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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, January 12th, 1895

Author: Various

Editor: F. C. Burnand

Release date: April 7, 2013 [eBook #42478]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, JANUARY 12TH, 1895 ***




Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108, JANUARY 12, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *




TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

(_By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller._)

INTRODUCTION.

Not many living men, and even fewer in the ages that are past,
have--if I may use the word--sported with greater assiduity and
success than I have during a life which is even now little past its
middle period. At one time on horseback, at another on the bounding
and impulsive elephant; now bestriding the matchless dromedary on his
native prairie, now posted on foot in a jungle crowded with golden
pheasants in all the native splendour of their plumage; sometimes
matching my solitary craft against a host of foxes on the swelling
uplands of Leicestershire, sometimes facing the Calydonian boar or the
sanguinary panther in their woodland lairs, dealing showers of leaden
death from a hundred tubes, or tracking my fearful prey by the lonely
light of a wax vesta and despatching it at midnight with my trusty
bowie--wherever there were leagues to be walked, risks to be run,
or fastnesses to be rushed there not only have I been the first, but
(paradoxical as it may appear) there also have I succeeded and have
never been successfully followed. My experiences are therefore unique,
and it is in the hope that they may to some extent profit a younger
generation, less inured, I fear, to hardship and danger than my own,
that I now set pen to paper and recount some of the exploits that have
made my name famous wherever sport is loved and true sportsmen are
revered.

A less modest man might have said more, but one whose deeds speak
for him in every quarter of the world may well be content to leave to
punier men the ridiculous trumpeting braggadocio that too often makes
so-called sportsmen the laughing stock of society. For myself, I can
never forget the lesson I learned at an early age from my dear father,
himself a shikari of no common order, though to be sure, as he himself
would be the first to admit if he were alive, the exploits of the son
(I had no brothers) have now thrust the parental performances into
the background. Still, it was my father who first inculcated upon my
infant mind the daring, the ignorance of fear, the contempt of danger,
and the iron endurance which have since made me a household word.
Heaven rest the old man! He sleeps his last sleep far away in the
Desert of Golden Sand, with no head-stone to mark his resting-place,
and neither the roaring of his old enemies the tigers, nor the
bellowing of the countless alligators who infest the spot can rouse
him any more. Alas! it was trustfulness that destroyed him. He was
gored to death by a favourite rhinoceros that he had rescued at a
tender age when its mother was killed, and had brought up to know and,
as he thought, to love him. But I have always thought myself that the
rhinoceros was a treacherous brute, and though I have often been
asked to tame one, for presentation to this or that Emperor, I have
consistently declined.

Marvellous, however, as my father was in his day for his exploits and
his variegated bags of game, he was perhaps even more wonderful for
the unswerving accuracy with which he was accustomed to relate his
adventures. Far and wide over the steppes of Central Asia, the burning
regions of equatorial Africa, the precipitous haunts of the
American Grizzly, and the wild retreats of the ferocious Albanian
pig--everywhere, in short, where he had set foot or drawn trigger,
this peculiarity of his was known and appreciated, and many a
respectful _sobriquet_ did it earn for him from the savage tribes
amongst whom he spent the best years of his life. In Kashmir he was
known as _Peili Ton_, that is, the man who cannot lie; amongst the
swarthy Zambesians the name of _Govun Bettîr_ (the Undefeated and
Veracious Man) was a name to conjure with even when in their moments
of warlike passion the tribesmen rushed madly through their primeval
thickets, shouting their terrible war-cry, "_Itzup ures Leeve_," that
is, "Death to the white-faced robbers."

[Illustration: "He had indeed seen ten bocks."]

But what I wished specially to relate about my poor father was the
lesson of truthfulness which he inculcated upon me at an early age. He
and I (I was then but a lad of twelve) had been hunting the ferocious
Pilsener gemsbock through the wild Lagerland in which he makes his
home. It happened one morning that we had parted company. To me was
assigned the duty of beating through the Bier-Wald, the dense forest
which stretches mile upon mile in unbroken gloom to the confines of
the Boose-See. The Fates were propitious. Wherever I turned I saw
a victim, and one after another I brought down with unerring aim
twenty-four (as I thought) of these noble animals, whose horns are
now worth a king's ransom, and might, even in those distant days, have
rescued a minor German Prince from captivity. Hastening home with
my booty loaded upon my back--I was a strong boy for my age, but of
course nothing to what I have since become--I met my dear father just
as I reached the door of the hut which served us for hunting quarters.
Joyously I cast down my burden, and sprang to his side. But my father
wore an expression of annoyance, and I soon discovered that the luck
had been against him. He had indeed seen ten bocks, but for some
reason his aim had lacked its accustomed deadliness, and he had come
back empty-handed. I condoled with him in a boy's artless fashion, and
proceeded to tell him how fortunate I had been.

"How many have you shot?" he asked me.

"Twenty-four," was my reply.

"Count them," said my father.

I did so, and you may judge of my astonishment when I found that
twenty-six had fallen to my gun. I counted again and again. Yes, there
were twenty-six of them. With one of my shots I must have brought down
three. In the agitation of the moment I had overlooked this. I told
my father that I had made a slight mistake, and endeavoured to explain
how it had arisen. But my father was inexorable.

"A lie," he said, "is a lie. You said you had shot twenty-four, you
have actually killed twenty-six. You must suffer."

