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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, August 26th 1893
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, Vol. 105, August 26th 1893" ***

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VOLUME 105, August 26th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_


(_By Cunnin Toil._)


A day or two after the stirring events which I have related as taking
place at Blobley-in-the-Marsh, and of which, it will be remembered,
I was myself an astonished spectator, I happened to be travelling,
partly for business, partly for pleasure, through one of the most
precipitous of the inaccessible mountain-ranges of Bokhara. It is
unnecessary for me to state in detail the reasons that had induced
me once more to go so far a-field. One of the primary elements in a
physician's success in his career is, that he should be able to guard,
under a veil of impenetrable silence, the secrets confided to his
care. It cannot, therefore, be expected of me that I should reveal why
his Eminence the Cardinal DACAPO, one of the most illustrious of the
Princes of the Church, desired that I should set off to Bokhara. When
the memoirs of the present time come to be published, it is possible
that no chapter of them will give rise to bitterer discussion than
that which narrates the interview of the redoubtable Cardinal with the
humble author of this story. Enough, however, of this, at present. On
some future occasion much more will have to be said about it. I
cannot endure to be for ever the scape-goat of the great, and, if the
Cardinal persists in his refusal to do me justice, I shall have, in
the last resort, to tell the whole truth about one of the strangest
affairs that ever furnished gossip for all the most brilliant and
aristocratic tea-tables of the Metropolis.

I was walking along the narrow mountain path that leads from Balkh
to Samarcand. In my right hand I held my trusty kirghiz, which I had
sharpened only that very morning. My head was shaded from the blazing
sun by a broad native mollah, presented to me by the Khan of BOKHARA,
with whom I had spent the previous day in his Highness's magnificent
marble and alabaster palace. As I walked I could not but be sensible
of a curiously strained and tense feeling in the air--the sort
of atmosphere that seems to be, to me at least, the invariable
concomitant of country-house guessing-games. I was at a loss to
account for this most curious phenomenon, when, looking up suddenly,
I saw on the top of an elevated crag in front of me the solitary and
impassive figure of PICKLOCK HOLES, who was at that moment engaged on
one of his most brilliant feats of induction. He evinced no surprise
whatever at seeing me. A cold smile lingered for a moment on his firm
and secretive lips, and he laid the tips of his fingers together in
his favourite attitude of deep consideration.

[Illustration: "Holes opened it, and read it."]

"How are you, my dear POTSON?" he began. "What? not well? Dear me,
dear me, what can it mean? And yet I don't think it can have been the
fifth glass of sherbet which you took with the fourteenth wife of the
KHAN. No, I don't think it can have been that."

"HOLES, you extraordinary creature," I broke in; "what on earth
made you think that I drank five glasses of sherbert with the KHAN'S
fourteenth wife?"

"Nothing simpler, my dear fellow. Just before I saw you a native
Bokharan goose ran past this rock, making, as it passed, a strange
hissing noise, exactly like the noise made by sherbert when immersed
in water. Five minutes elapsed, and then you appeared. I watched you
carefully. Your lips moved, as lips move only when they pronounce the
word fourteen. You then smiled and scratched your face, from which
I immediately concluded you were thinking of a wife or wives. Do you
follow me?"

"Yes, I do, perfectly," I answered, overjoyed to be able to say so
without deviating from the truth; for in following his reasoning I
did not admit its accuracy. As to that I said nothing, for I had drunk
sherbert with no one, and consequently had not taken five glasses with
the fourteenth wife of the KHAN. Still, it was a glorious piece of
guess-work on the part of my matchless friend, and I expressed my
admiration for his powers in no measured terms.

"Perhaps," said HOLES, after a pause, "you are wondering why I am
here. I will tell you. You know Lady HILDA CARDAMUMS?"

"What, the third and loveliest daughter of the Marquis of SASSAFRAS?"

"The same. Two days ago she left her boudoir at Sassafras Court,
saying that she would return in a quarter of an hour. A quarter of an
hour elapsed, the Lady HILDA was still absent. The whole household was
plunged in grief, and every kind of surmise was indulged in to account
for the lovely girl's disappearance. Under these circumstances the
Marquis sent for me, and that," said HOLES, "is why I am here."

"But," I ventured to remark, "do you really expect to find Lady HILDA
here in Bokhara, on these inhospitable precipices, where even the
wandering Bactrian finds his footing insecure? Surely it cannot be
that you have tracked the Lady HILDA hither?"

"Tush," said HOLES, smiling in spite of himself at my vehemence.
"Why should she not be here? Listen. She was not at Sassafras Court.
Therefore, she must have been outside Sassafras Court. Now in Bokhara
_is_ outside Sassafras Court, or, to put it algebraically,

  in Bokhara = outside Sassafras Court.

Substitute 'in Bokhara' for 'outside Sassafras Court,' and you get
this result--

'She must have been in Bokhara.'

Do you see any flaw in my reasoning?"

For a moment I was unable to answer. The boldness and originality of
this master-mind had as usual taken my breath away. HOLES observed my
emotion with sympathy.

"Come, come, my dear fellow!" he said; "try not to be too much
overcome. Of course, I know it is not everybody who could track the
mazes of a mystery so promptly; but, after all, by this time you of
all people in the world ought to have grown accustomed to my ways.
However, we must not linger here any longer. It is time for us to
restore Lady HILDA to her parents."

