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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 6, 1894
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 6, 1894" ***

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Punch, or The London Charivari

Volume 107, October 6th 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand



[Illustration: 1. It was the beginning of the Club season. "I shall be
glad to see all the boys again after all these weeks!" murmured Clubber,
as Mrs. C. packed him up.]

[Illustration: 2. "Ah! _How_ are you, _dear_ old boy?" shouted the
Clubites, hysterical with affectionate yearning.]

[Illustration: 3. "Magnificent reciter Foodle is, to be sure!" they
murmured, in an ecstatic dream of enthusiasm. "Brav O! Splendid, dear
old boy!!"]

[Illustration: 4. And when they parted at the end of the evening, they
breathed fervently, "Good night, old fellow--bless you!" * * * * *]

[Illustration: 5. It was the middle of the Club season. "Hum, Foodle's
recitations are always so long-winded. Great mistake," they muttered to
themselves. "And the other fellows are a bit slow, after all."]

[Illustration: 6. And when they parted at the end of the evening, they
just nodded. * * *]

[Illustration: 7. It was the end of the Club season. "Well, if you want
_my_ opinion," said Clubber, "that Foodle's a beastly poor reciter." "I
_don't_ want your opinion; nobody does," said Rubber. "But you happen to
be right for once."]

[Illustration: 8. "_I'm_ not going to recite to you idiots," said
Foodle. "It's a waste of breath." "Much relieved to hear it!" said

[Illustration: 9. "I'm precious glad to get away from that maddening set
of chuckle-headed bores for a few weeks!" said Clubber, as Mrs. C.
unpacked him.]


THE PRIME MINISTER has been having a high old time of it lately in the
North, and has become the "youngest burgess" of goodness knows how many
ancient boroughs. But it has been left to a reporter to note with an
eagle eye the really interesting performance which Lord ROSEBERY has put
to his credit. "Immediately on leaving Dornoch," says this gentleman
(the reporter, not the PREMIER), "Lord ROSEBERY and the Duke of
SUTHERLAND drove to the Meikle Ferry, a distance of four miles, crossed
the ferry, and again drove to Tain, four miles farther on. Crossing the
ferry they both took a turn at the oars, and _generally discussed the
sport of seal shooting_!" This suggests quite a fresh phase of the New
Journalism. We shall soon read such paragraphs as the following:--

"Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT left town for Malwood on Tuesday. Going
down in the train the right hon. gentleman played marbles with a
fellow-passenger, and discussed generally the virtues of resignation."

"Mr. H. H. FOWLER transacted important business at the India Office
yesterday. He and his private secretary played a game of trundling
hoops, and had an animated talk on the subject of whist."

"Mr. A. J. BALFOUR played at golf with a gentleman, with whom he had a
very interesting conversation on the sport of chute shooting."

       *       *       *       *       *

The moral of which would seem to be that, since even conversation is now
reported, silence is more golden than ever; though _Mr. Punch_ notices
that the PRIME MINISTER showed rare diplomacy in his choice of a
subject. Not even a reporter could extract any political meaning out of
the sport of seal shooting!

[Illustration: SWEET SIMPLICITY.

_Diffident Man (who does not know to how much of an Ingénue he is

_Miss Grace (consulting her wrist-strap)._ "OH, ABOUT THREE-QUARTERS OF

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY NEAR.--The _Record_ has been taking Mr. HALL CAINE to task for the
baptismal scene in _The Manxman_, and the novelist has been telling the
_Record_ to remember its Rubrics. "Mr. CAINE," says the _Record_, "has
been in a hurry." The _Record_ lost a chance, as, evidently expecting a
storm of fury, it should have deprecated the author's anger by saying,
"Don't be in a hurry-CAINE."

       *       *       *       *       *


MR. J-ST-N MCC-RTHY (_reading the speech of the German Emperor to the
Mayor of Thorn_). "For you know, I can be very disagreeable too!" _Ah!
and so can I--when I like!_


(_The Song of a Mouton Enragé._)

    ["I own that I am sorry that a louder, and a stronger, and a
    prompter note of reassurance has not been given to the Irish people
    with regard to this obstructive power of the House of Lords, and
    that I look to the Autumn Campaign with anxious hope for a clear and
    certain signal."--_Mr. Justin McCarthy in the "New Review."_]

_Enraged (and enrhumé) Leader, with his feet in "hot water," sings:--_

  Yes, I'b wud with the yug Ebperor id this--
    Extreebs--as has beed ofted said--_do_ beet!
  (_Wow!_ this water, I declare, is od the hiss,
    Id is very hot iddeed to by poor feet!)
  By cowd is beastly troublesub, at tibes;
    But, although I ab as patied as poor Sbike,
  I'b bowd to kick whed subwud galls by kibes;
    Ad I _cad_ be very darsty, whed I like!

  Yug WILLIAB fides it needful to speak out,
    Ad, like that Hebrew persod id the play,
  He _cad_ be "very darsty," there's no doubt;
    Ad so cad I, of course id by owd way.
  A buttud's wudrous angry _whed_ aroused.
    Ad if those Liberals sell be, I shall strike.
  Owd Oirelad has so freaquadly bid choused--
    Ad Pats cad be very darsty, whed they like!

  Bister BORLEY we all dow, and _he_'s all right,
    Ad SHAW-LEFEVRE's sowd upod the goose;
  Sir WILLIAB "is a fighter"--will he fight?--
    Yug ROSEBERY--well, jokes are dot _buch_ use.
  That ASQUITH's dot a fascidatig bad,
    As hard as dails, plaid-spokud as a pike!
  I wish agaidst the Lords they had sub _plad_,--
    Oh I cad be very darsty, _whed_ I like.

  There bight have bid a protest strog ad sterd,
    But do! they let the Peers, id sileds, score.
  Sir WILLIAB dever said a siggle word
    Whed they kicked "Evicted Tedadst" frob their door.
  It bight have bid a local turdpike Bill,
    Or Act to regulate the Scorcher's "bike."
  I bust idsist od "bizdess," ad I _will_,
    For I cad be _very_ darsty, whed I like!

