The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, September 8, 1894, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand

E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, Ernest Schaal,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

September 8, 1894.

IS THE BAR A PROFITABLE PROFESSION?

(A Query to be answered during the Long Vacation.)

I am always reluctant to obtrude my personality upon the British Public. All the world know my address in the Temple, and so long as my learned friends who act as intermediaries between myself and the litigation-loving public bear me in mind, I require no further advertisement. However, I cannot close my eyes to Duty, and Duty points to the pages of a paper that may be aptly called the organ of the Bench, the Jury, and the Bar. I feel compelled to publish the following short story in the columns of that organ as a proof of the degeneracy of the profession to which I have the honour to belong. I shall be only too pleased if my Spartan-like conduct proves of benefit to my fellow-counsel. I write in their service, and without an eye—yes, I venture to say half an eye—to the main chance. My narrative will prove that ignorance, and, if I may be permitted to say so, unpardonable ignorance exists at the Law Courts. I have kept silent until the Long Vacation has commenced. My reason for this reticence is not difficult to discover. Had I taken the public into my confidence at an earlier date, it would be obvious that I might have suffered in professional status. Now that the Long Vacation has been reached, there is ample time for the process known as "living it down." But I will not anticipate.

I must confess that I was not a little pleased the other day to learn from my excellent clerk, Portington, that a representative of the firm of Clogs, Judas, and Friars, were anxious to see me on a matter of business.

"Have I had them as clients before?" I asked my worthy assistant.

"Oh, no, Sir," returned Portington. "You see, for the last five years you have only had——"

"Yes, yes," I interrupted, for my excellent clerk is sometimes inclined to become a trifle prosy. "I will see him at once. Is he in my room?"

"Well, no, Sir; as you said that Mr. Inkerton might use it for the soda-water cases, I thought it would be better to show him into Mr. Block's room. You see, Sir, it is tidier than your room; for since we have had the lawn-tennis nets——"

But here I again interrupted my worthy assistant, who, I am forced to admit, is sometimes a trifle discursive. I interrupted him, and, entering Block's room, made the acquaintance of my new client.

"I think, Sir," said my visitor, "that you are of opinion that there is no custom concerning the dismissal of office messengers?"

I never like to commit myself without referring to my books, so I was silent for a moment.

"At least," continued my client, "you have not heard of any?"

"Well, no," I returned; "so far as my experience goes, I have not come across the custom."

"That's quite enough for us, Sir. If you will swear that, we shall want nothing further."

Rather to my disgust my visitor suddenly placed a subpœna in my hand, and told me that the case would most likely be in the list on the following day. Annoyed at his brusqueness I told him I had been ready to accept him gratuitously as a client. I added that as I now found I was only in request as a witness I should require a guinea.

"Oh, of course," said my visitor, producing the cash. "We looked you out, and your name is in the Law List; and I see, too, you have painted it on the door of Mr. Block's chambers."

Disdaining to smile at what I considered to be rather a clumsy attempt at plaisanterie, I bowed, and rang the bell.

"Perhaps we had better have your private address, Sir," continued my visitor. "It would be safer, for then we could wire to you when it came on, and you would be sure to get our telegram."

"I am always here while the Courts are sitting." I returned, in a tone of hauteur; "so you must please wire to me here."

"Just as you like, Sir."

And a few minutes later my clerk saw my visitor safely off the premises. I admit that I was slightly annoyed at the term "wire." It is true that his firm's name had not appeared—at any rate, recently—in my fee-book, but that was no reason why he should suggest that I was constantly absent from my chambers. I really pitied Messrs. Clogs, Judas and Friars for having a clerk with so little tact, and such a small stock of experience.

On the following morning, when I was standing at the door of the Carey Street Robing Room, considering whether I should assume my forensic costume, or enter the Court as a layman, I was accosted by the same individual, who told me "that we were third on the list."

"So you will be wanted almost at once, Sir," said he.

"Well, I shall be able to come," I replied, "as, strange to say, I have no business before their Lordships to-day."

