Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 15, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

There is, of course, to be an Eisteddfod in 1896; and it appears that the Llandudno Executive Committee have been making some revolutionary proposals with reference to it. They have resolved that they "respectfully desire that the Gorsedd will see its way to concur in the subject for the chair being in any metre, and not restricted to an awdl. The Committee are aware that the awdl has antiquity and custom in its favour, but, while calculated to develop skill in metrical composition, the local Committee feel that the necessity of composing in the form of an awdl is fettering to the conception and imagination." I cannot say what an awdl is, but I am dead against fetters, and, therefore, I say, down with the dastardly, fettering awdl.

* * * * *

Swift, strike off the fetters, wherever they're found, Let the song-loving Welshman go free and unbound. To the awdl too long has he bended his knee, But its fate has been sealed, and the Welshman is free; As free as his ocean, as free as his breezes, He shall write as he likes, in what metre he pleases; And he faces his Gorsedd, and vows he won't dawdle A manacled slave in the train of the awdl.

* * * * *

After this it seems somewhat bald and prosaic to read that

On the recommendation of "Hwfa Mon" (the Archdruid), "Eifionydd" (the registrar), "Cadvan," "Pedrog," "Gwynedd," and "Dyfed," of the Gorsedd Committee, who stated that the subject chosen for the arwrgerdd (heroic poem), for which a prize of £20 and a silver crown is offered, was unsuitable for an arwrgerdd, the subject was changed, "Llewelyn Fawr" being substituted for "St. Tudno."--Instead of the galar-gan, the subject of which was "Clwydfardd," for which £15 was the prize, it was decided to offer a prize of £15 and a gold medal for the best awdl on "Clwydfardd," the Gorsedd stating that an awdl would be much more appropriate, as the late Archdruid was a great admirer of the twenty-four metres. Instead of the hir a thoddaid "Cestyll Cymru" (Castles of Wales) it was decided to offer a prize of £2 2_s._ for the best hir a thoddaid "Beddargraph 'Elis Wyn o Wyrfai,'" and also £2 2_s._ for the best hir a thoddaid "Beddargraph 'Tudno.'"

* * * * *

The Bishop of HEREFORD has requested the parishes in his diocese to send up petitions respecting the Armenian atrocities. One of these parishes is Walford-on-Wye, and I propose to confer immortality upon the reply sent by its Vicar to the Bishop.

"I regret" (says this truly Christian cleric) "having been unable to respond in the way you desired to your appeal respecting the persecution of Christians in Armenia. My not doing so was owing to the circumstance that at the present time a remonstrance from our nation can have no moral weight whatever. We have now in office a Government which is exercising all its ingenuity in plans for the persecution and plunder of Christians here, and so long as we tolerate the continuance of such a Government in office the Turk would be justified in telling us to reform this scandal before we presume to remonstrate with him."

* * * * *

In other words, the Vicar of Walford-on-Wye disapproves of the Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill, and refuses on that account to join in a protest against the torture and murder of his Armenian fellow-creatures. The logic of the Vicar is as convincing as his Christian sympathy is admirable. Let him be known henceforth as the Vicar of Reason Wye.

* * * * *

What on earth is a "Rational Sick and Burial Association?" They possess one at Acton Turville; and, only the other day, it held great junketings. I may possibly have been rationally sick, but I have certainly never yet been rationally, or even irrationally, buried, nor, I take it, have the very vigorous members of the Association. However, they had a procession, which started from the club-room, headed by the Malmesbury band, and then walked to Badminton, calling at the Duke of BEAUFORT'S, where they were all treated with refreshments. Imagine his sporting Grace's feelings at being called upon to treat with refreshments a procession of the rationally sick and buried. They then dined. The _menu_ is not given, but no doubt included bread made from mummy-wheat, Dead-sea fruit, and copious libations of bier (spelling again!).

* * * * *

Close to Bristol, too, there is a place rejoicing in the name of Fishponds, where, at the Full Moon Hotel, the Loyal Pride of Fishponds Lodge of the Bristol Equalised District of the Order of Druids meets for its various celebrations. The members sometimes "perambulate the village, headed by the band of the Mangotsfield detachment of the Bristol Rifles."

