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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109. September 7, 1895. by Various.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44976 ***</div>
<hr class="full" />
<h1>PUNCH,<br /><br />
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>
<p class="ph2">Vol. 109.<br /><br /></p>
<hr class="full" />
<p class="ph2">September 7, 1895.<br /><br /></p>
<hr class="full" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p>
<p class="ph3">THAT POOR PENNY DREADFUL!</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>["Is the 'Penny Dreadful' and
its influence so very dreadful, I
wonder?"—<span class="smcap">James Payn.</span>]</p></div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Alas! for the poor "Penny Dreadful"!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They say if a boy gets his head-full<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Of terrors and crimes,<br /></span>
<span class="i4"><i>He</i> turns pirate—sometimes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or of horrors, at least, goes to bed full.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now <i>is</i> this according to Cocker?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Beaks one would not be a mocker,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">But <i>do</i> many lads<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Turn thieves or foot-pads,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through reading the cheap weekly Shocker?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Such literature is <i>not</i> healthy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But <i>does</i> it make urchins turn stealthy<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Depleters of tills,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Destroyers of wills,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or robbers of relatives wealthy?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I have gloated o'er many a duel,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I've heard of <span class="smcap">Don Pedro</span> the Cruel:<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Heart pulsing at high rate,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">I've read how my Pirate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gave innocent parties their gruel.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yet I have ne'er felt a yearning<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For stabbing, or robbing, or burning.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">No highwayman clever<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And handsome, has ever<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Induced <i>me</i> to take the wrong turning!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A lad who's a natural "villing,"<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When reading of robbing and killing<br /></span>
<span class="i4"><i>May</i> feel wish to do so;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">But <span class="smcap">Sheppard</span>—like <span class="smcap">Crusoe</span>—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To your average boy's only "thrilling."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ah! thousands on Shockers have fed full,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet <i>not</i> of crimes got a head-full.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Let us put down the vile,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Yet endeavour the while,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be <i>just</i> to the poor "Penny Dreadful"!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 580px;">
<a href="images/109full.jpg">
<img src="images/109.jpg" width="580" height="700" alt="EVIDENT" /></a>
<div class="caption">EVIDENT.</div>
<p><i>George.</i> "<span class="smcap">Eh—he's a big 'un; ain't he, Jack?</span>"</p>
<p><i>Minister</i> (<i>overhearing</i>). "<span class="smcap">Yes, my Lad; but it's not with Eating and
Drinking!</span>"</p>
<p><i>Jack.</i> "<span class="smcap">I'll lay it's not all wi' Fastin' an' Prayin'!</span>"</p></div>
<hr />
<p class="ph4">FOR WHEEL OR WOE.</p>
<p>The Rural District Council
at Chester resolved recently to
station men on the main roads
leading into the city to count
the number of cyclists, with a
view to estimating what revenue
would accrue from a
cycle tax. Extremely high and
public-spirited of the Chester
authorities to take the matter
up. These dwellers by the
Dee ought to adopt as their
motto, "The wheel has come
full cycle."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"<span class="smcap">Who is Sylvia?</span>"—An
opera, from the pen of Dr.
<span class="smcap">Joseph Parry</span>, the famous
Welsh composer, entitled
<i>Sylvia</i>, has been successfully
produced at the Cardiff Theatre
Royal. The <i>libretto</i> is by Mr.
<span class="smcap">Fletcher</span> and Mr. <span class="smcap">Mendelssohn
Parry</span>, the <i>maestro's</i>
son, so that the entire production
is quite <i>parry-mutuel</i>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;">
<a href="images/109bfull.jpg">
<img src="images/109b.jpg" width="194" height="350" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p class="ph4">THE RAILWAY RACE.</p>
<p>A new British sport has arisen, or rather has, after a seven years'
interval, been revived within the last week or so, and the British
sporting reporter, so well-known for his ready supply of vivid and
picturesque metaphor, has, as usual,
risen to the occasion. That large and
growing class of sedentary "sportsmen,"
whose athletic proclivities are
confined to the perusal of betting news,
have now a fresh item of interest to
discuss in the performances of favourite
and rival locomotives. More power
has been added to the elbows of the
charming and vociferous youths, who
push their way through the London
streets with the too familiar cry of
"Win-nerr!" (which, by the way,
has quite superseded that of "Evening
Piper!"). And the laborious persons
who assiduously compile "records"
have enough work to do to keep pace
with their daily growing collection.
Even the mere "Man in the Street"
knows the amount of rise in the Shap
Fell and Potter's Bar gradients, though
possibly, if you cross-question him,
he could not tell you where they are.
However, the great daily and evening
papers are fully alive to the occasion,
and the various sporting "Majors"
and "Prophets" are well to the fore with such "pars" as the
following:—</p>
<p>Flying Buster, that smart and rakish yearling from the Crewe
stud, was out at exercise last evening with a light load of eighty
tons, and did some very satisfactory trials.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Invicta, the remarkably speedy East Coast seven-year-old, made
a very good show in her run from Grantham to York yesterday.
She covered the 80½ miles in 78 minutes with Driver <span class="smcap">Tomkins</span> up,
and a weight of some 120 tons, without turning a hair. She looked
extremely well-trained, and I compliment her owners on her
appearance.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Really something ought to be done with certain of the Southern
starters. I will name no names, but I noticed one the other day
whose pace was more like thirty hours a mile than thirty miles an
hour. I have heard of donkey-engines, and this one would certainly
win a donkey race.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>These long-distance races are, no doubt, excellent tests for the
strength and stamina of our leading cross-country "flyers," but I
must enter a protest against the abnormally early hours at which the
chief events are now being pulled off. A sporting reporter undergoes
many hardships for the good of the public, but not the least is
the disagreable duty of being in at the finish at Aberdeen, say
at 4.55 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> The famous midnight steeple-chase was nothing to it.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>There was some very heavy booking last night at Euston, and
Puffing Billy the Second was greatly fancied. He has much finer
action and bigger barrel than his famous sire, not to mention being
several hands higher. It is to be hoped that he will not turn out a
roarer, like the latter.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>There are dark rumours abroad that the King's Cross favourite has
been got at. She was in the pink of condition two days ago; but
when I saw her pass at Peterborough to-day, she was decidedly
touched in the wind. The way she laboured along was positively
distressing. Besides, she was sweating and steaming all over.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>I will wire my prophecies for to-day as soon as I know the results.</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="smcap">The Shunter.</span><br />
</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 609px;">
<a href="images/110full.jpg">
<img src="images/110.jpg" width="609" height="750" alt="THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST" /></a>
<div class="caption">"THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST."</div>
<p><i>Hackney</i> (<i>to Shire Horse</i>). "<span class="smcap">Look here, Friend Dobbin, I'll be shod if they won't do away with us altogether
some of these days!</span>"</p></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 750px;">
<a href="images/111full.jpg">
<img src="images/111.jpg" width="750" height="509" alt="PICKINGS FROM PICARDY" /></a>
<div class="caption">PICKINGS FROM PICARDY.</div>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">After the Procession. A Solo by Grand-père.</span></p></div>
<hr />
<p class="ph4">CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY "COPPER."</p>
<p class="center">(<i>After Wordsworth's "Character of the Happy
Warrior."</i>)</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>[Sir <span class="smcap">John Bridge</span>, at Bow Street, bidding
farewell to Detective-Sergeant <span class="smcap">Partridge</span>, retiring
after thirty years' service, described the virtues
of the perfect policeman. He must be "absolutely
without fear," "gentle and mild in manner," and
