the superiority of this view_). Indeed one
has. What a whirl it has been to be sure!

[Illustration: "Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!"]

_Mrs. All._ The Season? Why, I never remember one with so little
doing. Most of the best houses closed--hardly a single really smart
party--one or two weddings--and that's positively all!

_Mrs. Ard._ (_slightly crushed, in spite of a conviction
that--socially speaking--Balham has been rather more brilliant than
usual this year._) Yes, that's very true. I suppose the Elections have
put a stop to most things?

_Mrs. All._ There never was much going on. _I_ should rather have said
it was Marlborough House being shut up that made everything so dull
from the first.

_Mrs. Ard._ Ah, that _does_ make such a difference, doesn't it?
(_She feels she must make an effort to recover lost ground._) I fully
expected to be at Homburg this year.

_Mrs. All._ Then you would have met Lady NEURALINE MENTHOL She _was_
ordered there, I happen to know.

_Mrs. Ard._ Really, you don't say so? Lady NEURALINE! Well, that's the
first _I've_ heard of it. (_It is also the first time she has heard of
HER, but she trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission._)

_Mrs. All._ It's a fact, I can assure you. You know her, perhaps?

_Mrs. Ard._ (_who would dearly like to say she does, if she only
dared_). Well, I can hardly say I exactly _know_ her. I know _of_ her.
I've met her about, and so on. (_She tells herself this is quite as
likely to be true as not._)

_Mrs. All._ (_who, of course, does not know Lady NEURALINE either_).
Ah, she is a most delightful person--requires _knowing_, don't you
know.

_Mrs. Ard._ So many in her position do, don't they? (_So far as she
is concerned--they ALL do._) You'd think it was haughtiness--but it's
really only _manner_.

_Mrs. All._ (_feeling that she can go ahead with safety now_). I have
never found anything of _that_ sort in Lady NEURALINE myself (_which
is perfectly true_). She's rather odd and flighty, but _quite_ a
dear. By the way, _how_ sad it is about those poor dear CHUTNEYS--the
Countess, don't you know!

_Mrs. Ard._ Ah (_as if she knew all the rest of the family_), I don't
know _her_ at all.

_Mrs. All._ Such a sweet woman--but the trouble she's had with her
eldest boy, Lord MANGO! He married quite beneath him, you know, some
girl from the provinces--not a county-family girl even.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_shocked_). Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!

_Mrs. All._ No; somebody quite common--I forget the name, but it was
either GHERKIN or ONION, or something of that sort. I was told they
had been in Chili a good while. Poor MANGO never had much taste, or
he would never have got mixed up with such a set. Anyway, he's got
himself into a terrible pickle. I hear Capsicums is actually to be
sold to pay his debts.

_Mrs. Ard._ You don't say so! Capsicums! Gracious!

_Mrs. All._ Yes, _isn't_ it a pity! Such a lovely old place as it
was, too--_the_ most comfortable house to stay at in all England; so
beautifully _warm_! But it's dreadful to think of how the aristocracy
are taking to marry out of their own set. Look at the Duke of
DRAGNET--married a Miss DUCKWEED--goodness only knows where he picked
her up! but he got entangled somehow, and now his people are trying to
get rid of her. I see so many of these cases. Well, I'm afraid I must
wish you good evening--it's my time for retiring. (_Patronisingly._)
I've quite enjoyed this conversation--such a pleasure in a place like
this to come across a congenial companion!

_Mrs. Ard._ (_fluttered and flattered_). I'm sure you're exceedingly
kind to say so, and I can say the same for myself. I hope we may
become better acquainted. (_To herself, after Mrs. ALLBUTT has
departed._) I've quite taken to that woman--she's so thoroughly the
lady, and moves in very high society, too. You can tell that from
the way she talks. What's that paper oil the table? (_She picks up
a journal in a coloured wrapper.) Society Snippets, the Organ of the
Upper Ten. One Penny._ The very thing I wanted. It's such a comfort
to know who's who. (_She opens it and reads sundry paragraphs headed
"Through the Keyhole."_) Now how funny this is! Here's the very same
thing about the dulness of the Season that she said. That shows she
must be really in it. And a note about Lady NEURALINE being about to
recruit at Homburg. And another about her reputation for eccentricity,
and her "sweetness to the select few privileged to be her intimates."
And here's all about Lord MANGO, and what a pleasant house Capsicums
is, and his marriage, and the Duke of DRAGNET's too. Her information
was very correct, I must say! (_A light begins to break in upon her._)
I wonder whether--but there--people of her sort wouldn't require to
read the papers for such things.

