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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, August 10, 1895
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. 109, August 10, 1895" ***

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VOL. 109.

_August 10, 1895._


(_For the Circular Tourist_.)

    Tell me not, in Summer numbers,
      "Holidays are but a dream!"
    If you hold that vacs are slumbers,
      Well--things are not what they seem.

    COOK is real! GAZE is earnest!
      And the earth's end is their goal;
    "Bust" thou art, and "bust" returnest,
      Sing they to the tripper's soul.

    Not enjoyment--rather, sorrow
      Greets the tourist on his way;
    His to toil, that each to-morrow
      Find him farther on his way.

    Tours are long, and Time is fleeting,
      While we dire discomfort brave;
    In globe-trotting, record-beating,
      Pleasure surely finds its grave.

    Let us, still, each town be "doing,"
      Since "tow-rowing" is our fate--
    Then, half-dead with guide-pursuing,
      Brag o'er those at home who wait!

       *       *       *       *       *

"FORWOOD BOYS."--Sir ARTHUR FORWOOD, the new Baronet,
observes the Day-by-Day-istical writer in the _Daily Telegraph_, "is
not to be confounded with his brother, Sir WILLIAM FORWOOD."
Why not? Why interfere with the liberty of speech on the part of some
Radicals, who might say "Confound 'em both!" Or, in the words of the
National Anthem, "Confound their politics."

       *       *       *       *       *

Judge, at whose word the prisoner is to be let into the dock, and,
subsequently, let out again. Ladies and gentlemen, the prisoner is--the
water." (_Cheers._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PRESIDING DEITY. 1895.


       *       *       *       *       *


There have been JOES not a few on the stage. Coming down from
the time of JOE GRIMALDI, we pass on the way _Joseph Andrews_,
_Poll and Partner Joe_, _Poor Joe_ from _Bleak House_, and many other
JOES until we come to _Gentleman Joe_, hansom cab-driver,
played by ARTHUR ROBERTS. The question and answer in the old
idiotic nigger song applies appropriately here, with slight adaptation:

          What! _de_ JOE? Yes! _de_ JOE.
    Spruce JOE kicking up ahind and afore,
    KITTY LOFTUS playing up to Mister JOE.

And with the assistance of the always graceful PHYLLIS
BROUGHTON--of whom _Gentleman Joe_ might have sung, but doesn't,
"PHYLLIS is my only _Fare_"--aided also by the pretty-voiced
LETTIE SEARLE, helped by the sprightly earnestness of Miss
CLARA JECKS, who has turned over a new leaf and come out as a
page, and kept moving by the dashing "go" of Miss SADIE JEROME
(not at all a "sad eye" nor a "say die" sort of young lady) as _Lalage
Potts_, this two-act musical farce, beginning as a kind of _High Life
below Stairs_ and ending anyhow, offering, as it does, opportunities
to Our Only ARTHUR for introducing into it any amount of
"divarsion" in the way of new songs, eccentric speeches, nods, winks,
becks, and wreathed smiles, may be continuing its successful career in
the summer of '96, there being no apparent reason why its run should
ever stop, that is as long as _Gentleman Arthur Joe Roberts_ handles
the ribands as the popular _Cabbing-it Minister_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW TITLE.--Our GRACE, the cricketer, is not made
a "Sir" or raised to a dukedom. There is, however, in view of present
craze, a great chance for conferring the greater honour on a champion
bicyclist. His title would be "The Duke of WHEELINGTON."

       *       *       *       *       *


A DIVIDEND DESERVED.--The Glasgow Town Council has been
running its own tram-cars for a year past, and has cleared more than
£20,000 of profit for the citizens out of the business. There is huge
rejoicing on the Clyde, and no wonder, as the result is due to sheer
good management, without over-charging the public or over-driving the
drivers. The Tramways Committee reports:--

 Further, the Committee have given effect to what they believe to
 be the general feeling of the citizens--viz., that the cars, which
 necessarily form a notable feature of the streets of the city,
 should not only be tasteful in design and colour, and comfortable
 for passengers, but also that their general appearance should not be
 marred or their destinations obscured by advertisements.

Moral for many southern railway, tram, and omnibus companies--Go and do
likewise! Moral for Glasgow citizens--Get carried over your tram-lines
often enough, and you'll carry over a big dividend to decrease your
next year's rates!

       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-LIME!--This is how "business" is transacted by some of the
Youghal Town Commissioners. The question was--who should supply them
with lime!

 _Mr. Kennedy._ I propose that thirty-nine barrels be bought and paid

 _Mr. Loughlan._ I propose that he supply the lime at 1_s._ per barrel.

 _Mr. Long_ (_warmly_). I say the Board can't do anything of the kind.

 _Mr. Loughlan._ You'll get choked if you don't keep cool (_laughter_).

 _Mr. Long_ (_excitedly_). Take care of your windpipe (_laughter_). I
 suppose he gave you a few good lumps of lime (_loud laughter_).

 _Mr. Loughlan_ (_jumping up excitedly_). Now that is a gross insult.

 _The Chairman._ Order, order, gentlemen.

