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|
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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98,
June 14 1890, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, June 14 1890
Author: Various
Editor: Sir Francis Burnand
Release Date: August 7, 2010 [EBook #33366]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***
Produced by Lesley Halamek, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>[pg 277]</span>
<h1>Punch, or the London Charivari</h1>
<h2>Volume 98, June 14th 1890</h2>
<h3><i>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</i></h3>
<hr class="full" />
<h4>MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. No. VI.</h4>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:500px;"><a href="images/277-1000.png"><img src="images/277-500.png" width="500" height="369" alt="MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. No. VI." /></a>
<p>"Never miss a chance of ingratiating yourself with the Jury, even at the expense
of the Judge."
(An opportunity often occurs after Lunch.)</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>"GOOD OLD GRACE!"</h2>
<h4>(<i>Doggerel on "The Doctor," by an "Old Duffer."</i>)</h4>
<blockquote><p>
"Dr. <span class="sc">Grace</span>, who seemed to forget his lameness, played with great vigour and dash, and his cuts
and drives possessed all their old brilliancy."—<i>The Times, on the exciting finish in the Cricket Match
between the M.C.C. and the Australians, June 3, 1890.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>One hundred and eleven runs, and eighty-five minutes to make 'em in,</p>
<p>And with <span class="sc">Turner</span> and <span class="sc">Ferris</span> to trundle as fast as they could pitch and break 'em in!</p>
<p>And it looked any odds on <span class="sc">Murdoch's</span> men contriving to make a draw of it;</p>
<p>But Cricket, my lads, is a curious game, and uncertainty seems the sole law of it.</p>
<p>So they sent in <span class="sc">Grace</span> and <span class="sc">Shuter</span> to start. Well, the Doctor is now called "a veteran,"</p>
<p>But at forty-two when he's on the job 'tisn't easy to pick out a better 'un.</p>
<p>And he "spanked for four," like a lad once more, and he cut and he drove like winking;</p>
<p>Though his leg <i>was</i> lame, he forgot that same, and he "played the game" without shrinking.</p>
<p>And Surrey's <span class="sc">Shuter</span> he did his part, and so did Notts' <span class="sc">Gunn</span>, Sir,</p>
<p>Though he <i>might</i> have chucked the game away when the Doctor he managed to out-run, Sir.</p>
<p>It was hard, you see, upon W. G. in <i>that</i> way to lose his wicket,</p>
<p>But all the same he had won the game, and had played superlative Cricket.</p>
<p>Forty-three to make, and forty-five minutes! But <span class="sc">Grace</span> and <span class="sc">Gunn</span> were equal to it;</p>
<p>And a win, with a quarter of an hour in hand, was the satisfactory sequel to it.</p>
<p>The Australians played a manly game, without any dawdling or shirking;</p>
<p>And if they didn't avoid defeat why it wasn't for want of hard working.</p>
<p>But the stiff-legged "Doctor" who forced the game in the most judgmatical fashion,</p>
<p>And forgot his leg and his "forty year" odd, full flushed with a Cricketer's passion!</p>
<p>Why he's the chap who deserves a shout. Bravo, brave "W. G," Sir.</p>
<p>And when you next are on the job, may the "Duffer" be there to see, Sir!</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>DEVELOPING HAWARDEN.</h3>
<blockquote><p>
"The locality is extremely healthy, and Hawarden will probably become a large residential place,
and a centre of mining industry."—<i>Mr. Gladstone's Evidence before the Commissioners for Welsh
Intermediate Education.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Monday.</i>—Wood-cutting. Inconvenient having so many villas built all round
park.
Inhabitants inspect everything I do. Nasty little boys (whom I can see over
their garden
wall) shout "Yah!" and wave large primrose wreath. Irritating. Perhaps due to
healthiness
of air. Retire to another part of the demesne. Heavens! what is that erection?
Looks
like a Grand Stand, in a private garden, crowded with people. It is! Invited (by
owner of
garden) specially to view me and (I hear afterwards) my "celebrated wood-cutting
performance,"
at a shilling a-head. Disgusted. Go in.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Down local coal-mine. Interesting to have one at Park-gates.
Explain to
colliers principle of the Davy lamp. Colliers seem attentive, Ask me at the end
for "a
trifle to drink my health with." Don't they know I am opposed to Endowment of
Public-houses?
Yes, "but they aren't," they reply. Must invite <span class="sc">Wilfrid Lawson</span> to
Hawarden.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Curious underground rumblings. Wall of Castle develops huge
crack.
<i>What</i> is it? A dynamite plot? Can <span class="sc">Salisbury</span> have hired——?
<span class="sc">Herbert</span> comes in, and
tells me the proprietor of Hawarden Salt Mine has just sent his compliments;
with a request
that I would "shore up" the Castle. Otherwise "he is afraid it may fall in on
his workmen."
Impudence! Why can't they dig under Eaton Hall instead?</p>
<p><i>Thursday.</i>—<span class="sc">Watkin</span> here. Offers to make
a Tunnel under Castle, from one mine to the
other. Why a Tunnel? Also wants to dig
for gold in Park. Ask him, if there's any
reason to suppose gold exists there? He says
you never can tell what you may come to if
you bore long enough. "At all events, even
if no gold there, the boring useful if at any
time I feel inclined for a Tunn——" Go in.
<span class="sc">Watkin</span> <i>has</i> bored long enough already.</p>
<p><i>Friday.</i>—<span class="sc">Stephen</span> drops in, and says "new
Hawarden Cathedral"—<i>really</i> built to accommodate
people who come to hear me read
Lessons, only <span class="sc">Stephen</span> thinks it's his sermons
that are the attraction—"will soon he finished."
I suggest that he should have Welsh
"intermediate" services now and then.
<span class="sc">Stephen</span> says "<i>he</i> doesn't know Welsh, and
can't see why Welsh people can't drop their
horrible tongue at once, and all speak English."
Pained, Tell him <i>he</i> needn't conduct
service—any Welsh-speaking clergyman
would do. <span class="sc">Stephen</span> replies that if he introduced
Welsh service, "villa-residents would
boycott the Cathedral altogether." Well,
supposing they do? <span class="sc">Stephen</span> retorts that
"I had better have an Irish service at once,
and get <span class="sc">Parnell</span> up to read the Lessons."
Something in the idea. Must think it over.</p>
<p><i>Saturday.</i>—My usual holiday. Fifteen
speeches. Park literally crammed. Excursionists,
colliers, salt-miners, villa-residents,
and Chester Liberals, all seem to find locality
tremendously healthy. All enjoying themselves
thoroughly. Wish <i>I</i> was. Worn-out
in evening. Begin to wonder what Park and
Castle would fetch, if I were to go and settle
in Hebrides to escape mob.</p>
<p><i>Sunday.</i>—Escorted by two regiments of
mounted Volunteers to Church. Volunteers
have great difficulty in securing a passage.
Have to use butts of their muskets on more
impulsive spectators. Curious that just at
this point I should Remember Mitchelstown.
Must try and get over the habit. Lessons as
usual. Find a crushed primrose between the
pages, evidently put there on purpose. Those
villa-residents again! Surely <span class="sc">Drew</span> might
inspect the lectern before service commences!
Home, and think seriously of Hebrides.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>ON THE SPOT.</h3>
<h4>(<i>By a Practical Sportsman.</i>)</h4>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>The spot for me all spots above</p>
<p class="i2">In this wide world of casual lodgers,</p>
<p>Is not the nook sacred to love;</p>
<p class="i2">The "cot beside a rill" of <span class="sc">Roger's</span>.</p>
<p>'Tis not the spot which <span class="sc">Tommy Moore</span></p>
<p class="i2">Praised in "<i>The Meeting of the Waters</i>."</p>
<p>Avoca's Vale my soul would bore;</p>
<p class="i2">I should prefer more lively quarters.</p>
<p>Thy "little spot," <span class="sc">Eliza Cook</span>,</p>
<p class="i2">Means merely patriotic flummery;</p>
<p>And <span class="sc">Coleridge's</span> "hidden brook"</p>
<p class="i2">Won't fetch me, e'en when weather's summery.</p>
<p>I hold the Picturesque is rot,</p>
<p class="i2">"Love in a Cot" means scraps for dinner;</p>
<p>I only know <i>one</i> pleasant spot,—</p>
<p class="i2">I mean the "spot" that "finds a winner!"</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<p><span class="sc">Private and Special Literary Intelligence.</span>—Mr.