  The Irish are begidded to have doubts
    (Ad REDBUD, he is goid to give be beads).
  If "Ids" betray by Cudtry, there _are_ "Outs"!
    Hobe Rule bust dot be shudted, like stale greeds,
  The Shabrock bust be shaked at those Peers;
    Or BcCarthyites _bay_ go upod the Strike!--
  Ad the Rads he chucked frob Office--yes, for years!--
    Oh! I _cad be precious_ darsty--whed I _like!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "TERRIBLE IN HIS ANGER!"

_J-st-n McC-rthy (reading extract from German Emperor's Speech)._ "'I

       *       *       *       *       *

In Nuce.

  THE pith of LABBY'S caustic elocution
    Is that long war of words should end in deeds.
  After the lead of the Leeds Resolution,
    He wants to feel that Resolution leads!
  A House of Words but little help affords
    In a hot contest with a House of Lords.
  But LABBY, were the issue quite so glorious
    If--as some fear--the Lords should prove victorious?

       *       *       *       *       *


  ONE might conclude from many a spindly shank,
  Some read _Ars longa est_ as "Art is Lank"!

       *       *       *       *       *


  I'VE heard a Frenchman wag his tongue
    Wi' unco din an' rattle,
  An', 'faith, my vera lugs hae sung
    Wi' listenin' tae his prattle;
  But French is no the worst of a'
    In point o' noise an' clang, man;
  There's ane that beats it far awa',
    And that's the Lunnon twang, man.

  You wadna think, within this land,
    That folk could talk sae queerly,
  But, sure as Death, tae understand
    The callants beats me fairly.
  An', 'faith, 'tis little gude their schules
    Can teach them, as ye'll see, man,
  For--wad ye credit it?--the fules
    Can scarcely follow _me_, man.

  An' yet, tae gie the deils their due,
    (An' little praise they're worth, man,)
  They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo.
    That I come frae the Nor-r-rth, man!
  They maun be clever, for ye ken
    There's nought tae tell the chiels, man:
  I'm jist like a' the ither men
    That hail frae Galashiels, man.

  But oh! I'm fain tae see again
    The bonny hills an' heather!
  Twa days, and ne'er a drap o' rain--
    Sic awfu' drouthy weather!
  But eh! I doubt the Gala boys
    Will laugh when hame I gang, man,
  For oo! I'm awfu' feared my voice
    Has ta'en the Lunnon twang, man!

       *       *       *       *       *

Demolition of Doctors' Commons.

  SIR HERBERT JENNER FUST what would you say
  To Doctors' Commons being done away!
  No wonder its machinery is rusty,
  Since in _your_ time at best it was but Fusty!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Story in Scenes._)


SCENE XXIII.--_Outside the Stables at Wyvern._

TIME--_About 10_ P.M.

_Undershell_ (_to himself, as he follows_ ADAMS). Now is my time to
arrange about getting away from here. (_To_ ADAMS.) By the bye, I
suppose you can let me have a conveyance of some sort--after I've seen
the horse? I--I'm rather in a hurry.

_Adams._ You'd better speak to Mr. CHECKLEY about that, Sir; it ain't in
_my_ department, you see. I'll fetch him round, if you'll wait here a
minute; he'd like to hear what you think about the 'orse.

    [_He goes off to the coachman's quarters._

_Und._ (_alone_). A very civil fellow this; he seems quite anxious to
show me this animal! There must be _something_ very remarkable about

    [ADAMS _returns with_ CHECKLEY.

_Adams._ Mr. CHECKLEY, our 'ed coachman, Mr. UNDERSHELL. He's coming in
along with us to 'ear what you say, if you've no objections.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I must make a friend of this coachman, or else
----(_Aloud._) I shall be charmed, Mr. CHECKLEY. I've only a very few
minutes to spare; but I'm most curious to see this horse of yours.

_Checkley._ He ain't one o' _my_ 'orses, Sir. If he _'ad_ been----But
there, I'd better say nothing about it.

_Adams_ (_as he leads the way into the stables, and turns up the gas_).
There, Sir, that's _Deerfoot_ over there in the loose box.

_Und._ (_to himself_). He seems to me much like any _other_ horse!
However, I can't be wrong in admiring. (_Aloud, as he inspects him
through the rails._) Ah, indeed? he _is_ worth seeing! A magnificent

_Adams_ (_stripping off_ Deerfoot's _clothing_). He's a good 'orse, Sir.
Her ladyship won't trust herself on no other animal, not since she 'ad
the influenzy so bad. She'd take on dreadful if I 'ad to tell her he
wouldn't be fit for no more work, she would!

_Und._ (_sympathetically_). I can quite imagine so. Not that he seems in
any danger of _that_!

_Check._ (_triumphantly_). There, you 'ear that, ADAMS? The minute he
set eyes on the 'orse!

_Adams._ Wait till Mr. UNDERSHELL has seen him move a bit, and see what
he says _then_.

_Check._ If it was what _you_ think, he'd never be standing like he is
now, depend upon it.

_Adams._ You _can't_ depend upon it. He 'eard us coming, and he's quite
artful enough to draw his foot back for fear o' getting a knock. (_To_
UNDERSHELL.) I've noticed him very fidgety-like on his forelegs this
last day or two.

_Und. Have_ you, though? (_To himself._) I hope he won't be fidgety
with his _hind_-legs. I shall stay outside.

_Adams._ I cooled him down with a rubub and aloes ball, and kep 'im on
low diet; but he don't seem no better.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I didn't gather the horse was unwell. (_Aloud._)
Dear me! no better? You don't say so!

_Check._ If you'd rubbed a little embrocation into the shoulder, you'd
ha' done more good, in _my_ opinion, and it's my belief as Mr.
UNDERSHELL here will tell you I'm right.

_Und._ (_to himself_). Can't afford to offend the coachman! (_Aloud._)
Well, I daresay--er--embrocation _would_ have been better.

