PUNCH,
OR, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98.

MARCH 22, 1890.

MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. No. II.

"Always laugh at the Judge's jokes. It is not upon such an occasion that his Lordship observes that he will NOT have the Court turned into a theatre."

JUSTISS FOR THE PORE.

I've jest been told another staggerer. Well, it seems then that, in one of the werry largest and werry poppularest of all the Citty Parishes, sum grand old Cristian Patriots of the holden times left lots of money, when they was ded, and didn't want it no more, to be given to the Pore of the Parish, for warious good and charitable hobjecs, such as for rewarding good and respectabel Female Servants as managed to keep their places for at least four years, in despite of rampageous Marsters, and crustaceous Missuses; also for selling Coles to werry Pore Peeple at sumthink like four pence per hundredweight, be the reglar price what it may; also for paying what's called, I think, premeums for putting Pore Boys or Pore Gals as aprentisses to warious trades, so as to lern and laber truly to get a good living when they growd up, insted of loafing about in dirt and hignorence; likewise for allowing little pensions to poor old women as is a striving all their mite and main to keep themselves out of the hated Workhouse; and there are seweral other similar good purposes as the good Citizens of old left their money for, and hundreds if not thowsands of pore but honest men and women has had good cause to be grateful to 'em for their kind and pious thortfulness.

Well, I hardly xpecs to be bleeved when I says, that a law has been passed that allows sutten werry respectabel but werry hignerant Gents, called Charity Commissioners, to sweep away ewerry one of those truly charitable hinstitutions, and to make use of all this money somewheres else, and for sum other objecs, and for sum other peeple!

I ain't so werry much supprized as I ort to be, to learn that the ouse of Commons—ouse of "Short Commons," I shud call 'em—has passed this most wicked Law, cos werry pore peeple ain't got no votes; but I do confess as I am supprised at the most respectabel and harrystocrattick House of Lords a condesendin not merely to rob a pore man of his Beer, but to rob a poor Made Servant of her 2 Ginneys reward for behaviour like a Angel for four long weary years in the same place, be it a good 'un or a werry ard 'un, and to purwent a lot of pore hard working Men and Women from getting their little stock of Coles in at about a quarter of the reglar price! In course it ain't to be supposed as Washupfool Books and Honnerabel Markisses can know or care much about the price of Coals, altho there is one Most Honnerabel Markis, from whom I bort a hole Tun larst year at rayther a high figger, who coud have told em, and shood have told em all about it, tho' praps he's agin cheap Coles on principal. And besides all this, it won't I shood think, be a werry plezzant thort to come across a Noble Dook's or a Wirtuous Wiscount's mind—if such eminent swells has em, like the rest on us—when they sees a lot of dirty raggid boys and gals a loafing about the streets, to think that if the money that was left hundreds of years ago by good men, had been still used as it was ordered to be used, and has been used for sentrys, these same raggid boys and gals wood have bin a learning of some useful trade by which they might have hearnd a desent living.

In course I can hear, with my mind's ear, as Amlet says, my thowsends of simperthising readers shouting out, "What's the use of your crying over spilt milk?" Well, none, of course, but I happens to have herd that there's still jest one chance left. It seems that there is what's called, I think, "a appeal" to sum werry heminent Swells called "the Lords of the uncommon Counsel on Eddication," and the kind-hearted Church Wardens, as I has before eluded to, means to make one; and ewery kind-hearted Cristian Man and Woman as reads my truthful statement, and can feel, as me, and Lords, and Ladies as well, can, and ort to, and must feel, will wish 'em thurrur suksess in their good, and kind, and mussiful atemt to hobtane justiss for them as carnt no hows obtane it for theirselves.

Robert.

HOW WE DO BUSINESS NOW.

BEAR COURT CHAMBERS, BULL LANE, E.C.

Circular 1059.

Telegraphic Address—SPIDER.

Telephone Number—BILLION.