As HOLES uttered these words a remarkable thing happened. Round the
corner of the crag on which we were standing came a little native
Bokharan telegraph boy. He approached HOLES, salaamed deferentially,
and handed him a telegram. HOLES opened it, and read it without moving
a muscle, and then handed it to me. This is what I read:--

  "_To HOLES, Bokhara._

    "_HILDA returned five minutes after you left. Her watch
    had stopped. Deeply grateful to you for all your trouble.

There was a moment's silence, broken by HOLES.

"No," he said, "we must not blame the Lady HILDA for being at
Sassafras Court and not in Bokhara. After all, she is young and
necessarily thoughtless."

"Still, HOLES," I retorted, with some natural indignation, "I cannot
understand how, after your convincing induction, a girl of any
delicacy of feeling can have remained away from Bokhara."

"I knew she would do so," said my friend, calmly.

"HOLES, you are more wonderful than ever," was all that I could
murmur. So that is the true story of Lady HILDA CARDAMUMS' return to
her family.

       *       *       *       *       *


  In our London streets, for native or stranger,
  We ought to have notice-boards warning of "Danger!"
  Like those on the Thames near the weirs and locks.
  When Premiers collide, and when Princes get shocks,
  In cabs or in carriages, King Street way driving,
  'Tis time that street warnings the wise were contriving.
  For now it is clear that you might as well try
  To steer a balloon through a thundery sky,
  Or take a stroll near the setting of sun
  In a suburb where cads upon bicycles run;
  Or command--or serve in--an ironclad fleet,
  As--take a drive down St. James's Street!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_An old Nursery Rhyme Re-adapted._)



    ["Inspired, as it may be presumed, by the more or less remote
    prospect of the termination of the Home-Rule debate, the
    political creditors of the Government are vieing with one
    another in urging their respective claims to priority of
    payment."--_Morning Post._

    "Their bills are the promises of the Newcastle

       *       *       *       *       *


  My ANGELINA once enjoyed
    The mild lawn-tennis all the day,
  And did not scorn to be employed
    In croquet's unexciting fray;
  O truly happy seasons, when
    I think of you, I wish you back,
  For ANGELINA had not then
    Become a golfing maniac!

  But now of none of these she thinks,
    All such pursuits she reckons "slow,"
  And spends the days upon the links,
    Where nevermore I mean to go:
  For I recall the heartless snubs,
    Which those enchanting lips let fall,
  When I demolished several clubs,
    And lost my temper, and the ball.

  To-day the fickle maid prefers
    With young MACDUFF to pass her time,
  Because his "putting," she avers--
    Whatever that be--"is sublime;"
  And when I get a chance to state
    The deep affection felt by me,
  She interrupts me to relate
    How well she did that hole in three!

  I love my ANGELINA still,
    Yet he who chose her as a wife
  Would be expected to fulfil
    A caddie's duties all his life;
  So, if I turn away instead,
    You will not hold me much to blame?
  How _can_ I woo her? She is wed
    Already--to this awful game!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EXPERTO CREDE.

_Corporal M'Taggart, of the Nairn and Elgin Highlanders (to

       *       *       *       *       *


  O feeblest game, how strange if you should rise
    To favour, _vice_ tennis superseded!
  And yet beneath such glowing summer skies,
    When wildest energy is invalided,
      Mere hitting balls through little hoops
      Seems work enough. One merely stoops,
    And lounges round, no other toil is needed.

  Upon a breezy lawn beneath the shade
    Of rustling trees that hide the sky so sunny,
  I'll play, no steady game as would be played
    By solemn, earnest folks as though for money--
      For love is better. Simply stoop,
      And hit the ball. It's through the hoop!
    My partner smiles; she seems to think it funny.

  My pretty partner, whose bright, laughing eyes
    Gaze at me while I aim another blow; lo,
  I've missed because I looked at her! With sighs
    I murmur an apologetic solo.
      The proudest athlete here might stoop,
      To hit a ball just through a hoop,
    And say the game--with her--beats golf and polo.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_From the Story of a Much-considered Nothing._)


THE Tramp was distinctly one of the Unemployed. He had no money, no
friends, no home. He had obtained some work a short while since.
The labour, of course, had been unskilled, and then there had come a
strike, and the Tramp and his mates had turned out with the rest. The
Tramp was a little annoyed, as he had been fairly satisfied to earn
bread and butter and meat, and above all, and before all, beer. But
the leaders of the strike had satisfied him that it was entirely for
his benefit. That as the Tramp could not work up to their standard, it
was their duty to work down to his--and yet get paid at the same
rate of wages belonging to the higher scale. This seemed to the Tramp
pleasant enough. But while he waited, he starved; so he was not sure
that the notion of the strike was so excellent after all. But then his
brain might have been clearer--it had not been fed (in common with the
rest of his body) for several days.

So the Tramp--weary, ragged, and tanned--wandered to the spot where
Labour was holding her Congress. The last meeting had been held, and
the final squabble settled when he reached his destination. There
were a couple of well-fed, healthy-looking men, dressed in good strong
broad-cloth, standing outside the meeting-place. They regarded the
Tramp with some surprise.

"Surely not a Member?" said the first.

"And of course not a Delegate?" hinted the second.

The tramp shook his head. He knew nothing about Members and Delegates.

"I thought not," said Number One. "All our Members and Delegates are
quite of respectable appearance."

"Got nothing to do," replied the Tramp, laconically.

