Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 109, 24th August, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

THE IRISH YOLK.--In the name of the Profit--eggs! Irish co-operators have already made giant strides in the production of milk and butter, and now the Irish Co-operative Agency has decided, so says the _Cork Daily Herald_, to "take up the egg-trade." We hope the egg-traders won't be "taken up," too; if so, the trade would be arrested just when it was starting, and where would the profit be then? "It is stated that many Irish eggs now reach the English market dirty, stale, and unsorted," so that wholesale English egg-merchants have preferred to buy Austrian and French ones. Ireland not able to compete with the foreigner! Perish the thought! A little technical education judiciously applied will soon teach the Irish fowl not to lay "shop 'uns."

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Feathers in Scotch Caps.

"The railway race to the North, like the race across the Atlantic, has placed beyond challenge that on land as well as on sea Scotch engines break the record."--_North British Daily Mail._

Did not Lord BYRON anticipate this when he wrote (in _Mr. Punch's_ version of his poem on "Dark Lochnagar"):--

Yes, Caledonia, thy engines _are_ scrumptious, Though even in England some good ones are seen; And, if the confession won't render you bumptious, We sigh for your flyers to far Aberdeen!

But if Caledonia is inclined to boast about its locomotives, let it ponder its tinkers, and learn humility. The Glasgow "Departmental Committee on Habitual Offenders, Vagrants, &c.," reports that the nomad tinkers of Scotland number 1702, and of these 232 "were apprehended for some crime or other during the year." _They_ don't do 151 miles in 167 minutes, like the locomotives--no, they do a couple of months in Glasgow gaol; and they break the laws instead of breaking records. There are 725 tinker children, who get practically no education. Bonnie Scotland, land of grandeur, where the thousand tinkers wander, you must catch these children, and educate them! The adult tinker may be irreclaimable, but at least the children should have a chance of something better--a choice of being soldier, sailor, tinker, or tailor, as they prefer. If, after all, they elect to tink, tink they must.

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DR. JOHN RHYS, of Jesus College, Oxford, quite rose to the occasion at the New Quay, Eisteddfod, and, in his presidential address, made lengthy quotations in Welsh. "Na chaib a rhaw" must mean "nor cares a rap." By the way, the _South Wales Daily News_, in reporting the proceedings, finishes up by declaring that "the speech was listened to with '_wrapt_' attention." As Mrs. MALAPROP remarked, "The parcel was enraptured in brown paper."

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ROBERT UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

Me and a werry old Frend of mine has seized the hoppertoonity that ardly ever okkers to too frends as has little or nothink to do for a hole week, to thurrowly enjoy theirselves for that time, and see weather sutten places in our little world is reelly as butiful and as injoyable as sum peeple tries to make out as they is. Our fust place was Epping Forrest, where we spent a hole day from morning to nite in what my frend called such a gallaxy of buty and wunder as werry likely werry few peeple ever has injoyd as we did. We spent hole miles among the most butiful Forest Trees as was ever seed, every single tree of which was rather more butiful than the last, and not one of which but what was a reel bootiful studdy. It took us jest about two hours to eat our dinner afore we set to work again to pollish off the lovely trees we had not yet seen; and then, when we had pollished off the last of them, we staggered to our werry last carridge, and took the sleep of the Just, and did not wake up till Brekfust come kindly to our assistance, and helped us to sett out and try again to dishcover similar seens of delishus injoyment to those so marwellusly injoyed the day before!

The trees as we xamined on the secund day was quite a diffrent class to them on the fust, and emused us every bit as delifefully as the fust sett, tho they was quite a diffrent sett altogether. In won place we drove bang into the wery middel of the thickest wood, and there we both lost ourselves for nearly three ours, but it wasn't a minnet too much for us, for we both agreed that, upon the hole, it was about the werry loveliest part of the hole day's proceedens, and that we shoud not regret havin to repeat it the next day. Oh them hundereds and thowsends of lovely Trees! every one of which seems far more butiful than the last, and quite equal to any we had yet seen. At one place we was showed the place where Good Quean ALIZEBETH always went up stairs on Orseback, coz she did not like going up stairs in public. At another we was showed where the present QUEEN sat in her privet Carridge, and made the hole nayberhood bow to her by the hunderd. TOM and Me both went up to the werry place, and pinted it out to them as didn't kno it, which made us both feel werry grand. The werry next day we had made all our derangements for follering up our prewius wisitashun, and making a grand fi-nayle of the hole lovely affare, when, to our tremenjus disapintment, the wind begun for to blow most orfully, and the rain begun for to rain wus as I beleeves, and as TOM beleeves, than ewer it did afore, and so we was both obleeged for to leeve our truly lovely forests, and defer our tree climing till a much more drier hoppertoonity, which we both bleeves will appear in about a week, and then we shall renew our grand old wisit as before, and lern again to beleeve in our hundereds and thowsends of the most buteful trees as ewen old hingland can brag about, as the most lovelyest as the world ewer saw.