    [_Here the door opens, and Mrs. ALLBUTT appears, in some
    embarrassment._

_Mrs. All._ (_scrutinising the tables_). Oh, it's nothing. I thought
I'd left something of mine here; it was only a paper--I see I was
mistaken, don't trouble.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_producing Society Snippets_). I expect it will be this.
(Mrs. ALLBUTT's face _reveals her ownership_.) I took it up, not
knowing it was yours. (_Meaningly._) It has some highly interesting
information, I see.

_Mrs. All._ (_slightly demoralised_). Oh, has it? I--I've not had time
to glance at it yet. Pray don't let me deprive you of it. I dare say
there's very little in it I don't know already.

_Mrs. Ard._ So I should have thought. (_To herself, after Mrs.
ALLBUTT has retired in disorder._) Fancy that woman trying to take me
in like that, and no more in Society than I am--if so much! However,
I've found her out before going too far--luckily. And I've a good mind
to take in this _Society Snippets_ myself--it certainly does improve
one's conversation. She won't have it _all_ her own way _next_ time!

       *       *       *       *       *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

NO. IX.--"IN THE MORNING."

The Music-hall Muse, if not exactly impeccably moral, is, at least,
good at moralising. Not only to topers, Totties, larky Benedicts and
spreeish servant-maids, is there pregnant meaning in the warning words
"But oh! what a difference in the morning!!!" As may thus--_pace_
"NORTON ATKINS" and "FELIX MCGLENNON"--be made manifest:--

[Illustration: "He curses speculation in the morning!"]

AIR--"_IN THE MORNING!_"

  I'd sing of the singular triumphs we see,
            At night, at night!
  In Politics, Pleasure, Love, Art, L.S.D.,
            At night, at night!
  The "Johnnies" of Sport and the "Oof-birds" of Cash,
  The Statesmen who shine, and the Beauties who mash,
  Are in champagny spirits and cut quite a dash,
            At night, at night!
  But oh! don't their hearts ache,
            In the morning?
  Then cometh disillusion and self-scorning.
  Things look their natural size
            Unto hot awaking eyes,
  For no gingerbread is gilded,
            In the morning!

  A Premier potent may perorate free,
            At night, at night!
  And pretty Primrosers will shout and agree,
            At night, at night!
  He'll say those brave Orangemen Home Rule will quash,
  He'll hint that raised Tariffs trade rivals must smash,
  And his eloquence sounds neither rabid nor rash,
            At night, at night!
  But oh! what a difference
            In the morning!
  He vows he merely meant a friendly warning,
  But fuss and fad 'twill boom.
  And his colleagues growl with gloom
  O'er the "_Times_" upon their tables,
            In the morning!

  Observe what the Specials call "News of the Day"
            At night, at night!
  The Dalziel Telegrams startle, and slay,
            At night, at night!
  There's war in the East, or the CZAR is laid low,
  Financiers have failed--Fifty Millions or so!--
  Or they've found Jack the Ripper in far Jericho,
            At night, at night!
  But oh, what a difference
            In the morning!
  Those Latest Wires were lies, small facts adorning.
  "It is not as we stated,
  For the cable's mutilated,"
  And "we hear 'tis contradicted"
            In the morning!

  Regard the young Clerk who's been out for the day,
            At night, at night!
  First to the Derby, and then to the play,
            At night, at night!
  He "spotted a winner" at twenty to one,
  His winnings will far more than pay for his fun;
  He's happy, free-handed, and "sure as a gun,"
            At night, at night!
  But oh, what a difference
            In the morning!
  The bookie bolts, his "gaffer" gives him warning,
  He's not worth half-a-dollar,
  His prospect's "out of collar,"
  And he curses speculation
            In the morning!

  Behold the young playwright who hears his own piece,
            At night, at night!
  He thinks that (ironic) applause will ne'er cease,
            At night, at night!
  His "little one-act thing" is stodgy and slow,
  But the Pit is good-natured, the youth's in a glow,
  And he thinks--with some "cuts"--it will be "a great go,"
            At night, at night!
  But oh, what a difference
            In the morning!
  The critics call the thing "an awful warning,"
  They "guy," and sneer, and scoff,
  And his bantling's taken off,
  "To make room for some old farce, Sir!"
            In the morning!

