PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

JUNE 21, 1894.

A RIVERSIDE LAMENT.

In my garden, where the rose

By the hundred gaily blows,

And the river freshly flows

Close to me,

I can spend the summer day

In a quite idyllic way;

Simply charming, you would say,

Could you see.

I am far from stuffy town,

Where the soots meander down,

And the air seems—being brown—

Close to me.

I am far from rushing train;

Bradshaw does not bore my brain,

Nor, comparatively plain,

A B C.

To my punt I can repair,

If the weather's fairly fair,

But one grievance I have there;

Close to me,

As I sit and idly dream,

Clammy corpses ever seem

Floating down the placid stream

To the sea.

Though the boats that crowd the lock—

Such an animated block!—

Bring gay damsels, quite a flock,

Close to me,

Yet I heed not tasty togs,

When, as motionless as logs,

Float defunct and dismal dogs

There aussi.

As in Egypt at a feast,

With each party comes at least

One sad corpse, departed beast,

Close to me;

Till a Canon might go off,

Till a Dean might swear or scoff,

Or a Bishop—tip-top toff

In a see.

Floating to me from above,

If it stick, with gentle shove,

To my neighbour, whom I love,

Close to me,

I send on each gruesome guest.

Should I drag it out to rest

In my garden? No, I'm blest!

Non, merci!

THE 'ARDEN-ING PROCESS.

Orlando. "Tired, Rosalind?" Rosalind. "Pneumatically."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"For a modest dish of camp-pie, suited to barracks and youth militant, commend me," quoth one of the Baron's Baronites, "to Only a Drummer-Boy, a maiden effort, and unpretentious, like its author, who calls himself Arthur Amyand, but is really Captain Arthur Drummer Haggard. He has the rare advantage, missed by most people who write soldier novels, of knowing what he is talking about. If there are faults 'to pardon in the drawing's lines,' they are faults of technique and not of anatomy." "The Court is with you," quoth the Baron de B.-W.

Hotel Note.—The chef at every Gordon Hotel ought to be a "Gordon Bleu."

THE VOLUNTEER'S VADE MECUM.

(Bisley Edition.)

Question. What is the ambition of every rifleman?

Answer. To become an expert marksman.

Q. How is this to be done?

A. By practice at the regimental butts (where such accommodation exists), and appearing at Bisley.

Q. Is the new site of the National Rifle Association better than the last?

A. Certainly, for those who come to Bisley intend to shoot.

Q. But did any one turn up at Wimbledon for any purpose other than marksmanship?

A. Yes, for many of those who occupied the tents used their marquees merely as a suitable resting-place for light refreshments.

Q. Is there anything of that kind at Bisley?

A. Not much, as the nearest place of interest is a crematorium, and the most beautiful grounds in the neighbourhood belong to a cemetery.

Q. Then the business of Bisley is shooting?

A. Distinctly. Without the rifle, the place would be as melancholy as its companion spot, Woking.

Q. In this place of useful work, what is the first object of the marksman?

A. To score heavily, if possible; but, at any rate, to score.

Q. Is it necessary to appear in uniform?

A. That depends upon the regulations commanding the prize competitions.

Q. What is uniform?

A. As much or as little of the dress of a corps that a judge will order a marksman to adopt.

Q. If some marksmen were paraded with their own corps, how would they look?

A. They would appear to be a sorry sight.

Q. Why would they appear to be a sorry sight?

A. Because over a tunic would appear a straw hat, and under a pouch-belt fancy tweed trousers.

Q. But surely if the Volunteers are anxious to improve themselves they will practise "smartness"?

A. But they do not want to promote smartness; they want to win cups, or the value of cups.

Q. What is the greatest reward that a marksman can obtain?

A. Some hundreds of pounds.

Q. And the smallest?

A. A dozen of somebody's champagne, or a box of someone else's soap.

Q. Under all the circumstances of the case, what would be an appropriate rule for Bisley?

A. Look after the cup-winning, and everything else will take care of itself.

LATEST PARLIAMENTARY BETTING.

General Election Stakes.

2 to 1 on Rosebery and Ladas (coupled).

25 to 1 agst Harcourt's Resignation.

50 to 1 — Nonconformist Conscience.

70 to 1 — Budget Bill (off—75 to 1 taken).

100 to 1 — Ministerial Programme.

For Places (Next Session Stakes).

2 to 1 on Asquith for the Leadership.

12 to 1 agst the Labouchere Peerage.

