PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, March 9th, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

I.—THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS. (continued.)

Far below lay the globe like a huge ball of glowing light, patched here and there with dark tracts, and intersected with lines brighter than the surrounding brightness. That was my goal. But here I was still swiftly soaring from it. Oh, if I could but change my direction; for such was the still unexhausted force of the momentum acquired by the explosion that I knew I should not drop down for many a long day. If I could only manage to speed diagonally down towards the earth, I calculated that I could take advantage of the waves of the air to move in a kind of switchback fashion towards the earth, and possibly, as I neared the ground, I might either hook myself on to some tall tree or plunge into a river or an ocean and save myself by my unequalled powers of swimming. And here a sudden thought struck me. In life I had respected the Ayah, but now she was dead and was far beyond the possibility of feeling. I do not say of resenting, a discourteous action. Time was slipping away; the earth was visibly diminishing; the moment for action had come. Slowly and with determination I drew up my right leg, and letting it out backwards with the force of a Nasmyth hammer, delivered my foot full against the body of the Ayah. Everything happened as I had anticipated. There was a dull and melancholy thud as the lifeless body went off at its involuntary tangent, while I flew sidelong and in a downward direction, my whole course being changed by the impetus of the kick.

How long I flew like this I know not. At such a crisis moments are centuries. After a time I re-opened my eyes and looked about me. Where was I? Could it be? Yes—no—and yes again. All that I saw was familiar. The towers, the cupolas, the domes, the minarets, the battlements—all these I had seen before. Scarcely two hundred yards below me lay the Diamond City from which I had that very night ascended.

"With a rush and a swoop I was upon him."

I ought to explain that, as I had expected, partly owing to the well-known laws of gravitation, partly owing to the celebrated air-wave theory, first propounded by my friend, Dr. Hasewitz, Regius Professor of Phlebotomy in the University of Bermuda, I was now proceeding in a series of gigantic serpentine curves through the air. At the moment of which I am speaking I was at the top of one of these curves, and I calculated that, with luck, I should just be able, on my downward course, to clear the western gate of the city, and then, having come to within a few feet of the ground, I should speed upward again and onward heaven knows whither. In a flash it occurred to me that if Ganderdown was ready at his appointed post beyond the gate, I might in passing be able to seize him and bear him with me in my wild flight. I pulled out my watch. The hands pointed to five minutes past twelve, and as we had fixed midnight for our meeting, I knew that my henchman, the very soul of punctuality, would be at the rendezvous. Yes, there was the faithful old fellow, armed and provisioned to the teeth, standing stolidly as was his custom, apparently paying but little attention to anything that was going on around and about him. With a rush and a swoop I was upon him. I stretched out my hand, and, as I passed, took a full and powerful grip of the collar of his coat, wrenched him from the ground, and thus accompanied went serpentining onwards into the unknown.

I am bound to say that when his first surprise was over the old warrior took it uncommonly well. His was never an inquisitive mind. Like all who were brought into contact with me, he had an unswerving faith in my genius. "If Wilbraham says so, it must be so, and there's an end of the matter," was one of his commonest sayings, never more justified than on the occasion of which I am now speaking.

"Have you the pemmican?" I asked him.—"I have."

"And the solidified beef-tea?"—"In my left pocket."

"And the combined boiler and cooking range?"

"Slung on my back."

"And the patent portable mule-cart with adjustable tram-lines?"

"Attached to my belt."—"And the——?"

What I was going to say I cannot remember, for at this moment there was a crash of glass, we both struck violently against some hard surface, rebounded, fell, and lay perfectly still. In a minute or two I recovered from the shock, and looked about me. We were lying in the manger of the Pink Hippopotamus!

(To be contd.)

IRISH ASTRONOMY.

Sir Robert Ball, recently delivering a lecture (by request) under the above title, admitted that he did not quite know what it meant, as he did not suppose Irish astronomy was different from that of other nations. Isn't it be jabers? Judging by parity of reasoning, we can imagine that Irish astronomy may be as sui generis as are Irish politics. It is probably unusually nebulous, and characterised by the revolution of suns round their satellites, and the prevalence of excentric comets and shooting stars. Had Addison had it in mind, he would probably have written his celebrated hymn somewhat as follows:—

The spaycious firmament on hoigh,

And all the green Hibernian skoy,

And wrangling hivens a foighting frame,

The reign of chaos do proclaim.