Over the rest of the painful scene I draw a veil. The shrieks of my
mother, who implored pardon for me on her bended knees, still seem to
ring in my ears. Since that time I have always respected not only
the strict truth, but also the leather thongs which are in use in the
Lagerland for the droves of untameable cattle that roam the prairies.
This was my lesson, and I have never, never forgotten it.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO AN OLD FLAME.--(TWENTY YEARS AFTER.)

  A little girl, a charming tiny tot,
    I well remember you with many a curl,
  Although I recollect you said, "I'm not
              A _little_ girl."

  We parted. Mid the worry and the whirl
    Of life, again, alas! I saw you not.
  I kept you in my memory as a pearl
    Of winsome childhood. So imagine what
  A shock it was this morning to unfurl
    My morning paper, there to see you've got
              A little girl!

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR.--The _Pall Mall Gazette_ announced last Friday
that "a bevy of head-masters will appear in the pulpit of St. Paul's
this month." How many go to a "bevy" we are not aware, though perhaps
we might ascertain it from Sir DRURIOLANUS, who could inform us, after
several crowded houses, how many go to see the "bevy," and how many
combine to make up a "bevy," of ballet beauties in the pantomime; but
putting it say at a dozen, the bevy of head-masters in their caps and
gowns would find the pulpit of St. Paul's rather a tight fit. Pretty
sight though, anyway.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HARLEQUIN HARCOURT, THE SLEEPING BEAUTY, AND THE
FINANCIAL FAIRY PRINCE.--(_See "New Year's Day Dream."_)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A HEAVY RESPONSIBILITY.

(_Hounds going from Covert to Covert._)

_Master Jack_ (_to M.F.H._). "I SAY, YOU KNOW, AWFUL NUISANCE THE WAY
THESE WOMEN FOLLOW A FELLOW OVER _EVERYTHING!_ MAKES A MAN HAVE TO BE
SO BEASTLY CAREFUL WHAT HE _JUMPS_, DON'T YOU KNOW!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW YEAR'S DAY DREAM.

    _A Tennysonian Fragment from the Popular Pantomime of
    "Harlequin Harcourt, the Sleeping Beauty, and the Financial
    Fairy Prince."_

    ["The Revenue Returns," says the _Daily News_, "for the
    expired three quarters of the financial year show that a sum
    of close upon £62,000,000 has been paid into the Exchequer.
    The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER'S estimated revenue for the
    whole year was a little over £94,000,000. This is regarded as
    an indication of the revival of trade, and the promise of a
    substantial surplus for the next Budget."]

THE ARRIVAL.

  All blessèd boons, though coming late,
    To those who wait them issue forth,
  For skill in sequel works with fate,
    And draws the veil from hidden worth.
  He comes, great keeper of our tin,
    He is no Tory _Hurlo-Thrumbo!_
  A fairy Prince, with triple chin,
    And heavy-footed as poor _Jumbo!_

  He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks,
    Though he has heard of Sleeping Beauties.
  He hath been dreaming many weeks
    Of Income Tax, Stamps, and Death Duties.
  He'd charmed the party with his talk
    Of Graduation; now grey fear
  Knocks at his ribs, his cheek's like chalk,
    With thoughts of Revenue for the Year.

  More close and close his footsteps wind,
    The next year's Budget on his heart.
  From Stamps and Liquor will he find
    Big plums? Will rich taxpayers "part"?
  Here's sleeping Trade! "Lor! what a lark!"
    He thinks. "To wake her--were a spree!
  A kiss _may_ lift those lashes dark;
    She can't resist a buss--from Me!"

THE REVIVAL.

  A touch, a smack! A boxèd ear.
    There came the sound of a smart slap.
  The Fairy Prince, with cry of fear,
    His hand unto his cheek did clap.
  The Sleeping Beauty gave a gape,
    A wide-mouthed yawn, a long-drawn stretch.
  _He_ rubbed his chins. "This _is_ a jape!
    I _knew_ my style the girl would fetch!

  "In spite of all that WILSON says,[*]
    I trust those Revenue Returns.
  She _does_ revive! Be mine the praise!
    By Jove, though, how my left ear burns!
  I told 'em that I'd do the trick
    With my new fakement, the Death Duties.
  Come, Miss, wake up! Revive, dear, quick!
    You sleepiest of Sleeping Beauties!"

  At last sweet slumbering Trade awoke,
    And on her couch her form upreared.
  The Prince smiled, rubbed his chins, and spoke.
    "Ah, WILSON'S prophecy is queered.
  He swore that you would _not_ revive,
    In his Cassandra-like Review,
  But don't sit yawning! Look alive!
    Or men will swear I've humbugged you!"

  "All right!" said sleepy Trade. "But still
    My joints feel somewhat stiff or so.
  Say, have you passed that Irish Bill
    You schemed--_how_ long was it ago?"
  The Chancellor subdued a curse,
    Which scarce would serve for a reply,
  But dallied with his well-filled purse,
    And smiling, put the question by.

[Footnote: * In a pessimistic editorial article, opening the new
volume of the _Investor's Review_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A TALL ORDER.

    ["The Emperor WILLIAM is to have the Grand Order of the
    Imperial Chrysanthemum (the Japanese Garter) to add to his
    collection, 'in recognition of the services rendered by German
    officers to Japanese officers in instructing them in military
    and naval science.'"--_Daily Chronicle._]

  Oh, the Fatherland, the happy Fatherland,
    With fresh happiness will hum,
  When their Emperor shall the Order wear
    Of the Jap Chry-san-the-mum!
  He's "a daisy" now, as the world doth know;
    But, oh! _won't_ he be thrice happy,
  When he sports the badge of the Golden Flower
    Of the cute and grateful Jappy?
  If JOHN CHINAMAN in the little Jap
    Has most surely caught a Tartar,
  Jap learned to war 'neath the Teuton Star,
    So will send him the Jap "Garter."
  BULL has given him tips, and has built him ships,
    But the Jap don't badge J. B.
  No! Peace and War, like most other things,
    Are now "made in Ger-ma-ny"!