    Then Youghal's worried chairman raised a cry of "Order!"--when
    A lump of old white limestone took him in the abdomen;
    And he smiled a wan official smile and walked out at the door,
    And the tongues of LONG and LOUGHLAN interested him no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

PORKERS AND PAUPERS.--Bath Workhouse pigs "live on the best of
good cheer" in the form and substance of milk, so the municipal pork
and rate-aided bacon ought to be prime. The _Bristol Mercury_ reports a
meeting of the Bath guardians, when

 Mr. MANCHIP called attention to the fact that some of the
 children did not even touch their milk gruel and dry bread which
 was served out for breakfast. On Friday morning when the visitors
 were at the Workhouse at seven o'clock two buckets of milk gruel
 were taken out to the pigs. Mr. MANCHIP proposed that the
 Medical Officer be asked if he would be good enough at his earliest
 convenience to consider whether a change could be made in the
 children's diet. The Chairman thought if the gruel was sweetened with
 a spoonful of treacle the children would then like it. It was agreed
 to give the Chairman's suggestion a fortnight's trial.

Congratulations to the Bath children on being e-manchip-ated from their
old diet!

       *       *       *       *       *

For securing "absolute impartiality" in conferring the prizes at the
Llanelly National Eisteddfod, the judges had "a pit dug for them,"
into which they disappeared during the progress of competitions,
so that participators could not "fix them with a glittering
eye," and compel them (by hypnotic means) to award a prize. Sir
JOSEPH BARNBY--warbling, _sotto voce_, "This is my time for
disappearing"--greatly enjoyed these dives to the bottom of the well
in search of Truth, and no doubt the novel departure "assisted" the
blindness of Justice. But, so far as dignity is concerned, "Oh! the
pit-y of it."

       *       *       *       *       *

    We read of a cooky at Claughton,
    In music she was a self-taught'un;
          But her mistress, I fear,
          Said 'twas nothing but beer

that caused her cook to vociferate hymns and, in her harmonious
enthusiasm, to return home towards midnight and hammer loudly at the
door. We know not whether this melodious _cuisinière's_ recipe for
cleaning fire-irons "with a wet rag and a bucket of water" is to be
found in Mrs. GLASSE'S _Art of Cookery_, but the learned Judge
decided in favour of the mistress, against whom MARY ROGERS (a
poetical name forsooth) brought an action for unjustifiable dismissal.
Alas! poor cook. She must, henceforward, do her stewing without singing
and her "mashes" without melody.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mr. HENRY MCCALMONT gives "receptions" they will be
styled, not "_soirées_," but "After-Newnes."

       *       *       *       *       *


_Duke of W-stm-nst-r_ (_as they come out of the Hall, Chester_).


       *       *       *       *       *


(_By a Socialistic Loafer._)


    Besoide the worter in Sin Jimes's Pork,
    I've stritched meself ter snooze hunder this ole tree--
    But cawn't, fur all the keckle, screech, an' squork,
    From these yere ducks an' swans, an' sim'lar poultry!

    Them fowls is kep' up orf the Nytion's fun's;
    If yer chucked stones at 'em there'd be a fuss mide;
    They're reg'lar bustin' with the kikes an' buns
    As they gits frowed by hevery kiddy's nuss-mide!

    I'll lay a femily cud liv fur weeks
    On arf the screps them lyzy hoidle ducks re-jecks
    hevery hour, a-turnin' up their beaks,
    An' wallerin' in comfit an' in lux'ry!

    Whoy should the loikes o' them 'ave hall the luck,
    Whoile sech as me----? It's skendalus, I s'y 'tis,
    That--jest becos I ain't a bloomin' duck--
    Sercoiety don't grub and board me grytis!

    Some d'y we'll mike hour vices 'eard, in 'owls
    O' ryge, an' s'y to--well, no matter _'oo_ it is--
    "Ain't we more fit ter live nor worter-fowls?
    We're yumin beans--not feathered sooperflooities!"

    I'd cop thet one jess waddlin' hup the grorss,
    An' twist 'is neck--'e's honly fit fur cookin';
    I would, on _prinserple_, as bold as brorss--
    If that there bloomin' Keeper wasn't lookin'!

       *       *       *       *       *

"OH! LIZA."--Another subject for CHEVALIER. A special
meeting was held in Liverpool to protest against the presence of
Cockney costers who, it was asserted, seriously injured the business
of Liverpudlian "market-tenants." Mr. WALKER (is he of the
celebrated Hookey branch of the family?) averred that he had "seen a
coster with his barrow standing before the LORD MAYOR'S shop
for half-an-hour." Our sympathetic soul weeps at this gross injustice
to the worthy syndic, and we trust it will not cost-er him too much.
But, as the lawyer remarked, _de costibus non est disputandum_.

       *       *       *       *       *

SQUABBLES.--Mr. BOWIE wanted to have his Bowie-knife into
Mr. DIGGLE and others; but was prevented. A BOWIE,
not very sharp and without point, is rather a useless weapon in a fight.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WURM WURK!"--At Bexhill-on-Sea the "Improvement
Committee"--(how wise of Bexhill-on-Sea to have instituted a
permanent "Improvement Committee," otherwise it might become
Bexhill-_at_-Sea!)--has engaged the exclusive services of Herr
WURM and his band. New motto for this new watering-place, "The
Early Beaks-'ll catch the Wurm." The musical _pabulum_ here provided
will be known as "the Diet of Wurm's." Band to play during every meal.
Likewise "Wurm Baths" with music. The eminent conductor will Wurm
himself into favour with everyone.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Daily Telegraph_ notifies a novelty in return tickets introduced
by the South London Electric Railway. "The return half of the ticket is
usable at any time." The idea being not "Go as you please," but "Go as
we (the Co.) please, and come back as you like."