My Dear Sir,—Now is the time to remit to me for the forthcoming big movements I intend to make during the current Month. If my last Circular proved true down to the very last letter, this one will be ten times truer. What did I say last month? I said there would be a big rise in Boomerang Rails, which were then at 11¾. In 57½ hours after my Circular was issued they had risen to 110-7/16, and many of my clients made thousands of pounds. One of them actually making the magnificent sum of £27,876 11s. 4¼d. I love to be accurate, so I give the exact amount.

Now is the time, I repeat. No one out of the millions of clients, from an Exalted Lady, whom delicacy forbids me to name, down to the junior waiter at the Pomona, ever lost by coming to me. I also advised, and I repeat it this month,

CHUCKSTER TOLL BAR BINKSES.

They were hardly quoted on the Stock Exchange—hardly known even—when I took them up on the 1st of April last year. Where are they now? At 119! And they will move on to 219 before the year ends. I have means of information possessed by none besides me. I have a wire of my own laid on to every Embassy house on the Continent; every attaché, every dragoman is my correspondent, and more than one Crowned Head has honoured me with the secrets of his last Council, or of his resolves on War or Peace. I myself am a Power. I can make and unmake and ruin homes as well as any Czar or Emperor.

But I bind the clients who trust me with bands of iron.
Again I say buy

CHUCKSTER TOLL BAR BINKSES.

Remit the necessary Cover to me at once. Small sums combined make large ones, and you cannot be in too soon. Five-pence (a sum you would throw at a crossing-sweeper) covers Five Pounds. Here is my scale:—

But send me whatever you like, and it will prove the most important act of your life; one you will never forget.

Again I say buy

CHUCKSTER TOLL BAR BINKSES.

There is fascination in their very name. Don't do the thing weakly. Act on the advice of that great man Barry Lyndon, and speculate grandly. Take the history of one out of thousands of fortunes made by me for others:—

A BANK CLERK, hard up, desperately pressed by his duns, had received a small remittance from his father, a struggling Clergyman. The sum amounted to £50, just enough to pay the young fellow's bills, and leave him a paltry sovereign. Do you think he was such a fool as to have read my Circular in vain? He very wisely brought the money to me. I bought Boomerangs at 11¾. In 57½ hours that young man was a millionnaire. He has magnificent chambers on the Embankment; shows himself in the Row at the present time; would not look at a cigar under half-a-crown; and has not entirely forgotten the claims of his family, for to my knowledge he has remitted several pounds to his younger brothers.—Again I say,

BUY BOOMERANGS OR CHUCKSTERS.

One Word of Caution, and I conclude Circular 1059. Be very Cautious of Some People I know. Once trust yourself to them, and it is all U.P.—Wire immediately (and send the necessary cover) to

Yours truly,

ZACH. SPYDUR.

P.S.—When once you have tasted the joys of speculation, you will think and care for nothing else. The click of the Tape Machine is music to you. I have one going all night in my bed-room.

Suggestion for Advertisement of St. James's Theatre.—"As You Like It",—come and see it!

MADAME DIOGENES.

Diogenes. What are these better possessions you speak of?

Krates. Wisdom, self-sufficiency, truth, plain-speaking, freedom.

Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead.

Ah! Madame La France, after trials all round

Of great Chiefs and their squabbling political progenies,

Like him of Sinope, at last you are found

With lantern in hand, a true Lady Diogenes.

The precinct is dark, and seems growing still dimmer,

Your wandering light shows a devious glimmer.

A right Honest Man? He was scarce in the Courts.

He seems very nearly as scarce in the Caucuses.

You've had leaders of late of all sizes and sorts,

And the gloom of the outlook is utter as Orcus's.

Imperial, Royalist, Red Flag or White,

Not one of them leads La Belle France to the light.

Wisdom, truth and plain-speaking? Ah, where are they found?

As scarce in these days as is genuine freedom!

They all prate of Honour, yet Honour all round

They'll sell for the first mess of pottage from Edom.