<span class="sc">George Meredith's</span> new novel
is to be entitled, <i>Won of the Conquerors</i>. It
would be unfair to the author to mention how
what the Conquerors had conquered was won
from them in turn. "I am at liberty to
inform the public, however," says the <span class="sc">Baron
de B.-W.</span>, "that <span class="sc">William the Conqueror</span>
is not in it with the others. I am able also
to assure his numerous admirers that <i>Beauchamp's
Career</i> is not a medicinal romance,
and has no sort of connection with a certain
widely-advertised remedy."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>[pg 278]</span>
<h4>"WILL HE GET THROUGH?"</h4>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:400px;"><a href="images/278-1000.png"><img src="images/278-400.png" width="400" height="470" alt="'WILL HE GET THROUGH?'" /></a>
</div>
<h3><span class="sc">William Henry</span> <i>loquitur</i>:—</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and terrified scamper,</p>
<p>With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper.</p>
<p>Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him;</p>
<p>No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him.</p>
<p>But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir.</p>
<p>And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further <i>I</i> can run, Sir.</p>
<p>Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him?</p>
<p>Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the <i>clôture</i> pound they should pop him,</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>[pg 279]</span>
<p>With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it!</p>
<p>I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it;</p>
<p>And I <i>am</i> that fat—no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear <span class="sc">Arthur</span>, quite lathy.</p>
<p>And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is getting exceedingly wrathy.</p>
<p>Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile wings is the floorer.</p>
<p>If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my rear to yon roarer.</p>
<p>Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously prodding.</p>
<p>Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded with woollen "wadding."</p>
<p>Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one second.</p>
<p>I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I must have misreckoned.</p>
<p>That bull of <span class="sc">Gladdy's</span> most certainly mad is, though he gave me his word, the Old Slyboots,</p>
<p>It was perfectly quiet. I have <span class="sc">Salisbury's</span> fiat, but I wish he was only in <i>my</i> boots.</p>
<p>"Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings, and perspiration,</p>
<p>I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that "Compensation,"</p>
<p>It is sure to stick. "<i>Quick</i>, <span class="sc">Smith</span>, <i>man</i>, <i>quick!</i>" Oh, it's all very well to holloa;</p>
<p>With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy that counsel to follow.</p>
<p>My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by Taurus.</p>
<p>Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us, and score us, and gore us.</p>
<p>"<i>Run! run!</i>" Oh, <i>ain't</i> I running like winking? Reach the turnstile? I may just do it</p>
<p>But with its three wings—oh, confound the things!—I much doubt if I'll ever get <i>through</i> it!</p>
</div> </div>
<p class="author1">
[<i>Left trying.</i>
</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h2>WEEK BY WEEK.</h2>
<p><span class="sc">The</span> attention of statisticians has lately been directed to a
question of no little interest. To put it as shortly as possible, the
point is to discover the number and size of the mayonnaises of
lobster consumed in the course of one evening in the district bounded
on the east by Berkeley Square, and extending westward as far as
Earl's Court. It is well-known that no lobster ever walked backwards.
Taking this as the basis of our calculations and assuming
that π<sup>n_1</sup> is equal to the digestive apparatus of six hundred
dowagers, we reach the surprising total of 932,146⅛ lobsters. No
allowance is made for dressing or returned empties.</p>
<hr />
<p>"A Poet" writes to us as follows:—"I have long been puzzled
by the difficulty attending the proper construction of rhymed verse
in English. Some words possess many rhymes, others only a few,
others again none. Yet I find that the temptation to end a line
with a non-rhyme-possessing word like 'month' is almost irresistible,
and frequently gives rise to the most painful results. In
the course of my emotional ballad entitled, '<i>The Bard's Daughter</i>,'
I was compelled on an average to kill half-a-dozen German bands
every day, and to throw ten jam-pots at my butler for unseasonable
interruptions. Can any of your readers help me?"</p>
<hr />
<p>A flight of ducks was observed to settle on the Serpentine yesterday
at four o'clock exactly. They had been moving in a westerly
direction. The Park-keepers explain this curious incident by the
well-known affection of these birds for water, combined with an
occasional impulse to aërial navigation, but the explanation appears
to us inadequate.</p>
<hr />
<p>In Vienna the other day, a Cabman was observed to claim more
than his fare from an elderly lady, whom he afterwards abused
violently in the choicest Austrian for refusing to comply with his
demands. After all, the nature of Cabmen all over the world varies
very little. Elderly Ladies too, are much the same.</p>
<hr />
<p>Mr. <span class="sc">Stanley</span> continues to attend dances, dinners and receptions at
the usual hours. He has lately expressed himself in strong terms
with regard to the action of a friendly Power on the continent of
Africa. Mr. <span class="sc">Stanley</span> appears to think very lightly of the Foreign
Office pigeon-holes, in which his treaties have been stored in the
meantime.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:500px;"><a href="images/279-800.png"><img src="images/279-360.png" width="360" height="469" alt="A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT." /></a>
<h4>A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.</h4>
<p><i>Sympathetic Spinster.</i> "<span class="sc">And is your other Boy at all like
this one?</span>"</p>
<p><i>Proud Mother.</i> "<span class="sc">Oh, no; quite a Contrast to him!</span>"</p>
<p><i>Sympathetic Spinster.</i> "<span class="sc">How nice!</span>"</p></div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>IN THE KNOW.</h3>
<h4>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.</i>)</h4>
<p><span class="sc">Ha!</span> ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates
in the world couldn't have induced me to back <i>Surefoot</i>.
There they were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite,
gin-palace, gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them
blowing a <i>fan-fare</i> upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I
had my eye on them all the time. For as the public must have
discovered long before this, if there is one person in the world who
sets their interests above everything, and swerves neither to the
right nor to the left in the effort to save them from the depredations
of the pilfering gang of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter
on sporting matters, that person, I say it without offence, is <i>me</i>.</p>
<p>What was it I said last week about <i>Sainfoin</i>? "<i>Sainfoin</i>," I
said, "is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are
generally exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this.
It meant, of course, that <i>Sainfoin</i> never lets the grass grow under
his feet, and that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he
would win the race. <i>And he did win the race.</i> We all know that;
all, that is, except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they
know something about racing. But I have made my pile, and so
have my readers, and we can afford to snap our fingers at every
pudding-headed barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the
Derby.</p>
<p>As for the Oaks, it would be impossible to conceive anything more
scientifically, nay geometrically, accurate than my forecast.
"<i>Memoir</i>," I said, "might do <i>pour servir</i>." Well, didn't she?