What though the "stars" do shoine—and squall,

And on each other's orbits fall!

What though no order, stable, sound,

Amidst those jarring sphayres be found!

Onraison there doth loud rejoice,

At hearing echoed her own voice;

For iver shouting as they shoine,

Our hiven's a Donnybrook divoine!

THE ARCHITECT TO HIS WIFE.

I poetise seldom or never,

As a rule I am not such an ass;

I handle a metre scarce ever,

Unless it's connected with gas.

But once I was tempted to stray, dear,

In the realms of the Muses above,

And in somewhat professional way, dear,

To sing the delights of my love.

I thought of you, sweet my Drusilla,

As the daintiest lot in the land,

The prettiest fairy-like villa

That ever an architect planned.

You offered attractions unnumbered,

Your aspect was sunny and bright,

And my fancies ran wild, when I slumbered,

Depicting the charms of your site.

I think I shall never forget, love,

How I called with an order to view;

You were empty, and still "To be Let," love,

And I was untenanted too.

I stocked you; I saw that we stood, love,

On mutually suitable spots,

And I swore I would do what I could, love,

To try to unite the two lots.

I cautiously mooted the question,

And great was my rapture to find

That my timidly-ventured suggestion

Was not quite averse to your mind.

I therefore grew bold and took heart, love,

The business was promptly despatched,

We no longer stood coldly apart, love,

For lo, we were closely attached.

'Tis long since this happened, and now, love,

Folk see us so happily matched,

They are ready to promise and vow, love,

We never were semi-detached.

Two beings were never so blended,

They say we could never be twain—

Well, so let it be, till life's ended,

And one let us ever remain!

THE SECOND MOUNT.

J-hn M-rl-y (the Groom, to the Noble Sportsman, Sir W. V. H-rc-rt). "You've had a bit of a spin on the Welshman, Sir, and I think you'll find the Irishman pretty fit!"

"ANIMAL SPIRITS."

No. VI.—The Great Cricket Match. "England v. Australia." Umpires, the Two Wombats.

THE SECOND MOUNT;

Or, The New "Galloping Squire" and the Irish Groom.

Galloping Squire (pounding along). Pouf! Pretty heavy going! This country doesn't seem to be what it was when I was younger, and rayther a lighter weight, in old Huntsman Billy's days. Laudator temporis acti? Well, perhaps so—perhaps so. Still, neither meets nor mounts strike me as being quite up to the old form. Some of our new men have the manners of a cheeky young chawbacon on a gate. That hard rider from the Midlands, for instance! Most of our new mounts lack the blood and pace of the horses of old times. This weedy Welsh crock for example! "Kim up, ye hugly brute!" as John Leech's huntsman put it. Ah! when Old Will took us across the Stone-Wall Country in '69 and '70, hunting was hunting, horses were horses—yes, and gentlemen of the hunt were gentlemen! Now, what with mixed fields, cocktail crocks, and false scents, the sport's no longer a sport for—persons of Plantagenet descent and patrician instincts.

However, Taffy answers gamely enough to spur and whipcord. Considering my weight and—well, other difficulties, the weedy-looking nag, is going fairly well. Fancy he'll hold out to the crest of the hill yonder, where I think I see Jack Morley with my second mount. Kim up! Yes, there's Jack, with the Irish horse he thinks so much of, and takes such pains with. Humph! Bit tired of Irish mounts myself, though mustn't mention it to Jack. 'Twas Irish horses brought Old Billy his biggest croppers after all, though he, too, was wondrous sweet on 'em. Prefer a mount from the stable of the Predominant Partner, myself, if I might have my choice—which I mustn't—worse luck! Good old Budget strain my fancy! Not over fast, perhaps, but first-rate weight-carriers, and always in at the death—or the Death Duties, as I might say, if on a Derby platform instead of a Welsh pigskin. Ha! ha! ha!

Yes, Taffy will hold on to the top of the hill—(First Reading Point)—and then for a "quick-change" to the Irish horse. If I don't lose time, and have ordinary luck, the two will carry me through, ridden alternately.

Irish Groom (meditating). Ah, here comes the Guv'nor, pounding away on Taffy. Glad to catch sight o' me and Paddy, I'll warrant. He's taken about the last ounce out o' the Welsh'un, if I'm any judge. Rides a bit lumpy, the Guv'nor does, nowadays, though his pluck's as good as ever, I must say. Well, we're ready for him, the Irish horse and me, fit as a fiddle, and groomed to a hair, though I say it as shouldn't, p'raps. Come along, my new incarnation of good old Whyte-Melville's "Galloping Squire." (Sings.)

