Part 2

It took 'em all suddent, and knocked 'em, I tell yer. "Now JACK," sez the Chairman (Old BUNGO), hironic, "That larst wos a gusher as made us feel sniffy; toon up sutthing lively, and give us a tonic! Young SCRAG O' LAMB'S love-songs are like sweetened gin, JACK, they want a kerrective, a Scotch, or a Bitter." "Right, BUNGO!" sez I, "I will give yer dry fizz 'stead o' pep'ment," as set 'im an' Vice on the titter.

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HANSOM UP!

Oh, lirripi-dumple-day! I was born out Barnsbury way, An' I cut my heye-teeth early, you can bet,-- You can bet! I 'ad 'ardly took to socks, when I mounted on the box, And larnt to tyke it smilin', dry or wet,-- Dry _or_ wet! Me nyme is BOB FITZGIBBONS. I've a light 'and on the ribbons, And mates christened me the Piccadilly Pup,-- Dilly Pup. With my smart snuff-coloured bowler, and my natty button-'oler, I arnser to the cry of Hansom Up!-- _Hansom Up!!_

_Hansom-Up!_ Ah, that's the word. It's our war-cry wot is 'eard From Putney up to pleasant Pentonville,-- Pentonville. And then I'm on the chivvy! Lardy toff or mild old mivvey I can drive with demon dash or cautious skill,-- Careful skill. For the pace that takes yer dandy, when the Four Hexpress is 'andy, Will scare old Mother MIGGS and 'er pug-pup,-- Puffy pup! And to take it 'ot or easy, as the hasphalte's dry or greasy, Is the diplymattic dodge of Hansom Up!-- Hansom Up!

For to tool a dashing Forder, rubber-tyred an' all in order, With hivory quizzing-glass an' reading-lamp,-- Glass and lamp, I can tell yer's none so dusty. Yer old Growler's fare is crusty, With a bloomin' bottle nose, or bulgin' gamp,-- Green old gamp. But a pair o' smart swell mashes, trim merstache an' long heye-lashes, A-drivin' to the Hopera, _or_ to sup,-- Spoon and sup, Is a mighty diff'rent matter, an' yer drives up clitter-clatter, When you 'ears the Capting's 'orty Hansom Up!-- Hansom _Up!_

Ah! to twig 'em tittivating in the mirrors, while you're waiting For the Bobby in a Piccadilly block,-- Dilly block. Or a-dabbin' lips and noses with soft puffs, as smells o' roses, Or a readin' yaller books as some might shock,-- Scare or shock, Is particularly funny, and sech fares means--mostly--money. Wy sometimes yer'll git a tip for Stakes or Cup,-- Stakes or Cup, From a covert-coated dandy, or a weed or nip of brandy, When there's _winning_ in 'is 'ail of Hansom Up!-- Hansom Up!

Oh, Rads may talk of Ransom, but give me a dashing Hansom, A silk topper, and a decent run of luck,-- Cabby's luck; With a bay 'oss to my liking, and you won't ketch _me_ a striking, Not without good cause, as some old pals 'ave struck,-- Lately struck. Things may go a trifle 'ard 'twixt bad weather and the yard, But _that_ won't knock out the Piccadilly Pup,-- Dilly Pup. On my "SHREWSBURY and TALBOT," I'm as right as rain--or _all_ but,-- And there's music in the 'ail of Hansom Up!-- Hansom _Up!_

"_Hansom Up!_" I can tell yer, was chorussed a good 'un, and took most tremenjous. Collection that night-- For a broken-down Growler a-twist with rheumatics--was somethink to brim 'is wife's heyes with delight. Oh, charity's charity, _but_ when a Princess presides there's a extry strong pull at yer purse. And ditto with 'armony! That's 'uman nature; we're just built that way--an' _it might'a' bin worse!_

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"AFTER THE PLAY IS OVER."

SCENE--_Smoking-room of recently re-opened Old-Established Club. Members discovered partaking of light refreshments._

_First Member_ (_sipping a lemon squash_). Yes, the Royalty is decidedly improved in appearance, and the audience, too, is quite up to the standard of the old _Ixion plus Black-eyed Susan_ days. Quite a pretty house, and quite a distinguished set in the auditorium.

_Second Mem._ (_lighting a cigarette_). And the play?

_First Mem._ Distinctly amusing. Both BOURCHIER and his wife excellent, and KATE PHILLIPS, as a sorrow-stricken cook, capital. Not quite sure whether it would not have been better to have left _M. le Directeur_ in France. He was there to the manner born; but in England--well, to put it plainly, the Home Office in Soho is not in the least like the Home Office in Whitehall.

_Third Mem._ (_finishing a glass of "improved" soda water_). But is it intended to be?

