Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100. February 21, 1891

Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.



VOL. 100.

February 21, 1891.




["This," writes the Author, "is one of my best and freshest,
although on a moderate computation it must be my thousand and
first, or so. But I have really lost count. Still it's grand
to talk in large numbers of leagues, miles, vastnesses,
secrets, mysteries, and impossible sciences. Some pedants
imagine that I write in French. That's absurd, for every
schoolboy knows (and lots of them have told me) that I write
only in English or in American. I have some highly dried
samples of vivid adventure ready for immediate consumption.
Twopence more and up goes the donkey, up, up, up to be
a satellite to an undiscovered star. Brave Donkey! I


The iceberg was moving. There was no doubt of it. Moving with
a terrible sinuous motion. Occasionally an incautious ironclad
approached like a foolish hen, and pecked at the moving mass. Then
there was a slight crash, followed by a mild convulsion of masts, and
spars, and iron-plates, and 100-ton guns, then two or three gurgles
and all was still. The iceberg passed on smiling in triumph, and
British Admirals wrote to the _Times_ to declare that they had
known from the first that H.M.S. _Thunderbomb_ had been so faultily
constructed, as to make a contest with a hen-coop a certainty for the


And still the iceberg was moving. Within its central chamber sat a
venerable man, lightly clad in nankeen breeches, a cap of liberty,
and a Liberty silk shirt. He was writing cabalistically. He did not
know why, nor did he know what "cabalistically" meant. This was his
punishment. Why was he to be punished? Those who read shall hear.
The walls of the chamber were fitted with tubes, and electric wires,
and knobs and buttons. A bright fire burned on the hearth. The thick
Brussels carpet was littered with pot-boilers, all fizzing, and
sputtering, and steaming, like so many young Curates at a Penny
Reading. Suddenly the Philosopher looked up. He spoke to himself.
"Everything is ready," he said, and pressed a button by his side.
There was a sound as of a Continent expectorating, a distant nose
seemed to twang, the door opened, and a tall lantern-jawed gentleman,
wearing a goat-beard and an expression of dauntless cunning, stepped
into the room.

"I guess you were waiting round for me," said Colonel ZEDEKIAH D.
GOBANG (for it was indeed he), and sat down in an empty armchair, as
if nothing had happened.

The Philosopher appeared not to notice. "Next character, please,"
he said, pulling out a long stop, and placing his square leg on the
wicket which gave admission to his laboratory, while he waited for the
entrance of the Third Man. There came a murmur like the buzz of a ton
of blasting powder, in a state of excitement. A choir of angels seemed
to whisper "Beefsteak and Pale Ale," as Lord JOHN BULLPUP dashed,
without a trace of emotion, into the room, and sneezed three times
without stopping to wipe his boots on the mat.

"One more," said the Philosopher. He hurled himself, feet first, at
the ceiling, knocked his head against the floor, and called down the
tube. "_J'y suis!_" came the answer, and the typical, light-hearted
Frenchman, M. le Docteur REVERSI, with his thousand thunders, and his
blue lower chest, tripped jauntily up to the other three. "And now,"
remarked the Philosopher, "we have got the lot complete. The story can
start. Hurry up! Hark forrard! _En avant!_"


"Lend me your ears," said the Philosopher. They lent them, but
without interest. Yet they were all keen business men. "Attention,
my friends!" he continued, somewhat annoyed. "You know why I have
summoned you. We have to make another journey together. The moon, the
sea, the earth--we have voyaged and journeyed to them, and they are
exhausted. It remains to visit the Sun, and to perform the journey
in an iceberg. Do you see? Colonel GOBANG will supply the craft, Lord
JOHN BULLPUP the stupid courage, and you, M. le Docteur," he added,
admiringly, "will of course take the cake."

He paused, and waited for Lord JOHN's reply. It came prompt, and in
the expected words.

"Is it a plum-pudding cake?" said Lord JOHN. The rest laughed
heartily. They loved their jokes, small and old.

"Are we agreed?"

"We are."

"Have you anything to ask?"

"Nothing. When do we start?"

"We are on our way."

"Shall we not melt as we approach?"

"Certainly not."

"How so?"

"We shall have a constant frost."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain. I have taken in a supply of _Matinees_, and a stock of
Five-act Tragedies."

"Good. But how to raise the wind?"

Scarcely, had the question been asked, when a frightful explosion
shook the iceberg to its foundations. The Doctor rushed to the gasbag.
It was empty. He frowned. Lord JOHN was smoking his pipe; the Colonel
was turning over the pages of an old Algebra. He muttered to himself,
"That ought to figure it out. If _x_ = the amount of non-compressible
fluid consumed by a given labourer in _y_ days, find, by the
substitution of poached eggs for kippered herrings, how many tea-cups
it will take to make a transpontine hurricane. Yes," he went on,
"that's it. Yes, Sirree." And at these words the vast mass of
congealed water rose majestically out of the ocean, and floated off
into the nebular hypothesis. But the Philosopher had vanished.


When the explosion narrated in the last chapter took place, the
Philosopher had been looking out of the window. The shock had hurled
him with the speed of a pirate 'bus through the air. Soon he became
a speck. Shortly afterwards he reached a point in his flight situated
exactly 40,000 miles over a London publisher's office. There was a
short contest. Centrifugal and centripetal fought for the mastery, and
the latter was victorious. The publisher was at home. The novel was
accepted, and the Philosopher started to rejoin his comrades lost in
the boundless tracts of space.


"My faith," said Lord JOHN, "I am getting tired of this. Shall we
never reach the Sun?"

"Courage, my friend," was the well-known reply of the brave little
Doctor. "We deviated from our course one hair's-breadth on the twelfth
day. This is the fortieth day, and by the formula for the precession
of the equinoxes, squared by the parallelogram of an ellipsoidal
bath-bun fresh from the glass cylinder of a refreshment bar, we find
that we are now travelling in a perpetual circle at a distance of one
billion marine gasmeters from the Sun. I have now accounted for the
milk in the cocoa-nut."