       *       *       *       *       *

TAKING THE OAT-CAKE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I was very much interested in the statement I saw
in the papers the other day, that the best preservatives of a Lady's
complexion are--Oatmeal and Oranges! I at once began the diet, but
have not succeeded very well at present. Porridge, even with milk and
cream, and plenty of sugar, is such _commonplace_ stuff, and one can't
really be expected to eat oatmeal _raw_, though Scotch gamekeepers are
said to do so. But then they are out in the open air all day, and I am
not. Oranges are nice enough--but oh, _Mr. Punch_, what a lot of them
one has to take before one feels as if one had had a meal! As I have
stopped all other food, I am becoming rather weak. My complexion is,
I think, improved--at all events, it is far less red or pink than it
used to be--but I really haven't the strength to go out of doors to
show it off. Even writing is a burden--so I will close, hoping that my
experiences may benefit others who like to try the regimen.

LYDIA LANGUISH.

P.S.--My Doctor has just stopped the diet!


DEAR SIR,--We are sure that the Oatmeal-and-Orange prescription is an
invaluable one for the complexion. We recently tried it on a Street
Arab, and after one or two doses--accompanied by the employment of
soap and water--he developed such a beautiful pink-and-white skin,
that his parents failed to recognise him. This was unfortunate in one
way, as he has now become chargeable on the rates. Talking of rates,
we may mention that we supply finest Midlothian Campaign Oatmeal at a
more reasonable figure than any other firm in the trade. Price-list on
application.

Yours obediently, McCANNY & Co.

_Edinburgh._


SIR,--I am not less than fifty years' old, and marked with small-pox,
and therefore I think that Oatmeal and Oranges would be sure to do my
complexion good. As mine is perhaps a rather unusual case, I am trying
the remedy in a peculiarly thorough way. I have an Oatmeal-bath twice
a day, during which I suck six oranges. My breakfast consists of
porridge and marmalade. I have engaged a policeman to knock at my
front door three times every night, to wake me. I then sit up in bed
and consume oat-cakes soaked in orange-juice. I also dress in yellow,
and I have written to Belfast to ask if I can be admitted to an Orange
Society there, but hitherto I have received no reply. You will, I
think, agree with me that I am giving the new treatment a fair trial.
Yours truly,

TABITHA NUPKINS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNLUCKY COMPLIMENTS.

_Shy but Susceptible Youth_. "ER--_COULD_ YOU TELL ME WHO THAT YOUNG
LADY IS--SKETCHING?"

_Affable Stranger_. "SHE HAS THE MISFORTUNE TO BE MY WIFE!"

_Shy but Susceptible One_ (_desperately anxious to please, and losing
all presence of mind_). "OH--THE MISFORTUNE'S ENTIRELY _YOURS_, I'M
_SURE_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BAMSGATE SANDS.

  It's hey for the sands, for the jolly Ramsgate Sands,
  Where the children shout and tumble, spade and bucket in their
          hands.
  Where sandy castles rise in scores, I trow a man might float
  A fleet of six-inch pleasure-skiffs on many a deep-dug moat.
  Where, while the banjos discord make, the German bands make noise,
  And nursemaids by the hundred shepherd flocks of girls and boys.
  Where the boys tuck up their trousers, and the girls tuck up their
          frocks,
  A paddling tribe who scorn their shoes and customary socks.

  Ye loud-voiced men of cocoa-nuts, what is it that you say?
  "Come try yer luck, roll, bowl, or pitch; the lydies stand'
          alf-way."
  One youth I saw who took his stand, a clerk of pith was he,
  He shut one eye and aimed with care, then let the ball fly free.
  Twice, thrice, nay, thirty times he flung, his BETSY standing by,
  And scornfully advising him to close his other eye.
  Yet, when at last he had to own he could not do the trick,
  No solitary cocoa-nut had toppled from its stick.

  Papa is in his glory here, that proud and happy man,
  But in spite of all his efforts, he can't get coloured tan.
  Yet every week-day morning, from ten o'clock till one,
  He turns that British face of his unflinching to the sun.
  Mamma she sits beside him; I overheard her say,
  "Lor, Pa, you'll soon be brown as brown, you're not so red to-day."
  But wives can't flatter tints away, and when he leaves the place,
  I'd guarantee to light my pipe at Pa's tomato face.