New Premiership Selling Stakes.

12 to 1 on Gladstone Redivivus.

200 to 1 agst any other.

AS WE LIKE IT.

(Jaques resumes.)

—All the world's upon the stage,

And here and there you really get a player:

The exits rather than the entrances

Are regulated by the County Council;

And one man in a season sees a lot—

Seven plays a week, including matinées,

And several acts in each. And first the infant,

A vernal blossom of the Garrick Caste,

Playing the super in his bassinet,

And innocently causing some chagrin

To Mr. Eccles. Then there's Archibald,

New Boy, and nearly father to the man,

With mourning on his face and kicks behind,

Returning under strong connubial stress

Unwillingly to school. And next the lover,

Sighing like Alexander for fresh fields,

And plunging wofully to win a kiss,

Even to his very eyebrows. Then the soldier,

Armed with strange maxims and a carpet-bag,

Cock-Shaw in military ironies,

And blowing off the bubbling repartee

With chocolate in his mouth. And next is Falstaff,

In fair round belly with good bolsters lined,

Full of wide sores, and badly cut about

By Windsor hussies,—modern instances

Of the revolting woman. Sixthly, Charley's Aunt.

Now ancient as the earth, and shifting still

The Penley pantaloons for ladies' gear,

Her fine heroic waist a world too wide

For the slim corset, and her manly lips,

Tuned to the treble of a maiden's pipe,

Grasping a big cigar. Last scene of all,

The season's close and mere oblivion;

Away to Europe and the provinces;

And London left forlorn without them all,

Sans-Gêne, Santuzza, yea, sans everything.

"A GOOD TIME COMING!"

British Farmer ("playing a game of mixed chance and skill with Nature") "I do believe my Luck's on the turn!"

"A GOOD TIME COMING!"

(And it HAS been a good time coming.)

["The game of mixed chance and skill which the farmer plays each year with Nature is still undecided; but, if the farmer wins, his winnings will be large indeed."—The "Times" on Farming Prospects.]

British Farmer, loq.:—

Bless my old bones!—they're weary ones, wherefore I takes small shame—

For the first time for many a year mine looks a winning game!

A "bumper" harvest? Blissful thought! For long I've been fair stuck,

But now I really hope I see a change in my bad luck.

True, my opponent is a chap 'tis doosed hard to match.

I seed a picture once of one a playing 'gainst Old Scratch,

And oftentimes I feels like that, a-sticking all together,

Against that demon-dicer whom we know as British Weather!

What use of ploughs and patience, boys, or skill, and seed, and sickle,

'Gainst frost, and rain, and blighted grain, and all that's foul and fickle?

When the fly is on the turmuts, and the blight is on the barley,

And meadows show like sodden swamps, a farmer do get snarley.

But now the crops from hay to hops show promising of plenty,

A-doubling last year's average, plus a extry ten or twenty.

And straw is good, uncommon so, and barley, wheat and oats, Sir,

Make a rare show o'er whose rich glow the long-tried farmer gloats, Sir!

Beans ain't so bad, spite o' May frosts; turnips and swedes look topping;

Though the frost and fly the mangolds try, and the taters won't be whopping.

Those poor unlucky taters! If there's any mischief going,

They cop their share, and how they'll fare this year there ain't no knowing;

And peas is good, and hops is bad, or baddish. But, by jingo!

The sight o' the hay as I saw to-day is as good as a glass of stingo.

Pastures and meadows promise prime, well nigh the country over,

Though them as depend on their clover-crop will hardly be in clover.

But take 'em all, the big and small, the cereals, roots, and grasses,

There's a lump o' cheer for the farmers' hearts, and the farmers' wives and lasses;

If only him I'm playing against—well, p'r'aps I'd best be civil,—

If he isn't Jemmy Squarefoot though, he has the luck o' the divil.

With his rain and storm and cold and hot, and his host of insect horrors,

He has the pull, and our bright to-days may be spiled by black to-morrers.

A cove like him with looks so grim, and flies, and such philistians,

Is no fair foe for farmer chaps as is mortial men and Christians.

Look at him damply glowering there with a eye like a hungry vulture!

With his blights at hand, and his floods to command, he's the scourge of Agriculture.

But howsomever, although he's clever, luck's all, and mine seems turning,

Oh! for a few more fair fine weeks, not swamped, nor yet too burning,

When the sun shines sweet on the slanting wheat, with the bees through the clover humming,

And us farmer chaps with a cheery heart will sing "There's a good time coming!"