       *       *       *       *       *

"SENTIMENT" FOR OLD-FASHIONED PLAY-GOERS.--"May that confounded 'Woman
with a Past,' who monopolises the Present, have no Future!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A WINTER'S TALE.

_Benevolent Person_ (_recognising an old protégé_). "ROGERS, I'M SORRY
TO SEE YOU IN THIS CONDITION! I UNDERSTOOD YOU HAD TAKEN THE PLEDGE!"

_Rogers._ "YOU'RE QUI' RI', SIR. ONLY Y' SEE THE WATER'S FROZEN 'T THE
MAIN DOWN OUR STREET!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THAT PRECIOUS DONKEY!

(_An Episode in the Life of A. Briefless, Junior, Esq.,
Barrister-at-Law, in Three Parts._)

PART I.--_The Coming into Possession of the Donkey._

"Yes, Sir," said my excellent and admirable clerk, PORTINGTON, "he
came here three times, about a month ago. We thought he was mad, so
would not let him in. But the third time he left that parcel and that
letter. You see, Sir, they are tied together, and as there was a bomb
scare on at the time, we did not touch them. That's how it comes, Sir,
that you have not had them earlier."

I must confess I was a little annoyed. I frequently absent myself from
Pump-Handle Court for days and even weeks together, and then I expect
my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense)
representative to forward my correspondence.

"It cannot be helped, PORTINGTON," I replied; "all I care for are the
interests of my clients. If the visitor was one anxious to lay
his case before me, I can only trust he has not suffered by my
unpremeditated absence."

"I do not think he will have to complain of that, Sir. And as to his
case, we don't know whether it is one; none of us like to touch the
parcel, lest it should go off."

"You mean with a report--it must get reported," I suggested, with a
smile. I allow myself a little frolicsome levity at Yuletide. "Well,
where is it?"

"In your room, Sir," and PORTINGTON led the way to my special
apartment.

I found my chamber tenanted by a miscellaneous collection of articles.
Truth to tell I do not use my rooms very frequently, and consequently
it has become a sort of a proverb amongst my co-parceners in
Pump-Handle Court, _à propos_ of anything of a cumbersome character,
"When in doubt, put it into BRIEFLESS'S cupboard." Not that I really
occupy a cupboard; my room (I lay the emphasis on the word) is far
more commodious than the largest specimen of those receptacles.
Consequently, I was not altogether surprised to find collected
together a banjo-case, some curtain rods, a number of framed pictures,
and a damaged bicycle. In the centre of the room was an oblong parcel,
to which was tied an envelope, doubtless containing an enclosure.

With some slight trepidation--I had no wish to accompany Pump-Handle
Court to the skies--I opened the letter. It ran as follows:--

"To A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR, ESQ.--Dear and Honoured Sir,--I have long
desired to show you some token of goodwill. I have frequently read
your contributions to the leading legal paper of the day (I refer,
of course, to the _London Charivari_), and have been filled with
admiration at the clearness of your style and the depth of your
knowledge of what may be termed the duplex action of the human heart.
As I happen to be Emperor of CHINA I write anonymously. I have been
ruined by law and the lawyers. You have never represented me or
opposed me. For this I am very, very grateful, and beg you to accept
the accompanying present. It is a ---- But hush, we are observed."

And at this point the document abruptly terminated. I read the letter
to PORTINGTON, and asked his opinion upon it. He replied abruptly he
"considered the writer a lunatic."

"Well, no, I do not think we can go quite so far as that," I observed.
"You see, he seems to have some appreciation of my talents. He may be
a trifle eccentric, but I fancy nothing worse."

Encouraged by this belief in the sanity of my semi-anonymous (I use
the epithet advisedly, as I take it that the incidental claim to the
throne of the Celestial Empire was not urged seriously) correspondent,
I opened the package. The brown paper unwound and a picture was
revealed to us. It had evidently been painted for many years. The
frame (which, in PORTINGTON'S opinion, was the best portion of the
structure) was distinctly old-fashioned. The gilding was tarnished and
the woodwork out of repair.

"What is the subject?" I asked, after three or four minutes' close
inspection.

"I think, Sir," replied my excellent and admirable clerk, "that it's
something to do with a donkey."

PORTINGTON was right. On closer investigation the painting revealed
itself to be the representation of a cottage in the snow, with some
villagers drawing water from a half-frozen pond in the neighbourhood
of a rather intelligent donkey, who was watching their proceedings
with languid interest.

"Certainly it is a donkey," I exclaimed; "and, to my thinking, a very
fine one."

"What shall we do with it, Sir?" asked PORTINGTON. "It's no good here;
shall I give it to the dustman? He would take it away if we asked
him."

For a moment I thought my clerical (I use the adjective in its
non-ecclesiastical sense) representative was indulging in jocularity.
I found I was in error. PORTINGTON was absolutely serious.

"You evidently do not know the value of some of these old frames. Of
course I shall take the picture with me to my private residence."

I carried out my intention. The canvas presentment of the donkey and
accessories was carefully conveyed in a four-wheeler to Justinian
Gardens, where I have rented for some years a very pleasant house.
The lady who has honoured me by taking my name, and whom in my more
playful humour I sportively term my "better seven-eighths," received
me.

