Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., Nov. 1, 1890
Author: Various
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VOL. 99.

November 1, 1890.




Those who live much in the society of the very middle-aged, hear from them loud and frequent complaints of the decay of courtesy and the general deterioration, both of manners and of habits, observable in the young men of the day. With many portentous shakings of the head, these grizzling censors inform those who care to listen to their wailings, that in the time of their own youth it was understood to be the duty of young men to be modest, considerate, generous in their treatment of one another, and chivalrous in their behaviour to women. And every one of them will probably suggest to his hearers that he was intimately acquainted with at least one young man who fulfilled that duty with a completeness and a perfection never since attained. Now, however, they will declare, the case is different. Young men have become selfish and arrogant. Their respect for age has vanished, their behaviour to ladies is familiar and flippant, their style of conversation is slangy and disreputable, they are wanting in all proper reverence, they are pampered, luxurious, affected, foolish, and disingenuous; unworthy, in short, to be mentioned in the same breath with those who have preceded them, and have left to their degenerate successors a brilliant but unavailing example of youthful conduct. These diatribes may or may not be founded to some extent in truth. At the best, however, their truth is only a half-truth. So long as the world endures, it is probable that young men will have a large allowance of follies, of affectations, of extravagances, and the young men of to-day are certainly not without them. But, in the main, though the task of comparison is difficult, they do not appear to be at all inferior in manliness, in modesty of bearing, and in reverence to the generations that have gone before. Here and there in London the antics of some youth plunged into a torrent of folly before he had had time even to think of being wise, excite the comments of the world. But London is not the school to which one would look for youth at its best. To find that in any considerable quantity one must travel either to Cambridge or to Oxford, and inspect the average undergraduates, who form the vast majority at both these Universities.

Now the Average Undergraduate, as he exists, and has for ages existed, is not, perhaps, a very wise young man. Nor does he possess those brilliant qualities which bring the Precocious Undergraduate to premature ruin. He has his follies, but they are not very foolish; he has his affectations, but they are innocent; he has his extravagances, but they pass away, and leave him not very much the worse for the experience. On the whole, however, he is a fine specimen of the young Englishman—brave, manly, loyal, and upright. He is the salt of his University, and an honour to the country that produces him.

The Average Undergraduate will have been an average schoolboy, not afflicted with too great a love of classics or mathematics, and gifted, unfortunately, with a fine contempt for modern languages. But he will have taken an honourable part in all school-games, and will have acquired through them not only vigorous health and strength, but that tolerant and generous spirit of forbearance without which no manly game can be carried on. These qualities he will carry with him to the University which his father chooses for him, and to which he himself looks forward rather as a home of liberty slightly tempered by Proctors, than as a temple of learning, moderated by examiners.

During the October term which makes him a freshman, the Average Undergraduate devotes a considerable time to mastering the etiquette of his University and College. He learns that it is not customary to shake hands with his friends more than twice in each term, once at the beginning, and again at the end of the term. If he is a Cambridge man, he will cut the tassel of his academical cap short; at Oxford he will leave it long; but at both he will discover that sugar-tongs are never used, and that the race of Dons exists merely to plague him and his fellows with lectures, to which he pays small attention, with enforced chapels, which he sometimes dares to cut, and, with general disciplinary regulations, to which he considers it advisable to submit, though he is never inclined to admit their necessity. He becomes a member of his college boat-club, and learns that one of the objects of a regular attendance at College Chapel is, to enable the freshman to practise keeping his back straight. Similarly, Latin Dictionaries and Greek Lexicons are, necessarily, bulky, since, otherwise, they would be useless as seats on which the budding oarsman may improve the length of his swing in the privacy of his own rooms. These rooms are all furnished on the same pattern. A table, a pedestal desk for writing, half-a-dozen ordinary chairs, a basket arm-chair, perhaps a sofa, some photographs of school-groups, family photographs in frames, a cup or two, won at the school athletic sports, a football cap, and a few prints of popular pictures, complete the furniture and decorations of the average College rooms. Of course there are, even amongst undergraduates, wealthy aesthetes, who furnish their rooms extravagantly—but the Average Undergraduate is not one of them.

On the fifth of November the freshman sallies forth only to find, with a sense of bitter disappointment, that the rows between Town and Gown are things of the past. He will have discovered ere this that undergraduate etiquette has ordained that while he wears a cap and gown he must forswear gloves, and leave his umbrella at home, even though the rain should pour down in torrents. All these ordinances he observes strictly, though he can neither be "hauled" nor "gated" for setting them at defiance. Towards the end of his first term he begins to realise more accurately the joys and privileges of University life, he has formed his set, and more or less found his level, he has become a connoisseur of cheap wine, he has with pain and labour learned to smoke, he has certainly exceeded his allowance, and he returns to his home with the firm conviction that he knows a great deal of life. He will terrify his mother with tales of proctorial misadventures, and will excite the suspicions of his father by the new brilliance of his attire. Indeed it is a curious fact that whatever the special pursuit of the Average Undergraduate may be, and whatever may be the calling and profession of his father, the two are generally engaged in a financial war. This always ends in the triumph of the older man, who never scruples to use the power which the possession of the purse gives him in order to discomfit his son. From a University point of view, the average father has as little variety as the average son.