utterly free from "swagger," &c., &c.]</p></div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who is the happy "Copper"? Who is he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">—It is the placid spirit, who, when brought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Near drunken men, and females who have fought,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Surveys them with a glance of sober thought;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose calm endeavours check the nascent fight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And "clears the road" from watchers fierce and tight.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, doomed to tramp the slums in cold or rain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or put tremendous traffic in right train,<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Does</i> it, with plucky heart and a cool brain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In face of danger shows a placid power,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which is our human nature's highest dower;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Controls crowds, roughs subdues, outwitteth thieves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Comforts lost kids, yet ne'er a tip receives<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For objects which he would not care to state.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cool-headed, cheery, and compassionate;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though skilful with his fists, of patience sure,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And menaced much, still able to endure.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">—'Tis he who is Law's vassal; who depends<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon that Law as freedom's best of friends;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whence, in the streets where men are tempted still<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By fine superfluous pubs to swig and swill<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drink that in quality is not the best,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Perfect Bobby brings cool reason's test<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To shocks and shindies, and street-blocking shows;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men argue, women wrangle,—Bobby <i>knows!</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">—Who, conscious of his power of command<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stays with a nod, and checks with lifted hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bids this van advance, that cab retire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">According to his judgment and desire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who comprehends his trust, and to the same<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Keeps true with stolid singleness of aim;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For beery guerdon, or for bribery's bait;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thieves he must follow; should a cab-horse fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A lost child bellow, a mad woman squall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His powers shed peace upon the sudden strife,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And crossed concerns of common civic life,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A constant influence, a peculiar grace;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But who, if he be called upon to face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some awful moment of more dangerous kind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shot that may slay, explosion that may blind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is cool as a cucumber; and attired<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the plain blue earth's cook-maids have admired,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Calm, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fearless, unswaggering, and devoid of "jaw."<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or if some unexpected call succeed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To fire, flood, fight, he's equal to the need;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">—He who, though thus endowed with strength and sense,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To still the storm and quiet turbulence,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is yet a soul whose master bias leans<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To home-like pleasures and to jovial scenes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And though in rows his valour prompt to prove,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cooks and cold mutton share his manly love:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On a big horse at some festivity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Conspicuous object in the people's eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or tramping sole some slum's obscurity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, with a beat that's quiet, or "awful hot,"<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prosperous or want-pinched, to his taste or not,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Plays, in the many games of life, that one<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In which the Beak's approval may be won;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And which may earn him, when he quits command,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Good, genial, Sir <span class="smcap">John Bridge's</span> friendly shake o' the hand.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whom neither knife nor pistol can dismay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor thought of bribe or blackmail can betray:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, not content that former worth stand fast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Looks forward, persevering, to the last,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be with <span class="smcap">Partridge</span>, ex-detective, class'd:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, whether praised by bigwigs of the earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or object of the Stage's vulgar mirth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Plods on his bluchered beat, cool, gentle, game,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And leaves <i>somewhere</i> a creditable name;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Finds honour in his cloth and in his cause,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, when he dips into retirement, draws<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His country's gratitude, the Bow Street Beak's applause:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This is the happy "Copper"; this is he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be.<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">"TWENTY MINUTES ON THE CONTINENT."</p>
<p class="center">(<i>By Our Own Intrepid Explorer.</i>)</p>
<p>"I tell you what you want," said my friend <span class="smcap">Saxonhurst</span>. "You
find your morning dumb-bells too much for you, and complain of
weakness—you ought to get a blow over to France."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 257px;">
<a href="images/112afull.jpg">
<img src="images/112a.jpg" width="257" height="350" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>The gentleman who made the suggestion is a kind guardian of my
health. He is not a doctor, although I believe he did "walk the
hospitals" in his early youth, but knows exactly what to advise.
As a rule, when I meet him he proposes
some far-a-field journey.
"What!" he exclaims, in a tone
of commiseration; "got a bad cold!
Why not trot over to Cairo? The
trip would do you worlds of good."
I return: "No doubt it would, but
I havn't the time." At the mere
suggestion of "everyone's enemy,"
<span class="smcap">Saxonhurst</span> roars with laughter.
He is no slave to be bound by time.
He has mapped out any number of
pleasant little excursions that can
be carried out satisfactorily during
that period known to railway companies
(chiefly August and September)
as "the week's end." He has
discovered that within four-and-twenty
hours you can thoroughly
"do" France, and within twice
that time make yourself absolutely
conversant with the greater
part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow over"
to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no
lengthy proceedings.</p>
<p>"About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you
to rights," continues <span class="smcap">Saxonhurst</span>, in a tone of conviction. "Just
you trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they
will pull you through. Keep your eye on the 9 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> Express from
Victoria and you will never regret it."</p>
<p>Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the
resources of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia,
lunch sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of
(literally) five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight
hours one could travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call
upon the Gallic <i>douane</i>, test the <i>cuisine</i> of the <i>buffet</i> attached to the
Hôtel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. <span class="smcap">Anybody's</span> "last Any-day."
It seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to
perform it, it was as easy as possible.</p>
<p>There is no deception at 9 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> every morning at the Victoria
Station. A sign-post points out the Dover Boat Express, and tells
you at the same time whether you are to have the French-flagged
services of the <i>Invicta</i> and the <i>Victoria</i>, or sail under the red ensign
of the <i>Calais-Douvres</i>. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I fancy it
is the fastest of the speedy trio. Near to the board of information is
