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Title: Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 107, November 10th, 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, November 10th, 1894" ***

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Punch, Or The London Charivari

Volume 107, November 10th, 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_



[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY FLYING MACHINE.

_Maxim_--"KEEP IT UP!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

I.--FONS ET ORIGO MALI.

Snugly nestling in a cosy corner of Blankshire--that county which at
different times and places has travelled all over England--our village
pursues the even tenor of its way. To be accurate, I should say _did_
pursue, before the events that have recently happened--events in which
it would be absurd modesty not to confess I have played a prominent
part. Now we are as full of excitement as aforetime we were given over
to monotony. _Nous avons_---- No! _J'ai changé tout çela._

It came about in this way. I have always till the 25th of September (a
chronicler should always be up to dates) been entirely free from any
ambition to excel in public. After a successful life I have settled down
with my wife and family to the repose of a truly rural existence. "You
should come down and live in the country," I am never tired of telling
my friends. "Good air, beautiful milk, and, best of all, fresh eggs." I
don't know why, but you are always expected to praise the country eggs.
So I always make a point of doing it.

Up to September the 25th, accordingly, I extolled the eggs of the
country and lived my simple, unpretending life. On that day I read an
article in the paper on the Parish Councils Act. I read that now for the
first time the people in the villages would taste the sweets of local
self-government. The change from fresh eggs struck my fancy, up to that
time singularly dormant. I read on, dashing all unknowing to my fate.
"It is the duty," I saw, "of every man of education, experience, and
leisure in the village who has the welfare of his country at heart to
study the Act, and to make it his business that his fellow-parishioners
shall know what the Act does, and how the greatest advantage can be
obtained from its working." Then my evil genius prompted me to undertake
the task myself. I was educated--did I not get a poll degree at
Cambridge, approved even by Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY as a test of culture?
I had experience--had I not shone as a financial light in the City for
full twenty years? I had leisure--for had I anything in the world to do?
Obviously the occasion had come, and I--yes I--was the man to rise to
it.

I bought twenty-nine works dealing with the Act. I studied them
diligently section by section, clause by clause, line by line. I
referred to all the Acts mentioned. I investigated all the Acts
repealed. At the end of it all I felt like a collection of conundrums.
But I was not to be denied. One evening, as I was walking through the
village, I met ROBERT HEDGER, "Black BOB," as he is always called. He is
a farm hand, and for some reason looked upon as a leader of men in the
village. I saw my chance, and promptly took it.

"Good evening, BOB," I said. "I've been wanting to have a bit of a talk
with you about this Parish Councils Act."

"Well, Sir, and what about that?" Of course he spoke in dialect, but the
dialect dialogues are almost played out, so I translate into quite
ordinary English. It's easier to understand, and quite as interesting.

"What about it?" said I, with well-simulated surprise. Then I launched
into a glowing account of what it would effect. I waxed poetic. The
agricultural labourer would come home at night from his work proud in
the consciousness of being a citizen. He would breathe a different air;
the very fire in his cottage would burn brighter because a Parish
Council had been established in his midst. I finished (it was a distinct
anticlimax) by saying that I had been carefully studying the Act.

Two days later Black BOB and two of his mates called at my house--a
deputation to ask me to speak at a meeting, to explain the Act. I
pleaded modesty, and, saying I would ne'er consent, consented. It was a
vain thing to have done, and the effects have been startling. But that
meeting must have a chapter to itself.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT'S SOLLEM ADWISE.

I carnt on airth think what is the matter with me lately. I seems to
have lost all my good sperrits, and am as quiet and as mopish as if I
was out of a sitiation, which in course I am not, and am not at all
likely to be. My wife bothers me by constent inquiries about the comin
change on the 9th, but she ort to no, as I noes, that the cumming new
LORD MARE is jest the same good, kind, afabel Gent as the noble Gent as
is a going afore him, and who ewery body loved and respected, and who
allers showed me ewery posserbel kindness. I aint not at all sure as
them wunderful Gents as calls theirselves County Countsellers, and is
allers a throwing their ill-natured jeers at the grand old Citty, hasn't
sumthink to do with it. I'm told as they has acshally ordered one of our
most poplar Theaters to be shut up, becoz the acters and actresses is so
werry atracktive that they draws a wunderful contrast between them and
the sollem Gents as is allers a interfeering in some way or other where
they are least wanted.

One of their most wunderful and most conceeted fads is a longing desire
to have charge of our nobel Citty Perlice, which, as ewery body knos, is
the pride of the hole Metrolypus.

[Illustration]

One of the new LORD MARE'S private gennelmen has told me, in the werry
strictest confidens, that they have all agreed together, LORD MARE,
Sherryfs, Halldermen, Liverymen, and setterer, to have the most
brillientest Show as has bin seen in the old Citty since the time of
DICK WITTINGTON of ewarlasting memory! if its ony for the purpose of
driving the County Countsellers, as they calls theirselves, stark
staring mad with enwy! And so estonished is the Queen's Guvernment
themselves by what they hears on the subjec of the glorious approching
Dinner, that they has acshally ordered the werry primest of all their
Cabinet lot, inclooding the Prime Minister hisself, and the Lord
Chanceseller, and my Lord SPINSTER, and setterer and setterer, not only
to accept the LORD MARE'S perlite inwitation, but to take care to be in
good time, and not to keep the nobel company waiting as old Mr.
GLEDSTONE usued to do in days gorn by.

By-the-by, the present LORD MARE, jest to show his ermazin libberality,
acshally arsked jest a few of the County Countsellers to his larst great
bankwet larst week, and werry much they seemed to injoy theirselves, and
I must say, behaived like reel gennelmen, tho' sum of the speeches,
speshally them by Lord HAILSBERY and Mr. RICHER, must have been rayther
staggerers for them to bear.

 ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROSIT.--Best wishes to Mr. BEERBOHM TREE for the success of the new
piece at the Haymarket. Whatever may be the result, he, personally, is
in for a "Wynn."

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE CHALLENGE."

["Of course, you may get the House of Lords to surrender as you get a
fortress to surrender, by making it clear that it is encompassed and
besieged beyond all hope of deliverance; but that in itself is not an
easy task with the garrison that I have described as sure to defend
it.... We fling down the gauntlet. It is for you to back us up."--_Lord
Rosebery at Bradford._]

      _Bob Acres_                    Lord R-S-B-RY.
      _Sir Lucius O'Trigger_           Irish Party.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sir Lucius._ Then sure you know what is to be done?