And if anybody omitted to back her, all I can nay is, serve them
right for a pack of goose-brained Bedlamites. For myself, I can
only say that, having made a colossal fortune by my speculations,
I propose shortly to retire from the Turf I have so long adorned.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">A Biassed Author.</span>—One whose MS. is written "on one side
only."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>[pg 280]</span>
<h3>ASK A WHITE MAN!</h3>
<h4>(<i>Highly Humorous Song. Sung with Immense Success by King M'Tesa, of Uganda.</i>)</h4>
<blockquote><p>"King <span class="sc">M'Tesa</span> inquired of Mr. <span class="sc">Stanley</span> what an 'Angel' was. He
(Mr. <span class="sc">Stanley</span>) had not seen an angel, but imagination was strong, and
<span class="sc">M'Tesa</span> was so interested in what he was told, that he slapped his thigh
and
said, 'There! if you want to hear news, or wish to hear words of wisdom,
always ask a white man.'"—<i>Mr. Stanley at the Mansion House.</i></p></blockquote>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:500px;"><a href="images/280-800.png"><img src="images/280-500.png" width="500" height="363" alt="'If you want to know, you know, ask a White Man.'" /></a>
<p class="center">"If you want to know, you know, ask a White Man."</p></div>
<h4><span class="sc">Air</span>—"<i>Ask a Policeman!</i>"</h4>
<div class="poem1"> <div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">The</span> White Men are a noble band</p>
<p class="i2">(Though <span class="sc">Tippoo</span> swears they're not),</p>
<p>Their valour is tremendous, and</p>
<p class="i2">They know an awful lot,</p>
<p>If anything you'd learn, and meet</p>
<p class="i2">A White Man on the way,</p>
<p>Ask <i>him</i>. You'll find him a complete</p>
<p class="i2">En-cy-clo-pæ-di-a.</p>
</div></div>
<h4><i>Chorus.</i></h4>
<div class="poem1"> <div class="stanza">
<p>If you want to know, you know,</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
<p>Near Nyanza or Congo,</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
<p>In Uganda I am King,</p>
<p>Yet <i>I</i> don't know everything.</p>
<p>If you want to know, you know,</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If you would learn how best to fight</p>
<p class="i2">Your way through regions queer,</p>
<p>Thread forest mazes dark as night,</p>
<p class="i2">And deserts dim and drear!</p>
<p>If you your rival's roads would shut,</p>
<p class="i2">And get his in your grip;</p>
<p>You go to him, he's artful, but</p>
<p class="i2">He'll give you the straight tip.</p>
</div></div>
<h4><i>Chorus.</i></h4>
<div class="poem1"> <div class="stanza">
<p>If you'd know your way about,</p>
<p class="i10">Ask a White Man!</p>
<p>He knows every in and out</p>
<p class="i10">Does a White Man!</p>
<p>He will tell you like a shot</p>
<p>If the roads are good or not;</p>
<p>He can open up the lot,</p>
<p class="i10">Ask a White Man!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And if about the Angels you</p>
<p class="i2">Feel cu-ri-os-i-ty,</p>
<p>For information prompt and true,</p>
<p class="i2">To a White Man apply.</p>
<p><i>He</i> knows 'em, and, indeed, 'tis said</p>
<p class="i2">Himself is <i>almost</i> such.</p>
<p>His "words of wisdom" on this head</p>
<p class="i2">Will interest you much.</p>
</div></div>
<h4><i>Chorus.</i></h4>
<div class="poem1"> <div class="stanza">
<p>If you want to shoot and drink,</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
<p>He can help you there, I think.</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
<p>If you'll learn to grab and fight,</p>
<p>And be mutually polite,</p>
<p>And observe the laws of Right,</p>
<p class="i10"> Ask a White Man!</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h2>MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">Theatrical Criticism.</span></h4>
<p class="ind1">"<i>Mr. Ranter's Macbeth is too well known to all play-goers to
need any special notice at our hands. Those who have not yet seen
it should avail themselves of the present opportunity;</i>"<br />
<i>i.e.</i>, "Can't pitch into old <span class="sc">Ranter</span>, good chap and personal friend."</p>
<h4><span class="sc">Diagnostic.</span></h4>
<p class="ind1">"<i>I should say in your case, that the Digestion was a little upset;</i>"<br />
<i>i.e.</i>, "As gross a case of over-eating as I have ever come across in
the whole of my professional experience. You must have been
feeding, literally, like a hog, for years!"</p>
<h4><span class="sc">Social.</span></h4>
<p class="ind1">"<i>What I so like about dear Sibyl is her charming simplicity;</i>"<br />
<i>i.e.</i>, "The silliest little chit conceivable."</p>
<p class="ind1">"<i>His conversation is always so very improving;</i>"<br />
<i>i.e.</i>, "A pedantic prig, who bores you with Darwinism in the dance, and 'earnestness'
at a tennis-party."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>TOPPING THE TRIPOS;</h3>
<h4><i>Or, Something like a Score for the Sex.</i></h4>
<blockquote><p>
[In the Cambridge Mathematical Tripos Miss <span class="sc">P. G. Fawcett</span>, of Newnham,
daughter of the late Professor <span class="sc">Fawcett</span>, is declared to be "above the
Senior Wrangler."]
</p></blockquote>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Above</span> the Senior Wrangler! Pheugh!</p>
<p class="i2">Where now are male reactionaries</p>
<p>Who flout the feminine, and pooh-pooh</p>
<p class="i2">Sweet Mathematic <span class="sc">Megs</span> and <span class="sc">Maries</span>?</p>
<p>Who says a girl is only fit</p>
<p class="i2">To be a dainty, dancing dangler?</p>
<p>Here's girlhood's prompt reply to it:</p>
<p class="i2">Miss <span class="sc">Fawcett</span> tops the Senior Wrangler!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Would it not have rejoiced the heart</p>
<p class="i2">Of her stout sire, the brave Professor?</p>
<p><span class="sc">Agneta Ramsay</span> made good start,</p>
<p class="i2">But here's a shining she-successor!</p>
<p>Many a male who failed to pass</p>
<p class="i2">Will hear it with flushed face and jaw set.</p>
<p>But <i>Mr. Punch</i> brims high his glass,</p>
<p class="i2">And drinks your health, Miss P. G. <span class="sc">Fawcett</span>!</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>TAKEN FROM THE FRENCH PLAYS.</h3>
<p><span class="sc">Scene</span>—<i>Her Majesty's Theatre.</i> <i>Enter</i> Mr. <i>and</i> Mrs.
<span class="sc">Brown</span>.</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>to</i> Boxkeeper, <i>with the air of a Sovereign conferring an
Order upon a faithful subject</i>). There's sixpence for a programme.</p>
<p><i>Boxkeeper.</i> Very sorry, Sir, but it isn't a programme; it's a Book
of the Argument, and we have to pay <i>that</i> for it ourselves!</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>resenting the information</i>). Oh, bother! Then I'll do
without it.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown</i> (<i>annoyed</i>). Why didn't you get a book? You know
we'll never understand it without one.</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Nonsense, my dear! It's a distinct advantage to trust to
one's own resources.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Curtain goes up, and discovers a number of male characters,
who come on and go off severally.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> What are they talking about?</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Oh, all sorts of things. (<i>Enter</i> Mlle. <span class="sc">Darlaud</span>, as
Lydie
Vaillant.) Ah! you see this is the heroine.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> Is it? (<i>Examining her through opera-glass.</i>) Very
simple frock. I think I shall have one like it.</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>dreading a dress-maker invasion</i>). Oh, it wouldn't suit
you at all. You always look better in silks and satins.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Entr'acte over.</i> <i>Second Act</i>, Madame <span class="sc">Pasca</span> appears, <i>and is
admirable</i>.
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown</i> (<i>deeply interested</i>). <span class="sc">Charley</span>, dear, she's
wearing
Russian net, and you know you can get it at——</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>hurriedly</i>). Hush, you are disturbing everybody.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown</i> (<i>at end of Second Act</i>). What was it all about?</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Oh, didn't you see. It was a castle, and a number of
tourists were shown round the pictures by an old servant. Excellent!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> I do so wish you would get a book.</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Oh, we can do without it now—the piece is nearly over.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Third Act is played, and Curtain falls.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> Well, what was <i>that</i> about?</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Oh, didn't you see they had breakfast—and with tea too,
not with wine. Very strange how English customs are spreading.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Tableau I. of Act III. is played. Considerable applause.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> I don't quite understand <i>that</i>.</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> You don't! Why, it's as simple as possible. <i>Paul
Astier</i> arrived late, and dressed for dinner. Excellent!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> But what's the plot?</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Oh, <i>that's</i> of secondary importance—the piece is a clever
skit upon modern manners! (<i>Tableau II. is played.</i>) Capital! Wasn't
<span class="sc">Madame Pasca</span> good when she wanted a glass of water?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> Quite too perfect! And her velvet and satin gown was
absolutely lovely! (<i>With determination.</i>) I shall get one like it!</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>alarmed</i>). I am not so sure! You look better in muslins.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Last Act is played, and</i> Paul Astier <i>is shot dead</i>.
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown</i> (<i>much affected</i>). Oh! what did they do <i>that</i> for?</p>
<p><i>Brown.</i> Don't you see—the reward of life. Hence the title.
(<i>Subsequently
in the cab.</i>) Wasn't it good? Didn't you enjoy yourself?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> Very much indeed, but I <i>do</i> wish you had got a
book! (<i>To herself.</i>) Let me see—green velvet over white satin.