"Why don't you try the Colonies?" asked Number Two. "There has been an
immense fall in the value of land in Australia. You would get it cheap
just now. Why not emigrate? Why not acquire some land?"

"I don't want land, I want food!" returned the Tramp.

"Well, when we have a vacancy, you shall become one of us. We eat,
drink, and talk; but we don't work. It's the best employment out." And
the Tramp found it so.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Dear POLLY,--These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror.
  They gives _me_ twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court
          Road Terror,
  Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher;
  But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher.

  "Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez SAM JONES, our neighbour.
  "I'm glad to 'ear it, SAM," sez I. "But, SAMMY, wot _is_ Labour?"
  SAM gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday.
  Bit bosky, SAM, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday.

  "Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, SAM! You 'orny-'anded codgers--
  _Your_ palm's as soft as putty, SAM--are reglar Artful Dodgers.
  Yer Labour, with a capital L, looks mighty fine in print, SAM,
  But _work_ with a small w--ah! I see yer takes the 'int, SAM."

  That shut _him_ up, the lolloper! He know'd I'd took his measure,
  And squelching 'umbugs always do give me pertikler pleasure.
  JONES sorter set 'is cap at me; I earn good money _I_ do;
  But love as follows L.S.D. 's all fol-der-riddle-dido!

  "Bashing a knobstick's ripping fun, no doubt--for them as bashes;
  But this here new petroleum game won't work." Here JONES'S lashes--
  They're stubby, ginger, sly-fox ones--got kinder tangle-twinkle.
  I 'ad my eye on 'im, the worm, while working out my winkle.

  (I'd got a pennorth in a bag; they're things to which I'm partial.)
  "We _must_ bust up Mernopoly," sez SAM, a-looking martial.
  "The 'Oly Cause o' Labour carn't be stayed by trifles, 'ARRIET!
  JUDAS must 'ang, 'twere weakness to show mercy to ISCARIOT!"

  "Bit o' yer platform gag," sez I. "You keep it for the club, SAM.
  'Twon't comfort me, nor your old mother toiling at the tub, SAM.
  The 'Oly Cause o' Labour, SAM 's, a splendid thing to spout about,
  But it's a thing as skulkers makes _the_ most tremenjus rout about."

  I'm only just a work-girl, POLL, one of the larky drudges
  As swarm acrost the bridge at night and 'omeward gaily trudges,
  A tootling "_Ta-ra-boom-de-ay_," a chaffing of the fellers,
  And flourishing their feathered 'ats bright reds, and blues and

  As vulgar as they make 'em, POLL. Leastways the chaps whose trade is
  To write and dror in Comics, call hus "anythink but ladies."
  Ladies? O lor! On thirteen bob a week, less sundry tanners
  For fines, it's none so easy, POLL, to keep up style and manners.

  But work-girls _work_, and that is more than SAM and _'is_
          sort--drat 'em!
  When I see shirks platforming, POLL, I'm longing to get at 'em.
  When Women's Rights include the charnce of gettin' a fair 'earing
  For Women's Wrongs--wy then there'll be less bashing and less

  As for the Vote--well, _I_ dunno. It seems pertikler curious
  That politics makes a man a hass, they drives the fellers furious.
  If Votes sets women by the ears, as they does men, my winky!
  I guess 'twill make domestic life even more crabbed and kinky.

  Wy _my_ young man--you know 'im, POLL--whose temper's real milky,
  Whose 'art is soft as 'is merstarche--and that is simply silky--
  Got that rouged up on polling day, along of a young Tory
  As called him names. I 'ad to 'ug 'im off to stop the gory.

  The chap was in the 'atting line, and thought BALFOUR a 'ero;
  Whereas my MICK 'as Hirish blood, and calls 'im "Niminy Nero."
  I don't a bit know what they meant, but if them votes should send
  As fairly off our chumps as men, the shine _will_ be tremendous!

  We _shall_ 'ave a fair beano then! Well, I'm not nuts on voting.
  Your 'ARRIET'S lay is--better pay! _That's_ not wot they're
  Them spouting Labour Candidates. Of women's work they're jealous;
  _They_ light the fire to warm _hus_? Bah! they're only good at

  Their Eight 'Ours Day, and such-like rot, gives me the 'ump, dear
  Wouldn't some women like it, though? Well, 'oping for it's folly,
  Like longing for a seal-skin _sweet_, or a Marquige for a lover.
  Man's work may be too long sometimes, a woman's _never_ over.

  Leastways, a _married_ woman's, POLL. MICK'S 'ot on me to "settle,"
  But eighteen bob a week--his screw--ain't much to bile the kettle;
  And I ain't 'ad my fling, not yet. MICK'S reglar smart and sparky,
  But--when a woman's fairly spliced, it's U. P. with the larky.

  And oh my, POLL, I _do_ love larks! Theayters, 'ops, and houtings
  Warm a girl's 'art a rare sight more than politics and spoutings.
  MICK says he 'as his eye upon a "flat," neat and commojus.
  MICK'S a good sort, but tied for life to toil--at eighteen? Ojus!

  'Ard Labour, and for life, without the hoption! That's a sentence
  As 'ot as 'ARRY 'ORKINS'S, and no place for repentance.
  Ah, POLL, my girl, a woman's work _is_ Labour, and no skulking.
  _It_ must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking.

  Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations.
  The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations,
  Like you and me, POLL, _'as_ a chance of larky nights and jolly
  Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays.

  But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle,
  A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, MICK may spoon and wheedle,
  But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin,
  Then marriage _is_ a failure, POLL, I give yer the straight griffin.

  The goodies slate us shop-girls sharp, say married life or sarvice
  Are more _respectabler_. Oh lor! Just look at poor JANE JARVIS!
  She were a dasher, JENNY were, 'er fringe and feathers took it,
  And now--'er only 'ope's that BILL may tire of 'er and 'ook it.

  You know that purple hostrich plume she were so proud of, POLLY!
  I bought it on 'er for five bob larst week, and it looks jolly
  In my new 'at. But as she sat a snivellin' o'er that dollar,
  Thinks I if this is married life 'ARRIET'S not game for collar.

  She looked so suety and sad, and all them golden tresses
  She was so proud of when it ran to smart new 'ats and dresses,
  Was all tight knotted round 'er knob like oakum on a mop, POLL.
  Her bright blue eyes in mourning, and--well, there, I couldn't
          stop, POLL.

  Labour? Well yus, the best of hus must work; yer carn't git quit
          of it;
  And you and me, POLL, like the rest, must do our little bit of it.
  But oh, I loves my _freedom_, POLL, my hevenings hoff is 'eaven;
  But wives and slavies ain't allowed even one day in seven.

  Jigger the men! SAM spouts and shouts about the 'Onest Worker.
  That always means a Man, of course--_he's_ a smart Man, the shirker!
  But when a Man lives upon his wife, and skulks around his diggings,
  Who is the "'Onest Worker" then?--Yours truly,


       *       *       *       *       *



DASH BLANK was a genius. He had been an immense success at school,
and had done admirably at the University. He then came up to town and
tried many things. He was a poet, a musician, an artist, an inventor.
And everyone he knew, said it was absolutely wonderful, and that he
should make a fortune. But just at the moment he had a fair income,
which had been left to him by his deceased relative, and there was
no occasion to augment his means. On the contrary, if anything,
his accomplishments were rather a loss to him than a gain. So the
situation existed for a time.

Then came a crash in the City, and poor DASH BLANK found himself
penniless. It was then he tried to turn his talents to account, but
found that their market value was _nil_, or even less.

But, fortunately, he was "such a genius," and to persons of that class
often come what may be termed happy thoughts.

DASH BLANK disappeared--completely, absolutely. His absence remained
unnoticed for some time, and then, of a sudden, his death got into
the papers. It was copied from one journal to another, until the
intelligence was conveyed from one end of the Empire to the other.
Then some one made the discovery that DASH BLANK had not been
appreciated. Immediately all his brilliant failures were unearthed,
and advertised into popularity. His poems on republication realised
hundreds, and his pictures thousands; his wonderful invention was
patented, turned into a Company of Limited Liability, and quickly
realised a fortune. DASH BLANK was a name to conjure with--it was
typical of success.

At length a statue was erected to his memory, and the unveiling became
an important function. All sorts of smart people were present, and the
finest things imaginable were said about his career. When it was all
over, the Sculptor was left alone with what had been recently termed
his "masterpiece."

"No," said he; "it is not a bit like poor DASH. I never could get his

"It's not bad," observed a man in a cloak, who had come up while
he was murmuring, and who now stood beside him; "not at all bad,
considering he never gave you a sitting."

"That's true enough," replied the Sculptor; "but how did you know it?"

"Because I happen to be DASH BLANK himself!" and then the man in the
cloak threw off that covering, and revealed his identity.

After this came an explanation. The genius noticing that when a clever
man dies there is always a run upon his works, died himself. At any
rate that was the impression in the minds of everyone save a friendly
executor, who collected the money for his estate. Then the friendly
executor paid the proceeds to the imaginary deceased.

"And shall you resume work?" asked the Sculptor, after he had
recovered from his astonishment.

"Not I. You need be under no alarm that anyone will compare your
portrait with the original. I have had enough of work, and with my
recently accumulated capital, shall try my hand at speculation. Good
bye, if you are in my neighbourhood, look me up. You will find me
anywhere between the Arctic and Antarctic Zones." And then he went
over to America, put his money into wooden nutmegs, and promptly
became a millionaire.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Solemn Social Ditty._)


  In a region where freshly-built suburbs lie ending
    'Mid plots of the glum market-gardener's ground,--
  Its bare, tenantless frontages gloomily blending
    With grime and neglect that are rampant all round,
  Runs the street, so forlorn it could not be forlorner,
    Where, looking straight down a "no thoroughfare" road,
  With the blaze of a new public-house at the corner,
    The sad "One-horse" Householder finds his abode!

  'Tis a wilderness wild of dread dilapidations,
    Where one feeble gas-light illumines the street,
  While right over the way fourteen kitchen foundations
    Of houses unfinished the aching eye greet!
  How he first chanced to find it his friends often wonder.
    No omnibus runs within miles of his door,--
  Nor a train, be it either above-ground or under,
    Wakes life with its thrice welcome whistle and roar.

  If you call at that house, you'll be knocking and ringing,
    Till, with forcible language, you're leaving the place,
  When a slavey, who comes up the hall gaily singing,
    Flings open the door, with a smut on her face.
  You ask "if they're in," and she looks you all over,--
    It's clear she's quite new to an afternoon call,--
  P'raps takes you for _Turpin_, _Bill Sikes_, the _Red Rover_;
    But she says that she'll "see," and leaves you in the hall.