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


_À Monsieur Punch._

MONSIEUR,--_Je viens d'arriver_--but hold! I go to write in
english, which I know enough well. I am come to London to this Congress
of Geographs. I cross the Sleeve--_la Manche_, how say you? Ah _la
douleureuse traversée_, the dolorous traversy! In fine, the train
arrives at a station. I seek, I regard, I read the soap, the mustard,
the other _réclames_--how say you?--but not the name of the station.
Then a cry, "Londonbridg!" Ah, it is the station of London! _Sapristi_,
how she is little this station! _La gare de Londres_ no more great than
a station of _banlieue_, near to Paris. Eh well, I descend immediately.
I seek my baggages, I go to find a _fiacre_, a "ansom." Then in English
I say to the coacher, "George Street, Number Forty." "Olraïttseu," say
he. What is this that this is that that? I comprehend not. But all of
same I mount in carriage and we part.

Soon we arrive. Hold! This is a street of commerce; there is there but
offices. And not of number forty.

"Nottir, maounsiah?" say the coacher. Ah, I comprehend! "No," say I,
"not here." "Minnoriss," say he. "How?" say I; but we are in road.
Hold! Again a street of commerce--but of the most villain. I anger
myself. I cry, "Coacher, I have said you George Street." "Olraïtt,
maounsiah," say he, "this is George Street." "Not here," I respond. "Is
there two George Streets?" Then he swear, he laugh; he ask that he may
be blown; he say more, that I comprehend not. In fine, he say, "Taoua
Ill." Again a George Street. But here some warehouses only. Then the
coacher say, "Shoditch," and we go. Again a George Street! Still more
small! Again one time I anger myself. I ask to him, "Where go you?" He
say, "Which George Street is it?" I say, "George Street, London." Then
he laugh again, and he swear; and he say, "Ollaouai." Again a George
Street! _Tiens, c'est embêtant!_ But it is but a street of commerce,
and very little. "Islingtonn," say he. What! again a George Street?
_Sapristi! Quelle ville!_ If they love the name of George, these
English! But, no, still a poor little street. "Blakfraïahs," say the
coacher. We traverse some streets, some streets, without end! In fine,
see there number forty. But it is a little shop. _Mille tonnerres! Pas
encore!_ "Youstonn Road," say he. Again some streets, some streets,
without end! And again a street of commerce. And again the number forty
is a shop! _Sacré nom d'une pipe!_ "Lissn Grov," say he. Again some
_kilomètres_ to traverse. What! Again a George Street? How many of them
is there, of these George Streets? And again, as you say in english,
"No go." But all of same we go, for the coacher say "Manshestasquaiah."
I shut myself the eyes, and I repose myself.

Ah, that values better! In fine, a better street. And see, there number
forty! What joy! In fine, I arrive. How it is fatiguing, this course
in London, long of three hours or more! I descend. I demand my friend.
What? He live not here? He is gone? _A la bonne heure!_ "One more," say
the coacher. "What," I cry, "again a George Street?" "Yess, maounsiah,
Annovasquaiah." Then this one is not the house of my friend, this one
is not the George Street that I seek! _Que le diable enlève_----

But we continue, we arrive, in fine, it is here. All exhausted I
descend. How much pays one the course in London? In Paris it is 1·50.
Ah! in London it must be one shilling and half. This one has been a
long course; I go to give a good _pourboire_, one shilling. I offer
to the cabman two shillings and half. Then he cry, he swear, he
descend, he wish to fight me. I say, "It is not enough? How much?"
He say, "Tenbobb." What is this that this is that that? In fine, my
friends come from the house, they explain that that wishes to say,
"Ten shillings," they say he has reason, and I pay him. It costs dear
the cab of London. But it is equal to me, for now I go to pronounce a
discourse before the Geographical Congress on the George Streets of
London. He will be of the most interestings, of the most curious. I beg
you, Mister _Punch_, to make me the honour of to come to hear him, and
to agree the assurance of my sentiments the most distinguished.


       *       *       *       *       *


(_Fragments of a Brummagem Fairy Tale._)

It was in a big town in the Midlands that the Ugly Duckling first
chipped shell. "_Cheek! Cheek! Cheek!_" squeaked the youngster as he
crept out. How big and ugly he was, to be sure! Not a bit like the
other ducklings. In fact he was a portent, and a puzzle.

However, the ugly, grey-coated youngster, took to the water, and swam
about like the rest. "He's every inch my own child, after all," said
the old duck. "And really he's very pretty, when one comes to look at
him attentively. Quack! quack!" added she; "now, come along, and I'll
take you into high society. Now move on, and mind you cackle properly,
and bow your head before that old duck yonder, who is the noblest born
of them all. Now bend your neck, and say 'Quack!'"

But the Ugly Duckling was an odd bird, as well as an ill-favoured one,
and gave much trouble and excited much jealousy in the duck-yard. He
quacked indeed, but he would not bend his head or bow to the old duck

"He remained too long in the egg-shell," mused the maternal bird; "and
therefore his figure, like his manners, is not properly formed on the
true duck model. But as he's a male duck it won't matter so much. I
think he'll prove strong, and be able to fight his way through the
world." Which was true.

But at first the Ugly Duckling had a baddish time of it. He was bitten,
pushed about, and made game of, not only by the ducks, but by the hens.
They all declared he was much too big, and fancied himself too much.
He certainly was not graceful, and he had a cocky, self-assertive
air which irritated the Conservative Old Cockalorums. He was always
making unexpected and unducklike sorties, "alarums and excursions,"
and lifting up his raucus-caucus voice against the time-honoured rules
and respectable conventions of the duck-pond. So much so, that they
nicknamed him the "Daring Duckling," and prophesied that he would come
to a bad end.

So he ran away, and flew over the palings.