_Second Mem._ I don't know, but a good many of the audience (presumably the gentlemen of the pit and gallery) will adopt the assumption. After all, to be a member of the Civil Service is something, even in these degenerate days. The sketch of official life in Soho will not enhance the dignity of the--shall we call it?--profession. But concede that the local colouring is appropriate, and _The Chili Widow_ is simply first-rate.

_Third Mem._ Better than _Bogey_ at the St. James's?

_Second Mem._ So I have been told. And how about the Garrick?

_First Mem._ _Alabama_, with WILLARD. Not particularly exciting. We know how good a man the popular actor can be, but for stage purposes he is much more pleasing as a villain. And TOOLE is back again in his own theatre?

_Second Mem._ So I have been told. If, as report has it, the visit is to say farewell, it will be a sad one. Take it all round, there is no better actor in the world than the hero of _Ici on parle Français_, and the embodiment of _Pau Claudian_.

_First Mem._ I quite agree with you. Has any one been to see _India_ at Earl's Court?

_Third Mem._ I have. About as fine a spectacle as they make them. The Empress Theatre, worthy of its name--the entertainment appropriate to its surroundings. Quite eclipses Olympia in its most prosperous days. And if you want to see how a few scraps of waste land can be converted into a region of gardens, museums, theatres, and palaces, just mount the Great Wheel, and look down upon the scene below you.

[_Enter the_ Waiter, _when the chat about things theatrical is interrupted by orders for cooling and other drinks. Curtain._

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IN MEMORIAM.

HENRY RICHARD HOWARD.

[Captain H. R. HOWARD, who was reputed to have been JOHN LEECH'S "only pupil," and who, in the Fifties and Sixties, contributed many pictorial drolleries (mostly signed with a trident) to _Mr. Punch's_ pages, died on Aug. 31 last, in his 81st year.]

Friend of old days, when LEECH'S pencil charmed Each heart that grace allured and humour warmed, How fast the years have fled Since that irreparable loss! And how It stirs old memories to learn that now His pupil, too, lies dead!

A lesser light, but linked with the great time, Three decades since, when in his glorious prime LEECH left us, in full fame. And _Punch_, who makes old friends his constant care, Upon his page of honour space must spare For humorous HOWARD'S name.

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"OH! THE DAYS OF THE (SOUTH) KERRY DANCING."--The latest figure introduced into that diverting _danse excentrique_, the Hibernian Can-Can, is known as "the Irish 'split.'"

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"THE PILLER OF THE HOUSE."--The family doctor.

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THE BALLAD OF BECHUANA.

_The answer Mr. Punch would like Mr. Chamberlain to be able to make to Khama._

["KHAMA, the Bechuana Chief, will not consent to come under RHODES if the white man is to be free to 'convey' his subjects' land, and to poison them with strong drink."--_Daily Chronicle._]

AIR--"_Oriana._"

We sympathise with your great woe, Bechuana. There's little rest for Chiefs below, Bechuana. In sultry climes, in climes of snow, The drink will come, the land will go, Bechuana. The ways of Trade were ever so, Bechuana!

The Chartered Company seems growing, Bechuana. The liquor interest is crowing, Bechuana. Bung is blowing, drink is flowing, RHODES like one o'clock is going, Bechuana. Where they will stop there is no knowing, Bechuana!

In black kingdoms, as in white, Bechuana, Men are given to getting "tight," Bechuana. KHAMA, it is a grievous sight. And you, you seem to have done right, Bechuana, Since you your troth to us did plight, Bechuana!

Sober, industrious, fond of peace, Bechuana, You've kept your tribe. May it increase, Bechuana. If, you would have the traffic cease, Why should your heart not have that ease, Bechuana? Sobriety is the best police, Bechuana!

It _is_ a vile, corroding curse, Bechuana. We do not wish, quite the reverse, Bechuana, That, just to fill a huckster-purse, Your tribe should go from bad to worse, Bechuana. Twere a foul shame! That's true and terse, Bechuana!

Let Gain go hang, let Bung be blowed, Bechuana, Rather than drunkenness corrode, Bechuana, The realm whereby Molopo flowed. To KHAMA Britons much have owed, Bechuana; The boon you crave should be bestowed, Bechuana.

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A RIVERSIDE RONDEL.

Afloat the water-lily lies, Lolling gold head on soft green coat, The swans drift by in stately wise Afloat.

Faint music from the warbler's throat, The moorhen in the sedge that plies, The plash of oars, a distant boat, The passing flash of dragon-flies-- Such sights and sounds I dimly note, The while I watch with straining eyes A float!

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MODERN INSTANCE OF PATIENCE ON A MONUMENT.--The Powers sitting on the Ottoman.