"I hope you have brought the music from the Stores," said the lady,
after our first greetings. "I suppose that package came from Victoria
Street?"

"No, my precious one," I replied; I sometimes use terms of endearment
to the members of my domestic circle. "It is a picture given to me by
a grateful client."

"Client!" she exclaimed; "and a grateful one! What a find! But why
bring it here? Haven't we already more pictures than we want? Why at
this moment there's half-a-dozen of extra plates from the Christmas
numbers that you _would_ have framed, waiting to be hung."

"But this, my love, is an oil-painting, with what I judge to be a very
valuable old-fashioned frame."

By this time my present was revealed.

"Why, it's only the picture of a donkey!" exclaimed my better
seven-eighths, with a laugh. "We really don't want that sort of thing
in the hall or reception rooms."

"But it is really very fine!" I urged. "Look at the handling of that
donkey's ears. And the frame, too, is simply magnificent."

"I don't so much mind the frame. We might take out the picture and put
in '_The Arrival of the Boulogne Boat_,' the Christmas supplement to
the _Young Lady's Boudoir_, in its stead. And yet it is just as likely
as not to spoil it. No, I think we had better put picture and frame in
the box-room."

"But my dear," I remonstrated; "this may be a very valuable picture.
The head of the donkey is quite remarkable and ----"

"Now do we want portraits of donkeys about the house? The boxroom or
the dust-hole is the proper place for them."

"I know you objected to my own likeness--you see the connection with
the donkey, dear?" I sometimes make rather humorous remarks during the
continuance of the festive season.

"Don't be silly! But this hideous thing should really go into the
box-room." And so it went. Perhaps on a future occasion I may trace
the further adventures of my grateful client's gift. In my poor
judgment they are distinctly interesting and instructive.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DREAM OF THE NEW WOMAN.

  She dreamed the doom that Fate pronounces
    Against the woman ceased to be,
  She dreamed her brain weighed three more ounces,
    And was of finer quality.

  Her iron nerves all fear derided,
    She saw a mouse, but did not run.
  With pockets she was well provided,
    And she could fire a Maxim gun.

  She had abjured each female folly,
    Hygienic dress she always wore,
  With stern, determined melancholy
    The universe she pondered o'er.

  Of man in all respects the equal,
    At last her heart's desire was hers.
  Only, like every other sequel,
    Her sequel proved a touch perverse.

  She sighed, "My mind with facts is loaded,
    No golden vision it retains.
  Even Nirvana is exploded,
    And, save the Atom, nought remains!

  "Each ray of light a mental prism
    Must needs determine and arrest.
  My life is one long syllogism,
    Without a parenthetic jest.

  "I who was wont to kneel revering,
    In manly chivalry confide,
  Am all alone my vessel steering--
    And yet I am unsatisfied!

  "The gingerbread has lost its gilding
    That from afar appeared sublime.
  I for eternity am building--
    'Twas not amiss to build for time!

  "The pilgrimage was long and painful,
    Cheerless and cold the heights I win--
  About me hangs a shadow baneful
    Of that Eternal Feminine.

  "Alas, I have not learned my lesson!
    I feel a frantic, mad despair.
  I'd like to put an evening dress on,
    And many roses in my hair!

  "My heart desires the old romances,
    The fictions dear all facts above,
  The flowers, the ices, and the dances,
    The days of youth, the days of--Love.

  "That giddy whirl, that senseless splendour,
    Was dear, although I said it bored,
  Agnosticism I'd surrender
    Once, once again, to be adored!

  "I wished my brain had three more ounces,
    For them I bartered happiness;
  My heart the new _regime_ denounces,
    I wish it had three ounces less!"

  She woke. A subtle sense pervaded
    Her mind of being someone great;
  But very speedily it faded,
    Her brain regained its normal state.

  She said: "I'd beat them all at college
    If I could have those ounces back;
  Only--I should not like my knowledge
    To make me cleverer than--JACK!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MARK TAPLEY REDIVIVUS.

"CH-CH-K-K-KKKKK-N-N-NICE S-S-S-SEASONABLE WEATHER THIS,
MATE--K-K-KKK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ODYLLIC FORCE.

(_Vide "Daily Graphic" passim._)

  Odyllic Force! O mystic power divine!
    O greater than magician's might!--of course
  You know the virtues of this gift of mine,
                    Odyllic Force!

  I can command the vasty deep. I say
    Unto the elemental storm--"Be still!"
  It may be that the sea will not obey,
  But what of that? Deny it if ye may,
  Still I command; still, still by night and day
    Despite all scorn, I exercise my will
  And on the troubled surface of the main
    Fresh from my soul, fresh from its limpid source,
  I pour my subtle influence--I rain
                    Odyllic Force.

  I say unto the weather--"Be thou fine!"
    And straightway, if it be not foul, 'tis fair.
  Nay, at my word the very sun will shine
    If it should haply chance no clouds are there.
  And should the temperature not fall below
    The freezing point, until the twenty-first
  Frost shall be all unknown, and ice and snow,
  And plumbers; and the taps shall freely flow,
  Nor shall the leaden pipes presume to show
    The shadow of a tendency to burst.
  Nay, if the weather be not somewhat cold
  It shall be warm. The budding gems of gold,
  Should they appear, we shortly may behold,
    Flashing amid the prickles of the gorse.
  So for the good of man, and beast, and flower
  I diligently use my mystic power,
  And ever exercise from hour to hour;
                    Odyllic Force.