_Acres._ What! fight him?

_Sir Lucius._ Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?... I think he has
given you the greatest provocation in the world.

_Acres._ Gad, that's true--I grow full of anger, Sir LUCIUS!--I fire
apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valour in
him and not know it!... Your words are a grenadier's match to my heart!
I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valour
rising as it were--a kind of courage as I may say.--Odds flints, pans
and triggers! _I'll challenge him directly!_--_The Rivals._

       *       *       *       *       *

_Fighting Bob's Afterthoughts._

    Odds bombs and torpedoes! An oath, like a whistle,
      Will keep up the courage--Dutch courage at least!
    I feel like a hero of grandeur and gristle
      Who goes to the fight as men go to a feast.
    Sir LUCIUS has wrought me to't--fire-eater furious.
      Odds bullets and blades, how he'll bristle and whisk!
    Yes, courage _is_ catching. And yet--it is curious,
      He urges the task without weighing the risk.

    That's just like O'TRIGGER, a swaggering swigger
      Of fiery potheen which gets into his head!
    At patience and caution he'll swear or he'll snigger,
      His only resources steel, powder and lead.
    He thinks he has managed the business most cleverly,
      Bull-making bully of Blunderbuss Hall;
    But zounds. That big burly and black-bearded--BEVERLEY,
      Is not a foe to pooh-pooh! Not at all!

    Odds jigs and tabors! Such bellicose neighbours
      Are horridly awkward; they will force one's hand,
    A chap who unceasingly brags and belabours
      Is valued, no doubt, in a Donnybrook band;
    But swelling Drawcansir demeanour won't answer
      On this side the Channel so well as on that.
    O'TRIGGER'S a mixture of Scorpio and Cancer,
      And BULL is less sweet on that blend than is PAT.

    It's just a tremendous, big, bothersome business,--
      _That's_ what it is! But I'm in for it now.
    _I_ feel a dizziness. O'TRIGGER'S fizziness
      Leads all his friends into mischief and row.
    Still, I'm committed; and much to be pitied,
      As clearly they'd see if they had any _nous_.
    But odds popguns and peashooters! shall I be twitted
      With caution extreme, and the pluck of a mouse?

    No, that will _not_ do. I my courage must muster.
      Whatever the odds, FIGHTING BOB must show fight!
    So here goes a buster, though bluster and fluster
      Are not in my line; yet "indite, Sirs, indite!"
    I'll begin with a--swear-word and end with defiance!
      Odds daggers and darts, how I'll hector and frown!
    My friends on my valour may now place reliance,
      The challenge is sent, Sirs, the gauntlet is down!!!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE CHALLENGE."

_Sir Lucius O'Trigger (the Irish Party)._ "THEN SURE YOU KNOW WHAT IS TO
BE DONE?"

_Bob Acres (L-rd R-s-b-ry)._ "WHAT! FIGHT HIM?... ODDS FLINTS, PANS AND
TRIGGERS! _I'LL CHALLENGE HIM DIRECTLY!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SCHOOL-BOARD APPLE-PIE.

(_Adapted for the Board School Infant Classes._)

A (SCHOOL-BOARD) Apple-Pie; B (uilt it); C (ircular) cut it up; D
(IGGLE) directed it; E (xpenses) eat it up; F (ORSTER) fought for it; G
(LADSTONE) got it through; H (ostility) hampered it; I (ntolerance)
injured it; J (ealousies) jangled about it; K (indness) kindled at it; L
(OBB) lightened its costs; M (oney) met them; N (oodles) talked nonsense
about it; O (pinion) oscillated concerning it; P (rogressives) prodded
it; Q (uidnuncs) querulously questioned and quizzed it; R (ILEY) raised
religious rumpus about it, while R (atepayers) ruefully regarded him; S
(ecularism) sneered at it; T (eachers) toiled for it; V (ituperation)
vexed it; W (isdom) wondered at it; and X, Y, Z--well, "Wise-heads" are
few, and "X" is an unknown quantity.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: POSITIVELY OSTENTATIOUS.

_Mr. Phunkstick (quite put out)._ "TALK ABOUT AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION,
INDEED! DON'T BELIEVE IN IT! NEVER SAW FENCES KEPT IN SUCH DISGUSTINGLY
GOOD ORDER IN MY LIFE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

VAGABOND VERSES.

    Within the Square we both abide,
      An artist I, an heiress you,
    My studio like my work is skied,
      'Tis sitting-room and studio too.
    Your chimney-pots I can descry,
      I look across the leafy Square.
    I think of you, I wonder why
      Your uncle is a millionaire!

    I've pictured you in chalks and oils,
      I like you best in misty grey,
    Your nameless charm my pencil spoils,
      Yet strives for ever to portray.
    By day I turn you to the wall
      Lest idle gazers should surprise;
    But when night gathers I recall,
      I look into your dreaming eyes.

    So many things I cared about,
      And now they all have fallen flat,
    While I, Bohemian out and out,
      Have been to buy a better hat,
    In lieu of one of dusky green
      Upon my coat paint splashes shine.
    Endeavouring to get it clean
      I've rubbed it hard with turpentine

    Till my head ached, my heart was faint,
      And I was utterly undone,
    I cannot rub away the paint,
      I can't afford another one.
    They have a murky yellow shade,
      My collars once so white; and frail,
    And at the wristbands sadly frayed
      My solitary swallow-tail!

    That dinner-party where we met!
      We seemed to meet like friends of old,
    And both to utterly forget
      The bitter barrier of gold.
    Oh, by your eyes, your wistful mien,
      I know for wealth you do not care,
    I know you wish you had not been
      Related to a millionaire!

    The starlit night is deepening,
      Hushed are the footsteps of the folk,
    My window open wide I fling,
      And one enchanted pipe I smoke,
    And on the misty vapour blue,
      Across the Square my fancies float;
    And oh, so near, so near to you,
      And oh, so bitterly remote!

    I talk to you of many things,
      My pipe I unaware refill,
    I wonder if our thoughts have wings,
      I wonder, are you waking still?
    And should I, if your house took fire,
      Have time to hurry to your aid,
    To rescue you from peril dire,
      Before swooped down the Fire Brigade.