"But not," said the Philosopher, as he popped up through a concealed
trap-door, "for the hair outside. That remains for another volume."
With that, he rang a gong. The iceberg splintered into a thousand
pieces. The voyagers were each hurled violently down into their
respective countries, where a savage public was waiting to devour

* * * * *


[Count TOLSTOI has been declaiming against Tobacco in
_The Contemporary Review_, and this in no way exaggerates
his views.]

TOLSTOI fuming, in a pet,
Raves against the cigarette;
Says it's bad at any time,
Leads to every kind of crime;
And the man who smokes, quoth he,
Is as wicked as can be.

TOLSTOI knew a man who said
He cut off a woman's head;
But, when half the deed was done.
Lo, the murderer's courage gone!
And he finished, 'tis no joke,
Only by the aid of smoke.

TOLSTOI asks us, when do boys
First essay Nicotian joys?
And he answers, quite aghast,
When their innocence is past.
Gamblers smoke, and then again
Smoking pleases the insane.

TOLSTOI, when he writes this stuff,
Swears he's serious enough;
Lately Marriage earned his sneers;
At Tobacco now he jeers;
Proving that, without the weed,
Some folks may be mad indeed.

* * * * *


(_Latest Transatlantic Version._)]

"Replying to Sir JOHN MACDONALD's manifesto, Mr. MERCIER said
it was ridiculous to say that reciprocity was veiled treason,
and meant annexation to the United States."--_Times' Montreal

_Uncle Sam (twangling his patent Reciprocity Banjo) sings_:--

Oh, my love my passion can hear--and see,
Over the garden wall;
She is sighing, and casting sheeps' eyes at me,
Over the garden wall:
Miss CANADA muses; look at her there!
My wooing and BULL's she is bound to compare,
And she pretty soon will to join me prepare,
Over the Garden Wall!

_Chorus_ (_pianissimo_).

Over the garden wall,
O sweetest girl of all!
Come along do, you'll never regret;
We were made for one another, you bet!
'Tis time our lips in kisses met,
Over the Garden Wall!

Your father will stamp and your father will rave,
Over the garden wall;
And like an old madman no doubt will behave,
Over the garden wall.
M'KINLEY has riled him, he's lost his head.
MAC's Tariff is stiff, but if me you'll wed,
I'll give Reciprocity, darling, instead,
Over the Garden Wall!

_Chorus_ (_piano_).

Over the garden wall!
MACDONALD is bound to fall.
'Tis MAC against MAC, my Canadian pet.
And M'KINLEY is bound to win, you bet!
So join _me_, dear; we'll be happy yet,
Over the Garden Wall!

One day you'll jump down on the other side,
Over the garden wall;
There's plenty of room, and my arms are wide.
Over the garden wall:
JOHNNY may jib, and Sir JOHN may kick,
I have an impression I'll lick them--slick;
So come like a darling and join me quick,
Over the Garden Wall!

_Chorus_ (_forte_).

Over the garden wall!
Dollars, dear, rule us all.
Patriot sentiment's pretty, and yet
Interest sways in the end, you bet!
MERCIER's right; so pop, my pet,
Over the Garden Wall!

Where there's a will there's always a way,
Over the garden wall!
MACDONALD's a Boss, but he's had his day,
Over the garden wall!
Tariffs take money, but weddings are cheap,
So wait till old JOHNNY is snoring asleep,
Then give him the slip, and to JONATHAN creep.
Over the Garden Wall!

_Chorus_ (_fortissimo_).

Over the garden wall!
_Your_ "Grand Old Man" may squall,
And swear Miss CANADA's loyal yet.
But loyalty bows to Dollars--you bet!
'Tis time our lips in union met
Over the Garden Wall!

[_Left twangling seductively._

* * * * *


DOMESTIC SERVICE.--My General Servant has just left me suddenly, on
the ridiculous excuse that she was being "killed by overwork." She was
not required to rise before 5 A.M., and she was generally in bed by
twelve. Our house is not large, though rather lofty, and there are
only fifteen in family. Of course I shall not pay her any wages, and
shall retain her boxes; but how can I _really_ punish her for her
shameful desertion?--CONSIDERATE.

HAIR FALLING OFF.--My hair is coming off, not slowly, but in one
great circular patch at the top of the head. A malicious report has in
consequence been spread abroad in the neighbourhood that I have been
_scalped_! What course ought I to adopt to (1) recover damages against
my traducers, and (2) recover my hair?--LITTLE WOOL.

* * * * *


"The first practical constructive step towards lighting the
City of London by means of electricity, was taken yesterday
(Feb. 3), when the LORD MAYOR placed in position the first
stone of the main junction-box for the electric conductors,
at the top of Walbrook, close under the shadow of the western
walls of the Mansion House."--_Times_.

[Illustration: _Bill Sikes_. "WELL, I _HAM_ BLOWED! IF THEY'RE GOIN'

_Mr. William Sikes, Junior, loquitur_:--

Well, I _ham_ blowed! I say, look 'ere, you NANCY!
Old Gog and Magog _is_ woke up at last!
Goin' to hilluminate the City. Fancy!!
When this yer 'Lectric light is fairly cast
On every nook and corner, hole and entry
Of London, you and me is done, to-rights.
A Slop at every street-end standin' sentry,
Won't spile our game like lots o' 'Lectric Lights.

The Lights o' London? Yah! That's bin all boko.
Were London _lighted_, how could you and me
Garotte a swell, or give a tight 'un toko?
We ain't got arf a chance where coves can _see_.
'Tis darkness plays our game, and we've 'ad plenty,
But this means mischief, or my name ain't BILL.
Wy, not one pooty little plant in twenty
Could we pull orf if _light_ spiled pluck and skill.

It's beastly, NAN, that's wot it is. Wy, blimy,
Narrer ill-lighted streets is our best friends.
Yer dingy nooks and slums, sombre and slimy,
Is gifts wot Prowidence most kyindly sends
To give hus chaps a chance of perks and pickins;
But if the Town's chock-full of "arc" and "glow,"
With you and me, NAN, it will play the dickens.
We must turn 'onest, NAN, and _that_'s no go!