a document heavy with fate. In it you can learn whether the sea is
to be "smooth," "light," "moderate," or "rather rough." If you
find that your destiny is one of the two last mentioned, make up
your mind for breezy weather, with its probable consequences. Of
course, if you can face the steward with cheerful unconcern in a
hurricane, you will have nothing to fear. But if you find it necessary
to take chloral before embarking (say) on the Serpentine in a dead
calm, then beware of the trail of the tempest, and the course of the
coming storm. If a man who is obliged to go on insists that "it
will be all right," take care, and beware. "Trust him not," as the
late <span class="smcap">Longfellow</span> poetically suggested, as it is quite within the
bounds of possibility that he may be "fooling thee." But if the
meteorological report points to "set fair," then away with all idle
apprehensions, and hie for the first-class smoking compartment, that
stops not until it gets to Dover pier, for the pause at Herne Hill
scarcely counts for anything.</p>
<p>As you travel gaily along through the suburbs of Surrey and the
hops of Kent, you have just time to glance from your comfortable
cushioned seat at "beautiful Battersea," "salubrious Shortlands,"
"cheerful Chatham," "smiling Sittingbourne," "favoured (junction
for Dover and Ramsgate) Faversham," and last, but not least,
"cathedral-cherishing Canterbury." You hurry through the quaint
old streets of "the Key to Brompton" (I believe that is the poetical
<i>plus</i> strategical designation of the most warlike of our cinque ports),
and in two twos you are on board the <i>Calais-Douvres</i>, bound for
the <i>buffet</i> of <i>buffets</i>, the pride of the caterer's craft, or rather (to
avoid possible misapprehension) his honourable calling. The Channel
is charming. This marvellous twenty miles of water is as wayward
as a woman. At one time it will compel the crews of the steamers
to appear in complete suits of oil-skin; at another it is as smooth
as a billiard-table, and twice as smiling. The report at Victoria
has not been misleading. We are to have a pleasant, and
consequently prosperous passage.</p>
<p>On board I find a goodly company of lunchers. Mr. Recorder
<span class="smcap">Bunny</span>, Q.C., sedate and silent—once the terror of thieves of all
classes, and ruffians of every degree, now partly in retreat. Then
there is the <span class="smcap">MacStorm</span>, C.B., warrior and novelist. Foreign
affairs are represented by MM. <span class="smcap">Bonhommie</span> and <span class="smcap">De Czarville</span>,
excellent fellows both, and capable correspondents in London. Then
there are a host of celebrities. <span class="smcap">Dicky Hogarth</span>, the caricaturist;
<span class="smcap">Samuel Steele Sheridan</span>, the dramatist; and <span class="smcap">Shakspeare Johnson
Cockaigne</span>, the man of literary all-work.</p>
<p>"It is very fine this to me when therefore I come out why,"
observes an Italian explorer, who has the reputation of speaking
five-and-twenty languages fluently, and is particularly proud of his
English.</p>
<p>"Certainly," I answer promptly, because my friend is a little
irritable, and still believes in the possibilities of the <i>duello</i>.</p>
<p>"Therefore maybe you find myself when I am not placed which
was consequently forwards." And with this the amiable explorer
from the sunny south, no doubt believing that he has been imparting
information of the most valuable character, relapses into a smiling
silence.</p>
<p>In the course of the voyage I find that, if I pleased, I could wait
until a quarter to four, and then return to my native shores. This
would give me more than three hours in Calais. But what should I
do with them?</p>
<p>"You might go to the Old Church," says Mr. Recorder <span class="smcap">Bunny</span>,
Q.C., "which was an English place of worship in the time of Queen
<span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Some of the chapels are still dedicated to English Saints,
and there are various other memorials of the British occupation."</p>
<p>"Or you can go to the <i>plage</i>," puts in the <span class="smcap">MacStorm</span>. "Great
fun in fine weather. Whole families pic-nic on the sands. They
feed under tents or in chalets. In the water all day long, except at
meal-times. At night they retire, I think, to a little collection of
timber-built villas, planted in a neatly-kept square. The whole thing
rather suggestive of <span class="smcap">Alexander Selkirk</span> <i>plus</i> an unlimited supply
of a quarter-inch deal flooring, canvas, and cardboard."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 135px;">
<a href="images/112bfull.jpg">
<img src="images/112b.jpg" width="135" height="300" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine
to go no further than the <i>buffet</i>. Acting
under the instructions of Mr. Recorder <span class="smcap">Bunny</span>,
Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well,
I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for
Paris and the Continent generally) to satisfy their
cravings for food, and then give my orders. A waiter,
who has all the activity of his class, representing,
let us say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysée,
takes me in hand. We make out a <i>menu</i> on the spot—Melon,
<i>tête de veau à la vinaigrette</i>, <i>caneton aux
petits pois</i>, and a cheese omelette. Then half a
bottle of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a <i>café</i> and
<i>chasse</i>. All good. Then the <i>garçon</i> skips away,
placing knives and forks at this table, a dish of fruit
at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder.
These athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging
to promise the performer—if he wishes
it—a prosperous career on the lofty <i>trapèze</i>), are
undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers Albion bound.
Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my lunch, settled
my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good steamer
that is to carry me back to my native land.</p>
<p>Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I
watch them after <i>déjeuner à la fourchette</i> through the perfumed
haze of an unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned,
they are not a patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian
coast line, but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond
compare." I remember that at one time or another I have heard "the
finest music in the world, but at that moment there comes stealing
into my ears a melody worth all that music put together, the
chime of English village bells." I recollect that I have heard these
beautiful expressions used in the Garrick Theatre on the occasion of
the revival of a certain little one-act piece. Mr. <span class="smcap">Arthur Bouchier</span>
was then eloquent (on behalf of the author) in praise of Dover, and
I now agree with him. What can be more beautiful than the white
cliffs of Albion and the sound of English village bells—after a capital
lunch at Calais, and during the enjoyment of an unusually good
cigar?</p>
<p>The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train
arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for
Mrs. <span class="smcap">Anybody's</span> "last Any-day."</p>
<p>"How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring
out a cup of tea.</p>
<p>"And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I
owe to twenty minutes on the continent."</p>
<p>And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they
shall serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title
and the end to an article.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Punch</span>,—My pater reads the Bristol newspapers, but I
don't, because there's never any pirates or red Indians in them, but
happening to look in one the other day I noticed an awfully good
thing. It said that at a place called Stapleton all the parents were
very indignant at the way in which the schoolmistress had been
treated by the manigers, and to show their symperthy they decided to
keep their children from school. The school was nearly empty in
consequents. Now I don't think my schoolmaster has half enough
sympathy shown him. He does know how to cane, certainly, but he
isn't really such a beast as fellows make out—at least not just the
day or so before the holidays begin—and would you mind telling
parents that they ought to keep their boys at home for a week or a
fortnight after next term begins, to show how much they symperthise
with him? Poor chap, he has lots of trouble—I know he has,
because I give him some.</p>
<p class="center">
Yours respekfully,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Bloggs Junior</span>.
</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p><span class="smcap">Bawbees Thankfully Received.</span>—A National Scottish Memorial
to <span class="smcap">Burns</span> is in the Ayr. "Surely," writes a perfervid one, "<span class="smcap">Burns</span>
did as much for our country and the world as <span class="smcap">Scott</span>, yet how very
different the monuments of the two in Edinburgh and Glasgow! I
am sure no Scotchman would grudge his mite, however poor, for such
a purpose." Quite so. But it would take a good many "Cotter's
Saturday mites" to build anything like the Scott Memorial in
Princes Street. And what is this that the Rev. Dr. <span class="smcap">Burrell</span>, of
New York, said in presenting a new panel for the Ayr statue of
<span class="smcap">Burns</span> from American lovers of the poet? "The stream of
pilgrims," he observed, "from America to the banks of the Doon
was twice as large as that which found its way to the banks of the
Avon." Then why should not the stream of dollars follow, and
erect a colossal "Burns Enlightening the Nations" somewhere
down the Clyde—say, at the Heads of Ayr? <i>Hamlet</i> beaten by <i>Tam
O'Shanter</i>, and Avon taking a back seat to Doon! Flodden is,
indeed, avenged.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p><span class="smcap">The Wearing o' the Green.</span>—There was a discussion at the Cork
Corporation's meeting on a recommendation of the Works Committee,
that "a new uniform, of Irish manufacture, be ordered for the hall-porter."