  You are ushered upstairs, which a Dutch carpet graces,
    To a drawing-room, curtained at threepence a yard,
  Where Japanese gimcracks appear in odd places,
    Though ASPINALL clearly has proved their trump card;
  For here it envelopes a plain kitchen-table,
    There a weak wicker lounge which invites not repose;
  And at length you are seated, as well as you're able,
    On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.

  But they offer you tea, made with unboiling water,
    A syrupy Souchong at tenpence a pound,
  Which a simpering, woebegone, elderly daughter,
    With stale bread rancid buttered, is handing around.
  And you think you'll be off: as your talk halts and flounders,
    For you feel most distinctly, _they're not in your line_,
  And you say to yourself, "Yes, these JOHNSONS _are_ bounders,"
    But before you can go, _you have promised to dine_!

  That same dinner will take you some seasons forgetting!
    The claret was sour, the "tinned" oysters, Blue Point;
  And moreover 'tis really a little upsetting,
    For the cook to come up very drunk with the joint!
  And when to crown this you are asked to expel her,
    And find a Policeman,--that is, if you could.
  It may soothe you to hear yourself called "a good feller,"
    But can you admit that the dinner was good?

  And so when you meet JOHNSON going up to the City,
    It somehow to-day does not strike you as odd,
  That with feelings of scorn not unmingled with pity,
    You hurry on fast with a stiff little nod.
  Be his craze "speculation," "a crush," "a small dinner,"
    A christening, marriage, a death or a birth,--
  There's a limpness of purpose that shows, though no sinner.
    Why the dim "One-horse" Householder cumbers the earth!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LIVELY PROSPECT.

_Jones (who has come, for the first time, to spend a week at

anywhere else._]

       *       *       *       *       *


See in the papers that school-children at Whissendine and elsewhere
are taught gardening. Excellent idea, this. Small Holdings for
Small Boys! Decide to try it at my "Select Academy for the Sons of
Gentlemen," as kitchen garden certainly _does_ want attending to, and
I can't afford a gardener. Tell the boys about it. They want to know
if the hour a day which I purpose to devote to Agriculture is to take
the place of _Bradley's Latin Exercises_. On hearing that it is, boys
seem relieved, and SMITH JUNIOR pronounces the scheme a "jolly lark."
I confess I am pleased to find this appreciation of my new arrangement
on the part of the most troublesome urchin in the school.

_Next Day._--All the boys are now provided with separate plots,
spades, rakes, and hoes. Youth, in fact, is at the Plough, and Myself
at the Helm, so we ought to get on all right. I purchase for them
some young cabbage-plants and cucumber-seeds, which will go down as
"extras" in the bills at the end of Term. Boys very active first day.
SMITH JUNIOR breaks his spade, and gets fifty lines. JONES astonishes
me by talking about "Three Acres and a Cow." Find that his father is
a strong Radical. Must be careful what I say to JONES. The general
opinion seems to be that Gardening is better than _Bradley's
Exercises_ "by long chalks." Encouraging.

_Week Later._--In order to gain my prize for best cabbages, boys have
been stimulating their growth with a guano made of chopped bones,
slate-pencil dust, and ink! Surprisingly fine specimens in young
DODGER'S allotment. Too good to be true. Go out to inspect, take up
one of his cabbages, and find it has no roots. DODGER admits that
he bought them from village greengrocer. I remark humorously to
boys--"This is DODGER'S _plot_!" Boys cheer me, and, being indignant
at DODGER'S cheating, make him--so I hear afterwards--"run the
gauntlet" in the dormitory the same evening. Hope it will do the
little sneak good. SMITH JUNIOR tries to do circus trick on garden
roller. Nearly killed. Two hundred lines, and a page of _Bradley's
Exercises_. Hear him saying that "he wishes OLD SWATS (that's me)
would do his gardening himself, and see how _he_ likes it!" No,

_End of the Experiment._--Kitchen garden a wreck! There has been a
battle royal between FLASHBOYITES and SMITH JUNIORITES. FLASHBOY stole
all the spades, and entrenched himself in an earthwork, which the
other side stormed. SMITH JUNIOR bleeding but triumphant. Says
"gardening is much better far than _Bradley's Exercises_." Cucumbers
(bought as missiles) and potatoes lying all about. Several have got
through school-room windows! Letters arrive from parents. Thought
they would like the new agricultural departure as teaching their boys
something really useful. But they don't. Quite indignant. Say their
sons are "not intended for market-gardeners." SMITH JUNIOR'S parent
says _his_ boy is "meant for the Church." Didn't know this before.
SMITH JUNIOR will be an ornament of the Church Militant at any rate.
Drop the gardening, and go back to _Bradley_.

       *       *       *       *       *


  To what snug refuge do I fly
  When glass is low, and billows high,
  And goodness knows what fate is nigh?--
              My Cabin!

  Who soothes me when in sickness' grip,
  Brings a consolatary "nip,"
  And earns my blessing, and his tip?--
              The Steward!

  When persons blessed with fancy rich
  Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch,
  What say--"The case is hardly sich"?--
              My Senses!

  What makes me long for _real_ Free Trade,
  When no Douaniers could invade,
  Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?--
              My Luggage!

  What force myself, perhaps another,
  To think (such thoughts we try to smother)
  "The donkey-engine is our brother"?--
              Our Feelings!