And to think that all the lovely places as we seed in them three lovely days is past and gorn for the present, makes us long only the more artily for the glorius days still in store for us!

ROBERT.

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SERGEANT-MAJOR and Mrs. BAKER were one of a trio of couples successful in winning their claim to the prize of a flitch of bacon at Dunmow. Three hundred and sixty-six days of married life without a flitch--we should say, hitch--in the flow of amicable intercourse is, nowadays, a marvellous achievement, and merits due recognition. We, however, commiserate the gallant and hambitions sergeant-major on having his matrimonial intentions aspersed by the opposing counsel, who, in attempting to "save the bacon," suggested that "BAKER had one eye on the lady and the other eye on the flitch." The prospect of a reward even "more lasting than ham" would hardly, it is to be feared, serve to keep ordinary couples from "tiffs" for the space of a year and a day continuously.

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THE RED ORCHID.

(_Soliloquy of a Victorious Statesman._)

[Mr. CHAMBERLAIN at the opening of Parliament wore a red orchid in his buttonhole.]

Of colour-symbols much we hear, And something, too, of colour-music; But here's a sight that much I fear Will make the beaten Red Rad crew sick: Red! 'Tis the hue of my old flag-- In days that are as dead as mutton; Now, with the instinct of a wag, I sport it still,--but at my button. It signifies how much I care For the "consistency," quite brainless, Which is the Radical bugbear. Their poisoned darts are harmless, painless. _JUDAS?_ Egregious TANNER tries, In vain, to link me with ISCARIOT. What need I care for envious lies, With S. and B. bound to my chariot. They'd bite my heel, I crush their head, And wear their colour in--my orchid! Red! It will make the Rads "see red," They're fangless, though their tongues be forkèd. "They toil not, neither do they spin,"-- I said, of the old Tory lilies. Now they will have to work, to win, And that the Rads don't see--the sillies! SALISBURY'S Tories were one thing, My Unionists are another matter; My Ransom-Song no more I sing,-- Then I was bowler, now I'm batter. We have new wickets, smooth and dry, And one who coolly smites and places, May, with firm wrist and steady eye, Outshine the greatest of the Graces, "The white flower of a blameless life" Is--well, laid up at last at Harwarden, Sheltered from storm, afar from strife, And--other blossoms deck the garden. Roses and lilies had their turn, Now other blooms woo sun and showers; And the Red Orchid--well, they'll learn-- In time--the new Language of Flowers! Of parasitic opulence Orchids are types, it will be said, The difference though may be immense When the new Orchid's _mine_--and Red!

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THE NEARLY REACHED SHILLING.

(_A School-Board Chronicle._)

"Utterly impossible!" replied the official. "A good plain cook! No, the Board does not create persons of that kind. If you had wanted a _chef_ for a club, or a _cordon bleu_ for a West End hotel, we might have accommodated you. But a good plain cook! No--utterly impossible!"

"But surely cookery is taught in the schools," pleaded the Ratepayer.

"Assuredly. And very well taught too. But whom would be satisfied with a mutton-chop? We aim at something higher. Our scholars are equal to producing _sole à gratin_, or _suprême de volaille_. And you don't require those _plats_ every day of your life, now do you?"

"Then, can I have a housemaid?"

"I am afraid not. Since music has become one of the recognised branches of study, we do not obtain many candidates for the task of stair-sweeping. And it is not surprising. A girl who can play the piano, or lead a chorus, is surely worthy of a better fate than that which usually falls to the lot of a servant in a middle-class establishment."

"I suppose it is useless to ask you if you can give me the name of a boy in buttons?"

"Quite. To tell you the truth, we do not encourage such appointments. Our lads are wanted at their studies until they are growing too old to be young pages. Then, when they have reached the required standard their literary attainments entitle them to something superior to the post of a drudge in the pantry."

"Then what do you propose doing with your charges?" asked the Ratepayer, who was rapidly becoming resigned to his position.

"Well, our _chefs_ must wait until the time arrives when there will be enough clubs and West End hotels to secure the benefit of their services."

"And the musicians?"

"They, too, at present are rather a drug in the market. But who knows? Some day there may be a huge demand for pianoforte players."

"And the literary lads?"

"Most admirably adapted for clerkships, but the clerical labour market is as dull as the proverbial ditchwater. Still, things may revive. But for the present they must hope and wait."

"And I provide the funds for all this?" cried the Ratepayer.