_Adams._ Ah, that's where me and Mr. CHECKLEY differ. According to me,
it ain't to do with the shoulder at all--it's a deal lower down.... I'll
'ave him out of the box and you'll soon see what I mean.

_Und._ (_hastily_). Pray don't trouble on my account. I--I can see him
capitally from where I am, thanks.

_Adams._ You know best, Sir. Only I thought you'd be better able to form
a judgment after you'd seen the way he stepped across. But if you was to
come in and examine the frog?----I don't like the look of it myself.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I'm sure _I_ don't. I've a horror of reptiles.
(_Aloud._) You're very good. I--I think I won't come in. The place must
be rather _damp_, mustn't it--for that?

_Adams._ It's dry enough in 'ere, Sir, as you may see; nor yet he ain't
been standing about in no wet. Still, there it _is_, you see!

_Und._ (_to himself_). What a fool he must be not to drive it out! Of
course it must annoy the horse. (_Aloud._) I don't see it; but I'm quite
willing to take your word for it.

_Adams._ I don't know how you can _expect_ to see it, Sir, without you
look inside of the 'oof for it.

_Und._ (_to himself_). It's not alive--it's something _inside_ the hoof.
I suppose I ought to have known that. (_Aloud._) Just so; but I see no
necessity for looking inside the hoof.

_Check._ In course he don't, or he'd ha' looked the very fust thing,
with all his experience. I 'ope you're satisfied _now_, ADAMS?

_Adams._ I can't say as I am. I say as no man can examine a 'orse
thoroughly at that distance, be he who he may. And whether I'm right or
wrong, it 'ud be more of a satisfaction to me if Mr. UNDERSHELL was to
step in and see the 'oof for himself.

_Check._ Well, there's sense in that, and I dessay Mr. UNDERSHELL won't
object to obliging you that far.

_Und._ (_with reluctance_). Oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of

    [_He enters the loose box delicately._

_Adams_ (_picking up one of the horse's feet_). Now, tell me how this
'ere 'oof strikes you.

_Und._ (_to himself_). That hoof can't; but I'm not so sure about the
others. (_Aloud, as he inspects it._) Well--er--it seems to me a very
_nice_ hoof.

_Adams_ (_grimly_). I was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of
_Art_, Sir. Do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? That's
what I should like to get out of _you_!

_Und._ (_to himself_). Does this man suppose I _collect_ hoofs! However,
I'm not going to commit myself. (_Aloud._) H'm--well, I--I rather agree
with Mr. CHECKLEY.

_Check._ I knew he would! Now you've _got_ it, ADAMS! _I_ can see Mr.
UNDERSHELL knows what he's about.

_Adams_ (_persistently_). But look at this 'ere pastern. You can't deny
there's puffiness there. How do you get over _that_?

_Und._ If the horse is puffy, it's _his_ business to get over it--not

_Adams_ (_aggrieved_). You may think proper to treat it light, Sir; but
if you put your 'and down 'ere, above the coronet, you'll feel a
throbbing as plain as----

_Und._ Very likely. But I don't know, really, that it would afford me
any particular gratification if I _did_!

_Adams._ Well, if you don't take _my_ view, I should ha' thought as
you'd want to feel the 'orse's pulse.

_Und._ You are quite mistaken. I don't. (_To himself._) Particularly as
I shouldn't know where to find it. What a bore this fellow is with his

_Check._ In course, Sir, _you_ see what's running in Mr. ADAMS' 'ed all
this time, what he's a-driving at, eh?

_Und._ (_to himself_). I only wish I did! This will require tact.
(_Aloud._) I--I could hardly avoid seeing _that_--could I?

_Check._ I should think not. And it stands to reason as a vet like
yourself'd spot a thing like navickler fust go off.

_Und._ (_to himself_). A vet! They've been taking me for a vet all this
time! I can't have been so ignorant as I thought. I really don't like to
undeceive them--they might feel annoyed. (_Aloud, knowingly._) To be
sure, I--I spotted it at once.

_Adams._ He _does_ make it out navicular after all! What did I tell you,
CHECKLEY? Now p'r'aps you'll believe _me_!

_Check._ I'll be shot if that 'orse has navickler, whoever says

_Adams_ (_gloomily_). It's the 'orse'll 'ave to be shot; worse
luck! I'd ha' give something if Mr. UNDERSHELL could ha' shown I was
wrong; but there was very little doubt in _my_ mind what it was all

_Und._ (_to himself, horrified_). I've been pronouncing this unhappy
animal's doom without knowing it! I must tone it down. (_Aloud._)
No--no, I never said he must be shot. There's no reason to despair.
It--it's quite a mild form of er--clavicular--not at all infectious at
present. And the horse has a splendid constitution. I--I really think
he'll soon be himself again, if we only--er--leave Nature to do her
work, you know.

_Adams_ (_after a prolonged whistle_). Well, if Nature ain't better up
in her work than you seem to be, it's 'igh time she chucked it, and took
to something else. You've a lot to learn about navicular, _you_ 'ave, if
you can talk such rot as that!

_Check._ Ah, I've 'ad to do with a vet or two in my time, but I'm blest
if I ever come across the likes o' _you_ afore!

_Und._ (_to himself_). I _knew_ they'd find me out! I must pacify them.
(_Aloud._) But, look here, I'm _not_ a vet. I never said I _was_. It was
your mistake entirely. The fact is, my--my good men, I came down here
because--well, it's unnecessary to explain now _why_ I came. But I'm
most anxious to get away, and if you, my dear Mr. CHECKLEY, could let me
have a trap to take me to Shuntingbridge to-night, I should feel
extremely obliged.

    [CHECKLEY _stares, deprived of speech._

_Adams_ (_with a private wink to_ CHECKLEY). Certainly he will, Sir. I'm
sure CHECKLEY'll feel proud to turn out, late as it is, to oblige a
gentleman with your remarkable knowledge of 'orse-flesh. Drive you over
hisself in the broom and pair, _I_ shouldn't wonder!

