Punch 1897-10-09: Vol 113 Iss 2935

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.—Ocrtoser 9, 1897.

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INES, izes at

Ocroser 9, 1897.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 197

TRIALS OF

Sz . o * A NOVICE. Brown, “1 wish I HAD THE MORAL COURAGE TO GO HOME!”

| wan had chanced to have been intimately OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. | In Kedar’s Tents (Smitn, Exper) is a story by which Mr. Merriman more firmly establishes a still fresh but brilliant repu- tation. It bustles along through scenes full of local colour, this time the palette a from Spain, a country he seems to know intimately. The tale is full of adventure, and, happily, it is carried on | by real men and women. Of the two | sexes the author is, in this instance, more | successful with his men than his women. Padre Concha, the priest, who ought to have been a soldier; Concepgion Vara, | the light-hearted guide; General Vincent, the Royalist leader ; and Fred Conyngham the hero of the book, who lounges in and out of direful dilemmas, are each in their diverse ways admirable. Conyngham, by the way, reminds my Baronite of an old and dear friend, Frep Burnasy. It is doubtless accidental; but if Mr. Merri-

acquainted with the lant horseman of Khiva, the unconventional Colonel of the Blues, suspicion would become a certainty. It is part of the coincidence that Frep Burnasy spent some months in Spain fighting for Don Caros. In Shakspeare the Boy (Cuatro aND Wixpvs), Mr. Routes has pursued a very ingenious plan. An earlier author, in an analogous dilemma, took his fence at a stride. “Snakes in Iceland ” was the head- ing of his chapter. “There are none,” comprehended its contents. Mr. Rours, proposing to record what is known of Saak- spPzAre’s boyhood, might honestly have fulfilled his task by writing, “ Nothing.” As a matter of fact, he produces a pleasant, picturesque work of over 200 es, lim- ning a vivid picture of daily life at Stratford during the term of Suaksrgarz’s boyhood. Having done this, all that remains is to surmise that “little Wusam” saw this, or must have heard that, and there you are. There are many illustrations, in- cluding a portrait of a saintly boy, which may (or may not) be reproduced from a photograph taken as “we may imagine young WituiamM wending his way to the Grammar School for the first time on a May morning in 1571.” Mr. H. G. Watts should have given himself more time, and thought, for the development of a very origi idea. The Invisible Man (publi by Pxanson, Limited) is amusingly written, and here and there its reader will pause to indulge in audible guffaw or irresistible chuckle. But the fanciful tale is not well worked out the interest soon ceases, and what shoul have been from first to last a ingly extravagant absurdity, ually oe out in tragic splutter. pite this, the story is well worth reading. As to Mr. Haut Carne’s new book, The Christian, all I can find to say, to those hesitating whether to read it or not, is,— 7 you a absolutely nothing + to do ; you have no newspapers, no library, no books of any sort. finel i Bradshaw's Guide) ; if there be no pack of cards handy, or even a solitaire board; if, on a pouring wet day, you are dyi or want of some- thing to irritate you into healthy action, then, should you discover a copy of The Christian anywhere about, it up and try it. anpoone to answer for the consequences, but if you are of an iron will and able to control your passions up to a certain point, you will, despite the wretched weather, pull on ne boots, struggle into your dri water- proof, and rush out of the house as if you were Ase. running away from Caine. Everyone to his taste, and it is reported that the book has had a wonderful sale. Certainly, if this be so, the sale is indeed wonderful, and the fact shows how bad the weather must have been in various parte of the count By the way, can any one of its “fifty thousand” readers, including Dean Farrar, who apologises for the au- thor oy “— loses ny Ag: = there ma in the story, in why it is called The Christian? Tue Baron ve B.-W.

AN EVIDENT MISPRINT. A WELL-KNowN journalist has invented a hair-restorer, which bears the designation of “Tatcho,” said to be Romany for “genuine.” Surely this is all a mistake— it should be “ Thatcho.” Hard to 0, Brand-new thatch O!

Musica Mepicine.—It has recently been discovered that sick folk can be musically treated with advantage. Of course, they take the tonic sol-fa. A Royal Nursery Rhyme. Tere was a young King of Siam, Who cried, “ All for knowledge I am.” So he roamed to the West, Where he studied with zest, Put all things to the test, Ate and drank of the best,

As he cried, “ Well, a student must cram!”

VoL. cxur)

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[Octoser 9, 1897, LONDON CHARIVARL THE OR 158 PUNCH, mat ( I ei a) = “me tN - » GG ax “ SNIPING.” ‘| THINK THAT SHOT TOUCHED ‘EM UT.’ The horley-Mullah.