'Ang Science! Ile lamps and old Charlies--bless 'em!--
Wos good for trade, _our_ trade. Ah! if my dad
Could see 'ow Larnin', Law, and Light oppress 'em,
Our good old cracksmen-gangs, he'd go stark mad.
As for the _Hartful Dodger_ and old _Fagin_,
Ah! they're well hout of it. Wot could they do
With Science and her bloomin' fireworks plaguin'
Their hartfullest little games the whole Town through?

Our only 'ope, my NAN, is in the Noodles,
There's still some left in London I'll be bound.
To lurk a crib, prig wipes, sneak ladies' poodles,
Gits 'arder every day; we're watched all round.
Many a programme wot looks vastly pooty,
Mucked by the mugs, leads on to wus and wus.
But if they _do_ light up the dim, cramped, sooty.
Gog-ruled old Town--_wot's_ to become of _hus_?

* * * * *

MOST APPROPRIATE.--The Bishop of DURHAM has appointed Mr. T.
DIBDIN Chancellor of the Diocese of Durham. He already holds the
Chancellorships of Exeter and Rochester. Three Chancellorships, all
on the high sees too! "THOMAS DIBDIN" is the right man in the right

* * * * *

PROVERB "UP TO DATE."--"Cumming events cast their shadows before." And
let's hope the shadows will be speedily dispelled.

* * * * *




SCENE--_An Auction-room, breathing an air of solid, if
somewhat Philistinish suburban comfort and respectability.
Amidst a labyrinthine accumulation of household
furniture, a number of people are dispersed, many of them
substantial-looking middle-class male and female "buyers,"
with lists and lead-pencils, on the look-out for "bargains," a
sprinkling of the ancient race, and an outer fringe of casual,
lounging, lookers-on. The gentleman in the rostrum is a
voluble personage, with a rapidly roving eye, of preternatural
quickness in picking up "bids." Attendants, shaggy men,
in soiled shirt-sleeves, with saw-dusty whiskers, and
husky voices. A pleasant-faced Paterfamilias, and his
"Good lady," are discovered inspecting a solidly-built,
well-seasoned, age-toned chest of mahogany drawers._

_Paterfamilias_ (_sotto voce_). Just what you want, my dear, as far as
I can see. What do _you_ think?


_Materfamilias_. _I_ like the look of them much, JOHN. None of your
new, cheap, thinly-veneered, blown-together rubbish, smelling of
shavings and French-polish. Solid ma'ogany, every bit; the drawers run
as smoothly as could be wished, and--see! if there ain't actually some
sprigs of dry lavender still a laying in 'em!

_Paterfamilias_ (_decidedly_). Just so, my dear, I shall certainly bid
for them. [_Marks his catalogue vigorously._

_Auctioneer_ (_dropping his hammer smartly_). Sold! Remove the
first-class feather-bed, SAM. Buyer o' _that_ has a bargain! (_Nodding
blandly to pleased purchaser_). Really the prices at which things are
going to-night are ruinous! 'Owever, there's no reserve, and the lucky
public gets the pull. The next article, Ladies and Gents, No. 471, is
a very superior, well-made, fully-seasoned, solid Spanish, ma'ogany
chest of drawers. Chest o' drawers, SAM! (_To Paterfamilias._) _Would_
you mind standing a inch or so aside, Sir? Thanks! There they are,
Ladies and Gentlemen, open to hinspection, and warranted to bear
it. An unusually excellent lot, fit for the sleeping-apartment of a
prince, at a price within the means of a pork-butcher. (_Laughter._)
Oh, it's righteous, Gents. No 'umbug about _me_. There's quality, if
you like. Well worth a ten-pun note. What shall I have the pleasure
of saying for this very superior article? 'Ow much for the chest o'
drawers? Who bids for the ma'ogany chest? Thirty shillings. Thank
you, Sir! Any advance on thirty shillings? Thirty-five! _And_ six!
Thirty-five-and-six for this very desirable little lot! Worth five
times the amount, Ladies, as _you_ know! What do you think. Mum? [_To
Materfamilias, who smiles vaguely, and looks at her husband._

_Paterfamilias_. Two pounds! [_Feels he has made an impression._

_Auctioneer_. Two pounds! (_Confidentially to_ P.) _Your_ good lady
knows a good bit o' stuff when she sees it, Sir! Two pounds for the
chest! Two pounds! Any advance on a couple o' pounds? All done at
two pounds? Going at two pounds! (_Meeting silence, pretends to hear
another bid_). Two-pun-ten! Quite right, Sir! Very foolish to lose
such a superior harticle for a pound or two. Going at two-pun-ten!
Larst time, two-pun ten! Going--going--g--

_Paterfamilias_ (_hastily_). Two-fifteen!

_Auctioneer_ (_cheerily_). Two-fifteen! (_Taking other imaginary
bids_.) Three-pounds! Three-five! (_Thank you, Madam_). Three-ten!
Going at three-ten! Last time, three-ten! (_To Paterfamilias._) Are
_you going to lose it, Sir?_ Worth double, I assure you! Ask your good

_Materfamilias_ (_aside_). Bid three-fifteen, JOHN, but not a penny

_Paterfamilias_ (_weakly_). Three-fifteen!

_Auctioneer_. Three-fifteen! Four! Going at four! Last time at four!
All done, four! Going, going--gone! (_Drops hammer_.) Sold at four
pounds, SAM! (_Looks round_.) Who bid four? [_No response, as the last
bid was imaginary._

_Sam_ (_huskily_). Gen'l'man as bid four jest slipped hout, Sir.