A MODERN MADAME.

(According to the New School of Teachers.)

She believes in nothing but herself, and never accepts her own personality seriously.

She has aspirations after the impossible, and is herself far from probable; she regards her husband as an unnecessary evil, and her children as disturbances without compensating advantages.

She writes more than she reads and seldom scribbles anything.

She has no feelings, and yet has a yearning after the intense.

She is the antithesis of her grandmother, and has made further development in generations to come quite impossible.

She thinks without the thoughts of a male, and yet has lost the comprehension of a female.

To sum up, she is hardly up to the standard of a man, and yet has sunk several fathoms below the level of a woman.

Mem. at Lord's during the Eton and Harrow, Friday, July 13. (It rained the better part, which became the worse part, of the day.)—Not much use trying to do anything with any "match" in the wet.

TO GOLFERS.

Suggestion for a Rainy Day. Spillikins on a Grand Scale.

WHAT WE MAY EXPECT SOON.

By Our Own Wire.—Dispute broken out between local employer of labour—Shoemaker with two apprentices—and his hands. One apprentice won't work with t'other. Shoemaker locked out both.

Later News.—Dispute developing. Amalgamated Association of Trade Unions sent fifty thousand men with rifles into town. Also park of artillery. Arbitration suggested.

Special Telegram.—Federated Society of Masters occupying Market Place and principal streets with Gatling guns. Expresses itself willing to accept Arbitration in principle.

A Day After.—Conflicts to-day between opposing forces. Streets resemble battle-field. Authorities announce—"will shortly act with vigour." Enrolled ten extra policemen. Police, including extra ten, captured by rioters, and locked up in their own cells. Business—except of undertakers—at standstill.

Latest Developments.—More conflicts, deaths, outrages, incendiarism. Central Government telegraphs to Shoemaker to take back both apprentices to stop disastrous disorder. No reply. Shoemaker and both apprentices been killed in riots.

Close of the Struggle.—Stock of gunpowder exhausted. Both sides inclined to accept compromise. Board of Conciliation formed. Survivors of employers and employed shake hands. Town irretrievably ruined, but peace firmly re-established.

What! Already!—"I'm afraid," said Mrs. R., "that the new Tower Bridge is in a bad way. I hear it said, of course I do not know with what truth, that it has 'bascules.' Now weren't they the insects that destroyed the crops one year and gave so many persons the influenza? I think you'll find I'm right."

Epigrammatic Description, by a Billiard Player, of the selection of the Chief Minstrel to be the Recipient of a Prize at the recent Eisteddfod.—"Spot Bard."

Accidents in our rottenest Rotten Row.—The sooner the cause (i.e. Rotten Row itself) of the numerous complaints is well grounded, the better for the equestrians.

National Reflection (suggested by recent Yacht-Race).—It is of small use Britannia being Britannia unless she be also Vigilant.

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART III.—THE TWO ANDROMEDAS.

Scene III.—Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus. Time—Saturday, 4.25 P.M.

Drysdale (to his friend, Galfrid Undershell, whom he is "seeing off"). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of light literature.

Undershell (in a head voice). I fear the merely ephemeral does not appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (To the Bookstall Clerk.) A—do you happen to have a copy left of Clarion Blair's Andromeda?

Clerk. Not in stock, Sir. Never 'eard of the book, but daresay I could get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes—The Man with the Missing Toe—very cleverly written story, Sir.

"Here 's a detective story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes."

Und. I merely wished to know—that was all. (Turning with resigned disgust to Drysdale.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and here my Andromeda, which no less an authority than the Daily Chronicle hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English Songmaking, a Poetic Renascence, my poor Andromeda is trampled underfoot by—(choking)—Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our so-called Progress!

Drys. That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It does seem incredible,—but they do. Well, if they can't read Andromeda on the journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's Saturday. Seen it?

Und. No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no Keats. They may howl—but they will not kill me. By the way, the Speaker had a most enthusiastic notice last week.

Drys. So you saw that then? But you're right not to mind the others. When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the platform.

[They do.

James Spurrell, M.R.C.V.S., enters with his friend, Thomas Tanrake, of Hurdell and Tanrake, Job and Riding Masters, Mayfair.

Spurrell. Yes, it's lucky for me old Spavin being laid up like this—gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day or two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's room. (To Clerk.) Give me a Pink 'Un and last week's Dog Fancier's Guide.

