Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 22, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

It has been noticed by philosophers that a mere name will often lead a man to his ruin. Why, for example, was JOHN DARLEY fined twenty shillings and costs at the Tynemouth Petty Sessions? He met a boiler-smith, RICHARD ROTHWELL, riding on a bicycle. Thereupon, without any apparent reason, he used abusive language, bashed the unoffending boiler-smith on the nose, brandished a knife, and shouted out, "Come on!--I'm JOHNNY DARLEY, from Byker." There you have it. Residing, as he did, in a perpetual comparative, he naturally despised and loathed the positive "byke." Hence his violent assault on its rider.

* * *

I observe, with deep regret, that Professor LLOYD, of Southport, has been fined for trespassing on a railway bridge at Preston. The Professor did not want to stay there. All he wished to do, and all that he actually did, was to dive off into the water below. He is an aquatic Professor, and informed the Bench that he was obliged to do these things to keep up his reputation.

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I'll tell you a tale of Professor LLOYD, Who dived off a bridge at Preston-- An act that the magistrates much annoyed, Though he kept both his coat and vest on. They said "You mustn't repeat this joke, Professor, or else you'll rue it." But LLOYD, the Professor, he up and spoke, And said, "I'm obliged to do it. Up on the bridge I stand for awhile, I stand till I fairly shiver. Then down I go--it seems like a mile-- And I plunge in the bubbling river. I hope your worships won't "queer my pitch," For I'm sorry to give you trouble In maintaining a reputation which Is so closely combined with bubble."

* * *

I wish I had been in Hawick lately. Ever since I first learnt the rudiments of the English language I have been haunted by a desire to know how a man looked and acted when he "bussed the Standard." They've done that at Hawick "in connection," as I read, "with the celebration of the ancient custom of the Common Riding." Later on "the local slogan '_Teribus_' was sung with great vigour." There is something crushing, scattering, and battle-heralding about the mere sound of that fearful word.

* * *

J. B., who describes himself as "A Residenter in Oswald Road," writes to _The Scotsman_ to complain of the flimsy material used in the construction of the lamp-posts near his dwelling. The other day a milk-van ran away--at least, the horse drawing it did. "One would think," says J. B., "the progress of such a small vehicle would have been arrested by coming into collision with one lamp-post, but four posts were destroyed by the van. On examination it is found that the foundation of a street lamp-post only goes three inches into the stone below it. With such a short hold the lamp-post is easily toppled over." Of course it is. To fix lamp-posts so inadequately gives a direct encouragement to milk-vans to run away and attempt their destruction. Let the Lord Provost of Edinburgh look to it.

* * *

The Master and the Matron of the workhouse at Stratford-on-Avon have resigned, and the guardians have been "considerably discussing" the appointment of their successors. Eventually it was resolved, not only to reduce the salaries, but also--hear this, ye licensed victuallers!--to cut off the beer-money hitherto paid. What dignity can possibly attach to a workhouse officer who has to pay for his own beer? It is by such insidious attacks as this that the foundations of public confidence are shaken, and the whole fabric of the Constitution is endangered. My mind misgives me when I attempt to forecast the future of Stratford.

* * *

At Tetbury there is a lodge of the recently-established Conservative Working Men's Benefit Society. It is called--_absit omen_--the Trouble House Lodge, and quite recently it held a _fête_ and dinner. 'Tis always _fête_-day somewhere in the world. Indeed, the amount of _fêtes_ that take place on any given day in provincial England is astounding. Without frequent _fêtes_ no district can be considered respectable.

* * *

In the world that we live in our troubles are great; To add to their number is scarcely the game. Nay, how can these lodgers delight in their _fête_, With perpetual trouble attached to their name?

* * *

At Owens College, Manchester, so I gather from the letter of "An Old Student" in _The Manchester Guardian_, some of the students are beginning to feel, that "while its teaching of specific subjects is admirable, in fact, unsurpassed, its general education--that education which consists in the development of men--has not yet reached the same level." They therefore wish to develop athletics, and by making the modest subscription of 10_s._ 6_d._ compulsory on all, "to decoy the unathletic man into taking exercise almost without knowing it." At present only 150 out of 800 students pay up. I heartily commend this proposal, though I confess I should like to know what sort of exercise it is that a man can take almost without knowing it. Let the unathletic man be decoyed by all means, but let him thoroughly understand that he is to take exercise, and take it, if possible, with reasonable violence.