It must be noted that away from the University or his family circle, and in the society of ladies, the Average Undergraduate is shy. The wit that flashed so brilliantly in the College Debating Club is extinguished, the stream of humour that flowed amidst shouts of laughter in the Essay Society is frozen at its source, the conversation that delighted the frequenters of his rooms is turned into an irresponsive mumble. But as soon as he returns to the academic groves, and knows that petticoats are absent, and that his own beloved "blazer" is on his back, Richard is himself again. He has his undergraduate heroes whom he worships blindly, hoping himself to be some day a hero and worthy of worship. Moreover, there are in every College traditions which cause the undergraduate who is a member of it to believe that the men of that particular society are finer fellows than the men of any other. These traditions the Average Undergraduate holds as though they were articles of his religion.

The Average Undergraduate generally takes a respectable position as a College oarsman or cricketer, though he may fail to attain to the University Eight or to the Eleven. He passes his examinations with effort, but still he passes them. He recks not of Honours. The "poll" or the pass contents him. Sometimes he makes too much noise, occasionally he dines too well. In London, too, his conduct during vacations is perhaps a little exuberant, and he is often inclined to treat the promenades at the Leicester Square Variety Palaces as though he had purchased them. But, on the whole, he does but little harm to himself and others. He is truthful and ingenuous, and although he knows himself to be a man, he never tries to be a very old or a very wicked one. In a word, he is wholesome. In the end he takes his degree creditably enough. His years at the University have been years of pure delight to him, and he will always look back to them as the happiest of his life. He has not become very learned, but he will always be a useful member of the community, and whether as barrister, clergyman, country gentleman, or business man, he will show an example of manly uprightness which his countrymen could ill afford to lose.

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FINIS.—The last nights on earth at the Haymarket are announced of A Village Priest. May he rest in piece. The play that immediately follows is, Called Back; naturally enough a revival, as the title implies. But one thing is absolutely certain, and that is, that A Village Priest will never be Called Back. Perhaps L'Abbe Constantin may now have a chance. Eminently good, but not absolutely saintly. Is there any chance of the Abbe being "translated?"

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Look on London with its Smells— Sickening Smells! What long nasal misery their nastiness foretells! How they trickle, trickle, trickle, On the air by day and night! While our thoraxes they tickle. Like the fumes from brass in pickle, Or from naphtha all alight; Making stench, stench, stench, In a worse than witch-broth drench, Of the muck-malodoration that so nauseously wells From the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells— From the fuming and the spuming of the Smells.


Sniff the fetid sewer Smells— Loathsome Smells! What a lot of typhoid their intensity foretells! Through the pleasant air of night, How they spread, a noxious blight! Full of bad bacterian motes, Quickening soon. What a lethal vapour floats To the foul Smell-fiend who glistens as he gloats On the boon. Oh, from subterranean cells What a gush of sewer-gas voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells In our houses! How it tells Of the folly that impels To the breeding and the speeding Of the Smells, Smells, Smells, Of the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells— To the festering and the pestering of the Smells!


See the Spectre of the Smells— London Smells! What a world of retrospect his tyranny compels! In the silence of the night How we muse on the old plight Of Kensington,—a Dismal Swamp, and lone! Still the old Swamp-Demon floats O'er the City, as our throats Have long known. And the people—ah, the people— Though as high as a church steeple They have gone For fresh air, that Demon's tolling In a muffled monotone Their doom, and rolling, rolling O'er the City overgrown. He is neither man nor woman, He is neither brute nor human, He's a Ghoul; Spectre King of Smells, he tolls, And he rolls, rolls, rolls. Rolls, With his cohort of Bad Smells! And his cruel bosom swells With the triumph of the Smells. Whose long tale the scribbler tells To the Times, Times, Times, Telling of "local" crimes In the gendering of the Smells, Of the Smells: To the Times, Times, Times, Telling of Railway crimes, In the fostering of Smells,— Of the Smells, Smells, Smells, Brick-field Smells, bone-boiling Smells, Whilst the Demon of old times With us dwells, dwells, dwells. The old Swamp Fiend of moist climes! See him rolling with his Smells— Awful Smells. Smells. Smells— See him prowling with his Smells, Horrid Smells, Smells, Smells— London Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,— Will the County Council free us from these Smells?

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The following paragraph appears in the columns of the Scottish Leader:—

"Those who were out of doors in Edinburgh at three o'clock on Saturday morning were startled by the appearance of a brilliant meteorite in the northern hemisphere. Its advent was announced by a flash of light which illuminated the whole city. A long fiery streak marked its course, and remained visible for more than a minute. At first this streak was perfectly straight, but, after it had begun to fade, it broke into a zig-zag."

The phenomenon so graphically described, though remarkable, is not, we believe, in the circumstances, entirely novel. Perhaps it is noteworthy as coming a little early in the year. We understand that on New Year's Day, "those who are out of doors in Edinburgh at three o'clock in the morning," are not unfrequently startled in somewhat similar manner.

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THE TOOTHERIES.—"TOOTH's Gallery" always strikes as a somewhat misleading appellation. It always appears to have more to do with palates than pictures, and to be more concerned with gums than gold frames. No doubt the head of the firm of Messrs. ARTHUR TOOTH AND SONS is a wise TOOTH, so let him christen his gallery the "Arthurnaeum." He is a TOOTH that you cannot stop, he is always coming out, and this autumn he comes out stronger than ever with a most interesting and varied collection. Excellent examples you may find of J.B. BURGESS, J.C. HOOK, BASTIEN LEPAGE, TADEMA, VICAT COLE, PETER GRAHAM, MILLAIS, LEADER, C. CALTHROP, MARCUS STONE, and other notables.

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Golf! Golf! Golf! By the side of the sounding sea; And I would that my ears had never Heard aught of the "links" and the "tee."