(<i>Aloud.</i>) It will take about eighteen yards!</p>
<p><i>Brown</i> (<i>waking up</i>). Eighteen yards of what?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> Oh, nothing! I was only thinking.</p>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Scene closes in upon a mental vision of the dress-maker from
opposite points of view.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<p>"<span class="sc">Allowed to Starve.</span>"—To save time, contributions to the
Balaclava Fund should be forwarded direct to the Editor of <i>The
St. James's Gazette</i>.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>[pg 281]</span>
<h3>THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.</h3>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:500px;"><a href="images/281-800.png"><img src="images/281-500.png" width="500" height="353" alt="Poor little Zélie (beseechingly). O Mr. Randegger," /></a>
<p class="center"><i>Poor little Zélie (beseechingly).</i> O Mr. Randegger,
<i>do</i> let me have my bouquets!]</p></div>
<p><i>Monday.</i>—<i>Don Giovanni.</i> <span class="sc">Ravelli</span> the Reliable an excellent
<i>Don
Ottavio</i>, vocally; considered dramatically, he does as much as can be
expected of a man of his inches. <i>Zerlina</i> and <i>Masetto</i> so pleased
with his singing that they stop on the stage all through the <i>tessoro</i>
song, for which he takes a hearty <i>encore</i>, whereupon <i>Zerlina</i> and
<i>Mazetto</i> run off quickly. Having had enough of it, however, they
do not return for the <i>encore</i>. Rather rude this. <span class="sc">Dan Drady</span> too
sinister for gay <i>Don Giovanni</i>; and there is a villanous determination
about his gallantry which would have frightened away the coquettish
<i>Zerlina</i>, and have warned the more mature ladies of the world,
<i>Donna Anna</i> and <i>Donna Elvira</i>, in time to prevent them from falling
victims to his wiles. Otherwise a highly satisfactory <i>Don</i>. Signor
<span class="sc">Plunketto Greeno</span> as the unfortunate <i>Commendatore</i>, who is first
killed, and then executed in stone, as a statue to his own memory,
was heard and seen to the best advantage. <span class="sc">Zélie de Lussan</span>, too
Carmenish as flighty little <i>Zerlina</i>, but evidently a match for the
sardonic Don <span class="sc">Dan Drady</span>. Madame <span class="sc">Tavary</span> has done well to quit
the Hofoperahaus, Munich, and come to Covengardenhaus as <i>Donna
Anna</i>,—a trying part that not <i>Anna</i>-body can play and sing as
well as Madame <span class="sc">Tavary</span>. This lady and <span class="sc">Lilian Nordica</span> (pretty
name <span class="sc">Lilian</span>) as <i>Donna Elvira</i> render the characters so
charmingly,
that they cease to be the funereal bores I have generally considered
them. <i>Ottavio</i>, <i>Anna</i>, and <i>Elvira</i>, the trio with a grievance,
are,
usually, about as cheerful as the three Anabaptists in <i>Le Prophète.
Mais on a changé tout cela</i>. <span class="sc">Palladino</span>, as the dancing guest—she
is always small and early in every Opera now—delights everyone,
and so does Conductor <span class="sc">Randegger</span>, who is determined that poor
little <span class="sc">Zélie de Lussan</span> shall not receive the big bouquets which a
mysterious man has brought to the orchestra; then one of the instrumentalists
handed them to the leader, who, in order to take them,
has been compelled to put down his violin, and, after looking about
in a helpless and puzzled manner, holds them until further orders
from his chief. Not receiving further orders, he occupies his time
by sniffing at the flowers and making remarks <i>sotto voce</i> to his companion
violinist on the botanical beauties of the <i>flora</i>. Conductor
<span class="sc">Randegger</span>, apparently unaware of what has been taking place
behind his back, turns round abruptly to inquire why leader is taking
a few bars' rest. Leading violinist exhibits bouquet, and appeals in
dumb show to conductor. The conductor's eye in fine frenzy rolling,
says as clearly as fine frenzied rolling eye can say anything,
"Remove that bauble!"—(<span class="sc">Randegger</span> would make up remarkably
well as <i>Cromwell</i>)—and the leader, with a sympathetic and apologetic
glance at <span class="sc">Zélie</span> as implying, "You should have had 'em if <i>I</i> could
have managed it, but you see how I'm situated. <span class="sc">Randegger's</span> a
hard man"—puts the bouquets on the floor of the orchestra, and,
dismissing them by a supreme effort from his thoughts, betakes
himself to his musical Paganinic duties. What becomes of the
flowers that bloom in the orchestra, <i>tra la!</i> I don't know, I wish
that <span class="sc">Zélie</span> may get them. Remembering the example set by
"Practical <span class="sc">John</span>" at the Gaiety, of placarding up everywhere in
the theatre "No Fees," <span class="sc">Druriolanus</span>, at the suggestion of Conductor
<span class="sc">Randegger</span>, might "hang out a banner on the outer wall" of the
orchestra, with the letters inscribed on it "N.B.—No Bouquets."</p>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—The grandest night of the Season up to now, dear boys.
<i>Romeo</i> <span class="sc">Jean de Reszké</span>, and <span class="sc">Melba</span> <i>Juliette</i>. What
can you wish
for more? <span class="sc">Edouard de Reszké</span> as the <i>Frère Laurent</i> a magnificent
Friar, belonging to some one of the theatrical "Orders" "not
admitted after seven." The talented Mlle. <span class="sc">Bauermeister's</span>
<i>Gertrude</i>
hardly a companion picture to her <i>Martha</i> in <i>Faust</i>. Signor
<span class="sc">Plunketto Greeno</span> not quite every inch a Duke: about one inch
in three Duke and the rest Democrat. When he has been <i>Duke of
Verona</i> long enough, he'll be all right, and most likely</p>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>He'll be, this Mister <span class="sc">Plunket Greene</span>,</p>
<p>The Dukiest Duke that ever was seen.</p>
</div> </div>
<p>A word to the wise. Whenever this Season <i>Romeo and Juliette</i> is
played with this cast, go and see it. Don't hesitate. It's memorable.
A feast for ear and eye. <i>Ite ad astra-operatica.</i> And at the same
time, don't forget to honourably mention the founder of the feast,
<span class="sc">Augustus Druriolanus</span>.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Extra. <i>Carmen.</i> Derby Day. I have been at the
Derby. Glad to get back again. As to "back again," I don't "back
again" anything for a long time. But, <i>à nos moutons</i>. <i>Toreador</i>
evidently has had his money on <i>Sainfoin</i>. Never sang better. Glad
to see the simple Scotch lassie, <span class="sc">Maggie <ins title="Transcriber's Note: or 'MacIntyre'">McIntyre</ins></span>, once more as the
village maiden. Charming. <span class="sc">Zélie de Lussan</span> as wickedly attractive
as ever. What a collection such a gipsy would make on a Derby
Day—a fine Derby Day—among the "pretty gentlemen" whose
fortunes she would tell. Extra night this, and extra good.</p>
<p><i>Thursday.</i>—A <span class="sc">Wagner</span> Night. Crowded to see <span class="sc">Jean de
Reszké</span>
as another Wagner Knight. <span class="sc">Neddie de Reszké</span> as the <i>King
Henry</i>—every
inch a King, and something to spare. Freddy Telramondo
suits <span class="sc">Dan Drady</span> better than <i>Don Giovanni</i>. Madame
<span class="sc">Fursch-Madi</span> as the wicked <i>Ortruda</i>,—("Never saw ought ruder
than her conduct to Elsa," observes the irrepressible Mr.
<span class="sc">Wagstaff</span>,)—And
<span class="sc">Maggie <ins title="Transcriber's Note: or 'McIntyre'">MacIntyre</ins></span> as the virtuous but unhappy
<i>Elsa</i>. The stranger in the land of <span class="sc">Wagner</span> begins to wonder at
the continuous flow of the melody, not one tiny cupful of which can
he take away with him, until with joy he hears the Bridal Chorus
at the commencement of the Third Act, and for a few moments
he rests <i>dans un pays de connaissance</i>.</p>
<p><i>Friday.</i>—<i>Lucia di Lammermoor.</i> Great night for Madame
<span class="sc">Melba</span>. Recalled three times before Curtain after each Act. Living
illustration of once popular romance, "<i>Called Back</i>." Great night,
too, for Harpist and Flutist. Both gentlemen highly applauded,
and would have been recalled, but for the fact of their not having
quitted the orchestra. Harper plays solo from <i>Harper's Miscellany</i>,
arranged by <span class="sc">Donizetti</span>. <span class="sc">Ravelli</span> the Reliable recalled also.</p>
<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Brilliant house. Royal Highnesses early to come and
last to go. Magnificent performance of <i>Die Meistersinger</i>. M.
<span class="sc">Isnardon</span> very comic as <i>Beckmesser</i>, <span class="sc">Lassalle</span> a noble
Hans Sachs
("the shoemaker who sings a sole-o," says Mr. <span class="sc">Wagstaff</span>), <span class="sc">Jean de
Reszké</span> a grand young <i>Walther</i>, <span class="sc">Montariol</span> (as before) a
capital
silly idiot <i>David</i>, Mlle. <span class="sc">Bauermeistersinger</span> very lively as
<i>Magdalena</i>,
and Madame <span class="sc">Tavary</span> a skittish young chit in the somewhat
trying and rather thankless part of <i>Eva</i>. The tenor's song to her
ought to be, "<span class="sc">Eva,</span> of thee I'm fondly dreaming," if <span class="sc">Wagner</span> had
only thought of it. Opera too long; but Wagnerites don't complain,
and certainly to-night they get their money's worth and something
over, from 7.30 till past midnight.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>A SWEET THING IN CRITICISM.</h3>
<p><span class="sc">Cardinal Manning</span>, apparently having been invited by its author
to express an opinion upon Mr. <span class="sc">Wm. O'Brien's</span> "<i>When we were
Boys</i>,"
writes:—"When I got to the end, I forgot the book, and would only
think of Ireland—its manifest sufferings, and its inextricable sorrows."