What should be the colour, was the difficulty? "Some
members," we regret to read, "were in favour of blue"; and then
the debate went on thus—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mr. <span class="smcap">Bible</span> he thought they should stick to the green<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Mr. <span class="smcap">Farington</span> said that green uniforms rot;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mr. <span class="smcap">Lucy</span> denounced such a statement as mean,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And—"never change colour!"—advised Sir <span class="smcap">John Scott</span>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>So the hall-porter will have a uniform of "green and gold"—the
green to be durable," and the gold to make it endurable!</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">CABBY? OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.</p>
<p class="center">(<i>By "Hansom Jack."</i>)</p>
<p class="center">No. II.—IN THE SHELTER. ME AND BILLY BOGER.</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at the
Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.]</p></div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 146px;">
<a href="images/113full.jpg">
<img src="images/113.jpg" width="146" height="350" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, <i>with</i> a cough, and a fare as is sour and tight-fisted,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits terrible twisted.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in. With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer,"<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>And</i> 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad! What do <i>you</i> think? I says to my pal <span class="smcap">Billy Boger</span>.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Brown-crusted one, <span class="smcap">Billy</span>; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a "Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up like, against a damp hoarding.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, <span class="smcap">Bill</span> do; won't take it on nohow, the orkurd old Tartar.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em from playing the martyr!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says <span class="smcap">Bill</span> with a grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer all round; but Lord love me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cuss it and cross it, and over <i>you</i> go! Better far to stand by and look on, till you're out of it.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Heye like a bloomin' old robin, <i>you</i> 'ave," says <span class="smcap">Bill</span> (meaning <i>me</i>), "allus cocked at creation<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end of your fine 'observation'?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading 'em out' as Yank <span class="smcap">Jonathan</span> puts it.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Carn't 'it it, we carn't. But we're pals all the same, becos <span class="smcap">Bill</span> is more 'onest than some who're more 'arty.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We kid, and we kibosh each other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old <span class="smcap">Billy's</span> the party,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when <span class="smcap">Billy</span> busts <span class="smcap">Jack</span> is all there, you bet, although <i>I</i> tool a Forder and <i>'e</i> a old Growler.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But pickles ain't in it for sourness with <span class="smcap">Billy</span>, nor yet fresh-laid widders for doin' the 'owler.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Hansom up!"—"Ah!" says old <span class="smcap">Billy</span>. "<i>Per</i>cisely! It's jest 'Hansom up, Growler <i>down</i>!' <i>I</i> ain't in it<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With sech a smart, dashing young Jehu as <i>you</i>, as can put on your quarter o' mile to the minute!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hivory fitments, and bevel-edged mirrors! A lady's boodwore in blue cloth! Ain't it 'trotty'?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wanity Fair upon wheels, <span class="smcap">Jack</span>, <i>I</i> call it. Wot price now I wonder for me and <span class="smcap">Old Spotty?</span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Women, too, getting that bloomin' <i>hadvanced</i> they all paternise you—<i>and</i> a cigaratte. Drat 'em!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Few years agone they'd a fynted at thought on it. Women fair knock-outs. Could never get at 'em!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Foller their leaders like sheep to a slorter-'ouse. Drive theirselves next, I persoom, <i>on</i> a Forder.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Party you took up outside 'ere larst night, 'er in feathers and paint, was a pooty tall horder."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Known <i>'er</i> six year, <span class="smcap">Bill</span>," I says with a sigh like. "A sweeter young snowdrop than when I first druv 'er<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You couldn't 'a' button-holed. Ah! and she's pooty as paint—bar <i>the</i> paint—at this moment, Lord luv 'er!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Frolicsome, freehanded,—fast? Well, I s'pose so. She used to drive up with a toffy young masher.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Turtle-doves? Well,'twas a pleasure to see 'em, <span class="smcap">Bill</span>; 'er such a dainty 'un, 'im such a dasher."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Innercent, hay? <i>Yes</i>, as rain-sprinkled laylock boughs. <i>'E</i> broke 'is neck in a steeplechase, <span class="smcap">Billy</span>,<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>She</i> took to sewing, and dropped smiles and 'ansoms. Wilted away like a gas-shrivelled lily.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then I lost sight on 'er, couple o' year or so. Next she turned up as—well, <span class="smcap">Billy</span> you've seen 'er,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pro. at the "Pompydour," generous, gassy, and—well, p'r'aps as <i>good</i> as a lot that look greener."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Bah!" snaps <span class="smcap">Bill Boger</span>, dissecting 'is bloater as though 'twos 'umanity, and 'im a surgeon;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"Life as it's seen from the cab-driver's 'pulpit' would give some new texts to a <span class="smcap">Parker</span> or <span class="smcap">Spurgeon</span>.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Culler-der-rose</i>, indeed! Yaller-der-janders! It's most on it dubersome, dirty or dingy.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The free 'anded fares is best part on 'em quisby, and them as <i>is</i> righteous runs sour-like <i>and</i> stingy."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I says, "<span class="smcap">Bill</span>, you're bilious!" 'E snorts supercilious, and bolts the 'ard-roe. "Hah, young Daffydowndilly,"<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'E growls as 'e munches, "of all the green bunches o' Spring inguns <i>you</i> are the greenest. It's silly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your slop-over sentiment is, <i>for</i> a Cabby!!!"—Fare? "Finsbury Park, and look slippy!" "All right, Sir!"—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"We'll argue it out, <span class="smcap">Billy Boger</span>, some other time." Right away coachman! Kim up mare! Good night, Sir!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The words of that arch-humourist, the late <span class="smcap">Artemus Ward</span>, on
the subject of the New Woman, whom he designated "a he-lookin'
female," are worth repeating:—"'O, woman, woman,' I cried, my
feelins worked up to a hi poetick pitch, 'you air a angle when you
behave yourself; but when you take off your proper appairel and
(mettyforically speaken) get into pantyloons—when you desert your
firesides, and with your heds full of wimin's rites noshuns go round
like roarin lyons, seekin whom you may devour someboddy—in short,
when you undertake to play the man, you play the devil and air an
emfatic noosence. My female friends,' I continnered, as they were
indignantly departin, 'wa well what <span class="smcap">A. Ward</span> has sed!'"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 750px;">
<a href="images/114full.jpg">
<img src="images/114.jpg" width="750" height="467" alt="UNLUCKY SPEECHES" /></a>
<div class="caption">UNLUCKY SPEECHES.</div>
<p>"<span class="smcap">Wouldn't you like some Music, Professor?</span>"</p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">No, thanks. I'm quite happy as I am. To tell you the truth, I prefer the worst possible Conversation to the
best Music there is!</span>"</p></div>
<hr />
<p class="ph4">LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.</p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">A Ballad of Bird Slaughter.</span></p>
<p class="center">(<i>With Apologies to the Shade of Keats.</i>)</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>"The new style of women's head-gear—called
mixed plumes—threatens to add the extermination
of Birds of Paradise to that of several species of
herons.... It is for this 'use' that whole heronries
in Florida and elsewhere have been utterly
destroyed; it is for this that Birds of Paradise are
being persecuted even to extinction."—<i>Mrs. E.
Phillips, Vice-President of the Society for the
Preservation of Birds.</i></p></div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">I.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, what can ail thee, poet-man,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Alone and palely loitering?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"The wings are banished from the woods,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And no birds sing."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">II.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, what can ail thee, bird-lover,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So haggard and so woe-begone?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"The heronry no more is full,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And the cranes are flown."<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">III.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I see there's sorrow on thy brow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At dawn's rose-flush, at eve's cool dew.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"Bird-song is gone from the garden rose,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And the field flowers too.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">IV.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"I met a lady on the way,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Fell, beautiful, cold Fashion's child;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her hair was golden, her plume was high,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And her eyes were wild.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">V.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"She made a mixed plume for her head,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of heron crest and aureole.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She looked at me as void of love,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And cold of soul.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">VI.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"She slaughtered Birds of Paradise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And little cared for all day long<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Save silencing the whirr of wings,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And the trill of song.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">VII.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"She found the task of relish sweet;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The warbling wildwood choir she slew.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till the larks were mute, and the linnets dead,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And the robins few.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">VIII.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"She took me to her milliner's<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And showed with glee a sight full sore,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her new mixed plume, with aureoles six,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And egrets four.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">IX.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'Twas there she lulled all love asleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And her heart grew hard—ah, woe betide!—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the granite-boulder that gleameth white<br /></span>
<span class="i6">On the cold hill-side.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">X.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"I saw dead songsters heaped to view.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From field, wood, mere, came one sad call:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They cried, '<i>La Belle Dame sans Merci</i><br /></span>
<span class="i6">Will slay us all!'<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XI.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Beauty no more will flash a-wing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Music no more full-throated flush.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fashion will curse the fields of Spring<br /></span>
<span class="i6">With the Winter's hush.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XII.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"I saw poor bird-beaks in that room<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With fruitless warning gaping wide;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the lady wore their stolen plumes<br /></span>
<span class="i6">With a cruel pride.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XIII.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'The Feathered Woman' was she hight;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But all reproof, compassion-born,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The modish <i>Belle Dame sans Merci</i><br /></span>
<span class="i6">Doth laugh to scorn.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XIV.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"What plea for beauty or for song,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or simple prudence, may she reck,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While Fashion rules she with mixed plumes<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Her head must deck?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XV.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The birds in myriads may die,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till earth is all a songless hush;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But she upon her crest <i>must</i> sport<br /></span>
<span class="i6">A feathered-brush!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XVI.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'Tis not sore need bids songsters bleed,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Not lack of vesture or of food;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis only Fashion's foolish freak<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Strips wold and wood.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">XVII.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"And that is why I wander here,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Alone and sadly loitering,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whilst the sedge shakes not with glancing plume,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And no birds sing!"<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<p><span class="smcap">Bournemouth's</span> chief magistrate, by decision
and order of the corporation of that
town, has been deprived of a strip of land,
alleged to be public property, which he had
enclosed within his own private grounds.