_Auctioneer_ (_tartly_). Tut--tut--tut! _Too_ bad, really. Well,
Sir, then I must take _your_ bid. Sold to this Gentleman, SAM, at

[_Paterfamilias, highly pleased, pays deposit, and arranges to
send for his bargain in the morning. As he and his "good lady"
leave, they notice close by, three men with barrows, each
bearing a blazingly red and strongly-smelling chest of
drawers. Materfamilias complacently remarks on the manifest
superiority of the article they have purchased, to "that
red rubbish." Next morning they receive, instead of their
own "bargain," one of those identical brand-new, badly-made,
unseasoned, thinly-veneered "shop 'uns," which are "blown
together" by the gross for such purposes. They protest, but
vainly, notwithstanding their true assertion that the drawers
they received contain "fresh shavings" instead of the "sprigs
of blooming lavender" they had observed in those they thought
they had purchased. Paterfamilias, a week later, looking in
at the Auction-room, sees what he could swear to be the very
chest of drawers he had purchased being "sold again" in a
similar fashion._

* * * * *



_Suggestion for Costume at another Masked Ball._]

AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS is greater than ever. It is the penitential
season of Lent; some excellent persons renounce all worldly
amusements; others, not quite so excellent, and both lots thinking, it
may be, no small beer of themselves, we may term the first lot Treble
Excellent and the second Double Excellent--the latter division think
that concerts possibly, sacred concerts certainly, and certain other
forms of mild and non-theatrical entertainments, are of a sufficiently
severe character to constitute, as it were, a form of discipline. Then
there are the larger proportion of those "who," as _Mrs. Malaprop_
would say, "'care for none of these things,' like GALILEO, my dear,"
and who inquire. "What is the state of the odds as long as we think
we're happy?" and who would indulge in balls and theatres, and in
every other form of amusement, while such pursuits afforded them, or
seemed, to afford them, any pleasure. To the first section, i.e., the
"unco guid," DRURIOLANUS has nothing to offer, not even a course of
sermons by popular preachers; but to the two others he has much to
say. For these, last Saturday, he commenced the first of his series
of Lenten Oratorios at Covent Garden--it was the 14th of February, and
this was his Valentine--and on the 17th, i.e., the Tuesday afterwards,
having made, so to speak, a clean sweep of everything serious, out he
comes with his Fancy Dress and Masked Ball. _Elijah_ the Prophet, on
Saturday, in the Covent Garden Calendar, must be reckoned among the
"minor profits," seeing that the biggest profit would be found in the
_Bal Masque_ on Tuesday. Over the doors should be the motto, "_Festina
Lente_," whereof the Druriolanian translation must be, "Keep it up in
Lent." _Ave Janus Druriolanus!_

* * * * *



What! when _London Assurance_ is going off so well every night,
isn't it a pity that it should go off altogether? CHARLES WYNDHAM
as _Dazzle_ is delightfully flashy, and FARREN as the old beau, _Sir
Harcourt_, admirable. Miss MOORE charming, Mrs. BEERE bright and
sparkling; BOURCHIER quite up to "the Oxonian" mark of _Tom and
Jerry_; BLAKELEY delicious, and GIDDENS as good a _Dolly Spanker_ as
you'd wish to see. It's too good to be "taken off." Not that the piece
itself is a perfect gem, but the acting! _Tout est la._ Oddsfish,
your Majesty, CHARLES REX, Merry Monarch of the Cri, don't remove it
altogether, but let us have it just once or twice a week during the
season. CHARLES, "our friend," do! It's worth while, if but to see you
sitting carelessly at the end of the piece in that chair, R.H., as if
you didn't care for anything or anybody. Only--cut the tag and come to
the Curtain.

* * * * *





What is the true explanation of the use which people make of
matches--of safety matches, wooden matches, wax matches, and, less
commonly, of fusees? Ask any man why he uses such things, and he will
tell you that he does it to get a light, or because others do it.

Is this true? You will probably think so. Let us examine the question.
Why does a man hold his hand in front of a match when he lights it in
the street? To screen it from the wind, or _to hide it from the sight
of passers-by?_ Why do ladies leave the dinner-table before the men
begin to smoke? To avoid the smell of tobacco--which is well known to
be aromatic, healthy, and delightful--or _because the natural modesty
of women shrinks from witnessing the striking of a match?_ Why, in a
railway-carriage, do you hold your fusee out of window when you light
it? Is it because you do not care about being half-choked--a paltry
plea--or is it to conceal from young persons who may be in the
carriage the sparkle which must inevitably remind them of wicked and
alluring eyes?

"_To get a light, or because others do it._" Is that true? Do not
trifle with the question. Read all my works. Do not get them from a
contemptible circulating library, but buy them.


Some may not yet be convinced that the striking of matches is
suggestive and immoral. To me nearly everything is suggestive, but
there are some stupid persons in England. I will be patient with them,
and give them more evidence.

A wax match is called a vesta. Who was Vesta? But this is too
horrible. I cannot pursue this point in a periodical which is read in
families. I can only refer you to the classical dictionary, and remind
you that everything must infallibly suggest its opposite. Again,
there are matches which strike _only_ on the box. It distresses me to
write these words. The idea of "onlyness," of restriction, must bring
matrimony to the mind of everyone. If you do not know what I think
about marriage, buy _The Kreutzer Sonata_. It is not customary to have
more than one wife. Consequently, anything which has _one_ in it--as,
for instance, the date of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR--reminds me of
marriage, and is, therefore, degrading. Why, the very word "match"
suggests marriage: and yet we allow young children to sell whole boxes
of them in the streets. Horrible! Do you think our lower orders would
become discontented, and strike, if they had not seen matches doing it
first? Still more horrible!

Finally, you strike a match that never struck you, that never offended
you in any way. Is that just, or even manly? Yet, in nine cases out of
ten, the law takes no notice of the offence.

"_To get a light, or because others do it._" Are you not convinced now
that, when you use these words, you are not speaking the truth?


I do not think I ever met anybody who was quite as moral, or quite as
original, as I am. You should give a complete set of my works to each
of your children. I might have generalised on the ill-effects of those
vices from a special case--my own case. Had I done so, I could have
got it printed. I can get anything printed that I write. I preferred
to take a newer line, and to show you how vile you are when you use
matches. Everything is vile. But you are wondering, perhaps, how a
great novelist becomes a small faddist. You must wait till next month,
and then read my article on the immorality of parting one's hair with
a comb. A common table-fork is the only pure thing with which one can
part one's hair. Combs deaden the conscience. But more of this anon.