_Und. One_ horse will be quite sufficient. Very well, then. I'll just
run up and get my portmanteau, and--and one or two things of mine, and
if you will be round at the back entrance--don't trouble to drive up to
the _front_ door--as soon as possible, I won't keep you waiting longer
than I can help. Good evening, Mr. ADAMS, and many thanks. (_To himself,
as he hurries back to the house._) I've got out of that rather well.
Now, I've only to find my way to the Verney Chamber, see this fellow
SPURRELL, and get my clothes back, and then I can retreat with comfort,
and even dignity! These CULVERINS shall learn that there is at least
_one_ poet who will not put up with their insolent patronage!

_Check._ (_to_ ADAMS). He _has_ got a cool cheek, and no mistake! But if
he waits to be druv over to Shuntingbridge till _I_ come round for him,
he'll 'ave to set on that portmanteau of his a goodish time!

_Adams._ He did you pretty brown, I must say. To 'ear you crowing over
me when he was on your side. I could 'ardly keep from larfing!

_Check._ I see he warn't no vet long afore you, but I let it go on for
the joke of it. It was rich to see you a wanting him to feel the 'oof,
and give it out navickler. Well, you got his opinion for what it was
wuth, so _you_'re all right!

_Adams._ You think nobody knows anything about 'orses but yourself, you
do; but if you're meanin' to make a story out o' this against me, why, I
shall tell it _my_ way, that's all!

_Check._ It was you he made a fool of, not me--and I can prove

    [_They dispute the point, with rising warmth, for some time._

_Adams_ (_calming down_). Well, see 'ere, CHECKLEY, I dunno, come to
think of it, as either on us'll show up partickler smart over this 'ere
job; and it strikes me we'd better both agree to keep quiet about it,
eh? (CHECKLEY _acquiesces, not unwillingly_.) And I think I'll take a
look in at the 'Ousekeeper's Room presently, and try if I can't drop a
hint to old TREDWELL about that smooth-tongued chap, for it's my belief
he ain't down 'ere for no good!

[Illustration "You've a lot to learn about navicular, _you_ 'ave, if
you can talk such rot as that!"]

       *       *       *       *       *



"Aha!" quoth the Baron. "This book of Master STANLEY WEYMAN'S, called
_Under the Red Robe_, delighteth me much. A stirring story of
swashbucklers, pistols, daggers, conspirators, gay gallants, and gentle
dames! Exciting from first to last, and all in one volume, which,
beshrew me, by my hilts!" quoth the Baron, "the reader, be he who he
may, will find easy to take up, and most difficult to put down, until
quite finished. 'Tis published by one METHUEN, of London, whose house
Cavalier WEYMAN hath favoured more than once ere he wrote this stirring
romance." Towards the finish there is a spice of BULWER LYTTON'S drama
_Richelieu_,--indeed the last situation in this tale is almost one with
the action of the scene in the play where _Richelieu_ brings the lovers
together. Yet is this but a mere detail, and those who follow the
Baron's literary tips will do well and wisely to read _Under the Red
Robe_. By the way, Mr. CATON WOODVILLE'S illustrations to the story are
excellent, having the rare merit of assisting the action without
revealing the plot. "CATON, thou pictureth well."

Within the limits of a hundred pages Lord DUFFERIN has given the
world a picture it will not willingly let die. It is a portrait of
his mother, "one of the sweetest, most beautiful, most accomplished,
wittiest, most loving and lovable human beings that ever walked upon
the earth." This, as my Baronite says, is the superlative of praise,
and it might reasonably be suspected that filial feeling has warped
critical acumen. But here in this volume of _Songs, Poems, and Verses_
(JOHN MURRAY) we have Lady DUFFERIN though dead yet speaking, and may
judge for ourselves. It is characteristic of her son that, whilst on
the first page the above title is boldly set forth in large ruddy-hued
type, a smaller line lower down, in plain black ink, refers to the
"Memoir." In its felicity of literary style, its clear touches of
characterisation, and its flashes of quiet humour, this monograph is a
masterpiece. It fittingly frames the extract from the journal commenced
by Lady DUFFERIN when she felt the hand of death gripping her. This
fragment is prose worthy of the author of _The Irish Emigrant_, whose
simple pathos has stirred the heart on both sides of the Atlantic.
Within the brief limits he has assigned to himself, Lord DUFFERIN
manages to give a succinct account of the illustrious family of which
HELEN, Lady DUFFERIN, was a bright, particular star. It would be
difficult to parallel the sustained brilliancy of the SHERIDANS, from
RICHARD BRINSLEY down to his great-great-grandson, at present Her
MAJESTY'S Minister at Paris. To the possession of all the graces they
have added display of all the talents. It is hard to live up to the
literary standard of the SHERIDANS. In this delightful volume Lord
DUFFERIN shows that the marvel was accomplished by his mother, and is
possible for himself.

My Baronite has made an attempt to read _Lourdes_ in the convenient
shape in which Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS present it to the
English-speaking public. He honestly admits that, finding on a rapid
glance through its pages the first chapter was a fair sample of the
bulk, he gave it up. M. ZOLA has avowedly set himself the task of
minutely describing the pitiful experience of the halt, the lame, the
blind, and much worse, who journey to Lourdes in the desperate hope
of miraculous recovery. He may at least be congratulated on having
achieved his object. Only, the report with all its horrible detail
would more fittingly have appeared in the pages of the _Lancet_ or the
_British Medical Journal_. Since it has been published in book form
realism should have been carried one step further. The volume ought to
have been bound in a poultice instead of ordinary cloth. As it is, the
leaves turned over fill the room with faint, sickening smell of the
hospital ward. _Lourdes_ is certainly not alluring. It is, in truth,
_lourd--et sale aussi_.