* * * * *

Now strike the clashing cymbals, and sound the big bassoon, The Loyal Pride of Fishponds Lodge has left the old "Full Moon," Yet, though their band be warlike, they mean nor war nor pillage, 'Tis charity that bids them thus perambulate the village. No member of the Order would dare to come too late When Fishponds calls her Druids out to celebrate a _fête_. Then, while with martial music, the left foot on the beat, The Lodge awakes the echoes loud in every village street, The villagers of Fishponds forsake their early bed, And each one at his window displays a nightcapped head, Salutes the hoary Druids, nor fails to greet with cheers, The Mangotsfield detachment of Bristol Volunteers.

* * * * *

A Correspondent writes to the _Scotsman_, protesting against the omission of the grey plover from the list of birds to be protected under the Wild Birds Protection Act. "That the eggs," he adds, "are gathered by keepers and others for sale, should certainly be no argument; and any keeper might well be ashamed to watch a poor harmless bird all day through binoculars for the purpose of making a few shillings by the sale of its eggs." We live and learn. I have been eating plover's eggs for years without the least suspicion that the poor harmless mother-bird had been shamefully watched through binoculars by a keeper in search of shillings. All the same. I heartily indorse the suggestion that the plover should be protected.

* * * * *

SIR DONALD CURRIE must have the eye of an eagle. Speaking at a luncheon held in Newcastle the other day in connection with the Trinity Presbyterian Church, he declared that "nothing had ever charmed him more than to observe at the luncheon that day the marvellous ability, but much more the marvellous unanimity and Christian fellowship manifested by the Nonconformist bodies." I doff my cap to the man who can infer not only marvellous unanimity and Christian fellowship, but also marvellous ability from his observation of bodies at luncheon. After this it must be the merest child's-play to navigate the _Tantallon Castle_ to the Baltic Canal.

* * * * *

At a recent meeting of the Blackrock Town Commissioners, so I gather from the _Freeman's Journal_, Dr. KOUGH, the Vice-Chairman, objected to the adoption of a petition in favour of the Intoxicating Liquors (Ireland) Bill. He said the petition had been carried by a side-wind. Obviously, in the Doctor's opinion, the only thing to be done was to Kough-drop it.

* * * * *

THE ASCENT OF MAN.

["Professor DRUMMOND'S 'Ascent of Man' was discussed in the Assembly of the Free Church and very severely handled."--_Daily Telegraph._]

What? Sprung frae an ape wi' a danglin' bit tailie? Evolved by a process o' naiteral law? What? Me, Sir? An Elder i' Kirk an' a Bailie? That boast o' the bluid o' the Yellow Macaw?

Ye'd gar be takin' me graunfeyther's Bible An' write doun "Gorilla" the sire o' us a'? Na, na! 'Tisna me that's the traitor tae libel The family tree o' the Yellow Macaw.

We gang straught awa' through the son o' ta PHAIRSHONS Tae NOAH an' ADAM, and back to the Fa', An' nane but respectable kirk-gangin' pairsons Hae place i' the tree o' the Yellow Macaw.

Baboons?--Leave the Sassenach, o'er his Manilla, Tae boast as he will o' his Puggie[*]-Papa! But strike me teetotal if e'er a gorilla Shall sit i' the tree o' the Yellow Macaw!

[Footnote *: _Anglice_, Monkey.]

* * * * *

LIGHT AND HEAT; OR, IN A CONCATENATION ACCORDINGLY.--Speaking of "the invisible parts of the solar spectrum," Dr. HUGGINS tells us the "ultra-red" has been traced to a distance nearly "ten times as long as the whole range of the visible or light-giving region of the spectrum." Nature, indeed, is "all of a piece." In politics, as in optics, the "Ultra-Red" lies beyond the "light-giving region," though, as Science says of its "gamut of invisible rays," they are perceived "by their heating effects." The S. D. F.'s and other wavers of the Red Flag, should study up-to-date optics.

* * * * *

"SIC ITUR AD ASTRA."--The Balloon Society has presented "W. G." with its gold medal. Therefore has he pardonable cause for inflation. It is to be hoped that this will not have the effect of making him hit "skyers." In spite of the aëronaut medal, may we never see "e'er a naught" tacked on to W. G.'s name.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

SUN AND SONG.