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Octoser 9, 1897.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 159 ee 4 yr il I PU MB Ae ORD 71 4 bpd ary A, iil Me 47 5 LP ee " Aide Se io sm Wahl, 9,13 he] Fg ge ? WG) ae PA Wh Hig) PPO Harold, ‘‘ AND NOW, DARLING, TELL ME WHAT YOUR FATHER SAID WHEN YOU TOLD HIM WE WERE ENGAGED.” Sybil. “‘On, HaRo_p, DON’T ASK ME TO REPEAT HIS LANGUAGE!” ' W inh ut 1s MA hi VA et , § nd 18 2) ' 1346 iJ wr = THE KAISER’S SABBATH. Ve President of Westphalia has issued an edict forbidding indulgence in shooting, dancing, play- acting, and similar recreations, on a Sunday. i the next column of the paper in which this edict is published, there is an account of the Karser’s shoot with the Emperor of Avsrnta at Totis on the previous Sabbath. Hap I been born in Wri114m’s land By some malicious lot, To bless his bust, or lick the dust _Whereon his chargers trot— Were I, in fact, erman make, Which, thanks to luck, I’m not ; [’d sing a grace composed by him Each time I broke my bread, And every night sit up and cite His latest speech in bed, And have his allegory hung Beside my slumbering head. I'd go, to ease his mighty heart, Serenely to the block, And toast his name and fabulous fame Above my final bock, Remarking in my gaoler’s ear “Hoch to the , hoch !” I'd face the axe, or rope, or else The new electric gear, And prior to death, though short of breath, Uplift a loyal cheer, And shout terrifically, like The Dying Grenadier. How any sheep of all the flock Marked by the Katser’s brand Can care to brave the lightest wave Of that majestic hand, Is more, considerably more, Than I can understand. Yet there is one so brazen-faced, A bold Westphalian he, Who rudely went, without consent, And issued a by-decree, A private Sunday law to suit is own locality. “None shall,” he said, “on Sabbath-day Indecorously run To skittles or dance or games of chance, Or shooting with the gun, Nor kill of even dogs s0 much As just a little one.” For here, with other sports profane, A tendency was foun To pen big —— pig, 80 and ro That Aan de Poy Gorm that make the name Westphalia world-renowned. Now in the Mail that gave the law Some daring local wits Described their Lord as having scored With many marvellous hits, While. he and Francis Joszru broke The Sabbath-day to bits. All through the holy, They chased the ful hours stag The steeples rang ; they answered “ Bang ! They didn’t care a rag ; By vesper-time the two had made A most stupendous bag. ” Now if (a dread hypothesis) The War-Lord should incline Westphalia’s way some Sabbath-day To shoot a herd of swine, I’m pleased to think the President His fate will not be mine. Publishers, printers, devils and The staff that ran the Mail, The actual scribe and all the tribe That had the thing on sale, Will be accommodated in The journalistic gaol. And go I say, when thinking on My free (if futile) lot, And dreaming how my bones by now In dungeon-keeps would rot— “Some men are made in Germany, I thank my luck I’m not.” At the Cosmopolitan Club. British Politician (to Teutonic guest). This is what we call a by-election at Barnsley. Teuton. Potztausend! but I had, more- over, my imagined that bribery and cor- ruptiveness no longer were permitted at your voting polls! [Has to be instructed by means of an Anglo German Dictimary.