He had many adventures, and various. He dwelt for a time with a lot
of wild ducks in a marsh, and even struck up a sort of friendship
for a swarm of wild geese, who wanted to do away with domestication
and destroy the "tame villatic" tendencies of gregarious goosedom,
and abolish barn-yards and duck-ponds, peacocks, and game-fowls, and
guinea-hens, and poulterer's shops, and _pâté de foie gras_, and other
checks on liberty and incentives to luxury. But somehow he didn't get
on with the wild ducks for long. He was so much wilder than they, and
wanted his own way too much and too often for the old and recognised
leaders of their flocks. And as to the wild geese, why he soon lost
sympathy with their "revolutionary programmes" and "subversive
schemes," which he learned to regard indeed as a sort of wild goose
chase, and deride and denounce as vehemently as he had aforetime
praised them.

"I think I'll take my chance, and go abroad into the wide world," said
the Duckling.

One evening, just as the sun was setting, there came a whole flock of
beautiful large birds from a grove. The Ugly Duckling had never seen
any so lovely before. They were dazzlingly white, with long graceful
necks: they were swans. They uttered a peculiar cry, and then spread
their magnificent wings and away they flew from this cold country to
warmer lands across the open sea, as was their usual custom. They rose
so high that the Ugly Duckling felt a strange sensation come over him,
a sort of delicious vertigo. He turned round and round in the water
like a wheel, stretched his neck up into the air toward them, and
uttered so loud and strange a cry that he was frightened at it himself.
Oh! never could he again forget those beautiful, happy birds, so
gracefully fleeting against a primrose sky. He knew not how those birds
were called, nor whither they were bound, but he felt an affection for
them, such as he had never yet experienced for any living creature.
And he more and more lost love for, and patience with, all his old
associates, ducks or geese, wild or domesticated.

The Ugly Duckling now felt able to flap his wings. They rustled much
louder than before, and bore him away most sturdily; and before long he
found himself in a noble park, a nobleman's park; indeed, the dainty
demesne of one of those who "toil not neither do they spin." It was
quite Beaconsfieldian in its beauty, with its smooth emerald sward and
umbrageous elm-avenues, its dusky cedar clumps and tail-spreading,
crest-sunning peacocks.

"Dear me!" mused the Ugly Duckling. "It is strange, but _I feel quite
at home here!!!_"

Three magnificent white swans now emerged from the thicket before him;
they flapped their wings and then swam lightly on the surface of the
water. The larger one (whose beak bore the letter S as a "nick") was
dark and haughty of mien, the second (whose beak was branded B) was
slim and exceeding graceful; whilst the third, a solid and even rather
sullen-looking bird, was beak-stamped with a legible D.

"I will fly towards these royal birds," cried the Ugly Duckling. And he
flew into the water, and swam towards those stately swans, who turned
to meet him with sail-like wings the moment they saw him.

"Why, he is one of us!" said the darker and statelier of the three.
"Almost!" he added, _sotto voce_.

The Ugly Duckling was startled at the remark. But looking at his
reflection in the smooth lake he was more startled still. His own image
was to his eyes no longer that of the Daring Duckling, much less of the
Ugly One. It was smart, smooth, sleek, swelling, in fact swan-like!!!
At any rate, he thought so, and so, indeed, the other three swans
seemed to think.

He preened his feathers, and puffed forth his plumes. He flapped his
wings, and arched his neck, as he cried in the fullness of his heart:--

"I never dreamed of such happiness when I was the Brummagem Ugly

It matters not being born in a duck-yard if one is hatched from a
swan's egg!

       *       *       *       *       *


_In Leisure Time_, by W. S. MAVOR (ELLIOT STOCK) is,
so my Baronite reports, a daintily-bound little volume of blameless
verse, unambitious, as may be inferred from its title. The author
writes like a classical scholar, his lines are fluent and melodious,
his metre and rhyme unimpeachable, while some of the poems, such as
"Zaleucus" and "A Vision," rise distinctly above the general level.
In others there are passages which my Baronite--a sadly prosaic and
matter-of-fact person--owns to having found slightly obscure.

For example, in the following couplet:--

    "In vain the fickle demon sports
    With fetid remnants of decay."


He quite failed to discover what particular--or rather anything _but_
particular--demon is referred to, or why he should amuse himself in so
eccentric and unpleasant a manner.

Nor, my Baronite says, was his conception of contentment greatly
assisted by this somewhat complicated comparison:--

    "Contentment is a love-commissioned barque
    Sailing a self-less sea--a sea whose flood
    Is ordered alway by the laughing guns
    Of Virtue's fortalice, whose armament,
    Primed with rose-petal powder, doth discharge
    In generous rounds of sympathy with all,
    Scattering happiness, whose smile betrays
    The pangless hurt."

But that, he is quite willing to admit, may be rather the fault of his
own imagination than the poet's. Again, in a poem entitled "Love's
Messengers," the author writes:--

    "Flit thou along on softly feathered feet,
    Noiseless, thou shadowy-pinioned minister,
    And gently fan, _with midnight gale_, my sweet,
                Lest thou awaken her."

Which, to my Baronite, suggests the difficulty that, if the minister
fans the lady with his shadowy pinions "gently," he will fail to
produce anything resembling a "midnight gale"; on the other hand, if he
performs the part of invisible punkah so energetically as to suggest
a gale, he can hardly help awakening her unless she is a very heavy
sleeper indeed--and _might_ give her a cold in the head. Surely this is
rather an unfair dilemma on which to place a feathered minister of any

But after all, poetry, as my Baronite fully recognises, is not meant to
be judged by so literal a standard, and it may be cheerfully conceded
that there are many people who make a less profitable use of their
"Leisure Time" than Mr. MAVOR has done. In which opinion


       *       *       *       *       *

Hythe, thinks that if his friends do their work well, he may yet
find in the Hytheians an Israel-light-hearted constituency. Sir
ISRAEL is a _Jew d'esprit_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BICYCLE AGAIN.