"Chiefly chamber practice, I suppose, Sir?"

"Quite so," I returned, looking him steadily in the face. "I mean to-day."

I will not tell a wearisome story of how I had to hang about the Court until the interval for luncheon, and longer. I will hurry to the point when I entered the witness-box. To my surprise and secret satisfaction there was quite a stir when my name was called out. The Silks in the front row smiled, and my colleagues the juniors tittered. Even his Lordship looked up with an expression of pleasant anticipation. I was duly sworn, and gave my name.

"Now, Sir," said the Counsel for our side, "tell me. How long have you known anything about office messengers?"

I considered for a moment. As a Member of the Bar (although I had not been asked for my profession—no doubt that was sufficiently well known) I desired to set an example. I wished to show what a witness should be. I desired to appear as a model worthy of close and universal imitation.

"I have seen office messengers in offices for many years—as long as I can remember."

I spoke with absolute gravity. To my astonishment there was a titter which grew into a roar of laughter; even his Lordship found it difficult to control his cachinnation.

"Yes," said the counsel, when he had partially recovered his gravity. "But, tell me, do you know any custom in connection with their dismissal?"

Again I considered the matter for a few seconds, and made a second reply.

"No; I am unaware of any special custom in connection with their dismissal."

This time there was no titter. My answer was received at once with the wildest merriment. The Judge laughed as much as anyone, and the Usher had to wipe his head with his handkerchief, so greatly moved was he by his sense of the ridiculous.

My Counsel sat down convulsed, and had to conceal his face behind his brief.

"I really don't think," gasped out the judge, "that this witness need be cross-examined."

And I was not. As I returned to my seat amidst the smiles of everyone in Court, a reporter asked me for my Christian name. Before I could reply, one of my colleagues in wig and gown gave him what he supposed was the necessary information.

"But you are wrong," I whispered, and (with a view of crushing him) handed him my card.

"You don't say so," returned my learned friend; "why, we thought you were Panto,—the chap you know, who writes as 'Yorick' for the Serio-Comic Jester."

And it had come to this! I had been taken, or rather mistaken, for a humorous contributor! And this after about a quarter of a century's service at the Bar! And yet there are those who say that the profession is not going to the dogs!

However, I must express my surprise at the conduct of the judge. It is not ten years since that I had the pleasure of holding a consent brief before him. And yet he had forgotten me! When the Bench is so forgetful, how can Silk and Stuff be expected to have better memories!

Pump-Handle Court, (Signed) A. Briefless, Junior.
September 1, 1894.

"RHYMES."

Whatever the subject that people discuss,

Theology, law, architectural playthings—

St. Albans, for instance—there's ready for us

A lover of knock-me-down language to say things.

Lord Grimthorpe will instantly write to the Times.

His last learned homilies treated of rhymes.

Ne sutor—Lord Grimthorpe could tell you the rest,

Lord Grimthorpe could write you a letter about it,

Lord Grimthorpe, decidedly wisest and best

Of wise and good teachers, no person could doubt it;

Since, be what it may, he will write to the Times,

Church, chancery, chapels, chants, chamfers or chimes.

Ne sutor—the limit should never be past

But where is the limit? He tackles each squabbler.

We see each new letter, but never the last;

All things need repair, and Lord G. is the cobbler.

Cathedrals or canticles—still to the Times

He writes, some might say, neither reasons nor rhymes.

Military Word of Command for those who have "Fallen in Love."—Fall out!

SUPPLY AND DEMAND.

Bill. "What are these Chaps, Jim?"

Jim. "Why, they're all Hearls and Markesses, they tell me, as is down on their Luck!"

Bill. "Well, then, wot's the good of their makin' New Peers, when all these poor Noblemen are out of a Job?"

SILLY SEASONING.