  A front-row stall I quick secured, a green and gaudy bench,
  And paid my humble penny to a very buxom wench.
  The tide was running out amain, and slowly, bit by bit,
  She moved her back seats forward till she left me in the pit.
  Stout Mr. BIGGS, the hair-dresser, the Bond-Street mould of form,
  Sat next me with his family, and seemed to find it warm;
  And, while admiring Mrs. B. hung on her BIGGS's lips.
  He favoured me, as is his wont, with all the sporting tips.

  But the most delightful object I saw upon that shore
  Was a ruddy-faced and chubby-legged philosopher of four.
  Though his sisters capered round him, the sage refused to budge,
  He continued quietly digging just as solemn as a judge;
  And if he fell, as men may fall, he spurned their proffered aid,
  But lay awhile and pondered, while he clutched his wooden spade;
  Then, having thought some problem out, and found that life was vain,
  He slowly raised his three-foot form, and set to work again.

  And so the round of pleasure goes; a man could scarce believe
  How swift the merry hours spin by from dewy morn to eve.
  The goat-carts never want for fares fresh from their nurses' arms,
  All day the patient donkeys bear some maid's or matron's charms.
  The haughty ones may carp and sneer, we know their sorry style,
  But we who revel on this shore can hear them with a smile.
  We may be vulgar; what's the odds? We're cottage-folk, not "Grands,"
  And our simple pleasures please us on the jolly Ramsgate Sands.

       *       *       *       *       *

DRURIOLANUS'S NEXT.--_The Prodigal Daughter_ is to be produced,
when she's of proper age to come out, at Drury Lane. Who gave her
that name? Is it her "_Pettitt nom_," or was it her Godfather, Sir
DRURIOLANUS LE GRAND, or was it the joint effort of GRAND _et_
PETTITT, so as to satisfy all comers Great and Small? _The Prodigal
Son_ has already served as the title of an Opera directly founded on
the Scriptural parable of the Prodigal, and has recently been used as
the title of the now famous _ballet d'action_. There was also a _Père
Prodigue_--which the English schoolboy thought was French for an
uncommonly big Marie Louise specimen; so there is justification and
authority for bringing this new member of _The Prodigal_ family before
the Public. Having once started, there maybe no end to the family
of Prodigals. There will follow--_The Prodigal Aunt_, _The Prodigal
Uncle_, _The Prodigal Second Cousin by first Husband's Marriage_, and
so on, _ad infinitum_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE VULGAR BOY."

MASTER LABBY (_to the Butler_). "WON'T GIVE ME A SITUATION, WON'T YER?
THEN I'LL BREAK YER WINDOWS! YA-AH!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAND OF THE (RATHER TOO) FREE.

    SCENE--_The Landing-Stage of an English Port._

_Custom-House Officer_ (_through an interpreter_). Do you speak
English?

_Emigrant_ (_ditto_). No.

_Cust.-H. Off._ (_as before_). Have you any money?

_Emi._ (_ditto_). Not a kopeck.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Where do you come from?

_Emi._ Polish Russia.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any family?

_Emi._ A sick wife and eight sick children.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Do any of you know a trade?

_Emi._ None of us.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Are you well enough to work?

_Emi._ No.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any friends in England?

_Emi._ Don't know a soul.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any luggage?

_Emi._ Only the Cholera!


       *       *       *       *       *

A COMPENDIOUSLY GRAMMATICAL TREE.--A Yew Tree. First it may be a 'Igh
Tree, but it is a Yew Tree. It is either a He Tree or a She Tree.
If small, it represents the first person plural by being a "Wee
Tree:" the second person plural is the Manager and Manageress of the
Haymarket, "Ye Trees;" and the third person plural would be expressed
by a Devonshire Gardener indicating this talented couple as "They
Trees."

       *       *       *       *       *

TEE, TEE, ONLY TEE!

(_SONG OF THE GOLF ENTHUSIAST. AFTER THOMAS MOORE_.)

AIR--"_Thee, thee, only thee_."

[Illustration]

  The dawn of morn, the daylight's sinking,
  Shall find me on the Links, and thinking
      Of Tee, Tee, only Tee!
  When rivals meet upon the ground,
    The Putting-green's a realm enchanted,
  Nay, in Society's giddy round
    My soul, (like Tooting's thralls) is haunted
      By Tee, Tee, only Tee!'