  Thus do the elements obey my call.
    Thus do I influence the Seasons' course
  Thus do I exercise for great and small,
  The king, the lord, the beggar, one and all,
                    Odyllic Force.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ! ! ! ! !

_Lily_ (_from Devonshire, on a visit to her Scotch Cousin Margy in St.
Andrews, N.B._). "WHAT A STRANGE THING FASHION IS, MARGY! FANCY A GAME
LIKE GOLF REACHING UP AS FAR NORTH AS THIS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHO SAID--'ATROCITIES'?"

OR, "THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD DOG YET."

    ["It was my fate, my fortune, about, I think, eighteen years
    ago to take an active part with regard to other outrages,
    which first came up in the shape of rumour, but were
    afterwards well verified, in Bulgaria.... Old as I am, my
    feelings have not been deadened in regard to matters of such
    a dreadful description."--_Mr. Gladstone's Birthday Speech
    at Hawarden, December 29, 1894, on the alleged Armenian
    Atrocities._]

  Retirement? Oh, rubbish! Tykes currish or cubbish
    May curl up in kennels, or snug up in straw,
  But dogs of right mettle to rest will not settle,
    While sight's in the eye, and while snap's in the jaw.
  A bed in a basket? Mere mongrels may ask it.
    A couch and a cushion? They're lap-dog delights.
  But pluck and true breeding, such comforts unheeding,
    Desert laps and hearth-rugs for frolics and fights.

  Retired! How rats chortle! Like "_Rab_" the immortal
    This dog scorns dull rest, and is still "rough on rats."
  As always delighting in "plenty o' fechting,"
    He pricks up his ears at a whisper of "s-s-scats!"
  Aslumber and dreaming? Oh, that is mere seeming,
    Curled up tail to muzzle in cosiest sort.
  His hairs are a-bristle at whisper or whistle
    That gives the least promise of scrimmage or sport.

  On rats he's still ruthless! They may think him toothless,
    Those red Turkish rodents who once felt his fangs.
  Ah! eighteen years earlier his coat was much curlier,
    Now white and whispy sparse-scattered it hangs.
  But years though they roughen his hide, seem to toughen
    The muscles and nerves of this rare sporting tyke.
  The rattling old ratter is still game to scatter
    A pitful of vermin, of what breed you like.

  The Istamboul sort are his favourite sport,
    Rabid rodents who raven, red-fanged, in foul hordes,
  Turco sewer-bred legions, who earth's fairest regions
    Would ravage like TAMERLANE'S Tartar-swung swords.
  Terrors untameable, horrors unnameable,
    Mark their maraudings and hang on their track.
  Now in fresh numbers they swarm, whilst he slumbers
    Who once was the plague of the pestilent pack.

  But--_Who said--Atrocities?_ Old animosities
    Wake in his spirit and stir in his blood.
  Eh? What? Retirement? Nay, not if requirement,
    Or prospect of sport, move the old champion's mood.
  His heart has not deadened; his old eyes have reddened
    With love of the fray and the old righteous wrath.
  The varmint old ratter his old foes would scatter.
    "Auld _Rab_" once again will be on the war-path!

       *       *       *       *       *

"BON JOUR, PHILIPPINE!"

  "They grew in beauty side by side,
    They filled one home with glee"--
  Until that evening at dessert
    You passed the nuts to me.
  Then came the "crack of doom," the twins
    No sooner had you seen
  Than, "Oh, what fun!" you said, "we'll have
    A _Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

  "They grew in beauty side by side,
    They filled one home with glee"--
  Until they found respective graves
    Alas! in you and me.
  And then to win a gift next morn
    We vowed with solemn mien,
  Whoe'er should greet the other first
    With "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

  "_Bon jour_"--I dreamt of it all night,
    At dawn recalled it yet,
  But clean forgot it whilst I shaved--
    At breakfast then we met.
  I'd only time, I know, to think
    Maid sweeter ne'er was seen,
  When you, with laughter-dancing eyes,
    Cried, "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

  And so you won a gift from me,
    And chose that I should write
  These verses, which I've pondered o'er
    For many a sleepless night!
  I'll never crack another nut,
    When you are there, I mean;
  Yet may you greet me often--save
    With "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR MODERN MANAGERS.--The proper study of (theatre-going)
Mankind is--the _New Woman._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WHO SAID--'ATROCITIES'?"

(_After the Popular Engraving._)

"OLD AS I AM, MY FEELINGS HAVE NOT BEEN DEADENED IN REGARD TO MATTERS
OF SUCH A DREADFUL DESCRIPTION."--_Mr. Gladstone's Birthday Speech at
Hawarden on the Armenian Atrocities, December 29._]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE VESTRYMAN.

A COMIC SONG FOR SERIOUS CONSIDERATION.

(_By an Elderly Victim of Bumbledom._)

    ["The London Vestries and Boards of Works have not exactly
    covered themselves with glory in their dealings with the
    recent snowfall. In very few neighbourhoods was any attempt
    made on Wednesday to remove the slush, and Nature having
    taking her course during the night, in the direction of a
    frost early yesterday morning, the streets in many places
    were absolutely impassable for wheeled traffic until a liberal
    layer of sand and gravel had been spread."--_Daily Chronicle,
    January 4._]

AIR--"_The Bogie Man._"

  Come, gather round me, ratepayers,
    So full of fun and glee;
  New Bumble's going to play the fool
    To please the L. C. C.
  They swear that he is able
    Improvements for to plan;
  I love to hear Progressives say,
    "Hush! The New Vestryman!"

