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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, September 22nd, 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, September 22nd, 1894" ***

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


Volume 107, September 22, 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_


(_With some Notes on a Detective Melodrama at the Ambigu._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--When I announced my intention of running over to Paris
for a few days, my friend BUZZARD looked at me with a stony contempt.
"To Paris?" he said, "at this time of year! Why, you must be mad. What
on earth are you going to do there?" I tried to explain to BUZZARD,
whose frigid superiority frightens me, that I liked Paris, that I was
going there _pour me dégourdir_; that it was just as possible to
breakfast at LEDOYEN'S or VOISIN'S, and to dine at DURAND'S or JOSEPH'S
in September as at any other time; that a few theatres were still open;
that the Boulevards were there for the _flâneur_; but I failed to
penetrate his scorn, even with the most idiomatic French at my command.
However, I determined that BUZZARD, like the weight of the elephant in
the problem, must be neglected; and here I am in the Rue de Rivoli with
another madman like unto myself. We take our _café complet_ in bed; we
wear beautiful French ties, made of _foulard_, with two vast ends
floating like banners in the Parisian breeze--in a word, we are
thoroughly enjoying ourselves in an entirely non-British fashion--which
I take, indeed, to be of the essence of a pleasant holiday. What care we
for the echoes of the Trades Union Congress; for the windiest of KEIR
HARDIE'S blatancies; for the malignities of Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, or the
failure of Lord ROSEBERY'S _Ladas_ at Doncaster? We are in Paris, and
the sight of a _cuirassier_ trotting past with his great black
_crinière_ waving behind, or of the lady bicyclists scudding by in
knickerbockers, excites us more than even the latest ravings of the
newest woman in London. BUZZARD be blowed! You may tell him I said so.


I want to let Mr. CONAN DOYLE know that there is a great opening for
him here. If I may judge by the latest detective drama, the ideas of
the Parisian public with regard to the acumen and general power of
a detective are still very primitive. Yet GABORIAU did something in
this line, and, in the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_, did not _d'Artagnan_
show himself on the occasion of a certain duel to be a detective of
unmatchable force? Still the fact remains that the play-going Parisian
public is easily satisfied in the matter of detectives. Listen, if you
doubt me, to a plain unvarnished account of "_La Belle Limonadière_,"
the "_Grand drame nouveau en cinq actes, huit tableaux_," which is now
running gloomily, but with immense success, at the _Ambigu_.

_Madame de Mazerolles_, a wealthy widow, is, in the first Act, robbed
and brutally murdered by her stepson, _Roland_, a dissipated young
man, who is incited to the commission of the crime by his wicked
mistress _Sabine_. _Vidocq_, the great representative of the new
school in detection (_circa_ A.D. 1820), is away at the time, and in
his absence the investigation falls to his rival _Yvrier_, who belongs
to the old school. In the chamber of death _Yvrier_ soon makes up
his mind that the guilty person is one _Henri Lebrun_, a faithful
and gigantic old soldier, much given to beating his breast with both
fists and talking at large about his services to his country, his
immaculate honesty and his domestic virtues. Suddenly _Vidocq_ enters.
He discovers that the assassin has entered by a certain door because
a cobweb has been disturbed, he picks up a red flower dropped by the
assassin, he pours contempt on the crass stupidity of _Yvrier_--all
quite in the best Sherlock Holmes style. But nothing comes of it
all. Poor _Henri Lebrun_, still beating his breast with fists, is
arrested, and after a painful interview with his only daughter (whom
he discovers to have been the mistress of _George_, the son of _Madame
Mazerolles_), he becomes sublime, accuses himself quite unnecessarily
of the murder he had never committed, and is marched off to prison
amid the execrations of the populace, the triumph of the crass
_Yvrier_, and the loudly expressed determination of _Vidocq_ to bring
the guilty to justice and save the life of the innocent _Lebrun_.
Time passes. _Lebrun_, overwhelmed by an entire absence of proofs,
is tried and condemned to death. It is the morning appointed for
his execution. The curtain rises in the upper floor of a restaurant
commanding an extensive view of the guillotine. The sight-seers troop
in. First of all comes _Roland_, the murderer, disguised in black as
a wicked Marquis, and accompanied by the infamous _Sabine_. _Hélène
Lebrun_, the daughter of the condemned man, also troops in to slow
music in black. There is a commotion at the door, and the obsequious
innkeeper backs on to the stage ushering in _Milord Sir John Stilton_
and his son "_Shames_." _Sir John_ is dressed in an enormous green
swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, a
pair of yellow knickerbockers, and stockings brilliantly striped with
red and black. On his head he wears a low-crowned hat. In one hand
he carries an umbrella, while a telescope dangles from his Shoulders
by a strap. In short, he is _tout-ce-qu'il-y-a de plus Anglais_. His
son _Shames_ is even more aggressively British. _Sir John_ orders
lunch: "_vous donner moa bifteck_" is the obvious formula. _Shames_
concurs with a "Yehs, Pappah," which provokes roars of laughter. But
stay, what is this? _Sir John_ takes _Shames_ aside: they talk in
beautiful French. Can it be? Yes, by Heaven, it is the great _Vidocq_
with his faithful _Coco-Latour_! We breathe again, for now we know
that the innocent man is safe. The procession, however, approaches.
The condemned man speaks from below to his daughter in the balcony.
He declares his innocence. Now good _Vidocq_, to the rescue. Display
all your arts, convict the guilty, disguised Marquis, and save the
estimable _Lebrun_! But _Vidocq_ looks on impassive, a dull thud is
heard and the head of the innocent rolls into the basket. Immediately
afterwards _Yvrier_ staggers in. Too late, he says, he has been
convinced of _Lebrun's_ innocence. At the last moment _Lebrun_ looked
at him with eyes in which there was no trace of guilt. That last look
did it, and now _Yvrier_ in a passion of repentance offers himself to
help _Vidocq_, even in the most subordinate capacity, to track down
the guilty, and to remove the stain from _Lebrun's_ name. I pass over
the padding, during which _Vidocq_ appears, for no earthly reason, in
numerous disguises, and come to the last scene. _Roland_ has all but
killed _George Mazerolles_ in a duel, he has murdered _Sabine_, who,
before dying, rounds on him, and he is now, by a strange conjunction
of circumstances, in the very room in which he murdered _Madame
Mazerolles_. Thither also comes everybody else. _Vidocq_, who is
tracking _Roland_, discovers, through a paper belonging to the late
_Madame Mazerolles_, that _Roland_, her murderer, was her son, not
her step-son, and that he, _Vidocq_, is the father of _Roland_. In
his youth _Vidocq_ had been a soldier. Somewhere he had met _Madame
Mazerolles_. "_Nous nous sommes aimés entre deux batailles, entre
deux victoires_," and _Roland_ was the fruit of their love. Horror of
horrors! What is he to do? First he tells _Roland_ that he killed, not
his step-mother, but his mother. At this awful intelligence, _Roland_
faints in an armchair for precisely ten seconds. Recovering himself,
he is fain to escape. _Vidocq_, all his fatherly instincts aroused,
says he shall. The weak _Yvrier_ consents, when suddenly, from behind
a curtain, appears _Hélène Lebrun_ in black. The murderer of her
father must not escape, she declares, whereupon the great detective,
vowing that his son shall never be food for the guillotine, shoots him
dead with a toy pistol in the region of the left waistcoat pocket.
Tableau! Curtain!