Clerk. We've returned the unsold copies. Could give you this week's; or there's The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal.

Spurr. Oh, rabbits be blowed! (To Tanrake.) I wanted you to see that notice they put in of Andromeda and me, with my photo and all; it said she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully deserved her first prize.

Tanrake. She's a rare good bitch, and no mistake. But what made you call her such an outlandish name?

Spurr. Well, I was going to call her Sal; but a chap at the College thought the other would look more stylish if I ever meant to exhibit her. Andromeda was one of them Roman goddesses, you know.

Tanr. Oh, I knew that right enough. Come and have a drink before you start—just for luck—not that you want that.

Spurr. I'm lucky enough in most things, Tom; in everything except love. I told you about that girl, you know—Emma—and my being as good as engaged to her, and then, all of a sudden, she went off abroad and I've never seen or had a line from her since. Can't call that luck, you know. Well, I won't say no to a glass of something.

[They disappear into the Refreshment Room.

The Countess of Cantire enters with her daughter, Lady Maisie Mull.

Lady Cantire (to Footman). Get a compartment for us, and two foot-warmers, and a second-class as near ours as you can for Phillipson; then come back here. Stay, I'd better give you Phillipson's ticket. (The Footman disappears in the crowd.) Now we must get something to read on the journey. (To Clerk.) I want a book of some sort—no rubbish, mind; something serious and improving, and not a work of fiction.

Clerk. Exactly so, Ma'am. Let me see. Ah, here's Alone with the 'Airy Ainoo. How would you like that?

Lady Cant. (with decision). I should not like it at all.

Clerk. I quite understand. Well, I can give you Three 'Undred Ways of Dressing the Cold Mutton—useful little book for a family, redooced to one and ninepence.

Lady Cant. Thank you. I think I will wait until I am reduced to one and ninepence.

Clerk. Precisely. What do you say to Seven 'Undred Side-splitters for Sixpence? 'Ighly yumorous, I assure you.

Lady Cant. Are these times to split our sides, with so many serious social problems pressing for solution? You are presumably not without intelligence; do you never reflect upon the responsibility you incur in assisting to circulate trivial and frivolous trash of this sort?

Clerk (dubiously). Well, I can't say as I do, particular, Ma'am. I'm paid to sell the books—I don't select 'em.

Lady Cant. That is no excuse for you—you ought to exercise some discrimination on your own account, instead of pressing people to buy what can do them no possible good. You can give me a Society Snippets.

Lady Maisie. Mamma! A penny paper that says such rude things about the Royal Family!

Lady Cant. It's always instructive to know what these creatures are saying about one, my dear, and it's astonishing how they manage to find out the things they do. Ah, here's Gravener coming back. He's got us a carriage, and we'd better get in.

[She and her daughter enter a first-class compartment; Undershell and Drysdale return.

Drys. (to Undershell). Well, I don't see now where the insolence comes in. These people have invited you to stay with them——

Und. But why? Not because they appreciate my work—which they probably only half understand—but out of mere idle curiosity to see what manner of strange beast a Poet may be! And I don't know this Lady Culverin—never met her in my life! What the deuce does she mean by sending me an invitation? Why should these smart women suppose that they are entitled to send for a Man of Genius, as if he was their lackey? Answer me that!

Drys. Perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that Genius occasionally condescends to answer the bell.

Und. (reddening). Do you imagine I am going down to this place simply to please them?

Drys. I should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present frame of mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself, wouldn't it be more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all?

Und. You never did understand me! Sometimes I think I was born to be misunderstood! But you might do me the justice to believe that I am not going from merely snobbish motives. May I not feel that such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to Literature, and that, as such, I have scarcely the right to decline it?

Drys. Ah, if you put it in that way, I am silenced, of course.

Und. Or what if I am going to show these Patricians that—Poet of the People as I am—they can neither patronise nor cajole me?

Drys. Exactly, old chap—what if you are?

Und. I don't say that I may not have another reason—a—a rather romantic one—but you would only sneer if I told you! I know you think me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success.

Drys. You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of the sort. I've always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day; there are even signs of it in Andromeda here and there; but you'll do better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your head. I like you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume of verse which has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at present, old boy!

Und. (with bitterness). I am fortunate in possessing such a candid friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.

Drys. Very well. I suppose you're going first? Consider the feelings of the Culverin footman at the other end!

Und. (as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket). You have a very low view of human nature! (Here he remarks a remarkably pretty face at a second-class window close by.) As it happens, I am travelling second.