The era of newspaper controversy has once more begun, and the wail of the letter-writer is again heard in the land. The guileless reader may possibly imagine that the letters he reads so readily are so many brands plucked from the burning—in other words, so many contributions snatched out of the Waste-Paper Basket. But Mr. Punch knows better; the letters are written where the controversy begins and ends—in the Newspaper Office. Why should 85, Fleet Street lag behind its neighbours in journalistic controversy? If the largest circulations have their leader-writers, has not Mr. Punch his "young men"? The following letters, therefore, it is frankly admitted, were written in Fleet Street. Please notice the careless grace with which "Peckham Rye" and the "Borough Road" are thrown in to give an air of "verisimilitude to a bald and unconvincing narrative" as Pooh Bah said. The subject of the correspondence gave some small amount of trouble. "Is Sleeping healthy?" was one suggestion; "Ought Husbands to kiss their Wives?" another. Eventually "The Ethics of the Honeymoon" won by a narrow majority, after a close division. Of course it need hardly be said that the subject ought to be matrimonial. It's expected of you. The public look for it. They shall get it. Here are some of the letters:—

THE ETHICS OF THE HONEYMOON.

Dear Sir,—I desire in your valuable paper to draw attention to a question which I have been carefully considering for a great number of years: Are Honeymoons right? Man and boy I have been a bachelor these forty years, and as such have had peculiar and extensive opportunities for seeing that "most of the game" which is reserved for outsiders. As the result of my observation, I confidently assert that honeymoons are useless, dangerous, and ought to be abolished. They are useless in that the only people they profit are the hotel-keepers. They are dangerous to the happy pairs, who see enough of one another in a fortnight to imperil their happiness for a lifetime. Abolition is clearly the only remedy, and a Hyde Park Demonstration should settle the matter.

Yours faithfully,

Tom E. Rot.

Peckham Rye.

Dear Mr. Punch,—However can anyone ask such a foolish question as "Are Honeymoons right?" I shall never forget mine. It was one long dream. We spent the time in Switzerland and £300 in cash. We're still paying interest on the money Edwin borrowed to pay for it. But what of that? The time we spent was a poem, the recollection of it is a rapture. Though I should never be fortunate enough to spend another, I shall always rejoice in my first honeymoon.

Yours matrimonially,

Angelina Mandoline.

The Cosy Corner, Swiss Cottage.

Sir,—I object to honeymoons because those who take part in them are so unsociable. What greater disfigurement to a landscape than a lot of couples honeymooning about? The whole thing is such a farce, too—each would rather speak to some one else, both are afraid of offending one another. To prevent anyone thinking I say this because I've been bitten myself, I may add that my first honeymoon was such a success that next week I'm going to get married again, and take another.

Yours,

A Widower.

1097, Borough Road, S.E.

On a Heroine of our Day.

Her very naughtiness is droll,

There's fun in her worst folly,

In fact she's no Society Doll,

But a Society "Dolly."

On her the straightest-laced spectator

Bestows his benediction,

And owns her keen and skilled creator

A Hope of English fiction.

THE LAW OF THE (SOCIAL) JUNGLE.

Mr. Rudyard Kipling has given us in his own inimitable way a sample of Jungle Law, which, as he says, is of "immense complexity." Now Society is also a Jungle, the Human Jungle. In it the Bête-Humaine congregates, for a variety of purposes. Its laws also are complex, and wonderfully like those of the Wolves as Baloo gave them in sing-song. For example:—

(For "Wolf" read "Worldling," for "Jungle" the "Social World.")

Now this is the Law of the Jungle—so ancient that no one asks "Why?"

And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must fly,

As the cobweb that meshes the corners, the Law nets Society's track—

For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

i.

"Tub" daily from head-crown to toe-tip; drink freely but seldom too deep:

And remember the night is for larks, and forget not the day is for sleep.

ii.

The Jackal may sponge on the Lion; but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,

Remember the Wolf is a hunter—go forth and track prey of thine own.

iii.

Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle, the Hebrew, the Bobby, the Beak;

And fool not with Elephant Law, which is given to squelching the weak.

iv.

When Pack crosses Pack in the jungle, and neither will budge from the trail,

Lie down till the Lawyers have spoken, for tongue against tooth may prevail!

v.