* * * * *


What is this the Baron reads in the _D.T._ of Feb. 9, and in the
_Daily Graphic_ of the same date? Here is a portion of the extract
from the _D.T._:--"The Monthly Meeting of that quaint Literary
Society, 'Ye Odd Volumes,' at Limmer's Hotel, brought together not
merely a goodly show of the Volumes themselves, but an unusually
large array of visitors," and then follows the distinguished list, the
crowning point being reached when we come to the name of "The Baron de
BOOK-WORMS of _Punch_," and in the _Daily Graphic_ the daring reporter
goes a step farther, as, after giving the name of a certain honoured
guest, he parenthetically explains that this academical _convive_
is _the_ "Baron de B.-W.!" _Erreur_! I, the Baron de B.-W., being of
sound mind and body, hereby declare that _the Baron himself was not
present_. And why? Well, do my readers remember the honest milk-maid's
retort to the coxcomb who said he wouldn't marry her? Good. Then,
substituting "me" for "you," and "he" for "she," the Baron can adopt
the maiden's reply. After this, other reasons would be superfluous.

How came the reporter to fall into so great an error? Who misinformed
him? A worthy henchman, as indignant as was _Sam Weller_ when he
found his beloved master's name trifled with, writes to ask me, "Ain't
nobody to be whopped for takin' this here liberty, Sir?" With the
immortal _Mr. Pickwick_, the Baron replies, "Certainly not. Not on any
account." And, whatever that sturdy henchman may murmur to himself, he
at once obeys. "Bring me my books!" cries the Baron, "I am off to the

The Baron's Deputy writes, that he has again been steeping himself in
poetry, and reports as follows:--_Ionica_ (GEORGE ALLEN) is a little
volume, which no admirer of true poetry should fail to possess. The
author now calls himself W. CORY, but he was known by a different name
to many generations of Etonians. His Muse generally wears a classical
robe, but her speech is always delightfully musical. She has beautiful
cadences, that haunt the memory like some old _Volkslied_. In spite of
a careless confusion between "thou" and "you," I defy anybody to read
"_Heraclitus_," to take only one instance, without a sense of pleasure
which will compel him to learn the two verses by heart. But the Muse
is pathetic, playful, and patriotic, too, when the occasion fits, and,
whatever she sings, she sings with genuine taste and feeling. Would
that we might hope for more of her pure music. So far the Deputy.

Was that excentric character in _David Copperfield_ nameless, who
was represented as sitting in some sort of slop-shop, wheezing out
fiercely, "O my lights and liver! O goroo, goroo!" I think DICKENS
didn't give him a name, good or bad; but his constant repetition of
the above outlandish exclamations has impressed upon him an awful
and terrific personality, which places him among the more popular
creations of Dickensian genius. Of what is this _a propos_? you
will ask the Baron. "Well," he will make reply, "it is _a propos_ of
cookery books, and bookery cooks; the latter being those who are not
above teaching themselves from the sacred books of Cookery, and who
can put in practice the lessons they learn therein. Now," quoth the
Baron, "let me recommend you to ask at CHAPMAN AND HALL's for _Hilda's
'Where Is It' of Recipes_, a work got up as simply and substantially
as a good dinner should be, with 'pages in waiting,' quite blank,
all ready for your notes,--the book, like a dining-table, being
appropriately interleaved; and there is, happy thought, a pencil in
the cover-side most handy for the intending Lucullus." The season
of Lent is an excellent one for cookery-books, because you can be
studying for the dinner-giving season, and then--do not forget the
generally excellent advice of your friend,


* * * * *

[Illustration: "WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK."



* * * * *




"_Honest John" sings_:--

When first I knew CH-RL-S ST-RT,
'Twas in a happier day,
The Jaunting Car he drove in
Went gaily all the way.
But now the Car seems all askew,
Lop-wheel'd, and slack of spring;
Myself and WILL, in fear of a spill,
Feel little disposed to sing,
As we sit on the Jaunting Car,
The drivers at open war,
Seem little to care
For a Grand Old Fare,
As they fight for the Jaunting Car.

CH-RL-S ST-RT at one rein, Sir,
And J-ST-N at the other.
Give prospect small of progress
In pummelling one another.
As Honest JOHN my chance is gone
Of helping ill-used PAT,
If the Union of Hearts in Shindy starts,
And the Message of Peace falls flat.
WILL and I on the Jaunting Car,
With the couple of Jarvies at war,
Are sad to our souls,
Wherefore win at the polls
If we lose on the Jaunting Car?

In battle's wild commotion,
With proud and hostile SM-TH,
O'er Land or Tithe, our hearts were blithe,
Till P-RN-LL sapped our pith.
But "Mr. Fox's" lethal darts
Make "Union" all my eye;
Our ranks they thin (whilst our enemies grin),
As right and left they fly.
Though we cling to the Jaunting Car,
We were better out of it, by far;
Not the G.O.M.'s art
Can those Jarvies part
Who fight for the Jaunting Car.

I rather like this Car, Sir,
With GL-DST-NE by my side;
But row galore is an awful bore.
When two would-be whips collide.
With J-ST-N seated forninst us,
To victory we _might_ haste,
But with squabbling bhoys, and a deuce of a noise,
_Our_ efforts are cut to waste.
Though we're perched on the Jaunting Car,
Our purpose these madmen mar,
Whilst W-LL-M and I,
With a tear and a sigh,
Hold on to the Jaunting Car.

* * * * *

PAR ABOUT PICTURES.--Messrs. J. and W. VOKINS, Great Portland Street,
have an interesting loan collection of some of the Old Giants of the
English Water-colour School on view. There may be found TURNER, DE
J.D. HARDING, besides many others. How good are the Old Giants, and
their works are as bright and fresh as the day they were painted.
Their reputations have not faded, neither have their pictures, and
moreover, they are not likely to. And so say all of us! And so says,
Yours paragonically, OLD PAR.

* * * * *


What is it, that, with labour skilled,
Though taking full three years to build,
The place of better weapons filled?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

What was it, though, that had to stoop,
When fired, to putting on a hoop,
Spite this, yet found its muzzle "droop"?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

And what, that matters made more hot,
Such curious ammunition got,
It cost L400 a shot?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

Yet, much to the tax-payer's bliss,
What, firing such a sum as this.
At eighteen hundred yards would miss?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

What is it, spite the First Lord's grace,
That guns of better make and case
At half the cost could well replace?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

So, what no more upon the deep
Should JOHN BULL floating useless keep,
But quickly from his Navy sweep?
The Hundred-and-Ten-Tonner!