Well, Madame, Punch wishes you luck with your lantern,

And up, soon or late, may a true Honest Man turn!

STANZAS TO RHUBARB.

(By The O'Greedy.)

O bright new-comer, I have seen,

I see thee, and rejoice;

Though what the coster-man may mean

I judge not, by his voice.

I see thee, and to either eye

The tears unbidden start;

O rhubarb! shall I call thee pie,

Or art thou truly tart?

I was not wont thy charms to see

When childhood stubborn stood

Fix'd in the faith, that thou must be

Too wholesome to be good.

Just as we loved the cloying jam,

By no effects dismay'd,

Regarding as a bitter sham

The honest marmalade.

When daffodillies deck the shops,

And hyacinths indoors

Recall the flavour of the drops

We used to suck by scores

(Pear-drops they were,—a subtle blend

Of hyacinthine smell,

And the banana's blackest end,—

We loved them, and were well);

When chrysalis-buds are folded thick,

And crocuses awake,

And, like celestial almonds, stick

In Flora's tipsy-cake;

Before the crews are on the Thames,

The swallows on the wing,

The radiant rhubarb-bundle flames,

The lictor-rod of Spring.

Still, still reluctant Winter keeps

Some chill surprise in store,

And Spring through frosty curtain peeps

On snowdrifts at her door;

The full moon smites the leafless trees,

So full, it bursts with light,

Till the sharp shadows seem to freeze

Along the highway white.

Yet the keen wind has heard the song

Of summer far away.

And, though he's got the music wrong,

We know what he would say.

For in the vegetable cart

Thy radiant stalks we spy.

O rhubarb, should we call thee tart,

Or art thou merely pie?

And why not so? The cushat dove

To such a shrine we trust,

Though in dumb protest she will shove

Her tootsies through the crust;

And larks, that sing at Heaven's gate

When April clouds are high,

Not seldom gain the gourmet's plate

Through portals of the pie.

So thou, sweet harbinger of Spring,

Gules of her blazon'd field,

If in a pie thy praise we sing,

To worthy fate wilt yield.

Enough! I sing; let others eat:

Be mine the poet's lot.

The thought of thee is all too sweet—

The taste of thee is not.

NO FEAR FOR THE CONSCIENCE CLAUSE.

Priest (teaching Catechism in Catholic School). "Now, Saunders, repeat the Ten——" All the other Boys. "Please, Father, this 'ere Boy's a Pro's'tant!!"

"I'LL CALL THEE HAMLET."

Mr. Benson, the enterprising young Lessee of the Globe Theatre, on two evenings of the week affords a spectacle of the greatest possible interest to every Shakspearian student. His Hamlet is rather given to noisy declamation when greatly moved, but, barring this, seems to be a thoroughly good-natured harmless creature, who, as fond of dabbling in private theatricals, would probably be hailed as an acquisition at the Meistersingers Club and cognate institutions. The innovations introduced into the action relieve the gloom of the Tragedy. Take for instance, the treatment of Ophelia, which is full of quiet humour. That she should look as old as Hamlet's Mother, is of course, accidental, and is purely attributable to the Globe Gertrude being exceptionally comely and youthful, still it has a very quaint effect. But the idea of the unfortunate maid, after she has committed suicide, being carried à la Guy Faux into the throne-room with a sort of "See what we have found" air, is broadly comic. The funeral with its "maimed rites," is also very funny. Apparently, the Bishop (whose garb, by the way, seems to be a compromise between an eccentric Jewish Rabbi and that of a decidedly demented Roman Catholic Priest) has "contracted" for the procession, with the result of collecting together a heterogeneous company, consisting of modern High Church curates, a few members of some humorous Confraternity, and a sprinkling of other amusing grotesques. But the fun reaches its climax, when the body of Ophelia herself is produced in, what seemed to me to be, a hamper! The above example of what is being done twice a week in Newcastle Street, Strand, will show how well worthy of the scholar's notice is the present revival of Hamlet at the Globe Theatre. As actors, