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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887 + +Author: Various + +Editor: Francis Burnand + +Release Date: March 8, 2012 [EBook #39077] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, DEC 3, 1887 *** + + + + +Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond, +Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_253">[pg 253]</a></p> + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI</h1> + +<h2>Volume 93</h2> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>December 3, 1887.</h2> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2><em>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</em></h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:50%"> +<h3>THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.</h3> + +<h3><span class="smcap">From the Lord Mayor of Dublin.</span></h3> + +<p class="author"><i>Mansion House, Dublin, Saturday</i>.</p> +<a href="images/illus253.png"> +<img src="images/illus253.png" width="100%" alt="Illustration" /> +</a> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Toby</span>,</p> + +<p>The news from Ireland, not all of which finds its way into your daily +papers, grows in excitement. The exploit of Mr. <span +class="smcap">Douglas P-ne</span>, M.P., of Lisfinny Castle, has taken +root, and all the landed gentry among the Irish Members are fortifying +themselves in their castles, and hanging themselves outside the +front-door by ropes to deliver addresses to their constituents. The +regular thing now is to hang out our M.P.'s on the outer wall. I do not +see accounts of these proceedings in your London papers. I was, as you +know, a Journalist before I was Lord Mayor; so, if you don't mind, I'll +send you a few jottings. If there is anything due for lineage, please +remit it anonymously to the Land League Fund "From A Sympathiser."</p> + +<p>Foremost in this band of heroic patriots is the <i>châtelain</i> of +Butlerstown, <span class="smcap">Joseph G-ll-s B-gg-r</span>, M.P., +Butlerstown Castle, as everyone acquainted with Ireland knows, stands on +the summit of a Danish rath, and was once the seat of an <span +class="smcap">O'Toole</span>. Now it is the den of <span +class="smcap">Joseph G-ll-s</span>. For some time he has been practising +a flying leap from the eastern to the western turret, a distance of +fifty feet over a yawning abyss, amid the cavernous depths of which the +petulant plummet has played in vain. It is thrilling, whether at early +dawn, or what time the darkening wing of Night begins to flap, to hear a +shrill cry of "Hear, hear!" to see a well-known figure cleaving the +astonished air, and to behold <span class="smcap">Joseph G-ll-s</span>, +erewhile upright on the eastern turret, prone on that which lifts its +head nearer the setting sun. To be present on one of the occasions when +<span class="smcap">Joey B</span>. reads a Blue Book for three hours to +a deputation shivering in the moat, is enough to convince the dullest +Saxon of the hopelessness of enthralling a nation which has given birth +to such as he. As <span class="smcap">Joseph</span> himself says, +quoting, with slight variation, my own immortal verse,—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>"Whether on the turret high,</p> +<p>Or in the moat not dry,</p> +<p>What matter if for Ireland dear we talk!"</p> +</div> + +<p>But the affairs at Butlerstown should not withdraw our gaze from a not +less momentous event which recently happened in the neighbourhood of +Cork city. Mr. <span class="smcap">P-rn-ll</span>, as he has recently +explained to you, has not found it expedient or even necessary to take +part in our recent public proceedings in Ireland. But this abstention is +to a certain extent illusory. It is no secret in our inner circles that +our glorious Chief was but the other day in close communication with his +constituents in the city of Cork. He arrived shortly after breakfast in +a balloon which was skilfully brought to pause over the rising ground by +Sunday's Well. At the approach of the balloon the trained intelligence +of the Police fathomed the plot. The Privy Council was immediately +communicated with. Sworn information was laid, and the meeting was +solemnly proclaimed by telegraph. In the meanwhile, Mr. <span +class="smcap">P-rn-ll</span> had addressed the meeting at some length +and met with an enthusiastic reception. The Police massing in +considerable numbers and beginning to bâton the electors, the Hon. +Member poured a bag of ballast over them, and the balloon, gracefully +rising, disappeared in the direction of Limerick. The proceedings then +terminated.</p> + +<p>I expect that the success of this new departure, or perhaps I should say +this unexpected arrival, will encourage our great Chief to pay a series +of flying visits to Ireland. His adventure was certainly happier and +more successful than one which befell our esteemed friend <span +class="smcap">Tim H-ly</span>, and nearly brought to an untimely +conclusion a life dear to us and of inestimable value to Ireland. <span +class="smcap">Tim</span> was announced to take the chair at a mass +meeting summoned under the auspices of the local branch of the Land +League of Longford. A room was taken, the word passed round, and all +preparations made for a successful meeting. The Police, however, got +wind of it, and of course the meeting was proclaimed. But <span +class="smcap">Tim</span>, as you may happen to know, is not the man to +have his purpose lightly set aside. It was made known that <span +class="smcap">Tim</span> would make his speech and the Police might +catch him if they could. You know, may be, the big factory in the +thriving town of Longford—the one with a tall chimbly? Well, the word +was passed along again that the bhoys were to assemble about the +factory. "Would they bring a chair or a table," they said, "for <span +class="smcap">Tim</span> to stand on?" "No," said <span +class="smcap">Tim</span>, wiping his spectacles, "you leave it to me."</p> + +<p>Meeting announced to take place at eight o'clock. On the very strike of +the hour, a stentorian voice, not unfamiliar in the House of Commons, +floated over the assembled multitude. "Men of Longford," it said, "we +are assembled here in the exercise of our privilege as free men." First +of all they could not tell where the voice came from. Looking up, +behold! there was <span class="smcap">Tim</span> planted inside the top +of the tall chimbley, using it like a Bishop's pulpit. It was a capital +idea, and worked admirably for half an hour, with the Police all +throbbing and raging round, and <span class="smcap">Tim</span> eyeing +them quite calmly, and all the crowd roaring and cheering, and throwing +up their hats, and <span class="smcap">B-lf-r</span> getting it hot. +Somehow, whether from treachery or accident no one knows, and perhaps +never will know, but in the middle of one of his best sentences, <span +class="smcap">Tim</span> suddenly vanished from sight, and was a clear +three minutes later picked up from among the cinders in the furnace +below. The proceedings then terminated.</p> + +<p>There is a good deal more I could tell you, <span +class="smcap">Toby</span>, my bhoy, if time permitted. I should like +above all to tell you of Major <span class="smcap">O'G-rm-n</span>'s +magnificent oration delivered from the main shaft of the sewer in +Waterford, with his former constituents hanging on his lips and the +grate of the sewer. But I am just off myself to address a meeting of my +fellow citizens. This too, is of course, proclaimed, and equally of +course that makes no difference. I get on the top of the Lord Mayor's +coach, leaning on the Mace, and supported by the Sword-bearer. The +horses move at walking pace, and I address the crowd. It's wonderful +what a lot one can take out of <span class="smcap">B-lf-r</span> that +way.</p> + +<p class="author">Yours faithfully, <span class="i6 smcap">T. D. S-ll-v-n.</span></p> +<p> </p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>AMEN!</h2> + +<blockquote> +<p>"In deepest reverence and sincere love, the Reichstag is +mindful of His Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince. +May God protect the dear life of our beloved Crown Prince, and +preserve it for the welfare of the Fatherland."—<i>Telegram from +the Reichstag to the Crown Prince</i>.</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>"So mote it be!" That deep and reverent prayer</p> +<p>In all true hearts finds echo everywhere;</p> +<p>Not least in those that flush with British blood.</p> +<p>Prince, a loved daughter from our Royal brood,</p> +<p>In trouble as in joy, is at your side,</p> +<p>Sharing your sorrow as she shared your pride.</p> +<p>For her dear sake, and for your own not less,</p> +<p>We wish you, gallant soldier-chief, success</p> +<p>In a dread struggle keener, sterner far</p> +<p>Than those you faced in the fierce lists of war.</p> +<p>We know—have you not proved it?—that 'twill be</p> +<p>Met with the same cool steadfast gallantry</p> +<p>As marked your bearing in more martial strife.</p> +<p>Punch joins in that warm prayer for "the dear life,"</p> +<p>And echoes, from a far yet kindred strand,</p> +<p>The pleading voices of the Fatherland!</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p>As among the best books for a young man who had to be the architect of +his own fortunes, some one in Mrs. <span class="smcap">Ram's</span> +hearing mentioned <span class="smcap">Thomas à Kempis</span>. "Oh yes," +exclaimed the worthy lady, "I know. He built a great part of Brighton +which was named after him."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><span class="smcap">A Real "Orleans" Plum.</span>—The forged letters.</h3> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_254">[pg 254]</a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 70%"> + +<h3>MR. PUNCH'S PARALLELS. No. 4.</h3> +<a href="images/illus254.png"> +<img src="images/illus254.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="SIR W. V. HARCOURT AS FALSTAFF" /> +</a> + +<h3>SIR W. V. HARCOURT AS <i>FALSTAFF</i>.</h3> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">There's no more valour in that <i>Goschen</i> than +in a Wild Duck.".... "A plague of all Cowards still say I!