* * * * *

this would bridge over a lot of difficulties; he begged pardon, he
meant it would Leth-bridge them over.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE RIVAL "JARVIES."


* * * * *

[Illustration: HUNTING SKETCH.


* * * * *


[In _Savell v. the Duke of Westminster_, Lord ESHER, Master
of the Bolls, said:--"It was the demands for interrogatories
and discovery of documents and commissions in cases of this
simple nature which had made the practice of the Common Law so
expensive, and caused the public to fly from Courts of Law as
from a pestilence. This oppression must be put down."]

"How does it hap," quoth ESHER, M.R.,
"That Solicitors languish for lack of bread?
That want of cases, as felt by the Bar,
To cases of want has recently led?
Oh, how does it come, and why, and whence,
That men shun the Law as a pestilence?

"It can't be denied that the public tries
To avoid an action by every means;
To a Court it with much reluctance hies,
And to arbitration madly leans.
In fact--I say it without offence--
It shuns the Law as a pestilence.

"'Tis all the fault," said this great Law Lord,
"Of demands for inspection, and similar pleas;
Of expenses that neither side can afford,
Commissions and interrogator-ees;
Till Pelion's piled on Ossa--and hence
Men shun the Law as a pestilence.

"_I_ call it oppression, and I'm a Judge!
We must put it down, for the wrong's acute;
And then the public no fees will grudge,
But will rush to get suited with a suit;
For Law, the perfection of common sense,
Should never be shunned as a pestilence!"

* * * * *


The Oxford University Dramatic Society have acted another Shakspearian
play with conspicuous success. To say that the O.U.D.S. have acted a
play of SHAKSPEARE is to say nothing, seeing that they are compelled,
under fear of the most dreadful punishments known to the University
Calendar, to confine their histrionic efforts to the drama as
SHAKSPEARE wrote it, with an occasional excursion into the dramatic
verse of BROWNING. A great many, however, of the most influential
members of the Hebdomadal Council are said to view any such departure
from SHAKSPEARE with alarm, as calculated to impair the discipline and
sap the morality of the tender nurselings confided to their charge,
and it is doubtful if the experiment will be repeated. Long live the
legitimate drama, say I, and so say all of us. But, after all, it may
be questioned whether those who can listen unharmed to the broad, and,
if I may say so, "illegitimate" humour of _Faulconbridge_ in _King
John_ would take much damage from SHERIDAN, or LYTTON, or TOM
TAYLOR, or even--though I make this particular suggestion with bated
breath--from the performance of such burlesques as the A.D.C. at
Cambridge from time to time offers to its patrons.

All this is, however, by the way. We must take the O.U.D.S. as we find
it, and I must confess I found it in a very strong and flourishing
condition during the performance of _King John_. The audience is not
an easy one to act to. Not that it errs on the side of over-criticism.
Rather it is too painfully friendly and familiar with the actors. Here
is a stray example culled from the Stalls:--

_Enter_ King PHILIP, _the_ DAUPHIN, _and attendant Knights._

_Undergraduate in the Stalls_ (_to his Neighbour_). Halloa! There's
old Johnnie in chain armour and a helmet. Did you ever see such a rum
'un? Let's make him laugh.

[_They do, and the unfortunate Knight infects his fellow
Knights at a moment when a specially stern demeanour is

Or again, as here:--

_The_ DAUPHIN _places his arm round the waist of the_ Lady
BLANCH, _and conducts her to the back of the stage._

_Voice in the Dress Circle_. Look out for the Proctor!

[_General laughter._

But in spite of these and similar exuberances, the play went well from
first to last, and the enthusiasm of the audience was unbounded.
It was stated on the programme that Mr. HENRY IRVING had lent the
chain-mail and the tapestries. I have come to the conclusion that he
lent himself as well, and then went and pretended he was his own son.
At any rate, while Mr. HENRY IRVING (stated to be of New College) was
declaiming as _King John_, I could have sworn that the impersonator
of _Shylock_ and _Macbeth_ was walking the stage. Voice, gesture,
and even mannerisms were there, toned down, of course, to suit the
academic atmosphere, but manifest to all who know and love the great
original. My hearty congratulations to the actor, whoever he was, on a
most carefully studied and dignified rendering of his difficult part.
Mr. ALAN MACKINNON, who grouped and arranged the whole of the play,
was vigorous and spirited as _Faulconbridge_. He delivered his insults
with immense force and go. The letter "_r_" is not an easy one for
him to pronounce, but he struggled manfully with this obstacle, and
after a time I got perfectly accustomed to the bold tones in which
he ordered _Austria_ to "hang a calf-skin chround those chrechreant
limbs." _King Philip's_ legs were, perhaps, too much inclined to
independence, and never quite seemed to have made up their minds
where they would settle down, but when once they were fixed the King
was every inch a King. Little Miss MABEL HOARE made us all weep
copiously as _Arthur_. I have kept _Hubert_ to the last, in order to
emphasise my opinion that Mr. CLARK, of New College, who acted this
tender-hearted Chamberlain, carried off the chief honours of the
performance. For consistent and restrained force, it would not have
been easy to match Mr. CLARK's impersonation. Lady RADNOR's band was
delightful, in light-blue and pink bows.

The fight in the Second Act was tremendous. Never have I seen such
dreadful blows delivered with such immense vigour on any other stage.
A very polite French Knight who had taken part in the combat accorded
me the honour of an interview afterwards. I congratulated him, and
suggested that so realistic a battle must have been long and carefully
rehearsed. "Rehearsals!" he laughed; "not a bit of it. We just lace
into one another's heads as hard as we can lick." For the benefit
of Mr. D'OYLY CARTE and other fighting managers I have given these
admirable words as they were spoken.

I had almost forgotten the ladies. There were three, Miss FFYTCHE,
Mrs. CHARLES SIM, and Miss DOWSON, and they were all good--especially
Mrs. SIM as _Constance_.

And so farewell, for the present, to the O.U.D.S. and to Oxford. I may
mention, by the way, that hospitality is as extensive and port wine
as abundant as ever in the neighbourhood of the High. _Experto crede._
Yours to a turn, A VAGRANT.