Oh, well for the man of my heart, That he bets on the "holes" and the play Oh, well for the "caddie" that carries The "clubs," and earns his pay.

He puts his red coat on, And he roams on the sandy hill; But oh for the touch of that golfer's hand, That the "niblick" wields with a will.

Golf! Golf! Golf! Where the "bunkers" vex by the sea; But the days of Tennis and Croquet Will never come back to me!

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OYSTERITIES AT COLCHESTER.—Last Wednesday the Annual Oyster Feast was held at Colchester. Toasts in plenty: music of course. But why was there absent from the harmonious list so appropriate a glee as Sir Henry Bishop's:—

"Uprouse ye then, My merry merry men, It is our opening day!"

Why wasn't Deputy-Sheriff BEARD asked? Is he already shelved?

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["A firm in Sydney have completed arrangements whereby frozen sheep or lambs can be delivered at any address in the United Kingdom."]

Mary had a little lamb, Which she desired to send Across the mighty ocean as A present to a friend.

That friend was partial to lamb chops, Likewise to devilled kidney; So friendly MARY promptly went Unto "a firm in Sydney."

That firm replied, "the lamb we'll send By parcel to your cousin; That is, if you do not object To have your darling frozen."

Then Mary wept. She said, "My lamb Has wool as white as snow; But packed in ice? It don't sound nice, No, Sydney Merchant, No!

"Refrigerate my darling! Oh! It makes my bosom bleed. Still, go it must. I think you said, 'Delivery guaranteed!'"

So Mary's lamb the ocean crossed By "Frozen Parcel Post;" And Mary's Cousin said its chops Were most delicious—most!


Science, though it pays "cent. per cent.," Is destitute of pity; And makes hash of the sentiment Dear to the Nursery ditty.

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I was a takin of my favrit walk, larst Friday was a week, from Charing Cross round to my own privet residence in Queen street, when a yung lad tapped me on the sholder and said to me, "Please, Sir, are you the sillybrated Mr. ROBERT, the Citty Waiter?" In course I replied, "Yes, most suttenly;" when he said, "Then this yere letter's for you, and I wants a emediat arnser." Concealing my wisibel estonishment, I took him hup Healy Place, where the werry famous Lawyer lives, as can git you out of any amownt of trubbel, and then opened the letter, and read the following most estonishing words, wiz.:—"Mr. ROBERT,—can you come immediately to the —— Club, as you alone can decide a very heavy wager that is now pending between two Noble Lords who are here awaiting your arrival. You will be well paid for your trouble. The Bearer will show you the way.—J.N." I coud learn nothink from my jewwenile guide, so I told him to lead the way, and off we started, and soon arived at the Club.

I need ardly say that, being all quite fust-rate swells, they receaved me in the most kindest manner, and ewen smiled upon me most freely, which in course I felt as a great complement.

One on 'em then adrest me sumwot as follers, "I'm sure, Mr. ROBERT, we are all werry much obliged to you for coming so reddily at my request." At which they all cried, "Here! here!" "You of coarse understand what we wish you to do." To which I at once replide, "Quite so, my noble swells." At which they all larfed quite lowd, tho' I'm sure I don't kno why. He then said that it was thort better not to menshun the names of any of the Gents present, and he then presented me with a little packet, which he requested I woud not open till I got home, and then proseeded to xplain the Wager, somthink like this. Two of the noble Lords present, it apeared, had disagreed upon a certain matter, and, wanting a Humpire of caracter and xperience to decide between them, had both agreed to a surgestion that had bin made, that of all the many men in London none coudn't be considered more fitter for the post than Mr. ROBERT, the sillybrated Citty Waiter!

I rayther thinks as I blusht wisibly, and I knos as I bust out into a perfuse prusperashun, but I didn't say a word, but pulled myself together as I can ginerally do when I feels as it's necessary to manetane my good charackter. He then said, "The question for you to deside is this: At a great and most himportant Dinner that is about to be held soon, at which most of the werry grandest swells left in Lundon will be present, we intends to hinterduce 'The Loving Cup;' not," he added, smiling, "so much to estonish the natives, as to stagger the strangers. The question, therefore, that you, as the leading Citty Waiter of the day, have to settle, is, How many of the Gests stand up while one on 'em drinks?" Delighted to find how heasy was my tarsk, I ansers, without a moment's hezzitation, "Three!" One on 'em turned garstly pale, and shouted out, "What for?" To which I replied, "One to take off and hold up the cover, the second to bow, and drink out of the Cup, and the third to protect the Drinker while he drinks, lest any ennemy should stab him in the back."

The garstly pale Gent wanted to arsk more questions, but the rest shouted, "Horder! Horder!" and the fust Gent coming up to me again, thanked me for what he called my kindness in cumming, so I made 'em my very best bow, which I copied from a certain Poplar Prince, and took my departure.

Being, I hopes, a man of strict werassity, I never wunce took ewen so much as a peep at the little packet as the Gent gave me, but I couldn't help feeling ewery now and then to see if it was quite safe, which of course it was, and ewen when I reached my umbel abode, I still restrained my natral curiossity, and sat down, and told my wundrus tail to the wife of my buzzom, and then placed the little packet in her estonished ands, which she hopened with a slite flutter, and then perdoosed from it Five Golden Souverings! If any other noble swells wants another Humpire on the same libberal terms, let 'em send to ROBERT.

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PATTI, take, PATTI, take, Grand Old Man! Give him voice lozenges soon as you can. Pack them, address them, as neat as can be, And courteously hand them to W.G.!