_Chorus._

  _Slush! Slush!! Slush!!!_
    _Where is_ the Vestryman?
  Are broom and shovel ready?
    What _is_ his brand new plan?
  Oh, Slush! Slush! Slush!--
    The footways never ran
  With a worse slithery slippery slop,
    'Neath the Old Vestryman.

  When I sit down, impromptu,
    All in a soft snow-pie;
  Or slide a yard, then come down hard,
    I groan, and wonder why.
  I blow my blue numb fingers,
    I watch a fast-stuck van;
  Reform, I cry, seems all my eye.
    Where _is_ that Vestryman?

_Chorus._

  _Slush! Slush!! Slush!!!_
    Why _is_ this, Vestryman?
  Is this the outcome shady
    Of the Progressive plan?
  Oh, Slush! Slush! Slush!
    No gravel, sand, or tan!
  All slip and slop. I'd like to _whop_
    That blessed Vestryman!!!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GRADATION.

_Clerk_ (_to Curate_). "I'M TERRIBLE SORRY, ZUR, THAT YOU BE AGWAÏNE
TO LAVE US. WE'VE CHANGED EVER ZO MANY TIMES SINCE PASSEN GREEN DIED,
_AND ALWAYS FOR THE WUSS_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TRAVELS IN TAFFY-LAND; OR, WALES BLOWING.

    [The Flint Town Council has censured the L. & N. W. Railway
    for dismissing some of its servants for ignorance of the
    English language.]

Would you tell me, Porter, if the next train is the one for
Aberystwyth?

I am really very much obliged for your reply, but as I have not a
Cymric dictionary at hand, I am totally unable even to guess at your
meaning.

As the man points to the train which is now at the platform, and nods
vigorously, I suppose he means me to get in. Still, the fact that it
has "Llanrhychwyn" on it makes me a little doubtful whether I shall
ever reach Aberystwyth if I enter it.

I am grateful for your attention, Guard, but it was a foot-warmer that
I asked for, not the newspaper-boy.

As I have just been hurled down an embankment and find myself sitting
much bruised in a shallow pond in a field close to the line, I really
fancy that the Welsh-speaking signalman at the adjoining cabin has
failed to understand the message wired to him in English from our last
stopping station.

I should be glad, Stationmaster, if you would kindly have a telegram
sent to my friends saying that I have only four ribs broken.

As you do not appear to understand what I say, and as I suppose there
is nobody who knows English in this desolate Welsh valley where the
sufferers from the accident are lying, perhaps you will kindly have us
all sent back to Shrewsbury as soon as possible.

The man lying next to me, whose arm is hurt, says that the train
was not going to Aberystwyth at all. So perhaps it is as well that
circumstances have prevented my proceeding further in it.

We should undoubtedly have been much better off if this accident had
happened to us in France or Germany, because then we should have been
able to secure the services of the railway interpreter.

Thank Heaven! I am back at Chester, where the hotel people _do_ talk
English; and in future I shall vote steadily at elections against
any party that does not make the total suppression of all so-called
"national tongues" within the British Isles a part of its recognised
programme.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Mr. RUDOLF LEHMANN possesses some gifts which peculiarly qualify him
to write the volume SMITH, ELDER & CO. publish, under the title _An
Artist's Reminiscences_. He has passed the age of three-score and
ten, and has throughout that period had many opportunities of seeing
places, and, more precious, of meeting people. To the study of both
he brings keen sight, a good memory, and a genuine, not too obtrusive,
sense of humour. Born in Hamburg in 1819, he has sojourned in most of
the capitals of Europe, permanently settling down to marriage and life
in London. He seems to have known most of the notable personages of
the middle and latter half of the century. His wide acquaintance with
royalty (some of them mad) would be appalling if it were not mentioned
with winning modesty. The volume abounds in good stories, my
Baronite particularly delighting in one pertaining to the ceremony of
prorogation of parliament by the QUEEN. Mr. LEHMANN was much struck
with the spectacle of the old Duke of WELLINGTON carrying the sword of
state, Lord LANSDOWNE bearing the crown, and the Marquis of WINCHESTER
with the cap of maintenance set on red velvet cushion. At Lady
GRANVILLE'S the same evening he asked Lord GRANVILLE what was the
significance of the cap of maintenance. It was one of the few
things Lord GRANVILLE did not know. "But," he said, "there is Lord
WINCHESTER, who carried it this morning. I will go and ask him." The
two peers conversed in a whisper, and Lord GRANVILLE, returning to
his inquiring friend, said, "He does not know either." Mr. LEHMANN
incidentally mentions that his brother HENRY'S first success, at the
Salon of 1835, was gained by a picture setting forth "_Le Départ du
Jeune Tobie_." At that date TOBY had not even arrived to take his
place on the volumes in his master's study, and still less, was he
M.P. for Barks. It only shows how prophetic is the soul of genius.

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW YEAR REFLECTION.

(_By an Old-fashioned Fellow._)

  "Goodwill to man!" the dear old carol saith.
    Ah me! Then why so much mean personal pother?
  We're credulous of aught that means the scathe
    Of a sad sister, or a stumbling brother.
  Men are like stout JOHN BUNYAN'S "Little Faith,"--
    Save in believing evil of each other!
  There faith indeed is strong; but 'tis a rarity
  That such strange Faith is found combined with Charity!

       *       *       *       *       *

MEM. BY A MUSER.--Many a spouting member of the "Independent Labour
Party" is a "party" who wishes to be independent of labour. _Hardie_
Norsemen, please note!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREPARING FOR THE PARLIAMENTARY PANTOMIME. THEATRE
ROYAL, ST. STEPHEN'S.