* * *

MR. N. F. DRUCE, of Cambridge, is, as I write, at the head of the batting averages of this year, and next to him comes the marvellous W. G.

Ye batsmen attend, of my hints make a use, And consider the greatness of GRACE and of DRUCE. If you wish to make hundreds your names, you'll agree Must be monosyllabic and end with c, e.

* * * * *

ASCOT.

_To Monsieur Punch._

_Cher Monsieur_,--Last year I am gone to your races of Ascot. It is beautiful, it is ravishing, but how it is dear! Thousand thunders, how it is dear! I go to the _Grand Prix_, I pay twenty francs, that is also dear, but it is all, it is finished. Eh well, I desire to see one time your Gold Cup, and I go of good hour by railway. Arrived there I pay one pound, that what you call one sov., and I enter. I suppose I can go by all--_partout_, how say you? Ah, but no! I see by all some _affiches_ "One Pound."

I can to write your language enough well, but I speak with much of difficulty. Therefore I read the affixes without nothing to ask. Thus when I read "One Pound" I go no more far. I walk myself in the charming garden and I see the beautiful misses. Ah how they are adorable! DAUDET has wrong, DAUDET is imbecile, they are adorable. It is not the pain to pay again some pounds for to see to run the horses, when I can to see the misses who walk themselves here, without to pay of more.

But in fine I am fatigued. Also I have great hunger, for it is the hour of the _déjeuner_. But without doubt one is obliged to pay one pound before to enter the bar. My word, I will not! I shall not pay one sov., and more, for a squashed lemon and a bun of Bath. I go to smoke at place of that, and I walk myself at the shade all near of an arch.

All of a blow all the world lifts himself and comes very quick towards me. I cannot escape, I am carried away by the crowd, I arrive to the arch. I think "_Du courage, AUGUSTE mon cher! Sois calme! S'il y a encore une livre à payer----_" But there is no sov., and I pass. Thousand thunders! What is, then, this noise? Is he a revolution, a riot of Anarchists? Ah, no! It are the bookmakers. The bookmakers in the midst of the ladies! Hold, it is droll! And I pay one sov. to stand with those men there! It is too strong! I go more far, I pass the barrier, I am alone on the grass. I go to left. I see some men, in a cage of iron, who cry also. It is--how say you?--"Tatersal." Then, ah heaven, I arrive at the true _Pesage!_ Not of burgesses, not of villain beasts of bookmakers, not even of "Tatersals." But _partout_ the ladies the most beautiful, the most charming, the most adorable! It is there I go! Even if I pay one sov., two sovs., three sovs., I go!

I essay to enter. The policeman stops me. I say, "One pound?" and I offer to him one sov. He looks all around, and then he says, quite low, "No good, Sir--the inspector's looking." I say, "She is good, that pound there, I assure you of it. Is there two to pay?" And I hold one other. Then the inspector comes and says I bribe the policeman. I say that no. He says that yes. I am furious. I say I pay the entrance. He says, "Get off the course." I refuse. He pushes me. I resist. Other policemen push me. Just heaven, they force me to go! I cannot resist. Then all the people in face cry furiously. They shout "Welshman!" How they are stupid! Can they think that I am a Welshman--me, AUGUSTE? Ah, that it is droll! Then the policemen run, and I run also. I wish not to run, but I am forced. And, in fine, we are at the railway station, and they put me in a train, and I arrive to London at three o'clock. See there all that I have seen of your races of Ascot, and I have paid one sov. It costs very dear.

Sincere friendships, AUGUSTE.

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* * * * *

* * * * *

THE MAN AND THE MAID.