</span>" +<span class="author"><i>Henry the Fourth</i>, Part I., Act ii, Scenes 2 and 4.</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Mrs. <span class="smcap">Ram</span>, at this time of year, takes a great +interest in the state of the weather, and studies the daily +Meteorological chronicle. She says that she always reads the reports +from Ben Nevis's Observatory. She hopes that, one of these fine days, +this learned astronomer will be made a Knight. Sir <span +class="smcap">Benjamin Nevis</span> would be, she considers, a very nice +title. "Of course," she adds, "judging by his name, he must be a Jew. +They're such clever people. And, let me see, ain't there a proverb, or +something of that sort, about 'the Jew of Ben Nevis'?"</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>BISHOP AND PORT.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Punch</span>,</p> + +<p>In my Autobiography, which I am glad and proud to say, has met with your +cordial approbation, I have recorded how the late lamented Bishop, Dr. +<span class="smcap">Sumner</span>, said to me, "I have drunk a bottle of +port wine every day since I was a boy." Well, his son, the Archdeacon, +is annoyed at this statement. Now, my memory is a very good one, and if +I am wrong in one point so circumstantially narrated, why not in +several, why not in all? If the Bishop did not say this, to me, <i>who +did</i>? Somebody said it, that I will swear. Who said it? If my memory +fails me, is it not also likely that the Bishop's memory was not +particularly good, and consequently, that he was mistaken in thinking +that he had drunk a bottle a day since his boyhood? I have little doubt +that the Bishop only imagined it, and perhaps he was joking. Perhaps he +was playing on the words "bishop" and "port." "Bishop" was a hot drink, +I fancy, made with port wine. I have no hesitation in comforting his +Archidiaconal offspring by assuring him that, to the best of my +knowledge and belief, his father, the Bishop, did not drink a bottle of +port every day since his boyhood. He was a very fine old clergyman—I +forget whether he was exactly portly or not, or whether he resided in +Portman Square,—and I should say that first-rate port, such as the +<i>elixir vitæ</i> that made a hale centenarian of Sir <span +class="smcap">Moses Montefiore</span>, taken frequently, would have +tended to make him the genial prelate he was. Had he only gone into port +once, that would not have sufficed to have produced such a Bishop, for +"One swallow does not make a <span class="smcap">Sumner</span>." + +<span class="author">Yours ever,<span class="i6 smcap">W(ithdraw) P(ort) Frith</span>.</span></p> + +<p>P.S.—The Archdeacon is satisfied, and if he will only come round to see +me and bring a bottle of the port the Bishop didn't drink, why, on my +word as an artist, <i>I'll draw the cork</i>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"<i>What shall he have who kills the Deer</i>?" Why, something to eat, +of course. At least this was, among others, the notion of the poor +starving Cottars. And they have now given up venison-eating because the +food is deer.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Two French Presidents Rolled Into One.</span>—M. +<span class="smcap">Grévy</span>, on being told that he must resign, +wept copiously. This showed a want of resignation. Curious sight, <span +class="smcap">Grévy</span> and Tears!</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Sir <span class="smcap">Charles Warren</span> has been presented with +the freedom of the Leathersellers' Guild. Capital motto for Policemen in +a mob, "Nothing like leather! Leather away!"</p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_255">[pg 255]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>ROBERT AT KILBURN.</h2> + +<p>I had the cureosity one day to arsk a lerned gennelman on whom I was +waiting, whether the poor fellers who lived in the world ever so many +hundred years ago had got any Copperashuns. He pretended not to +understand me at fust, and said, with a larf, as he dared say as they +was made much as we was; that is to say, sum with large ones, and some +with little ones; but when I xplained what I reely meant, he told me as +they had, speshally amung the Romuns as lived in Ittaly. He was a werry +amusing Gent, and when I arsked him what langwidge the Romuns torked, he +tried to gammon me as they all spoke Latin, ewen the little children and +all, but in coarse I wasn't quite such a hignoramus as to swaller that, +as my son <span class="smcap">William</span>, who isn't by no means a +fool, learnt Latin at Skool for three year and tells me as he carn't +speak it a bit. The lerned gent also told me as it was such a rum tung +to speak that they hadn't not no word for "Yes!" So that if a Gent of +those long days had bin a dining at the "Ship and Turtle" an bin a +waited on by an Hed Waiter, like me, and had said to him "Woud you like +arf-a-crown, Waiter?" the pore feller woodn't have been able to say, +"Yessir!" I was jest a leetle shocked at his torking such rubbish to me, +it was hardly respekful, speshally as he had ony drunk one pint of +Bollinger and one of our 63 Port, but its astonishing how heasily sum +peeple's heds is affected. I was in hopes as he woud have tried the +experymint on me, but he didn't, but went smiling away.</p> + +<p>I shood werry much have liked to have heard a good deal more about them +werry old Copperashuns, and weather they was to be compared to that +werry old 'un as I nose so well and respecs so ighly, for good deeds as +well as good living. Take their werry last one as a sample. Earing of +what was a going on down at Kilburn on Guy Fox day, and finding as the +return train would bring me back in time for my perfeshnal dooties, I +went there and found thowsands of peeple all met in a nice little new +Park, that the old <span class="smcap">Lord Mare</span> was a coming +down to fust of all crissen, and then throw open to the publick. And +down he came accordingly in his full state Carridge, and his full state +Footmen, and his full state Sherryiffs, and their full state Carridges +and Footmen, jest for all the world as if he was a going to make a call +on a few Royal Princes and Dooks, insted of opening a new Park +surrounded by numbers of the reel working-classes. But he always has bin +a reel gennelman, and never makes no difference atween rich and poor +when he can do some good. I wasn't quite near enuff to hear what he said +when he made his speech, but a werry respectable reporter arterwards +told me, that the <span class="smcap">Lord Mare</span> had written a +letter to <span class="smcap">Queen Wictoria</span> to ask if he might +call the Park after her. And she had wrote to him in reply, "Deer <span +class="smcap">Handsum</span>, as there's alreddy a Wictoria Park, you +may call this here one the Qween's Park. Pleas to remember this 5th of +Nowember, Yours trewly, W. R. I."</p> + +<p>When the <span class="smcap">Lord Mare</span> enounced this pleasing +intelligence, thus simply exprest, lorks how we did all cheer, and a +little band that had bin hid in a little tent, struck up the hole of arf +a werse of <i>God Save the Queen</i>, at which we all took off our hats, +footmen and all, and braved the bitter blarst with our bare heds. Ah, +that's wot I calls trew loyalty, and long may it continue, not the cold +bitter blarst, but the warm sweet loyalty, for I'm sorry to say as the +unusual xposure guv me a bad cold.</p> + +<p>I got back just in time for the Bankwet. The <span class="smcap">Lord +Mare</span> with his usual kindness had let the Chairman of the +Committee, the sillibrated Mr. <span class="smcap">Woodbacon</span>, the +grate bookseller, take the Chair, and a remarkabul good un he made, +setting so good a xample as regards short speeches as made ewerybody +follow suit.</p> + +<p>And now what was this hole proceeding all about? This is what I learnt +from what was said:—</p> + +<p>It wood seem then, that at Kilburn where it was wunce all green feelds, +there has growed up a reglar crowd of working peeple with far more than +their fair share of children and as the feelds has all come for to be +bilt over, the poor little children afoursaid have been obleeged to do +their playing in the streets, and the nateral or rather unnateral +consequence has follered, as that numbers of the poor little deers was +run over and killed. So a nice little Park has been made for 'em all to +play in, where they can injoy their fresh hair and releeve their poor +Mother's minds, and grow up red and strong and harty, instead of white +and weak and wan. And the old Copperashun having put it all ship shape, +and promist to keep it all in order for hever, arsked the <span +class="smcap">Lord Mare</span> to go down and open it, as he did, and in +sitch full state that one of the natives said as it was like a lot of +sunbeams suddenly cumming out on a clowdy day. So the <span +class="smcap">Lord Mare</span> finished his long list of good deeds by +adding one more to 'em, and the Copperashun added one more Open Space to +the many they has either secured or helped to secure. So wenever I hears +a sneer at 'em I shall say, "Please to remember that 5th of November!"</p> + +<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Robert.</span></p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Barnum's</span> Show burnt. Of course he will rise +like an American phœnix from the ashes. He will advertise it as +Burnum's Show.</p> + +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:50%"> +<a href="images/illus255.png"> +<img src="images/illus255.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="PRAVE 'ORTS." /> +</a> +<h3>"PRAVE 'ORTS."</h3> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">By the bye, dear Professor, which would <i>you</i> +say—<i>Abiogén-esis</i>, or <i>Abiogenēs-is</i>?</span>"</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap"><i>Neither</i>, my dear Madam, if I could possibly +help it!</span>"</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">An Important Summing-up.</span> (<i>By Our Own +Special Reporter in the recent case of Somebody or Other v. Another +Person of the name of</i> <span class="smcap">Barley</span>).