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[Ocroner 9, 1897, 160 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. LATEST FROM THE MOORS. Intelligent Foreigner, ‘‘ Tait Mt—zee "ILANDERS, DO ZAY ALWAYS WEAR ZEE Raw Leas!” THE SEVEN STAGES OF LITERARY SUCCESS Illustrated by Cuttings from the Scrap-boot of a Popular Author, SracE THE Fins, “A Star of Dawn, by a hitherto unknown author, Mr. Jonas Goorp, places him at a single bound in the foremost ranks of contemporary novelists.”—Daily Oracle. “An epoch-making book, instinct with consummate and irre- sistible genius.”—Areopagus. “A cheering sign of the times is the extraordinary enthusiasm with which A Star of Dawn has been received by the Press and Public. It proves that really great work is invariably sure of instant recognition.” —Chanticlere. “ The author is evidently only on the threshold of his brilliant career... . We shall await his next work with breathless interest.” —T' rum peter. Srace THE £Econp. “The numerous public which thrilled and shuddered, wept and laughed over that marvellous book, A Star of Dawn, will not be disappointed by its successor, The Meridian. Here are the same, &c., &e., only richer, more matured, better held in restraint. Incomparably the finest novel of the century.”—Friday Flam- boyant. “We laid down the book with a feeling of positive reverence for the intellect which could conceive and carry out to a success- ful issue so stupendous a design. . . . There can be no further doubt about it. The Meridian bears on every page the imprint of the master-hand.”—Discriminator. Srace THe Turep. “We hear that Mr. Goorp has been giving sittings of late to Mr. FirzJonn Metevey, the well-known R.A., and the portrait, when completed, will be one of the chief attractions of the forth- coming Academy.” “Mr. Goorp, the distinguished novelist, is perhaps the best- interviewed man living. He been compelled to set apart two days a week entirely for the purpose of gratifying the in- satiable curiosity of the public respecting his personality and surroundings.” “Mr. Goorp is now leading a life of almost complete seclusion at John o’ Groat’s, where he is engaged in putting finishing touches to his forthcoming novel, Brutum Fulmen. ose who have been privileged with a peep at the proofs, report, &c., &c. Mr. Goorp complains bitterly of the manner in which his privacy has been invaded by cyclists and representatives of the Press.” “Tt is said that Mr. Goorp has received the magnificent offer of £— down for his next novel. This is the largest sum ever offered for any work of imagination. Mr. Goorp is considering the proposal.” —Paragraphs (various). SracE THE Fourrtu. “Mr. Goorn’s new novel, Brutwm Fulmen, contains all the qualities with which he has made us accustomed in his previous rformances. Perhaps he has nothing particularly new to say— indeed, it is difficult to avoid a certain impression of —— &c., &c. .. . . Still, when all is said, it is indubitably the novel of the year.”— Moderator. s “ What hope is there for Literature when a stupid and sheepish Public receives with gaping avidity such pretentious bombast as the works of that over-rated novelist, Mr. Jonas Goorp?”— Weekly Iconoclast. “We have never been carried off our feet by the flood of some- what hysterical admiration for Mr. Goorp’s undoubted talents, and we see nothing in Brutum Fulmen to lead us to alter, &c.” —Tepidarium. es “Tt is really time that Mr. Goorp struck out some new vein. —Athenian Mercury. STacE THE Firra “In Fiasco, Mr. Goorp has essayed an entirely new departure. . Unfortunately, he cannot be congratulated . . . . We re- commend him to return without delay to the earlier methods by which he won his very considerable reputation.”—Athenian Mercury. . ; ? We. should be inclined to award to Fiasco a prominent post tion among the novels of the current month.”—Morning Muk. “ Fiasco is quite unlike anything its author has written before, and we venture to express a hope that the experiment will not be repeated.”—Daily Oracle.

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on & tea °f ir my Ozroser 9, 1897.) PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 161 STaGE THE SIXTH, “In Sunset, Mr. Goorp attempts a repetition of the sort of writing which obtained for A Star of Dawn and The Meridian a temporary popularity with the more unthinking section of the Public. This is a pity, because in Fiasco he owed a decided capability for better things.”—Daily Oracle. “ After Fiasco, which in some respects was quite a remarkable novel, Sunset comes as a distinct disappointment. We fear that Mr. Goorp is inclined to take himself too seriously.” — Athenian Mercury. “ Sunset is quite unworthy of the pen that wrote that uneven but far from contemptible novel, A Star of Dawn, and is not a patch upon the same author’s Fiasco. However, it is entitled to mention as one of the novels of a by no means remarkable week.” —Flamboyant. “When the author produces something which has more claims to be treated as Literature than Sunset can boast of, we shall be happy to give it a more extended criticism than this brief para- graph. Meanwhile, we gladly pass on to the next in our batch of ephemeral productions.”—Summary Review. “We hear that Mr. Goorp, the celebrated novelist, is com- nelled, by reasons of health, to reside abroad in future, and that is unrivalled collection of antique tapestries, Louis Quinze furni- ture, and other objects of Art, will shortly be seen at Curuistry’s.” Srace THE SEVENTH. “ Afterglow, by J. Goorp, is a thoroughly well-written novel, iike everything else that proceeds from this cultivated and con- scientious artist. It will greatly liked.” —Lwyubricator. “Mr. Goorn’s facile pen has given us another of his pleasant books. It is quite up to the level of anything he has done hitherto.”—Dazly Oracle. “If we have allotted to Afterglow more space than its import- ance strictly deserves, our excuse must be the real pleasure which its perusal afforded us.”—Trumpeter. “An excellent little book to take up in an idle half-hour when there is nothing else to do.”—Discriminator. “ Will appeal to a large circle of readers, and give much inno- cent pleasure.” —Areopagus. " the author’s name seems familiar, somehow, though there is nothing on the title-page to indicate that Afterglow is not a maiden effort. If so, & (or she) may be congratulated and encouraged to persevere in the hope that some day, &c.”— Chanticlere. Post-scRIPTUM. (Extract from Letter to Jonas Goord, Esq., from his Publishers.) Dear Str,—We propose, with your consent, to clear out the whole of the remainder copies of Afterglow at waste-paper prices, as we find it impossible to dispose of the edition én more seg able terms. Trusting that this arrangement will meet with your approval, we are, &c., &c. “IN GLOBO.” _ Yate University must be a pleasant place for a quiet student, if, whenever two Yaler Boys meet a third, they immediately pro- ceed to hoist him off his legs, wildly carry him about, before a him recklessly anywhere, all the while shouting, “Yale! Yale! Yale!” asa sort of war-cry, in addition to yell- ing a verse of something or other, more or jess unmusical. Such, as above stated, is the startling conduct of Messrs. Harry REEVES-SMITH and ArrHur Ptarrair, representing “Students of Yale University, U.S.A.,” showing the “ way they have in the Varsity” of giving a welcome to their fellow-student, Frank Staynor (played by Mr. Weepon Grossmitn), on his arrival at ‘Miss FrtzALLEen’s house in New York city.” The fun of this bustling piece culminates in the third act, which, as rarely happens in such farcical pieces, is the best of the three. Mr, Micnart Morton, author of “Miss Francis” of Yale, seems to have had Weepon GrossmitH in his eye, and to have seen pretty clearly how he could best suit him. Through two acts the unfortunate WeEpon is battered, banged, bumped, thumped, frightened by everyone in turn, greatly to the delight of a sympathetic audience, until, in the last, he retires for the night, sf to be treated worse than ever, and have his nerves shattered r. short but sharp thunderstorm. Messrs. Reeves- SMITH and Ptayrarr hunt in couples, and, when not engaged in bullying Weepon Grossmrrn, are flying for their lives from savage dogs, whose terrific barking is admirably imitated by some invisible artist outside, whose name does not appear in the play- bill, but who, if justice is to be done all mr. ought certainly to be rewarded by a call before the curtain, unless, as is net quite HOW LITTLE OUR DEAR ONES UNDERSTAND US! Madge. ‘‘My pean GEORGE, THERE YOU'VE BEEN SITTING WITH | your CAMERA SINCE BREAKFAST, AND YOU HAVEN'T TAKEN ANY- THING,” George (intent on his own feelings), ‘‘ Don’? ask mx TO, Danwina, I COULDN'T ToucH IT!” improbable, the above-mentioned clever canine imitation is artistically given by that sly dog, Mr. Lirrix, when, as Uncle Fitz Allen, hiding under a bed, he treats the enraptured audience to a specimen of how he can imitate a dog’s yapping, doin it, too, in a most convincing manner, until driven out o! his ambush by several whacks from a poker in the vigorous hands of Miss Ernet Horr, impersonating Miss Mann. If this be so, special compliments are due to Mr. Lirrie. ; As Soaper, the eccentric melodramatic butler, Mr. KincHorne is capital. Miss May Patrrey and Miss Srencer Brunton are in pleasant contrast with one another as the two sweet sisters FitzAllen. Neither has much to say, and not very much to do. There is some character in the part of the merry widow, played by Miss Heren Ferrers, who shares with Cosette (Miss Ferran), the French maid, the best chances in the piece, “ Miss Francis af has, it appears, made a decided hit, but it is not within measur- able distance of Charley's Aunt. Sharp, short, brisk throughout, it succeeds in keeping an audience interested and amused for just two hours. The Prayer of a Cycling Benedict. eeordi . ience of Mr. Cooren, the retiring Birmingham Bi y | " ioe rte cycling has been coincident with the boom in matrimony.] Mr. Punch said “ Don’t” to all those about to marry, The bike says “Do” before the boom is at an end ; Pray give me leave this once, O London Charivari, . Fer tandems weren’t invented when your sage advice you penned ! Curious Fact or Horricutrvre.—That perhaps the best apple is a Blenheim orange. on