(_Up-to-date "Biking" Version._)

"Where are you going, young Man?" cried the Maid. "I'm going a cycling, Miss!" he said. "May I come with you, young Man?" asked the Maid. "Why. ye-e-es, if you feel like it, Miss!" he said. "But--why do I find you like Man arrayed?" "Oh, knickers are cumfy, young Man!" she said. "But the boys will chevvy you, Miss, I'm afraid!" "What does _that_ matter, young Man?" she said. "Are you a Scorcher, young Man?" asked the Maid. "Nothing so vulgar, fair Miss!" he said. "Then I don't think much of you!" mocked the Maid. "Neither does 'ARRY, sweet Miss!" he said. "What is your ideal, young Man?" said the Maid. "A womanly Woman, fair Miss" he said. "Then _I_ can't marry you, Sir!" cried the Maid. "Thank heaven for _that_, manly Miss!" he said.

* * * * *

A RULE OF CONDUCT.

You _say_ to a man what you _couldn't_ write to him; and you _write_ to a man what you _wouldn't_ say to him.--JAMES THE TRAN-QUILL PENMAN, J.P.

* * * * *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

A famous old mill has been burned to the ground. None other than that situate upon the river Dee, where a certain jolly miller sang songs and earned the envy of "bluff King HAL" in days of old, wearing the white flour of a blameless life. He also wore a white hat, for the purpose, it is said, of keeping his head warm. The modern miller wears one in summer to keep his head cool. No doubt he found it useful at the fire. Great thing to keep a cool head on such occasions. The mill has now been destroyed by fire four times. There was an ancient prophecy, according to a local paper, that it was doomed to be burned down three times. This Delphic oracle would, of course, have inspired the simple gentlemen of old Greece to give up insuring after the third fire. Probably the modern "miller of the Dee" has committed a paradox, and profited by a lofty disregard for his prophet.

* * *

All Saints Church, Old Swan, is the first Liverpool church which has adopted the innovation of lady choristers wearing the new surplices and caps, which have been specially designed for their use. The surplices are quite unlike those used by the clergy; they are more like dolmans. The caps are of the shape worn by a D.C.L., and are made of violet velvet. One of the most cogent reasons for their adoption is expressed by the Rev. Canon WILKINSON, who, as appears from the _Sheffield and Rotherham Independent_, writes thus:--"Since these garments have been introduced, the offertories in the church have been increased by at least one-third."

* * * * *

INTERNATIONAL DISCOURTESY.--The French law, it seems, requires the owner of a yacht, in which he is himself sailing, to supply stores of victual and drink for his crew. A French yacht put in at Dartmouth, says the _Field_, and the Dartmouth Custom-house officials darted down on her, and made the owner pay for what he used of his own. "They manage these things better in France." This would have been indeed, "a This would have been indeed, "a 'Custom' more honoured in the breach than in the observance."

* * * * *

RUS IN URBE

A SKETCH IN REGENT'S PARK.

SCENE--_A railed-in corner of the Park._ TIME--_about_ 7 P.M. _Inside the inclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing the park sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient on its back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and tucked its head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence, neatly away under one of his arms, while he reaches for the shears. The second is straddled across his animal, which is lying with its hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm, in a state of stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly snipped from under its chin. The third operator has almost finished his sheep, which, as its dark gray fleece slips away from its pink-and-white neck and shoulders, suggests a rather_ décolletée _dowager in the act of removing her theatre-cloak in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie and pant in shamed and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble the blades of grass, as if to assure themselves that that resource is still open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which seems to express that their own superior respectability is a sufficient protection against similar outrage. The shearers appear to take a humorous view of their task, and are watched by a crowd which has collected round the railings, with an agreeable assurance that they are not expected to contribute towards the entertainment._

_First Work-Girl_ (_edging up_). Whatever's goin' on inside 'ere? (_After looking--disappointed._) Why, they aint on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that.

_Second Work-Girl_ (_with irony_). They _look_ like Reciters, don't they! It do seem a shime cuttin' them poor things as close as convicks, that it do!

_First W. G._ They don't mind it partickler; you'd 'ear 'em 'oller fast enough if they did.

_Second W. G._ I expeck they feel so ridic'lus, they 'aven't the 'art to 'oller.

_Lucilla_ (_to_ GEORGE). Do look at that one going up and sniffing at the bundles of fleeces, trying to find out which is his. _Isn't_ it pathetic?