  And what, besides a wobbling funnel,
  Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale,
  Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?--
              My Crossing!

       *       *       *       *       *


  The strongest always rule the roast.
    Yes! we believe it fully;
  So what's the natural result,
    When COOKE'S opposed by PULLEY?
  Vain contest--vain the gallant fight!
    The winner's safely booked,
  And forty-four good witnesses
    Affirm the _poulet's_ cooked.

[Illustration: THE POOR VICTIM!




       *       *       *       *       *



    Only fancy if the Earth were flat--
    As most of those who live upon it are--
  And you went too near the edge of it, and toppled from the ledge of it,
    And landed on a distant star!
    Only fancy, if you fell upon your feet,
    And recovered pretty quickly from the jar,
  And you understood the lingo which the people speak and sing, oh,
    Who dwell upon a distant star!
  Only fancy, only fancy, what a lot of things there are
    Very likely to be met with on a distant star.

    A goodish many things would prove
    Not exactly quite the same as here, I guess;
  P'raps the ladies _all_ are pretty, and the men all smart and witty,
    And marriage an unqualified success.
    P'raps, like WASHINGTON, they cannot tell a lie,
    And gossip is excluded from their talk;
  P'raps with them a thing of course is that beef isn't made of horses,
    And the milkmen haven't even heard of chalk!
                Only fancy, &c.

    Perhaps they've no occasion for police,
    Though they may keep just a few to spoon the cooks;
  If they do, no doubt they're wary whom they make Home Secretary,
    And the Chief Commissioner's chosen for his looks.
    Very likely, if they ever play a farce,
    It contains a pretty moral for the young,
  And perhaps their panorama has a mission, and their drama
    To the tune of the Old Hundredth's "said or sung."
                Only fancy, &c.

    Very likely they have guns that will not burst,
    And machinery that won't get out of gear;
  P'raps they've even ammunition in respectable condition,
    And vessels that are guaranteed to steer.
    And it's possible they have Vestries who refrain
    From swearing at each other when they meet;
  And, though _this_ isn't probable, they may have Boards "unjobable,"
    And Contractors who will neither bribe nor cheat.
                Only fancy, &c.

    A Parliament perhaps they may require,
    But its Members very likely don't obstruct,
  And each Government proposition just delights the Opposition,
    And anyone who makes a noise is "chucked."
    Very possibly they do not care for speech,
    But if indeed they've got a Grand Old Man
  In whom the fancy lingers, why, he talks upon his fingers,
    And they answer on the self-same plan!
                Only fancy, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. says there is such a scare now about typhoid, that she always
takes a tin of dis-connecting fluid about with her. She also says, a
bottle of automatic vinegar is very refreshing in church.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["Lady CARLISLE is training an entire staff of women
    gardeners, who, she hopes, will keep the grounds of her
    Yorkshire home in as perfect a condition as their male
    predecessors have done."--_Pall Mall Gazette._]

  Come into the garden, MAUD,
    Why has not the grass been mown?
  Come into the garden, MAUD,
    Those seeds have never been sown;
  I fear you've been taking your walks abroad--
    You blush like a rose full-blown.

  When the early snail first moves,
    Before the sun is on high,
  Beginning to gnaw the leaves he loves
    On the beds, you should always try
  To pick him off with your garden gloves,
    And stamp on him--he must die.

  You can't touch snails? Let that pass,
    I will smash each one in his shell;
  But when it rains you can roll the grass,
    When dry can water it well.
  You say you can't wet your boots--alas!--
    Nor work when it's warm, _ma belle_?

  And yet your wages you claim;
    I should like to know what you do.
  In truth I can't bear to blame
    Such a sweet pretty girl as you;
  So stop as my gardener all the same--
    I'll be master and workman too.

  Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
    Rough work should never be done
  By delicate hands as white as pearls,
    You only began for fun;
  So sit, with your parasol over your curls,
    Whilst I dig like mad in the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


_A Political Enigma. Compounded from the Press of the Period._


  He's hopeless of heaven, he's too bad for ----,
  (So say Unionist bards, and they ought to know well,)
  He is JUDAS-cum-CAIN with a _soupçon_ of OATES,
  An imperious despot, who grovels for votes;
  A mean truckling tyrant, an autocrat slave;
  A Knave who plays King, and a King who plays Knave.
  A haughty Commander, the tool of his troops,
  A swayer of "items," nose-led by his dupes;
  A Dog-despot, wagged by the tip of his tail,
  A Conspirator potent, whose plot's bound to fail;
  The land's greatest danger, because such a dolt;
  As ruler a scourge, because breeding revolt;
  As political guide ever banefully strong,
  Because the majority sees he is wrong.
  A prolix _Polonius_ who proves his senility
  By taking the shine out of youth and ability:
  A veteran lagging superfluous, whose age
  Puts him "out of it" so, that he fills the whole stage:
  So old that his age gives him every claim,
  Save to decent respect, which, of course, is a shame,
  And absurd "fetish-worship." As Lucifer proud
  And imperious, yet supple of knee to the crowd;
  A CORIOLANUS who plays the JACK CADE;
  A coward of nothing and no one afraid;
  A blundering batsman whom none can bowl out;
  A craven who staggers opponents most stout;
  A traitor who gives his whole life to the State,
  Whose zeal proves his spite, and his service his hate.
  A truckler to treason and trickster for place,
  Whose stubbornness oft throws him out of the race;
  A lover of power and public applause,
  Who dares to oppose the most popular cause.
  A talkative sophist who will _not_ explain;
  A bad-tempered man, ever bland and urbane:
  A casuist no one can half understand,
  But whose sinister purpose is plain as your hand;
  A vituperative and venomous foe,
  Whose speeches with calm magnanimity glow.
  In short, an old dolt, who inflicts dire defeat
  On the smartest young foes he can manage to meet;
  A powerless provoker of dreadful disasters,
  A master of slaves whose mere slaves are his masters;
  A voluble sphinx, and a simple chimæra
  The Age's conundrum, the _crux_ of his æra!