_Applicant for the Situation of Cook._ "BEFORE I GO, PLEASE, MA'AM,


       *       *       *       *       *


1. Why should it take nine tailors to make a man?

2. Ought you cut a coat according to your cloth, or according to the

3. How do you cook a tailor's goose? Should it be basted?

4. In England is the most suitable seaside resort for tailors
Weskit-on-Sea, or Sheerness _sur la côte_?

5. Shall a prize be given for the best essay on the advantage of having
a pair of Pantaloons on the stage in a Pantomime?

6. Is it a matter of universal complaint that a tailor should not be
allowed to play billiards because he scarcely passes a day without
cutting a cloth?

7. What price for the best tale of a coat?

8. Is it proved to satisfaction that SHAKSPEARE was a tailor
from the fact of his having written _Measure for Measure_?

9. Whether, for the next International Yacht Race, the tailors should
enter a cutter?

       *       *       *       *       *

GOOD BADMINTON.--Among the contents of LONGMAN'S
_Badminton Magazine_ is an article by the Markiss o' GRANBY
on Grouse; SUSAN, not Black-eyed nor Rebellious, but Countess
of Malmesbury, writes cleverly on her perch, and on the matter of
salmon the Countess would count for a lot in any ex-salmonation. Lord
ONSLOW on slow and on quick bicycling; capital. C. B.
FRY, not one of the Small Fry, gives his ideal of a cricketing
day, which is to be known as a "Fry-day." Then who is it writes a
florid account of fishing in Florida? O'TIS MYGATT. The
question of "What's on at Newmarket?" is pleasantly answered by
ALFRED WATS-ON at Newmarket. On "Old Sporting Prints,"
PEEK writes with point. And on "The Alpine 'Distress Signal'
Scheme" there is a paper by C. T. DENT, who has been, more or
less, a Re-si-dent on the spot, as this in-denture witnesseth.

       *       *       *       *       *

paragraph in last week's _Truth_ we extract the following:--"Another
scandalous 'selection' job has just been perpetrated at the War
Office. Colonel TROTTER, who has been promoted to the rank of
major-general, has seen no war service, and has no professional claims
whatever upon the authorities." If this information be correct, the
colonel should be remembered by the distinctly Dickensian title of
_"Job" Trotter_.

       *       *       *       *       *


On Monday, July 29, Sir AUGUSTUS HARRIS, bidding farewell to
a typical '95 Covent Garden audience (house crowded in every part),
seized the opportunity to present one of his lightning conductors with
a "_bâton_ of honour." In a spontaneous speech, DRURIOLANUS
declared that Signor MANCINELLI had "worked like a Trojan,"
and the announcement was received with sympathetic applause. Still,
it was thought possible by those present that the pleasant and
prosperous _impresario_ was in search of something that he had
seemingly lost--"a little poem of his own." We have no hesitation in
publishing the following lines, entitled _Sans Adieu_, found in the
neighbourhood of the C. G. orchestra. If they are not from the pen of
DRURIOLANUS, they ought to have been:--

    Not farewell, my MANCINELLI!
      MANCINELLI, _au revoir!_
    As harmonious _fratelli_
      We shall meet again! _Espoir!_
    Take, oh take this shining _bâton_.
      You're a marvel! _O, si sic!_
    When you've got it, with your hat on.
      _En vacance_ you'll cut your stick.

    You will wave it, you will wield it
      Always, my conductor prime,
    Never up again you'll yield it,
      Ever living to beat time!
    Grasp it, use it, MANCINELLI!
      Highest praise to you is due!
    With it beat Old Time to jelly,
      Till Conductor Time beats _you!_

       *       *       *       *       *

More Honours.

Motto for Sir WILLIAM DUNN: "_Ce qu'il fait c'est bien fait._"
Likewise "Just Dunn enough."

For Mr. JOHN TOMLINSON BRUNNER, M.P., a Brunneretcy.

Motto for Sir A. B. FORWOOD: "_En avant! et plus en avant que

       *       *       *       *       *

"H.M.S."--Should H.M. the King of the BELGIANS ask H. M.
STANLEY, M.P., to return to Congo-land, the inquiry wired will
take this simple form "_Congo?_" and the answer must be "_Can't go_."
_On dit._ The H.M.'s have settled satisfactorily.

       *       *       *       *       *

MEDICAL CONGRESS.--Explanation:--The "Anti-toxin" party is
against the use of a dinner bell or gong. They do not agree with Lord
BYRON, "The tocsin of the soul, the dinner bell."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW KEEPERS.

SQUIRE BULL (_to_ S-L-SB-RY _and_

       *       *       *       *       *


_Harmless Individual_ (_who has suddenly and unexpectedly been
assaulted and battered by inebriated party_). "YOU SCOUNDREL!

_Inebriated Politician._ "'LECKSHUNS, OLE F'LA!

 [_Comes a cropper himself._ #/ ]

       *       *       *       *       *


 ["The New Town Hall in Mare Street, Hackney, was altogether too small
 to hold the crowds who came last night (August 1) to protest against
 the action of the East London Water Company in cutting down the supply
 of water during the past few weeks."--_Evening News._]

AIR--"_The Meeting of the Waters._"

    There is not in the whole land a meeting so meet
    As that of the ratepayers held at Mare Street.
    No mare's nest they'd found, no, the Hackneyite heart
    Was hot at the new Water Company start!