Once again, for the benefit of all brother-scribes who, for a while, or
frequently, may have to do their scribbling when journeying, or while
compelled by illness to remain in Bedford-under-Clothes,--as was but
recently the case with your own Baronius, pains and counterpanes all
over him,--the use of "_The Hairless Author's Paper-pad_," _i.e._ "_The
Author's Hairless Paper-pad_," issued by the _Leadenhall Press_, on
which the author can write with pencil or with pen,--for the blotter is
handily placed at the back of the pad,--is strongly recommended by the
Ready Writer's and Ready Reader's best friend,


       *       *       *       *       *

MEM. BY AN OLD MAID.--If you "look over your age," you won't find anyone
else willing to do the same.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


_Or, an Ex-Radical's Reflections in a Peer-Glass._

    ["I say that I, at any rate, am ready to view with favour any
    reasonable proposal which would add an elective element to the
    composition of the House of Lords, which would bring them into
    closer touch with popular sentiment."--_Mr. Chamberlain at Leeds
    (Times' Report)._]

  "_They toil not, neither do they spin_"--
    Aught but occasional orations!
  Ah! that was in my days of sin.
    How time has altered our relations
  Yes, I _was_ down upon the Lords,
    When I compared them with the lilies:
  New Rads remind me of my words;
    But then New Rads are all old sillies.

  How _dare_ they, dupes of GLADSTONE'S guile,
    Poor Party tools, mere flies in amber,
  To imitate my earlier style,
    And rave against a Second Chamber?
  And do they think to corner _me_
    By mere _tu quoque_ and quotation?
  A gift of ready repartee
    Secures such easy extrication.

  I worship what I wished to burn?--
    The jeer is really most unhandsome!
  For things have taken quite a turn
    Since I ran rather wild on Ransom.
  The House of Lords is our sole hope,
    Sheet-anchor, lighthouse, ægis, haven;
  The only power which can cope
    With the New Rad--that nerveless craven!

  A Single Chamber means the sway
    Of the majority--most shocking!--
  With no devices of delay,
    Progress impeding, freedom mocking--
  Hold hard! I'm quoting--from myself!--
    _Of Commoners_ a mere majority
  Means rule of party, passion, pelf,
    Which in the Peers have _no_ authority.

  Non-representative, but nice,
    The Peers are patriots, heroes, sages
  Class-selfishness is not _their_ vice;
    They haste not, don't get into rages.
  To a majority of _them_
    We safely may entrust our freedom.
  But mere M.P.'s? With venal phlegm
    They'd sell it--for the mess of Edom.

  Mesopotamia--blessèd word!--
    Than the word "Peer" is far less blessèd!
  Mere Commoners are crass, absurd,
    Foolish as Creon, false as Cressid.
  To trust to an _elected_ mob
    Our Glorious Empire, were sheer treason;
  But dukes and earls may do the job,
    For a Peer's robe _must_ cover reason.

  Still an "elective element"
    Perhaps might bring their "composition"
  "In touch with popular sentiment,"
    And hush the howlings of sedition.
  To pick the best and brightest stars
    From court and college, bench and platform,
  Might still some poletariat jars.--
    Hah! how should I appear in _that_ form?

  Of course, a robe and coronet
    Would never make _me_ turn a Tory,
  Like--well, so many. Now I'll bet
    King SOLOMON in all his glory
  Was not arrayed--tut! tut!--no more
    I'd like them to forget those lilies,
  These quoted bits are such a bore,--
    Unless they're that old "tonguester" WILLY'S!

  _Experimentum in_--well, no!
    The context is not very flattering,
  (How seldom my quotations go!
    There are some drawbacks in mere smattering.)
  But if the "elective element"
    Would Peers improve, as not a few think,
  I might--some day--who knows?--consent
    To show them how--well, what do _you_ think?

       *       *       *       *       *


_Written upon hearing that Mr. Gladstone's enforced rest is lightened by
the reading aloud of relays of Devoted Friends._

  Mighty-voiced MILTON, whose unmurmuring song
    Rolls yet in organ tones round his loved land,
    Its saddest strain, with high endurance grand,
    Unconquerably serene, sublimely strong;
  Sing in our Statesman's ears! Great HOMER, long
    His "friend, in youth, in manhood, and in age,"
    Let thy charmed splendours, and thy counsels sage,
    Calm his large energies to fine content.
  Be MILTON'S patience his! "God doth not need
    Either man's work, or his own gifts"--so rang
    The heroic high reply. But the whole State
  Wishes its tireless servitor "God speed!"
    Light in his darkness, hope to illume his rest!
    "They also serve who only stand and wait."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "FOR EXAMPLE!"

SOME ELECTIVE AND NON-HEREDITARY PLAN----." (_Leeds, September 25._)]

       *       *       *       *       *


IV.--TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS (_and a Herrickose vein_).

  Whenas to shoot my JULIA goes,
  Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows
  That rare arrangement of her clothes!

  So shod as when the Huntress Maid
  With thumping buskin bruised the glade,
  She moveth, making earth afraid.

  Against the sting of random chaff
  Her leathern gaiters circle half
  The arduous crescent of her calf.

  Unto th' occasion timely fit,
  My love's attire doth show her wit,
  And of her legs a little bit.

  Sorely it sticketh in my throat,
  She having nowhere to bestow't,
  To name the absent petticoat.

  In lieu whereof a wanton pair
  Of knickerbockers she doth wear,
  Full windy and with space to spare.

  Enlargèd by the bellying breeze,
  Lord! how they playfully do ease
  The urgent knocking of her knees!

  Lengthways curtailèd to her taste
  A tunic circumvents her waist,
  And soothly it is passing chaste.

  Upon her head she hath a gear
  Even such as wights of ruddy cheer
  Do use in stalking of the deer.

  Haply her truant tresses mock
  Some coronal of shapelier block,
  To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

  Withal she hath a loaded gun,
  Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
  Do make a fair diversiòn.

  For very awe, if so she shoots,
  My hair upriseth from the roots,
  And lo! I tremble in my boots!

       *       *       *       *       *

A SAFE PREDICTION.--That the New Woman of this decade will be the Old
Maid of the next.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


    [Mr. ST. LOE STRACHEY has written an article in the _Nineteenth
    Century_, entitled, "The Seven Lord Roseberies."]