  For that at early morn I waken,
  And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon,
      For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
  I'm game to start all in the dark
    To the Links hurrying--resting never.
  The Caddie yawns, but, like a lark,
    I halt not, heed not, hastening ever
      To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

  Of chilly fog I am no funker,
  I'll brave the very biggest bunker
      For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
  A spell that nought on earth can break
    Holds me. Golf's charms can ne'er be _spoken_;
  But late I'll sleep, and early wake,
    Of loyalty be this my token,
      To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

       *       *       *       *       *

INNS AND OUTS.

NO. II.--THE HEAD-WETTER.

I entitle him as self-pronounced. If "Mr." is the Grand-Hôtel Jupiter,
the Head-Waiter is its Mercury. Nothing modern is so versatile as
the Head-Waiter. The first thing about the Head-Waiter is his cigars.
These are covered with tinsel and colours: very gay--almost as gay as
the Head-Waiter. They are of unpronounceable and unknown brands. They
vary in price and size, but agree in flavour--liquorice, tempered by
ink. Like the fabled fruit, they crumble to ashes in your mouth. If
you are only a bird of passage, you will often find a box or so in
your room. "Great opportunity--veritable Pestarenas of Nockudaun--one
whole box for a sovereign English," the Head-Waiter assures you. The
memory of that man is astounding; he remembers all the numbers, all
the wines, all the names, and all the Lady's-maids. For he is a bit
of a _Leporello_, is the Head-Waiter.

[Illustration: "One whole box for a sovereign English."]

After dinner, where he takes a dozen orders, makes a dozen
recommendations, and tells a dozen lies at once, you may see him
philandering by the Lake with MARY ANN, JEANETTE, and KLARA, all
jealous, and all adoring, teaching each the language of the other, and
all the art of love. I have often envied him. The Head-Waiter's life
is a "happy one." He is ubiquitous; Egypt, The Riviera, Switzerland,
and Italy, see him by turns; in each he has a white waistcoat,
of which Mr. CHAMBERLAIN might be proud, infinite occupation, and
infinite diversion; his nimbleness, his light-heartedness, his
languages, and his cigars, are inexhaustible.

How we besiege him in the morning! "Luncheon, ADOLF, for a party
of seven, in a basket--a _nice_ basket, you know--and don't forget
the corkscrew." "Yes, yes, I know--and you take the bottle-bier--it
is much better nor the warne. Ha! Ha!" What a laugh!--a roguish,
child-like merriment of a Greek-godlike character--or want of it.
Old Ladies talk to him quite trustingly at first sight; it's "ADOLF,
_have_ you such a thing as a bottle of gum--_gummi_, gum, you
understand"; or, "_Could_ you get me another cushion"? He can, and
does. As for the children, they love him; he romps with them, and does
conjuring tricks, and warbles innumerable songs. That man gets through
more in one day than the Prime Minister of England--and, between you
and me, I believe he is fully as capable--and yet he finds time to
write a letter to his old mother at Hamburg--I have seen him do it.
Perhaps it was about the cigars! The only people who hate ADOLF are
the Under-Waiters; he rules them with a rod of iron, marshalling their
heated battalions at _table d'hôte_, and plundering them of their
sweethearts; if he breaks anything (hearts included), it is they who
have to pay. It is ADOLF's only weakness--he is a bully to underlings
of his own trade. But then he has been an Under-Waiter once himself,
and suffering brutalises; however, he is outside the sphere of
morality, and I could pardon him almost anything.

From time to time his fascinations induce an Englishman or
Englishwoman to take this treasure home as a servant. But ADOLF in
livery, and ADOLF with his magic order-book, are two very different
people. Little things are missing; he becomes quarrelsome; the
gipsy-spirit returns--and he is off again, blithe as ever, on his
travels. "London very naice," he says, as you buy that infernal
Pestarena; "Porebier, very naise; 'Ampton Court, very naise; I know
dem, hein? But, is no sunshine, no air, no gaiety." And ADOLF cannot
exist without sunshine, air, and gaiety. Also he prefers being his own
master, which, as Head-Waiter, he practically is.

How insinuating he is about the food, "Some naice fishes? Dey was
laiving dis morning." And then, how accommodating! I was once in the
Grand Hôtel during the usual "exceptional season," when it rained
unintermittently for a fortnight; the place was empty; "tristeful,"
as ADOLF styled it. The genius played billiards with me every day, and
always won, though I rather fancy myself; and then how mindful he is
of your individual bettings. "I gif you dis place by de window--_to do
you joy_!" he ejaculates. The simple creature, he is constantly trying
to "make you please."