—Mr. +Justice <span class="smcap">Mathew</span> regretted being compelled to +decide against <span class="smcap">Barley</span> on the question of +"quantities." Of course, there had been an error on the part of the +highly respectable Corporation of Ramsgate, which might be characterised +as a "sin of commission," while the neglect of their clerk to enter +their arrangement with <span class="smcap">Barley</span> on the minutes +was a "sin of omission." All the witnesses in this case must be +believed, as they had, <i>à propos</i> of <span +class="smcap">Barley</span>, taken their oats—he should say their +oaths. Perhaps when the present statute came to be revised, Mr. <span +class="smcap">Barley</span> might act for the town, for which it appears +he had done good service, and <span class="smcap">Barley</span> would +not have to hide under a bushel. It was clear that this sort of <span +class="smcap">Barley</span> was worth more than the present price of +28<i>s</i>. a quarter. Counsel on both sides had made an eloquent +display of wheat—he begged pardon, he meant "wit"—and if in this +judgment he had to tread on anyone's corn, he assured them that to do so +went against the grain. As an official, <span +class="smcap">Barley</span> would have the sack, but sack and all could +be taken up to another Court, and there, as a German speaking French +would say, <i>On beut Barley</i>, about it still further. (The Jury +thanked his Lordship, and all the parties left the Court much pleased, +humming <i>All about the Barley</i>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"They acted a Greek Play at Cambridge, my dear," said Mrs. <span +class="smcap">Ram</span> to a friend, "and fancy, it was written, as I +am informed, by a young lady, Miss <span class="smcap">Sophie +Klees</span>. I suppose she is a student of Girton. How clever! <i>I</i> +couldn't write it, I'm sure."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><i>The "Quart d'heure de Rabelais,"</i> if translated into Anglo-French, +may be taken to express a bad time of it with the roughs in Trafalgar +Square, <i>i.e., a mauvais quart d'heure de Rabble—eh</i>?</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The Works of <span class="smcap">Charles Dickens</span> must have +achieved great popularity in South Eastern Europe, where there is an +entire country called Boz-nia.</p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_256">[pg 256]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:50%"> +<a href="images/illus256.png"> +<img src="images/illus256.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="THE NEW SCHOOL." /> +</a> +<h3>THE NEW SCHOOL.</h3> + +<h3><i>Schoolboy (aged 16)</i>. "Good-bye, old Chappies! Can't waste any +more time with you. 'Good business'!"</h3> +</div> +<hr /> + +<h2>TOM BROWN & CO.'S SCHOOL DAYS.</h2> + +<h3><i>A Glimpse at the Commercial Education of the Future</i>.</h3> + +<p>Twelve o'Clock struck, and the Fourth Form at St. Dunstan's +left its class-room with a rush. The old hour of leaving off the +morning's studies was still preserved. Yet, in conformity with the +spirit of the times, the venerable foundation of St. Dunstan's had +recently witnessed great changes. The Governing Body had taken +the matter in hand, and had gone to work with a will. The teaching +of Greek and Latin had been entirely suppressed, polite literature +eliminated, and the whole curriculum of the school arranged +solely to the provision of that glaring want of the times, a sound +commercial education. To effect this, some radical changes had +been necessary. The Rev. <span class="smcap">Jabez Plumkin</span>, D.D., +Oxford Prizeman, +through whose unwearied exertions, for the past five-and-twenty +years, St. Dunstan's had been gradually acquiring an increasing +fame in the Class-lists of both Universities, had been forcibly ejected +from the Head-Mastership, and his place filled by a leading member +of a well-known firm of advertising stock-jobbers, and the +Assistant-Masters +had all been selected on similar lines.</p> + +<p>"Company-floating," was taught by a late Promoter, who had had +much experience in the creation of many bubble concerns, and +"Rigging the Market" was entrusted to a Professor who was known, +in his capacity as Accountant to a wholesale City Cheese Warehouse, +to have contracted a thorough familiarity with this important subject +of the new commercial education. Everything was done to foster +a spirit of keen speculative enterprise in the boys. The whole +traditions of the school were changed. The old idea of honour had +died out. How to over-reach each other by sharp practice was the +one idea that animated every youthful breast from the senior in the +Sixth to the junior in the Under Third. The tape was always working +at the Principal's desk. The study-tables were covered with +Stock and Mining Journals. Even the playground was turned into +a Money Market. Cricket had been banished to make way for the +more exciting game of "Bulls and Bears," and the Principal passing +through occasionally, would sometimes stop and say, "That's right, +my boys, learn to do each other, and remember the motto of your +School, 'Monies maketh man.'" Posted up upon the gates, communicated +by telegraph hourly from the City, were every day to be +found the latest prices. And it was to get a first look at this that +the Fourth Form had just left its class-room with a rush.</p> + +<p>A crowd of eager faces were anxiously scanning the latest quotations, +and notes were being taken in a score of pocket-books, whipped +out for the purpose. <span class="smcap">Tom Brown & Co.</span>—he had +earned this <i>sobriquet</i> +from his companions for his shrewd business capacity—did not, +however, join the throng, but stood a little way off, looking on, and +waiting for the excitement to abate. Gradually it calmed down, and +the boys broke up into little knots and groups, discussing the state +of the market. Then he spoke:—</p> + +<p>"Look here, you fellows," he said, "I've got a good thing on here, +that, I fancy, will be more worth your attention than even the latest +prices." He pulled a prospectus from his pocket. An interested +crowd closed round him at once. "It's 'Old Mother <span +class="smcap">Noggins</span>, +Limited,'" he went on, reading from the paper before him, "This +Company has been started for the purpose of acquiring at wholesale +prices all the tarts, bull's-eyes, apples, toffy, and ginger-beer, +forming the present stock-in-trade of Old Mother <span +class="smcap">Noggins's</span> store, +and for retailing the same at a figure, that will, after paying the +guaranteed interest on the fourpenny debenture shares, admit of the +declaration of a dividend of 14 per cent. on the ordinary paid-up +share capital of the Company.</p> + +<p>A buzz of excited admiration went up from the throng. The Fourth +Form at St. Dunstan's had not for a long time had such a good thing +put before it.</p> + +<p>"I know," continued <span class="smcap">Tom</span>, producing a bundle +of forms of application +from his pocket, "that you fellows, would like to hear of it. +Who'll go for it?"</p> + +<p>There was a loud responsive shout of "I!" and a dozen hands were +at once stretched towards the speaker. Business commenced, and +sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns were pouring into <span +class="smcap">Tom's</span> pockets +faster than he could cram them there. He was making a very good +morning's work of it. Presently, a dull, heavy-looking boy joined +the group.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, <span class="smcap">Flopper</span>!" cried <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>, addressing this last arrival, "why +don't you put that ten bob your Uncle sent you into this thing? I'll +be bound he told you to turn it over. You won't get such a chance +every day."</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asked <span class="smcap">Flopper</span>.</p> + +<p>A chorus of voices instantly joined in a brief explanation of the +advantages of investing in "Old Mother <span +class="smcap">Noggins'</span> Limited."</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" said <span class="smcap">Flopper</span>, "I don't know that I +won't."</p> + +<p>"Not if I know it," cried an authoritative voice, breaking in upon +the scene. It was <span class="smcap">Snagsby</span>, the "Sharper" who +spoke. There was a +general look in his direction, and a disposition to make way for +him as he approached. He had been mixed up disadvantageously +in a recent "corner" in marbles, and had from time to time floated +several concerns that had never paid any dividends, and was generally +regarded as a "queer" customer in consequence. It was for +this reason that he had been nicknamed the "Sharper."</p> + +<p>"And what do you want him to do with his money?" asked <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>, stepping forward in a defiant attitude.</p> + +<p>"He'll put every blessed halfpenny of it into my 'General Pen-knife +Supply,'" was the laconic reply. "He signed for the allotment +last night."</p> + +<p>"But I've changed my mind," pleaded <span class="smcap">Flopper</span>, +helplessly, and +he handed the half-sovereign to <span class="smcap">Tom</span>.</p> + +<p>"You give that up!" cried the Sharper, menacingly.</p> + +<p>"You try to take it!" replied <span class="smcap">Tom</span>, grimly.</p> + +<p>In another instant the Sharper had flown at <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>. There was a +brief struggle. <span class="smcap">Tom</span> hit out at him, and +caught him in the face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's your game, is it!" shouted the Sharper. "You'll +fight me for that."</p> + +<p>"Fight you? When and where you like," replied <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>.</p> + +<p>There was a general cheering and throwing up of hats.</p> + +<p>"Hooray! There's going to be a fight between the Sharper and +<span class="smcap">Tom Brown & Co.</span>," shouted the Fourth Form. +They hadn't had +such good news for a long time.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The whole School was there, and the third round had been fought. +Betting had been fast and furious, and there had been several +attempts made by the supporters of both champions to break the +ring and put an end to the contest when the fortunes of the day +seemed to be going against their own special favourite. But now a +curious thing happened. After a little preliminary sparring in the +fourth round, <span class="smcap">Tom Brown & Co.