Mellifluous Nightingale, melody's source Our Golden (mouthed) Eagle hath grown a bit hoarse; But though Aquila's husky with age and long fights, His sweet Philomela will set him to-rights.

A cough-drop, a lozenge, a jube-jube, from you, His larynx will strengthen and lubricate too. His old "Camp Town Races" he'll pipe again yet; Nay—who knows?—with you may arrange a duet!

The eagle is scarcely a song-bird, but still, He may have a good ear for the nightingale's trill! Fair Philomel comes to old Aquila's aid!!! Faith! the picture is pretty, so here 'tis portrayed? ]

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AT THE ALHAMBRA.—Claude Duval, a new monologue, music by EDWARD SOLOMON. Mr. FRANK CELLI has to "stand and deliver" the lines of Messrs. BOWYER and MORTON. As the description "monologue" is not suggestive of music, why didn't the authors invent a special name for the entertainment, and call it the "Solomonologue"? Most expressive.

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The Dead Man's Gift, by HERBERT COMPTON; the title of which might lead one to imagine something very weird and uncanny. Nothing of the sort. Mr. COMPTON doesn't wish to "make your flesh creep" like the Fat Boy in Pickwick. It is only the story of a tea-planter's romance, though the finding of the gift is most exciting. Interesting and well written.

The Cabinet Portrait Gallery, published by CASSELL & Co., with portraits of most of our Celebrities, by Messrs. DOWNEY, is excellent.

Christmas Books now make their appearance, and the first and principal offenders in disturbing the Calendar are Messrs. BLACKIE & SON. "Among the names," says the Baron's juvenile assistant Co. Junior, "we recognise one of our boys' most favourite authors, G.A. HENTY, who this year gives them another exciting historical tale, By England's Aid, which deals with the closing events of the War of Independence in Holland. Also Maori and Settler, a story of the New Zealand War, when young England was quite a settler for the Maori. Both recommended. Hal Hungerford, by J.R. HUTCHINSON, is a good book for boys, and A Rash Promise, or, Meg's Secret by CECILIA SELBY LOWNDES, is an equally good one for girls, and finally The Girls' Own Paper Annual, and The Boys' Own Paper Annual, are two very handsome capitally illustrated gift-books." Now the Baron's cheerful assistants have done their work, he himself, has something to say.

"No, my dear and venerable Mr. T. SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.," says the Baron to that eminent octogenarian Academician, whose "reminiscences" BENTLEY AND SON have just published; "if you are correctly quoted in the P.M.G., your memory is absolutely at fault in describing DOUGLAS JERROLD as 'Editor of Punch.' He never was. Your account of the doings at the hebdomadal board of the Punch Staff College must be taken with several pinches of salt, as never once in your lengthy career have you been present at any one of these symposia. No matter. Your health, and book!"

Permit the Baron to strongly recommend MARION CRAWFORD's A Cigarette-Maker's Romance. Slight indeed is the plot, and few the dramatis personae: but the latter are drawn with a Meissonier-like finish, and the simple tale is charmingly and touchingly told. The wonder of it is that so little to tell should have occupied two volumes; and a greater wonder remains, which is, that, at the close, the reader should wish there were a third. To create this desire is, after all, the very perfection of the art of novel-writing. The novelist who does not make the reader "wish as there was more on it," according to the philosophic dictum of Sam Weller on the art of epistolary correspondence, has failed. Henceforth this novel of Mr. CRAWFORD's goes forth to the world with the Baron's best imprimatur. This poor little cigarette-maker requires no puffing of her wares. Enough that the Baron should say to his readers, "Tolle lege!" You will be delighted with it, "Il cigaretto per esser felice." It is a charming story, says emphatically,


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HOPE FOR THE EAST END OF LONDON UNDER THE NEW MAYORALTY.—If South Kensington and the Fashionable West are now complaining of smells everywhere in the S. and S.W. district, the City and the East End may, for one year at least, rejoice in the supreme rule of the Savory. We can't write of SAVORY without adding MOORE, so we must mention that the name of SAVORY is ominous for the continuation of the Mayoralty. The Guildhall Banquets end with a Savory. Absit omen!

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Royal Italian Opera is quite a winter rose in Covent Garden. It blossomed well, and is doing bloomingly. How lovely and of what happy omen is the name of MARIA PERI, whose Valentina in Les Huguenots is worth recording, even though it does not beat the record. It is said to be an uninteresting part, yet I remember everybody being uncommonly enthusiastic about this same Valentina when GRISI played it, and her "Valentine" was Romeo-like MARIO. Their struggle, his Leap for Life out of the window after the great "Tu M'ami" solo and duet, her despair, will never be forgotten. "Nothing in the part," quotha! Nothing in the person more likely. Signor PADILLA, excellent actor, is here again. Signor INGENIO CORSI has been "lent" by Sheriff AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, and we hope he'll be returned safe, sound, and unspoilt, carefully packed, "G uppermost," in time for the Royal Italian Season. More nice names of good omen in the ballet, LOUISE LOVEDAY,—hope she'll "love-night" as well, and be always ready to dance,—and "JESSIE SMILES!"—does she! Bless her heart! Signor ARD 'ITTY, as 'ARRY would say, is the energetic "Conductor," so that Signor LAGO's 'bus "full inside—all right!" ought to go along pleasantly, and do well.