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SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

Commercial prosperity continues to attend the cheery coster as he hawks his wares about the Liverpudlian streets, and the situation is getting hawkward for the local tradesman, who declares that the itinerant vendor's opposition draws away customers from his shop. So momentous, indeed, to the welfare of the Lancastrian port has this Cockney Crusade become, that the magnates of the City Corporation assembled in Committee to discuss means for "making the coster go back to London." Among other weighty reasons for the expulsion of the intruder, it was stated that "a gentleman trod upon a banana peel the other day, and fell." Whether the peel was deposited by an offending coster, or by one of the many bare-footed but picturesque and ingenuous youths of the town, history does not relate. However, the great gravity of the crisis may be understood when, towards the end of the debate on the question, we are told that the chairman observed that, "if this thing was allowed to go on, perhaps a certain alderman and himself would start a barrow with a picture on it, and go about selling fine arts." Chorus of aldermen:--

Round the town! Up and down! Anything to earn an honest brown: Civic costers enterprising, Up-to-date and early-rising, Why we'll hawk our blooming pictures round the town!

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BRAEMAR Castle is to be restored. "The alterations on the building are to be mostly internal," says the _Daily Free Press_, "and the external appearance will remain as at present, so that on rounding Creag Choinnich"--a good coigne of vantage this, by the way--"the traveller will have no difficulty in recognising the castle." Good. Beau BRUMMELL once snubbed a sovereign, but we should hate to run the risk of cutting a castle. The same authority further informs us that the edifice in question "stands on a grassy mound between the Deeside road and the river Dee, and _as it is not surrounded by trees_ it forms a rather conspicuous object in the landscape." Dee-side-dly this smacks more of Erin than of Caledonia, and calls to mind PAT O'FEEGAN'S remark--"Shure, me bhoy, an' I wasn't in the room at all, at all. I was hidin' behind the fire-shcreen!"

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LITERARY PROVERB.--Too many characters spoil the novel.

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THE AGE OF LOVE.

(_To the Editor of "Punch."_)

SIR,--Is it possible, in the so-called end of this so-called nineteenth century, to dream of such a thing as the Age of Love? The man of to-day, if he be wise, thinks not of the face and form of the woman he may care to marry, but asks himself the question, "Will she make me a good wife? Can she clean chimneys, cook and mend; is she capable of discussing intellectually subjects of interest--such as dentistry, hunting, symbolism, and so forth--with her husband? Can she grind the organ, play the comb, is she active at crossing-sweeping and cradle-rocking, quick at smiling away one's smiles and frowning away one's tears, ready to greet all my friends with the same amiability she shows to _me_, is she prepared for intelligent begging-letter-writing, can she scour, skirt-dance, recite, carve, mangle, and fence?" Too often he is bound to answer, "No, she cannot; so what good is she to me?" I do not mean to say that all women are like this. Heaven forbid! But good housewives are few and far between. There are many girls of the period who are deficient in one or even more of the accomplishments above-mentioned, so how can she be fitted for the wife of a middle-class man?

It is all very well to love, but a vastly different matter to marry such women as these. Good sound reason and common-sense are better articles to possess. We cannot have too much of that--indeed, we often get a great deal more than is good for us, so that in my humble opinion friendship, common-sense, logic, and grammar are worth more than all the love any man or woman can give; and it is all very well to sneer at pessimists, but in my humble opinion they have only themselves to blame for it, and through all ages it will ever be the same until there is some alteration.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant, A SENSIBLE PESSIMIST.

_Alma Villa, Sebastopol Road, Balham._

SIR,--There is an old saying with which we are all acquainted, and which affirms that "there are as pretty kettles of fish in the sea as ever came out of it." If you will permit me, I will quote my own case.

At the age of seventy-two I married the man of my choice. We had been married for seven days, when, alas! the truth forced itself relentlessly upon me that my husband was suffering from depression of spirits. His nature, which had always been a gay and joyous one, became apathetic; he seemed indifferent to my society, and before many weeks were over he bored himself to death.

I think before eighty is only April sort of sunshine, which only brings flowers, &c., into bud; it is June, July, and October sunshine that makes, or the want of it that mars, the harvest. There are many of my own and the other sex still unmarried, pure, gentle, and loving old women, who, I think, would gladly enter matrimony. Alas! Love is laughed about and joked about, but the souls it has ruined are few. Trusting you will find space for my poor scribble, I am, Sir,

Your obedient servant, HAPPY BROWN BESS.

_Earlswood, September 14, 1895._

[Space forbids further insertions of letters on this subject.--ED.]

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THE CONQUEROR.

[Mr. H. N. PILLSBURY, a young American master of twenty-two years, won the first prize in the Chess Tournament at Hastings.]

Two Battles of Hastings--when young scholars rattle Their "dates" off--henceforth may be reckoned: If WILLIAM the Norman did win the first battle, 'Twas PILLSBURY pulled off the second. A very young player old STEINITZ to tackle, Or enter the lists against LASKER! When History's Muse is henceforth on the cackle, One question a scholar may ask her,-- "Oh, which was the greater, chess-champion or war-man?" In chess there is no hanky-panky; Less _fair_ was the win of the tricky old Norman, Than that of the quiet young Yankee!