</span>, suddenly dropping +on one knee, went to the ground.</p> + +<p>In a few seconds the surprising news was known that he had given +in. The sponge was thrown up, and the Sharper declared the victor. +<span class="smcap">Tom</span> was quickly surrounded by his friends, +and led off the field. +<span class="smcap">Flopper</span> ran up to him. "I'm so sorry, <span +class="smcap">Tom</span>," he said, "that you +should have fought in my quarrel, and have got licked."</p> + +<p>There was a twinkle in <span class="smcap">Tom's</span> eye. "My dear +fellow," he replied. +"Don't imagine I wouldn't have thrashed him; but business +is business, and I got a good price for not doing so. Didn't you +twig that <i>I sold the fight</i>?"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>That night <span class="smcap">Tom Brown & Co.</span> wrote home an +enthusiastic account +of his day's doings to his parents. The next morning, <span +class="smcap">Tom Brown</span>, +Senior, referring to the letter with a glow of pride on his commercial +face, remarked to his better-half that the boy's training seemed +perfect, +and that he was destined to turn out remarkably well. "I can't +tell you," he added, "how I long to see that boy loose upon the +Stock Exchange. He will be a credit to the family."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>A book has been recently published entitled <i>The Amateur's Guide +to Architecture</i>, by <span class="smcap">Sophie Beale</span>. Sophie +shows us how a house +should be Beale't. But just imagine an Amateur Architect!!</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The complaint of the Charity Organisation Society, slightly varied +from <span class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>, is that "The quality of +Mercy is not <i>trained</i>."</p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_257">[pg 257]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>SHOWS VIEWS.</h2> + +<h3><i>By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere</i>.</h3> + +<div class="figleft" style="width:25%; margin-right:2em;"> +<a href="images/illus257a.png"> +<img src="images/illus257a.png" width="100%" alt="Illustration" /> +</a> +</div> + +<p>What can be more dismal than the fourth day of a Fancy Bazaar for a +"Sale of Work," in aid of a parochial charity? Honestly, I do not know. +I fancy that even the proverbial "Mute at a funeral," must be livelier. +That is my present opinion, and it was the same last Thursday, when +lured by a programme quaintly printed in "old-faced" type, and having +"ye" in lieu of "the," and "Maister" instead of Mister, I made my way to +the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, (formerly Madame <span +class="smcap">Tussaud's</span>) and sought admission to "Old Marybone +Gardens, A.D. 1670." Outside the ex +<i>depôt</i> of Waxworks, were two persons in the costume of the last +Century distributing circulars, and later on I met another couple +similarly apparelled heading a procession of Sandwich-men walking down +Waterloo Place. In the Hall of the Bazaar lads in the same sort of +dresses, were selling programmes (marked sixpence) for twopence. I +entered by a small canvass-cottage "y'clept" (as the Sale of Workers +would call it) "the Rose of Normandy," and found myself in the once +famous "Hall of Kings" without the figures. I discovered two or three +dwarf trees, some lattice-work and a lot of canvass-covering. I must +confess it did not cause me much surprise to find only a few spectators. +The moment I appeared, a lady advanced and asked me in a tone of +authority to take a button-hole. I refused with courtesy suggestive at +once of the gallant and the miser, and the Sale of Work-woman retired +rather crest-fallen. Then two girls, costumed as two females of a past +but vague period, dashed at me as I turned away, and breathlessly +explained that if I bought a half-crown ticket I should be entitled to a +chance in a raffle for a five-guinea sofa-cushion. I slightly frowned as +I expeditiously refused the invitation, and the ladies disappeared into +a corner—I trust more in sorrow than in anger—to read the evening +paper. In the centre of the room was a "fish pond" full of presents, +where a mild-looking curate was feebly attempting to secure a prize. On +the whole the entertainment was scarcely exhilarating. The programme +promised "from V to VI of ye clocke" (how silly!) "a <i>séance</i> of +Mesmerism," in two "partes," (how really stupid!) and "Maister <span +class="smcap">Charles Bertram</span>" (Why "Maister?") was to appear +later on. Then at eight "of ye clocke" (dear, dear! <i>how</i> idiotic!) +"the Welbeck Dramatic Club" (what a name!) was "to performe ye Comic +Drama by <span class="smcap">L. S. Buckingham</span>, y'clept" (of +course!) "<i>Take that Girl away</i>." Later still "Mistresse <span +class="smcap">Jarley</span>" was to give her waxworks with the +assistance of "Maister <span class="smcap">Sidney Ward</span>," (tut, +tut!) the Festival finally closing with "Music" at "X of ye clocke" +(stuff and nonsense!). It will be seen that I cannot even now look at +the programme (priced at sixpence and sold for twopence) without some +signs of impatience. The afternoon was too young to allow of my +assisting at any of these toothsome merry-makings, so after mooning +about for a quarter of an hour I came away. As I left, a newly-arrived +dame of mature years was putting on a nurse's cap hurriedly, evidently +with the view to starting in hot pursuit of me to secure my custom for +some toys. The ladies with the cushion looked at me languidly as I +passed them, and then returned to a perusal of their paper. When last I +had had the advantage of paying a visit to "the Portman Rooms, formerly +Mme. <span class="smcap">Tussaud's</span>," I had seen nothing but +waxwork figures in eccentric attitudes. On the whole, I think the former +denizens of the place looked more at home in their quaint costumes than +the Sale of Workers "from Tuesday, November 22 to Saturday, November 26, +inclusive!"</p> + +<p>Finding myself in its neighbourhood, I could not help taking a turn in +the present palace of the eminent "Portrait Modellist." I paid the +necessary shilling and the optional sixpence, and renewed my +acquaintance with "The Kings and Queens," "The Coronation Group," and +"The Chamber of Horrors." A group representing a reception at the +Vatican was quite new, if I except two or three funeral attendants, who, +I fancy I remember, made their last (but one) appearance at the Lying in +State of <span class="smcap">Pio Nono</span>. After examining a rather +cheerful presentment of the latest assassin in "The Chamber of +Comparative Physiognomy" (as the Chamber of Horrors was once, for a +short period, "y'clept"), I passed through a turnstile, and entered the +Refreshment Department. Here I noticed that an "overflow meeting," +consisting, amongst other more-or-less-interesting exhibits of Mr. <span +class="smcap">Lewis Wingfield's</span> historical costume-wearers (from +the Healtheries), and that now rather-imperfectly-remembered worthy, the +late Sir <span class="smcap">Bartle Frere</span> (from the rooms above), +had been humorously arranged, no doubt with a view to provoking healthy +and hearty laughter. Having refreshed my mind with a hurried inspection +of this delightful, albeit, somewhat miscellaneous gathering, and my +body with a twopenny Bath bun, I gracefully retired, greatly pleased +with the afternoon's entertainment.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> + +<div class="figright" style="width:25%"> +<a href="images/illus257b.png"> +<img src="images/illus257b.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="Reviewing the Pages." /> +</a> +<p>Reviewing the Pages.</p> +</div> + +<p>What a set these Emperors, Empresses, Kings, Queens, Princes and +Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses, &c., &c., and all such great people +everywhere seem to have been, according to the <i>Memoirs of Count +Horace de Viel Castel</i> (published by Messrs. <span +class="smcap">Remington & Co.</span>), who was a kind of small French +<span class="smcap">Pepys</span>, a great snob, and a Parisian <i>Sir +Benjamin Backbite</i>. Yet there is in this <span +class="smcap">Horace</span> something of the Horatian satirist, only +without the poetry.</p> + +<p><span class="small">"But <span class="smcap">Horace</span>, Sir, was delicate, was nice,"</span> + +which is not exactly the characteristic of the writings of <span +class="smcap">M. de Viel</span> Castel, who tells us</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p class="i6">"Of birth-nights, balls, and shows,</p> +<p>More than ten <span class="smcap">Hollinsheds</span>, or <span +class="smcap">Halls</span>, or <span class="smcap">Stowes</span>.</p> +<p>When the <span class="smcap">Queen</span> frowned, or smiled, he knows; and what</p> +<p>A subtle Minister may make of that:</p> +<p>Who sins with whom:"——</p> +</div> + +<p>And such like tittle-tattle <i>ad nauseam</i>, not sparing his own +father and brother. Imagine the sort of man who, night after night, +could sit down and chuckle over the composition of this precious diary! +"With the exception of the President and the Princess" (<span +class="smcap">Mathilde</span>, at whose house he was perpetually +dining), he says, "all the (<span class="smcap">Buonaparte</span>) +family are good for nothing."