_George._ H'm--puts one in mind of a shy man in a cloak-room after a party, saying feebly, "I rather think that's _my_ coat, and there's a crush-hat of mine _somewhere_ about," eh?

_Lucilla_ (_who is always wishing that_ GEORGE _would talk more sensibly_). Considering that sheep don't _wear_ crush-hats, I hardly see how----

_George._ My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge of natural history. Now you mention it, I believe it _is_ unusual. But I merely meant to suggest a general resemblance.

_Lucilla_ (_reprovingly_). I know. And you've got into such a silly habit of seeing resemblances in things that are perfectly different. I'm sure I'm _always_ telling you of it.

_George._ You are, my dear. But I'm not nearly so bad as I _was_. Think of all the things I used to compare _you_ to before we were married!

_Sarah Jane_ (_to her_ Trooper). I could stand an' look on at 'em hours, I could. I was born and bred in the country, and it do seem to bring back my old 'ome that plain.

_Her Trooper._ I'm country bred, too, though yer mightn't think it. But there ain't much in sheep shearin' to _my_ mind. If it was _pig killin'_, now!

_Sarah Jane._ Ah, that's along o' your bein' in the milingtary, I expect.

_Her Trooper._ No, it ain't that. It's the reckerlections it 'ud call up. I 'ad a 'ole uncle a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (_with sentiment_) many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a boy----

[_He indulges in tender reminiscences._

_A Young Clerk_ (_who belongs to a Literary Society, to his_ Fiancée). It has a wonderfully rural look--quite like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't it?

_His Fiancée_ (_who has "no time for reading rubbish"_). I daresay; though I've never been there myself.

_The Clerk._ Never been? Oh, I see. You thought I said _Arden_--the Forest of Arden, in SHAKSPEARE, didn't you?

_His Fiancée._ Isn't that where Mr. GLADSTONE lives, and goes cutting down the trees in?

_The Clerk._ No; at least it's spelt different. But it was 'ARDY _I_ meant. _Far from the Madding Crowd_, you know.

_His Fiancée_ (_with a vague view to the next Bank Holiday_). What do you _call_ "far"--farther than _Margate_?

[_Her companion has a sense of discouragement._

_An Artisan_ (_to a neighbour in broadcloth and a whitechoker_). It's wonderful 'ow they can go so close without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?

_His Neighbour_ (_with unction_). Ah, my friend, it on'y shows 'ow true it is that 'eving tempers the shears for the shorn lambs!

_A Governess_ (_instinctively, to her charge_). Don't you think you ought to be very grateful to that poor sheep, ETHEL, for giving up her nice warm fleece on purpose to make a frock for _you?_

_Ethel_ (_doubtfully_). Y--yes, Miss MAVOR. But (_with a fear that some reciprocity may be expected of her_) she's too big for any of my _best_ frocks, _isn't_ she?

_First Urchin_ (_perched on the railings_). Ain't that 'un a-kickin'? 'E don't like 'aving '_is_ 'air cut, 'e don't, no more shouldn't I if it was me.... 'E's bin an' upset 'is bloke on the grorss, now! Look at the bloke layin' there larfin'.... 'E's ketched 'im agin now. See 'im landin' 'im a smack on the 'ed; that'll learn 'im to stay quiet, eh? 'E's strong, ain't 'e?

_Second Urchin._ Rams is the wust, though, 'cause they got 'orns, rams 'ave.

_First Urch._ What, same as goats?

_Second Urch._ (_emphatically_). Yuss! Big crooked 'uns. And runs at yer, they do.

_First Urch._ I wish they was rams in 'ere. See all them sheep waitin' to be done. I wonder what they're finkin' of.

_Second Urch._ Ga-arn! They _don't_ fink, sheep don't.

_First Urch._ Not o' anyfink?

_Second Urch._ Na-ow! They aint got nuffink to fink _about_, sheep ain't.

_First Urch._ I lay they _do_ fink, orf an' on.

_Second Urch._ Well, I lay _you_ never see 'em doin' of it!