There, _Mr. Punch_, you have the French _Sherlock_ on the stage. A
wonderful man, is he not?

  Yours, as always,

       A VAGRANT.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By a Western Wonderer._)

  All in the East seems so dawdling and queer!
  Bogus engagements, and battles _pour rire_,
  Militant meetings--where nobody meets--
  Ghostly armies and phantom fleets;
  "Terrible slaughter"--with never a blow,
  Corpse-choked rivers that maps do not show;
  Wild contradiction and vagueness extreme,
  Faith, it all reads like some Flowery Land dream,
  Arabian-nightish, and opium-bred,
  Japanese-spookish, delirium-fed,
  Wild, willow-patternish; sort of a "War"
  JOHNNY might paint on a blue ginger-jar.
  Wonder how long such a queer war will wag on?
  No one can tell--when 'tis _Dragon_ v. _Dragon_!

       *       *       *       *       *


I am glad to see the "BYSTANDER" in the _Graphic_ has recently uttered
a startled protest against the fashion, now somewhat overdone, and
occasionally objectionably done, of lady-begging for charitable purposes
in the London streets. On the sudden apparition of one of these merry
half-sisters of charity (were not the Pecksniffian daughters Charity and
Merry?) Mr. ASHBY STERRY became well-nigh hysterrycal, and his
generosity being temporarily paralysed, he fled, with pockets tightly
buttoned. For the moment he was no longer the "BYSTANDER," whose motto
is that of _Captain Cuttle_, "Stand by," but, as though he had heard the
command to "Stand and deliver," our sturdy "BYSTANDER" became a fugitive
from before the face of the giddy charity girl, and thus at one "go"
saved his halfpence and his honour. For his reputation would have
suffered had he impolitely rebuffed his fair unfair assailant. He did
well to flee, he did still better to write and publicly complain. We
trust that this process adopted by _the_ Sterry O'Type (a fine old Irish
title by the way) may have its due influence, and that the abuse, which
has become thus Sterry O'Typed, of a fashion good in itself and its
origin, may soon cease to exist. _En attendant_, _Mr. Punch_ is pleased
to know that the "BYSTANDER" is still running on, and not likely to come
to a standstill.

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Will you afford me a small portion of your space to put
on record once and for ever a most extraordinary coincidence? Last
Wednesday afternoon I was taking a country walk, when all at once my eye
was suddenly caught by a throstle. At the same time I accidentally
looked at my watch. It had stopped at 12.10. When I got home I mentioned
both of these circumstances to my wife.

Later in the evening I bought an evening paper, and was amazed to find
that the St. Leger had been won by _Throstle_ (the bird I had seen),
which had started at 50 to 1 (the exact minute at which my watch had
stopped)! Could the force of coincidence farther go? The Society of
Psychical Research and Mr. STEAD are welcome to this incident. The only
thing which troubles me at all is that the evidence (other than my own)
is a little slender. My wife is deaf, and never heard what I told her.
The bird has flown. My watch is going again. I inclose my card, and am,

  Yours STEAD-Y to a degree,


       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Punch, on Peeler Piper.

    ["I wish," said Mr. LANE, the North London magistrate,
    "to express my sense of the very great courage and resolution
    exhibited by Constable PIPER in this case, under circumstances of
    considerable pressure, danger, and exhaustion."--_Times' Police
    Report, Sept. 12._]

  Peeler PIPER prov'd his plucky pecker.
  As Peeler PIPER prov'd his plucky pecker,
  Where's there pluckier pecker
  Than Peeler PIPER'S proved?

       *       *       *       *       *

PROBABLE ANNOUNCEMENT.--New Book:--_A Mischievous Medlar._ By LESLIE
KEITH, the fruitful Author of _A Troublesome Pair_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MANNERS.



       *       *       *       *       *


_(See "Indignant's" Letter in "Westminster Budget.")_

  We once had a Common at Mitcham,
  Where boys would bring wickets and pitch 'em,
      That devouring wolf
      The fanatic of golf
      Established a club,
      And--aye, there's the rub!--
  The Conservators sacrificed needs of the
    Public on purpose to help and enrich 'em!
  The Common they soon will be shutting
  In the interests of driving and "putting."
  The balls fly about and hit kids in the eye,
  And frighten old fogies, and make horses shy.
  The public's "wired" out while the golfers "wire in,"
  They have got lots of brass, but they pay little tin.
  They drive sheep and cattle, and boys in their teens.
  And nursemaids and prams off their bothering "Greens."
    Oh, _Punch_, can't you pitch in, and pitch 'em,
    These bores, off our Common at Mitcham?
  Authority here at Monopoly winks,
  But I am an old Mitcham-lover who thinks
  That the Links on our Common should be _Missing_ Links!

       *       *       *       *       *

Question and Answer.