</p> + +<p>Of the <i>bourgeois</i> class he writes, "They are always the same +stupid, craven-hearted, vain race." He was shocked at the production of +<i>La Dame aux Camelias</i>, and considered it as a degradation of the +French stage and a disgrace to the Public that patronised the +performance. To have shocked M. <span class="smcap">de Viel +Castel</span> was a feat indeed. <span class="smcap">Fould</span> "the +foxy Jew" got ten millions out of the Crédit Foncier; so the public was +fool'd also. <span class="smcap">D'Orsay</span> was "a ridiculous old +doll," and the Duke of <span class="smcap">Brunswick</span> "an old +fool." He sneered at England, but considered at the moment that an +alliance with us was the best policy. The Empress at one time went in +for spirit-rapping, and consulted a table which told her a variety of +lies about the result and duration of the Crimean War. Such a table must +have been very black and supported by blacklegs, though it had +sufficient french polish about it to be silent in the presence of a +bishop. It is not until the last page of the <i>Memoirs</i>, 1864, that +the name of M. <span class="smcap">de Bismarck</span> appears. I suppose +that "Society," high, low, or middle-class, has always gone on in much +the same way, more or less openly, according to the spirit of the Court, +since what is called "Society" came into existence; and invariably with +a <span class="smcap">Viel Castel</span>, or a <span +class="smcap">Greville</span>, or some one even less particular and more +observant "among them takin' notes" for future publication. Mr. +Bousfield, the translator, seems to have done his work with a judicious +regard for a certain section of English readers. It strikes me that he +has had the good taste to omit a few anecdotes about some of our own +exalted personages which would not have been received with unmixed +satisfaction in every quarter. This is only a surmise on my part, as I +am unacquainted with the original work.</p> + +<p>Let me recommend everyone who values a powerful study of character more +than a merely cleverly-constructed story, to read <i>Marzio's +Crucifix</i>, by <span class="smcap">Marion Crawford</span>. I do not +know what special opportunities the author had for the work, but the +characters are individually, masterpieces. The scene between +<i>Marzio</i> and <i>Don Paolo</i>, when the latter is wrapt in devout +contemplation of the artist's <i>chef d'œuvre</i>, is most striking, +and would have been more so had <i>Marzio</i> carried out his intention +of knocking his brother down, and disposing of him out of hand.</p> + +<p>With Mr. <span class="smcap">Saunders's</span> <i>The Story of some +Famous Books</i> (<span class="smcap">Elliot Stock</span>) I was rather +disappointed, in consequence of there not being enough "famous books," +and not much more story than the needy knife-grinder had to tell. Still, +I thank him for introducing me to a delightful name—"<span +class="smcap">Theopompus</span> of Chios"—whom, for this present, I +will take as my godfather, and sign myself, +<span class="author">Yours, <span class="i6 smcap">Theopompus, Baron de Book Worms</span>.</span> </p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Staff Appointments.</span>—The Specials.</h3> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_258">[pg 258]</a></p> + +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%"> +<a href="images/illus258.png"> +<img src="images/illus258.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="AN EYE FOR 'ELECTIVE AFFINITIES." /> +</a> +<h3>AN EYE FOR "ELECTIVE AFFINITIES."</h3> +<p><i>Sir Edwin</i>. "<span class="smcap">Hullo, Angy? Stew-pan? Apron? +Tripe and Onions? What on earth's up?</span>"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady Angelina</i>. "<span class="smcap">Yes, Dearest! Since +<i>you've</i> become a <i>Special Constable, I'm</i> doing my little +utmost to become a Special <i>Cook</i>! I thought it might bind us still +closer together!</span>" + +<span class="author"><i>Sir Edwin</i>. "<span class="smcap">My own <i>Love!!</i>!</span>"</span></p> +</div> +<hr /> + +<h2>LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.</h2> + +<h3>(<i>A Ballad of the Brave Old Sort</i>.)</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"It was all for the Union</p> + <p class="i2">We left fair Albion's land.</p> +<p>It was all for the Union</p> + <p class="i2">We first saw Irish land,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p>We first saw Irish land!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"All must be done that man can do.</p> + <p class="i2">Shall it be done in vain?</p> +<p>My <span class="smcap">G-sch-n</span>, to prove that untrue</p> + <p class="i2">We two have crossed the main,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">We two have crossed the main!"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>He turned him round and right-about</p> + <p class="i2">All on the Irish shore.</p> +<p>Said he, "We'll give <span class="smcap">P-rn-ll</span> a shake,</p> + <p class="i2">And make the Rads to roar,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">And make the Rads to roar!"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>He was a stout and trusty carle.</p> + <p class="i2">Said he, "A flare we'll raise,</p> +<p>And, spite the Leaguers' angry snarl,</p> + <p class="i2">We'll make the Beacon blaze,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">We'll make the Beacon blaze!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Who says our friends a handful are,</p> + <p class="i2">Our foes a serried host?</p> +<p>Our Beacon, blazing like a star,</p> + <p class="i2">Shall check the blatant boast,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">Shall cheek the blatant boast.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Not all are to sedition sworn,</p> + <p class="i2">Or shackled by the League.</p> + <p class="i2">Cheer up! We'll laugh, their hate to scorn,</p> +<p>And baffle their intrigue,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">And baffle their intrigue.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Puff, <span class="smcap">G-sch-n</span>, puff! Like Boreas blow!</p> + <p class="i2">And I the logs will pile.</p> +<p>The Beacon, now a slender glow,</p> + <p class="i2">Shall blaze across the Isle,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">Shall blaze across the Isle.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Eh? What? The wood is damp, you say?</p> + <p class="i2">There comes more smoke than flame?</p> +<p>Nay; pile, and poke, and puff away!</p> + <p class="i2">We'll not give up the game,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> + <p class="i2">We'll not give up the game.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"If we should let this fire die out</p> + <p class="i2">All on the Irish shore,</p> +<p>To Unionism stern and stout</p> + <p class="i2">Adieu for evermore,</p> + <p class="i10">My Boy!</p> +<p>Adieu for evermore!"</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Two Canons and Bean-baggers.</span>—The +Bean-baggers are likely to come badly off with two such big guns against +them as Canons <span class="smcap">Liddon</span> and <span +class="smcap">McColl</span>. Let the matter be settled amicably by +agreeing that whatever it was they did see was a "What-you-<span +class="smcap">McColl</span>-it."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG.</h2> + +<p>Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go +to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in +this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog +enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you +find countless pleasant pictures—delightful sea-subjects, charming +landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will +infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy +atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte +Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir <span +class="smcap">John Linton's</span> excursion <i>coupons</i>, and +personally conduct yourself—if you don't conduct yourself as you ought, +you'll probably be turned out—round the well-filled galleries in +Piccadilly.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Sir <span class="smcap">Drummond</span> is ordered off to Teheran. +"Well, we're successful in keeping one <span class="smcap">Wolff</span> +from our door," as Sir <span class="smcap">Gorst</span>, Q.C., observed +to <span class="smcap">Grandolph</span>. "Poor <span +class="smcap">Wolffy</span>!" sighed <span +class="smcap">Grandolph</span>. "I shall write a fable on 'The <span +class="smcap">Wolff</span> and the Shah!'"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sardou and Sara.</span>—<span class="smcap">Sara +B.</span> has made a hit in what is reported to be a poor play called +<i>La Tosca</i>, by <span class="smcap">Sardou</span>. But in +consequence of <span class="smcap">Sara's</span> acting, it is in for a +run. <i>Che Sara sara</i>, <i>i.e</i>. (free translation), "Who has seen +<span class="smcap">Sara</span> once will see <span +class="smcap">Sara</span> again."</p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_259">[pg 259]</a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%"> +<a href="images/illus259.png"> +<img src="images/illus259.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON." /> +</a> +<h3>LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.</h3> +</div> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_260">[pg 260]</a></p> +<p> </p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_261">[pg 261]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A DOWN-Y PHILOSOPHER;</h2> + +<h3><i>Or, Memoirs of a Missing Link</i>.</h3> + +<div class="figleft" style="width:25%; margin-right:2em;"> +<a href="images/illus261a.png"> +<img src="images/illus261a.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="Seal making a Deep Impression." /> +</a> +<p>Seal making a Deep Impression.</p> +</div> + +<p>I've no particular reason to think an account of my life will interest +anybody. That being so, I don't know why I write it. But I do. I suppose +it's Chance. <span class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> (who <i>is</i> such fun!) +calls my Memoir, because I'm a F.R.S., a case of "<i>Fellow-De-Se</i>."</p> + +<p>Talking of Chance, everything that has ever happened to me <i>has</i> +been Chance!</p> + +<p>For instance, what could have been more a matter of luck than my +choosing a house at Down? <span class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> says +something about being "Down on my luck." (What a master of style old +<span class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> is, to be sure!)