  If you can't give a guess at the theme of these rhymes,
  Why, peruse all the papers, and move with the times!

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that, with a view to economy, the Victorian
Legislature have cut down the salary of their future Governors to a
reasonable sum. Every one will applaud an act inspired by so worthy a
motive. Still, as the officials who have been thus deprived of some of
their emoluments have a certain state to keep up, I think it would
be only fair were that state also to undergo revision. With a view to
assisting in so desirable a programme, I jot down a few suggestions.

_Uniform._--Future Governors not to be required to wear gold lace.
Yellow braid to be sparingly used in decorating their frock-coats.
Dirks to be substituted for swords. Cocked-hats no longer to be
trimmed with feathers.

_Official Entertainments._--Governors no longer to be required to
ask Colonials to dinner. Luncheons with chops and steaks and boiled
potatoes to be substituted for extensive _menus_. Balls to be given
only occasionally, and guests to be served with the lightest of light
refreshments (sandwiches and lemonade); and if dancing be required,
dancers to supply their own orchestras.

_Attending State Functions._--Governors no longer to be expected to
appear in carriage and pair. Their Excellencies to be entitled to use
tram-cars, omnibuses, and bicycles. When laying a foundation-stone,
the Governors to be permitted to wear double-soled boots, and carry

_Miscellaneous._--To avoid expense, salutes will be dispensed with
as much as possible. When guns are fired, tubes to be used without
cartridges. Flags not to be flown in wet weather, and Chairs of State
always to be covered with brown holland. Gaslights to be sparingly
lighted, and wax-candles abolished.

There, my dear Sir, this should be a relief both to the goose and the
gander. It is quite right to economise, but it is a little strange to
find that we get our first hint in this direction from the Antipodes.

  Yours truly,

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


(_Possibilities for the next O. Wilde Play._) _Puppet Number One._
Let's come into the garden, MAUDLE. I adore the garden. Don't you know
that the book of at least one good play begins with some epigrams in
the garden, and ends with----

_Puppet Number Two._ Recitations--strictly puritanical. Well, let's
go into the garden: there's nothing but Nature to look at there, so we
will discuss----

_Puppet Number One._ The picture shows. It seems to me there are two
principles in modern art. The first is--give a picture a good name,
and they'll hang it.

_Puppet Number Two._ What's--ahem!--what _is_ in a name?

_Puppet Number One._ Usually a good deal more than is in the picture.

_Puppet Number Two._ And the second principle?

_Puppet Number One._ Art is short, and the life (of the average
Academician) is long.

_Puppet Number Two._ Ah, well. I suppose I shall have to ask you
sooner or later to define Art.

_Puppet Number One._ Certainly. Art is that which invariably goes one
better than Nature.

_Puppet Number Two (with a sigh)._ And what is Nature?

_Puppet Number One._ Nature is that which is not so natural as it is

_Puppet Number Two (with a groan)._ What about truth in Art then?

_Puppet Number One._ Ah! Truth is that one infirmity of a noble mind.

_Puppet Number Two._ Truth is nothing if not respectable.

_Puppet Number One._ Remember, respectability is an affectation, of
cynics, dramatic authors--and other people of no importance generally.

[_Exeunt severally. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. observes, "it is only too true that Summer pleasures, as the
poet says, are nearly always effervescent."

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, August 14._--Quite shocked to see ASHER
to-day. Strong constitution and a happy disposition united to make him
a picture of buoyant health. Observing him walk up floor of House
just now, hardly knew him. Shoulders bowed; arms hanging limp; cheeks
sallow; an unspeakable sorrow in his dimmed eyes.

"What's the matter, Mr. SOLICITOR?" I asked, instinctively falling
into the whispering tone proper in sick rooms. "Is it the state
of Scotch business that weighs upon your mind? or is it true, as
whispered, that necessity has been discovered for bringing in Bill
amending the Borough Police and Health Act, 1892, with its 435

"No," said ASHER; "I'm thinking of neither. My thoughts tend in quite
another direction. My heart is at Deeside, my heart is not here. I
have a moor there; you understand me--not a person of dark complexion,
who, after much conversation, disposes of his wife with the assistance
of a pillow. But a stretch of moorland, gorse-scented, grouse-haunted.
I awoke early on Saturday morning hearing the popping of the guns in
far-off Aboyne. Mere fancy, of course. You remember CHARLES LAMB'S
story about supping with some Scotchmen, and incidentally observing he
only wished, to make the joy complete, that BURNS were there? One by
one the Scotchmen got up and explained to him that BURNS had been dead
for ever so many years, and that it was practically impossible, in
view of the circumstances, that he could have been present; even, one
of them added, supposing they knew BURNS, and it had occurred to them
to invite him. So you will say that Deeside, being hundreds of miles
away, I could not hear the birds on the wing, or the pottering of the
guns. In a sense, that is true; but I heard them all the same; worse
still, heard them when I was in church yesterday, and should have been
hearing something else. I wouldn't mind missing a day, a week, or, in
the service of my QUEEN and country, a fortnight. What I see, and what
gars me greet, is the endless vista of nights and days we shall spend
here. If we get any shooting at all we shall begin with the pheasants.