_Saturday._--Have just been reading in _Temple Bar_ an article on the influence of sunshine on SHELLEY, BYRON, KEATS, MOORE, SOUTHEY, and other poets. Never thought of that before. There is so little sunshine in London, and when there is one never sits out in it. That is why all the magazines reject my sonnets, and why no one will publish my tragedy in blank verse. Sunshine! Right on the top of one's bare head. That is the cure. The reason is obvious--Ph[oe]bus Apollo, the Divine Afflatus, and all that sort of thing. Must go somewhere into the sunshine at once. Brighton is near, Brighton is shadeless, Brighton under the June sunshine is hot. The very place. Shall now at last electrify the world. Go down by an evening train. Somewhat crowded. Whitsuntide, of course.

_Sunday._--Glorious morning. Blaze of sunshine. Brighton is not an inspiring place for a poet. Walk along asphalted parade. Extremely hot. But that is just what I want. Still SHELLEY and the others did not advocate softened asphalte, to which one's boots almost stick. The beach is the right place. Lie down on the dusty shingle above high water mark, take off my hat, and abandon myself to the Divine Afflatus. Wait patiently for inspiration. Can only think how hot it is. Wonder if the Divine Afflatus could get through my hat. Put on my hat. Still no inspiration. Take my hat off again. Begin to become insensible in the warmth. Suddenly feel on the back of my head a sensation as of something striking me. Can it be the inspiration? No, it was a pebble. Jump up. Boys behind, aimlessly throwing stones, have hit me. Sudden inspiration to rush after them with uplifted stick. Sudden flight of boys. Pursue them over uneven shingle. Wonder if SHELLEY and the others ever did that. At last stop, breathless, hotter than ever. Find, with difficulty, another unoccupied space on beach, and lie down again. Become quite drowsy. Suddenly wake up. Must have been asleep for a long time. Sun going down. No inspiration yet, and no chance of Divine Afflatus to-day. Must wait till to-morrow. Head aching very much. Wonder if SHELLEY and the others had headaches when the D. A. was coming on. Consult _Temple Bar_. Apparently not. Very strange.

_Monday._--Again blazing sunshine. Hotter than ever. This must bring on the D. A. if anything would. Again lie on beach. More crowded than yesterday. Some of the people seem friendly, and to be interested in my experiment, for they address me and advise me to get my hair cut. Could this possibly be advantageous to admit the D. A.? No. SHELLEY and the others wore their hair like mine, not cropped like a convict's. Tell this to my new friends. They laugh. I become angry. Then they tell me to keep my hair on. Curious instance of the vacillation of popular opinion. They go away singing. Pain in my head and sleepiness still worse. Can no longer keep awake. Abandon myself to D. A. Am suddenly aroused by someone shaking my arm. Open my eyes. Can hardly see anything. Awful pain in head. Shut my eyes again. My arm again shaken roughly. A voice says, "Now then, get up." Endeavour to lift my head but cannot. Never felt so ill before. Murmur feebly, "I can't. It's the D. A. coming on." Voice answers, "D. T. yer mean. None o' your gammon. You come along o' me." Begin now to understand that it is not Ph[oe]bus Apollo who is standing by me in a vision. It is not even a beautiful woman, as in SHELLEY'S _Alastor_. It is a policeman. Must find precedent for this. Somehow my voice seems changed and uncertain, but I manage to murmur, "_Temple Bar_." "Oh yes," says the policeman, "you've been enough in the bar. Now yer can try the dock. Come along." He endeavours to raise me, but I again fall insensible.

_Wednesday._--Remember dimly the horrible events of the last thirty-six hours. I was taken to the police-station, and brought before the magistrate. He would not even look at _Temple Bar_, and fined me for being drunk and incapable. I drunk and incapable! Oh heavens! To-day I am back in London. The sky is cloudy. No chance of the D. A. now. Shall give up poetry for ever, and for the future write words for songs.

* * * * *

AT A YEOMANRY REVIEW.