* * * * *



The Colossus of Rhodes as a marvel they toss us;
To which we retort, _our_ RHODES _is_ a Colossus!

* * * * *

A READY-MADE MILITARY CHAPLAIN.--"The Rev. the Dean of Battle."
Evidently of the Church militant.

* * * * *


* * * * *


Last week a Cambridge Graduate, a Layman, not a Reverend Don, kindly
coached the Oxford Eight. The great Duke of WELLINGTON, courteously
instructing the French Army how to defeat the English, would be an
historical parallel. It is to be hoped that this sublime example of
unselfish devotion to aquatic sport will be followed in other walks
of life. We may expect to learn from the daily papers how,--

On Monday a Cabinet Council was held at Downing Street. Lord SALISBURY
presided, and Mr. W.H. SMITH being indisposed, Mr. W.E. GLADSTONE (at
a moment's notice) kindly consented to take his place.

On Tuesday General CAPRIVI went on leave, his place as confidential
adviser to the Emperor of GERMANY being supplied during his absence
by Prince Von BISMARCK.

The Czar of RUSSIA, wishing to take a short holiday in Denmark, has
arranged that his place shall be supplied by Prince ALEXANDER, once of
Battenberg, and late of Bulgaria. Before his return to St. Petersburg
His Majesty is likely to spend some time as the guest of several
leading Nihilists.

On Wednesday President CARNOT paid a long visit to General BOULANGER,
with a view to submitting to that eminent statesman a scheme for the
reorganisation of the French Army.

On Thursday the King of ITALY, having arranged to accompany Signor
CRISPI in a yachting cruise to South America, the POPE took up his
residence at the Quirinal, and presided at a National Council. Later
in the day his Holiness reviewed the Roman garrison.

On Friday Mr. O'BRIEN gave a numerously attended "at home" in his new
prison. Amongst those present were Mr. GLADSTONE, Lord SALISBURY,
Mr. PARNELL, Mr. MCCARTHY, and Mr. TIM HEALY. It is understood that
the result of this amicable meeting will be found in a spirit of
reciprocity exhibited in the anti-Parnellites writing Mr. PARNELL's
manifestoes for the Parnellites, and _vice versa_.

* * * * *

QUERY BY IGNORAMUS.--From the _Times_' "Court Circular," Feb.
11:--"The following Ladies and Gentlemen had the honour of receiving
invitations, and being received by HER MAJESTY afterwards in the
Drawing Room." Well, Sir (writes our Correspondent) and where are they
usually received? In the kitchen? The report doesn't mention whether
it was the front or back Drawing Room.

* * * * *



_Second Stranger_. "CON-FOUND YOU--SO DO I!"]

* * * * *



_House of Commons, Monday, February 9_.--The ATTORNEY-GENERAL, with
copy of Orders in his hand, casts reproachful, almost angry, glance
on the harmless HOWORTH; that great diplomatist just dropped in
from Arlington Street; been to see the MARKISS, and give him latest
instructions as to conduct of public affairs, more especially with
respect to Behring Sea, the Northampton Election, the Newfoundland
Fisheries difficulty, and Assisted Education. A little fatigued with
his exertions; doesn't observe WEBSTER's woful regard.

[Illustration: Caustic Causton.]

"If it hadn't been for him," ATTORNEY-GENERAL mutters, still glaring
on elect of Salford, "shouldn't have to be down here now, answering
these sort of questions."

No doubt HOWORTH was, though undesignedly, originator of the business.
Saw in incident of Hartlepool election an opening for minimising
effect. Wrapped purpose up in form of question addressed to
ATTORNEY-GENERAL. Question in subtly diplomatic form insinuated
against FURNESS charge of breach of Corrupt Practice Act.
ATTORNEY-GENERAL, knowing that HOWORTH is the man who pulls the
strings of statecraft, not only in Salford and London, but in
Berlin and St. Petersburg, did not venture to decline to answer;
gravely played up to his lead. Opposition laughed and cheered; saw
their opening, and have since diligently filled it. Scarcely day
passed since that questions on hypothetical cases, addressed to
ATTORNEY-GENERAL, have not appeared on Orders. As they are moulded on
HOWORTH's, which he answered fully, even genially, difficult to refuse
reply. But there must be a limit to this kind of thing; reached to-day
when caustic CAUSTON comes forward with request for gratuitous opinion
on case submitted, involving difficult question of eligibility of
Catholics for seat on Woolsack. SUMMERS, who, depressed by Irish
domestic difficulty, hasn't put a question for three weeks, goaded
into activity; puts down another on same subject. Mr. ATTORNEY
respectfully declines to answer either. Opposition yell with derisive

Mr. ATTORNEY a man of equable temper, but this too much for him. Must
find object of attack somewhere. Waited till HOWORTH had said adieu
to five ladies whom he had been showing round the House. "Look here,
HOWORTH," said Mr. ATTORNEY, his amiable visage clouded with unwonted
wrath, "you content yourself with looking after the MARKISS, and
keeping him straight, but don't you come round me any more with your
confoundedly clever questions."

_Business done_.--Tithe Bill still on Report stage.

_Tuesday_.--Met JOHN MORLEY in corridor just now walking along with
long stride and troubled countenance. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"Is the French Revolution still troubling you, or are you in fresh
difficulties On Compromise?"

"No, dear TOBY," he said; "like MARTHA, I am troubled with none of
these things. The fact is, I am pining for opportunity to give battle
to BALFOUR in the matter of his Government of Ireland. You remember
I tabled notice of a Motion on the matter as soon as the House met
in November. Then I was so anxious, so absorbed in the subject, that
I forgot all about it till Brer FOX and Brer RABBIT appeared on the
scene, and bid against each other for precedence. Thereupon I pulled
my Resolution out of pigeon-hole; reminded OLD MORALITY of my prior
claim; had it admitted, and day fixed. Should have come on last
Monday, you know. Tithes Bill in hand all last week; everybody tired
of it; agree there's really nothing in it; Opposition smouldering out;
then suddenly, my Motion having been put down for Monday, interest in
Tithes Bill swells; becomes absorbing. Couldn't possibly finish last
Thursday; everyone so urgent to continue debate that House was Counted
Out on Friday; yesterday was appropriated for further debate on Report
stage; Thursday next is taken for Third Reading, and I'm put off till

"And who arranged all this?" I asked, with unfeigned sympathy.