The sight of sixty workmen ruthlessly "removing
his summer-house and shrubs, and
throwing tons of mould over the cliffs," could
not have been a very exhilarating one for
the erstwhile owner, who must have felt like
Mayor-ius 'mid the ruins of Cart-hage.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 570px;">
<a href="images/115full.jpg">
<img src="images/115.jpg" width="570" height="700" alt="THE EMPTY CUPBOARD" /></a>
<div class="caption">THE EMPTY CUPBOARD.</div>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">OLD MOTHER HUBBARD SHE WENT TO THE CUPBOARD<br /></span>
<span class="i2">TO GET HER POOR DOG A BONE,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">WHEN SHE GOT THERE THE CUPBOARD WAS BARE,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">AND SO THE POOR DOG HAD NONE.<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>["Mr. <span class="smcap">Chaplin</span>, speaking in the House of Commons on the 19th August, said that it was not possible to prepare and produce measures for
the relief of Agriculture this Session."—<i>Daily Paper.</i></p></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span><br /></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
<p class="ph4">ROUNDABOUT READINGS.</p>
<p>"Roundabout Ridings" would be the more correct title, for he
who writes these lines has yielded to the joint influences of the
prevalent craze and the glorious weather, and has been touring in
North Devon on (and off) a bicycle. I say "off" advisedly, for the
hills in that delightful country are so numerous, so long, and so
steep, that out of every hundred miles you accomplish you will find
that you have walked at least fifty while you painfully shoved your
wheel before you. And when you reach the laborious summit and
pause panting, you are as likely as not to gather your breath and
strength under a notice informing you that the descent beyond,
down which you had hoped to spin with extended legs, is dangerous
to cyclists.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="figright" style="width: 300px;">
<a href="images/117afull.jpg">
<img src="images/117a.jpg" width="300" height="255" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>And thereupon, if the sun is shining in full strength, and you
are spent and parched, you may possibly
decide that in order to make a bicycle
tour in North Devon a complete and
splendid success, it is essential that you
should do it without a bicycle. But
later on, when you have reached the
end of your journey, have had your
bath, your rub down and your brush
up, and are waiting placidly for your
dinner with an appetite well set and a
thirst calculated to drain a vat of cider,
then you will realise that even in the
precipitous Devonshire country bicycling is a real delight.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Putting aside for the moment the question whether or not you
ought to take a bicycle, I hold that the following ingredients go to
make a successful bicycle tour. (1) A tall youngster from Oxford
possessing incalculable yards of totally irresponsible arms and legs, a
happy knack of conversational prattle, a shock of fair hair, and
imperturbable good humour. These details, though important, are
not essential. It is, however, absolutely essential that he should
make all plans for the day's ride, settle on the stopping places and
hotels, and carry maps and guide-books. You can then enjoy the
satisfaction of abusing him heartily whenever things go wrong.
You will also find that whenever you want the map he will either
have left it in the pocket of a coat which has been sent on by train,
or stowed it away in the darkest recess of the bottom of his kit-case.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="figright" style="width: 144px;">
<a href="images/117bfull.jpg">
<img src="images/117b.jpg" width="144" height="350" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>The second ingredient is a private clown of quaint humour and
original ideas. This is the sort of man who finds interest and
amusement in everything, and provokes you to laughter by the
most unexpected sallies. Before you have had time to turn round
he will be on terms of easy familiarity with drivers of coaches,
porters at hotels, ladies who serve behind bars, and rustics whom he
may meet on the road. In five minutes he knows the details of all their
personal history, their length of service, the manner of their work,
the size of their families, their adventures, and their chief desires in
life. They all treat him with the highest consideration and go out
of their way to make things easy for him. At Lynton our own
particular clown sent the hotel band into convulsions by dancing a
step dance while they were solemnly playing a German march. The
incongruity of the situation so tickled the trombone that for at least
two minutes he was utterly unable to carry on the pumping operations
entailed by his instrument. His ruin was completed when he
was asked to join our party with the special object of inflating the
back-tyres of our bicycles. Even the conductor relaxed into a smile.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The third ingredient is a paymaster. If you can
find a handsome, well-built, agreeable and intellectual
man for the position (as we did) so much the
better. You will thus add an air of character and
distinction to your tour. In that respect, I admit,
we were fortunate beyond the average. I need only
add, as a slight reminder to my companions, that
they have not yet repaid to me the money I disbursed
for them.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The fourth ingredient is one rainy day. It helps
you to enjoy the fine weather all the more, and it
gives you an opportunity of investing yourself in
the pretty little gray waterproof cape which bicycle
outfitters provide for wet weather. From a ticket
attached to the collar of mine, I discovered that it
was called an "electric poncho." I can only say
that it fully deserved the title. Wet weather, moreover,
adds a pleasing element of uncertainty to bicycling by making
your back wheel skid, so that you never know, from one moment to
the other, what you may be doing. If three of you are riding in a
line, it is more than probable that, in the twinkling of an eye, you
will be piled three deep on the side of the road.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="figright" style="width: 162px;">
<a href="images/117cfull.jpg">
<img src="images/117c.jpg" width="162" height="320" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>You ought also to insure at least one hotel dance in the course of
your journey. All hotel dances are the same, and therefore one is
quite sufficient as a sample. Hotel dances are attended by eight
ladies and six men. One of the men is a boy. He has two sisters,
who are also present at the dance. He dances three times with
one sister, and three times with the other. His seventh dance he
devotes to a lady no longer in her first youth, who has captured
his young affections, and after the mad excitement of this episode
he goes to bed. Another of the men is always elderly,
bald and stout. He displays the courtly gallantry
which is understood to be an attribute of the old school.
He is a rigorous stickler for the etiquette of the ballroom.
