Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, June 22nd, 1895 online

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VOL. 108. JUNE 22, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_



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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

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

* * * * *


_To Monsieur Punch._

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

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

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

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

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

Sincere friendships, AUGUSTE.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "HONEY, MY HONEY!"


_Bear_ (_aside_). "SO SHALL I! A GOOD DEAL MORE - FROM _YOU_."

[_Hums "Oh, honey, MY honey!"_

* * * * *



_Archie_ (_preparing to depart_). "ALL RIGHT. BUT I SAY, AUNTIE, DON'T

* * * * *



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

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

* * * * *


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

* * * * *


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

* * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *



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

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

[Illustration: "They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was
Reciters, or somethink o' that."]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_He indulges in tender reminiscences._

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Her companion has a sense of discouragement._

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

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

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

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

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

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

_First Urch._ What, same as goats?

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

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

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

_First Urch._ Not o' anyfink?

_Second Urch._ Na-ow! They aint got nuffink to fink _about_, sheep

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

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

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

* * * * *


[Illustration: Patti commence la Patti-série.]

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

* * * * *


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

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

The Baron welcomes a comparatively "handy" volume ("handy" relative
term, depending on size of hand) of reference, entitled, _Men and
Women of the Time_, new edition, brought out by Messrs. GEORGE
ROUTLEDGE, edited by Mr. PLARR of Oxford; and the _plat_ that is set
before the public and the Baron appears to be a thoroughly satisfying
one. "The first name for which I naturally looked," quoth the Baron,
"was that of ROUTLEDGE himself, but searching from ROSSI, through
Roumania, to ROWBOTHAM, nowhere did I light upon the name of
ROUTLEDGE. Master MILLAIS is here, also MILLER, likewise MILLS; but I
do not see the name of the author of the _'Arry Papers_, the inventor

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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, June 22nd, 1895 → online text (page 1 of 3)