</p> + +<p>Then there was that voyage on the <i>Sea-Mew</i>. If it hadn't been that +my Uncle kicked me six times round his garden at Shrewsbury, because I +said "I'd be jiggered if I went," I don't believe I should ever have had +courage to accept the appointment of Naturalist to the expedition. That +voyage gave me an object in life. My nose had <i>made</i> me an object +in life before that (<i>vide Portrait</i>), but Natural Selection +triumphed over my nose, and so I became in due time famous, and an +Ag-nose-tic!</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">My Schooldays.</span></h3> + +<p>At school I was an exceptionally naughty boy. I cannot conceive what +induced me to tell another little boy that I had often produced +crab-apples by taking a dead crab and burying it in an orchard, but I +did. My little friend, I recollect, didn't believe me, and indeed pulled +my nose (always a sore point with me, but he made its point much sorer) +for telling what he called "beastly crams." We had a fight, I also +remember. Perhaps I ought to call it a "struggle for existence." He was +much the "fittest," and he survived. <i>I</i> got licked.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Choice of Calling.</span></h3> + +<p>My extreme naughtiness continued unabated when I became a young man. +Nobody expected I should ever "do" anything—except six months' hard +labour! At Cambridge I was so shockingly "rowdy," that my father +declared, there was no alternative but to send me into the Church. But +as I was hunting with the College drag at the hour when I ought to have +been in for my Ordination Examination, the Bishop failed to see matters +in the same light. I then decided to be a Doctor. If I had stuck to this +profession I fancy that my turn for trying experiments would have landed +me in some exalted position—possibly at Newgate. As it was, after +attending a lecture on Surgery, I was discovered in the local Hospital +trying to cut off a patient's leg on an entirely new principle, with a +pair of scissors and an old meat-saw, and I was nearly "run in" for +manslaughter. I decided to give up Medicine, and a slight shindy over a +supposed error of mine in calculating a score having prevented my +becoming a success as a Public-house Billiard-marker, I thought I would +make my mark in another way, as a breeder of race-horses. Being, +however, forcibly chucked out of Newmarket Heath one day for an alleged +irregularity which I never could understand, I began really to wonder +what profession I <i>was</i> fitted to adorn.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">I become a Naturalist.</span></h3> + +<p>It was at this time that the Captain of the <i>Sea-Mew</i> offered me +that post of which I have before spoken. I accepted it, and began at +once to lower the record in sea-sickness, being never once well on board +ship <i>for three whole years</i>! It was a new experience, and altered +me a good deal. From being rowdy and idle I became quiet and abnormally +diligent. If you don't believe this, ask <span +class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> (who is such fun!). On returning to England +I at once settled Down, and began to write books.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">The "Origin of Species."</span></h3> + +<p>This work is my title to fame. It only took me thirty-three years and +six months to write. I felt quite glad when it was finished. People who +have read it tell me they feel the same, The row it caused was +frightful! If you want to see "<span class="smcap">Soapy Sam's</span>" +slashing <i>Quarterly Review</i> article pulverised, read <span +class="smcap">H-xl-y's</span> reply. (But, query—isn't this scientific +log-rolling?) The remark which was made, after perusing the book, by +that eminent Botanist, my friend Professor <span +class="smcap">Hookey</span>, was—"Walker!" But he was soon converted.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">My Way of Working.</span></h3> + +<p>This, also, can't interest anybody, yet I give it. I get up at 4 <span +class="smcap">A.M.</span>, and take a walk. From 7 to 10 I work. After +dinner—with champagne—I take another stroll. I have made most +astonishing scientific discoveries at this time. I could, point out the +exact spot in the road where I became convinced that <i>the whole +country had been elevated sixteen feet since the morning</i>! <span +class="smcap">H-xl-y</span>, who was with me, quite agreed, and said +that we must all have been elevated at the same time, without knowing +it.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">My Favourite Authors.</span></h3> + +<p>These are, of course, <span class="smcap">Lyell</span> on <i>Lias</i>, +and <span class="smcap">Hookey</span> on <i>Herbaceous Foraminifera</i>. +They are far superior to <span class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>, who +bores me. I like novels, the trashier the better. Only let 'em end well, +and I don't care how they begin, or whether they begin at all. In +newspapers, the best part, I think, is the Parliamentary Debates. In +reading them I have often got valuable hints as to the "Origin of +Speeches," and they frequently afford conclusive evidence of the +"Descent of Man." I thought of bringing Parliamentary manners in as a +chapter in my book on "Earth-worms," but <span +class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> advised me not to, and I didn't.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">My Nose.</span></h3> + +<p>I think I've mentioned this feature before. It troubles me. It is +undoubtedly of a low type, yet it has survived! Why have I not been +fitted with a fitter one? It is another instance of the fact that +everything—including my fame—has come to me by sheer luck. <span +class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> says "there's a Dar-winning modesty about +this last remark." Also says, "I've found the 'Philosopher's Tone.'" +(What screaming fun <span class="smcap">H-xl-y</span> always is!)</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">My Portraits.</span></h3> + +<p>Perhaps I may be allowed to say one word as to the Photographs preceding +these volumes. <i>They aren't the least little bit like me</i>! In +Volume One I appear as the unmistakable "Country Butcher." In Volume Two +I am "The Gorilla Asleep," or "Beetle-brow Napping" (after a +beetle-hunt, probably). Volume Three represents me as the Typical +Brigand of Transpontine Melodrama.</p> + +<p>Why, too, has the Photographer insisted on bringing out that unfortunate +feature of mine so prominently?</p> + +<p>Why? indeed! Who nose?</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE LARKS AND THE ROSES.</h2> + +<h3>(<i>Ballad, by Milton Featherly Jonsone</i>.)</h3> + +<div class="figleft" style="width:25%;"> +<a href="images/illus261b.png"> +<img src="images/illus261b.png" width="100%" alt="" title="Rose on the Swell." /> +</a> +<p>Rose on the Swell.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The roses were blowing, like whales in the sea</p> +<p>Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free,</p> +<p>And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee</p> + <p class="i10">In the ether.</p> +<p>The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade,</p> +<p>And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade,</p> +<p>Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd</p> + <p class="i10">On her zither.</p> +</div> + +<h3><i>Tempo di Valse</i>.</h3> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Ho, larks and roses!</p> + <p class="i2">Hey, the bonny weather!</p> +<p>Hey, we rose at morning prime;</p> + <p class="i2">Ho, we lark'd together!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide</p> +<p>By Inglesham poplars, on Teddington's tide,</p> +<p>Where the water of Thame under Sinodun slide,</p> + <p class="i10">And at Marlow,</p> +<p>By Cliveden's green caverns, and Abingdon's walls,</p> +<p>Where wirgles the Windrush, where Eynsham weir falls,</p> +<p>By Sonning, or Sandford (whose lasher recalls</p> + <p class="i10"><i>Mr. Barlow</i>).</p> +</div> + +<h3><i>Con tenerezza</i>.</h3> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses</p> + <p class="i2">On the shining river;</p> +<p>Silver water-lilies, love;</p> + <p class="i2">Love will last for ever!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch,</p> + <p class="i2">And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch,</p> +<p>And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch,</p> + <p class="i10">Dead and cold, love;</p> +<p>And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek,</p> +<p>And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek,</p> +<p>And the temper is strong and the logic is weak</p> + <p class="i10">Of my old love.</p> +</div> + +<h3><i>Con tenerezza</i>.</h3> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses</p> + <p class="i2">On the shining river;</p> +<p>Silver water-lilies, love;</p> + <p class="i2">Love will last for ever!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch,</p> + <p class="i2">And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch,</p> +<p>And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch,</p> + <p class="i10">Dead and cold, love;</p> +<p>And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek,</p> +<p>And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek,</p> +<p>And the temper is strong and the logic is weak</p> + <p class="i10">Of my old love.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<h3><i>Snuffiamente</i>.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>No larks and roses</p> + <p class="i2">In a winter gloaming;</p> +<p>Ruby-red love's nose is;</p> + <p class="i2">Chilblain time a-coming'.</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Watchword of the Sugar-Bounty +Conference.</span>—"England expects that every man (and woman) will pay +an import duty."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Latest French Cookery.</span>—Spilling the <span +class="smcap">Grévy</span>.</h3> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_262">[pg 262]</a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%"> +<a href="images/illus262.png"> +<img src="images/illus262.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="HOW WE ADVERTISE NOW." /> +</a> +<h3>HOW WE ADVERTISE NOW.</h3> +</div> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_263">[pg 263]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:55%"> +<a href="images/illus263.png"> +<img src="images/illus263.png" width="100%" alt=" " title="SABLES." /> +</a> +<h3>"SABLES."