When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, do not fight him alone or afar,

Let others look on at the scrimmage, the Pack is amused by such war.

vi.

The House of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,

If he is a Wolf of fair cunning, not e'en County Councils may come.

vii.

The House of the Wolf is his refuge, but let him shun odorous drain,

Or the Council will send him a "Notice," and he'll have to "repair" it again.

viii.

If ye hunt after midnight be careful, and block not the public highway.

Lest ye draw the police from their gossips, and have Forty Shillings to pay.

ix.

Ye may kill female souls for your pleasure, may snare them the best way ye can,

But mind you don't poach on preserves that belong to a wealthier man!

x.

If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, don't put on too much "blooming side."

Some deeds it is lawful to do, which, as being "bad form," you should hide.

xi.

The "form" of the Pack is the law of the Pack. It will pardon white lies,

And a wriggle or two, but that Wolf's a gone coon who the Pack "form" defies.

xii.

The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will

With his prey when he's hunted it down; but he shouldn't let pals see him kill.

xiii.

Cub-Right is the right of the Minor. For deeds of crass folly or shame

He may put in the plea, "I'm an Infant!" and Law will acknowledge the same.

xiv.

Sale-Right is the right of the Mother. For all her she-cubs she may claim

The right of free-market (or marriage), and none may deny her the same.

xv.

Law-Right is the right of the Male. He has made Jungle-law all his own,

He is free of all voice of the Female; and judged by the he-wolves alone.

xvi.

Because of his age and his cunning, his grip and his power of jaw,

In all that the Law leaveth open the word of King Mammon is Law.

Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, to sway human Wolves where they swarm;

But the head and the front of the Law, the beginning and end is—Conform!

Wonderful, is it not, how little the Law of the Wolf requires modifying to make it the Law of the Worldling! The reason, perhaps, is that the average Worldling is so very much like a Wolf, especially in gregariousness and greed for prey!

"NEW WOMAN."

The Vicar's Wife. "And have you had good Sport, Miss Goldenberg?"

Miss G. "Oh, Rippin'! I only shot one Rabbit, but I managed to injure quite a dozen more!"

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART X.—BORROWED PLUMES.

Scene XVII.—Undershell's Bedroom in the East Wing at Wyvern. Time—About 9 P.M.

The Steward's Room Boy (knocking and entering). Brought you up some 'ot water, Sir, case you'd like to clean up afore supper.

Undershell. I presume evening dress is not indispensable in the Housekeeper's Room; but I can hardly make even the simplest toilet until you are good enough to bring up my portmanteau. Where is it?

Boy. I never 'eard nothink of no porkmanteau, Sir!

Und. You will hear a good deal about it, unless it is forthcoming at once. Just find out what's become of it—a new portmanteau, with a white star painted on it.

[The Boy retires, impressed; an interval.

Boy (re-appearing). I managed to get a few words with Thomas, our second footman, just as he was coming out o' the 'All, and he sez the only porkmanteau with a white star was took up to the Verney Chamber, which Thomas unpacked it hisself.

Und. Then tell Thomas, with my compliments, that he will trouble himself to pack it again immediately.

Boy. But Thomas has to wait at table, and besides, he says as he laid out the dress things, and the gen'lman as is in the Verney Chamber is a wearin' of 'em now, Sir.

Und. (indignant). But they're mine! Confound his impudence! Here, I'll write him a line at once. (He scribbles a note.) Here, see that the gentleman of the Verney Chamber gets this at once, and bring me his answer.

Boy. What! me go into the Dinin' 'All, with all the swells at table? I dursn't. I should get the sack from old Treddy.

Und. I don't care who takes it so long as it is taken. Tell Thomas it's his mistake, and he must do what he can to put it right. Say I shall certainly complain if I don't get back my clothes and portmanteau. Get that note delivered, and I'll give you half-a-crown. (To himself, as the Boy departs much against his will.) So, not content with denying me a place at her table, this Lady Culverin allows her minions to clothe a more favoured guest at my expense! I'm hanged if I stand it.

