Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 109. OCTOBER 5, 1895.

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CRYSTALISED PALACE'D FRUITS.

Mr. PUNCH heartily congratulates the Royal Horticultural Society on their grand show of British-grown fruit (none "made in Germany"), and the Crystal Palace Company on the excellent arrangements made for the most advantageous display of these magnificent _fruits defendus_,--for "forbidden fruit" they certainly are, as, much to the disgust, probably, of the apothecaries and family doctors, the visitor may not taste any of the luscious specimens attractively set before him. They are all "_les pommes du voisin_," but though "forbidden" their appearance was anything but "forbidding." It came to an end last Saturday, when it is reported that all the fruits were safely got out of the building except one sleepy pear, whom nothing could arouse.

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THE INGOT AND OUTGOT SILVER CASE.--So far the police are to be congratulated. The detectives have acted with all the readiness and decision of a SHERLOCK HOLMES. Result so far is, that one HENRY BAILEY--name of not particularly happy omen in connection with a certain Old Bailey--is in custody, as also are four bars of silver. BAILEY was taking four bars rest when arrested and removed.

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THE RETREAT OF THE FIFTEEN THOUSAND.

(_A British Soldier's View of It._)

["The successful withdrawal, without a shot being fired, of the fifteen thousand men who held the long line from Peshawur to Chitral is a feat not less remarkable in its own way than their victorious advance."--_The Times._]

AIR--"_The Burial of Sir John Moore._"

NOT a shot was heard, not a stroke we smote, As we trod our home-journey unhurried. The papers about us wrote thundering rot, But Sir ROBERT kept cool and unflurried.

We'd had heat to encounter, and frost to fight, Alternately freezing and burning, And now UMRA KHAN and his hordes put to flight; We were quietly homeward returning.

Through the Malakand Pass we as conquerors pressed, And had vanquished the foe where we found him. Now, the garrison rescued, the wrong redressed, Low retired, with his thousands around him.

Few and short are the words he has said, From palaver no aid did he borrow; But many a face at their hearing flushed red, As will millions of others to-morrow.

Six months of hard struggle for heart, hand, and head, Rough plodding, and comfortless pillow. Now the foe and the native would stay our home-tread; There's news to despatch o'er the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the deeds we have done, And, some of them, coldly upbraid us. But little we'll reck if JOHN BULL will read on The tribute Sir ROBERT has paid us.

But half of our heavy task was through When Low passed the word for retiring; But the Fifteen Thousand in form withdrew Though without any fighting or firing.

We do not much care if _we_ don't win renown, Nor shine over brightly in story; We ask not a line--we crave not a stone, But we leave dear Old England the glory.

* * * * *

THE RECENT ANYTHING BUT "DEAD-HEAT."

_First Sportsman._ Awfully hot at Newmarket last week!

_Second S._ Thought it would be. Had "nothing on," so stayed at home, blinds down, windows open.

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"SCRAPS FROM CHAPS."--"CORKED" STOUT.--The Mitchelstown Guardians were debating on the stout supplied to pauper patients. A Mr. DINEEN proposed, "That in future the Treble X stout manufactured by Messrs. MURPHY, Cork, be used in the workhouse instead of GUINNESS'S." His argument was that "it would help a local manufacture," and that "the doctors all approved of MURPHY'S." The chairman suggested that they might "be doing an injustice to the patients by taking in MURPHY'S stout." Why not put the question to the patients? It is _they_ who will have to "take in MURPHY'S stout," not the guardians, and they are not likely to "do themselves the injustice" of refusing it if drinkable. MURPHY'S stout is evidently a light brew, as it was "carried by one." Another guardian described the resolution as a "blow which GUINNESS didn't deserve"; but GUINNESS survived the blow, and went up ten points on the Stock Exchange next day.

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PLAYING AT WORK.

A NEW MORALITY.