Friday.—Lucia di Lammermoor, with Mlle. STROMFELD in the title role, singing well, and recalled several times by a fairly filled house. Signor SUANE, the Edgardo, looking better than he sang. But what a fine old crusted piece of Italianised conventionality the Opera is, with about as much to do with Scotland as it has with SCOTT! From the general demeanour and appearance of the Chorus of "Ladies and Knights," and "Friends of Lord ASHTON," the ASHTONS evidently in a very second-rate set at Lammermoor. However, it must be admitted that their attitude, as spectators of Lucia's delirium, left nothing to desire on the score of repose—the VERE DE VERES themselves could not have been calmer, or less concerned. Blue chins, and sympathy expressed by semaphore action, in the good old time-honoured fashion. The "Warriors of Ravenswood" in Lincoln green hunting costume, and the tombs of Edgardo's fathers under a marble colonnade—to give the necessary local colour.

Good house on Saturday for Robert the Devil,—not our "ROBERT" the Waiter. But Signor LAGO must not be satisfied with things as they are.

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1891. Vessels laid up by the Shipping Federation.

1892. The Railway Union decide to stop all traffic until labour is cheaper.

1893. The United Cooperative Stores secure monopoly of Trade, and then close until better times.

1894. Army and Navy disbanded, join the Burglar Association, of which the Police are now members.

1895. Publication of newspapers throughout the civilised world, suspended.

1896. Universal redistribution of land, and personal property.

1897. Conversion of every public building on the Four Quarters of the Globe into a refuge for the indigent.

1898. Strike of the Butchers, the Bakers and the Candlestick-makers.

1899. Strike of the Doctors, and the Undertakers—Fin de Siecle!

1900. Strike of the Lawyers—Fin du Monde!

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Oh, politics puzzle, and partisans vary, In holiday autumn on Albion's shore; But och! there's good business in New Tipperary, So to take a look round I will take a run o'er. Prince ARTHUR looks proud, but his policy's poor— No doubt, he'd be happy to show me the door; But the Paddies will welcome an English grandee— They've had SHAW-LEFEVRE, they'd rather have me! So I laugh at all fears of things going contrairey (She loves me, does ERIN, the shamrock-gowned fairy), I'm sure there's good business in New Tipperary! In New Tipperary!



Faith! JOHN MORLEY thinks he's leary, And he's off to Tipperary; My policy he thinks he'll be a thorn in; But before he comes away He will find to spoil my play He must get up very early in the mornin'. Wid his bundle on his shoulder, He thinks no man could look boulder, And he's lavin' for Auld Ireland widout warnin'. For he lately took the notion For to cross the briny ocean, And to start for Tipperary in the mornin'.



By St. Pathrick, I've hit on the thing I was after (Good luck, MORLEY dear, says O'BRIEN to me) My tale BALFOUR bould, will be no case for laughter, I'll leave ye no leg for to stand on, ye'll see. Of course you will say that my story's not true, But who will belave such a fellow as you? By Jingo, I've something to talk about now! I'll make ye to sit up and snort, that I vow! I'll give ye the facts, ye can't prove the contrairey. My story and CADDELL's will probably vary, But I've found good business in New Tipperary! In New Tipperary!



When they tould me I must shpake a pace, I tried to kape a cheerful face, Though obvious lack of matther I was mournin'! But, oh sombre-faced JOHN MORLEY! Ye desired to help me surely, When ye went for Tipperary widout warnin'! Though your tale could scarce be boulder, Yet my hits straight from the shoulder Will make ye mourn the hour that ye were born in. And I think ye'll have a notion Ye were wrong to cross the ocean, And raise rucktions in ould Ireland in the mornin'!



I may yet have to sail o'er the blue seas to-morrow, Once more sail away to the Isle o' the West, They yet may subpoena me, much to my sorrow, And then my strange tale will be put to the test. But BALFOUR shall find, when once more I come back, Of matter for speeches I shall have no lack. O'BRIEN and DILLON from judgment have flown, But with BALFOUR, I fancy, I'll still hold my own. That flight in the boat was a funny vagary, But the picture I'll paint will make SALISBURY scary, And set the bells ringing in New Tipperary! In New Tipperary!

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"Oh! he's ever so much better. Why he only had two stumbles, and one cropper, doing his three hundred yards this morning. That beats the record, anyhow."

Young JERRYMAN is describing the effect the Engelberg air is already having on the Dilapidated One to several people, who have either been invalided themselves, or have had invalid relatives, or met, seen, or heard of invalids who have had similar satisfactory experiences.

"You know, I think the dining has a great deal to do with the beneficent effects of the place," remarked, meekly, a mild-mannered Clergyman, who, had been brought up here apparently to "get tone." "You can't sit down to table with three hundred people," he continued, meditatively; as if the solution of the social problem had caused him some anxious thought, "without being inclined to launch out a little more than one does under ordinary conditions at home. Only I wish they wouldn't think it necessary to keep their dining-saloon at such an excessive temperature, and waste quite so much time between the different courses."

And here the mild-mannered Clergyman had real ground for complaint; for the German recipe for table d'hote dinner seems to be something very much like the following:—Get a room that has been smoked in, with closed and tightly-fastened windows and doors, all the morning. Light the stove, if there is one, and turn on the gas, if there is any. You begin your dinner. Take twice, thrice, or, even four times of every course, glaring savagely and defiantly at your neighbour as you pass the dish. Sit over each, allowing a good quarter of an hour for its proper digestion, and keep this up till the perspiration drops from your face. Finally, in about two hours' time, having carefully mopped your forehead, quit the table for the "Conversations Saal." Here (still keeping in gas and stove, if there is one) smoke till you can't see six feet before you. Keep this up till you have had enough of it, and feel the time is getting on for you to go through a modified edition of the same process at supper. At least, this is how the German element—a very formidable one at the Hotel Titlis—for the most part, conducted itself over the principal meal of the day. There were, of course, exceptions, for all Germany is not essentially German; yet it must be confessed that the prevailing features were of this guzzling, and, for the want of a more descriptive word, I would add, "sweltering" type, not fully appreciated by the ordinary travelling Briton, who, whatever else he may be, is not a gross feeder, though he does set the proper value on a breath of pure fresh air.