    It _was_ not that Nature had stinted supply;
    That Monopolist pretext appears "all my eye."
    'Twas _not_ summer parching of river and rill,
    Oh! no--it was something more troublesome still.

    'Twas that greed and neglect had combined, it is clear,
    To make East End water deficient and dear;
    And Monopoly now the supply must improve,
    Or more than mere Mare Streets will be on the move.

    Big Monopolist Mammon, how calm could you rest
    With your dividends high in the way you love best;
    But when water runs short, and diseases increase,
    The East End won't leave you and your Water at peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

GULLY-VER.--Mr. BALFOUR'S decision as to not
disturbing the SPEAKER in his uneasy chair was e-gully
awaited, and is, it is hoped, accepted e-gully by all parties. So now,
in his chair, Mr. GULLY will reign re-gully.

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST FASHION.--Bicycle dinners and suppers have been the
vogue. _Pièce de résistance_ is of course "Cold Wheel." This dish is
selected because whatever the number "wheel" is sure to go round.

       *       *       *       *       *


AUGUSTIN DALY'S Company has left us just as play-goers had
taken a fancy to _Nancy & Co_. To paraphrase the old refrain--

    And all their fancy
    Dwelt upon NANCY
     The play called _Nancy & Co._

It went as a lively laughter-raiser should go, with Miss ADA
REHAN excellent in every way; Miss MAXINE ELLIOT
charming; JAMES LEWIS inimitably funny, and Mr.
WORTHING ("quite a Bright'un," as WAGSTAFF says)
capital. That the fun of a farcical comedy should be kept up through
four acts is a tribute to the original work and to the skill of its
adaptor, Mr. _Daly_ himself. _"Vive la Compagnie!" et au revoir!_

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sportsman's View of It.

    CHAMBERLAIN _vice_ ROSEBERY! What fun!
      The change means order, peace, and lots of tin for us.
    What are the Derbies twain young Primrose won
      To the _New Markets_ many JOE will win for us?

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Notes for an Additional Chapter to the History of Hullibulgaria._)

The Deputation did their very best. They were most anxious to make
things smooth. "He whom they desired to obey" would wear an inferior
sort of crown, robes of cotton-backed velvet, trimmed with imitation
fur. He would not give away orders--he would only take them. He would
not command the army, save as an agent acting under direction from the
Master. There is nothing he would not do to secure the goodwill of his
great, his benevolent, his all-powerful Master.

The Bear was very amiable. The Bear was pleased with the Deputation
and with the nation they represented. And having said this, there was
nothing further for the Bear to say.

"But, most powerful of powers, most clement of sovereignties," urged
the Deputation, "there is another matter needing decision. How about
the Prince?"

"What Prince?" softly murmured the Bear, in a tone of curiosity
combined with astonishment.

"The Prince we wish to serve," explained the Deputation; "the Prince
who desires to serve you."

"Have you read the Treaty of Berlin?" asked Bruin. "It is a most
excellent agreement, and deserves special attention. Does the name of
any Prince appear therein?"

"No," replied the Deputation; "and the same painful omission is
observable in the _Almanac de Gotha_. So we would petition on our
knees that the painful omission should be supplied. We ask that the

"Stop! stop!" cried the Bear. "You are talking of a myth. As Mrs.
GAMP--a well-known Englishwoman--once observed, 'I don't
believe there ain't no sech person.' So think I, and so thinks the
Treaty of Berlin."

And so the Deputation returned from whence they came, and "the Prince"
continued to "take the waters" without obtaining the cure he desired.
It was disappointing to His Highness, but not to the Editor of the
_Almanac de Gotha_, who found a revised edition of his excellent
periodical was, at least for the present, unnecessary.

       *       *       *       *       *

What title will Baron DE WORMS take? Viscount
CHRYSALIS? to end by becoming Le Duc DE PAPILLON?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Br-ce. B-nn-rm-n. Asq-th.


_Sir W. V. H-rc-rt_ (_on Opposition Bench_). "HOW HOT AND

       *       *       *       *       *


I was immensely struck, a few days ago, by a passage in a speech
recently delivered by the Archbishop of CANTERBURY, in
which he explained his method of dispelling those passing fits of
ill-temper from which, alas! not even Archbishops are wholly free. "At
times," so ran the report of His Grace's words, "anger or irritation
came upon him, but on the table he kept a book of pleasant poems,
of which he would read a few lines, and the irritation would melt
away." Immediately I determined to follow this noble example. It was
unfortunate that the "book of pleasant poems" was not described more
specifically--could it be the verses of Mr. ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER
BENSON?--but I bought a pocket volume of _Selections from the
Great Poets_, which contained enough variety to suit every case, and
then looked out for an opportunity of trying the Archbishop's plan.

I had not long to wait. That very evening I came across my uncle
ROBERT at Clapham Junction, in a furious rage at having
just missed the last train to Slowborough, where he lives. At once
I produced my volume, and in slow and emphatic accents I read aloud
some three or four hundred lines from "Paradise Lost." I was about
to add one or two of WORDSWORTH'S sonnets, when I realised
that my uncle had long since disappeared, and that I was surrounded
by a jeering crowd, who evidently supposed me to be a member of the
Salvation Army.

On the following morning I received a visit from SNIPS, my
tailor. He was impolite enough to suggest a settlement of what he
termed my "small account," a demand, as I politely but plainly assured
him, which was altogether absurd. As he showed distinct symptoms of
irritation at this juncture, I began to read him a scene from _Measure
for Measure_. Strangely enough, this seemed only to irritate him
further, and I understand that he intends to take proceedings against
me in the County Court. This second unaccountable failure of the
Archbishop's remedy greatly surprised and pained me, but I decided to
give it another trial.