["The working woman of to-day, be she journalist, teacher, or what not, is suffering terribly from fierce competition, and this is largely due to the fact that women who are merely working for pleasure enter the labour market."--_"An Old-Fashioned Woman" in the "Daily Chronicle."_]

WHEN the Curse of Labour was laid on Man, Toil's visage glowered grimly, Alleviations of Fate's stern plan, The softening spirits in rear and van Of Labour's march through our Life's brief span, If seen, were glimpsed but dimly. Weariness followed, and dulness gloomed, On the path of mortals to hunger doomed, And poverty the spirit entombed As in all too premature charnel; The ache of limb and the fret of brain, The slow weak pulse, and the long dull pain, Grew all familiar; the spirit-strain, And the sullen revolt again and again, Of the spiritual and carnal. But though men knew that work and woe Were all too closely neighbour; One curse of Labour they did _not_ know; The black blight coming late and slow, Of the fools who _play_ at Labour!

Labour! Faith,'tis no passing play But the pack-horse burden day after day To be grimly gravely lifted. A leaden weight, and a mill-wheel round, By the player at labour but seldom found, Or the amateur--though gifted. Who has not seen a street-child run To turn an organ-handle--for fun-- With gay, erratic vigour? But the grinder who turns at it day by day Finds _Ah che la morte_ no pleasant play,-- _He_ works at it---"like a nigger." So "well-to-do women who crowd the ranks" Of Labour are playing but childish pranks; They are butterfly despoilers Of the honeyed hives of the working bees; They lower the wage and lessen the ease Of the true fate-destined toilers.[A]

"Work for mere _love!_" So the butterflies say, (Though they commonly stoop to the casual pay), Well, love _is_ blind--this sort of it. To teach for pin-money possibly's fun To those who're but dabblers when all is done, But the workers, when wages go down with a run, Can hardly see the sport of it. To play at philanthropy's mischievous, much, For sciolists mar whatsoever they touch; What if some Flower Girl Mission Destroy a trade, which seeks other lands, Or throw out of work some thousands of hands? Philanthropy hath no vision Save of its pretty and picturesque fad; And the destitute drudges, angry and sad, Whom deft flower-mounting once fed and clad Shall find redress a rarity. Don't play at Reform, it you love your neighbour! But well-to-do women, your "playing at Labour" Works worse than playing at Charity! Work? Well doubtless 'tis pleasant and "funny" For well,--"just a little pocket-money," To ape the bees who _must_ make the honey Day in, day out, for a living. But workers who labour for "bread and cheese," And not as a change from mere lady-like ease, Regard all such amateur, sham, busy-bees As needing, not praise, but forgiving. What if your work-dabbling, now quite the rage, Cut down the genuine workwoman's wage, Or pinch the poor ill-paid school teacher? "Every woman should work all she's able"? Maybe you need a new species of fable, A sager than copy-book preacher. "The Ant and the Grasshopper"? There lurketh Cant! If Grasshopper labour-spurts starve the poor Ant. If well-to-do woman work helps to spread want, This new-born blind zeal sense should bridle. There's fit work for all, some with spade, some with tabor; But Madam, if feminine "playing at Labour," Whilst needless to you, wrecks one workwoman neighbour, By Jove, you had better be idle!

[A] "In every branch of work we see well-to-do women crowding into the ranks of competition, in consequence of which wages are lowered, and women who really want work are left to starve." _Same Letter._

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"ALAS, POOR YORICK!"--HARRY PAYNE, the last of the good old JOEY-GRIMALDI school of Pantomime Clowns, "joined the majority," Friday. Sept. 27. For many years past the Clown's Christmas welcome, "Here we are again!" has been omitted, and, in the future, we are not likely to hear the exclamation revived. Farewell, HARRY PAYNE, "a fellow of infinite jest, and of excellent fancy!"

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ENGLAND AND AMERICA.--Successful MARLBOROUGH Match, following upon unsatisfactory DUNRAVEN race. Miss VANDERBILT decidedly winning. _Entente cordiale_ restored.

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LETTERS FROM A FIANCEE.

DEAR MARJORIE,--Thanks for your kind letter. I was hoping you would be pleased about my engagement.