"Get him up? Of course we can get him up," rejoined Dr. MELCHISIDEC, warmly. This in answer to some doubts expressed by one of the more cautions spirits of our party as to the possibility of dragging the Dilapidated One over one of the stock excursions of the neighbourhood, to wit, the Fuerren Alp. "Why, put him into a chaise a porteur, and we could get him up the Titlis itself, and throw in the Schlossstock, and the Gross-Spannort, for the matter of that, as well. Baedeker makes only a two and a half hours' affair of it."

And so we find ourselves in due course, doing the "Fuerren-Alp" in approved style.

"By Jove, I'll be hanged if I think it's a bit better than going up Primrose Hill, twenty times running: and not near such good going either," observes young JERRYMAN, after we have been struggling up a precipitous mountain path, occasionally finding ourselves sliding and slipping backwards in the bed of a disused watercourse, for about two hours and a half.

And really I think young JERRYMAN's view of the matter is not so very far out, after all.

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ONE RITE, AND ALL WRONG.—The "Service of Reconciliation" in St. Paul's seems to have had the effect of setting everyone by the ears. Quite a muddle,—a Western Church, and an Easton rite.

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"A Correspondent of 'the Field' records an experiment which he made with a wasp. 'Having,' he says, 'severed a wasp in two pieces, I found that the head and thorax with the uninjured wings retained full vitality.... It tried to fly, but evidently lacked the necessary balance through the loss of the abdomen. To test the matter further, I cut out an artificial tail from a piece of thin cardboard, as nearly following the shape of the natural body as possible. To fasten the appendage to the wasp, I used a little oxgall ...; gum or more sticky substances would not do, as it impedes the use of the wings in flight. Presently the operation was complete, and, to my surprise, the wasp, after one or two ineffectual efforts, flew in rather lopsided fashion to the window. It then buzzed about for at least a quarter of an hour, eventually flying out at the top ... it was vigorous when it flew away."—Extract from an Evening Paper.

The Benefit of Humour in Philosophers can always do more Philosophy. Assisted by a sense of humour: Witness the droll experiment Of this same scientific gent. For he, his frugal breakfast finishing, (The eggs and bacon fast diminishing) Noted how o'er his marmalade A Wasp was buzzing undismayed. General Reflection: We all are apt to be inhosp- Attitude of Man towards Itable to the humble Wasp— the Wasp. That Ishmael of domestic insects, The terror of the feminine sex! The Philosopher shares And our Philosopher, though cool, the prevailing Prejudice. Was no exception to the rule. His Method. He let it settle on his plate; He poised a knife above—like Fate. The Blow falls. Next—with a sudden flash it drops Right on that unsuspecting Wopse! Which, unprepared by previous omen, A Tragic Meeting. Awestruck, confronts its own abdomen! And sees its once attached tail-end dance A brisk pas-seul of independence! A pang more bitter than before racks Dignified Behaviour of That righteously indignant thorax, the Wopse. As proudly (yet with perfect taste) It turns its back upon its waist, And seeks, though life must all begin new, "Business as usual" to continue! A Philosopher's Remorse. The Man of Science felt his heart Prick him with self-accusing smart, To see that ineffectual torso Go fluttering about the floor so; The Uses of a Scientific A wasp for flight is too lopsided. Education. So, with remorsefulness acute, Reparation. He rigged it up a substitute; Providing it a new posterior, At least as good—if not superior. His Process. He cut it out a tail of card, And stuck it on with ox-gall, hard. (This he prefers to vulgar glue) And made that Wopse as good as new! Forgiveness. Until the grateful insect soared Away, with self-respect restored To find that mutilated part of his Had been so well replaced by artifice. Further proceedings of The Scientist, again complacent, the Philosopher. To pen and ink and paper hastened, And, in a letter to the Field, Told how the Wasp, though halved, was healed, And how, despite a treatment rigorous, It left consoled—and even vigorous! Moral. The Moral—here this poem stops—is 'Tis ne'er too late for mending Wopses!

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A "CUTTING" OBSERVATION.—This is from the Daily Graphic:—

GENERALS.—TWO WANTED to do the work of a small house; L14-L18; for two in family; easy place, early dinners; very little company.

How sad! At how low an ebb has our Army arrived under recent mal-administration! In time we may have even "Our Only General" himself advertising for a place, or answering an advertisement like the above. Not much "company drill"; so, if easy, it will be dull.

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"The labouring men, as a class, are rapidly approaching to a footing of full equality with the capitalist, and it is even possible they may become the stronger of the two.... They must be content to have their class interests, whatever they are, judged in the light of the public interests.... Labour and capital may have separate interests, yet their separate interests are little, in the long run, as compared with those in which they are united."—Mr. Gladstone at West Calder.

"Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furled, In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world": So the youthful Poet Laureate pictured it in limpid verse; Now the Federations fight each other! Better is't, or worse? See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War's red field. And the rival hosts are lugging, straining—neither means to yield. For the war-drums, are they silent? Nay—they're not of parchment now, But, with printers' ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row; Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters' Meeting, Club, or Pub, Public tympana are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!