His Eminence then continues:—"I hope to see the day break, and I
hope you will see the noontide, when the people of Ireland will be
readmitted, so far as is possible, to the possession of their own soil,
and shall be admitted, so far as is possible, to the making and
administration of their own local laws, while they shall still share
in the legislation which governs and consolidates the Empire. Then
<i>Ken</i> and <i>Mabel</i> shall be no more parted."</p>
<p>No doubt this excellent critique will be followed by the publication
of letters somewhat similar to the following:—</p>
<blockquote><p>
<span class="sc">Dear Mr. Apples,</span>—I promised to write to you after I had used your
Soap. When I had finished washing my hands, I forgot everything but
gallant little Wales. I hope to see the morning, and trust you will see
the evening, of that time when the bold sun of freedom will shine over
a land true to itself, as far as possible, and rejoicing in the name of
the country without stain. Then will we all say, "Good afternoon,"
followed by the customary inquiry. Believe me,
</p></blockquote>
<p class="ind1">Always yours very faithfully,</p> <p class="author1"><span class="sc">W. E. Gl-dst-ne</span>.</p>
<p>Should this mode of criticism be extended, the benefit to those who
have to review without knowing what to say will be obvious.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>A New Heading of an Old Epitaph.</h3>
<blockquote><p>
"A remarkable coincidence has attended the drawings of two of the
principal Club Derby Sweepstakes. As we stated yesterday, the Garrick
Club Sweepstakes, of the value of £300, has fallen to Mr. <span class="sc">Henry Irving</span>.
We now learn that Mr. <span class="sc">Toole</span> benefits to the extent of £75 out of the
Sweepstakes of the Devonshire Club."—<i>Daily News.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="sc">Lovely</span> in Life, they were Both There when the Sweepstakes were
Divided.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>[pg 282]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:600px;"><a href="images/282-1500.png"><img src="images/282-600.png" width="600" height="388" alt="A SEVERE SENTENCE." /></a>
<h4>A SEVERE SENTENCE.</h4>
<p><i>She.</i> "<span class="sc">Yes, dear, I'm afraid Cook wants Judgment.</span>" <i>He.</i>
"<span class="sc"><i>Judgment!</i> She Wants <i>Execution!</i></span>"</p></div>
<hr />
<h3>"THREE FISHERS."</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Three</span> fishers went fishing North-east and North-west</p>
<p class="i2">(Like the trio from Kingsley familiarly known).</p>
<p>Each thought himself, doubtless, the bravest and best,</p>
<p class="i2">And held the good "swims" should be mainly his own.</p>
<p>There was <span class="sc">Johnny</span> the Briton, and <span class="sc">François</span> the Frank,</p>
<p>And <span class="sc">Jonathan</span> also, the artful young Yank,</p>
<p class="i2">An expert at "bouncing" and "boning."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And <span class="sc">François</span> the Frank, who went fishing for cod,</p>
<p class="i2">Nicked lobsters as well, and he stuck to them too;</p>
<p>He declared they were all the same thing, which seemed odd,</p>
<p class="i2">The result being anger and hullaballoo,</p>
<p>And rows about Bounties, and shines about Bait;</p>
<p>For ructions all round are as certain as fate,</p>
<p class="i2">When parties go "bouncing" and "boning."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And <span class="sc">Jonathan</span>, well, <i>he</i> went fishing for seals,</p>
<p class="i2">And he wanted the fishing grounds all to himself.</p>
<p>When the Russ had done ditto, the Yank had raised squeals</p>
<p class="i2">(How consistency's floored in the struggle for pelf!)</p>
<p>And <span class="sc">Jonathan</span> took a most high-handed course;</p>
<p>For greediness mostly falls back on brute force,</p>
<p class="i2">When parties go "bouncing" and "boning."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And <span class="sc">Johnny</span> the Briton, a sturdy old salt,</p>
<p class="i2">Had been a sea-grabber himself in his time;</p>
<p>Some held that monopoly still was his fault,</p>
<p class="i2">Others swore that his modesty verged upon crime,</p>
<p>Nor is it quite easy to say which was true,</p>
<p>For so much depends on a man's point of view,</p>
<p class="i2">When parties go "bouncing" and "boning."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>But when <span class="sc">Johnny</span> the Briton caught sight of the Frank</p>
<p class="i2">Making tracks with a lobster—the whoppingest one—</p>
<p>And when he perceived the impertinent Yank</p>
<p class="i2">With the seal—such a spanker!—skedaddling like fun,</p>
<p>He stood and he shouted, "Stop thief! Hi! Hold hard!"</p>
<p>For language does not always "go by the card,"</p>
<p class="i2">When parties go "bouncing" and "boning."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>"Now then, you sea-grabbers," he bellowed, "Belay!</p>
<p class="i2">I suppose you imagine I'm out of it quite.</p>
<p>But you're not going to have it just all your own way.</p>
<p class="i2">Fair dues! my dear boys. After all, right is right!</p>
<p>Big Behring is no <i>mare clausum</i>, young Yank,</p>
<p>And cold Newfoundland is not <i>yours</i>, my fine Frank,</p>
<p class="i2">In spite of your 'bouncing' and 'boning.'"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Well, he of the Lobster and he of the Seal</p>
<p class="i2">Have rights of their own, which old <span class="sc">John</span> won't deny.</p>
<p>But <i>he</i> has some too, and <i>Punch</i> hopes they will feel</p>
<p class="i2">That they should not grab his, and had better not try.</p>
<p>Some <i>modus vivendi</i> no doubt can be found,</p>
<p>To make the Three Fishers quite friendly all round,</p>
<p class="i2">And good-bye to all "bouncing" and "boning!"</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>ELCHO ANSWERS.</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p><i>Q.</i> What loves "The Country" more than Tithes Bills tracing?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">Racing!</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> And what than "Compensation's" doubtful courses?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">'Orses!</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> Than Bills of Irish Tenants poor to favour rights?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">Favourites!</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> What does it find as profitless as St. Stephens?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Evens!"</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> What more exciting than "The Pouncer's" nods?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Odds!"</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> What does it love far more than <span class="sc">Labby's</span> jokes?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Oaks!"</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> And what beyond all <span class="sc">Elcho's</span> quirks and quips?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Tips!"</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> What would it call him who of "Sport" turns squelcher?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Welsher!!!"</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> Who finds the "Derby" closing satisfactory?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> <span style="margin-left: 16em;"> Hack Tory!</span></p>
<p><i>Q.</i> What's the protesting Puritan Gladstonian?</p>
<p><i>A.</i><span style="margin-left: 16em;">"Stony 'un!"</span></p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h4><span class="sc">German Motto in Africa.</span>—"<i>For Farther Land!</i>"</h4>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>[pg 283]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:600px;"><a href="images/283-1500.png"><img src="images/283-600.png" width="600" height="445" alt="'THREE FISHERS.'" /></a>
<h3>"THREE FISHERS."</h3>
<h4><span class="sc">John Bull.</span> "HULLO! YOU SEA-GRABBERS!—WHERE DO <i>I</i> COME IN?"</h4></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>[pg 284]</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>[pg 285]</span>
<h2>MODERN TYPES.</h2>
<h3>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer.</i>)</h3>
<h4>No. XIII.—THE PRECOCIOUS UNDERGRADUATE.</h4>
<div class="figright" style="width:300px;"><a href="images/285-600.png"><img src="images/285-300.png" width="300" height="380" alt="The Precocious Undergraduate" /></a>
</div>
<p><span class="sc">Ever</span> since undergraduates existed at all, there must have been
some who, in the precocity of their hearts, set themselves up or were
set up by the admiration of their fellows as patterns of life, and
knowledge, and manners. But before steam and electricity made
Oxford and Cambridge into suburbs of London, these little deities
were scarcely heard of outside the limits of their particular University,
the sphere of their influence was restricted, and they were
unable to impress the crowd of their juvenile worshippers by the
glamour which comes of frequent plunges into the dizzy whirlpool
of London life. Now, however, all that is changed. Our seats
of learning are within a stone's throw of town, and the callow
nestlings who yesterday fluttered feebly over King's Parade or
the High, may to-day attempt a bolder flight in Piccadilly and the
Park. The simpler pleasures of Courts and Quads soon pall upon
one who believes emphatically, that life has no further secrets when
the age of twenty has been reached, and that an ingenuous modesty
is incompatible with the exercise of manliness. He despises the
poor fools who are content to be merely young while youth remains.