This morning I was playing golf with my friend MACFOOZLE.
At no time a skilful golfer, MACFOOZLE'S form to-day was
worse than ever; whenever he made a bad stroke--and he seldom made
a good one--he indulged in the most violent language. Fortunately
my volume of poetry was in my pocket. When he completely missed his
drive at the second hole, I read him COLERIDGE'S _Dejection_.
When he broke his mashie at the fourth, I treated him with copious
selections from _In Memoriam_. Finally, he got badly bunkered while
playing to the fourteenth hole. For some ten minutes he smote furiously
with his niblick, only raising prodigious clouds of sand as the
result of his efforts. This was clearly a golden opportunity for the
Archbishop's cure, "anger and irritation" but faintly represented
MACFOOZLE'S rage. Seating myself on the edge of the bunker,
I began to read aloud _The Ring and the Book_ with the utmost pathos.
Over what followed I prefer to draw a veil. It is enough to say that a
niblick is a very effective weapon, and that I write these lines in bed.

When I recover, I really must call at Lambeth for fuller directions.
The archiepiscopal remedy for angry passions does not seem invariably
happy in its results, as far as my experience goes.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MALT-LIQUOR-TIPPLER'S MAXIM.--_"Nihil ale-ienum a me
pewter":_--"Nothing in the shape of beer comes amiss to me if it's in a

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN EYE TO EFFECT.


       *       *       *       *       *

A Chip to the Champion.

 [Mr. RANJITSINHJI is running Mr. W. G. GRACE very
 close in the batting averages.]

_To the ancient air of "Cheer up Sam!"_

      And don't let your average down!
    For "RANJIT" seems running you hard for first place,
      To collar your Cricketing Crown!

       *       *       *       *       *

JEAMES." How delighted W. M. THACKERAY would have

       *       *       *       *       *

By a Reasonable Rad.

    _Why_ were we whipped? Rads wrangle round,
      But to _the_ cause make scant allusion.
    When all's summed up, it will be found,
    "Fusion" has won against _Con_-fusion!

       *       *       *       *       *

A SUGGESTION.--In latest _Observer_ is a capital article by
Mr. ESCOTT, whose text is that "smart" Society transplants to
London all Parisian fashions that will bear the process. The title is
"British Boulevardism;" but one still more suggestive of the mixture
would be "John-Bullvardism." Perhaps Mr. ESCOTT may adopt this
and give us another column.

       *       *       *       *       *


In a biographical sketch of the late Rev. Dr. JULIUS HAWLEY
SEELYE, formerly President of Amherst College, in America, I
read that "Amherst made him President notwithstanding considerable
opposition in the faculty. He soon overcame that, and advanced the
prosperity of the College in the accessions to its faculty and
endowments that he secured. He soon required the students to sign an
agreement to be gentlemen. A violation of the pledge resulted in the
termination of their careers at Amherst." This sounds strange, for it
would appear that if no pledge had been given the students might have
behaved as they liked, without terminating their careers. The idea of
solemnly pledging yourself to be a gentleman is quite colossal.


       *       *       *       *       *

The Independent Labour Party is not dead yet. It is forming clubs,
just like any ordinary humdrum party. The _Western Daily Press_
reports that "At a special meeting held at LEE'S Coffee
Tavern, Bath Bridge, last night, when there were present Mr. W.
S. M. KNIGHT, president of the Bristol South Independent Labour
Party (in the chair), Messrs. A. BROWNE, E. B. HACK,
PARKER, and W. PRICE, it was unanimously decided to open
a club for Totterdown and the East Ward of Bedminster in connection
with the Independent Labour Party. Officers and a committee were
appointed, and suitable headquarters for the club were decided upon."
Nothing could be more appropriate. Totterdown suggests decrepitude and
failure (in this case at least), and Bedminster hints at repose and
peace. I offer the suggestion and the hint gratis to the Independent
Labour Windbags.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Loveday Street Canal Bridge (which is, I fancy, in Birmingham) is
evidently a demon bridge with a depraved taste for injuring children.
One day last week it threw JOHN CHICK, aged seven, off and
broke one of his legs. About five hours later, resenting an attempt on
the part of THOMAS WALTON, aged twelve, to climb it, it flung
him off on to the towing-path and injured his back. A few days before
that it had precipitated the same THOMAS WALTON into the
water, whence he was rescued with some difficulty. Evidently this is a
bridge with an ungovernable temper, and the authorities should guard it

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Scotsman_ informs me that "speaking the other day at Haddington,
Mr. BALFOUR glanced scathingly at those politicians of the
baser sort who seek to confuse great issues by dragging to the front
petty or irrelevant questions, and the breath of whose nostrils is
the disturbance of the harmony which should subsist between class
and class of the community." On this two questions arise. The first
is how Mr. BALFOUR, an amiable gentleman, managed to glance
scathingly. To scath, as I learn from the dictionary, means to hurt,
to injure; and, personally, I cannot imagine Mr. BALFOUR
infusing very much venom into a mere glance of his expressive eye. The
second question is how politicians, even of the baser sort, can go on
living when their unfortunate lungs are filled with a disturbance of
harmony. That they should have sufficient strength left to drag to the
front petty or irrelevant questions is nothing short of a marvel, due
allowance being made for metaphors.

       *       *       *       *       *

A golfer is in trouble, and has confided his difficulties to _Golf_.