Scene XVIII.—The Dining Hall. The table is oval; Spurrell is placed between Lady Rhoda Cokayne and Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris.

Mrs. Chatteris (encouragingly, after they are seated). Now, I shall expect you to be very brilliant and entertaining. I'll do all the listening for once in a way—though, generally, I can talk about all manner of silly things with anybody!

Spurrell (extremely ill at ease). Oh—er—I should say you were equal to that. But I really can't think of anything to talk about.

Mrs. Chatt. That's a bad beginning. I always find the menu cards such a good subject when there's anything at all out of the common about them. If they're ornamented, you can talk about them—though not for very long at a time, don't you think?

Spurr. (miserably). I can't say how long I could go on about ornamented ones—but these are plain. (To himself.) I can hear this waistcoat going already; and we're only at the soup!

Mrs. Chatt. It is a pity. Never mind; tell me about literary and artistic people. Do you know I'm rather glad I'm not literary or artistic myself—it seems to make people so queer-looking, somehow. Oh, of course I didn't mean you looked queer—but generally, you know. You've made quite a success with your Andromeda, haven't you? I only go by what I'm told—I don't read much myself. We women have so many really serious matters to attend to—arranging about dinners, and visits, and trying on frocks, and then rushing about from party to party. I so seldom get a quiet moment. Ah, I knew I wanted to ask you something. Did you ever know anyone called Lady Grisoline?

Spurr. Lady—er—Grisoline? No; can't say I do. I know Lady Maisie, that's all.

Mrs. Chatt. Oh, and she was the original? Now, that is exciting! But I should hardly have recognised her—"lanky," you know, and "slanting green eyes." But I suppose you see everybody differently from other people? It's having so much imagination. I daresay I look green or something to you now—though really I'm not.

Spurr. (to himself). I don't understand more than about half she's saying. (Aloud.) Oh, I don't see anything particularly green about you.

Mrs. Chatt. (only partially pleased). I wonder if you meant that to be complimentary—no, you needn't explain. Now tell me, is there any news about the Laureateship? Who's going to get it? Will it be Swinburne or Lewis Morris?

Spurr. (to himself). Never heard of the stakes or the horses either. (Aloud.) Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't been following their form—too many of these small events nowadays.

Mrs. Chatt. (to herself). It's quite amusing how jealous these poets are of one another! (Aloud.) Is it true they get a butt of sherry given them for it?

Spurr. I've heard of winners getting a bottle or two of champagne in a bucket—not sherry. But a little stimulant won't hurt a crack when he comes in, provided it's not given him too soon; wait till he's got his wind and done blowing, you know.

Mrs. Chatt. I'm taking that in. I know it's very witty and satirical, and I daresay I shall understand it in time.

Spurr. Oh, it doesn't matter much if you don't. (To himself.) Pleasant kind of woman—but a perfect fool to talk to!

Mrs. Chatt. (to herself). I've always heard that clever writers are rather stupid when you meet them—it's quite true.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). I should like her to see that I've got some imagination in me, though she does think me such an ass. (Aloud, to Lady Maisie.) Jolly old hall this is, with the banners, and the gallery, and that—makes you fancy some of those old mediæval Johnnies in armour—knights, you know—comin' clankin' in and turnin' us all out.

Lady Maisie (to herself). I do trust Mr. Spurrell isn't saying something too dreadful. I'm sure I heard my name just now. (Aloud, absently, to Capt. Thicknesse.) No, did you really? How amusing it must have been!

Capt. Thick. (aggrieved). If you'd done me the honour of payin' any attention to what I was sayin', you'd have found out it wasn't amusin'.

Lady M. (starting). Oh, wasn't it? I'm so sorry I missed it. I—I'm afraid I was thinking of something else. Do tell me again!

Capt. Thick. (still hurt). No, I won't inflict it on you—not worth repeatin'. And I should only be takin' off your attention from a fellow that does know how to talk.

Lady M. (with a guiltiness which she tries to carry off under dignity). I don't think I understand what you mean.