He himself, has sought for and found in London a fountain of age,
from which he may quaff deep draughts, and returning, impart his
experience to his envious friends.</p>
<p>The Precocious Undergraduate, then, was (and is, for the type
remains, though the individual may perish)
one who attempted in his own opinion with
perfect success, to combine an unerring knowledge
of men with a smooth cheek and a brow
as unwrinkled as late hours could leave it.
In the sandy soil of immaturity he was fain
to plant a flourishing reputation for cunning,
and to water it with the tears of those who
being responsible for his appearance in the
world dreaded his premature affectation of its
wisdom and its follies.</p>
<p>They had given him, however, as befitted
careful parents, every chance of acquiring an
excellent education. In order that he might
afterwards shine at the Bar or in the Senate,
he was sent to one of our larger public schools,
where he soon found that with a very small
life-belt of Latin and Greek a boy may keep
his head safe above the ripple of a master's
anger. But his school career was not without
honour. He was a boy of a frank and generous
temperament, candid with his masters,
and warm-hearted and sincere in his intercourse
with his school-fellows. He was by
no means slow with his wits, he was very
quick with his eye and his limbs. Thus it
came about that, although his scholarship
was not calculated to make of him a Porson,
he earned the admiration and applause of boys and masters by his
triumphs as an athlete, a cricketer, and a foot-ball player, and was
established as a universal favourite. At the usual age he left school
and betook himself to college, freighted for this new voyage with
the affection and the hopes of all who knew him.</p>
<p>And now when everything smiled, and when in the glow of his
first independence life assumed its brightest hues, in the midst of
apparent success his real failures began. The sudden emancipation
from the easy servitude of school was too much for him. The rush
of his new existence swept him off his feet, and, yielding to the
current, he was carried day by day more rapidly out to the sea of
debt and dissipation, which in the end overwhelmed him. For a
time, however, everything went well with him. His school and
his reputation as a popular athlete assured to him a number of
friends, he was elected a member of one or two prominent Clubs,
he got into a good set. In their society he learnt that an undergraduate's
tastes and his expenditure ought never to be limited by
the amount of the yearly allowance he receives from his father.
Whilst still in his freshman's Term, he was invited to a little card-party,
at which he lost not only his head, but also all his ready
money, and the greater part of the amount which had been placed
to his credit at his Bank for the expenses of his first Term. This
incident was naturally much discussed by the society in which he
moved, and it was agreed that, for a freshman, he had shown considerable
coolness in bearing up against his losses. Even amongst
those who did not know him, his name began to be mentioned as
that of one who was evidently destined to make a splash, and might
some day be heard of in the larger world. His vanity was tickled.
This, he thought to himself, not without pleasure, was indeed life,
and thinking thus, he condemned all his past years, and the aspirations
with which he had entered his University, as the folly of a
boy. Soon afterwards he was found at a race-meeting, and was
unfortunate enough to win a large sum of money from a book-maker
who paid him.</p>
<p>The next incident in his first Term was his attendance as a guest
at a big dinner, where the unwonted excitement and a bumper or
two of University champagne upset his balance. He grew boisterous,
and on his way home to his rooms addressed disrespectfully the Dean
of his College, who happened to be taking the air on the College
grass-plot. He woke, the next morning, to find himself parched
and pale, but famous. "Did you hear what So-and-So, the freshman,
said to the Dean last night? Frightful cheek!"—so one undergraduate
would speak of him to another, with a touch of envy which
was not diminished by the fact that his hero had been gated at nine
for a week.</p>
<p>But it is useless to pursue his career through every detail. He
went on gambling, and soon found himself the debtor or the creditor
of those whom he still attempted to look upon as his friends. He
bought several thousand large cigars at £10 per hundred from a
touting tobacconist, who promised him unlimited credit, and charged
him a high rate of per-centage on the debt. He became constant in
his visits to London, and, after a course of dinners at the Bristol, the
Berkeley, and the Café Royal, he acquired, at Cambridge, the reputation
of a connoisseur in cooking and in wine. The Gaiety was his
abiding-place, the lounge at the Empire would have been incomplete
without him: for him Lais added a rosy glow to her complexion and
a golden shimmer to her hair; he supped in her company, and, when
he gave her a diamond swallow, purchased without immediate payment
in Bond Street, the paragraphist of a
sporting paper recorded the gift in his
columns with many cynical comments. In
short, he now knew himself to be indeed a
man of the world. Henceforward he seemed
to spend almost as much time in London as in
Cambridge. It is unnecessary to add that
his legitimate resources soon ran dry; he
supplied their deficiency from the generous
fountain of a money-lender's benevolence.
After all, eight per cent. per month sounds
quite cheap until it is multiplied by twelve,
and, as he always disliked arithmetic, he
abstained from the calculation, and pocketed
the loan. And thus, for a time, the wheel
of excitement was kept spinning merrily.
But the pace was too fast to last for long.
Somehow or other, soon after the beginning
of his third year, his happy gaiety which
had carried him cheerfully through many
scenes of revelry seemed to desert him. He
became subject to fits of morose abstraction.
His dress was no longer of the same shining
merit, nor did he seem to care, as formerly,
to keep his cuffs and collars unspotted from
the world. Disagreeable rumours began to
be whispered about him. He was said to
have failed to pay his card-debts, and yet to
have gone on gambling night after night; and at last came the
terrible report—all the more terrible for not being fully understood
by those who heard it—that he had been posted at Tattersall's.</p>
<p>Undergraduate Society is, however, of an extraordinary tolerance,
and if it had not been for his own manifest misery, he might have
kept his head up in Cambridge even under these calamities. But
he began too late to realise his own folly, and with the memory of
his triumphs and his collapse, of his extravagance and his debts
clogging his efforts, he tried to read. He did read, feverishly,
uselessly, and when his list appeared his name was absent from it.
Then followed the fatal interview with his father, and the inevitable
crash, in the course of which he became the defendant in a celebrated
case on the subject of an infant's necessaries. An occupation was
sought for him, but all capacity for honest effort seemed to have
perished with his frankness and his cheerfulness. After creeping
about London in a hang-dog fashion for a year or two, he
eventually decided to tempt misfortune in the Western States of
America. For a time he "ranched" without success, and was
heard of as a frequenter of saloons. A year later he died ignobly by
the revolver of a Western rowdy, in the course of a drunken brawl.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<p><span class="sc">Musical Forecasts.</span>—Mr. <span class="sc">Paddy Rewski</span> will play variations on
his own national Melodies, including the <i>Gigue Irlandaise</i>, entitled,
"<i>Donnybrook Fair</i>."—Mr. <span class="sc">Charles Reddie's</span> Pianoforte Recital is
fixed for the 17th. It is not placarded about the town, as the clever
pianist says, he's perfectly <span class="sc">Reddie</span>, but he's not
<span class="sc">Willing</span>.—Mr.
<span class="sc">Josef Dash-my-lud-wig</span> is going to give a Second Chamber Concert
on behalf of the Funds of the Second Chambermaid Theatrical Aid
Society.—Mr. <span class="sc">Cusins'</span> Concert is on the 12th. Uncles and Aunts
please accept this intimation.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>[pg 286]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:600px;"><a href="images/286-1000.png"><img src="images/286-365.png" width="365" height="496" alt="EXPERIMENTS BY THE GRAND OLD HYPNOTISER AT ST. STEPHEN'S." /></a>
<h3>EXPERIMENTS BY THE GRAND OLD HYPNOTISER AT ST. STEPHEN'S.</h3></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>[pg 287]</span>
<h3>A HARMLESS GHOST.</h3>
<p class="center1">
[A Gentleman advertises for an old house, and says, "Harmless
Ghost not objected to."]