 Whilst playing on the links at Streetly, on July 16, he drove a ball,
 which apparently fell clear, but which for some time could not be
 found. After some little hunting it was discovered under a small tuft
 of heather in a lark's nest, resting on the back of a young lark,
 apparently about four days old, together with three lark's eggs,
 which were quite intact. The golfer was obliged, of course, to lift
 the ball and place it behind, as it would have been gross cruelty to
 have played it from the nest. It was match play. Under the exceptional
 circumstances was he bound to lose the hole? The editor replies that
 if a player were a stickler for the law and nothing but the law, he,
 of course, would be entitled to enforce it against his opponent who
 found the ball in the nest.

       *       *       *       *       *

    A tee for your ball, you may fashion of sand
      (Which is found in the sugar you use for your tea);
    Then you spread your legs wide, and you take a firm stand,
      And away with a whack goes the ball flying free.

    If it flies like a bird, there's no need to explain;
      If not, then the ways of that golfer are dark,
    Who attempts, though the effort is doomed to be vain,
      To stand, taking tee on the back of a lark.

       *       *       *       *       *

There has been some excitement at Weston-super-Mare. The "Conservative
party organized a reception for the Hon. G. H. JOLLIFFE on his
first appearance in the town since his election for the Wells division.
Arrangements were made for those intending to take part in the
procession to meet the hon. gentleman at the Potteries on his return
from Banwell Horse Show at 7 p.m., but he arrived in the town a quarter
of an hour too early, and scores of enthusiasts were disappointed.
Those, however, who happened to be early enough followed the hon.
gentleman, some on foot and others in cabs, to the Royal Hotel, the
Town Band heading the procession. Mr. JOLLIFFE rode on a coach
drawn by four horses, and was supported by several of the leaders of
the party in the town. Subsequently he addressed those assembled."
But if Mr. JOLLIFFE rode on a coach, why was it necessary to
support him? Moreover, seeing that it was a four-horse affair, it seems
unjust that the leaders should be talked of and that no mention at all
should be made of the wheelers.

       *       *       *       *       *

NANA SAHIB has died once more.

 A Mr. WILLIAM BROWN, who was formerly an officer in the East
 India Company's service, and is now residing at San Francisco, gives
 the following particulars regarding the fate of NANA SAHIB.
 Mr. BROWN says that he was commodore of the Ganges Fleet
 in the Indian Mutiny, and was attacked by Sepoys under NANA
 SAHIB himself, who was shot in the fighting, and afterwards died
 on board Mr. BROWN'S ship. NANA SAHIB'S body was
 then cremated, and the ashes were committed to the river.

Why, oh why, has Mr. BROWN, whom I heartily congratulate on
clearing up the mystery, kept silence for nearly forty years? And, by
the way, which Mr. WILLIAM BROWN is he? There must be a good
many WILLIAM BROWN'S even in San Francisco. Before concluding
that the matter is definitely settled, I should like to hear Mr.
JONES on the subject.

       *       *       *       *       *


  (_Hints by our Pessimist Passenger._)

  _Amsterdam._--Too much sea before you get there.

  _Boulogne._--Not particularly pleasant at low tide.

  _Cologne._--The reverse of fragrant at all times.

  _Dieppe._--The trap of the tripper.

  _Etretat._--No longer what it was.

  _Frankfort._--Only good for a change of money.

  _Geneva._--Dull and dear.

  _Heidelberg._--Too much hill, and too little castle.

  _Interlaken._--The 'appy 'ome of 'ARRY.

  _Jura Pass._--Sure find for BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON.

  _Karlsbad._--Kill or cure.

  _Lyons._--Apotheosis of silk monotonous.

  _Marseilles._--Good place for musquitoes, bad for all else.

  _Nice._--Too near to Monte Carlo.

  _Ouchy._--Hotel good, but surroundings superfluous.

  _Paris._--Too hot. Theatres closed and wideawakes seen on the

  _Quebec._--Dangerous rival to Bath, Coventry, and Jericho.

  _Rotterdam._--Worthy of its name.

  _Suez._--Not comparable to Cairo.

  _Trouville._--Requires antedating a quarter of a century.

  _Uig._--Skyed and out of reach.

  _Venice._--Vulgarised by the steam launches.

  _Wiesbaden._--Has not yet recovered the loss of its table.

  _Xerez._--Long journey for a glass of sherry.

  _Yokohama._--Not a patch upon Pekin.

  _Zurich._--Alliterative attraction for zomebody.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Mr. Wagstaff._ Ah! I have lived many years in the bush.

_Mrs. Leo Hunter._ How interesting! I suppose you must have become
almost savage!

_Mr. W. Frequently_, when I couldn't get a 'bus or a cab.

_Mrs. L. H._ (_utterly astonished_). A 'bus or a cab! in the bush!!

_Mr. W._ (_pleasantly_). Ah, yes; I was talking of "Shepherd's Bush."
Good morning.

 [_Exit chuckling._

 [{asterism} _Note by the Bird in the Bush._--In future this
 little jest of WAGGY'S will be impossible, as it is proposed
 to re-name Shepherd's Bush, and call it Pastoral Park, or All-Askew
 Park, or something of the sort.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"SORTES SHAKSPERIANÆ."--On the new Postmaster-General:--

  "Friend post the Duke of NORFOLK."

  _Richard the Third_, Act iv., Scene 4.

And we hope his Grace will be "Friend post," and benefit us all.

       *       *       *       *       *

A volume of Reminiscences by HENRY RUSSELL is promised.
Evidently this ought to be a "Cheery, Boys, Cheery" sort of book.

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