          Parliament's a stage,
  And, Peers or Commoners, they are merely players:
  They have their exits and their entrances,
  And one Peer in his time plays many parts,
  His acts being seven stages. First the Home-Ruler,
  Mewling and puking in Nurse GLADSTONE'S arms;
  And then the Union Schoolboy, with his satchel,
  And smooth-cut morning face, creeping like snail
  Unwilling to JOE'S school. And then the Boss,
  Working like nigger, with a dithyrambic
  Made to the County Council. Then a Socialist,
  Full of strange aims, bearded like BERNARD SHAW,
  Jealous of Ground Rents, quick with Land to quarrel,
  Seeking the fleeting bubble, Betterment,
  E'en at Monopoly's mouth. And then the Premier,
  High above Party, with a pleasant joke
  On the predominant partner and his claims;
  Full of light jests and modern mugwumpisms;
  And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
  Into the smooth-cheeked, inexpressive Sphinx
  With finger at her nose's knowing side,
  DIZZY'S old pose well mimicked, "cute" and "wide,"
  With a cold eye and an oracular voice,
  Which, tuned to cynic lightness, puzzles much
  The Radical OEipus. Last scene of all,
  That ends this strange eventful history,
  Newmarket ROSEBERY, _Ladas_-owner, Lord,--
  _Sans_ grit, _sans_ nous, _sans_ go, _sans_ everything!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_With Apologies to the Author of "Another Woman's Eyes," in the
"Illustrated News."_)

  Beautiful ears, indeed, beautiful ears!
    (She must be growing blind to think them fine!)
  Had you been wiser in those by-gone years,
    They might have--heard the lectures lost on mine.

  I only wish they had! (But no, no, no;
    I'd rather list long nights to Caudle-shine,
  Than let those beautiful ears--she calls them so--
    List some "soft nothings" murmured into mine!)

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Suggestion not necessarily Founded upon Facts._)

SCENE--_The Interior of a Police Court: a case is in course of disposal.
The Magistrate has made up his mind to deal summarily in the matter._

_Magistrate._ And so you say that the prisoner has a bad record?

_Policeman X._ A very bad one, your Worship. We have strong reasons for
believing that he has been in every prison in the kingdom for crimes of
varying gravity.

_Magistrate._ By the new anthropometrical system, you can identify him?

_Policeman X._ Certainly. I have here certificates from no less than two
hundred gaol governors declaring his hair to be the colour of pea-green.

_Magistrate._ And I notice the prisoner has hair of that peculiar hue.

_Policeman X._ Certainly, your worship; and on that account I claim that
you impose upon this man the heaviest punishment within your

_Magistrate._ And now prisoner what have you to say?

_Prisoner._ Merely this, that the man who last night broke into the
jeweller's shop was not myself but another. I had nought to do with the
crime. The constable has sworn that the caitiff had pea-green hair. Now
I have not pea-green hair; my locks are black.

_Magistrate._ Assertion is not proof. By the anthropometrical system we
can spot you. Look at yourself in the glass and you will see that your
hair _is_ pea-green.

_Prisoner._ You are wrong, Sir. You see my curls are of raven black.
(_Removes his wig._) Am I not right? Am I not entitled to release?

_Magistrate._ Certainly. Officers, do your duty. Release your prisoner!

    [_The accused is liberated, and, in the company of some trusted
    pals, leaves the Court without a stain upon his character, and with
    the intention of doing a little more burgling before he is many
    hours older. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

On reading a "Smart" Novel.

  Heavy moralities, _à la_ SARAH GRAND,
    Are tedious oft, and trivial to boot;
  But some who write of Vice with a "a light hand,"
    Merit the impact of a heavy foot.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_After a rough Sketch by the Right Hon. J. Ch-mb-rl-n!_)

    ["Since the defeat of the Home Rule Bill they (the Irish Party) have
    all been engaged in blackening each other's characters, and painting
    each other's portraits; and I venture to say that the result of that
    is not a gallery of pictures, but a _Chamber of Horrors_."]]

       *       *       *       *       *


  My peerless but progressive Fair,
    To you my heart I proffer.
  Time was when one knew where you were,
  And how to make an offer.
  Now, all too swiftly you advance
    For Damon to pursue you.
  Take pity on his ignorance,
    And tell him _how_ to woo you!

  If strong on Woman's Rights you are,
    Upon her wrongs I'll ponder:
  I'll win for you a _Wanderjahr_,
    If I with you may wander.
  Or does Humanity enthrall?
    Before the summer passes
  I'll run a moral Music Hall
    To renovate the Masses.

  Say, shall I write to you in verse
    Of metre strange and frantic,
  Which by neglect of barriers
    Proves genius gigantic?
  Is modern fiction dear to you?
    In scandal while I grovel,
  I will endeavour to outdo
    Its most pernicious novel!

  Belovèd, of _which_ patent creed
    Shall I uplift the banner?
  By telepathy shall I plead,
    Or in the usual manner?
  If after Occult Truth you grope,
    Though now I'm no Mahatma,
  From earthly bonds I yet might hope--
    For you--to free my Atma!

  Shall I by Geomancy show
    Your lot and mine united,
  The sign of _Acquisitio_
    Foretelling love requited?
  Or shall I from the planets prove
    That long before I knew you
  Our fates were linked? My modern love,
  Oh, tell me _how_ to woo you!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WE'VE NOT COME TO THAT YET.



       *       *       *       *       *


(_By a Well-Plucked One._)

  When chapel bells rang far and wide,
  Why did I turn upon my side,
  And sweetly back to slumber glide?
                        I wonder!

  When zephyrs wafted on their way
  The fragrance of the new-mown hay,
  Why did I cut my lectures, eh?
                        I wonder!

  Why did I moor my punt afar,
  With claret-cup and choice cigar,
  Instead of reading for the Bar?
                        I wonder!

  Why did the Proctors always frown
  On meeting me without a gown,
  And ultimately send me down?
                        I wonder!

  Why did the Dons all disagree
  With my pet views on equity,
  And plough me for my LL.B.?
                        I wonder!

  Why am I now in chambers bare,
  With nothing much but debts to spare,
  Cash gone, and credit growing rare?
                        I wonder!