It is most curious you should have guessed, without my telling you, and without even seeing his photograph, that his name is ARTHUR. I must tell you more about him. He is tall and handsome, also, _not at all commonplace_. He looks a little like the old prints one sees in seaside lodging-houses, called "_With the Stream_," or "_Against the Stream_," or "_Good-bye_," or "_The Return of the Black Brunswicker_." He looks, in fact, far more romantic than the young men one generally sees: and the key-note (if you will forgive the expression) of his character is his great dislike to modern ideas, especially to anything he calls "cynical." I met him first at Lady LYON TAYMER'S, but he has often explained to me that that was entirely accidental; he was "taken" there; he dislikes her set, and has an especial aversion to the clever young men of the day. He has an excessive--and I must say I think unnecessary--terror of being mistaken for one: and says that if he had not heard it was the very latest thing he would never read anything but SCOTT. To the bicycle and cigarette, for women, he has an equally strong objection, and I think he often pretends not to see a joke because he has a nervous suspicion of its being what _he_ would call the New Humour. In the evening, on the balcony, he quotes BYRON, and in the morning, in the garden, he reads WILKIE COLLINS or Mrs. HENRY WOOD. He says he hopes I shall spend a great deal of time in the still-room, to which I heartily assent, though neither of us know exactly what a still-room is, but it sounds quiet. Women, ARTHUR thinks, should preserve fruits, and a lady-like demeanour, and do plain needle-work, or perhaps "tatting." Art embroidery he looks on with doubt, and I believe he considers it _fast_. When I told him he seemed anxious I should not _reap_ without having learnt to _sew_, he seemed hurt and we hastily changed the subject. I was playing croquet with him--(croquet he approves)--when he was lecturing on fruit-preserving. "Shall you really expect me to make jam?" I said. "Would you be cross if I did?" he asked, tenderly. "CROSSE! yes! and BLACKWELL, too, if you like," I answered in my (occasionally) flippant way, which I always regret instantly after. ARTHUR threw down his mallet. "This--GLADYS--this is the sort of thing which--which--," &c. We had a short quarrel, and a long reconciliation. ARTHUR is a _great dear_, you must understand, and I am very happy. He does not show me the book of dried flowers nearly so often now, and has written some verses about me, he is going to show them to me to-night.

ARTHUR is very interesting when he talks of _me_; it is when he discusses abstract subjects--such as chemistry, or big sleeves--that he is not quite so amusing. He _is_ dreadfully prejudiced about sleeves. Do you think he will gradually get accustomed to them? I think he will by the time they have quite gone out!

I am sure you will like dear ARTHUR. Of course one has to understand him. When he came down to stay with us, I said, "You must be very tired after your short journey," and I was surprised how much it annoyed him! Don't say anything of that sort to him--_at first_. He is apt to take things--just a little--seriously. It is rather a charming quality in a man to whom one is engaged--don't you think so? Such a love as ours cannot fail to have an ennobling effect: as ARTHUR says, it seems to lift us above all thoughts of this world. Write soon. I am longing to hear about the new skirts, and to show you my sapphire ring.

Your affectionate friend, GLADYS.

* * * * *

FROM OUR OWN SCHOOLBOY, A STUDENT OF LEMPRIÈRE.--SIR,--I have heard Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR spoken of as "the _Loeda_ of the House of Commons." Who is its Jupiter?

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AT CROMER.

What middle-aged frequenter of the Old Ship, Brighton, does not recall the bland personality of ARTHUR BACON, part proprietor and principal representative of the landlordism of the excellent ancient hostelrie:--

O don't you remember A. BACON BEN BOLT? So smiling, so shiney, and brown? How he chortled with glee when he saw us BEN BOLT, And charged us an extra half-crown.

The gammon of BACON was admirable; and his strict attention to the duties of servants towards visitors to the hotel was "aside of BACON" not to be forgotten. A. B. was an ideal landlord, ever ready at his door to welcome the coming and speed the parting guest.