Tug of War! It is a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war, As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar, 'Tis a furious fight a outrance, knitted, knotted each to each, Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach. Federated Masters straggle, Federated Toilers strain, Each intent on selfish interest, each on individual gain, And a chasm yawns between them, and a gulf is close behind! What is the most likely issue of such conflict fierce and blind? Unionism 'gainst Free Labour, Capital against mere Toil! Is it better than two tigers fighting for some desert spoil? "Federate" the Libyan lions as against the elephant herds, Will the battle be less savage? Let us not be fooled by words!

Say the tense-strained rope-strands sunder, say that either band prevail! Shall not "conquer" in the issue prove a Synonym for "fail"? "Banded Unions persecute," and Federated Money Bags Will not prove a jot or tittle juster. Fools! Haul down those flags! Competition is not conflict. So the Grand Old Casuist says, Speaking with the sager caution of his earlier calmer days. True! Athletic rivals straining at the tense tough-stranded rope, Strain in friendly competition, ruin not their aim or hope; But a lethal Tug of War 'twixt "federated" foemen blind. With a chasm at their feet, and each a yawning gulf behind, On a precipice precarious! Truly, too, a foolish fight! Rival Federated Wrongs will never further Common Right!

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Mr. ROBERT INGERSOLL speaking of, and at, Poet WALT WHITMAN on the occasion of presenting the aged and eccentric poet with the "long contemplated testimonial," to quote The Times, said, that "W.W. is intellectually hospitable"—this sounds like 'ready to take in anybody'—"but he refuses to accept a creed merely because it is wrinkled, old, and white-bearded. Hypocrisy wears a venerable look; and relies on its mask to hide its stupidity and fear." Now this was rather rough on the Bard, who is described as "an interesting figure, with his long white hair falling over his shoulders." It seemed as if ROBERT INGERSOLL wished to imply, Don't be taken in and accept W.W. at his own poetic valuation as a poet, simply because he is wrinkled, old, white-haired, and wears a venerable look, which, after all, may be only a hypocritical mask? Mr. INGERSOLL couldn't have been more infelicitous if he had "come to bury 'WHITMAN,' not to praise him." Then he went on, "Neither does WHITMAN accept everything new." This clearly excepted the testimonial, which, we may suppose, was brand new, or at all events, had been so at some time or other, though having been "long contemplated" it might have got a trifle dusty or mouldy. Then finished the orator, magnificently, epigrammatically, and emphatically, thus "He" (i.e., WALT WHITMAN) "wants truth." And with all our heart and soul we reply, "We wish he may get it."

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MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.—No. V., "Mignon's Mess-Room," will appear in our next Number.

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Sir,—In the St. James's Gazette of Thursday week there was a quotation from Mr. BUCHANAN's Modern Review, where, in support of his opinions, he quotes "Pope passim." Whatever may be the outward and visible form of Mr. BUCHANAN's religion, it is discourteous, at least, even for an ultra-Presbyterian Scotchman, to spell the name of a Pope without making the initial letter a capital, and it is unlike a Scotchman not to make capital out of anything. Here, I may say, that Mr. BUCHANAN's contributions to recent journalistic literature have been mostly capital letters. But to return. Why POPE passim, and not POPE Passim, or POPE PASSIM? Is it not mis-spelt? In vain have I searched history for the name of this Pope. Searchimus iterum. But I must protest, in the mean time, of this particularly mean way of Bu-chananising a Roman Pontiff. Please accept this as a MEMO FROM NEMO.

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SOMETHING IN A NAME.—"MOIR TOD STORMOUTH DARLING" (any other names?) "Esq., Advocate, Q.C., H.M.'s Solicitor-General for Scotland"—phew!—a good mouthful all this, almost as great as "JOHN RICHARD THOMAS ALEXANDER DWYER," of Rejected Addresses—has been elevated to the Scottish Judicial Bench. Good. The MOIR the Merrier! TOD is the first half of Tod-dy which is the foundation of whiskey. Your health, More Toddy! STOR-MOUTH is as good a mouth as any other, whatever mouth may be chosen to store away more Toddy. And finally, "DARLING" is a term sometimes lawful, rarely legal, of endearment, and henceforth in Scotland STORMOUTH not "CHARLIE" is "our DARLING, our gay Cavalier!"

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A very odd thing. Just as we had got into Our Garden, were, so to speak, turning up our sleeves to hoe and dig, I have been called away. It is Mr. G. who has done it. The other day the Member for Sark and I were out weeding the walk—at least he was weeding, and I was remarking to him on the healthfulness of out-door occupation, more especially when pursued on the knees. Up comes the gardener with something on a pitchfork. Thought at first it was a new development of the polyanthus. (We are always growing strange things. The Member for Sark says, "In Our Garden it is the unexpected that happens.") Turned out to be a post-card. Our gardener is very careful to keep up our new character. If the missive had been brought to us in the house, of course it would have been served up on a plate. In the garden it is appropriately handed about on a pitch-fork.

"My dear TOBY" (this is the post-card), "I'm just going up to Edinburgh; another Midlothian Campaign; You have been with me every time; don't desert me now; have something quite new and original to say on the Irish Question; would like you to hear it. Perhaps you never heard of Mitchelstown? Been looking up particulars. Mean to tell the whole story. Will be nice and fresh; come quite a shock on BALFOUR. Don't fail; Yours ever, W.E.G."

Didn't fail, and here I am, not in Our Garden, but in Edinburgh. Left the Member for Sark in charge. A little uneasy; never know from day to day what his well-meant but ill-directed energy may not achieve. At least the celery will be safe. One day, after I had worn myself out with watching gardener dig trench, Sark came along, and in our absence filled it up. Said it looked untidy to have long hole like that in respectable garden. Supposed we had been laying a drain; quite surprised we weren't pleased, when he gleefully announced he had filled it up.