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The "alliterative" epidemic, in connection with the names of marine resorts, is spreading to an alarming extent. A Welsh newspaper heads a quotation from the _Western Daily Press_ by the taking title of "Improving Ilfracombe." This, however, has nought to do with the excellent mental and physical benefits derived by visitors to the North Devonian pleasure port, but refers to District Council resolutions for the improvement of the place itself--a Quixotic idea, which seems identical with that of "painting a lily." To the scribe of the "Seaside Series," whose penchant is for "apt alliteration's artful aid," we beg to offer--without any extra charge--a few suggestions to go on with:--Soothing Southend, Winsome Whitby, Congressional Cardiff, Sweltering Swansea, Peaceful Penzance, or "piratical" ditto, and so on _ad nau-sea-am_.

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BALL _VERSUS_ BALL.

AN AUTUMN ECLOGUE.

_The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damoetas, defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like Palemon) judge of their performances._

_Football._ Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away! September's here, and Cricket's had its day. You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom, Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room!

_Cricket Ball._ A _manlier_ sport? Tell that to sordid Tykes! The "brass," and not the game, is what he likes Who kicks your swollen and unshapely form Through snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm; And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf, Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself; Then calls it--Sport! O, there! don't talk to me. _I_'m not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.

_Football._ Pooh! If I'm kicked you're spanked. The foot of GUNN Hurts less than does his bat. Pray is it fun To bide O'BRIEN'S buffet? Have you scored After two hours--at Hastings--with big FORD? GRACE thumps you for nine Centuries in one season, And after _that_ you crow with little reason!

_Cricket Ball._ Oh, GRACE and GUNN lay on to me _in love_, FORD'S "gentle tap," O'BRIEN'S "friendly shove" Hurt not my feelings more than a slight slap From rosy fingers hurts an amorous chap. But you stand kicks _for halfpence_. Question it? Well, just you read about the Football Split And the two rival Unions!

_Football._ That's all fudge. The North is of true Sport the truest judge! How about GRACE'S Testimonial?

_Cricket Ball._ _Not_ A sample of the Hunting of the Pot, But a free tribute to a sportsman prime, Who plays the game right through, and laughs at Time. But rowdyism and mere greed of gain Will spoil the noblest sport. I speak with pain.

_Football._ You spheric Pharisee! Don't sniff and brag, Go join the Bat in his green winter bag! A hum-drum hibernation is your doom, The winter season's mine, for me make room!

_Cricket Ball._ Alas! 'tis true! Retirement is my lot. The bright green sward, blue skies, and sunshine hot, September sees an end of. I rejoice The Surrey Cricket Club has given its voice Against the money-mania that would make The Oval turf a frozen swampy lake, Pounded by heavy-footed Football cracks, Galloping "forwards," elephantine "backs." It makes me shudder on my shelf to think Of that green sward, smooth-surfaced as a rink Where sturdy ABEL cut and drove amain, And RICHARDSON sent "rippers" down like rain; Where the white-flannel'd fielders sometimes flopped, While saucy Surrey sparrows pecked and hopped,-- To think of it all trampled, pounded, ploughed, By fierce footballers, whilst a furious crowd Howled in a hideous ring.

_Football._ Oh, shut up, do! The S. C. C.'s are an old-fashioned crew, Who soon will find they are not up to date, And they'll be sorry--when perhaps too late. Football's a manly sport for Titan lads!

_Cricket Ball._ But spoiled by huckster cliques and noisy cads.

_Football._ Cricket is slow, quite stodgy now and then.

_Cricket Ball._ But 'tis a sport for friends and gentlemen.

_Palemon Punch._

In either sport such honest pleasure lies That both must win, as each deserves, a prize. The summer sport is each true Briton's care, But Football's death would leave our winters bare Of numerous joys. Damoetas sweetly sang And clear the music of Menalcas rang; "Rest equal happy both," in friendly strains Palemon said to the Virgilian swains; "Long live and prosper both," _Punch_ says to you; But O beware the howling harpy crew Who'd knock the "I" out of our good old Play And make it all a matter of mere Pay! The rowdies follow where the hucksters lead, Football beware of ruffianly greed! You're treading far too near that fatal trap; Avoid it, or you'll suffer. _Verbum sap!_ You, cricket ball, to bounce be not a slave. Let "championships" and "averages" have Their proper place. Let love of Number One Spoil not good sport, good fellowship, good fun. In short, whether good luck or bad luck comes Just "play the game," like gentlemen and chums! So having given his verdict somewhat loth, _Punch_ ends with wishing the best luck to both!

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