</p>
<h4><i>A Spectre speaks</i>:—</h4>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Tell</span> us, good Sir, what is a Harmless Ghost?</p>
<p class="i2">One who walks quietly at dead of night,</p>
<p>For just a single hour or so at most,</p>
<p class="i2">And never gives folks what is termed a fright?</p>
<p>Is it a Ghost that never clanks his chains,</p>
<p class="i2">That never gibbers, and that bangs no door:</p>
<p>But quietly and peacefully remains</p>
<p class="i2">In calm <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'posesssion'">possession</ins> of some upper floor?</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>A Harmless Ghost is not a Ghost at all,</p>
<p class="i2">Unworthy of the name; no Headless Man,</p>
<p>Or other spectre that could men appal,</p>
<p class="i2">Would condescend to live 'neath such a ban.</p>
<p>No phantom with a grain of self-respect</p>
<p class="i2">Would make a promise never to do harm.</p>
<p>Find your old house, but please to recollect,</p>
<p class="i2">A Ghost who knows his business <i>must</i> alarm.</p>
</div> </div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>MORE MASQUERADING.</h3>
<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Dear Mr. Punch,</span></p>
<p><span class="sc">With</span> reference to the several cases of "Masquerading"
that have recently been mentioned in the
columns of a contemporary, I wish to add a remarkable
experience of our own firm, that, if it does not completely
clear the matter up, may at least serve to throw a little
light upon the subject. Last Friday afternoon a middle-aged
man of unmistakable City build dashed wildly into
our establishment, and desired to be supplied with "the
largest pantomime head" with which we could furnish
him. This we fortunately had in stock in the shape of
a large green and phosphorescent faced representation of
the "Demon of Despair," which was rendered additionally
attractive through being supplied with a "trick
eye," which worked with a string.</p>
<p>It was evidently of the greatest importance to him
that the head should be natural and becoming, and by
the close and satisfied scrutiny he gave it, and the great
care with which he fitted it on, the one with which we
supplied him evidently fully answered his requirements.
His manner was certainly strange, for though he refused
to give his address, he took several flying leaps across
the shop, turning a double back somersault as he cleared
the counter, and finally asked me whether I thought
him sufficiently disguised to avoid recognition in his own
immediate circle?</p>
<p>I told him candidly that I thought his large head,
being peculiar, might possibly draw upon him notice
that otherwise he would fail to arouse, and I added,
"You see, it is not as if there were a dozen of you."</p>
<p>"True," he replied; "you're quite right. There
ought to be a dozen of us. Look out the heads. I will
go and fetch 'em." And he dashed out of my establishment,
followed by a small crowd. In about two hours
and a half, however, he returned, accompanied by
twelve other middle-aged City men, and in almost as
short a time as it takes me to tell it, I had fitted them
all with large pantomime heads.</p>
<p>He paid the bill and left the shop. I watched them
all get on to a King's Cross and Brompton Omnibus,
and that was the last I saw of them. There is nothing
very remarkable in the occurrence, as we are in the habit
of making up disguises, sometimes as many as 500 in an
afternoon on the shortest notice. Still I could not help
wondering upon what business my eccentric friend was
bent. A Divorce Case? Possibly a Murder? Who
knows? Perhaps somebody may have met the bevy
down West, and can throw some light upon the subject.
Meantime, dear <i>Mr. Punch</i>, I beg to subscribe myself,</p>
<p class="author1">Yours respectfully,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">A Sly Fox but a Cautious Costumier</span>.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<p>"<span class="sc">Short Notice.</span>"—Those who did not hear Mr. <span class="sc">George
Grossmith's</span> entertainment at St. James's Hall last
Saturday week lost a very great treat. There must have
been thousands in London at the moment who suffered
this deprivation. Our Special Noticer was among the
number. Let us hope <span class="sc">Gee-Gee</span> will do it again, and all
shall be forgiven.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:400px;"><a href="images/287-800.png"><img src="images/287-400.png" width="400" height="435" alt="TOMMY'S ''ARRIET' DEPARTMENT." /></a>
<h4>TOMMY'S "'ARRIET" DEPARTMENT.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>A Group omitted from the Military Exhibition.</i></p></div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/double_rule-1.png" width="250" height="10" alt="double-rule" border="0" /></div>
<h3>ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h3>
<h4>EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.</h4>
<p><i>House of Commons, Monday, June 2.</i>—Heligoland is safe, but there were
some anxious moments. <span class="sc">George Campbell</span> led attack. House reassembled
after Whitsun recess. Not many present. <span class="sc">Old Morality</span> still sporting in
the
country, toying with Amaryllis in the shade, or with tangles of Neaera's hair.
(That's how the Member for Sark puts it, but admits that it's only poetry.) Mr.
G. away too, also <span class="sc">Grandolph</span> and <span class="sc">Hartington</span>. <span class="sc">Jokim</span> in
charge of Government
ship; evidently in mildest mood; didn't once pounce, though sorely
tempted by all-pervadingness of <span class="sc">Campbell</span>. That eminent Statesman only
began
with Heligoland; steamed later into the Pacific Seas, and moved reduction of
salary of Deputy Commissioner of the Western Pacific. Wants Heligoland
given up.</p>
<p>"Certainly not," said <span class="sc">Nicholas Wood</span>; "must take firm stand with these
Separatists. Not quite sure in what part of Ireland Heligoland is situated.
Sounds like Munster; must look it up on map. Meanwhile shall support
<span class="sc">Balfour</span>."</p>
<p>Whilst <span class="sc">Nicholas</span> off in library, vainly looking over map of Ireland,
<span class="sc">Sage of
Queen Anne's Gate</span> backs up <span class="sc">Campbell</span>. Knows Heligoland intimately.
Seems
to have passed best period of useful life there. Members quite prepared to hear
that there it was the famous letter from Foreign Office found him when, by way
of reproof of niggardliness of Department, he was obeying instructions that
transferred
him from Dresden to Constantinople by journeying on foot. Taking Heligoland
<i>en route</i>, he found it a mere sandbank, an accumulation of molecules,
whose existence was justified only by the opportunity of furnishing a scion of
the British aristocracy with an annual salary as Governor. "Hand it over to
Germany, in exchange, if you please, for few pounds of sausages; but get rid
of it."</p>
<p><span class="sc">Nicholas</span>, coming back after vain search for Heligoland on map of
Ireland,
lustily shouts, "No!" "No use arguing with these fellows, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," he
says;
"we must Put Them Down. Case seems a little mixed; don't quite follow argument.
Rather wonder <span class="sc">Arthur Balfour</span> isn't in his place to explain it; at
same time, haven't slightest doubt it's another Mitchelstown affair—another
Middle Tipperary muddle. I shall watch to see which Lobby our Whips are
filling, and march straight into it."</p>
<p>Thus Heligoland was saved, <span class="sc">Nicholas</span> and 149 others voting against
<span class="sc">Campbell</span>,
who led into the Lobby only 27 patriots. After this, that man of war,
<span class="sc">James Stuart Allanson Tudor Picton</span>, came to the front, and led
Opposition
in matter relating to Sierra Leone. <span class="sc">George Campbell</span> made several
speeches
on this topic, and when Amendment negatived, came up quite fresh with his
story of the Pacific Seas, where it seems there have been excursions, followed
by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>[pg 288]</span>
alarums, all converging on urgent necessity of reducing the salary
of the Deputy Commissioner of the Western Pacific by £200. This
also negatived after couple of hours' discussion. Then <span class="sc">George</span>,
stepping lightly from Western Pacific to the Cape, moved to reduce
salary of High Commissioner of South Africa by £1000.</p>
<p>"A regular peripatetic seven-leagued-boot mowing-machine,"
said <span class="sc">Jackson</span>, gazing dreamily on mobile features of Member for
Kircaldy. Business done.—In Committee of Supply.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width:125px;"><a href="images/288-1-230.png"><img src="images/288-1-125.png" width="125" height="487" alt="A Serious Young" /></a>
<p class="center">A Serious Young Man.</p></div>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Question is, shall House adjourn over to-morrow, being
Derby Day, or shall it forbear? <span class="sc">Elcho</span> says,
"Yes." <span class="sc">Wilfrid Lawson</span> says, "No." House,
upon consideration, agrees with <span class="sc">Elcho</span>, though
by significantly small majority. For holiday, 160;
against, 133. <span class="sc">Coghill</span>, who had vainly protested
against adjournment, says majority not so wide
as a church door, but 'twill serve. It's the writing
on the wall, and the Derby holiday in the Commons
doomed. <span class="sc">Coghill</span> serious young man; likes things
to be doomed; encouraged by the prospect, becomes
dangerously festive.</p>
<p>Member who moves Adjournment over Derby
Day expected to be funny. <span class="sc">Pam</span>, who, when he
was Minister, always did it, established fashion.