I always present ADOLF with ten shillings--five on arrival, and five
on departure. This procures me many harmless little privileges; and
when old BROWN calls him an impertinent brute, I know that BROWN and
ten shillings are difficult to part.

There is nothing ADOLF will not do for you for a sovereign--but I
cannot run to this; and yet this is the impression he has made.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LITTLE VAGUE!

_Affable Landlady_ (_to her new Artist Lodger_), "AND I SUPPOSE, SIR,
YOU COMES FROM ABROAD!"

_Foreign Lodger_. "SO! I GOME VROM AUSTRIA."

_A.L._ "DO YOU HINDEED, SIR? FROM HOSTRIA! AH! HOW THAT'S WHERE THE
HOSTRICHES COMES FROM, I SUPPOSE?!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD AND NEW PEER.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Look here! I've done good service in my time, and
no one likes to see himself deprived of an honoured title, or forced
to take a back seat. I've been trodden under-foot over and over
again--but I've borne it with fortitude, and never, never given way.
Now, what do I hear? That a Gentleman, a Government Whip, for whom I
have the highest esteem and respect, is now to assume the title which,
by right of position, place, time, and prescription, belongs to me,
and _to me only_, I can bear much, but, after so many years of devoted
service, during which, with all my opportunities, I have never once
made any attempt to leave my place to go higher up, or to go lower
down, or, in either case, to go with the tide, I cannot, and, indeed,
will not, yield my title to anyone, however good and useful to his
Party he may have been, but proudly declaring myself as good as any
"Sprig of Nobility," even as this one who cometh up as a Flower, I
beg, protestingly, to remind the world at large that I am "_Nulli
Secundus_," and _de facto et dejure_,

THE ONLY BATTERSEA PEER.

P.S.--Spell it with an "i" or "e," it's all one. If my "i" is put out,
and "_he_" has got in instead, that's a mere quibble or quebble.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Cowley Lambert.]

[Illustration: H. Campbell.]

MEMBERS WE SHALL MISS.

Our Old Parliamentary Artistic Hand been at it again; looking with
eyesight blurred with sorrow on familiar forms of some Members
stranded at General Election. Dismembered, and, for some time at
least, not to be remembered. COWLEY LAMBERT always been a rover. Went
Midland Circuit for short time, and having made the Circuit, made for
home. Then he accomplished "A Trip to Cashmere and Ladak." Opportunity
now for varying itinerary, and making a "Trip to Ladak and Cashmere."
Must be moving somewhere. Wrote himself down in _Dod_ "a Progressive
Conservative." Has now progressed out of sight of the Chair. This
particular CAMPBELL is neither coming nor going. He's gone.

PULESTON seems quite pleased to find LLEWELLYN sitting there, all
unconscious of his doom. PULESTON a little astonished himself when
things went bad at Carnarvon. Only short time ago made Constable of
Castle; thought P.C. PULESTON sure to come in at head of poll; but,
"from information received," appears he didn't.

[Illustration: E.H. Llewellyn.]

[Illustration: Sir J.H. Puleston.]

Observe the eye of HAVELOCK-ALLAN on the alert. He cannot see behind
his back, but instinctively knows there is an Irish Member in the
vicinity. His teeth close, his moustache curls, his eyes glare. He
once publicly, in course of debate, sat upon an Irish Member; not
metaphorically, but physically. Irish Member, when he wriggled from
under, appealed to SPEAKER on point of order. SPEAKER ruled proceeding
decidedly out of order. "But I sat on him, TOBY, dear boy," HAVELOCK
said, triumphantly; "and I shall retain the impression to end of my
life."

[Illustration: THE GRAND OLD GARDENER.]

[Illustration: Sir H. Havelock-Allan.]

[Illustration: A.A. Baumann.]

"So will he," I observed, when HAVELOCK was safe out of hearing. He
doesn't like retorts.

The sketch of BAUMANN evidently taken at the moment he heard the
announcement of poll at North Salford. Seems to have knocked him
rather of a heap. Was known in House as Cupid's Bowman; a smart able,
useful Member, whom we shall all be glad to see back again.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration: A Poppylar Writer in Poppy Land.]