SCENE--_An open space near Baymouth, the watering-place at which the County Yeomanry have been going through their annual training. Along one side of the ground is a row of drags and other carriages, occupied by the local magnates; along another, the less distinguished spectators stand in a thin line or occasional groups, waiting for the review to begin. In the centre, the inspecting officer is judging the best turned-out troop, while the remainder of the regiment are doing nothing in particular._

_Yeomanry Non-Com._ (_who is leading an officer's horse and talking to a female friend of his and her brother with the sense of conferring a distinction upon them_). Ah, 'tis not all play this yere trainin', I do assure ye. I've been so 'ard-worked all the week, with all the writin' I've had to do at the orderly room and thet, I've 'ardly 'ad time to _live!_ But I like it, mind ye, I like it more every year I come out and so does my old 'errse, a' b'lieve. And there's this about it too--the girls don't come errfter a feller!

_The Young Lady._ Well, I'm sure! Now _I_ should have thought when you're in the Yeomanry, it was just what----

_The Y. N.-C._ Tain't so--not in my case--that's all I can tell ye.

_The Y. L._ (_with coquettish incredulity_). Oh, I daresay. With that uniform, too! Why, I expect, if the truth was told, you know more than one young lady who's glad enough to be seen about with you.

_The Y. N.-C._ (_complacently_). More than one! Why, theer wurr eight I took out in a boat for a moonlight row on'y lawst night--nawn o' _my_ seekin', but they wouldn't take no denial. _I_ didn't want to be bothered with 'en. I've got other things to do besides squirin' a passel o' wimmin folk about, I hev.

_The Y. L._ You conceited thing, you! If that's the way you go on, I shan't talk to you any more!

_The Y. N.-C._ Well, you won't hev th' opportunity, for theer's the Captain calling me up. So long--and take care o' yerselves!

[_He trots off, feeling that he has sufficiently impressed them_.

_The Y. L._ (_to her brother, with the superiority that comes of a finishing school with all the extras_). Distinctly "country," isn't he?

_Her Brother._ Well, he can't help _that_. And he rides as straight as any chap I know.

_The Y. L._ Oh, he's a real good fellow, I know that; still he _is_ just a little ---- I did hope I'd polished him up a little while we were at the farm last summer; but there, I suppose you _can't_ put refinement into some people!

_Another Young Lady_ (_to her_ Admirer). I can't make GEORGE out yet among them all--can _you?_

_Her Admirer_ (_and_ GEORGE'S _rival_). Cawn't say as I've tried, partickler. But there's one there in the rear rank that hes a look of him; that one settin' all humped up nohow on his 'errse.

_The Adored One._ Oh, of course, if you're going to make out as GEORGE can't sit on a horse!

_Her Admirer_ (_sulkily_). Well, I'd back myself to ride 'cross country agen GARGE any day.

_The Adored One._ Then why don't _you_ join the Yeomanry, like _he_ has?

_Her Admirer_ (_who would if he could afford it_). Why? 'Cause 'taint worth my while, if you want to know!

_The Adored One._ I'm sure it's a smart enough uniform--at least GEORGE looks quite 'andsome in it.

_Her Admirer._ He didn't look very 'andsome when I see him on parade this marnin'; the sun had peeled his nose a treat!

_The Adored One._ It's well there are _some_ who are willing to make sacrifices for their country!

AMONG THE CARRIAGES.

_Mrs. Prattleton._ Yes, so _sad_ for him, poor dear; but of course whenever his father dies, he'll be _quite_ comfortable. (_Recognising a military acquaintance._) Oh, Captain CLINKER, do come and tell me what they're supposed to be doing out there, and whether they've begun yet.

_Capt. Clinker_ (_R.A._). Nothin' much goin' on at present. Ah, they seem to be wakin' up now a bit. (_As the band strikes up._) There's the general salute; now they're goin' to make a start.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Who is that little man in the baggy black frock, rather like a dressing-gown, and the cocked hat; and why is he galloping out here?

_Capt. C._ He's the inspectin' officer; takin' up his position for the march past, don't you know.

_Mrs. Pratt_. Oh; and they're all going to march past _him_. How nice! But there's _another_ officer in a cocked hat; is _he_ inspecting, too?

_Capt. C._ Only their tongues; he's the regimental Pill--the _doctor_, you know.

_Mrs. Pratt._ (_disenchanted_). I quite thought he must be a general at _least_. Dear me, there's one man in a red coat and a helmet. What is _he_ doing here?