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"The Grand" at Cromer is not an enormous hotel: it is a Semi-Grand. The example of BACON aforesaid could be therefore easily imitated. Warned of our arrival by letter, rooms secured, train punctual (from St. Pancras to Cromer) to within ten minutes, we drove up to the door of the Semi-Grand in our one-horse fly. Not a soul about. Surely the hotel is open? Yes, the driver knew that much, "because he had taken some people away from there in the morning." These might have been the last roses of summer, the last visitors at the hotel for the season! We waited; no signs of life. "Should he (the driver) ring?" Certainly: a most happy thought. He descendeth; he ringeth. We wait. Then the sound as of a somebody coming. "A Boots in sight appears. We hail him with three cheers"--at least, we ask "if our rooms are ready," and the Boots is of opinion that they are; whereupon another Boots appears, and the pair of Boots lug our luggage into the hall, where we find an amiable lady with keys in her hand who invites us to inspect certain apartments. Our answer is an adaptation of _Hamlet's_ command to the _Ghost_, "Lead on, we follow."

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We see: we refuse. These are _not_ the rooms we had ordered. "No, they are not." So much is admitted. Then, perhaps, we had better depart and seek hospitality elsewhere. Our beckoner would rather not put us to such inconvenience, and soon discovers what will suit us exactly. So we take them then and there. They _do_ suit us exactly: not down to the ground, as they are first floor. A room with balcony, in the shade all day, facing north, commanding a lovely sea view. What more could mortal require?

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The air of Cromer, where there is "nothing between you and the North Pole"--so any malicious reports to the contrary may be safely disregarded--is most exhilarating. But the dust O! The dust! On with the water-carts, and down with sandy dust! It is all sand--everywhere. As to situation the Semi-Grand has a decided, and sea-sided, advantage over the other hotels.

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Delightful view from front windows of the Semi-Grand. Of course the back rooms are rather behind in this respect. Which is but natural.

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Civility, and a desire to please, are the characteristics of the working staff at the Semi-Grand, directly you know them individually and collectively. But, as the song says, "You've got to know 'em _fust_."

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With the arrangements of the _salle à manger_ as worked at the Semi-Grand under the superintendence of a distinguished and invaluable foreigner _garçon en chef_, very little fault can be found. The experiments of the youthful and less-experienced subordinates who are probably there to learn English, are interesting from a certain point of view, which is attained when, under the guardianship of their chief, or one of his trusty lieutenants, you have had everything you require. _Then_ you can sit and watch the recruits at their _garçonic_ exercises.

* * *

I wonder if the _Generalissimo_ has them out for drill every morning before visitors are up? Are there any colleges, or barracks, for waiters, where, as undergraduates, or recruits, they can learn their business? From what I have seen I should say most probably not. But there ought to be schools and colleges for waiters, with degrees conferred and diplomas given. Switzerland would be the place wherein to start this idea.

* * *

Were it not for the refreshing breezes, which rival and excel those of Margate, the Cromerites would be burnt to cinders. As it is, they are generally a delicate improvement on the colour of their own lobsters when boiled. "To this complexion must you come at last"--if you stay long enough at Cromer.

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_A Curiosity at Cromer._--Exactly in front of where I am now seated, enjoying the Cromeric morning breezes on the very edge of the cliff, and at a distance of about twenty-five yards from the Cromer Sands, there rises a remarkable wooden effigy, on the true import of which I positively refuse to be enlightened by any native offering me a mere matter-of-fact explanation.

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The object, which I sketch on the spot, in order that an experienced hand shall give it artistic merit, appears to be the gigantic wooden case "made and provided" for equally gigantic cocked hat, originally worn by a Titanic Admiral, long since laid up in sea-weed, with all the rest of his uniform, in the locker of Mr. Davy Jones, Neptune's wardrobe keeper. This huge object is stuck on a pole, either as marking the last resting-place, there or thereabouts, of colossal Admiral aforesaid, or it has been for ages left here as indicating the fate certain to await the ruthless and recklessly wrecked invader. It may mark the spot where quietly, one dark night, the Great NAPOLEON rehearsed, _all by himself_, the invasion of England; being only too glad to escape in the early dawn, leaving his cocked hat behind him, which, as a Napoleonic relic, was inclosed in a wooden case of three times its size, and here exposed, with the motto in best Cromeric French, addressed to NAPOLEON, should he ever have attempted to repeat his visit:--

"_Voici votre chapeau à cornes! Venez le prendre!_"

The inscription is, by flux of time and sea-water, almost, if not quite, illegible.