He dances the Lancers with a solemn precision
and the waltz with a precise solemnity, and that is the
only distinction he makes between them. He is a
great hand at well-turned compliments of a ponderous
nature, and it is a liberal education to see him conducting
his partner back to her seat. A third man is
an amusing rattle. He makes his partners giggle by
his total ignorance of the Lancers, and incurs the
frowns of the bald man by his dashing exploits in the
waltz. The ladies all wear high dresses, they have
interchangeable <i>chaperons</i>, and make a noble pretence of enjoying
themselves. In the fifth dance the bald man falls down, and long
before twelve o'clock everything is over and peace reigns again in
the hotel.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Clovelly is the proud possessor, not merely of the steepest High
Street in the world, but also of a "poet-artist" (so he describes himself),
who is also (I again quote his own description) a "professional
qualified photographer." Here is an extract from his enthusiastic
poem entitled "A Peep from the Hobby Drive, Clovelly."</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How charming is the old High Street,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pitched with pebbles, rough—how steep;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There donkeys stand with coal and sand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And women with their brush in hand.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Out boldly stands the grand old pier,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To check the waves that may come near;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fishermen upon it stand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yarning with their pipes in hand.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Among such grandeur, artist, rest—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To imitate it at thy best;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For should some beauty fall to ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy picture has it, safe and sound.<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="center">From the <i>Fishing Gazette</i> I take the following story:—</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<div class="figleft" style="width: 380px;">
<a href="images/117dfull.jpg">
<img src="images/117d.jpg" width="380" height="319" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p><br /><br /><br />Last spring, while a party of tourists were fishing up North, a well-known
lawyer lost his gold watch from the boat in which he was sitting. Last
week he made another visit to the lakes, and during the first day's sport
caught an 8lb. trout. His astonishment can be imagined when he found the
watch lodged in the throat of the trout. The watch was running, and the
time correct. It being a "stem winder," the supposition is that, in masticating
its food, the fish wound up the watch daily.</p></div>
<p>I happen to know
that this story is
incomplete, and I
venture to add some
missing details. The
fish—a particularly
thoughtful animal—finding
that there
was no chain to the
watch, resolved to
supply this defect,
and, by a well-known
process in
metallurgy, converted
some of its
scales into a complete
Albert, which
it connected with
the watch. The
watch used to lose two minutes a week. With admirable patience
the fish regulated it, and restored it to its owner in perfectly
accurate trim. When it was originally lost the watch was a
simple one. It has now become a repeater, with a special dial indicating
the days of the week, the month, and the year <span class="smcap">A.D.</span> By a
trick, learnt from a fried whiting in early life this trout contrived
every day to insert its tail into its mouth, and, by using it as a brush,
to keep the watch clean, and free from rust. When the fish had been
boiled and eaten, the watch stopped, out of sympathy, and has not
gone since.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 477px;">
<a href="images/118full.jpg">
<img src="images/118.jpg" width="477" height="750" alt="A SOLILOQUY" /></a>
<div class="caption">A SOLILOQUY.</div>
<p><i>Generous Dealer</i> (<i>examining ring</i>). "<span class="smcap">He asks Twenty. He thinks he'll get Eighteen.
It's worth Sixteen. I'll give Fourteen. He paid Twelve. I'll offer Ten!</span>"</p></div>
<hr />
<p class="ph4">A CRY FROM CHICAGO.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Better fifty years of Europe<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Than a cycle of Porkopolis!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Freedom's shackled with a new rope<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In Mock-Modesty's metropolis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ladies—aye and men—in tights<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To Chicago prudes proves shockers;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So they limit wheelman rights<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By forbidding—knickerbockers!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nay, the manly human calf<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To these Aldermen's so shocking,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They prohibit—do not laugh!—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All display of—the male—stocking!!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We must don a costume baggy<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the throat unto the ankles;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Something stuffy, chokey, draggy!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yah! In freemen's hearts it rankles<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This restriction. Don't let's heed 'em!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If they bother thus our biking.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ho! for Battersea and freedom!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Cyclists of Chicago, striking,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like their sires for Independence,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">'Gainst the prigs our wheel-rights blocking,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Claim, in all their old resplendence,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Knicker free and liberal stocking!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">MUSIC MINUS CHARMS.</p>
<p class="center">(<i>The Latest Developments of the Educational
Department.</i>)</p>
<p>"Where are we going next?" asked the
Taught of the Teacher. They had just left
the portals of the School Board.</p>
<p>"To a place that should be inscribed with
the words 'All hope abandon who enter
here,' and which is known as the Slums," was
the sad reply.</p>
<p>The Teacher and the Taught travelled on
until they were lost in a maze of workmen's
buildings.</p>
<p>"Not so very bad," commented the Taught.</p>
<p>"Surely a man and his family might live
peaceably enough in these seemingly comfortable
flats."</p>
<p>"You do not know all," said the Teacher.
"Much has been done for the artisan, but
the School Board have driven him to despair.
Listen!"</p>
<p>Then the two investigators heard sounds of
shrieking and wailing. There was a hubbub
of dreadful groans and sighs.</p>
<p>"These are not human," cried the Taught.</p>
<p>"They are not," was the answer. "Have
you ever heard the like?"</p>
<p>"Never. And yet I should say that the
tones came from violins—played, no doubt,
by imps."</p>
<p>"No, it is not that." And then came the
full explanation.</p>
<p>"The dreadful discord to which we are
listening is caused by the practice of the
scholars of the School Board. The energetic
youngsters are being taught at the expense
of the ratepayers how to play the 'fiddle.'"</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">THE BRITISH BATHER.</p>
<p class="center">(<i>By a Dipper in Brittany.</i>)</p>
<p class="center">[See the correspondence in the <i>Daily Graphic</i>]</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Mrs. <span class="smcap">Grundy</span> rules the waves,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With Britons for her slaves—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">They're fearful to disport themselves,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Unless the sexes sort themselves<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And take their bathing sadly, for French gaiety depraves!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">'Tis time no more were seen<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The out-of-date "machine";<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Away with that monstrosity<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Of prudish ponderosity—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why can't we have the bathing tent or else the trim <i>cabine?</i><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">I think we should advance<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If we took a hint from France,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And mingled (quite decorously)<br /></span>
<span class="i4">On beaches that before us lie<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All round our coasts—we do abroad whene'er we get the chance!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">O'er here in St. Maló<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The thing's quite <i>comme il faut</i>;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Why not in higher latitude?<br /></span>
<span class="i4">I can't make out the attitude<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of those who make the British dip so "shocking," dull and slow!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<p><span class="smcap">Lancashire</span> riflemen who "pay their shot"
at the average rate of £5 per annum for
"marking," are certainly entitled to every
modern improvement on their range at Altcar,
and it is no wonder that there has been some
grumbling at the non-introduction of canvas-targets
since their invention years ago. However,
this defect, we read in the <i>Liverpool
Daily Post's</i> "Volunteer Notes," will shortly
be removed, and the desired innovation substituted,
so that Bisley marksmen who, hitherto,
indulged in sneers at the deficiencies of Altcar,
must now cease making a butt of the northern
range.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</p>
<p class="center">EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.</p>
<p><i>House of Commons, Monday, August 26.</i>—Doorkeepers and police
puzzled by notable gathering of strangers. Came in one by
one. No one seemed to know another; yet there was about them,
according to Mr. <span class="smcap">Horsley's</span> testimony, certain signs of brotherhood.
None wore top hats; every man's hair was longer than
it is ordinarily worn; several carried cloaks, mostly brown about
the seams, cut, as far as Mr. <span class="smcap">Horsley</span> can remember, something
after pattern of cloak worn by Lord <span class="smcap">Tennyson</span> when he came to be
sworn in as a peer of the realm, and was, on first presenting himself,
turned away by the policeman
in the outer hall under the
impression that he was collecting
empty bottles.</p>
<p>Most of the strangers had orders
for special gallery. Some had seats
under the gallery. Others (these,
it turned out when the secret was
fully disclosed, were the sonneteers)
found seats on the higher, but, in
the House of Commons, less distinguished,
slopes of Parnassus,
allotted to undistinguished strangers
who ballot for places.</p>
<p>They were the candidates for the
Poet Laureateship, or rather some
of them. Walking out after questions
were over, <span class="smcap">Sark</span> found a
double row of poets sitting on the
stone benches right and left of the
corridor, waiting for a possible turn
at the ballot—waiting with same
dogged patience, same unquenchable
hope, with which they tarry
for public recognition.</p>
<p>All due to <span class="smcap">Johnston</span> of Ballykilbeg.