PARTY COLOURISTS AT WORK ON THE PROPERTIES.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO JULIA'S POCKET.

    [The ideal lady's pocket, that shall at once be accessible
    to its owner and defy the footpad's art, has yet to be
    invented.--_Wears of Tautologus._]

  My JULIA'S chaste and winsome cheer,
  Her comely lip, her coral ear,
  And eke her knickerbocker gear,--

  These be the theme of rhyming folk,
  Whereof the skill I here invoke
  In malediction of her poke;

  In that it passeth human wit
  By sleight of hand withal to hit
  Upon the pathless track of it.

  Though JULIA'S self therein dispose'
  That napkin with the which she blows
  For sorry rheum her Greekish nose,

  Not if she search with heavy pain
  Shall she by taking thought attain
  To look upon the thing again;

  To him alone of mortal clay
  That picketh pokes beside the way
  Their deeps are open as the day.

  Whenas her alms she would disburse,
  In vain she probeth for her purse,
  Whereat the beggars shrewdly curse;

  Even so their teeth do felons gnash
  That lightly lift her ready cash,
  Which he that stealeth stealeth trash.

  Oft-times she doth full bravely hold
  Her breezy reticule of gold
  Within her digits' dainty fold;

  As certain maids, I well believe,
  Do wear th' affections on their sleeve
  For any worthless wight to reave.

  But though her purse not suffer rape,
  Mischance is like in other shape
  To put on her a saucy jape;--

  If so my lady at the mart
  For very joyaunce of her heart
  Do purchase her a pasty tart,

  Let her not make essay to bring
  So beauteous and frail a thing
  Within her poke's encompassing;

  Lest, sitting down with weary stress,
  Unheedful of its buxomness,
  She make a right unseemly mess!

  Certes a man purblind may see
  For these offences needs must be
  Some comfortable remedy;

  Whoso deviseth such an one,
  I trow that his inventiòn
  Shall soothly pouch the peerless bun.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Gertrude._ "MY DEAR JESSIE, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT
BICYCLE SUIT FOR?"

_Jessie._ "WHY, TO WEAR, OF COURSE."

_Gertrude._ "BUT YOU HAVEN'T GOT A BICYCLE!"

_Jessie._ "NO; BUT I'VE GOT A SEWING MACHINE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.

_Perplexed._--You are entirely in error in supposing that the member
for Otley, Yorks, has, in accepting a baronetcy, descended from a
higher estate. You have been deceived by similarity of sound. The hon.
member was not of the same rank as a statesman (who we observe has
just repaired to his country seat at Pinley Park, where he will
entertain His Serene Highness the DUC DE SEIDLITZ-POUDRE) to whom
Sir ROBERT PEEL used to allude in the House of Commons as "the noble
Baron." In becoming Sir JOHN BARRAN, Bart., the member for Otley gains
a distinct step in the social ladder.

_Blind, Deaf, and Dumb._--We are pleased to be able to reassure
you. The fact that you have not lately heard or read speeches by Sir
WILLIAM HARCOURT is no evidence that the treble disability under which
you unhappily labour is increasing. There is a well known case, cited
in Littleton upon Coke, where a man was not able to see the Spanish
fleet "because it is not yet in sight." For analogous reason you have
not lately heard anything of the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER. He has
not been speaking. The fact is, the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD--to use a title
by which he is locally known, and in which he most rejoices--was cut
out for a rustic recluse. Circumstances have, unwillingly, dragged him
into the front of politics, and he has done the duty that lies to his
hand. When opportunity can be made he takes his leisure at his
lodge in the New Forest, and meditates on the untimely fate of his
pre-Plantagenet forbear WILLIAM RUFUS. Nevertheless, we are not
without suspicion that Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT shares the peculiarity
of CARLYLE, of whom you will remember his wife shrewdly remarked that
"his love for silence is platonic." If you keep your ears open and
your mouth shut, you may probably, before long, hear the familiar
voice resounding from a public platform.

_A Shakspearean Student._--We had not before heard of the incident. It
is, however, quite possible, as you have been informed, that when
the Marquis of SALISBURY, K.G., heard of the defection of the Earl of
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, who has joined the Liberal forces, the only remark he
made was "Off with his head."

       *       *       *       *       *

OVERHEARD FRAGMENT OF A DIALOGUE

_Lord Illingworth._ My dear GORING, I assure you that a well-tied tie
is the first serious step in life.

_Lord Goring._ My dear ILLINGWORTH, five well-made button-holes a day
are far more essential. They please women, and women rule society.

_Lord Illingworth._ I understood you considered women of no
importance?

_Lord Goring._ My dear GEORGE, a man's life revolves on curves of
intellect. It is on the hard lines of the emotions that a woman's
life progresses. Both revolve in cycles of masterpieces. They should
revolve on bi-cycles; built, if possible, for two. But I am keeping
you?

[Illustration: "Full of good things!"]

_Lord Illingworth._ I wish you were. Nowadays it is only the poor who
are kept at the expense of the rich.

_Lord Goring._ Yes. It is perfectly comic, the number of young men
going about the world nowadays who adopt perfect profiles as a useful
profession.

_Lord Illingworth._ Surely that must be the next world? How about the
Chiltern Thousands?

_Lord Goring._ Don't. GEORGE. Have you seen WINDERMERE lately? Dear
WINDERMERE! I should like to be exactly unlike WINDERMERE.

_Lord Illingworth._ Poor WINDERMERE! He spends his mornings in doing
what is possible, and his evenings in saying what is probable. By the
way, do you really understand all I say?