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162 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARL [Octosgr 9, 1897. 4st. é f 4 ‘*Don’r You THINK THE LUTHERAN SERVICE swEET?” “I pont THink I kNow rT. ALL MINE Is SévREs.” THINGS THEY DO BETTER IN HOLLAND. Dean Mr. Puncn,— May I send you seme random notes of a flying visit to the land of dams and polders ? ey are some- what disconnected, and require sorting, much as does the writer after a rough sea- | passage in one of the Zeelandsche Stoom- vaart Maatschappij’s excellent boats. In the first place, there is no scenery to waste time over in Holland. A landscape, | the ingredients of which are canals, cows, | and wind-mills, saves a lot of trouble, if you keep a sketch-book. One horizontal line, surmounted by a row of X’s, gives you a perfect picture of the Zaanland with its forest of saw-milla. You can get an excellent seat in the | stalls of a theatre for three shillings or so, with a penny for the p me. When will the London theatres follow suit, and let us see a piece in comfort at a reason- able price? Then the opera is sung in| Dutch, so you are not bothered with listen- | ing to the absurdities of the libretto, but | can devote all your attention to the music. | The Amsterdam Zoo ople are most) considerate to their four-legged and| feathered residents. For instance, the | ostrich has a comfortable and ornamental ' villa to himself, with reception and bed- rooms, and apparently a kitchen, pantry, and coal-cellar in the premises. Double-fronted, detached house; sanita- tion excellent; hot water throughout ; balcony lounge, together with extensive playground, and “all that messuage” ; standing in its own premises, and com- manding romantic views of duck-pond and | band-stand ; keeper, gardeners, garden pro- duce, and perquisites, all inclusive. Only the language of the house-property adver- tisements in our esteemed contemporaries’ columns can do it justice. The sands at Scheveningen are well pro- vided with “ wind-stoels,” or wicker-work portable seats with hoods. Put two of these together face to face, and you can have a téte-d-téte as long as you like, or until they tip over. Then in the Kurhaus they have invented and adopted a new means of gambling, called “ European Pool,” apparently played nowhere else. You can get rid of your ilders much faster this way than at “little horses,” and ag the chances are less in your favour, you will soon be cured of the taste for such games of chance. The eyes is this: You take up a scoop, rom which you let roll a vulcanite ball, about an inch and a half in diameter, on to a sort of long, flat trough, with eight shallow depressions in it. Two of these are marked red, two are blue, and the rest 1, 2, 3, 4, successively. You win twice your stake on the red or on the blue, and four times on the numbers, having previously indicated which you will play on, red, blue, or a number. I say, you win; or at least, I hope so. I didn’t. The elderly ladies do their best to arrest and amuse the observant eye, by wearing sapet helmets of medieval design at the back of their heads, with small, gold blinkers or frontlets at their temples, and surmounting the whole with a modern black bonnet with sprays and feathers. A few of such head-dresses in London would make a walk down Bond Street highly interesting. In the Oude Kerk at Amsterdam you see a notice that smoking in church is forbidden ; but that, by way of consola- tion, the 119th Psalm will be sung through as a “yoo .” The latter, with a ser- mon an hour and a half long, is in keeping with the lengthy hotel dinner given you recently. But I am straying from my text, and will therefore conclude with “tot weérziens!” (which, I believe, is the Dutch au revoir). Yours miscellaneously, Zz. Y.X SPORTIVE SONGS. A disappointed Epicurean, whose lady-love will not *‘ name the day,” consiles himsel’ on Michaelmas Day. Hope against hope is still the tale That ’s told from day to day, While sunlight fades and skies grow pale, O’ercast with shadows grey. The Winter-snow is very near, The cold is coming fast On cutting winds; and yet, my dear, You will not say, “ At last!” You will not see the Summer’s fled, And may not come again, Nor recognise the year is dead, While we two yet are twain. You little reck of bitter grief Caused by your fickle troth. And, ’mid the faliing of the leaf, You think of one, not both! The birds that sang to us in Spring Have hushed their joyous strain, Or taken flight on Southern wing For Africa or Spain! The swallow now prepares his flight, For travel is agog, And bids to us a long “ Good-night ! ”"— He loves not English fog! Still birds are left about the nest, Birds that are passing fair, The sprightliest and daintiest That ever breathed our air; Birds, such as you, who love to be Uncaged, too prone to roam, And live the life that they deem free By never seeking home. But there’s one bird, I love her well, I’ll meet that bird to-night, And on her many charms will dwell, And make her my delight. She shall for you atonement make, And an exquisite excuse ; Of her I wish you could partake— She is my wonted goose! ApvIce To wou.p-BE Backers or Horses anp THeatTricat SpecuLations.—Back out !

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_ PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.—Ocroser 9, 1897.

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A NATIONAL QUESTION. Britannia. “WHEN ARE YOU TWO GOING TO MAKE IT UP, AND LET ME HAVE MY SHIPS?” [‘‘ The lock-out in the engineering trade will seriously interfere with the carrying out of the extended ship-building scheme authorised last Sess: "4 by the House of Commons. Consequent on the delay in forwarding the programme, it will be impossible within the limits of the financial year to expe the seven and a half millions voted.”— Daily News, October 2.]