    There has sprung up a pleasant breeze
      After the day's dustladen air,
    And it is blowing in the trees
      Within the garden in the Square.
    Oh, gentle wind--_I_ may not speak,
     Wind from the West, _I_ may not tell.
    Across the Square my lady seek,
     And bid her dream I love her well!

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITE POLICE IN EGYPT.--The Anglo-Egyptian Police are to be converted
into a civil force. Will Police Professors of Politeness be sent over
from England to give lectures on civility?

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR ANY AUTHORS WRITING PLAYS FOR THE GARRICK THEATRE.--"Keep your
HARE on!"

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XIX.--UNEARNED INCREMENT.

SCENE XXVII. (_continued_).--_The Chinese Drawing Room._

_Sir Rupert_ (_to_ TREDWELL). Well, what is it?

_Tredwell_ (_in an undertone_). With reference to the party, Sir RUPERT,
as represents himself to have come down to see the 'orse, I----

_Sir Rup._ (_aloud_). You mean Mr. SPURRELL? It's all right. Mr.
SPURRELL will see the horse to-morrow. (TREDWELL _disguises his utter
bewilderment_.) By the way, we expected a Mr.----What did you say the
name was, my dear?... UNDERSHELL? To be sure, a Mr. UNDERSHELL, to have
been here in time for dinner. Do you know why he has been unable to come
before this?

_Tred._ (_to himself_). Do I know? Oh, Lor! (_Aloud._) I--I believe he
_have_ arrived, Sir RUPERT.

_Sir Rup._ So I understand from Mr. SPURRELL. Is he here still?

_Tred._ He is, Sir RUPERT. I--I considered it my dooty not to allow him
to leave the house, not feeling----

_Sir Rup._ Quite right, TREDWELL. I should have been most seriously
annoyed if I had found that a guest we were all anxiously expecting had
left the Court, owing to some fancied----Where is he now?

_Tred._ (_faintly_). In--in the Verney Chamber. Leastways----

_Sir Rup._ Ah. (_He glances at_ SPURRELL.) Then where----? But that can
be arranged. Go up and explain to Mr. UNDERSHELL that we have only this
moment heard of his arrival; say we understand that he has been obliged
to come by a later train, and that we shall be delighted to see him,
just as he is.

_Spurrell_ (_to himself_). He was worth looking at just as he _was_,
when _I_ saw him!

_Tred._ Very good, Sir RUPERT. (_To himself, as he departs._) If I'm not
precious careful over this job, it may cost me my situation!

_Spurr._ Sir RUPERT, I've been thinking that, after what's occurred, it
would probably be more satisfactory to all parties if I shifted my
quarters, and--and took my meals in the Housekeeper's Room.

    [Lady MAISIE _and_ Lady RHODA _utter inarticulate protests_.

_Sir Rup._ My _dear_ Sir, not on any account--couldn't _hear_ of it! My
wife, I'm sure, will say the same.

_Lady Culverin_ (_with an effort_). I hope Mr. SPURRELL will continue to
be our guest precisely as before--that is, if he will forgive us for
putting him into another room----

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). It's no use; I _can't_ get rid of 'em; they
stick to me like a lot of highly-bred burrs! (_Aloud, in despair._) Your
ladyship is very good, but----Well, the fact is, I've only just found
out that a young lady I've long been deeply attached to is in this very
house. She's a Miss EMMA PHILLIPSON--maid, so I understand, to Lady
MAISIE--and, without for one moment wishing to draw any comparisons, or
to seem ungrateful for all the friendliness I've received, I really and
truly would feel myself more comfortable in a circle where I could enjoy
rather more of my EMMA'S society!

_Sir Rup._ (_immensely relieved_). Perfectly natural! and--hum--sorry as
we are to lose you, Mr. SPURRELL, we--ah--mustn't be inconsiderate
enough to keep you here a moment longer. I daresay you will find the
young lady in the Housekeeper's Room--anyone will tell you where it
is.... Good-night to you, then: and, remember, we shall expect to see
you in the field on Tuesday.

_Lady Maisie._ Good-night, Mr. SPURRELL, and--and I'm so very
glad--about EMMA, you know. I hope you will both be very happy.

    [_She shakes hands warmly._

_Lady Rhoda._ So do I. And mind you don't forget about that liniment,
you know.

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). MAISIE don't care a hang! And I was
ass enough to fancy----But there, that's all over now!

SCENE XXVIII.--_The Verney Chamber._

_Undershell_ (_in the dressing-room, to himself_). I wonder how long
I've been locked up here--it seems hours! I almost hope they've
forgotten me altogether.... Someone has come in.... If it should be Sir
RUPERT!! Great Heavens, what a situation to be found in by one's
host!... Perhaps it's only that fellow SPURRELL; if so, there's a
chance. (_The door is unlocked by_ TREDWELL, _who has lighted the
candles on the dressing-table_.) It's the butler again. Well, I shall
soon know the worst! (_He steps out, blinking, with as much dignity as
possible_.) Perhaps you will kindly inform me why I have been subjected
to this indignity?

_Tred._ (_in perturbation_). I think Mr. UNDERSHELL, Sir, in common
fairness, you'll admit as you've mainly yourself to thank for any
mistakes that have occurred; for which I 'asten to express my pussonal
regret.

_Und._ So long as you realise that you have made a mistake, I am willing
to overlook it, on condition that you help me to get away from this
place without your master and mistress's knowledge.

_Tred._ It's too late, Sir. They know you're 'ere!

_Und._ They know! Then there's no time to be lost. I must leave this
moment!

_Tred._ No, Sir, excuse me; but you can't hardly do that _now_. I was to
say that Sir RUPERT and the ladies would be glad to see you in the
Droring Room himmediate.

_Und._ Man alive! do you imagine anything would induce me to meet them
now, after the humiliations I have been compelled to suffer under this
roof?

_Tred._ If you would prefer anything that has taken place in the Room,
Sir, or in the stables to be 'ushed up----

_Und._ Prefer it! If it were only possible! But they know--they _know!_
What's the use of talking like that?

_Tred._ (_to himself_). I know where I am now! (_Aloud._) They know
nothink up to the present, Mr. UNDERSHELL, nor yet I see no occasion why
they should--leastwise from any of _Us_.

_Und._ But they know I'm here; how am I to account for all the time----?

_Tred._ Excuse me. Sir. I thought of that, and it occurred to me as it
might be more agreeable to your feelings, Sir, if I conveyed an
impression that you had only just arrived--'aving missed your train,
Sir.