The Galloping Squire to the saddle has got,

That saddle a heavier weight has ne'er borne;

From his stable he's drafted the pick of his lot,

(Two nags by his enemies held in foul scorn,)

One Welsh, t'other Irish; both likely to tire.

I must trust to these two! says our Galloping Squire.

He takes the Welsh horse by the head, and he sails

O'er this crossest o' countries, all ear and all eye.

He takes as they come high banks, fences, and rails;

The cramped ones he'll creep, and the fair ones he'll fly.

It's a mighty queer place that will put in the mire

That artful old horseman, our Galloping Squire.

A fast forty minutes of run and of race,

And he's glad of a change, as indeed are we all.

The two he must ride are not gluttons for pace,

Still, the slow need not stop, and the weak may not fall,

His second mount's here. He may puff and perspire,

But he's game to go on, is our Galloping Squire!

Galloping Squire (coming up and preparing to change mounts). Pouf! Oh! here you are, Jack! Sharp's the word! Quick change, and on we go again! The Welsh horse has carried me better than I expected, though I've had to bustle him along, and he's a bit blown.

[Changes mounts smartly.

Irish Groom. That's right, Squire. The Welsh 'un hasn't done so badly, but I think you'll find the Irish 'un fit as a fiddle. These Irish horses——Ah! he's off. (Looking after him, as he takes the bridle of Taffy.) Well, he'll do his best, beaten or not, blowed if he won't! Goes well, too, he does, for an old 'un! Hope Paddy'll pull him through to the end o' the run. (Sings.)

"And long may it be ere he's forced to retire,

For we breed very few like our Galloping Squire!"

[Leads off "The Welsh 'un"—for the present.

No Crops this Year!!—A startling announcement, founded upon the new rule of the Kennel Club, to the effect that after March no crop-eared dog can win one of the K. C. prizes. "Hooray!" quoth the dogs. "Full ears and no crops!"

Editor of Libellous Rag (who has just received a terrific but well-deserved kick). "Dud you mane thot?"

Colonel McMurder. "Yis, oi dud, you thunderin' villain!"

Editor. "Oh, very well, thot's all roight. Oi t'ought it moight av been wan o' thim prac-ta-cle jokes!"

THE INTERVIEWER'S VADE MECUM.

Question. What is the object of an interviewer?

Answer. To show the merit of his work at the expense of the interviewed.

Q. Is there any choice in selecting a subject?

A. Very little, all that is necessary is that the name at the head of the article shall be fairly familiar to the general reader.

Q. Need the interviewer record the history of the interviewed?

A. No; unless matter grows short and the exploits of the hero are required for padding.

Q. But have not those exploits made the hero famous?

A. Yes, and consequently they have become "old matter." To be interesting, details, if frivolous, must be up to date.

Q. Which would be the better copy—an account of the subject's most successful campaign, or a description of his wardrobe?

A. Undoubtedly the latter. The exploits will certainly have been described a score of times, but a list of coats, hats and neckties will probably have the charm of novelty.

Q. Then you would not value your subject's diary?

A. Not if it merely recorded his public life. In such a case it would be distinctly less interesting than his butcher's book.

Q. Are the surroundings of a hero of moment?

A. Certainly, if they are little known. The back yard of the greatest poet becomes a spot full of interest if it has hitherto escaped description.

Q. Then a poet's staircase is more memorable than his stanzas?

A. Certainly; and the warrior's umbrella-stand than the record of his battles—a philosopher's overcoat than the tale of his scientific discoveries.

Q. If the interviewed has a dog or a cat, is it advisable to refer to the fact?

A. Assuredly, and such a reference should run to the length of half a dozen pages, and possibly a couple of illustrations.