Turning aside for moment
from the vexed Bermothes of theology,
and the suspicious conduct of
Irish Members of the Catholic faith,
<span class="smcap">Ballykilbeg</span> permitted his gaze to
fall on the vacant chair of the Poet
Laureate. Gave notice of intention
to ask <span class="smcap">Prince Arthur</span> at to-day's
sitting what he meant to do about
it. Hence this commotion in the
drear woods and the hungry thickets
that clothe the foot of Parnassus.</p>
<p>"Sorry for 'em," said <span class="smcap">Ballykilbeg</span>,
looking up towards crowded
galleries. "They're a poor-looking
lot. Don't believe there's a
Master of an Orange Lodge among
'em. Anyhow they're all out of
it. My man is <span class="smcap">Wilfrid Lawson</span>.
Don't mean to say he put me up
to ask the question with any ulterior
personal views. But he knew
what I was at, and he knows my
opinion of him. We don't agree in
politics, and he's not sound on the
Pope of Rome. But for verse that fetches you, the poetry you can
understand without first tying wet cloth round your head, give me
<span class="smcap">Wilfrid Lawson</span>. <span class="smcap">Prince Arthur</span> refers me to <span class="smcap">The Markiss</span>.
I'll call and see him, taking with me a choice selection of <span class="smcap">Wilfrid's</span>
verse, which I'll read to him."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 327px;">
<a href="images/119full.jpg">
<img src="images/119.jpg" width="327" height="500" alt="FISHING MADE DIFFICULT" /></a>
<div class="caption">FISHING MADE DIFFICULT.</div>
<p><i>A. J. B.</i> "What on earth is the use of getting a brand new rod, when
you're caught up on these bothering things every five minutes?"</p></div>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Votes in Supply.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Scotch votes on; the <span class="smcap">Weirisome Weir</span> stands where
he did, at corner seat of front bench below Gangway. This convenient
situation for fixing Corporal <span class="smcap">Hanbury</span> with gleaming eye.
Also the metal grating which serves as flooring of House is useful as
adding reverberating sound to <span class="smcap">Weirisome's</span> voice when occasion
makes it desirable it should issue from his boots. If it were not for
the matting laid over the grating, effect would be much more tremendous.
<span class="smcap">Weirisome</span> makes the best of it. Blood curdling to hear
him just now denouncing some Procurator Fiscal whose office is in
Edinburgh, and his house in Ross-shire. Or is it the other way
about? The worst of <span class="smcap">Weirisome</span> making our flesh creep by his
ventriloquial talents is, that we get a little mixed about his points.
However it was, the Procurator Fiscal had committed a heinous
crime. Only by exercise of supernatural forbearance that <span class="smcap">Weirisome</span>
refrained from moving to reduce salary of Secretary for Scotland
by £2000.</p>
<p>Effect of supernatural rumblings of his voice increased by ghastly
pauses in flow of conversation. <span class="smcap">Hanbury</span>, as yet new to post of
Financial Secretary, will by-and-by get accustomed to its trials.
Meanwhile it is painful for Cap'en <span class="smcap">Tommy Bowles</span>, moored immediately
behind his old colleague, to observe his hair gradually standing
up whilst House is hushed in awesome silence what time <span class="smcap">Weirisome</span>
is solemnly reaffixing his <i>pince-nez</i> with intent to continue his
remarks.</p>
<p>Chairman more than once attempted to fill up pauses by reminding
<span class="smcap">Weirisome</span> what was the precise bearing of vote before Committee.
Once sternly threatened to inforce rule which permits Chairman to
order a rambling speaker to shut up, and sit down. <span class="smcap">Weirisome</span>
apparently paid no attention. A few minutes later, fancying he saw
sign of movement in the Chair, he
stopped; with wide sweep of arm
put on his <i>pince-nez</i>; held manuscript
up with apparent intention of
consulting it; covertly regarded
<span class="smcap">James W.</span> over the top. Concluding
he meant business, <span class="smcap">Weirisome</span>,
without another word, solemnly,
slowly—to the agonised looker on
the process seemed to occupy sixty
seconds—dropped into his seat.</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—A good deal in
Committee of Supply.</p>
<p><i>Friday, 2 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span></i>—It is the unexpected
that ever happens in House
of Commons. Wednesday is ordinarily
humdrum day; <span class="smcap">Speaker</span>
takes Chair at noon; all over before
six. Accordingly, having met at
noon on Wednesday, House sat till
two o'clock next morning, proceedings
culminating with scene in
which <span class="smcap">Dick Webster</span>, of all men,
was convicted of disorderly conduct.</p>
<p>"Really," said <span class="smcap">J. G. Talbot</span>,
nervously rubbing his hands, "I
don't know what we shall see next.
Probably the Chaplain, in full canonicals,
conducted to Clock Tower
by Serjeant-at-Arms for having
spoken disrespectfully of the Archbishop
of <span class="smcap">Canterbury</span>. The sooner
this Session is over, the better it
will be for Church and State."</p>
<p>By way of balancing eccentricity
of uproarious Wednesday, the sitting
just drawing to close has been
unrelievedly dull. Yet it was the
sitting solemnly set aside for Irish
votes. Battle-royal expected, with
nothing left at its close but few
fragments that had once been
<span class="smcap">Gerald Balfour</span>, and here and
there the limb of an Irish Member.
Nothing happened, not even a division.
Only long succession of
dreary diatribes, with <span class="smcap">Gerald
Balfour</span> occasionally interposing
with new promise of benignant
sway.</p>
<p>"Very odd," said Truculent <span class="smcap">Tim</span>, annoyed to find himself
mollified. "The voice of the new Chief Secretary is uncommonly
like the voice of <span class="smcap">Arthur Balfour</span>. But the hands promise to rule
after the fashion of the hands of <span class="smcap">John Morley</span>."</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—All the Irish votes passed.</p>
<p><i>Friday.</i>—House sat to-day, pegging away again at Supply, so
as to prorogue next week. Navy Votes on; Cap'en <span class="smcap">Tommy Bowles</span>
attempts to boss the show, making light of Lord High Admiral
<span class="smcap">Jokim</span>, openly alluding to Corporal <span class="smcap">Hanbury</span> as a horse-marine,
this too much for an ancient friendship strained by altered circumstances.</p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">Tommy</span>," said the Financial Secretary to the Treasury, turning
round upon his former ally, after he had been up for twentieth time
dictating marine tactics to the Sea Lords and policy to the First
Lord; "did you ever hear a story <span class="smcap">Lubbock</span> tells about the Maori
convert? As he had not been seen for some weeks inquiry was
made as to his welfare. 'Oh,' explained the chief of his tribe, 'he
gave us so much good advice that at last we put him to death.'
Think it over <span class="smcap">Tommy</span>. It's a nice story, and there's a moral
in it."</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Nearly all.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 459px;">
<a href="images/120afull.jpg">
<img src="images/120a.jpg" width="459" height="500" alt="GENTLE EXERCISE" /></a>
<div class="caption">GENTLE EXERCISE.</div>
<p><i>Mrs. Jones.</i> "<span class="smcap">Come on, old Slowcoach! Let's race up this next
Hill, or we'll be late for Tea!</span>"</p>
<p>[<i>Jones is beginning to doubt the wisdom of having sold his Pony and Trap,
and taken to Bicycles. He lives seven miles from a Town where Mrs.