  Why do no clients seek my door
  To profit by my legal lore?
  Will it be thus for evermore?
                        I wonder!

       *       *       *       *       *

The New Fashion.

      The fashion in hair
      The ladies now wear
  Never can last I'll engage:
      For though, pretty dears,
      It hideth their ears,
  It addeth some years to their age.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Fragment from the Romance of the Near Future._)

He had waited up until two in the morning. He had watched the
hands of the clock as they passed round the face from hour to hour.
He had put a cloth over the supper, knowing, however, that the
meat would be disregarded, and only the brandy and soda-water
touched by the expected one. The poor man gazed sadly at the
children's toys, the tradesmen's books that were beside him.

"Not home yet," he murmured. "Ah, those dinners at the club!"

Then he considered his past life. He remembered his wedding-day,
when it seemed so bright and fair. He was a happy husband,
with every prospect of a long life of wedded bliss. He loved and
respected his wife, and felt that side by side they could travel along
the road of existence without a rock to arrest their progress, without
a discordant note to spoil the harmony of their song, until that song
had ceased its music in the hush of silence. Tears, suppressed until
now, flooded his eyes as he remembered the waning of the honeymoon.
He recollected the anxiety of ALICE to get back to town, to
be off into the City. Of course he could not follow his wife into her
business haunts; it would be immodest--nay, even improper. Still,
he had been treated kindly, in a rough, condescending sort of way.
He had had a Brougham, and had been allowed to visit his gentlemen
friends. He had plenty of chats, and occasionally ALICE had
accompanied him round the park. Then he had seen a good deal
of his children. His daughter, however, had now gone to school, and
his sons were always with their nursery tutor. The clock struck
once again. "Three, and not home yet!"

Early morning was breaking. The poor man, pale and careworn,
re-arranged his necktie, and putting on an extra overcoat, prepared
once more to resume the reading of a novel that had been attracting
his attention earlier in the evening. It was called "_Bobby_," and
related the adventures of a wild, thoughtless man, who was setting
the laws of society at open defiance.

"How can men write of men like this?" he murmured. "I am not surprised
that women think badly of us when we thus paint ourselves. Visiting a
music-hall with his female cousin! Going to the Zoological Gardens
unattended! Oh, BOBBY, BOBBY, what a creation!" Then he started. There
was a noise at the street-door, and the sound of scraping on the outside
as if a latch-key were vainly seeking the key-hole. Then the portal
slowly opened and a cloaked figure lurched rather than walked in.

"Oh ALICE!" cried the frightened husband, wringing his hands in dismay.
"Is there anything the matter?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," was the indistinct reply. "Fact is I
don't think the salmon----"

And then the new-comer entered the dining-room, and there was the sound
of the effervescence of soda-water.

The poor husband sighed, mournfully turned off the gas, and went quietly
to bed.

"Oh wife," murmured the aggrieved husband, as he mounted the stairs,
"you cannot help bringing woe to man, for unless you did so you would
not be a woe-man."

And bursting into tears at this sad pleasantry, the poor chap
disappeared into the darkness.

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR SIR,--May I draw your attention to a series of domestic occurrences
which illustrate the distressing and increasing tendency of this
_fin-de-siècle_ age? I say _fin-de-siècle_ because as it has got to come
in somehow, it may as well be said at once. At breakfast yesterday the
bacon was wretchedly cooked. My wife said, "It's the fault of the New
Cook," which was all the satisfaction or explanation that I got. I found
my study disguised in an apparent tidiness, achieved at the cost of a
complete confusion of my papers, which had been tidied away in a manner
that completely defied detection. My wife only answered, "Oh, it's that
New Housemaid." That night we went to the theatre. The name of the play
was _The New Woman_. Then I understood the true inwardness of all my
previous experiences. The moral is so clear that I do not propose to
draw any.

  _The Cedars, Sept. 29._


       *       *       *       *       *


DEAREST MARJORIE,--It is really quite time you gave me some more of your
valuable advice. Thanks to you, I was not such an utter failure in my
first season as I expected. After a month at home (my people _loathe_
the new way I do my hair, and it seemed, I am ashamed to say, a _little_
dull there), I have come to stay again with the LYON TAYMERS at their
country house.

[Illustration: ]

You remember I refused the man who did conjuring tricks? He has written
to me since to say he sees now how right I was--rather crushing! I also
fully _intended_ to refuse Captain MASHINGTON. But he went to Dinard
without giving me the opportunity, and I hear he has been playing tennis
there the _whole_ day with Mrs. LORNE HOPPER. I am sure I hope he
enjoyed it. She is what you or I would consider rather old, but is said
to be perfectly charming, and of course looks fifteen years younger than
her youngest daughter.

It seems rather strange, doesn't it, MARJORIE, that after being so
wonderfully sensible all the season, I should suddenly do something
quite idiotic in September? However, I _have_; and I want you to help me
out of it. I'll tell you _all_, if you'll promise not to laugh. When I
first came, I was "thrown," as people say, a good deal with the TAYMER'S
nephew--ORIEL CRAMPTON who has just left Oxford. I was told he was very
serious, rather shy, philanthropic, and has "views"; also that he had
done a great deal of good in the West End. This interested me, and I
tried to draw him out. They had omitted to mention that he was
dreadfully susceptible. We talked for _hours_ in the garden, nearly all
the time--at first--about the housing of the rich and horrible cases of
over-crowding--at London parties. He was very earnest and ascetic (he
never drinks anything but hot water, and doesn't smoke); he lent me
books--he is rather handsome--and--gradually--somehow I found I had
drifted into an absurd sort of private half-engagement! Yes--I have
actually a bangle _rivetted on_--with a date inside--the date I was
insane enough to agree----Isn't it dreadful?