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OctosER 9, 1897.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 165 WITH Moror-CaBs A SUBSTITUTE FoR ‘‘ WHIP BEHIND” BECOMES A NECESSITY, Messrs. Srarr AND JumpKINe’s Patent GALVANIO Urcain TICKLER WILL BE FOUND MOST EFFECTIVE, THE PROPITIATOR’S VADE MECUM. Question. What is your mission in life? Answer. To discover causes of discord, and remove them. _ Q. Give an instance of your occupation in action. A. I strongly object to the celebration of the anniversary of the victory of Tra- alps because the event might offend the rench. Q. Then do you object to the name of WELLINGTON ? A. Certainly, except in its connection with boots. Q. And what about Waterloo? A. It should disappear as a name of a place, a bridge, or an omnibus. Q. Would you honour Napo.zon with a statue ? A. In theory. Q. Why not in practice ? A. Because the effigies of public men in England may, unfortunately, turn out to be insults perpetuated in marble or bronze. Q. Would you celebrate any date in con- nection with the Spanish Armada ? _ A. Certainly not ; more especially as the incident is said to have occurred so long ago that it is to be hoped that it may not be true. Q. Would you retain a remembrance of the names of any of our battles with the French ? _ A. Only those which we had lost—for instance, Fontenoy. _Q. And what would you do about NELSON ? A. I would prove conclusively that he never won an action in his life and was em outwitted by our Gallic neigh- rs. Q. And what would you say about Wer- LINGTON ? A. That instead of his customary title, he should be known as the Hero of a Hundred Flights. Q. And how would you account for the WATER wasn STAND Some additions we may reasonably expect to the Hot-water Lamp-posta. A, By their luck in fortunate blunder- ing. Q. Then you would establish the pres- tige of our lively neighbours at the expense of the reputation of our own troops? A. Undoubtedly ; and thus prevent our country drifting into war. Q. And you consider that this plan of self-depreciation is conducive to propitia- tion ? A. I do; and consequently it is my great regret that there is an unfortunate bar to the attainment of my object. Q. What is that, in your eyes, unfortu- nate bar? A. That my words and actions are im- perfectly understood by our neighbours across the water. Q. Is this a curse ? A. In my eyes; although some people may consider it a blessing. A LAY OF THE LAKES. Dexwest WATER. Derwent Water very fine When the sun consents to shine ; Derwent Water very calm ; Sure to sail would do no harm, Suddenly there comes a squall, Instantly our spirits fall. Derwent Water over decks, Derwent Water down our necks, Derwent Water very rough, Derwent Water quite enough. From ovr Inrernessrnte One (obvi- ously in concealment).—Q. What is cer- tainly the name of the sister of the Clerk of the Weather? A. Anne E. Royd.

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SS ed 16€ PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARL [Octopzr 9, 1897, THE PARLIAMENTARY CRICKET TEAM ON TOUR! ( Warranted correct.) Tue TEAM WILL OF COURSE BE CONSTITUTED AS ABOVE! Sin RicHARD -WEDSTER 8 DISCLAIMER MAKES IT CLEAR THAT THE PUBLISHED LIST OF THE ELEVEN THAT IS SHORTLY GOING ROUND THE WORLD IS NOT CORRECT,