      _Ingoldsby's Question._

  "TIGER TIM, come tell me true,
  What may a nobleman find to do?"

      _Modern Idiot's Answer._

  Squeak out the "chestnut" (_he_'ll well know which!)
  "I can't afford it; I'm far too rich!"

       *       *       *       *       *



INTERLOCUTORS--_Ceres and a Northern Farmer, newest style._

    ["In several instances last week the prices for new wheat
    were quoted at 16_s._ to 19_s._ per quarter in Lincolnshire and
    Yorkshire, and the general average for the whole country last
    week was actually only 27_s._ 7_d._ It is over two hundred years
    since anything like so low a price has been quoted for wheat in
    England."--_Westminster Gazette._]

_Farmer (throwing down newspaper)._

  Dubbut loook at the waäste! Foine feälds? A' dear! a' dear!
  'Tisn't worth nowt a haäcre; 'tis worse than it wur laäst year!

_Ceres (entering)._

  Good evening, Farmer, my friend! I think you will own this time
  I have sent you a golden harvest. I never saw wheat more prime!


  And who ma' _yew_ beä, Marm? And what dost tha meän, Marm--_yew_?
  I weänt say tha be a loiar, but tha say'st what's nawways true.


  Why, I am the farmer's friend, the goddess of farms and fields.
  At my look the furrows spring, and my laugh the harvest yields.


  Then wheer' asta beän saw long, leäven me a-liggin' aloän?
     Friend? Thoort nowt o' a friend, leävin' meä to groomble and groän.


  Why, what is the matter now? You've a bumper harvest, men say,
  The wheat and the barley show fair, and likewise the oats and the hay!


  _Thee_ be the goddess o' feälds? Oh, a prutty goddess tha beäst!
  Seems to meä tha knaws nowt, and tha beänt na use, not the leäst.
  Naw soort o' koind o' use to saäy the things that ya do!
  Goddess? My owd lass BESS wur a better goddess than yew!
  Sartin-sewer I be if 'tis theä and thet Clerk o' the Weather
  Arranges the craps and things, ye're a pair o' toättlers together!


  That is ungrateful, Farmer! Just glance at those golden sheaves!
  Phoebus and I have done it, yet who in our love believes?


  Luvv it ma beä, but I reckons tha'st boäth o' tha mooch to larn.
  Whut good o' a full-sheäved feäld, whut good o' a full-choked barn,
  If markets beänt no better, but woorse--as the chap saays here--
  Than they have beän in Owd England fur well-neigh two oonderd year?


 I am not the goddess of markets!


                             Naw, naw! Thou 'rt a useless jade.
 Whut use o' taturs, and turmuts and wheat, if tha ain't gut trade?
 Whoy, your weather hallus cooms o' the sort as we doänt desire;
 If we want sun ya send water, and if we want water 'tis fire.
 Then they Parlyment fellers fret us a-lettin' they furrineers in.
 We take no koind o'care of ourssens, and tha furrineers win;
 And if tha weäther be bad, whoy we hän't naw craps at äll.
 And if tha weäther be fair, whoy the market proices fäll.
 And tha calls thaself a goddess, and the British farmer's friend!
 And we're goin' from woorse to woost, and a aäsk tha, wheer will it

_Ceres (sadly)._

 Well, I've sent you a golden harvest, good friend, though your
     greeting's cold.

_Farmer (furiously)._

  _Wheer's the good o' a golden harvest if I canna change it for gold?_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A HOPELESS CASE.



       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Story in Scenes._)


SCENE XXI.--_The Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern_; Mrs. POMFRET, _the
Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a
winged arm-chair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with_ Lady
CULVERIN'S _maid_, Miss STICKLER. _The Chef_, M. RIDEVOS, _is resting on
the sofa, in languid converse with_ Mlle. CHIFFON, Miss SPELWANE'S
_maid_; PILLINER'S _man_, LOUCH, _watches_ STEPTOE, Sir RUPERT'S _valet,
with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to_ Miss PHILLIPSON,
_who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present_.

_Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone)._ All I _do_ say, Mrs.
POMFRET, ma'am, is this: if that girl LOUISA marches into the pew
to-morrow, as she did _last_ Sunday, before the second laundry maid--and
her only under-scullery maid--such presumptuousness should be put a stop
to in future!

_Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily)._ Depend upon it, my dear, it's her
ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be
taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into
that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set
aside by such as her while _I_'m 'ousekeeper here.

_Mlle. Chiffon_ (_in French, to_ M. RIDEVOS). You have the air
fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there--but fatigued!

_M. Ridevos._ Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will
you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece--a sublime
pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the
penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as

_Mlle. Chiffon._ And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from
the cookery of these others--I who have the stomach so feeble, so
fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry,
the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which
succeed with me not at all--oh, but not at all! Since I am here--ah,
the difference! I digest as of old--I am gay. But next week to return
with Mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!

_M. Rid._ For me, dear Mademoiselle, for me the regrets--to hear
no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a
fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid--they
comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make
terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of
honour, this ruin!

    [Miss STICKLER _comes up to the sofa smiling in happy

_Miss Stick, (graciously)._ So you've felt equal to joining us for once,
Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, I can assure you. We've
really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself--you
might be a regular 'ermit for all _we_ see of you!

_M. Rid._ For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze
solitaire as of rule. To-night--no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore
myself viz your smile.

_Miss Stick, (flattered)._ Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always
_will_ say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give _me_ a

_M. Rid. (alarmed)._ For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, ah!

    [_He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace._

_Phillipson_ (_advancing to meet_ Miss DOLMAN, _who has just entered_).
Why, I'd no idea I should meet _you_ here, SARAH! And how have you been
getting on, dear? Still with----?

_Miss Dolman (checking her with a look)._ Her grace? No, we parted some
time ago. I'm with Lady RHODA COKAYNE at present. (_In an undertone, as
she takes her aside._) You needn't say anything here of your having
known me at Mrs. DICKENSON'S. I couldn't afford to have it get about in
the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived with any but the nobility. I'm
sure you see what I mean. Of course I don't mind your saying we've

_Phill._ Oh, I _quite_ understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to be
careful myself, being maid to Lady MAISIE MULL.