[Illustration: Walking it Off.]

"Well, it was our fellows, you know, with assistance of Irish Members.
We are all so anxious to have it out with Prince ARTHUR that we made
it impossible for debate on his iniquities to come on this week. TIM
HEALY suddenly developed personal interest in Tithes Bill. Put down
several new Clauses. So succeeded in perhaps indefinitely deferring
debate on my Resolution. You know little, TOBY, of the thirst for
battle. It's more exhausting than the conflict itself. You'll excuse
me, I'll take another turn; to walk off the restless excitement is the
only hope left for me."

And crossing his hands behind him, honest JOHN was off again, down the
corridor, his red necktie gleaming in the further recesses like the
lurid light of battle.

_Business done_.--Tithes Bill through Report stage.

_Wednesday_.--Marriage with Deceased Wife's Sister Bill on again. A
hardy annual, carefully cultured in Commons, and regularly nipped
in Lords. The speeches to-day naturally did not present any features
riotously novel. HALL of Oxford (not the University, but the Brewery)
seconded Motion for rejection of Bill. A beautiful speech, I thought,
full of touching sentiments, delivered with much unction. His plea for
the sanctity of sisterhood brought tears into eyes unused to excessive
moisture. Didn't seem to have much to do with the Bill, but very

"Like evening bells," I said to the Member for Sark.

"More like a barrel-organ," he responded, gruffly. "HALL has the
oratorical manner of a street-preacher, and the emptiness of a tankard
that a thirsty porter has held to his lips for sixty seconds. Like a
skilfully-drawn glass of his own four-half, he's mostly froth; only,
after all, there's something under the froth in the glass of 'HALL's
Hextra,' and there's nothing beneath the sound of HALL's ambitious

[Illustration: Hirsute Hints for Lord Randolph; or, the Art of
Political Make-up.]

SARK often says nasty things; seems in particularly disagreeable mood
to-day. Even fell foul of the inoffensive Member for Crewe. WALTER
MCLAREN, whilst declaring himself strongly in favour of Bill, wanted
to throw it out because it didn't provide opportunity for women to
marry their deceased husband's brother.

"McLAREN," snarled SARK, "is one of those typical Radicals who have no
toleration. He's the sort of man who would bite off his nose to spite
his face. Quiet, gentle, almost feminine, in his manner, he would
think nothing of boiling you and me in molten lead if we didn't cross
our t's exactly at the height he is accustomed to do, or dotted
our i's at an angle which did not conform with his views. Scratch a
Radical, TOBY my boy, and you'll find the Tyrant."

I'll take care to do no such thing.

_Business done_.--Deceased Wife's Sister Bill read Second Time by 202
Votes against 155.

_Thursday_.--After long period of anxiety, House to-night reassured.
GEDGE, who hasn't been seen since he disappeared after obstructing
passage through Committee of Tithes Bill, turned up again. Curiously
regarded by House; looked for signs of privation, but no falling
off visible, whether in physical contour or volume of voice. Tithes
Bill during his absence has gone through Committee and Report stage.
Now awaiting Third Reading. GEDGE proposed to continue his speech
interrupted by stroke of Midnight, when House in Committee. Fixed
himself obligingly behind GOSCHEN and HICKS-BEACH, so that they should
miss nothing of his counsel, and started off. Instantly arose stormy
cries for Division. GEDGE, wherever he has been, seems to have been
well-fed, and kept generally in good fettle. Cheerfully accepted
challenge to vocal contest. Every time he commenced sentence
the boisterous chorus, "'vide! 'vide! 'vide!" rang though House.
Opposition, who didn't want Bill, started it; Ministerialists, anxious
to see Bill pass, took it up; a roaring, excited crowd; amid them
GEDGE, grey-faced, imperturbable, with mouth wide open, shouting
in the ear of the pleased CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER. _Business
done_.--Tithes Bill read Third Time by 250 Votes against 161.

[Illustration: "In rising to respond."]

_Friday_.--The United Services come nobly to the front to-day, all
about Nelson's Pillar in Sackville Street, Dublin. However it may be
at Westminster, Irish Members can't abear obstruction at home; brought
in Bill to remove Monument lower down street; long debate; towards
close Admiral FIELD suddenly hove in sight; bore down on enemy.

"As humble naval officer," he roared, as through a speaking-trumpet,
"I protest against addressing our immortal naval hero in the words of
the Poet, saying unto him, 'Friend, go down lower.'"

General FRASER, V.C., sitting next to Admiral on Front Bench below
the Gangway; bosom swelled with generous emulation; Navy attacked;
duty of Army to come to its assistance. General doesn't often speak;
appearances as public orator chiefly confined to responding to
patriotic toast at dinners. This led him a little astray. Drawing
himself up to full height, setting hands on hips, he began, in deep
bass voice, "In rising to respond to this toast--" Then, remembering
where he was, he executed strategic retreat, and addressed himself to

Spectacle of the two veterans defending memory of NELSON deeply
touched House. Nevertheless, Bill carried. _Business done_.--Counted
Out at Half-past Seven.

* * * * *

IN MONTAGU WILLIAMS' _Later Leaves_ there is a small error, but
of importance to the historian of the English Stage, which can be
corrected in the next edition:--Mr. KEELEY never played _Bob Mettles_,
and there is no such character in TOM TAYLOR's _Our Clerks. Bob
Nettles_ is one of the principal characters in _To Parents and
Guardians_, and it was played by Mrs. KEELEY, her husband playing
_Waddilove_. Middle-aged play-goers will remember both pieces; and in
the latter, no one will forget ALFRED WIGAN as the French Tutor.

* * * * *

CIVIL SERVICE NOTE.--The Directors of the Covent Garden Opera Company
present their compliments to the C.S. Examiners, and trust that they
will reconsider their determination to exclude the Italian language
from their list of subjects. The Directors will be happy to give every
facility to students during the forthcoming Opera season. Box Office
now open. Reduction on taking a quantity.

* * * * *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.


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