_Und._ (_overjoyed_). How am I to thank you? that was really most
discreet of you--most considerate!

_Tred._ I am truly rejoiced to hear you say so, Sir. And I'll take care
nothing leaks out. And if you'll be kind enough to follow me to the
Droring Room, the ladies are waiting to see you.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I may actually meet Lady MAISIE MULL after all!
(_Aloud, recollecting his condition_.) But I can't go down like this.
I'm in such a horrible mess!

_Tred._ I reelly don't perceive it, Sir; there's a little white on your
coat-collar behind. Allow me--there, it's off now. (_He gives him a
hand-glass._) If you'd like to see for yourself.

_Und._ (_to himself as he looks_). A little pallor, that's all. I am
more presentable than I could have hoped. (_Aloud._) Have the kindness
to take me to Lady CULVERIN at once.

SCENE XXIX.--_The Chinese Drawing Room._

_A few minutes later._

_Sir Rup._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL, _after the introductions have been gone
through_). And so you missed the 4.55 and had to come on by the 7.30,
which stops everywhere, eh?

_Und._ It--it certainly does stop at most stations.

_Sir Rup._ And how did you get on to Wyvern--been here long?

_Und._ N-not _particularly_ long.

_Sir Rup._ Fact is, you see, we made a mistake. Very ridiculous, but
we've been taking that young fellow, Mr. SPURRELL, for _you_, all this
time; so we never thought of inquiring whether you'd come or not. It was
only just now he told us how he'd met you in the Verney Chamber, and the
very handsome way, if you will allow me to say so, in which you had
tried to efface yourself.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I didn't expect him to take _that_ view of it!
(_Aloud._) I--I felt I had no alternative.

    [Lady MAISIE _regards him with admiration_.

_Sir Rup._ You did an uncommon fine thing, Sir, and I'm afraid you
received treatment on your arrival which you had every right to resent.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I hoped he didn't know about the Housekeeper's
Room! (_Aloud._) Please say no more about it, Sir RUPERT. I know now
that you were entirely innocent of any----

_Sir Rup._ (_horrified_). Good Gad! you didn't suppose I had any hand in
fixing up that booby trap, or whatever it was, did you? Young fellows
will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and
you seem to have been the victim--that's how it was. Have you had
anything to eat since you came? If not----

_Und._ (_hastily_). Thank you, I--I _have_ dined. (_To himself._) So he
_doesn't_ know where, after all! I will spare him _that_.

_Sir Rup._ Got some food at Shuntingbridge, eh? Afraid they gave you a
wretched dinner?

_Und._ Quite the reverse, I assure you. (_To himself._) Considering that
it came from his own table!

_Lady Maisie_ (_in an undertone, to_ Captain THICKNESSE). GERALD, you
remember what I said some time ago--about poetry and poets?

_Capt. Thick._ Perfectly. And I thought you were quite right.

_Lady Maisie._ I was quite _wrong_. I didn't know what I was talking
about. I do now. Good night. (_She crosses to_ UNDERSHELL.) Good night,
Mr. BLAIR, I'm so very glad we have met--at last!

    [_She goes._

_Und._ (_to himself, rapturously_). She's _not_ freckled; she's not even
sandy. She's lovely! And, by some unhoped for good fortune, all this has
only raised me in her eyes. I am more than compensated!

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). I may just as well get back to Aldershot
to-morrow--_now_. I'll go and prepare Lady C.'s mind, in case. It's hard
luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! I'd give somethin' to
have the other bard back, I know. It's no earthly use my tryin' to stand
against _this_ one!

[Illustration: "I'm so very glad--about Emma, you know!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

FEMINA DUX FACTI.

    _The Tumulus, Parliament Hill, Nov. 5._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Do not confuse me with a boa-constrictor story. Cursed
be he that disturbs my _bona fides_; and the above is my real address.

True, the ancient Romans knew me as the Old Pretendress, but let that
pass. What I want to know is this. Will _nothing_ check the energy of
the L. C. C.?--nothing allay their fever for expurgation? I am not a
Promenader. I only ask to lie still. Nor a Living Picture either, and
have not been for more than eighteen centuries. Talk of Roman noses! Why
their eagle was a chicken compared with the London Carrion Crows! Such a
power of scent!

It is Guy Fawkes day, and I hear talk of blowing up the Lords. But
surely one must draw the line somewhere this side of an insidious
exhumation of the Monarchy!

After all, if they do get at my bones, the real marrow of me has
transmigrated into the New Woman. Sir, there _were_ New Women in my day.
We invented everything. I see the _Daily Telegraph_ says they have found
a pellet. That reminds me that after the death of my late husband,
PRASUTAGUS, King of the Iceni (not to be confused with the PLIOCENI of
about the same period), I was subjected to the most revolting barbarity
at the hands of the Veterans (their name was legionary), and I was
obliged to invent a pellet-proof corset.

Then, again, we held all the commissions in the army. How does TACITUS
report my famous speech to the Queen Consort's Own Regiment of Pioneers
(new style)? "_Vincendum illa acie vel cadendum esse. Id mulieri
destinatum. Viverent viri et servirent._" Let the men live on in
slavery! What a prophetic utterance!

By the way, not many Emancipated Women of the present day could speak
better Latin than that. Indeed, we took all the University degrees. I
myself was an honorary _felo de se_.

Don't tell me that I am prehistoric, and that TACITUS was a forger of
the fourteenth century. No testimony is sacred now-a-days, not even the
most profane!

I conclude with a passage from Madame SARAH GRAY, which I think comes in
rather well.

    Beneath this storied hump there lies concealed
      A heart once pregnant with a Righteous Plan,
    Hands that the rod of Empire used to wield,
      And whacked to ecstasy the human Man.

Dear _Mr. Punch_, may you live for ever; or, failing that, may no rude
spoiler mar your "animated bust." Excuse these disjointed remarks, but I
am writing in a barrow.

  Yours, in the spirit,

  BOADICEA.

P.S.--I have thought of a proverb. New Women should be put into new
_tumuli_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GAY WIDOW COURTED.