* * *

Or it may mark the spot, banned and anathematised, where was buried, according to the awfully solemn Masonic ritual, _the mangled remains of The Man who couldn't keep a secret!!_

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ANGLING EXTRAORDINARY.

From _The Scotsman_, Saturday, September 21, under the heading "Angling," appears this item of news from "Annan," placed between fishing notes from "Loch Earn" and "Dhu Loch":--

LOCH EARN.--Mr. WATSON, fishing on Lochearnhead Hotel water yesterday, killed thirty-two nice trout.

ANNAN.--There were large supplies of all classes of stock. Best beef made 7_s._ 6_d._ to 7_s._ 9_d._ per stone, and mutton 7_d._ to 7-1/2_d._ per lb. There was a crowded attendance of buyers from England and the South of Scotland, and the demand was good all through. Store cattle had a slow trade, and were bad to sell. Quotations:--Fat bullocks up to £15 17_s._ 6_d._; do. heifers up to £15 7_s._ 6_d._; do. cows up to £13 17_s._ 6_d._; calving heifers £12 12_s._ 6_d._ Lambs, 16_s._ to 29_s._ 3_d._; odd sheep, 33_s._ to 49_s._; rams, 43_s._ 6_d._; half-bred hoggs, 41_s._ 6_d._ to 44_s._; cross do., 37_s._ to 41_s._ 9_d._; Cheviots, 38_s._ 9_d._ to 41_s._ _9d._

DHU LOCH.--On September 18, Mr. KYNASTON had fourteen fish, 4-1/2 lb., heaviest 3/8 lb.; and on 19th, nine, 4 lb., heaviest 1 lb.

"Fat bullocks up to £15 17_s._ 6_d._" would try the strongest tackle. Splendid specimen of "Net Profits."

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THE PUTNEY SPOOK.--Within the last week, so reported one of the Day-by-Days in the _Daily Telegraph_, a ghost has been heard of at Putney. Hundreds of _Hamlets_, _Marcelluses_, and _Barnardos_ (with _Ophelias_, and other ladies) have gone out of their way nightly to see the ghost. What should a riverside ghost be like? Obviously the "main-sheet" from a sailing-boat is ready to hand, and for its head, at any neighbouring boat-house, there is quite a choice of "sculls." If any hair, there are the "row-locks." The ghost must not, in our opinion, be expected anywhere with or against the stream, but in some "dead-water." "Will the ghost walk to-night?" is now the Shakspearian inquiry; to which the reply is, "Go to Putney!"

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ANGELICAL!--Herr ANGELI, the Austrian portrait-painter, whose name, as a "noun of multitude," suggests "several ANGELOS rolled into one," is now the QUEEN'S painter _par excellence_. Consequently he should be known in England as "_Her_ ANGELI." May all good ANGELI guard Her Gracious MAJESTY! Still, clever as Brother BRUSH may be, it will take a lot of "ANGELI" to equal one "ANGELO," which his Christian name was "MICHAEL."

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ROMEO ROBERTSON AND JULIET PAULA CAMPBELL.

_Mrs. J. P. C._ "O ROMEO, ROMEO! wherefore art thou ROMEO?"

_Romeo Robertson._ Because I have played it before: but "O JULIET, JULIET! wherefore art thou JULIET?"

_Mrs. J. P. C._ Because you cast me for the part, and I wanted to play it.

_Shakspeare adapted to the Lyceum._

_JULIET_ is, according to her nurse, just fourteen years of age. The story is that of "_Villikins and his Dinah":_--

There was a rich noble in Verona did dwell, He had but one daughter an unkimmun fine young gal, Her name it was _Juliet_, just fourteen years old, With a werry large fortune in siliver and gold. Singing tooral li (_ad. lib._).

The southern girl of fourteen equals the northerner of nineteen; and this must ever be the initial difficulty which few experienced actresses, can surmount. _Juliet_ is, in fact, a single girl and a married young woman rolled into one. "Single," "double," and "there's the rub!"