_Lord Goring._ Yes, when I don't listen attentively.

_Lord Illingworth._ Reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks.
Now--define these cigarettes--as tobacco.

_Lord Goring._ My dear GEORGE, they are atrocious. And they leave me
unsatisfied.

_Lord Illingworth._ You are a promising disciple of mine. The only use
of a disciple is that at the moment of one's triumph he stands behind
one's chair and shouts that after all he is immortal.

_Lord Goring._ You are quite right. It is as well, too, to remember
from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be learnt.

_Lord Illingworth._ Certainly, and ugliness is the root of all
industry.

_Lord Goring._ GEORGE, your conversation is delightful, but your views
are terribly unsound. You are always saying insincere things.

_Lord Illingworth._ If one tells the truth, one is sure sooner or
later to be found out.

_Lord Goring._ Perhaps. The sky is like a hard hollow sapphire. It is
too late to sleep. I shall go down to Covent Garden and look at the
roses. Good-night, GEORGE! I have had such a pleasant evening!

       *       *       *       *       *

DEATH IN THE CUP.

    ["The social duty of paying calls, refreshed, as it
    necessarily is, by frequent cups of tepid tea, is apparently
    little better than a process of slow poisoning."--_Daily
    Graphic._]

  Oh, here's a pretty state of things! Whenever you go calling,
    And take this deadly liquor and imbibe it without stint,
  You're certainly preparing a catastrophe appalling,
    Your mirth is as the little lamb's, unmindful of the mint.

  And when your entertainer, who seems so sweetly placid
    And quite unlike a criminal, suggests "Another cup?"
  She might as well be offering a dose of prussic acid,
    And the Public Prosecutor ought to take the matter up!

  "The cup that cheers"--that hackneyed phrase is frightfully in error,
    If seldom it "inebriates" (it _does_, the doctors plead),
  There lurks within its fatal draught a more efficient terror,
    'Twill shortly make a funeral your one and only need!

  So since a daily cup or two the thin end of the wedge is,
    And since this revelation of our danger has been made,
  We all will wear red ribbons and will sign the strictest pledges,
    And speedily inaugurate an "Anti-Tea" crusade.

  A word to you, AMANDA mine. Unless your cruel kindness,
    Your efforts to consign me to an early grave, shall cease,
  And if you dare, presuming on my long-continued blindness,
    To offer me a cup of tea--I'll send for the police!

[Illustration: "A word to you, Amanda mine!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TIME OF DAY.--Good, after NEWNES to find the style "Bart." The
bestowal of the baronetcy quite a Tit-Bit for the Strand. But there
is no truth in the report that the event will be followed by the
establishment of a new morning paper to be called _The Dragon_, and
edited by Sir GEORGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

IX.--OF COAL.

The County Council has solved the great Mudford mystery by deciding in
favour of Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, who is in the seventh heaven at being the
Seventh Councillor. A wise Legislature had it in contemplation that
possibly when the great measure came to be worked, it might not
be found to act, however much you pulled the string, and it was
accordingly left to the County Council to set on its legs any poor
little Parish Council which might have been brought into the world
without its full number of members. Thus it came about that Mrs. MARCH
got elected. The actual circumstances of her election gave rise
to some comment. She was proposed by the Primrose League Ruling
Councillor of one adjoining parish, and seconded by the Knight
Harbinger of another. Our County Council is a strongly Tory body, and
she was easily elected. There was a great outcry against this, as an
act of political partisanship. It was. But when it became known that
Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT'S friends and supporters were all avowed Radicals,
popular indignation seemed suddenly to flicker out.

It may be, however, that the indignation only transferred itself to
me, for I myself have got, in a most extraordinary and unexpected
fashion, into a great hobble. It arose in this way. Having been
elected on to the Parish Council at the top of the poll, and
having, moreover, been subsequently the recipient of innumerable
congratulations from my fellow-parishioners, I not unnaturally--so I
still venture to think--desired in some way to show my appreciation of
the kind treatment I had received. I accordingly determined to make
to every elector a present of coals, and to carry out that intention
issued the following circular:--

    _To the Electors of Mudford._

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--For your kindness in electing me at the top of
the poll, I can find no terms sufficiently warm to express myself. In
commemoration of the great occasion, and as a small thankoffering for
my return, I beg your acceptance of the enclosed Coal Ticket, which
will entitle you to 2 cwt. of coal from any of the village coal
dealers.

  Your obliged and obedient servant,

  TIMOTHY WINKINS.

I sent this to every elector, high or low, rich or poor. I hardly
imagined that the Squire would want coal, but he was a constituent
of mine, and he had his ticket. What has been the result of my
generosity? This. Whilst almost every coal-ticket has been used, I
am denounced right and left in unmeasured terms as an unscrupulous
briber. Miss PHILL BURTT (who, as might be expected, has been most
kind and sympathetic about the whole thing), tells me that even the
Squire said it was a very ingenious way of wishing myself Many Happy
Returns to the Parish Council. A poor joke, I think, but an undeniably
excellent sneer. BLACK BOB is, as might be expected, much more
plain and direct in his denunciation. He says, that if I stand for
re-election--in April, 1896!--this ought to be enough to unseat me.
A pleasant prospect. I can do nothing. My boats, like my coal, are
burnt.

What happened at the Parish Council meeting last night I must
leave--till my next.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SYMPATHY WANTED--

For the Man whose Collar comes undone every time he tries to do up his
Tie.]

       *       *       *       *       *








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