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a7 Baevrea: WWaet ee ea 4 eek? VY ea fe oan 42488422 "4a Ve Ocropgr 9, 1897.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARLI. 167 _—— ABROAD IN THE AUTUMN. Nuremberg.—Still raining. Still cold and foggy. Have finished museums. What next? Churches. To the Laurenz Kirche. Very dark inside. Walk slowly round choir. Perceive on the floor a small placard inscribed “ Stufe!” Stop and look at it. My German wants brushing up. member the word, but not the translation of it. Looks as if it meant “ stove,’ but that is Ofen. Am still meditating when I nearly fall over a step. Then understand what a Stufe is. Fine instance of Ger- man paternal government. No doubt most foreigners, gazing at this word, are on their hands and knees before they know what it means. If there were no placard their eyes would be at liberty to see the step. Ramble round the Castle, and AtBert Durer’s house, and the Museum of Instruments of Torture—which contains some instru- ments of music, but no barrel-organ—and then good-bye to the factory-chimneys, the fog, and the Gothic railway station. The train leaves the latter reluctantly. It is a very slow train. Cannot i ine how they manage to have so many accidents in Germany when they go at this pace. Wonder the passengers don’t get out and walk. Safer and quicker. If you like a slow train, You will find ono in Spain ; For dawdling combined with disaster, You ‘ll be suited as well In a Zug, far from schnell — Be smashed, while a bike would go faster. Rothenburg.—At last arrive. For the moment it is not raining. Round the town. A delightful old place. Every house pic- turesque. The Herr Biirgermeister oat his fellow-citizens keep their beautiful old town mediwval, and yet clean and in order, a combination which hardly any other Town Council has ever attempted. Then the rain begins again. If any one wished to make a fortune he should start somewhere in Bavaria an immense shop for the sale of waterproof clothing. If properly puffed, his establishment would in time supply every man, woman and child with macintoshes, &c. Everyone would wear a Gummi- Mantel, a Gummi-Hut, and Gwmmi-Schuhe. Can’t stand damp medizevalism any longer. Must go where there are cabs, cafés, theatres, and tramcars to shelter one. So off to Munich, this time in a Schnellzug, which is very full. There is a dining-car in the train. Capital! After dining at Rothenburg at 12.15, could manage a second dinner about 7.30. Quite a civilized hour. So at that time, with a good appetite, change to the Speisewagen. Am crushed by the astounding in- formation that everything has been eaten! Not even a roll left. At once feel a still better appetite. The waiter tries to console me by saying that we arrive at Munich at 9. By the time I can get supper at the hotel it will be 9.30—two hours hence. Spend the remaining hour and a half in the train opposite a weary little old lady and a restless man. Probably he is also starving. The o'd lady seems to desire repose—probably after a good meal. SLe lies down on half the length of the seat, and closes her eyes The restless man yawns, pushes his hat back, pulls it forward again, wriggles, kicks. He must be hungry. Old lady opens her eyes, sits up, puts on a large pair of spectacles, looks sadly around, and tries to go to sleep again. Should feel more sorry for her if I thought she were also starving. Wonder if she has any biscuits in her little hand-bag. How to obtain one? Impossible if she is asleep. Otherwise might get into conver- sation and arouse her sympathy. She does not rest long. Her neighbour jumps up, and flops down again. This movement shoots the old lady into a sitting posture. She opens one eye and sighs. Restless man, in a paroxysm of energy, throws about his arms, as though he were using dumb-bells. Old lady opens both: eyes, gazes nervously at his moving arms, sits as far away as she can, and asks me how much longer it is to Munich. Ah, now is my chance! I tell her there is another hour. She gasps. Restless man bolts out into the corridor, and is seen no more Perhaps he is gnawing a napkin in the useless Speisewagen. As soon as he has gone, the old lady falls asleep again, and all hope of a biscuit vanishes. Starve steadily to Munich. Rosinson THE Rovzr. A Rift in the Lute. Country Cousin (on a visit to London, to lady fiddler). Were _ pmotising on your violin just now, Miss Strap? I thought eard you. Miss Strad. No. I haven’t touched it to-day. . r. ountry Cousin. Ah! then it must have been an organ in the ree (And for the life of him he can’t understand why Miss Strap now gives him the cold shoulder. “THERE ’s ONE THING I wiLL SAY ABOUT ME—AN’ THAT Is, I's A MAN OF REGULAR ‘ABiITs!” POACHING UP TO DATE. (‘* Two men were fined £120 a-piece for poaching white rhinoceros,” Times of Africa.) I’ve poached a pickle pairtricks when the leaves were turnin’ sere, I’ve roached a twa-three hares an’ groose, an’ mebbe whiles a deor, But ou, it seems an unco thing, an’ jist a wee mysterious Hoo any mortal could contrive tae poach a rhinocerious. I’ve crackit wi’ the keeper, pockets packed wi’ pheasants’ eggs, An’ a ten-pun’ saumon hangin’ doun in baith my trouser legs, But eh, I doot effects wud be a wee thing deleterious | Gin ye shuld stow intil yer breeks a brace o’ rhinocerious. I mind hoo me an’ Wullie shot a Royal in Braemar, An’ brocht him doun tae Athol by the licht o’ mune an’ star, An’ eh, Sirs! but the canny beast contrived tae fash an’ weary us— Yet staigs maun be but bairn’s play by a weel-grown rhinocerious. I thocht I kent 0’ poachin’ jist as muckle ’s ither men, But there is still a twa-three things I doot I dinna ken, An’ noo I canna rest, my brain is growin’ that deleerious Tae win awa’ tae Africa an’ poach a rhinocerious. At Brighton. Ethel. I can’t make out why that well-dressed, good-looking man stares so persistently at you, GLapys. ; Gladys. I can. He’s the new foreman at Sxir anp Patrern’s, and he wants to see how my new tailor-made frocks are cut by Button AND Breexs. _ Lingua Franca at the Prix du Conseil Municipal. Anatole. Qui est ce petit Monsieur qui vient de te saluer, ? : ; —. C’est un sportsman le pane qui a fait un dead’eat avec un outsidare au dernier meeting. Un vrai dark’orse!