"'Over the Hills and far away!' follow yours faithfully CLEMENT
SCOTT." This is the full title, and signed advice to the public given
on the frontispiece of his little shilling book published by EGLINTON.
It is dedicated to Sir EDWARD LAWSON--"right thing to do my boy!"--and
appropriately so, as if the Baron's memory runneth not to the
contrary, most if not all the articles in this author's little
holiday-book have appeared at some time or other in the _D.T._, and
do not suffer any D.T.rioration by being bound up together in this
shilling volume. It tells of a visit to Hayling, where he picked up
health, strength, and an aspirate, when he went there ailing; he tells
of Suffolk, where a branch of the Great Punchian Family is settled,
known as The Suffolk Punches; he prattles of _Honeymoon Land_, where
he met the man with seven wives, each of whom had a cat, and to each
cat there was a kit, and to each wife a kit too, it is to be hoped,
in the shape otherwise of a _trousseau_, and of many other pleasant
restful places and refreshing jaunts he tells delightfully. "But of
all the pleasant places in which his lines have fallen, commend me,"
quoth the Baron,--"and the lines he has written will send many to
these pleasant places--(But O the Trippers!)--of all these give me the
_Flower Farm at Holy Vale_ and the _Valley of Ferns_." If the reader
cannot go to all the sweet resorts herein mentioned, let him be
induced by the first article to visit _Holy Vale_, and he will find
CLEMENT SCOTT an admirable guide for "the Scilly Season." Of course
our NOT-YET-DUN-SCOTUS hath visited the Cyril-Flower-Farm on the
Norfolk Coast. Advice: Stand not on the money-order of your going, but
go at once, and stop there. As to money, remember your Uncle dwells in
Poppy Land, quoth their true friend,

THE TRAVELLED BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S.--A youthful shootist bought the Poppyland book because he thought
that it would tell him all about where to go popping. Also a bashful
suitor was misled by the title, hoping that in Poppy Land he would
learn how to "Pop--the question." The Learned Author has not said one
word about the "weasels that go pop," which, of course, are natives of
Poppy Land.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE."

[Illustration]

  It surely sounds a pretty phrase,
    Some pöesy for woe it wins,
  Commemorating roundelays
    And troubadours and mandolins:
  We seem to view some minstrel-boy
    Beside his shattered music mute,
  The shattered string, the ruined joy--
    The Rift within the Lute.

  How swift the slip from tune to twang!
    Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did;
  For e'en the Roman poet sang
    "_Surgit amari aliquid_."
  Our pigmy worries turn us grey;
    And sorrows fierce are less acute;
  Our hearts are riddled every day
    With Rifts within the Lute.

  You envy FORTUNATUS--rich--
    A charming bride--subservient friends.
  To rival him were something which
    The dream of Avarice transcends.
  That charming bride a mother owns
    Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute:
  She mars his life's entrancing tones--
    His Rift within the Lute!

  Then, PEREGRINE--he journeys far;
    Unshackled, he by toil's routine:
  By turns he quaffs a samovar
    Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene.
  "Strong as a horse!"--ah! there's the string
    That snaps asunder--"to recruit."
  He wanders, manufacturing
    A Rift within his Lute.

  And DULCINEA! What a life!
    Adoring crowds, adornments rare
  And many fain to call her wife,
    And sue her smiles in Belgrave Square.
  And yet her Fetch-and-carry swears
    He heard her, while he pressed his suit,
  Sigh, "Bored to desperation!"--there's
    A Rift within that Lute.

  What need more trivial ills to quote,
    The freshly-furnished house that shines,
  The coxcomb's fashionable coat,
    Both brushed and polished "to the nines,"
  Both yielding to some fatal flaw;
    A crack; a fiend who plays the flute;
  Both, both examples of the law
    Of Rift within the Lute.

  Whate'er the dulcet instrument
    We favour, still the lilt will stop;
  And with a gorgeous chalice blent
    Oft lurks the tiny poisoned drop.
  I'm not so spry myself to-night;
    I'll try a dose of arrowroot.
  You'll own that Indigestion's quite
    A Rift in any Lute!

       *       *       *       *       *

"WALKER ART GALLERY."--Show commences this week at Liverpool. _The_
WALKER was a Genius. But is this show all "Walker," or the genuine
article? Has Mr. J.L. TOOLE, of _Walker, London_, anything to do with
it? No doubt it's quite "'O.K.' WALKER, Liverpool."

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITICAL PRIZE RING RIDDLE.--Why was the win of the Gladstonian Party
at Newcastle like the triumph of a single-fisted pugilist over
his two-handed opponent? Because the victory was achieved with one
"MORLEY."

       *       *       *       *       *

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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