  "O my BARTLEY, shallow-pated! O my TOMMY, such a bore!
  O, my dear belovèd moorland, shall I see thee evermore?"

ASHER'S case representative of many; only his despair is the more

_Business done._--Marking time in Home-Rule debate.

C. C.]

_Tuesday._--Just before eight bells, when all hands were piped below,
Admiral FIELD turned up in favourite character as the honest British
sailor. Rather modelled on transpontine style; a little unnecessarily
noisy; too humorously aggressive; hopelessly obvious. But in present
circumstances House grateful for anything; gleefully laughed whilst
the Admiral shivered his timbers, talked about losing his soundings in
a fog, declared against all shams, referred to himself as "honest and
modest sailor who believed in straightforward action, and refused to
have his eyes blinded by abstract proposals."

[Illustration: Admiral Field as the honest British Sailor.]

That last phrase didn't sound seafaring, but, as another honest sailor
was accustomed to say, its bearings lay in the application of it.
Motion before House was to eliminate Second Chamber from Home-Rule
scheme; brought forward by Radicals; situation difficult for
Opposition. If they voted against the Government they would be
declaring against principle of House of Lords. If they voted with
them they would be approving a proposition of the hated Bill. JOSEPH
judiciously got out of difficulty by declining to vote at all.
PRINCE ARTHUR elaborately explained that in going into Lobby with the
Radicals he was voting against a concrete proposal and in favour of
an abstract principle. This too subtle for COURTNEY, who announced his
intention of voting with Government who happened to agree with him in
approving principle of Second Chamber. It was amid these cross
blades that the Admiral, hitching up his trousers, danced a hornpipe.
TOMLINSON attempting to bring House back to more serious views,
Members with one accord rushed into Lobby, and Government came out
with majority of 83.

_Business done._--Seventh night in Report Stage Home-Rule Bill.

_Thursday._--"Whew!" said the Member for SARK. "I don't know what will
become of us if things go on much longer like this. With a PREMIER
over eighty, and the thermometer over 90, the situation is at least
unusual. Even JOSEPH not able to maintain his favourite attitude,
grafted on the iced cucumber. Just now Mr. G. made a passing remark,
quite mild compared with JOEY'S own sly hits. J. C. up on instant,
with boding brow and angry plaint that Mr. G. had attempted to slay
him with a sneer."

"Yes," said PLUNKET, "times _are_ hot. I don't know what we should do
without TOMMY BOWLES. The spectacle of his white ducks is to me as the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land. They talk about an army of
men in the basement working machinery that keeps the temperature ten
degrees below what it is marked on the Terrace. Also there is, it
seems, a ton and a half of ice melting in ventilating chambers at the
taxpayers' expense for our comfort. But I don't think ice is in
it with TOMMY'S ducks. Even if they were stationary it would be
something. But observe how, coming and going, TOMMY'S brain an argosy
of great thoughts, the ducks seem to skim over our prosaic floor,
calling up even to the unimaginative mind a vision of deep,
tree-shaded, quietly-rippling Broad, over which the wild duck swiftly
moves, waving white wings."

Only PLUNKET, I fancy, could evolve poesy out of to-night's scene; hot
above precedent, dull beyond endurance.

"PLUNKET'S duck picture cool and refreshing. But," said EDWARD OF
ARMAGH, drawing on his military experiences, "what we're doing just
now may be much more accurately described as the goose step."

Quite so. We sit all afternoon and far into the night, always talking,
sometimes dividing; every appearance of motion, no advance; feet
lifted with due sign of walking, but when midnight strikes and parade
dismissed we are found posted exactly at the same spot as that on
which we took our stand at half-past three in the afternoon.

If Mr. G. means business the sooner he gets about it the better.

_Business done._--None.

_Friday._--Mr. G. does mean business. Commences on Monday, when Motion
will be made to close Report Stage of Home-Rule Bill. Mere reference
to it set House bubbling with excitement. Mr. G.'s proposed Resolution
not yet drafted. "You know how it is," he said, smiling blandly
at PRINCE ARTHUR; "you've had a good deal of experience in drawing
Resolutions of this nature." But if Ministers not ready with their
Resolution, JOSEPH prepared with Amendment. Read it out amid lively

Conversation later conducted with much vigour across the Gangway,
where, a fortnight ago, GUNTER received an Irish Member (not iced)
full in pit of stomach. Once the Blameless BARTLEY signalled out
Member for South Donegal, mentioning him by name as responsible for
particular exclamations. "Don't presume to mention my name," said
MACNEILL, leaning across gangway.

[Illustration: Swift MacNeill refuses to be named.]

"Look here, BARTLEY," said TOMMY BOWLES, "if you're going on that
tack, you must come and sit at this side. When I saw MACNEILL open his
mouth to speak, I confess I thought I was going to be swallowed whole.
You sit here; there's more of you."

_Business done._--Notice given that business is about to commence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note:

Sundry damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired.

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