Been followed in later days by <span class="sc">Dick Power</span>,
and other eminent sportsmen. <span class="sc">Elcho</span> displayed
paternal failing for undue length, but just managed
to stop in time, not spoiling success of speech that
greatly pleased House. Curious to note points of
personal resemblance between the new Lord <span class="sc">Elcho</span>
and the old. Son, doubtless designedly, delivered
his speech from corner-seat on front Bench below
Gangway, whence, in days of yore, the father
used to hold forth, almost literally buttonholing
House of Commons; holding on to it in much same
way as <i>Ancient Mariner</i> delayed the hungry
wedding guest.</p>
<p>"Happy," says the Member for Sark, "is the
Legislature that can spare an <span class="sc">Elcho</span> for either
Chamber! Favoured the generation that succeeds
to such an inheritance! With <span class="sc">Wemyss</span> in the
Lords, and <span class="sc">Elcho</span> in the Commons, there is still
hope for my country!"</p>
<div class="figright" style="width:160px;"><a href="images/288-2-300.png"><img src="images/288-2-160.png" width="160" height="455" alt="Citizen Pickersgill." /></a>
<p class="center">Citizen Pickersgill.</p></div>
<p>Talk about Police Regulation for Procession on Saturday to
demonstrate against Compensation Bill. Citizen <span class="sc">Pickersgill</span> moved
adjournment of House in order to discuss matter. <span class="sc">Cunninghame-Graham</span>
seized opportunity to run amuck at his revered Leaders
on Front Opposition Bench. Accused them of sitting there like
stuffed figures at Madame Tussaud's. "Why stuffed?" <span class="sc">John
Mobley</span> asked, but <span class="sc">Cunninghame-Graham</span>
not to be interrupted in flush of eloquence.
When once started went at them hammer
and tongs; only a few battered figures recognisable
on Front Bench when he had finished.</p>
<p>"Fact is, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," he said, "<span class="sc">Bradlaugh's</span>
got his eye on that Bench. Means to sit
there some day. Want him to know that
even that sanctuary shall not preserve him
from my wrath. Just getting my hand in.
He'll be sorry he ever ventured to bite his
thumb at me." <i>Business done.</i>—Education
Vote in Committee.</p>
<p><i>Thursday.</i>—Lord <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel</span> moves
Second Reading of his Bill. A very inoffensive
measure, he says; not proposed to sanction
creation of Tunnel under the sea. Oh,
dear no! Nothing of that kind. All that
is wanted is that the Company shall be permitted
to keep their machinery oiled, bore
for coal, and fill up spare time by fishing for
whitebait with line. Could there be any
harm in that? <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel</span> asked,
with hand outstretched with deprecating
gesture towards Treasury Bench, on which
the long length of <span class="sc">Hicks Beach</span> was coiled.</p>
<p>Mr. G. backed up his noble friend; ridiculed
idea of danger to England from creation
of Tunnel. If anybody had need for
apprehension, it was France—a fine, subtly
patriotic idea, which did not meet with
that measure of applause on Conservative Benches that might
have been expected. Fact is, Conservatives don't like this newly
established friendliness between Mr. G. and <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel</span>.
Noble Lord not so certain to respond to crack of Ministerial Whip as
was his wont before he yielded to the spell. Stout Ministerialists
thinking more of <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel's</span> attitude on Irish Question than
of probability of French invasion by proposed Tunnel; so they lustily
cheer <span class="sc">Hicks-Beach</span> when he denounces scheme. Cry, "Oh! oh!"
when <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel</span> makes crafty appeal for support of Irish
Members, and go out in body to stop up the Tunnel.</p>
<p><span class="sc">J. S. Forbes</span> watches scene from Strangers' Gallery. Lost in
admiration of <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel's</span> meek mood.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width:150px;"><a href="images/288-3-350.png"><img src="images/288-3-150.png" width="150" height="347" alt="Minister of Education." /></a>
<p class="center">Minister of Education.</p></div>
<p>"Why, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," he said, in his perturbation brushing his new
curly-brimmed hat the wrong way, "he looks as if butter wouldn't
melt in his mouth. His low voice, his deferential manner, his
pained surprise at suggestion of wanting to do anything else but
catch those whitebait with a line, take one's breath away. A wonderful
man <span class="sc">Chunnel-Tannel</span>, but dangerous on this tack. Known
him and fought him man and boy for twenty years; fear him most
when in melting mood." <i>Business done.</i>—Discussing Tithes Bill.</p>
<p><i>Friday.</i>—Met <span class="sc">Hart Dyke</span> walking about
Corridor with contemplative air. Debate on
Education Vote going forward in House.
"How is it you aren't on Treasury Bench?"
I asked.</p>
<p>"Can't stand any more of it, <span class="sc">Toby</span>. My hair
positively beginning to frizzle under heat of
blushes. Never suspected myself of being such
Heavenborn Education Minister. But they all
say it—<span class="sc">Mundella</span>, <span class="sc">Playfair</span>, <span class="sc">Lubbock</span>, and
even <span class="sc">Sam Smith</span>. <span class="sc">Cranborne</span> and <span class="sc">Talbot</span>
not quite so sure; but on other side one chorus
of approval. Bore it pretty well for hour or
so; but at end of that time grows embarrassing.
Just came out for little walk; look in
again presently."</p>
<p>On Report of Supply, <span class="sc">George Campbell</span>
strolled in from the Pacific; proposed to
call attention to mission of Sir <span class="sc">Linton
Simmons</span> to the <span class="sc">Pope</span>. No Vote connected
therewith happens to be in Estimates; so
<span class="sc">Speaker</span> ruled him out of Order.</p>
<p>"Oh, very well," said <span class="sc">George</span>; "that's
out of order is it? Well, let me see,
there's Japan;" and he talked for thirty-five
minutes about Japan.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><i>Business done.</i>—Education Vote agreed to.</p>
<br clear="all" />
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>THE SCHOOL BOARD BEFORE THE END OF THE CENTURY.</h3>
<h4>(<i>A Prophecy of the Near Future.</i>)</h4>
<p><span class="sc">The</span> children had left the school, and the pianos were closed for
the night. The Senior Wranglers who had been conducting the
lessons were divesting themselves of their academical robes, and preparing
to quit the premises to return to their palatial homes, the
outcome of a portion of their princely salaries. In couples they disappeared
until only one was left—he was older than his colleagues, and
consequently slower in his movements. As he was about to summon
his carriage a wild-looking individual suddenly appeared before him,
and, sinking in a chair, appealed to him with a gesture that, fraught
with weakness, was yet defiant.</p>
<p>"What do you want with me, my good man?" asked the Senior
Wrangler, who had a kindly nature.</p>
<p>"What have you done with my sons?" gasped the visitor.</p>
<p>"No doubt, if they were intended for crossing-sweepers, we have
instructed them in the rudiments of classical dancing, and if you
purposed bringing them up as errand-boys, it is highly probable that
we have taught them how to play upon the harpsichord."</p>
<p>"That's how it is!" cried the other. "They <i>have</i> been taught
how to play on the harpsichord; and, as the instrument is obsolete,
I ask you, Sir, how are they to get their living?"</p>
<p>"That is no affair of mine, my good fellow," returned the Senior
Wrangler, dryly. "It is my duty to teach the child, and not to
answer the questions of the parent."</p>
<p>"And the rates are doubled!" cried the Board Scholar's father,
wringing his hands in despair, "and I am ruined!" The Senior
Wrangler was growing impatient. He had to dine at the Club, and
go to the Opera. "Well, what do you want with me?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Employment!" cried the other, in an agony of woe. "Give me
employment. I have been ruined by the rates; let the rates support
me—give me employment!"</p>
<p>The Senior Wrangler considered for a moment; then he spoke—</p>
<p>"Do you think, my friend, that you could look after our highest
class?" The man shook his head.</p>
<p>"I am afraid not, Sir. My education was neglected. Beyond
reading, writing, and arithmetic, I know next to nothing."</p>
<p>"That will not be an objection," returned the Senior Wrangler, as he
put a gardenia in his button-hole. "Our highest class is composed
of our oldest pupils, and as they all suffer from over-pressure, your
duties will be simply those of an attendant in an asylum for the care
of the imbecile!" And the Ruined Ratepayer was entirely satisfied.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<div class="figleft1" style="width: 32px;"><img src="images/finger.png" width="32" height="14" alt="finger pointing" border="0" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -0.2em;"> <b>NOTICE.</b>—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.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<table align="center" summary="note" style="margin-top: 5em;">
<tr><td class="note">
<h4>Transcriber's Note:</h4>
<p>The query and the correction made are indicated by dotted lines underneath.<br />
Scroll the mouse over the word and the query or the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p>
<p>Page 281: <span class="sc">Maggie McIntyre</span>, on <i>Wednesday</i> becomes
<span class="sc">Maggie MacIntyre</span> on <i>Thursday</i>.</p>
<p>Both have been retained, as the transcriber does not know which is correct, or if the two were interchangeable.</p>
<p>Page 287: 'posesssion' corrected to 'possession':
"In calm possession of some upper floor".</p>
</td></tr></table>
<pre>
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