[_And so on. The first Shepherd disrobes his sheep, and dismisses it with a disrespectful spank. After which he proceeds to refresh himself from a brown jar, and hands it to his comrades. The spectators look on with deeper interest, and discuss the chances of the liquid being beer, cider, or cold tea, as the scene closes._

* * * * *

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Tuesday._--Grand night. Memorable for _rentrée_ of ADELINA PATTI. She has been absent from C. G. Opera many years. Welcome little stranger! Absence makes hearts fonder, and so Big Heart of Big House, crowded right up to tipmost topmost, goes out to ADELINA PATTI reappearing as radiant _Violetta_, the Consumptive Cocotte and heroine of _La Traviata_. Quite in best Tra-la-la-viata form is our PATTI to-night. The knowing ones observe high keys politely transposed to suit ADELINA. But what manager could refuse to _put down the notes_ when ADELINA agrees to sing? All come in early. Upper parts of House at Lowest prices either breakfasted or lunched on doorstep, waiting for Warbler to commence. Warbler begins 8.30 sharp. "8.30 sharp" maybe, but Warbler neither sharp nor flat; in perfect tune. DE LUCIA first rate as poor, spoony little _Alfredo_; and ANCONA admirable as Old Original G. G., _i.e._, _Georgy Germont_. "_Pura siccome_," and "_Parigi o cara_," old friends all, come out as fresh as ever, or fresher. Get story rather mixed up with that of _Manon_, which in some respects it resembles: _Violetta_ evidently _Manon's_ niece, or first cousin. Touchingly sympathetic acting on part of Mlle. BAUERMEISTER as the nurse (draught, &c., every hour, prescriptions carefully made up) attending on the suffering soprano. _Annina_ deeply touched by sad meeting between _Alfred_, "such a Daisy,"--or, such a "Lack-a-Daisy,"--and his sweet _Violet_.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Who won the battle of Tel-el-Kebir?" "I, said Cock HAMLEY, I won Tel-el-Kebir with my Highland Brigade." Mr. INNES SHAND'S life of General Sir E. B. HAMLEY (BLACKWOOD) is obviously published with chief intent of placing in permanent form HAMLEY'S claim in respect of this engagement. It is not a new story. It was published to the world soon after the event in the pages of a monthly magazine. The article, a model of terse, lucid, yet picturesque writing, is reproduced in these volumes. Whether accurate in detailed assertion and induction, or coloured by strong feeling, it is a melancholy story. Either HAMLEY was deliberately ignored in the Commander-in-Chief's despatches after Tel-el-Kebir, or he was under a remarkable hallucination. The affair is all the more curious since Sir GARNET WOLSELEY, as soon as he was appointed to the Egyptian command, sought out HAMLEY and offered him the command of one of the divisions of the expeditionary force. The secret of the estrangement which soon developed between the two soldiers is, my Baronite suspects, to be found in the characteristic fact that the very day the ship conveying Sir GARNET WOLSELEY arrived at Alexandria, HAMLEY went on board and proposed to show his chief how the enemy should be attacked. "He did not seem to wish to pursue the subject," HAMLEY writes in his diary, "and I soon after took leave." Other incidents, which HAMLEY hotly resented, culminated in the despatch to the War Office reporting the fight at Tel-el-Kebir, and ignoring the Highland Brigade, which, in the view of its commander, had borne the brunt of the battle. Some day Lord WOLSELEY may give his version of the affair. Meantime it gloomily stands forth in this record of a strenuous but, on the whole, a disappointed life. It is pleasant to learn that HAMLEY gratefully recognised in one of _Mr. Punch's_ Cartoons a powerful incentive to the course of public feeling which postponed his being shelved under the operation of the scheme of compulsory retirement by reason of age. The most charming passages in the book are the correspondence with the late Mr. BLACKWOOD, who opened to General HAMLEY the avenue to literary fame.

One of my Baronites of Irish extraction writes thusly:--"_A Tale of the Thames_ is the title of the Summer Number of _The Graphic_. It is written by J. ASHBY-STERRY, and illustrated by WILLIAM HATHERELL. The course of the story--or, rather, the watercourse of the story--covers a good deal of ground, embracing as it does, on both sides, most places of interest between the Source in Trewsbury Mead, Gloucestershire, and Hampton Court." Quoth the Baron, "I am all anxiety to see this tale of the Thames uncoil itself."