Q. But surely the interviewed must sacrifice a fair amount of time to the interviewer?

A. Quite so; but the obligation is mutual.

Q. And yet it is only the interviewer gets a reward?

A. In money. But then the interviewed has his advertisement.

Q. Is such an advertisement very valuable?

A. If the account is published at the commencement of the season it may convert the subject into a Society lion.

Q. And what are the advantages enjoyed by such a creature?

A. Invitations to dinners, dances, and at homes, from all-but-perfect strangers—for a while.

Q. And what follow?

A. Reaction and forgetfulness.

Q. It seems that to be interviewed is not permanently beneficial to the subject?

A. Of course not; but that is a matter of small importance to the interviewer.

Q. Then what advantage does the latter obtain at the cost of the former?

A. That is a question that can best be answered by reference to the ledgers of the publishers.

Q. Why should not the interviewed turn the tables upon their visitors and become the interviewers?

A. Because an interviewer is seldom of sufficient importance to undergo the operation.

Q. Is there any other reason?

A. Certainly; and a most important one. If the interviewer became the interviewed, from the latter's point of view it wouldn't pay.

MARCH THOUGHT.

(An After-thawt.)

Martiis quid agam Kalendis?

First thing the broken pipes to mend is.

The leek upon St. David's day

Fluellen's doughty kin display,

But England, fraught with cans and pails,

This March is all at one with Wales.

While plumbers play their hide-and-seek

We all must grin and bear the leak.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Since it first lifted its tall head, "like a bully," as Pope rudely put it, the London Monument has been much looked at. If it is not to be superseded amid the sights of London, it is time it began to look out for itself. A rival has been creeping up year after year in the bulky volume known as Burdett's Official Intelligence. The volume just out bears the record Fourteenth Year—a mere child in point of age, but a prodigy of colossal size and almost, supernatural knowledge. It is perhaps quite an accident that the pages run up to 1899. But the fact is fresh testimony to the fin de siècle character of the work. Persons about to marry would, my Baronite says, find it a nice start in the way of furnishing a library. In emergency, it would serve as a dining-table, a footstool, a four-post bedstead, or (if the pages were cut out and distributed as tracts in the City) the binding might be rebuilt to form a spare bedroom. Just the book to take down with you to Brighton, or up the river on some of those sunny days we hope are coming. Crammed full of information from cover to cover. What Burdett's Intelligence does not know about financial affairs and Stock Exchange business would make a very small book.

The Baron de B.-W.

"The Niger Company."—Christy Minstrels.

THE PLEASURES OF TRAVEL.

(By Ane that has kent them.)

'Tis a great thing, the Traivel! I'll thank ye tae find

Its equal for openin' the poors o' the mind.

It mak's a man polished, an' gies him, ye ken,

Sic a graun' cosmypollitan knowledge o' men!

I ne'er was a stay-at-hame callant ava,

I aye must be rantin' an' roamin' awa',

An' far hae I wandered an' muckle hae seen

O' the ways o' the warl' wi' ma vara ain een.

I've been tae Kingskettle wi' Wullie an' Jeames,

I've veesited Anster an' Elie an' Wemyss,

I've walked tae Kirkca'dy an' Cupar an' Crail,

An' I aince was awa' tae Dundee wi' the rail.

Losh me, Sir! The wunnerfu' things that I saw!

The kirks wi' their steeples, sae bonny an' braw,

An' publics whauriver ye turned wi' yer ee—

'Tis jist a complete eddication, Dundee!

Theer's streets—be the hunner! An' shops be the score!

Theer's bakers an' grocers an' fleshers galore!

An' milliners' winders a' flauntin' awa'

Wi' the last o' the fashions frae Lunnon an' a'.

An' eh, sic a thrang, Sir! I saw in a minnit

Mair folk than the toun o' Kinghorn will hae in it!

I wadna hae thocht that the hail o' creation

Could boast at ae time sic a vast population!

Ma word, Sir! It gars ye clap haun' tae yer broo

An' wunner what's Providence after the noo

That he lets sic a swarm o' they cratur's be born

Wham naebody kens aboot here in Kinghorn.

What?—Leeberal minded?—Ye canna but be

When ye've had sic a graun' eddication as me.

For oh, theer is naethin' like traivel, ye ken,

For growin' acquent wi' the natur' o' men.

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

To the Editor of "Punch."

Sir,—We think it our duty to call your attention to the appearance of a book that otherwise would have possibly entirely escaped your attention. It is called A Neglected Incident in a Company's Career. It is written by a gentleman with a name of historical importance, and contains, amongst other inviting matter, several letters from the author to his illustrious ancestor. It is full of the most interesting stories, although its accuracy is scarcely unimpeachable. As some of the tales are not entirely laudatory of the Company with which we had the honour once to be connected, we beg to lay our case before you.