_Miss Dolm._ My _dear_ EMMA! It _is_ nice seeing you again--such
_friends_ as we used to be!

_Phill._ At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else.
(_She crosses to_ Mrs. POMFRET.) Mrs. POMFRET, what's become of the
gentleman I travelled down with--the horse doctor? I do hope he means to
come in; he would amuse _you_, Mr. STEPTOE. I never heard anybody go on
like him; he _did_ make me laugh so!

_Mrs. Pomfr._ I really can't say _where_ he is, my dear. I sent up word
to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps
he's feeling a little shy about coming down.

_Phill._ Oh, I don't think he suffers much from _that_. (_As the door
opens._) Ah, _there_ he is!

_Mrs. Pomfr._ (_rising, with dignity, to receive_ UNDERSHELL, _who
enters in obvious embarrassment_). Come in, Sir. I'm glad to see you've
found your way down at last. Let me see, I haven't the advantage of
knowing your--Mr. UNDERSHELL, _to_ be sure! Well, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we're
very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her
ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after
you--_most_ particular she was!

_Undershell._ You are very good, Ma'am. I am obliged to Lady CULVERIN
for her (_with a gulp_) condescension. But I shall not trespass more
than a short time upon your hospitality.

_Mrs. Pomfr._ Don't speak of it as trespassing, Sir. It's not often we
have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the
less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't
feel yourself a stranger. Miss PHILLIPSON you _have_ met, I know.

    [_She introduces him to the others in turn_; UNDERSHELL _bows

_Steptoe (with urbanity)._ Your fame, Sir, has preceded you. And you'll
find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better
acquaintance--if this is your first experience of this particular form
of society?

_Und. (to himself)._ I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease.
(_Aloud._) Why, I must admit, Mr. STEPTOE, that I have never before had
the privilege of entering the--(_with an ingratiating smile all round
him_) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming

    [_The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation._

_Stept. (very stiffly)._ Pardon _me_, Sir, you have been totally
misinformed. Such an expression is not current _here_.

_Mrs. Pomfr. (more stiffly still)._ It is never alluded to in _my_
presence except as the 'Ousekeeper's Room, which is the right and proper
name for it. There may be some other term for it in the Servants' 'All
for anything _I_ know to the contrary--but if you'll excuse me for
saying so, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in
_our_ presence.

_Und. (confusedly)._ I--I beg ten thousand pardons. (_To himself._) To
be pulled up like this for trying to be genial--it's really _too

_Stept. (relaxing)._ Well, well, Sir; we must make some allowances for a
neophyte. You'll know better another time, _I_ daresay. Miss PHILLIPSON
here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly
agreeable rattle, Mr. UNDERSHELL. I hope we may be favoured with a
specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for
anything in that way--such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a
yumorous imitation--anything, in short, calculated to promote the
general harmony and festivity will be appreciated.

_Miss (Stick acidly)._ Provided it is free from any helement of
coarseness, which we do _not_ encourage--far from it!

_Und. (suppressing his irritation)._ You need be under no alarm, Madam.
I do not propose to attempt a performance of _any_ kind.

_Phill._ Don't be so solemn, Mr. UNDERSHELL! I'm sure you can be as
comical as any playactor when you choose!

_Und._ I really don't know how I can have given you that impression. If
you expect me to treat my lyre like a _horse-collar_, and grin through
it, I'm afraid I am unable to gratify you.

_Stept. (at sea)._ Capital, Sir, the professional allusion very neat.
You'll come out presently, _I_ can see, when supper's on the table.
Can't expect you to rattle till you've something _inside_ of you, can

_Miss Stick._ Reelly, Mr. STEPTOE, I _am_ surprised at such commonness
from _you_!

_Stept._ Now you're too severe, Miss STICKLER, you are indeed. An
innocent little Judy Mow like that!

_Tredwell (outside)._ Don't answer _me_, Sir. Ham I butler 'ere, or ham
I _not_? I've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant
blunder.... I don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's
cloes--you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (_He
enters and flings himself down on a chair._) That THOMAS is beyond
everything--stoopid _hass_ as he is!

_Mrs. Pomfr. (concerned)._ La, Mr. TREDWELL, you _do_ seem put out!
Whatever have THOMAS been doing _now_?

_Und. (to himself)._ It's really very good of him to take it to heart
like this! (_Aloud._) Pray don't let it distress you; it's of no
consequence, none at all!

_Tred. (glaring)._ I'm the best judge of that, Mr. UNDERSHELL, Sir--if
you'll allow _me_; _I_ don't call my porogatives of no consequence,
whatever _you_ may! And that feller THOMAS, Mrs. POMFRET, actially 'ad
the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to
one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine
mistake he'd made with his cloes! What call had he to take it upon
himself? I feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have
occurred under my authority!

    [_The_ Steward's Room Boy _has entered with a dish, and listens
    with secret anxiety on his own account_.

_Und._ I assure you there is no harm done. The gentleman is
wearing my evening clothes--but he's going to return them----

    [_The conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of
    laughter from the majority._

_Tred. (gasping)._ Hevenin' cloes! _Your_ hevenin'---- P'raps you'll
'ave the goodness to explain yourself, Sir!

_Stept._ No, no, TREDWELL, my dear fellah, you don't understand our
friend here--he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? He's only trying to
pull your leg, that's all: and, Gad, he did it too! But you mustn't take
liberties with _this_ gentleman, Mr. UNDERSHELL, he's an important
personage _here_, I can tell you!

_Und. (earnestly)._ But I never meant--if you'll only let me explain----

    [_The_ Boy _has come behind him, and administers a
    surreptitious kick, which_ UNDERSHELL _rightly construes as a hint
    to hold his tongue._

_Tred. (in solemn offence)._ I'm accustomed, Mr. HUNDERSHELL, to be
treated in this room with respect and deference--especially by them as
come here in the capacity of Guests. _From_ such I regard any attempt to
pull my leg as in hindifferent taste--to say the least of it. I wish to
'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had
better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. Mrs. POMFRET, I see
supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it.