_Capt. C._ That's the adjutant.

_Mrs. Pratt_. Oh; and the adjutant always wears a helmet. I _see_. They've hung red silk round the kettledrums; (_pleased_) that's _real_ soldiering, isn't it?

_Officers_ (_as the regiment marches past by squadrons_). Right whe-eel! Eyes right! For-ward! Dress up to your leaders there!

_Capt. C._ (_with languid approbation_). The dressin's not half bad.

_Mrs. Pratt._ No, they're dressed very like Hussars--or is it Artillery I mean? I always had an idea the Yeomanry wore _comic_ uniforms--with shirt-collars, you know, and old-fashioned milk-pail hats with feathers and things. But (_disappointedly_) there's nothing ridiculous about these. What a frisky animal that trumpeter is riding; look at him caracoling about!

_Capt. C._ Trumpeters and serjeant-majors always the best mounted.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Are they? I wonder why _that_ is. (_As the regiment ranks by in single file._) But they've _all_ got beautiful horses.

_Capt. C._ (_critically_). H'm, they're a fair-lookin' lot. Fall off a bit behind, some of 'em.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Do they? Then they can't be very good riders, _can_ they?

_Capt. C._ These fellows? They ought to be; most of 'em, you see, hunt their horses regularly.

_Mrs. Pratt._ (_with a mental vision of dismounted troopers chasing their chargers about the ground_). What fun! I should like to see them do that. (_As the regiment trots past in sections._) But they don't seem to come off over the trotting.

_Capt. C._ Not quite; the leaders don't keep their distance, so the men can't keep up. Still, considering how short a time they've been out, you can't expect----

_Mrs. Pratt._ No; and they haven't tried to _gallop_ yet, have they? Some of the horses are cantering now, though; it looks so much nicer than if they all trotted, _I_ think.

_Capt. C._ Don't fancy their Colonel would agree with you there.

_Mrs. Pratt._ What a shame to keep those poor soldiers out there all by themselves; they don't have any fun, and they only get in the way of the others when they turn round. Oh, look at them now--they're all coming straight at us, and waving their swords!

_Capt. C._ Pursuin' practice at the gallop; doin' it rather decently, too.

_Mrs. Pratt._ But _do_ you think we're safe just here? Suppose they can't stop themselves in time!

_Capt. C._ No danger of that; too heavily bitted to get out of hand.... There, you see, they're all wheelin' round. That'll be the wind up. Yes, they're drawn up in line; officers called to the front. Now the inspecting officer is makin' a few remarks, butterin' 'em up all round, you know. It's all over.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Really? It's been a great success, hasn't it? I enjoy a review so much better when they don't have any horrid firing. Don't you?

[Captain CLINKER _assents, to save trouble_.

* * * * *

ON THE WAY HOME.

_George's Rival_ (_reflectively_). 'Twas onfortnate fur GARGE, him bein' th' only man as fell arf, so 'twas.

_The Adored One._ He didn't fall off--he only fell _out_. Didn't you hear him tellin' me the buckle of his stirrup broke?

_George's Rival._ Buckle or nawn, he come arf; that's all I'm sayin'. An' showed his sense, too, by keepin' out o' th' rest on it. But GARGE was allays a keerful sart o' chap.

* * * * *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

["At the Ludlow County Police Court, on May 27, Sir CHARLES ROUSE BOUGHTON, Baronet, of Downton Hall, a Justice of the Peace, applied for a protection order against Mr. JOHN BADDELEY WOOD, of Henley Hall, a Justice of the Peace. The parties had a dispute over a waterway, and on leaving Middleton Church on Sunday, Mr. WOOD, it was alleged, used coarse language to Sir CHARLES, and called him a liar three times. Sir CHARLES said he was in bodily fear of Mr. WOOD, and thought if sureties to keep the peace were applied for he should be safer. The Bench granted the summons."--_The Sheffield and Rotherham Independent._]

Sure, WOOD and BOUGHTON might full well By closest ties be knit; But water's caused them both to swell, And brought about a split. And now within their bosoms housed Blind anger courses madly, Sir CHARLES'S temper has been Roused, And WOOD has lost his, Baddeley.

* * * * *