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= ~~ ——~7- 168 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARL [Ocroper 9, 1897, MURDER WILL OUT. Teddy (out Cub-hunting for the first time), ‘‘OnH, THANK You 80 MUCH, Mr. Huntsman, But I'm aFRAtD DADDY WILL BURY IT.” Huntsman. ‘‘ Bury tr? On, NO, HE’LL HAVE IT STUFFED FOR YoU.” Teddy, ‘‘ Wii net THEN WHY DOES HE ALWAYS BURY THE ONES HE SHOOTS!” [Nice for Daddy, who may be seen talking to the M.F.H. WHat WILL HE DO witH 1T?—“ The Siamese Minister,” says Saturday’s Daily Mail, “yesterday waited upon the Lord Mayor” —at luncheon, probably, and handed his Lordship the real turtle and hashed venison—“ at the Mansion House, and, by command of the Ki of Siam, presented his Lordshi e insignia ot Commander of the Shovel Order of the White es and with a portrait of the King.’ “Commander,” the Lord Mayor may now order as many White Elephants as he can get. All who saw Sir Favper gaily bestriding his fiery steed on Jubilee Day know that he is already a perfect Master of the Horse; and ners next ninth of November we may beh the ex-Lord Mayor, in his robes, sitting on a White Elephant’s head, bowing his acknowledgments right and left to the crowd; while within the palanquin on the elephant’s back will be the new Lord Mayor, the Mace Bearer, the Recorder, and the Chaplain. ‘“There’s a picture for you!” A propos of pictures, if Sir Favpe. can’t have a a White Elephant to mount, he will, at all events, see that the King’s portrait is properly “mounted.” BY-ELECTIONS. Jock, Jock, yer thochts were ever bent In some gey licht direction, Ye lovedna learnin’ or ye’d kent This was a by-election. An’ why sae namit? Hout awa’, Just list, ye feckless creetur’, I'll gie ye ‘what the Frenchmen ca’ e vara raison d’eeter. Ae morn—the fecht was ragin’ fair— While we were at oor parritch, There staps withoot our ones there A bonny braw new carritc An’ whiles we thocht = sbeld be done, No bein’ used wi’ feat The Colonel, smilin’ Cam’ in an’ made his — A ble? Ou, I doot the word as never been inventit. Agreeable? Faith, we never heard gan = sae complimentit. ised the coo, admired the soo, a ah in the midden rollin’ , An’ hoped we ’d see an’ bring him through Triumphant at the pollin’. Searce had he smiled himsel’ awa’, Scarce was his last bow drappit, When look ye! Lord a aaa us a’, Anither carritch sta = An’ ere the wife peg urry ben Tae set the parlour ready, There stood within the door, ye ken, Sir Tamas an’ his leddy. We thocht the Colonel he bade fair Wi’ compliments tae cram us, | But, Jock, my laddie, he was ne’er A’ patch’ upon Sir Tamas. He askit us aboot the hay, An’ was there aucht we’re wishin’? An’ hoped that whiles we’d tak’ a day Doun at the saumon fishin’. Scarce had he gaen, the gudewife sees The butler frae the Hoose, man— “The Colonel’s compliments an’ Oy es Ye ’ll tak’ a brace o’ groose, man Then comes Sir Tamas’ man an’ mak’s A lang oration, endin’ “ He hopes ye ‘ll like the hares he tak’s The liberty o’ sendin’.” The Colonel ca’d again the morn “Why, man,” quoth he, “ve re husky. Ye ’ve ta’en the cauld, an’ I’ll be sworn There’s naethin’ for’t like whusky. I’ve got the vara thing, ye’ll see, An’ oh, the wee-est spot ll Jist mak’ anither man o’ ye— I’ll send ye doun a bottle. Sir Tamms heard o’ this i’ toun, For sure as I’m a sinner, His ain braw man cam’ fleein’ doun While we were at our dinner. “Sir Tamas saw wi’ muckle How pale ye looked an’ weak, Sir ; He hopes this port ’ll bring again The roses tae yer chew, sir!” O Jocx! I never lived, my lad, In sic a field o’ clover, An’ eh, it mak’s me gey an’ sad Tae think it a’ is over. An’ noo, mebbe, ye’ll unnerstan’, Gin ye are a reflector, Why ’tis a by-election, an’ Why I’m a boucht elector. At the Pig and Pelican. Mrs. Thimbleby (to Mrs. GrimBizsy). I can’t abide them dratted pore rates. Mrs. Grimbleby. Why, lor’ love , Marraa, I looks upon ’em as a bi old age pension.

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