_Phill._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). Never mind _him_, pompous old thing! It
_was_ awfully cheeky of you, though. You can sit next _me_ if you like.

_Und. (to himself, as he avails himself of this permission)._ I shall
only make things worse if I explain now. But, oh, great Heavens, _what_
a position for a Poet.

[Illustration: "Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken."]

       *       *       *       *       *


Art was once defined as "the creation of new forms of beauty." Our
juvenile geniuses have altered all that. "The New Art" is better defined
as "the creation of novel forms of ugliness." Its inspiration is
Corruption, its auxiliaries are the two hideous imps, Scratch and
Smudge. Old Art, with its bosh about beauty, its rot about romance, its
fudge about finish, its twaddle about taste, will be good enough to take
a back seat. Apollo the Inspirer must give way to the sooty imp and
incubus, New Scratch!--

  RAPHAEL? Ideal Beauty spoiled his Art!
    REMBRANDT? Of light and shade he was no judge
  The Hideous now must play the leading part,
    Chiaroscuro yield to Shapeless Smudge

       *       *       *       *       *


"AGAIN he urges on his wild Korea."--_Mazeppa._

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["In my time at Eton it was the custom with one's tutor to
    supply us with what was disrespectfully called 'nonsense' material
    for some suggested theme."--JAMES PAYN, _in "Our Note-Book" in "The
    Illustrated London News_."]

  Will you follow where the Bandicoots inevitably stray,
  As they amorously hurtle through the stubble and the hay;
  Where the Jebusites and Amorites are gathered in a bunch,
  While they watch the duck-billed Platypus preparing for his lunch?

  Where the toothsome Trichinopli keeps turning on the spit--
  Oh my dove-like Trichinopoli, how hard you are to hit!
  There is something so elusive and desserting in your shape,
  That I had to shoot you sitting and to load my gun with grape.


  Though the Mandrake give you goose-skin by its inharmonious shriek,
  And a tug of war come thenning after Greek has met with Greek;
  I will stay at home and see the giddy milkman fill his pail
  For an orchestra of Clepsydras conducted by a Snail.

  And it's oh to be a Manatee--I think I shall be soon--
  Riding coffee-coloured Dolphins on the snaffle (or bridoon).
  With his Barnacles and Biffin-boys belaying in the sea,
  He has always eggs at breakfast, has the merry Manatee.

  Can you see me then subsiding very stately very sly,
  Like a soluble quadratic which has lost its x and y.
  Getting out my rusty rapier and dissecting with a lunge
  All the daffodils and daisies that I grow upon my sponge?

  Can you see me on a tram-car, while I stand upon my head,
  Shredding out the scarlet runners which no publisher has read,
  In a horse-case predetermined by a puisne-judge alone,
  Who is tired of seeing juries with a rider of their own?

  If the dactyls and the spondees should eventually pall,
  You can call on Miss CAESURA and conduct her to a ball.
  You can feed the girl on trochees, and of course you can propose,
  If hexameters delight you when recited through the nose.

  Happy days, how soon ye falter; can a Bachelor have bliss?
  Can a contrapuntal Bulbul woo her lover with a kiss?
  Can a Scotsman get protection for his philibeg and trews
  By dictating half a column to the _Illustrated News_?

  Can a Bumble-bee be cheerful if related to a Mouse
  Which has left its cheesy larder and been captured by a Grouse?
  Can a man-of-war be manly, can a gum-boil stick like glue?
  Can accounts be cooked with "stumers," and converted into stew?

  Nay, I fly from all these problems; I am fortunately deaf
  To the fascinating music of the careful Q. E. F.,
  Nor can theorems allure me, never, never will I be
  Mathematically married to a vulgar Q. E. D.

  But at home I'll sit and linger by the soft September fire,
  While I toast my feet and rack them by particular desire.
  And I'll illustrate my meaning (penny coloured, twopence plain)
  Drawing gaily on the "Note Book" of my old friend JIMMY PAYN.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAD AS A HATTER.--The _Drapery World_ says that "the New Woman's hat" is
much like the Ordinary Man's "topper," only a little smaller, and a
little more cheeky. The phrase might fitly be transferred to the "New
Woman" herself. She looks _so_ much like an ordinary man, only a little
smaller and a little more cheeky. By the way, is there _much_ difference
between "the New Woman's hat" and the woman's new hat? The query would
make a good one for a French Exercise Book.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wheel and Whoa!

  The popular wheel, so the French doctors say,
    Is the worst enemy of the popular _weal_.
  Academies of science scarce will stay
    The devastations of the steed of steel.
  The scorcher will deride as a bad joke
  Attempts in his wild wheel to put a spoke

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *





       *       *       *       *       *


    ["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke of
    ORLEANS addressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign
    Princes of Europe:--

    'A SA MAJESTÉ, &c.--J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre
    Majesté de la mort de mon père PHILIPPE, Comte de Paris, pieusement
    décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre. PHILIPPE.'

    Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke
    signs himself with regal simplicity 'PHILIPPE.' His father under
    similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte
    de CHAMBORD, signed 'PHILLIPE, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his
    Sovereign rank."--_The Daily Graphic._]

_Madame la République museth_:--

  Ah! "_Vive la France!_" If words were only deeds,
    I might perchance secure a new defender.
  As AMURATH to AMURATH succeeds,
    E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender.
  Aye. "_plus ça change plus c'est la même chose_!" All
  Fancy their words "the writing on the wall."

  Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate.
    PLON-PLON and _le brav' Général_, CHAMBORD, PARIS,
  All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State"
    Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry,
  But BOURBON, Bonapartist or what not,
  Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.

  As "_Roi des Français_" or as "Monsieur X.,"
    BOULANGER'S backer, or the White Flagwaver,
  What has availed their valour save to vex?
    Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver.
  But plots and manifestoes wild and windy
  Contribute little to the State--save shindy!

  Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon still
    Pretenders fain would furbish up to fright me.
  Would I bear weary strife, or bow my will
    To human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me?
  No; right divine to rule must prove affinity,
  To the divine ere _I_ trust its divinity.