We have approached the writer of the book, and asked him to withdraw it. We have not obtained a satisfactory answer. We have also appealed to the publisher of the book (whose name we would give in full if we did not think that you might editorially suppress it, as there is a column set apart in another portion of your issue for book advertisements), and he, too, has not seen his way to rendering us any assistance. He has referred us to the author, who still leaves us without a remedy.

However, the publisher (with whom we cannot absolutely agree) makes a suggestion which seems to us in every way admirable. As it is our wish to cause A Neglected Incident in a Company's Career to be as little circulated as possible, he proposes that we should write a joint letter to all the leading London papers, setting forth the highly interesting character of its contents. This we are now doing, as you will see from this communication.

Yours truly,

P.S.—It is unnecessary to state, after the above ingenious explanation and gratuitous advertisement, that it is highly probable that A Neglected Incident in a Company's Career, once possibly little read, may now be obtained at every respectable circulating library in town or the country.

"IS IT POSSIBLE?"

Mr. Gooldenheim of London (to Mr. Beauchamp S. Potts of New York). "Now you tink that you can alvays also tell an Englishman in America. I tell you dat is a gread mistake. I vass Dree Monts in the Unided Stades, and dere vasn't One Man dat guessed I vas an Englishman!"

A HOPELESS CASE.

Of literary pleasures, my first and chief delight,

Was to read the thrilling serials our deft romancers write,

To follow up each hero to the altar from his teens,

By reading each instalment in the monthly magazines.

The system answered splendidly while magazines were few,

But journal follows journal now, review succeeds review;

And when the monthly parcel I have carefully perused,

Alas, I find the characters are woefully confused!

They follow me about by day, at night they haunt me still,

A hero out from Longman's weds a lady from Cornhill;

A villain from Belgravia, who a burglary has planned,

Is suddenly arrested by detectives from the Strand.

I hear a stalwart warrior from one of Weyman's plots

Engaged in Dolly dialogues with Mary Queen of Scots;

And persons in the Argosy for gold in Harper's toil,

Or interview physicians brought to light by Conan Doyle.

Not only in the fiction, too, I find my fancy trip,

The Idlers' Club are gathered at the Sign that bears a Ship,

While Blackwood's sober chronicler in quite a flippant way

Discusses "Without Prejudice" the topics of the day.

And so, although my intellect is reasonably strong,

It will not bear the strain of this bewilderment for long;

Please carve upon my tombstone when I quit terrestrial scenes,

"Here lies a man who perished from too many magazines!"

KNOWING WHERE TO STOP.

He. "Yes, it was very confusing."

She. "It must have been! Had I been you, I should have blushed to the roots of my—er—Eyebrows!"

DISTURBED!

["The (Turkish) soldiers then came and promised the protection of the Imperial troops to all who should lay down arms, and seek refuge in the Turkish camp. This offer was accepted by an Armenian clergyman on behalf of 360 persons of all ages and both sexes. The Turkish colonel ordered them to be provided with supper along with the soldiers, and then at night had them escorted to a distance from camp, where they were despatched and thrown into a large pit, dead and dying together."—Report, from Moush, of Daily Telegraph's Special Correspondent, on the Armenian Atrocities.]

["The hyæna's aspect is repulsive. Malign, inexorable, and untameably savage, its eyes shine like lucifers in the dark night; its stealthy, dusky form surprises us. It fears the light of day, and strangles what is weak and straying from the path. It mocks its prey with a laugh."—The Book of Nature and of Man.]

Unchanged, unchangeable! A scourge

Attila-like from age to age;

What plea can Charity now urge

For such immitigable rage?

No rest from ravin, no surcease

Of carnage? Vain it seems to ply

Earth's butcher, foe of love, home, peace

With pleadings of humanity.

Since words avail not, any more

Than Sampson's withy-bands, to bind

This worse than Erymanthian boar,

This fell, fierce foe of humankind;

What use in wasting words? The hand

Of Hercules to cleanse and slay

The monster scourges of the land

Is needful in a newer day.

Malign, inexorable, untamed,

This hoar hyæna of the East

Our skill has scorned, our wisdom shamed.

Must the implacable, fierce beast

Have room and verge for ravage still,

Unmenaced by the hunter's spear;

Blast the beginnings of goodwill,

Fill the fresh-budding waste with fear?

'Tis time, 'tis time! Incarnate crime,

Embodied cruelty and lust,

Trampler in slaughter-sanguined slime,

Mocker of loyalty and trust;

Derider of the human bond,