Capt. Thick. Well, I couldn't help hearin' what you said to your poet-friend before we went in about having to put up with partners; and it isn't what you may call flattering to a fellow's feelin's, being put up with.

Lady M. (hotly). It—it was not intended for you. You entirely misunderstood!

"It does seem to me such—well, such footle!"

Capt. Thick. Daresay I'm very dense; but, even to my comprehension, it's plain enough that the reason why you weren't listenin' to me just now was that the Poet had the luck to say somethin' that you found more interesting.

Lady M. You are quite wrong—it's too absurd; I never even met Mr. Spurrell in my life till this afternoon. If you really must know, I heard him mention my name, and—and I wondered, naturally, what he could possibly be saying.

Capt. Thick. Somethin' very charmin' and poetical, I'm sure, and I'm makin' you lose it all. Apologise—shan't happen again.

Lady M. Please be sensible, and let us talk of something else. Are you staying here long?

Capt. Thick. You will be gratified to hear I leave for Aldershot to-morrow. Meant to have gone to-day. Sorry I didn't now.

Lady M. I think it was a thousand pities you didn't, as you seem to have stayed on purpose to be as stupid and unkind as you possibly can.

[She turns to her other neighbour, Lord Lullington.

Mrs. Chatt. (to Capt. Thicknesse, who is on her other side). Oh, Captain Thicknesse, what do you think Mr. Spurrell has just told me? You remember those lines to Lady Grisoline that Mr. Pilliner made such fun of this morning? Well, they were meant for Lady Maisie! They're quite old friends, it seems. So romantic! Wouldn't you like to know how they came to meet?

Capt. Thick. Can't say I'm particularly curious—no affair of mine, don't you know. (To himself.) And she told me they'd never met before! Sooner I get back the better. Only in the way here.

Lady M. (turning to him). Well, are you as determined to be disagreeable as ever? Oh, yes, I see you are!

Capt. Thick. I'm hurt, that's what it is, and I'm not clever at hiding my feelin's. Fact is, I've just been told somethin' that—well, it's no business of mine, only you might have been a little more frank with an old friend, instead of leavin' it to come through somebody else. These things always come out, you know.

Lady M. (to herself). That wretch has been talking! I knew he would! (Aloud.) I—I know I've been very foolish. If I was to tell you some time——

Capt. Thick. (hastily). Oh, no reason why you should tell me anything. Assure you, I—I'm not curious.

Lady M. In that case I shall certainly not trouble you. (To herself.) He may think just what he pleases, I don't care. But, oh, if Mr. Spurrell dares to speak to me after this, I shall astonish him!

Lady Rhoda (to Spurrell). I say—I am in a funk. Only just heard who I'm next to. I always do feel such a perfect fool when I've got to talk to a famous person—and you're frightfully famous, aren't you?

Spurr. (modestly). Oh, I don't know—I suppose I am, in a sort of way, through Andromeda. Seem to think so here, anyhow.

Lady Rh. Well, I'd better tell you at once, I'm no good at Poetry—can't make head or tail of it, some'ow. It does seem to me such—well, such footle. Awf'ly rude of me sayin' things like that!

Spurr. Is it? I'm just the same—wouldn't give a penny a yard for Poetry, myself!

Lady Rh. You wouldn't? I am glad. Such a let-off for me! I was afraid you'd want to talk of nothin' else, and the only things I can really talk about are horses and dogs, and that kind of thing.

Spurr. That's all right, then. All I don't know about dogs and horses you could put in a homœopathic globule—and then it would rattle!

Lady Rh. Then you're just the man. Look here, I've an Airedale at home, and he's losin' all his coat and——

[They converse with animation.

Spurr. (later—to himself). I am getting on. I always knew I was made for Society. If only this coat was easier under the arms!

Thomas (behind him—in a discreet whisper). Beg your pardon, Sir, but I was requested to 'and you this note, and wait for an answer.