[Illustration]

Nothing could be better than the acting all round in the new three-act
play at the Court. It is distinctly first-rate, and those who want a
hearty laugh should proceed to the Court to enjoy it. And yet there is
also serious relief, as there should be--light and shade. First there is
Miss LOTTIE VENNE, who shows us that she can mingle pathos with comedy,
temper smiles with tears. She is as bright as sunshine in the comic
scenes, and when she has to say good-bye to her newly-married daughter,
she glides from peals of merriment into sobs of sorrow that are
intensely touching because they are intensely natural. Then Mr. HAWTREY,
in a part that fits him down to the ground (in the Stalls) and up to the
ceiling (in the Gallery), is greatly amusing. And he, too, has his more
mournful moments. People accustomed to seeing this accomplished actor in
butterfly touch-and-go parts would scarcely credit him with the power of
becoming pathetically unmanned. And yet so it is. Mr. HAWTREY, indignant
at a false accusation emanating from his wife, commences a letter full
of angry reproaches, addressed to her solicitors, and gradually forgets
everything in his despairing appeal for the love he craves but which he
fears he has lost. Nothing better than this has been seen for a long
time in a London theatre. Then Mr. GILBERT HARE (inheritor of his
father's cleverness) causes roars of laughter by his comical sketch of a
man with a cold. But here, again, the mirth is tempered with sympathy.
The echo of the "ha, ha, ha," in spite of its inappropriateness, is
"Poor fellow!" Mr. THORNE, too, is good, and so is Mr. RIGHTON, and so
is everyone concerned.

       *       *       *       *       *

FINISHING TOUCHES.

["Canon FURSE said he believed no man's education was complete who did
not attend public meetings."--_Daily News._]

[Illustration]

    My classics were not shaky, nor my mathematics weak,
    My great linguistic fluency enabled me to speak
    In half-a-dozen languages with quite surprising skill,
    And yet--I always felt it--there was something lacking still.

    But, though profoundly conscious of a lingering defect,
    The cause of imperfection I was puzzled to detect,
    But Canon FURSE explains it; for I sorrow to relate,
    I shunned all public meetings, which accounted for my state.

    Well, over chances past and gone, 'twere idle to shed tears,
    I'm striving now to rectify the fault of former years,
    And every afternoon and night I rush from street to street,
    Endeavouring to make my education more "complete."

    Where Anti-Vivisectionists their armaments encamp,
    Where Democrats democratise, and stage-reformers ramp,
    Where fervent Ulstermen point out that MORLEY is a fool,
    Where Parnellites insist upon the beauty of Home Rule;

    Where lecturers with lanterns make the vice of drinking clear,
    Where publicans prove amply that our only hope is beer,--
    To each and all of these I come, a champion of the cause,
    And sit imbibing wisdom, and I join in the applause;

    I join in the applause, and--yes! The Anti-Smoking cranks
    Invited me, not long ago, to move a vote of thanks!
    Ah, happy, happy moment, when I stood, composed but proud,
    And looked at Mr. Chairman, and the hushed, expectant crowd!

    Yes, Canon FURSE, I thank you for your warning so discreet;
    Indeed, our education now is wholly incomplete
    Unless we meet and "sympathise," "insist on," and "deplore,"
    And listen to the prattling Prig, the Faddist, and the Bore!

       *       *       *       *       *

HOME FOR ADVERTISERS.--"Puffin Island." Of course this is only for those
who find themselves in "many straits."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DRAWING-ROOM INANITIES.

_He._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?"

_She._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET, TOO."

_He (greatly delighted to find they have something in common)._
"_REALLY!_" (_After a moment's hesitation._) "ANY PARTICULAR NUMBER?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHIEF MOURNER.

                                 "----Past
    To where beyond these voices there is Peace."

                         TENNYSON'S "_Guinevere_."

    Peace! Lo! her hand is on thine heart at last.
    No boding echoes of the battle-blast,
      Whose hated sound thy earthly slumbers broke,
    Shall break the rest whereunto thou hast past.

    Earth's mightest autocrat, and yet a man
    Unwitched by War's wrath-stirring rataplan!
      A phantom haunted thee from the red snows
    Where with the blood of legions Plevna ran.

    Where War took on its deadliest, dreadfullest guise,
    The love of Peace possessed thee. Those closed eyes
      Frowned back Bellona's long solicitings.
    Peace smiles on them, though lid on lid now lies.

    Peace smiles in love, and weeps in true lament,
    Mourner for one who, worn and trouble-bent,
      Yet with firm hand held fast the Janus gates,
    A despot's aid to the dove-carrier lent.

    Therefore the hearts of freemen to thee warmed
    Great Autocrat, because the strong man armed,
      And irresponsible, kept sheathed the sword,--
    By Glory's glittering lure unmoved, uncharmed.

    In uncheered isolation, fear-beset,
    Who shall divine what longing, what regret,
      Ached in the heart within that Titan frame,
    How oft with anguish those stern eyes were wet?

    Pinnacled in thy peril-compassed post,
    With Terror like a grey and boding ghost
      Haunted continually, of what avail
    The boundless realm, the huge embattled host?--

    Of what avail to solace, gladden, bless?
    From wife's endearment or from child's caress
      Starting dread shaken, Power sees danger lurk,
    In Peace more menacing than in War's fierce press.

    But this man spurned not Peace in fear, nor shook
    In his allegiance to her; but would brook
      The fierce revilings of her angry foes
    Rather than face her with unfriendly look.

    "Otus and Ephialtes held the chain"[1]
    That bound the mighty Mars. So through his reign
      He helped to hold the god in "fetters bound,"
    The fierce false god who raged and roared in vain.

    So Peace beside his bed chief mourner stands,
    The Great White TSAR late lord of limitless lands,--
      And on that broad brave breast, now still in death,
    Lays her own olive-branch with reverent hands.

[1] Iliad, B. V., 478.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT HIS LORDSHIP MUST HAVE SAID.--A juryman in a recent case objected
to a private soldier, who is a public servant, being described as "one
of the lower classes." The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE explained that the witness
had said "rough classes," not "lower," adding his dictum that "patent
leather boots do not make a man first class." This remark was _à propos
de bottes_; and what the Chief meant to say was evidently that "patent
leather boots were not to be considered as a patent of nobility." When
FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., Attorney-General, heard of it, he wept as
for another good chance gone for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

CAUGHT PUNNING.--In some of the theatrical items for the week we see it
announced that a certain playwright is at work on a comic opera which
has for its subject _Manon Lescaut_. "If it is to be a travestie,"
observed "W. A.," the World's Archer, who makes a shot at a pun whenever
the chance is given him, "then its title should of course be '_Manon
Bur-Lescaut_.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"REFORM IN CONVEYANCING."--Certainly, a reform much needed. Let us have
some new Hansoms which are not "bone-shakers" and whose windows will not
act as so many guillotines. Some improved growlers (they have been a bit
better recently), drawn by less dilapidated horses, would be a welcome
addition.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CHIEF MOURNER

                              "----PAST
  TO WHERE BEYOND THESE VOICES THERE IS PEACE."--TENNYSON.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DECADENT GUYS.