</h3> + +<p><i>Pastor</i>. "<span class="smcap">How I do regret, my dear Madam, to +see you wearing these sad +Habiliments of Woe!</span>" <span class="author"><i>Widow</i>. "<span class="smcap">'M +ye-es. Black never did suit me!</span>"</span></p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE PALACE OF (ADVERTISING) ART.</h2> + +<h3>(<i>A Long Way After the Laureate</i>.)</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I found myself a huckster's pleasure-place,</p> + <p class="i2">Wherein 'twas horrible to dwell.</p> +<p>I said, "O Soul, <i>the</i> object of our race</p> + <p class="i6">Is ever one—to sell."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A huge-walled wilderness of ways it was,</p> + <p class="i2">With hoardings of exceeding height,</p> +<p>Which no one without pangs of fear, could pass,</p> + <p class="i6">And spasms of affright.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Its purpose, though, was plain; 'twas simply pelf;</p> + <p class="i2">Whether a woman wild of glare,</p> +<p>Or a colossal man shaving himself,</p> + <p class="i6">All, all meant money there.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"And while the world rolls round and round," I said,</p> + <p class="i2">"Advertisement is the one thing</p> +<p>Which need concern the wise and worldly head</p> + <p class="i6">Of huckster, histrio, king."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>To which my soul made answer readily,—</p> + <p class="i2">"In patience I must fain abide</p> +<p>In these vast vistas of vulgarity.</p> + <p class="i6">Stretching on every side."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Full of long-reaching bulks of board it was,</p> + <p class="i2">Where, glaring forth from ghostly gloom,</p> +<p>Were gibbering monkeys grinning in a glass,</p> + <p class="i6">In a dame's dressing-room.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And some were hung with daubs of green and blue,</p> + <p class="i2">As gaudy as a cheap Cremorne,</p> +<p>Where actors postured in the public view,</p> + <p class="i6">Some frantic, some forlorn.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>One seemed all glare and gore—a stabbing hand,</p> + <p class="i2">A woman flopping with a groan;</p> +<p>An ill-drawn idiot trying to look grand,</p> + <p class="i6">Big-nosed, and high in bone.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>One showed an ochre coast and emerald waves;</p> + <p class="i2">You seemed to see them rise and fall,</p> +<p>As infant supers—wretched little slaves—</p> + <p class="i6">Under the canvass crawl.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And one a full-faced, flashed comedian—low—</p> + <p class="i2">Showing his teeth, with nervous strain,</p> +<p>With queer goggle-eyes striking like a blow,</p> + <p class="i6">And causing quite a pain.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And one a miser, hoarding fruits of toil,</p> + <p class="i2">In front a bony beak, behind,</p> +<p>Wisps of grey hairs all destitute of oil,</p> + <p class="i6">Blown hoary on the wind.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And one a foreground with three hideous hags,</p> + <p class="i2">Each twice as tall as life, or higher,</p> +<p>Medusa-monsters, clothed in wretched rags,</p> + <p class="i6">And crouching round a fire.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And one an English home—lantern-light poured</p> + <p class="i2">On a forced safe, skeleton keys,</p> +<p>Whilst gloating o'er the family plate there stored,</p> + <p class="i6">Glowered the murderer, <span class="smcap">Peace</span>.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Nor these alone, but everything to scare,</p> + <p class="i2">Fit for each morbid mood of mind;</p> +<p>Murder and misery, want and woe were there</p> + <p class="i6">As large as life designed.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>There was a fellow in a pretty fix,</p> + <p class="i2">"Tied to a corpse," all wild alarm,</p> +<p>Struggling across a sort of sooty Styx,</p> + <p class="i6">The "body" on his arm.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Or in a snow-choked city wretchedly,</p> + <p class="i2">Dead babe at breast, with bare blown hair,</p> +<p>A ruined woman crawled with quivering knee;</p> + <p class="i6">Two bobbies scowled at her.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Or, posing in a footlight paradise,</p> + <p class="i2">A group of Houris smirked to see</p> +<p>Young fools with clapping hands and ogling eyes</p> + <p class="i6">Which said, "<i>We</i> come for <i>ye</i>!"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Or else a lost and deeply wounded one,</p> + <p class="i2">In a wild swamp all bilious greens,</p> +<p>Came on a corpse a bare branch dangling on;</p> + <p class="i6">The ghastliest of scenes!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Holloaed a half-choked boy with horrid fear,</p> + <p class="i2">A brute the rope about to draw;</p> +<p>A second with a knife and axe was near</p> + <p class="i6">To give the first Lynch Law.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Or in a railway-tunnel, iron rail'd,</p> + <p class="i2">A man lay bound; his blood ran ice</p> +<p>Who looked thereon, an engine shrieked; he paled,</p> + <p class="i6">And fainted in a trice.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A monkey by her hair a woman clasp'd;</p> + <p class="i2">From her poor head it seemed half torn,</p> +<p>One ape-hand dragged it back; the other grasp'd</p> + <p class="i6">A steel blade's haft of horn.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>A hideous babe in nauseous nudity,</p> + <p class="i2">Huge-headed, grinning like a clown,</p> +<p>Advertised Soap. A vile monstrosity,</p> + <p class="i6">The terror of the Town!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Nor these alone; but every horror rare,</p> + <p class="i2">Which the sensation-poisoned mind.</p> +<p>Imaged to advertise vile trash, was there—</p> + <p class="i6">As large as life design'd.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Deep dread and loathing of these horrors crude,</p> + <p class="i2">Fell on my Soul, hard to be borne,</p> +<p>She cried, "Why should these <i>incubi</i> intrude</p> + <p class="i6">And plague us night and morn?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"What! is not this a civilised town," she said,</p> + <p class="i2">"A spacious city, cultured, free?</p> +<p>Why give it up to dismalness and dread,</p> + <p class="i6">Murder and misery?"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>In every corner of that city stood,</p> + <p class="i2">Unholy shapes, and spectral scares,</p> +<p>And fiends, and phantoms, brutal scenes of blood,</p> + <p class="i6">And horrible nightmares.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"We are shut up as in a tomb, girt round</p> + <p class="i2">With charnel scenes on every wall;</p> +<p>Wherever echoes of town-traffic sound,</p> + <p class="i6">Or human footsteps fall.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>She cried, "By Jove, it is a pretty game</p> + <p class="i2">That Man, the Advertiser's thrall,</p> +<p>Should have these scenes of grimness, gore, and shame,</p> + <p class="i6">Shock him from every wall.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"The very cab-horses go wild with fears!</p> + <p class="i2">I rather fancy it is time</p> +<p>To stop these poster-terrors, placard-tears,</p> + <p class="i6">And advertising crimes.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Yes, yes, pull down these pictured screens that are</p> + <p class="i2">All dedicate to gore and guilt.</p> +<p><i>Not</i> solely for Soap-vendor or Stage-star</p> + <p class="i6">Was our big Babylon built!</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page_264">[pg 264]</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>VOCES POPULI.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Scene</span>—<i>A Promenade Concert. Interval +between Parts I. and II. +Crowd collecting before Platform</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Highly Respectable Matron (to female Friend)</i>. As to being +<i>beautiful</i>, +it's not for me to say, but they're clean-limbed, healthy +children, thank Heaven! and what more do you want? (<i>The</i> Friend +<i>makes a complimentary protest</i>.) Well, it may be so; but, to come +back to her. I don't like her present home so well as I did her +first—not +so tasty, to my mind. She's got nice things about her, though, +I <i>will</i> say—a nice sideboard, a nice ... (<i>Inventory follows +here</i>.)</p> + +<p><i>The Friend (darkly)</i>. All the same, it's a constant wonder to me +how she can ever bring herself to sleep in <i>that</i> bed!</p> + +<p><i>The H. R. M</i>. I couldn't myself; but (<i>charitably</i>) we've not +all +the same feelings. (<i>Crush increases; Female Promenader with very +yellow hair passes, with apologies</i>.) "Excuse me, Madame" (<i>with +attempt at mimicry</i>); ah—and she <i>needs</i> it! The orchestra's +coming +back now. I didn't notice that young woman among them before—what's +<i>she</i> going to play, I wonder?</p> + +<p><i>The Friend</i>. Whatever it is, she might look more pleasant over it!</p> + +<p><i>The H. R. M</i>. So she might—we can't all be good-looking, but +we can all be pleasant—but they wouldn't have engaged her here, if +she hadn't her gift!</p> + +<p><i>The Friend</i>. Oh, you may depend on it, she's got a gift—but I do +call her plain, myself.</p> + +<p><i>A Man with a very red nose (to Companion)</i>. And then, you see, +I've this special advantage—my <i>immense</i> knowledge of the world. +Think there's time for another before they begin again, eh?</p> + +<p class="i6">[<i>Companion is of that opinion; adjournment to bar of house</i>.</p> + +<h3><i>Second Part begins; Lady Vocalist retiring after Song</i>.</h3> + +<p><i>First Promenader</i>. Brayvo! Engcore! What, she won't sing no +more—sssh! <span class="i10">[<i>Hisses furiously</i>.</span></p> + +<p><i>The H. R. M</i>. There's the orchestra themselves clapping her—and +<i>they'd</i> know what's good.</p> + +<p><i>Her Friend</i>. She was dressed very nice, I thought.