J. takes him shopping four times a week with the greatest regularity.</i></p></div>
<hr />
<p class="ph4">A PIECE FULL OF POINT.</p>
<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Clement Scott</span> and <span class="smcap">Brandon Thomas</span> are to be congratulated
on the success of their adaptation of the <i>Maître d'Armes</i>, produced
at the Adelphi Theatre on Saturday last. The play, which
appeared, like the longest remembered dramas of the late <span class="smcap">Dion Boucicault</span>,
in August—traditionally "the dead season of the stage"—seems
destined to be as popular as the best-liked of its predecessors.
For once—but, it is to be hoped, not "and away"—Mr. <span class="smcap">William
Terriss</span> has a chance of showing his quality in a character
worthier of his powers than the customary hero of "walking gentleman"
romance. Like Mr. <span class="smcap">Henry Neville</span> when he appeared as
<i>Henry Dunbar</i>, after a long course of <i>Ticket of Leave Man</i>,
Mr. <span class="smcap">Terriss</span> makes the most of his opportunity. Miss <span class="smcap">Millward</span>
is excellent as the child of the fencer—a criticism which applies
equally "to every one concerned." Well written, well mounted, and
well played, there is no reason why <i>The Swordsman's Daughter</i>
should not prove the truth of heredity and "run through"—the
season.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"Full of wise saws" is "Amateur Angler," in the <i>Fishing Gazette</i>,
concerning the river Wye. He complains that "he tried for trout,
but caught chub," which, however, we are told "is a comely fish"—quite
chub-stantial, doubtless—and "gives as much sport, at
times, as a gentlemanly trout." "Lordly salmon" are also to be
found. Evidently the Wye is peopled by the upper crust of the
piscatorial world, and this, perhaps, explains the reason for "the
river being netted and poached in every conceivable way," or wye,
as Cockneys say.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>With sorrow we read, in the <i>South Wales Daily News</i>, the
announcement of the demise of "Billy," the celebrated goat, that
for ten years had been an honoured and favourite member of the
First Battalion, Welsh Regiment. This excellent animal, who died
from the ravages of rheumatism contracted on the march, seems to
have belonged to the "giddy" species of goat, for we learn that "he
could hold his own with the best in drinking stout, beer, wine, or
spirits." With these Anti-Local Veto propensities, it would not
have been astonishing had the bibulous "Billy," like a certain
historical personage, met with his end by drowning in a butt.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="ph4">A DIALOGUE OF THE NIGHT.</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>["The art of setting forth a scene, an incident, in the shape of conversation
natural, fluent, easy, and witty, is not so common an accomplishment
as the large supply produced on Mr. <span class="smcap">Craufurd's</span> demand
may seem to suggest."—<i>The "Daily News" on "Dialogues of the
Day" edited by Mr. Oswald Craufurd.</i>]</p></div>
<p class="stage"><span class="smcap">Scene</span>—<i>The Elysian Fields, at nightfall.</i></p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><span class="smcap">Present</span>—<i>The shades of</i> Lord <i>and</i> Lady <span class="smcap">Sparkish</span>, Lord <i>and</i>
Lady <span class="smcap">Smart</span>, Colonel <span class="smcap">Alwit</span>, Mr. <span class="smcap">Neverout</span>, Miss <span class="smcap">Notable</span>,
<i>and some other characters in</i> Dean <span class="smcap">Swift's</span> "<i>Polite Conversation</i>."</p></div>
<p><i>Lady Smart</i> (<i>laying down her book with a yawn</i>). Egad!
Our posterity cannot <i>talk</i>, they can only prattle.</p>
<p><i>Lord Sparkish.</i> Or rather <i>patter</i>.</p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Pray, my lord, what is "patter"?</p>
<p><i>Lord Sparkish.</i> All sauciness and slang, like the soliloquy
of a Cheap Jack.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Modish conversation, to-day, seems to borrow
its diction from the music-hall, and its repartee from the 'bus
conductor.</p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Oh fie! Now our "Polite and Ingenious Conversation,"
as the dear Dean of <span class="smcap">St. Patrick</span> reported it, was
vastly different. Did not Mr. <span class="smcap">Swift</span> declare that he defied all
the clubs and coffee-houses in the town to equal it in wit,
humour, smartness or politeness?</p>
<p><i>Lady Sparkish.</i> Yes; yes, indeed! And he had scruples
about prostituting "this noble art to mean and vulgar people."</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Egad, the penny daily paper and the sixpenny
illustrated weekly have altered all that. "Mean and
vulgar people" now write books and journals, as well as read
'em.</p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> For my part I don't like dialogues, except
upon the stage. They are so mortally dull.</p>
<p><i>Lady Sparkish.</i> Nay, but my dear girl, the Dean says, you
must remember, "Dialogue is held the best method of inculcating
any part of knowledge; and I am confident that public
schools will soon be founded for teaching wit and politeness,
after my scheme, to young people of quality and fortune."</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Perhaps the present rage for dialogues is the
first step in that direction.</p>
<p><i>Lady Answerall.</i> Pah! there <i>are</i> no "young persons of
quality" now!</p>
<p><i>Lord Sparkish.</i> Though plenty of young persons of fortune!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Quite a different thing, my Lord! In <i>our</i> days
School Boards, Labour Members, and American Millionaires had not
been invented. <span class="smcap">Creech</span> had indeed translated <span class="smcap">Horace</span> into the vernacular,
but <span class="smcap">Jowett</span> had not Englished the Platonic Dialogues for the
benefit of Extension Lectures and hack journalists.</p>
<p><i>Colonel Alwit.</i> Faith, I could never stomach that inquisitive bore
<span class="smcap">Socrates</span> and his dreary dialoguists. That gay, wicked, but debonair
dog, <span class="smcap">Lucian</span>, was more to my mind.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Ah! who of our latter-day dialogue-mongers could
equal the smart and really <i>quite fin-de-siècle</i> cynic of <span class="smcap">Samosata</span>?</p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Well, as <span class="smcap">Tibbalds</span>, said:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"I am no schollard, but I am polite,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Therefore be sure I'm no Jacobite."<br /></span>
</div></div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 199px;">
<a href="images/120bfull.jpg">
<img src="images/120b.jpg" width="199" height="350" alt="untitled" /></a>
</div>
<p>So I've not read your <span class="smcap">Lucians</span> and <span class="smcap">Platos</span> and things. But I like
<i>Gyp</i>, and <i>Anthony Hope</i>. I vow he hath
a true touch of "the quality," and he
vastly delights me.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Does he not go nigh to
make you blush, now and anon?</p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Blush? Ay, blush like a
blue dog.</p>
<p><i>Lady Smart.</i> Still I maintain the Town
to-day cannot <i>talk</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> Any more than it can write
letters.</p>
<p><i>Lady Sparkish.</i> There is nought <i>genteel</i>
in their gabble, nor truly smart in their
repartee.</p>
<p><i>Lord Sparkish.</i> And they cannot <i>badiner</i>
a bit.</p>
<p><i>Lady Smart.</i> Like that <i>dear Bellamour!</i></p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Or that <i>delightful Lovelace!</i></p>
<p><i>Lady Smart.</i> Modern dialogues are <i>dull!</i></p>
<p><i>Mr. Neverout.</i> If our dear Dean, now, could furnish them with a
fresh supply of those entertaining and improving "polite questions,
answers, repartees, replies, and rejoinders," such as he took thirty
years in collecting, there might be a chance for them.</p>
<p><i>Lord Sparkish.</i> Or if we could send them some really modish
dialogues from the shades!</p>
<p><i>Lady Sparkish.</i> Faith, suppose we send 'em <i>this!</i></p>
<p><i>Miss Notable.</i> Ah, do let's!!!</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44976 ***</div>
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