ORIEL will be well off, but he intends to spend all his money on
founding model slums, where the people are to be teetotallers and do
bootmaking or something, and be a happy little colony. ORIEL'S views may
necessitate his doing a little cobbling himself--just to set an example.
I was enormously impressed by this at first; but I am afraid I have
become frivolous again. Some other people have come here, including a
nice boy they call BABY BEAUMONT. He is really almost nineteen, but
wonderfully well preserved, very clever, and so cynical that he is quite
an optimist. Almost directly, he asked me how long I had known ORIEL
CRAMPTON. I said about a fortnight. "Ah! then you must be engaged to
him. Poor old ORIEL! He's really quite extraordinarily old-fashioned."

"How old is he?" I asked, in faltering tones.

"He has rather a way of pretending to be young, I fancy. But he must be
four-and-twenty if he is a day. You need not say I told you."

It's evidently the fashion to be _very young_--for men, at least.
Sometimes I wish it were the fashion to be old enough to know better. If
ORIEL really _has_ been engaged before, and may be again, and if getting
engaged to people is only a sort of habit of his, perhaps he would not
mind so very much if I were to break it off.

BABY BEAUMONT is (he says himself) "frankly Pagan." He thinks ORIEL too
serious for me, and advises me to marry at leisure, as I am quite sure,
anyhow, to repent in haste. He wanted to send a paragraph to the _Post_
to say "A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly be broken off,
between Mr. ORIEL CRAMPTON and Miss GLADYS MAYFIELD, younger daughter,"
and so on.

Last night, when we were playing games, ORIEL went out while we thought
of a word, and he got quite angry with me because I had said the moon
was "vegetable" and _he_ said it was "mineral." He may be right, or he
may not--I daresay he is--but still he need not be touchy, and refuse to
play any more, and sulk all the evening.

I am afraid I should not be happy with him. He collects postage stamps,
too, which depresses me dreadfully.

_Please_ write and tell me what to do--or rather, how to do it. Can one
get a bangle _rivetted off_?... I have just heard that the LORNE HOPPERS
and Captain MASHINGTON are coming to play tennis on Sunday! Of course, I
shall show absolute indifference. I wired at once to town for my new
dress. Mrs. HOPPER may as well see it.

BABY BEAUMONT is always changing his clothes, and has two button-holes
sent down from London daily. He says he "intends to revive the
gardenia."... ORIEL has just gone out for a "_brisk walk before
dinner_." Aren't we _utterly_ unsuited to each other?

  Your loving friend,


P.S.--_Is_ the moon mineral?

       *       *       *       *       *


CAPITAL £100,000,000, IN 20,000,000 SHARES OF £5 EACH.

This Company has been formed to acquire, combine into one, and carry on
the various old-established businesses of literary reviewing hitherto
carried on separately by Messrs. ANDREW LANG (who will join the Board
after allotment), GRANT ALLEN, W. E. GLADSTONE, H. D. TRAILL, T. P.
COUCH, RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, and others. All these gentlemen have
consented to act as Directors. The advantages of the scheme are obvious.
Hitherto critical opinion, as printed in the daily, weekly, and monthly
press, has been so diversified as to make it impossible for the public
to form a settled judgment on books. For instance, a work may be
described in one place as "possessing in the highest degree the master
qualities of brilliant humour and profound pathos"; while, in another
notice, published on the same day, it may be condemned as "an essay in
stupid buffoonery, which mistakes inversion for paradox, and makes a
parade of sentiment as laughable as its efforts at humour are
melancholy." It is the intention of the Directors to change all this.
Frequent Board-Meetings will be held, at which all books sent for review
will be carefully considered, with a view to deciding how they shall be
treated. The decisions thus come to will be carried out in a series of
articles extending with absolute uniformity over the whole field of
contemporary literature.

[Illustration: ]


The profits of the business to be thus carried on must be gigantic.
After a careful inspection of the books of all British newspapers the
well-known accountants Messrs. LEGER AND BALLANCE have informed the
Directors that the gains of these papers _from reviewing and literary
gossip alone_ amount to £10,632,009 12_s._ 7_d._ annually. As these
papers will henceforth, on their literary side, be worked by the
Directors with all the latest improvements, even larger gains may be
looked for in the immediate future.


This department will be managed by a paragraphist of unrivalled
experience, who will have under his orders a large staff of skilled
assistants thoroughly instructed in the use of the new patent
mitrailleuse Boomerangs, ten of which will be fixed in the chief office
of the Company at No. 1, Log Rolls Yard. Literary shareholders to
the amount of £500 and upwards will be entitled to a preferential
boom by way of bonus.


For this style of reviewing a separate department has been established,
under the joint management of three well-known literary failures,
Messrs. SCRIBLEY, FIBLEY AND GLIBLEY. By a careful imitation of the
worst models, and by assiduously cultivating their own natural
coarseness, the managers anticipate very remarkable results. Style will
be no object, but every worker in this department will be expected to
provide his own rhinoceros hide and stock of allusions to RABELAIS. All
holders of less than three shares will come under the operation of this
department. The Company intend shortly, however, to issue £10
debentures, the owners of which will be permitted once a year to ballot
for the privilege of reviewing the book of one of their friends.


The Directors propose to organise a scheme of insurance against hostile
reviews and obdurate editors. For an annual payment of £24 an insurer
will be entitled to one favourable review during the year; for £30 he
will be absolutely guaranteed against unfavourable criticism. A small
yearly payment, varying according to age, will entitle his widow to
claim £1000 at his death upon furnishing a certificate, signed by Mr.
BESANT and the family doctor, that he died after reading an unfavourable
notice of one of his books. All literary men, however, are recommended
to subscribe £30 a year, thus obtaining a life-long immunity from


This will be known as the "George Department," and will be controlled by
four new women of advanced views. Cigarettes, latch-keys, and a summary
of divorce court proceedings will be kept on the premises. Novels turned
out while you wait. Mrs. LYNN LINTON will not be admitted during office

       *       *       *       *       *

great hit in a one-part piece written by Dr. CONAN DOYLE, entitled _A
Story of Waterloo_. Probably Mr. J. L. TOOLE will follow it up with _A
Story of Brandy-and-Waterloo_, in which our cheerful comedian will
appear as a regular Wetter'un.

[Transcriber's Note:

Alternate and dialect spelling retained.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 6, 1894" ***

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