[He gets in.

Drys. (at the window). Well, good-bye, old chap. Good luck to you at Wyvern, and remember—wear your livery with as good a grace as possible.

Und. I do not intend to wear any livery whatever.

[The owner of the pretty face regards Undershell with interest.

Spurr. (coming out of the Refreshment Room). What, second? with all my exes. paid? Not likely! I'm going to travel in style this journey. No—not a smoker; don't want to create a bad impression, you know. This will do for me.

[He gets into a compartment occupied by Lady Cantire and her daughter.

Tanr. (at the window). There—you're off now. Pleasant journey to you, old man. Hope you'll enjoy yourself at this Wyvern Court you're going to—and I say, don't forget to send me that notice of Andromeda when you get back!

[The Countess and Lady Maisie start slightly; the train moves out of the station.

'ARRY AT BISLEY.

'Arry (to 'Arriet). "Oh, I sy! What Seeds them must be to grow a Lamp-post!"

THE LATEST GREAT YACHT RACE.

(By our own Nautical Special.)

Dear Sir,—The captain went on board the gallant Naughty Lass with his Wind Lass. A Wind Lass is short for "Winn'd Lass," i.e. a Lass he has won. I think her name is "Poll." The Captain says he is always true to her, and nothing will ever induce him to leave his dear Wind Lass ashore when he's afloat. Noble sentiment, but unpractical. The fact is (as whispered) the Wind Lass is jealous of the Naughty Lass, and won't let the Captain go alone. When the other Captain went on board the rival of the gallant Naughty Lass, the Anne Nemone, and "the crafty ones," as they call the sailors "in the know," were ready to bet any money on the Anne Nemone. Both cutters "cut" (hence the name) well away from each other at the start, and a fresh breeze coming up (the stale one had been got rid of) there was a lot of fore-reaching, until the Captain, who is an old hand at this sort of thing, sent round steward with brandy. "All hands for grog!" was then the order of the day, and we just managed to clear Muddle Point, leaving the home-marked (or "home-made," I forget which is the technical term, but I suppose the latter, as she was built on the neighbouring premises) boat well to windward. After a free reach in this weather down to Boot Shore—where the vessel heeled over a bit, but nothing to speak of, as it was soon remedied by a cobble that was close at hand—the Naughty Lass lifted her head-sails, and away we went for Incog Bay, where nobody knew us, or we should have been received with three times three.

At this moment the Anne Nemone, racing close to us, let out a right good "gybe," which was in execrable taste, I admit, but which ought not to have called for any retort from the captain's Wind Lass, who gave it her hot and strong, and threatened to haul her over the coal-scuttlers. Fortunately we were away again, and there was no time for opposite gybes. (I spell "gybes" in the old English nautical fashion, but, as I ascertain, it is precisely the same as "jibes.") Sailors' language is a bit odd; they don't mean anything, I know—it's only professional; still, as reporting the matter to ears polite, I scarcely like to set down in full all I heard. At 1 P.M. all hands were piped for luncheon, and we had spinnakers cooked in their skins (they are a sort of bean), with a rare nautical dish called "Booms and Bacon." Fine! I did enjoy it! But then I'm an old hand at this sort of thing,—luncheon on board, I mean; for there's scarcely a board, be it sea board or other board, or, in fact, any boarding establishment, that I don't know. But "yeo ho! my boys! and avast!" for are we not still racing? We are!!

We passed The Bottle at 2.30 P.M. What had become of the Anne Nemone I don't know, and probably we should never have seen her again had not our captain, who was trying to sight the port after passing The Bottle, stood on the wrong tack, which ran into his boot and hurt him awfully. He was carried below, and we gathered round him as he turned to the Naughty Lass and murmured—but Polly objected that there was nothing to murmur about or to grumble at, and that the sooner he stumbled on deck the better it would be for the race. So up rose our brave captain, took a stiff draught of weather bilge (which is the best preventive of sea-sickness), and calling for his first mate, Mr. Jack Yard Topsail, told him to "stand away," which I could quite understand, for Jack Yard Topsail is a regular salt, full of tar, rum, 'baccy, and everything that can make life sweet to him, but not to his immediate neighbours. So "stand away" and not "stand by" it was, and when we got to Squeams Bay the sailors took a short hitch (it is necessary occasionally—but I cannot say more—lady-readers being present), and we went streaking away like a side of bacon on a fine day.