(_A Colour-Study in Green Carnations._)

They were sitting close together in their characteristic attitudes; the
knees slightly limp, and the arms hanging loosely by their sides; Lord
RAGGIE TATTERSALL in the peculiar kind of portable chair he most
affected; FUSTIAN FLITTERS in a luxurious sort of handbarrow. The
lemon-tinted November light of a back street in a London slum floated
lovingly on their collapsed forms, and on the great mass of weary
cabbage-stalks that lay dreaming themselves daintily to death in the
gutter at their feet.

They were both dressed very much alike, in loosely-fitting,
fantastically patched coats. Lord RAGGIE was wearing a straw hat, with
the crown reticently suggested rather than expressed, which suited his
complexion very well, emphasising, as it did, the white weariness of his
smooth face, with the bright spot of red that had appeared on each
cheek, and the vacant fretfulness of his hollow eyes; he held his head
slightly on one side, and seemed very tired. FUSTIAN FLITTERS had
adopted the regulation chimney-pot hat, beautiful with the iridescent
sheen of decay; he was taller, bulgier, and bulkier than his friend, and
allowed his heavy chin to droop languidly forward. Both wore white
cotton gloves, broken boots, and rather small magenta cauliflowers in
their button-holes.

"My dear RAGGIE," said Mr. FLITTERS, in a gently elaborate voice, and
with a gracious wave of his plump straw-distended white fingers towards
his companion's chair; "you are looking very well this afternoon. You
would be perfectly charming in a red wig and a cocked-hat, and a checked
ulster with purple and green shadows in the folds. You would wear it
beautifully, floating negligently over your shoulders. But you are
wonderfully complete as you are!"

"That is so true!" acquiesced RAGGIE, with perfect complacency. "I am
very beautiful. And you, FUSTIAN, you are so energetically inert. Are
you going to blow up to-night? You are so brilliant when you blow up."

"I have not decided either way. I never do. It will depend upon how I
feel in the bonfire. I let it come if it will. The true _impromptu_ is
invariably premeditated."

[Illustration: "My dear RAGGIE, you are looking very well this
afternoon."]

"Isn't that rather self-contradictory?" said RAGGIE, with his pretty
quick smile.

"Of course it is. Does not consistency solely consist in contradicting
oneself? But I suppose I _am a trifle décousu_."

"You are. Indeed, we are both what those absurd clothes-dealing
Philistines would call 'threadbare'--you and I."

"I hope so, most sincerely. There is something so hopelessly
middle-class about wearing perfectly new clothes. It always reminds me
of that ridiculous Nature, who will persist in putting all her poor
little trees into brand-new suits of hideous non-arsenical green every
spring. As if withered leaves, or even nudity itself, would not really
be infinitely more decent! I detest a coat that is what the world calls
a 'fit!'"

"Clothes that fit," observed Lord RAGGIE, gravely, "are the natural
penalty for possessing that dreadful deformity, a good figure. Only
exploded mediocrities like TUPPER and BUNN and SHAKSPEARE ought to have
figures."

"_Had_ SHAKSPEARE a figure? I thought it was only a bust."

"We shall have _our_ little bust by and by, I suppose," said RAGGIE,
pensively. "I wonder _when_. I feel in the mood to sally forth and paint
the night with strange scarlet, slashed with silver and gold, while our
young votaries--beautiful pink boys in paper hats--let off marvellous
pale epigrammatic crackers and purple paradoxical squibs in our honour."

"See, RAGGIE, here come our youthful disciples! Do they not look
deliciously innocent and enthusiastic? I wish, though, we could contrive
to imbue them with something of our own lovely limpness--they are so
atrociously lively and active."

"That will come, FUSTIAN," said Lord RAGGIE, indulgently. "We must give
them time. Already they have copied our distinctive costume, caught our
very features and colouring. Some day, FUSTIAN, some day they will adopt
our mystic emblem--the symbol that is such a true symbol in possessing
no meaning whatever--the Magenta Cauliflower! And then--and then----."

"----It will be time for Us to drop it," continued Mr. FUSTIAN FLITTERS,
with his peculiar smile of inscrutable obviousness.

"Beautiful rose-coloured children!" murmured Lord RAGGIE, dreamily;
"how sad to think that they will all grow up and degenerate into
pork-butchers, and generals, and bishops, and absurdly futile persons of
that sort! But listen; it is so sweet of them--they are going to sing an
exquisite little catch I composed expressly for them, a sort of
mellifluously raucous chant with no tune in particular. That is where it
is so wonderful. True melody is always quite tuneless!"

One by one the shrill, passionate young voices chimed in, until the very
lamp-posts throbbed and rang with the words, and they seemed to wander
away, away among the sleeping pageant of the chimney-pots, away to the
burnished golden globes of the struggling pawnbroker.

    "Please ter remember. The Fifth o' November. For Gun Powder Plot.
    Ter blow up the King and 'is Porliment. Shall never. Be. Forgot!
                                              'Oller, Boys, 'Oller!"

Lord RAGGIE, with his head bent, listened with a smile parting the
scarlet thread of his lips, a smile in his pretty hollow eyes. "I wonder
why people should be exhorted to remember such a prosaic and commonplace
crime as that," he meditated aloud: "a crime, too, that had not even the
vulgar merit of being a success!"

"Only failures ever _do_ succeed, really," said FUSTIAN, leaning largely
over his barrow. "How deliciously they are joggling us! Don't you like
having your innermost shavings stimulated, RAGGIE?"

"There is only one stimulating thing in the world," was the languid
answer; "and that is a soporific. But see, FUSTIAN, here comes one of
those unconsciously absurd persons they call policemen. How stiffly he
holds himself. Why is there something so irresistibly ludicrous about
every creature that possesses a spine? Perhaps because to be vertebrate
is to be normal, and the normal is necessarily such a hideous
monstrosity. I love what are called warped distorted figures. The only
real Adonis nowadays is a Guy." And the shrill voices of the young
choristers, detaching themselves one by one from the melodic fabric in
which they were enmeshed, grew fainter and fainter still--until they
slipped at last into silence. "FUSTIAN, did you notice? Our rose-white
adherents have abandoned us. They have run away--'done a guy,' as
vulgarians express it."