"You do," returned the official promptly. "This year it will be elevenpence halfpenny in the pound, and next probably considerably higher. But then you see--_it is quite worth the money!_"

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A LITTLE HOLIDAY.

(_By Our Own Enterprising Explorer._)

"Why not go to Amsterdam?" At first sight this conundrum had the customary couple of answers, "No time, no money." But these were incorrect solutions.

"My dear Sir," said the Secretary of a Society organised to bring happiness into the humblest home (pronunciation with or without aspirates, according to the taste of the speaker), taking me up smartly, "you can get there in less than no time, remain there less than no time, and be back in less than no time. We can manage that for you."

"But the expense?"

"We should not be a Society organised to bring happiness into the humblest home if we could not manage that also. Look here: start Day 1 at 6.30 P.M.; be in Amsterdam morning of Day 2. Pause of thirty-six hours for refreshment; then back again to London in time for breakfast on Day 4. And with a view to bringing happiness into the humblest home we charge a guinea for travelling expenses, which includes a state cabin in the saloon of an excellent boat."

So I closed with the Secretary, and brought away happiness to my humble home. On the whole that happiness was maintained. It is true that the excellent boat was rather leisurely in her movements. I went to the Hook of Holland in a gale, which was kind enough to wait for my return off the Dutch coast, and accompany me back to the white cliffs of Albion. The excellent boat seemed to be on quite friendly terms with this gale, and to enjoy its company. Instead of flying from shore to shore, after the fashion of other steamers, the excellent boat toyed with each wave, lingered languidly amongst every billow, and arrived at her destination, both coming and going, several hours late. She appeared during the voyages to keenly appreciate a characteristic movement in sea. That characteristic movement in sea produced more gravity than gaiety amongst the passengers. Leaving the excellent boat out of the question--which boat, by the way, would no doubt have been more than excellent _minus_ the gale--the journey "there and back" was accomplished with comfort and despatch.

On my arrival at Amsterdam I found myself in a city that, in its main characteristics, was not entirely unlike Brixton. The shops and the people were both suggestive of the southern suburb. The trams that, according to the guide-books, "traversed the town in every direction," were also reminiscent of that delightful haven of rest (from Saturday to Monday) of the overworked stockbroker and the underworked Government _employé_.

"You are sure to like Amsterdam," a friend of mine had said, as he pressed my hand at parting, "because it's exactly like the Regent's Park Canal."

My friend was right. Amsterdam certainly resembles the Regent's Park Canal, but _plus_ Brixton. No doubt it is for this reason that it is sometimes called "the Northern Venice." The people, too, had a suburban look about them. I felt sure that most of them were called SMITH, BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON, with perhaps a conventional "dam" tacked on to the end of their names to show that by nationality they were Dutchmen. I approached one of these good, honest creatures, who looked like SMITHDAM, and in my best broken English asked for the Hotel Amstel. I pronounced the latter word as if the last syllable rhymed with "peal." Mr. SMITHDAM stared at me and shook his head. Then he said "Nine."

"'Otel Amstale," I continued, with a new pronunciation. "You know what mean I--'Otel Amstale?"

But Mr. SMITHDAM didn't. He smiled, and again shook his head. This annoyed me, so I murmured, "What an ass this chap must be; fancy not knowing the way to the Amstel Hotel!"

"Amstel Hotel," he cried, with a pronunciation infinitely more English than my own, and then most courteously gave me the route. I thanked him with effusion, and most probably should have found his directions of infinite value had he but delivered them in English instead of Dutch. As it was, I put myself into a London-looking cab (the driver very properly wore a military cockade), and was soon at one of the best hostelries in Holland. Situation pleasant--of course overlooking a canal--rooms comfortable, kitchen all that could be desired.

And now what did I do in Amsterdam? Why, I went to the Exhibition. And what was it like? Well, a Dutch edition of those that had gone before. At the Naval display before the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, there was a model of the _Victory_, with a representation in wax of the Death of Nelson. At Amsterdam there is a model of a mail-boat, with a representation (in breathing humanity) of people drinking beer.

At Paris there was a Tour Eiffel, with a magnificent view at the summit; at Amsterdam there is a tower in the shape of a colossal elephant, with a fine display on every floor of beer. At South Kensington there was a realistic reproduction of Old London on temperance principles. At Amsterdam there is a realistic reproduction of Old Holland served with beer. Go where I would I ran across beer. The grounds of the Exhibition were dotted with booths. Before many of them were very decent orchestras discoursing sweet music. But the foreigners were there not only to attend to the music, but to drink beer. The Exhibition proper (contents small and select, with few English exhibits) was not apparently much of an attraction. I readily understood the reason--it was not devoted exclusively to beer. In what I may term the Exhibition annex I found any number of specimens of the oriental merchants in the fezes, who were wont in the olden days to enhance the joys of Olympia and Earl's Court.