</p> + +<p><i>The H. R. M</i>. I never care to see hair done up that style myself.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">On the Platform.</span></h3> + +<p><i>Ladies of Chorus tripping up from below Stage for the Vocal +Valse</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Ladies of Chorus (all together)</i>. Am I too black under the eyes, +dear? Mind where you're going, Miss, please! Treading on people's +toes like that—the great clumsy thing! I'm next to you, aren't I? +I do feel so funny, my dear, don't you? For goodness sake, don't +go setting me on the giggle <i>now</i>!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>They range themselves modestly in a row at edge of platform</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Rude Person (in upper box with Punch squeak)</i>. Rooti-too-ti!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Roars of laughter</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Ladies of C. (indignantly)</i>. Beast! I wish they'd give him +something to make him rooti-toot, I do!</p> + +<p><i>Conductor-Composer (from behind)</i>. Now, Ladies, ready please—keep +the laugh steadier than you did last time, and wait for me at +the repeat!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>He taps on desk: each Lady of Chorus stiffens herself perceptibly +and makes a little grimace</i>.</p> + +<p><i>One Lady (in whisper)</i>, Oh, dear, I wish I was at +home with my Ma! <span class="i10">[<i>Her companions giggle</i>.</span></p> + +<p><i>The H. R. M</i>. It's as much as they can do to sing for +laughing—they're +<i>called</i> "Laughing Beauties," though. I like this one's face +up at this end—she's so quiet and lady-like over it, and pretty too; +they put all the pretty ones in front, but there's one quite an old +woman behind. They're having all the fun down at the other end—how +they are going on, to be sure!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>End of Vocal Valse: loud applause. Ladies of Chorus retire +after</i> encore <i>with air of graceful dignity</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The Person with the Squeak</i>. Goo'-bye, duckies!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Roars of laughter again: renewed indignation among Chorus</i>. +Person with Squeak <i>feels like</i> <span class="smcap">Sheridan</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Theodore +Hook</span> <i>rolled into one</i>.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">In the Grand Circle.</span></h3> + +<p><i>A Young Gentleman (who has set himself to form his</i> fiancée's +<i>mind, but finds it necessary to proceed very gradually</i>). Now, +<span class="smcap">Caroline</span>, +tell me—isn't this better than if we had gone to the Circus?</p> + +<p><i>Caroline (from the provinces; unmusical; simple in her tastes)</i>. +Yes, <span class="smcap">Joseph</span>, only—(<i>timidly</i>)—there's +more of what I call variety in a Circus—more going <i>on</i>, I mean.</p> + +<p><i>The Y. G. (with a sense of discouragement)</i>. I quite see your +meaning, dear, and it's an entirely true observation; still, you +<i>do</i> appreciate this magnificent orchestra, don't you now?</p> + +<p><i>Caroline</i>. I should have liked it better with different coloured +curtains—maize is so trying.</p> + +<p><i>The Y. G. (mentally)</i>. I won't write home to them about it +<i>just</i> yet.</p> + +<p><i>Orchestra begins a "Musical Medley" with Overture to +"Tannhäuser."</i></p> + +<p><i>The Y. G. (who has lost his programme)</i>. Now, <span +class="smcap">Caroline</span>—this +is <span class="smcap">Wagner</span>—you'll like <span +class="smcap">Wagner</span>, darling, I'm sure.</p> + +<p><i>Caroline (startled)</i>. Shall I? Where is he? Will he come in +here? Must I speak to him?</p> + +<p><i>The Y. G</i>. No, no—he's <i>dead</i>—I mean, this is from his +<i>Opera</i>—you +must listen to this.</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>He watches her face for the emotion he expects; "Tannhäuser" +melts suddenly into "Tommy, Make Room for your Uncle."</i></p> + +<p><i>Caroline (her face absolutely transfigured)</i>. Oh, <span +class="smcap">Joseph</span>, dear—<span class="smcap">Wagner's</span> +perfectly <i>lovely</i>!</p> + +<p><i>The Y. G. (gloomily)</i>. I see, I shall have to put you through a +course of <span class="smcap">Bach</span>, <span +class="smcap">Caroline</span>!</p> + +<p><i>Caroline (alarmed)</i>. But there's nothing whatever the +<i>matter</i> with +me, <span class="smcap">Joseph</span>! I'm not flushed am I?</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Young Gentleman suppresses a groan</i>.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">In a Box.</span></h3> + +<h3>(<i>Musical Medley still in progress</i>.)</h3> + +<p><i>A Lady (not much of an Opera-goer, who has been given a box at +the last moment, and has insisted on her husband turning out to escort +her)</i>. It was silly of you to drop that programme, <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>—I should +like to know what this piece is, it seems quite familiar—(<i>Orchestra +playing "Soldiers' March" from Faust</i>)—<i>I</i> know—it's Faust, +<span class="smcap">Robert</span>, <i><span +class="smcap">Gounod's</span> Faust</i>!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Much pleased with herself for recollecting an Opera she has only +heard once</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Robert (sleepily). I</i> know, my dear, all right.</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Faust melts into air from "Pinafore."</i></p> + +<p><i>His Wife</i>. Do you mean to say you don't remember that, <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>? +how exquisite <span class="smcap">Patti</span> was in the part, to be +sure!</p> + +<p><i>Robert</i>. Umph!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>"Pinafore" becomes "La ci darem"—which transforms itself +without warning into "Two Lovely Black Eyes."</i></p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>. There's nobody like <span class="smcap">Gounod</span>! + <span class="i10">[<i>Clasps her hands</i>.</span></p> + +<p><i>Robert (captiously)</i>. <span class="smcap">Gounod's</span> all very +well, I daresay, my dear; +but it don't seem to me he's altogether <i>original</i>. I've heard +something +very like this tune before, and I'll swear it wasn't by him!</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>. That's very likely; <i>all</i> the best airs get stolen +nowadays, +and dressed up so as to be quite unrecognisable; but that's not +<span class="smcap">Gounod's</span> fault, is it?</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Fans herself triumphantly, after vindicating her favourite +Composer</i>. <span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>slumbers</i>.</p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Behind the Platform.</span></h3> + +<p><i>Erratic Promenader</i>. Beg your pardon, Sir—tha' shtick, not +'tended meet <i>your</i> eye, Sir—<i>'nother</i> gerrilm'n's eye, Sir.</p> + +<p><i>Fair Promenader (to Lady Friend)</i>. And I'm sure I don't know +how it is, but I'm always crying now for just nothing at all, whenever +I'm alone.</p> + +<p><i>The Lady Friend</i>. That's because you give way to it, dear. Come +and have something to cheer you up—you'll be a different person +after it. <span style="float:right">[<i>Advice taken; prediction verified</i>.</span></p> + +<p><i>The Err. Prom</i>. I shay, here'sh lark! see tha' Bobby over there? +he thinksh I'm <i>tight</i>! (<i>Waltzes up to him solemnly</i>). Kn'ive +pleshure nexsht dansh you, Sir Charlesh?</p> + +<p><i>The Policeman (severely)</i>. You keep your 'ands off of me, will +you, and take yourself home—that's my advice to <i>you</i>!</p> + +<p><i>Err. Prom. (outraged)</i>. You 'pear me to under 'preshionthish is +Hy' Par' or Trafa——(<i>with an effort</i>)—Trafa-ralgarar Square. I'm +goin' teash you, free Briton not goin' put up with P'lice brurality!</p> + +<p class="i10">[<i>Hits Policeman in the eye, and is removed, smiling feebly. +Scene changes</i>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>An Open Question.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>Lord <span class="smcap">Solly</span>, at Paddies presuming to rail,</p> +<p>Must sneer at their "brogue," which the Markis finds stale.</p> +<p>Does he think a poor fellow must fain be a rogue</p> +<p>Because, born in Erin, he speaks with a brogue?</p> +<p>Celtic ears finds the drawl of the Saxon Swell flat,</p> +<p>And a Cockney may chaff at the <i>patois</i> of <span class="smcap">Pat</span>.</p> +<p>But which is in fault—is it <i>really</i> so clear?—</p> +<p>The Irishman's tongue, or the Englishman's ear?</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p>In a recent case on appeal, <span class="smcap">Hammond & Co.</span> +<i>v</i>. <span class="smcap">Bussey</span>, Mr. Justice <span +class="smcap">Bowen</span> was understood (by Our Special Reporter) to +say that a judgment relating to coals must be decided by the principles +of <span class="smcap">Coke</span>. The Master of the Rolls and Mr. +Justice <span class="smcap">Fry</span> concurred; the latter observing +that in winter a coal merchant must always be a <span +class="smcap">Bussey</span> person, though his Lordship admitted that +this had nothing to do with the case. The Master of the Rolls and Mr. +Justice <span class="smcap">Bowen</span> at once concurred.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 5%; margin-right:3em"> +<img src="images/illus264.png" width="100%" alt="Illustration" /> +</div> +<div> +<p class="hang"> +<strong>NOTICE.</strong>—Rejected Communications or Contributions, +whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, +will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and +Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no +exception.</p></div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume +93, December 3, 1887, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, DEC 3, 1887 *** + +***** This file should be named 39077-h.htm or 39077-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/0/7/39077/ + +Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond, +Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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