Spurr. (opening it, and reading). "Mr. Galfrid Undershell thinks that the gentleman who is occupying the Verney Chamber has, doubtless by inadvertence, put on Mr. Undershell's evening clothes. As he requires them immediately, he will be obliged by an early appointment being made, with a view to their return." (To himself.) Oh, Lor! Then it wasn't Sir Rupert, after all! Just when I was beginning to enjoy my evening, too. What on earth am I to say to this chap? I can't take 'em all off here!

[He sits staring at the paper in blank dismay.

The Wail of the Word-Spinner.

There is nothing new under the sun at all

To your journalist penny-a-lining and shoppy.

And how can a man be "original"

When his days (and his nights) are devoted to "copy"?

No, no, his tired head will ne'er "knock at the stars,"

Who is tied to the spinning of "leaders" and "pars."

THE VOYAGE OF ALFRED.

[See Mr. Alfred Austin's article, entitled "That Damnable Country," in Blackwood's Magazine.]

"Land, land!" cried Alfred Austin. "By my halidom, I spy land!

Many weary leagues we've wandered since we left our native shores,

Seeking still through calm and tempest a remote and barren island,

While we smote the sounding furrows of the ocean with our oars.

"Never wind availed to beat us; by the waters overweighted,

Or becalmed, with idle canvas hanging loosely from the mast,

Yet we steered her or we rowed her with our courage unabated,

And, our labours past and over, we have come to land at last.

"Though the land be bleak and barren, though barbarians its dwellers,

Let us add this last achievement to the record of our deeds;

When the savage tribes come shouting as attackers and repellers,

We can win the men with clothing and the women-folk with beads.

"There be savages in India as in Tierra del Fuego;

There be savages in Zululand with shield and assegai;

We have tamed them, whether cannibals or fed on rice and sago—

Shall a Briton ever flinch from such? No, by the Lord, not I!"

On the land he had discovered thus the Poet Austin landed;

Marco Polo or Columbus might have envied him the scene;

And in prose he has described it, in a language understanded

Of the people, and has printed it in Blackwood's Magazine.

The scenery was beautiful, so lovely that it dazed him;

He thought their manners charming, and he rather liked their rain.

He did not find them savages, which seems to have amazed him;

And he tells us all to visit them again and yet again.

We thank you for the hints you give describing what you've seen there,

It really is amazing; but——(a whisper in your ear)

You're not the first discoverer, for some of us have been there,

And shaken hands with Irish folk before the present year.

But in your precious article your wonder you exhaust in

Describing how an Irishman can really be polite:

"Behold," you say, "the Irishman as patronised by Austin;

He is not black, though painted so—in fact he's rather white."

Don't patronise so much, dear A. I do not say you write ill;

But oh that awful title, with its most offensive D——!

Devoutly do I hope, dear A., you'll find a better title,

And write a wiser article when next you cross the sea.

Studies from the New-de.—The rage for "New"-ness, which commenced with the New Humour, is extending to the theatres. The New Boy now has for a competitor The New Woman. What matters, so long as neither is a Nui-S'ance?

"Finest English!"

"By their fruits ye shall know them," these vendors of peaches,

Tomatoes, and cob-nuts, and currants and cherries;

But what we yet lack is the wisdom that teaches

Detection of fraudulent fruits, nuts, and berries,

Which come from abroad, to the Britisher's table,

All marked "Finest English!" that lying old label!

A Trade Mark is wanted—to badge these false brutes,

That Bull may not only know them but their fruits.

The Seven Ages of Man.—Cot-age (Infancy), Trot-age (Nursery Toddler), Hot-age (Youth), Shot-age (Sport), Knot-age (Matrimonial), "Pot"-age (Celebrity), and Dot-age (Senility).

The Real Fall of Man.—Falling in love!

HOLIDAY CHARACTER STUDIES.

Mrs. Stanley Bounderson (née Martha Fullalove, the Liverpool heiress). "What would Doady do, if his loving little Wifey didn't carry his great heavy Waterproof for him when it leaves off Raining, and he wants to Smoke?"