"They have done _two_," said Mr. FLITTERS correctively; "which only
proves the absolute sincerity of their devotion. Is not the whole art of
fidelity comprised in knowing exactly when to betray?"

"How original you are to-day, FUSTIAN! But what is this crude blue
copper going to do with you and me? Can we be going to become
notorious--_really_ notorious--at last?"

"I devoutly trust not. Notoriety is now merely a synonym for respectable
obscurity. But he certainly appears to be engaged in what a serious
humourist would call 'running us in.'"

"How pedantic of him! Then shan't we be allowed to explode at all this
evening?"

"It seems not. They think we are dangerous. How can one tell? Perhaps we
are. Give me a light, RAGGIE, and I will be brilliant for you alone.
Come, the young Shoeblack bends to his brush, and the pale-faced Coster
watches him in his pearly kicksies; the shadows on the mussels in the
fish-stall are violet, and the vendor of halfpenny ices is washing the
spaces of his tumblers with primrose and with crimson. Let me be
brilliant, dear boy, or I feel that I shall burst for sheer vacuity, and
pass away, as so many of us have passed, with all my combustibles still
in me!"

And with gentle resignation, as martyrs whose apotheosis is merely
postponed, Lord RAGGIE and FUSTIAN FLITTERS allowed themselves to be
slowly moved on by the rude hand of an unsympathetic Peeler.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

(_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Friend._)

THE CHOICE OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY.

Having explained the mode of entering the service of the Crown by
becoming the Secretary of the Public Squander Department, I now proceed
to consider the best manner in which you should comport yourself in that
position. The moment it is known that you have accepted the appointment
you will receive a deluge of letters recommending various aspiring young
gentlemen for the post of Private Secretary. Of course the notes must be
civilly answered, but on no account pledge yourself to any one of the
writers. And here I may give what may be termed the golden rule of the
service, "always be polite to the individual in particular, and
contemptuous to the public in general." The tradition of many
generations of officials has been to regard outsiders as enemies. There
may be small jealousies in a Government Department, but every man in the
place will stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow to repel the
attacks of non-civilians. And the word "attack" has many meanings.
Practically, everything is an attack. If an outsider asks a question,
the query is an attack. If an outsider complains, the grievance is an
attack. If an outsider begs a favour, the petition is an attack. If you
bear this well in mind, you cannot go wrong. Adopt it as your creed, and
you may be sure that you will became immediately an ideal head of a
Government Department.

Say that you have accepted your appointment, and are prepared to take up
at once the duties appertaining to your new position. No doubt during
your "attacks" upon the Milestones you will have come across several of
the officials of the Public Squander Department. So when you arrive in
the hall of your new bureau you will be recognised at once by most of
the messengers. You will be conducted with deference to your new
quarters. You will find them very comfortable. Any number of
easy-chairs. Large writing-desk. Several handsome tables. Rich carpet,
rugs to match, and a coal-scuttle with the departmental cypher. On the
walls, maps and some armour. The latter, no doubt, has come from the
Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle. Most probably one of your
predecessors has given an official dinner in your room, and the armour
is the result of the importunity of his Private Secretary.

"I say, TENTERFORE," your predecessor has observed, "don't you think
these walls are a bit bare? Don't you think you could get them done up a
bit?"

"Certainly, Sir," TENTERFORE has replied, and the result of his energy
has been the trophies you see around you. TENTERFORE has applied to the
people at the Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle, and got up quite a
collection of quaint old arms. They have been duly received by the
Public Squander Department, and retained. It is a rule of the _bureau_
that anything that has been once accepted shall be kept for ever. That
is to say, if it can be clearly proved that the things retained can be
useful somewhere else. You look round with satisfaction, and then greet
with effusion the chief clerk. He has been waiting to receive you. As
you do not know the ropes, it is advisable to be civil to every one.
Later on, when you have a talented assistant to prompt you, you can
allow your cordiality to cool. However, at this moment it is better to
be extremely polite to all the world, and (if you know her) his wife.
The chief clerk is delighted to exchange expressions of mutual respect
and common good-will. He will put in something neat about the Milestones
as a concession to your labours in that direction.

"My dear Sir," you will reply with a smile, "don't bother yourself about
_them_. I can keep _them_ quite safe. We have nothing to fear from
them."

The face of the chief clerk will beam. He will see that you are one of
them. Milestones for the future are to be defended, not attacked. He
will accept you as an illustrious bureaucratic recruit. He will see that
you are ready to stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of the office.
Could anything be better?

Then for about the thirtieth time you will be asked if you have selected
a private secretary, and the chief clerk will suggest his own particular
nominee. With much cordiality you will receive the proposal, but keep
the matter open. You must remember that upon the appointment your future
success depends. Moreover, it is a nice little piece of patronage which
you may as well retain for yourself.

When you have selected your private secretary it will be time to get
into harness, and of this operation I hope to treat on some future
occasion.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOW OPINION IS FORMED.

_He._ "HAVE YOU READ THAT BEASTLY BOOK _THE MAUVE PEONY_, BY LADY
MIDDLESEX?"

_She._ "YES. I RATHER LIKED IT."

_He._ "SO DID I."]

"NO FEES!"--The new seats in the Drury Lane pit "by an ingenious
arrangement," says Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, in the _Daily Telegraph_, "'tip
up' of their own accord the instant they are vacated." Then, evidently,
the system of "fees to attendants" is not abolished at T.R. Drury Lane.
In theatres where it is abolished no "tipping up" could possibly be
permitted.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

_Gleams of Memory; with Some Reflections_, is the happy title of Mr.
JAMES PAYN'S last book, published by SMITH AND ELDER. The wit of the
title flashes through every page of the single volume. Within its modest
limits of space will be found not only some of the best stories of the
day, but stories the best told. Not a superfluous word spoils the gems,
which have been ruthlessly taken out of their setting and spread
widecast through the circulation of many newspapers reviewing the work.
My Baronite, fortunately, has not space at his disposal to join in this
act of flat, though seductive, burglary. He advises everyone to go to
the book itself. The reader will find himself enjoying the rare
privilege of intimacy with a cultured mind, and a heart so kindly that
temptation to say smart things at the expense of others, which underlies
the possession of overflowing humour, is resisted, apparently without
effort. Like the German Emperor or Mr. JUSTIN MCCARTHY, Mr. PAYN
probably "could be very nasty if he liked." He doesn't like, and is
therefore himself liked all the better.