  "PHILIPPE!" Ah! boldly written! You admire
    Its flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.
  And "_Vive la France!_" To what may you aspire?
    What is the scope, Sir, of the hopes _you_ nourish?
  Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"--in writing,
  But _Philippe_--_Roi_--_de_----humph!--that _might_ mean fighting.

  Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,
    Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,
  Affrights not the Republic. It _may_ fall
    Amidst the perils that its path environ,
  But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,
    Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.

  Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will now
    Cry "Long live the--Pretender"? Courtly throngs,
  Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,
    But for the People? Will they deem their wrongs
  Like to be cured by the old royal line,
  Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?

  What will you do--save scribble and orate?
    Were you indeed--ah, me!--that strong man armed
  For whom so long I've waited, and still wait;
    Then, then, perchance. I might--who knows?--be charmed
  To lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.
  At present 'tis but--one Pretender more!

       *       *       *       *       *



_Madame a République._


       *       *       *       *       *


(_By an Absent-minded Sportsman._)


  Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearly
    Speechless, as I watch that bird,
  Saving that I mutter merely
    One concise, emphatic word--
    What that is, may be inferred!

  English prose is, to my sorrow,
    Insufficient for the task.
  Would that I could freely borrow
    Expletives from Welsh or Basque--
    One or two is all I ask!

  Failing that, let so-called verses
    Serve to mitigate my grief
  Doggerel now and then disperses
    Agonies that need relief.
    (Missing birds of these is chief!)

  Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles
    Is a bore, to put it mild;
  But, in short, to crown my troubles,
    _One_ mishap has made me riled,
    Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild

  For at last I flush a partridge.
    Ten yards rise, an easy pot!
  Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?
    Hang it! there, I clean forgot
    Putting _them_ in ere I shot!

       *       *       *       *       *

QUERY.--Would an ideal barrister be a counsel of perfection?

       *       *       *       *       *


_Or, the March of Civilisation._

  About the merry Mandarin
    His fatal gift for humour,
  I find it passing hard to pin
    My faith to every rumour.

  This war, for instance. Fancy shuts
    Both eyes and vainly labours
  To grasp the news that he is nuts
    On blowing up his neighbours.

  If so, he threatens to deface,
    Beyond all recognition,
  His right of kinship with a race
    Whose excellent tradition,

  Oldest of old traditions, has
    Time out of mind begun by
  This rule:--_Do not to others as
    You'd rather not be done by._

  Ignoring now the ancient bards,
    He must have emulated
  The doctrine which _Ah Sin_ at cards
    So darkly demonstrated,

  When, flush of duplicate supplies,
    Well up his sleeves he slid 'em--
  _Do those whom you will otherwise
    Be done by_:--and he did 'em.

  Observe this sad example of
    Imported Western culture!
  Symbol of peace, the sucking-dove
    Knocks under to the vulture;

  And prophets of a prior age
    Might fairly be astounded
  To find the system of the sage
    CONFUCIUS worse confounded!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By a Disgusted Backer._)

  _Ladas, Ladas,_
    Go along with you, do.
  I'm now stone-broke,
    All on account of you.
  It wasn't a lucky Leger,
  And I wish I'd been a hedger,
  Though you _did_ look sweet,
    Before defeat----
      But I've thoroughly done with you!

       *       *       *       *       *

SCIENTIFIC GOSSIP.--In spite of the great number of bathers at all our
most frequented sea-side resorts there has been no appreciable
diminution in either the quality or quantity of the sea-water.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


  'Twas almost dusk; the galleries
    Lay silent and deserted
  Where happy knots of twos and threes
    Had wondered, talked, and flirted;
  Where, armed with buns and catalogues,
    The country-bred relations
  Had criticised, appraised, despised
    The art of many nations.

  No more the rigid censor viewed
    With hearty disapproval
  Athenian statues in the nude,
    Demanding their removal;
  No more the cultured connoisseur,
    Whom nothing new amazes,
  The very old designs extolled
    In very modern phrases.

  Yet two remained; a youth and maid
    Still lingered in the section
  Where Egypt's treasures lie displayed
    For popular inspection;
  They talked in whispers, and although
    The subject dear to some is,
  They did not seem to take as theme
    The obelisks and mummies.

  An Art more ancient far, one thinks,
    Was that they talked of lightly,
  Compared with which the hoary Sphinx
    Seems juvenile and sprightly;
  Young as the very latest tale,
    Old as the oldest stories,
  It kept them there, this happy pair,
    That Art--the _ars amoris_!

  The mummies round them seemed to smile,
    Ah, long ago, one fancies,
  Those withered faces by the Nile
    Had known their own romances.
  The old-world gods have passed away,
    Osiris lies forsaken,
  But Love alone retains his throne
    Unquestioned and unshaken!

       *       *       *       *       *

LEX TALIONIS.--Mr. LANG, turned speculative law-giver, suggests that we
should tax literature. Well, that's only _quid_ (or so much in the
"quid") _pro quo_; seeing how literature (lots of it) taxes us. A high
rate on literary rubbish would yield "pretty pickings," especially if
the producers thereof were allowed to "rate" each other! In this age of
sloppiness, sniff and snippets there is a lot of "literature" which
should be tariffed off the face of the earth.

       *       *       *       *       *


  What matter titles? HELMHOLTZ is a name
  That challenges, alone, the award of Fame!
  When Emperors, Kings, Pretenders, shadows all,
  Leave not a dust-trace on our whirling ball,
  Thy work, oh grave-eyed searcher, shall endure,
  Unmarred by faction, from low passion pure.
  To bridge the gulf 'twixt matter-veil and mind
  Perchance to mortals, dull-sensed, slow, purblind,
  Is not permitted--yet; but patient, keen,
  Thou on the shadowy track beyond the Seen,
  Didst dog the elusive truth, and seek in sound
  The secret of soul-mysteries profound.
  Essential Order, Beauty's hidden law!
  Marvels to strike more sluggish souls with awe,
  Great seekers, lonely-souled, explore that track,
  We welcome the wild wonders they bring back
  From ventures stranger than an earthly Pole
  Can furnish. Distant still that mental goal
  To which great spirits strain; but when calm Fame
  Sums its bold seekers, HELMHOLTZ, thy great name
  Among the foremost shall eternal stand,
  Science's pride, and glory of thy land.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My dear," said Mrs. R., "I had to discharge my gardener, for when I
questioned him about the sale of the vegetables his answers were far too

       *       *       *       *       *

UNHAPPY THOUGHT BY AN INVALID.--What a dreadful thing to become the
Permanent Head of a Department with a Permanent Headache!