Just come back from great meeting in Corn Exchange. Difficult to realise that it's eleven years since Mr. G. here in first campaign. A great deal happened in meantime, but enthusiasm just the same. Mr. G. I suppose a trifle older, but ROSEBERY still boyish-looking. Proceedings opened with procession of Delegates presenting addresses to Mr. G. Excellently arranged; reflects great credit on PAT CAMPBELL. (Capital name that for manager of variety troupe.) Leading idea was to present imposing representation of Liberal Scotia doing homage to its great chief. PAT caught on at once. Engaged thirty stalwart men: none of your seedy sandwich-board fellows; responsible-looking burghers of all ages and sizes. Got them together in room at left door of stage—I mean of platform; free breakfast; oatmeal cake; unstinted heather-honey and haddocks. Mr. G. seated in chair in very middle of stage, the place, you know, where great tragedians insist upon dying. Prompter's bell rings; Delegates file in, every man with what looks like a red truncheon in right hand; advance slowly along front of stage till reach chair where Mr. G. sits, apparently buried in deep thought.

"What ho!" he cries, looking up with a start.

"My liege," says the sandwich-board man—I mean the Delegate, "I bring hither the address of the Possilpark, Lambhill, Dykehead, Camburnathen, Wishaw, Dalbeattie, Catrine, and Sorn Liberal and Radical Association. Will I read it?"

"I think not," said ROSEBERY, quietly, but firmly, and the Delegate, handing the red thing to Mr. G., passed on.

Mr. G. smiling and bowing; audience applauded; next man comes. He's from the Duntocher, Faifley, Slamannan, Cockpen, Pennicuik, Clackmannan, Carnoustie, Kirkintilloch, and Lenzie Junior Liberal Association. He also wants to read the Address, but is mercifully hustled off, and the line, ever emerging from L. of stage, crosses, and passes on. At other side, PAT CAMPBELL waiting; a little anxious lest anything should go wrong to spoil his carefully-devised plan. But everything went well.

"Get ye away now," PAT whispered in ear of the man from Possilpark, &c.

Possilpark, &c., at the clue, darted round rear of stage; got round in good time to L.; fell into line, and was ready to come on again. Same with the rest. Immense success! At the end of first three-quarters of an hour, PAT CAMPBELL arranged a block; pressure of innumerable Delegates so great, doncha, couldn't move off the stage in time. This gave opportunity for two of the stoutest burghers to go through quick change; reappeared, dressed in kilts. This fairly fetched down house.

"The interminable procession," as ROSEBERY slyly called it, might have gone on till now, so perfect were the arrangements. But there was some talk of Mr. G. making a speech, and, at end of hour and fifty minutes the last Delegate slowly crossed in front of delighted audience, handed his red baton to Mr. G., who, though he had entered thoroughly into the fun of the thing, was beginning to look a little fagged, and the speaking began.

This was excellent, especially ROSEBERY's introduction of the travelling Star; a model of terse, felicitous language. Only one hitch here. Speaking of Mr. G.'s honoured age, he likened him to famous Doge of Venice, "old DANDOLO." ROSEBERY very popular in Edinburgh. But audience didn't like this; something like groan of horror ran along crowded benches.

"Nae, nae," said one old gentleman, momentarily taking his knees out of the small of my back, "that winna do. 'Auld WULLIE' is weel enoo, but to ca' a man Auld DANDOLO to his face gars me greet." (Often met with this phrase in songs and Scotch novels: curious to see how it was done; fancy, from what followed, it's Scotch for taking snuff.)

Barring this slip, everything went well. GLADSTONE delightful. So fresh, so informing, and so instructive! Began with lucid account of Battle of Waterloo; lightly sketched the state of parties at the period of the Reform agitation in 1832; glanced in passing at the regrettable conflict between the Northern and Southern States of America ("sons of one mother" as he pathetically put it); and so glided easily and naturally into a detailed account of the melee at Mitchelstown, which, as he incidentally mentioned, took place four years and a half ago.

Audience sat entranced. You might have heard a pin drop, if indeed you wanted to. I wish the Member for Sark had been here to hear it. He would have been much more usefully employed than in that hopeless pursuit to which he has given himself up, the growing of the peelless potato. He'll never do it.

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CORNWALL IN BAKER STREET.—The worst of Cornwall is, it is so far off—indeed, it has hitherto been quite out of sight. Everything comes to him who knows how to wait. We waited, and Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD brought Niagara to Westminster. We waited again, and Mr. ARTHUR VOKINS brings Cornwall to Baker Street, and introduces us to a very clever young sea-scapist, Mr. A. WARNE-BROWNE—altogether a misnomer, for he isn't a worn brown at all, he is as fresh and bright and sharp as a newly-minted sovereign. Go and look at his "Lizard and Stags"—he isn't an animal-painter, though the title looks like it—his "Breaking Weather," his "Rain Veils," his "Innis Head," or any one of his thirty pictures, and say if you don't agree with Mr. Punch. The whole of them are so true to Nature, are so faithful in their wave-drawing, there is such a breeziness, such a saltness pervades them throughout, and they so accurately convey the character of the Cornish coast, that Mr. P. felt quite the Cornishman, and is unable to decide whether he is the Tre Punch or the Pol Punch. On mature deliberation, he concludes he is the Pen Punch. There's no doubt about that!

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


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