That little tale entitled _The Black Patch_, by GERTRUDE CLAY
KER-SEYMER, introduces to the public a rather novel character in the
person of a _Miss Clara Beauchamp_ an amateur female detective, to whom
SHERLOCK HOLMES, when he chooses to "come out of his ambush," (for no
one believes he fell over that precipice and was killed about a year
ago,) ought at once to propose. It would be an excellent firm. CLARA
would make our HOLMES happy, and a certain advertising medicine provider
bearing the same name as the heroine of this sporting story would have
another big chance of increasing his "hoardings." The Baron, skilled as
he is in plots, owns to having been now and again puzzled over this one
which clever CLARA the Clearer soon makes apparent to everybody. The
story is a working out of the description of twins, how "each is so like
both that you can't tell t'other from which." But mind you, not ordinary
biped twins--oh dear no--they are.... No ... the Baron respects a lady's
secret, and recommends the inquisitive to get the book and penetrate the
mystery.

To all those who like a mystery, and who gratefully remember FLORENCE
WARDEN'S _House on the Marsh_, let the Baron recommend _A Perfect Fool_,
by the same authoress. Dickensian students will be struck by the fact of
a "_Mr. Dick_" being kept on the premises. He is a caged Dickie, poor
chap; but, like his ancestor the original _Mr. Dick_, he sets everybody
right at last. The Baron dare not say more, lest he should let the
Dickie out of the cage. The only disappointment, to old-fashioned
novel-readers, at least, who love justice to be done, and the villain to
receive worse than he has given, is in the moral of the tale; yet in
these decadent Yellow Asterical and Green Carnational days it is as
good as can be wished. FLORENCE WARDEN is neither priggish nor
Church-Wardenish; and so, when the scoundrel----But here, again, the
Baron must put his finger to his lips, and ask you to read the story;
when, and not till then, he may imagine whether you do not agree with
him, "_Mystère!_"

Curiosity has ever been a weakness of human nature, and that seems to be
the only reason why so many make themselves uncomfortable by taking
journeys to the Pole. Imitating NANSEN, GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.,
sends his hero _To Greenland and the Pole_, which he reaches after much
"skilöbning" (the book must be read to grasp its meaning), and receiving
a chilly but polite welcome, with the arrogance of an Englishman breaks
the cold silence by singing the "_National Anthem_," when of course the
Pole is thawed at once!

Writes a Baronitess Junior, "Those little boys and girls who delight in
fairy lore will find a charming story of magical adventures in _Maurice;
or, the Red Jar_, by the Countess of JERSEY, or more appropriately
Countess of J_A_RSEY. It is fantastically illustrated by ROSIE M. M.
PITMAN, and published by MACMILLAN & CO., and shows how unpleasant a jar
can be in a family. And yet has not the poet finely said, 'A thing of
beauty is a Jar for ever!'"

The Baron is anxiously expecting the appearance from The Leadenhall
Press of Mr. TUER'S _Chap-book_. Of course, all "the Chappies" from
"Chap 1" to "Last Chap" are on the look out for it. The Baron fancies it
will be a perfect fac-simile, and if not perfect, the merciful critic
who is merciful to his author will say with the poet POPE

  "_Tu er_ is human,"

which is a most pope-ular quotation; while as to the latter half of the
line "to forgive, divine"--that, in a measure, is one of the unstrained
prerogatives of the

  BENEFICENT BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SLIGHT ADAPTATION.

(_Suggested by the recent Debate (Ladies only) at the Pioneers Club on
the Shortcomings of the Male Sex._)

[Illustration: Nova mulier vociferatur more Whitmanico.]

      Come my modern women,
    Follow me this evening, get your numbers ready,
    Have you got your latchkeys? have you your members' axes?
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

      To the club in Bruton Street
    We must march my darlings, one and all a great ensemble,
    We the strenuous lady champions, all extremely up to date,
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

      O you girls, West-End girls,
    O you young revolting daughters, full of manly pride and manners,
    Plain I see you West-End girls (no reflection on your features!).
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

[Illustration]

      Have our lords and masters halted?
    Do they humbly take a back-seat, wearied out with Madame SARAH GRAND?
    We take up the dual garments, and the eyeglass and the cycle.
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

      From North Hampstead, from South Tooting,
    From far Peckham, from the suburbs and the shires we come,
    All the dress of comrades noting, bonnets, fashions criticising,
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

      We primeval fetters loosing,
    We our husbands taming, vexing we and worrying Mrs. GRUNDY,
    We our own lives freely living, we as bachelor-girls residing,
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

[Illustration]

      Literary dames are we,
    Singers, speakers, temperance readers, artists we and journalists,
    Here and there a festive actress (generally to be found in our
        smoking-room),
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

      Raise the mighty mistress President,
    Waving high the delicate President, over all the Lady President
        (bend your heads all),
    Raise the warlike Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D, stern impassive Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D,
      Pioneers! O Pioneers!

       *       *       *       *       *

This sort of thing goes on for about twenty more verses, for which
readers are kindly referred to the original in _Leaves of Grass_. It
really applies without any further adaptation.

       *       *       *       *       *

A "MAN IN ARMOUR" TO THE MULTITUDE.

_On Lord Mayor's Day._

    Remember, remember, the Ninth of November!
      A civic procession you've got!
    I know no reason why L. C. C. treason
      Should send the old custom to pot.
    There is a great glamour about men in armour,
      Will London turn out all a-pant
    At sound of the bugle to stare at MCDOUGALL,
      Or hear Mrs. ORMISTON CHANT?
    Though city crowds hurtle to welcome the turtle,
      And shout at the Mayor and the mace;
    What Council Committee will choke up the City
      With mobs and a smile on each face?
    The old "panorama"'s a popular drama.
      An alderman _may_ be a glutton;
    But multitudes jog after MAGOG and GOG
      Who don't care a button for HUTTON.
    So remember, remember, the Ninth of November!
      A holiday glorious you've got;
    But "unification" will rob the whole nation
    Of one good old spree--which is rot!

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]





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