       *       *       *       *       *


_On being asked to play Croquet, A.D. 1894._

     ["It is impossible to visit any part of the country without
     realising the fact that the long-discredited game of Croquet is
     fast coming into vogue again.... This is partly owing to the
     abolition of 'tight croqueting.'"--_Pall Mall Gazette._]

         Eh? What? Why? How?
     Are we back in the Sixties again?
  I am rubbing my eyes--is it _then_, or now?
      I'm a _Rip van Winkle_, it's plain!

          Hoop, Ball, Stick, Cage?
      Eh, fetch them all out once more?
  Why, look, they're begrimed and cracked with age,
      And their playing days are o'er!

          Well--yes--here goes
      For a primitive chaste delight!
  Let us soberly, solemnly beat our foes,
      For Croquet's no longer "tight"!

       *       *       *       *       *



  "If any of you know
    Cause or impediment."--
  Cause! I should think I do,
    That girl to wed I meant!
  She made me drink the cup
  Of woe, well-shaken up
    With bitter sediment.

  If I forbid the banns
    With visage pallid,
  Ere she's another man's,
    And I have rallied,
  Because in bygone days
    With me she dallied,
  Would my forbidding phrase
    Be counted valid?

  Because her eyes would shine
    Once when I praised her,
  Because her heart to mine,
    When I upraised her
  From the low garden chair,
  Beat for a moment's space
  With sudden, yielding grace
  While I just kiss'd her hair,
    Which nought amazed her;
  Soothed her with loving touch,
  Loving, but not too much,
  When on her little hand
  The buckle of her band
    Had lightly grazed her?

  Slowly our souls between
  Mists of reserve crept in--
    I reck'd not, blindly--
  A sister she became,
  O chill and veal-like name!
  A great deal less than kin,
    Much less than kindly.

  Then on the old sweet ways
  Of thoughtless, chummy days,
    Turning severely,
  Pride, hooded in dislike,
  Struck as a snake might strike,
  And, in the public gaze,
    Froze me austerely.

  Well, all is vanity;
  She'll disillusion'd be,
  And I--well, as for me,
    When these confusions
  Clear from my brain away,
  Back in my thoughts I'll stray
  Where sunbeams ever play
    On lost illusions.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Genial Master (under the painful necessity of discharging his

       *       *       *       *       *


    As wheelman you would win renown!
  You are the country districts' pest,
    You are the nuisance of the town:
  You're wan and wild and dust-defiled;
    You think you're awfully admired.
  Though winner of a hundred "pots,"
    Your fame is not to be desired.

    You whirl and whisk about the lands.
  With shoulders bowed, with lowered pate,
    And dull eyes fixed upon your hands.
  Oh! take some interest in the scene,
    Love birds that sing and flowers that blow;
  Try not to be a mere machine,
    And let the record-squelcher go!

       *       *       *       *       *

has had to allow the Gorman Act to become law without formally assenting
to it. He has had, in fact, to swallow what he would fain reject, an act
of involuntary political Gormandising which must be unpleasant.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Symposium à la Mode._)

[Sidenote: The Author of "A Saddis Aster" confesses.]

I am much flattered by your kind invitation to discuss the Advanced
Woman, but an initial difficulty suggests itself to me. Can one discuss
the Advanced Woman if this Advanced Woman herself is non-existent? I am
aware, of course, that she has stridden large of late in the pages of
feminine fiction, but is she not as extinct (before she has ever
existed) as her DODO title? Let me make my own confession. I have used,
if I did not invent, the A. W. I have secured a remunerative public.
Once on a time I wrote of life as I found it. I used my eyes and ears,
and endeavoured to let the world have the result in the old-fashioned,
wholesome story. It was a dreary failure. The critics commended my
style, and the public let me severely alone. _Nous avons changé tout
cela._ A theatrical manager who finds his musical piece begin to drag,
saves the situation by a New Edition--in other words, by two new songs
and some fresh dances. In a similar way I secured a reputation by
dragging in (at times by her very heel) the Advanced Woman. True that
she resembles no one in actual existence, true, indeed, that she is
outrageously and offensively improbable, but the public were not happy
till they got her. They're happy now. So am I.


[Sidenote: Mrs. Shriek Shriekon speaks out.]

I should have thought that _my_ views on the Advanced Woman were
sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say
at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against this
_fin-de-siècle_ abomination. Once on a time it was not thought
unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere,
and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a
sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive
to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly
know their GRAND children--the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am
permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed,
it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved
for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those
who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is
only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly
on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to
understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does
not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned;
Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a
bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.

[Sidenote: Ann U. Woman dreams of the Future.]

The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I
shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog,
he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his
mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His
Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a
weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From
that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength.
Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers.
Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's
struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of
course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out
of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced
day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay--but not with any husband. She
will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to
do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure
to get it. It will be called----[No; I can stand a good deal, but not

       *       *       *       *       *


That holiday cruise on board the good steamship _Cannie Donia_! Did I
dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like
yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old
KASPAR'S,"--or let us say middle-aged KASPAR'S,--"work was done" _pro
tem._, and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so
inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE, the
Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. _Cannie
Donia_. So I, middle-aged KASPAR, work done as aforesaid, did then and
thereby become TOMMY the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant
SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and

And what a goodly company!

Sir CHARLES and Lady CHEERIE, perfect host and hostess in themselves.
Here too was our TOBY, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the
official list of guests as 'TOBIAS,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up.
"Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and
independent scribe, and there is nothing _to bias_ me. Aha!" The sea air
agrees with TOBY, M.P. "And where _would_ the Member for Barkshire be,"
he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard
a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my
bite, but----" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular
evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back
his bite--and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of
us is capable--against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet
TOBY _en mangeant_ is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means!
With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding
comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as
indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals
of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the
Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then
through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon;
into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.