"Come here, gentlemans," cried half a dozen in a breath, "I will sell you this!"

But they didn't. Having done the exhibition and the admirable museum, with its wonderful armour and marvellous old masters, I sampled a music hall. I went to "the Crystal Palace" (vide guide-books), a magnificent building, that no doubt had been built with the highest aspirations and had come in the progress of time to the loftiest tumblings. A portion of this noble institution had been converted into a place of entertainment. Small stage with miniature scenery, trapeze, orchestra. Audience almost entirely Dutch, entertainment almost entirely English. Several British singers. One, a gentleman in evening dress covered by a long Newmarket overcoat, with a _répertoire_ redolent of Holborn and the Surrey side, sang about "Nine in a row" who (so I understood him to assert) "rolled down the street" when (if I am not mistaken) they were rather "rocky about their feet." Then he had another ditty which referred to his want of value. Was he worth anything? He appealed to the Dutch audience. Some of them (possibly friends of the singer) replied in the negative. Then he expressed his conviction that he ought to be chucked out. The spectators cheered, and seemed well satisfied with the programme. Whether they were able to appreciate all the topical allusions is open to doubt, but I am certain that they were thoroughly enjoying their beer.

I went to the market. An enormous crowd surrounded one booth. The salesman was singing a song in honour of his wares, which were composed of pieces of broken iron! So far as I could understand the manners and customs of the vendors, the golden rule seemed to be amongst them, "When in doubt take off the door to the outhouse with the three broken panes of glass, the back parlour chandelier that lacks a chain, and the disused baby's cradle, and sell 'em all by auction."

I looked in, of course, at the Cathedral. My guide could not speak French, but he understood English. He showed me the tombs of several admirals.

"Where is VAN TROMP?" I asked, taking an interest in the career of about the only Dutchman whose name I know intimately. Then, to make it plainer, I added, "Whar is das VAN TROMP?"

My guide turned up his nose contemptuously, and said something (so far as I could comprehend him) about VAN TROMP being in "de odder kirsher." Later on, when I asked the use of a sort of vestry, he murmured something about "Balaclava." From this I took it that he could not make himself understood. But I was wrong. I did not know much about the Dutch coinage. When I bought anything I invariably kept my hand waiting for change until the supply was exhausted. Sometimes I put forth my hand a second time with the result of getting a few extra coins. There are guilders, little pieces that look like a doll's silver pennies, and a showy coin that suggests a sixpence in a decline. These latter are worth, I fancy, about three halfpence a dozen. I gave the cathedral custodian one of these sixpences in a decline. But it was not enough, not nearly enough, so I exchanged it for a doll's silver penny, when he beamed with gratitude.

Would that I could tell of the other attractions of Amsterdam, of the Royal Palace, the Zoo, the theatres, and the canals. But exigencies of time and space say "No." Those who want to see and hear have only one thing to do. Let them hie to the Hook of Holland, ho, to the Dutch capital, and further description will be unnecessary.

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During a severe thunderstorm at Bjelina, in Bosnia, according to the _Pall Mall Gazette's_ "Science Notes," there fell a remarkable "shower of whitebait." This phenomenon has been easily eclipsed at London, in England, where it recently rained cats and dogs.

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CHEEK!

["Blackberry or strawberry juice rubbed slightly on the cheeks, and then washed off with milk gives a beautiful tint. The garden-beet is also an excellent cosmetic: the beet is cut and the juice applied gently with a camel's hair brush."--_Announcement quoted by Mr. James Payn in "Our Note Book," "Illustrated News."_]

Alas for the bard's and the _ingénue's_ dream!-- Even Nature, it seems, joins Art's plot to betray us. We've heard cheeks compared to strawberries and cream, But that earth's sweetest fruit such a false trick should play us, In conspiracy base with fresh milk from the cow, Brings the red flush of wrath to the snowiest brow.

What, sweet Mother Nature lend aid to a cheat, And play Madame RACHEL in faking complexions! Arcadia's vanished, naught's native or sweet, The daintiest Beauty wakes doubtful reflections, When for ought we can tell her ingenuous blush Is--a compound of beet and a camel's-hair brush!

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

It is a great thing to know--and one must believe it if one believes, as I do, in what the newspapers say--that every single male member of the upper or fashionable ranks of society is at this moment engaged in slaughtering grouse. It is of course well known that every member of Parliament is, on his election, presented by a grateful country with a large and well-stocked grouse-moor, situated in one of the most picturesque and romantic parts of Scotland, and no one (not even a brewer) is ever raised to the peerage unless he can prove that at least three generations of his family have shot grouse regularly on the 12th of August on a moor of their own. Thus is the connection of both branches of our legislature with sport safeguarded.

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