After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment,
what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable
weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a
general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the
ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir PETER PLURAL,
looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper
House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir PETER! knows everybody,
is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for
any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if
asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his

We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P.,
from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way
of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock
of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by
a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as
elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some
dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.

"Phew!" whistles VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P., weighing one of these dainty
sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I
agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and

"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one
of these confounded O'CAPULET and O'MONTAGUE rows. Poor girl!"
And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity.
It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show
her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to
express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these
deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch
of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such
things as these"--and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, which
VULCAN, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right
and left were about to fight it out--"it's a shame that such things
as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of
Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of
astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,--

"An' what _would_ the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"

That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is
apparently in earnest, though both VULCAN and myself, talking it over
subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing
herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.

So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit
of business with our generous VULCAN, M.P., who returned, laden with
gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS. _Cannie Donia_.

What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies--bless 'em!--all
charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do
anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement.
Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic
sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano;
and a _sestette_ perform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals,
part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the
leadership of that masterly musician TOM TOLDEROL, whose only
regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his
sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made
by the eminent firm of BELLOWS, BLOWER & CO., at a cost of some few
thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so,
had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an
ordinary carpet bag.

However, _à propos_ of organs, we have with us a representative of one
of the greatest organs--of the Press--full of wise saws and modern
instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a
holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as
he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.

Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great
Grand Secretary, Mr. BENJAMIN BOAZ, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the
still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., Sir JONATHAN JACHIN,
mysterious officers, _Arcades ambo_, of the Secret Rites of Masonry,
fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun,
frolic, and tales galore.

Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and
"returnings of thanks" by my Lord AFFIDAVIT, by Sir POSEIDON À VINKLO
(President of the Anchorite Court), by ANDREW MCJASON (senior of the
Argonautic Firm that built the good ship _Cannie Donia_), and the
sprightliest speech of all by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE!

Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth
our brilliant _sestette_ to piano, or, to quote Sir JONATHAN, "our P.
an' O." accompaniment.

Then S'uth'ards! Then.... But "here break we off."

Thus do I briefly make some record of a "trial trip"; and may no
trip that any of us may make, whether involving a trial or not, have
worse results than has this, of which, beginning and finishing happily
and gloriously as it has done--and such be the _Cannie Donia's_ fate
evermore--I am privileged to write this slight record, and proud to
account myself henceforth as


[Illustration: _Saxon (referring to the shillelaghs)._ "It's a shame
that such things as these should be permitted!"

_Daughter of Erin (plaintively)._ "An' what _would_ the poor Boys use,
an' they not allowed Fire-arms?"]

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


     ["TO POETS.--£5 offered for a One-Act Opera Libretto, subject to
     conditions," &c.--_Advertisement in "Morning Post._"]

  Passed are the days when in accents pathetic
    Writers complained of their wage as unjust,
  Gone are the times when the genius poetic
    Struggled in penury, dined on a crust!

  Nor need they longer, who strive for a pittance,
    Grieve if the editors still are remiss;
  What though the papers refuse them admittance
    While they're afforded such chances as this?

  Writers of verse, here is news to elate you!
    "Poets" (the title you value the most),
  Simply magnificent offers await you!--
    _Vide_ this paragraph, cut from the _Post_.

  Hasten, ye bards (who surely a debt owe
    To this MÆCENAS, this opulent man),
  Hasten with joy to prepare a _libretto_
    Fit to accomplish his excellent plan!

  He will fulfil your most lofty ambitions--
    Such generosity simply astounds!--
  You will receive (under certain "conditions")
    Honour, and glory, and fame, and--_five pounds_!

       *       *       *       *       *

A PARADOX OF THEATRICAL SUCCESS.--At the Criterion very difficult to get
into _Hot Water_.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_To a Friendly Adviser._)


  When starting off on foreign trips,
    I've felt secure if someone gave me
  Invaluable hints and tips;
    Time, trouble, money, these would save me.

  I'm off; you've told me all you know.
    Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructed
  How much to spend, and where to go;
    Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."

  Now I shall face, serene and calm,
    Those persons, often rather pressing
  For little gifts, with outstretched palm.
    To some of them I'll give my blessing.

  To others--"_service_" being paid--
    _Buona mano, pourboire, trinkgeld_;
  They fancy Englishmen are made
    Of money, made of (so they think) _geld_.

  The _garçon_, ready with each dish,
    His brisk "_Voilà, monsieur_" replying
  To anything that one may wish;
    His claim admits of no denying.

  The _portier_, who never rests,
    Who speaks six languages together
  To clamorous, inquiring guests,
    On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.

  The _femme de chambre_, who fills my _bain_;
    The _ouvreuse_, where I see the _acteur_,
  A cigarette to _chef de train_,
    A franc to energetic _facteur_.

  I give each _cocher_ what is right;
    I know, without profound researches,
  What I must pay for each new sight--
    Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.

  Or climbing up to see a view,
    From _campanile_, roof or steeple.
  Those verbal tips I had from you
    Save money tips to other people.

  Save all those florins, marks or francs--
    Or _pfennige_, _sous_, _kreutzer_, is it?--
  The change they give me at the banks,
    According to the towns I visit.

  I seem to owe you these, and yet
    Will money do? My feeling's deeper.
  I'll owe you an eternal debt--
    A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_After a Long Course of Cynicism._)

  "Sentiment is come again."
    So says clever Mr. ZANGWILL.
  Most things tire the human brain;
    Mugwump mockery and slang will:
  Pessimism's pompous pose,
    Hedonism's virus septic;
  Cynicism's cold cock-nose,
    Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic,
  All are wearying--being sham.
    Twopenny Timon tires and sickens.
  Bitters bore us! We'll try jam!
    Back to LYTTON, HOOD, and DICKENS?
  Sorrows of sweet seventeen?
    Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant?
  Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen.
    Let's hark back again to Sentiment!
  Saccharine surfeit, after all,
    Though it be a trifle sickly,
  Changes our long gorge of gall.
    Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]

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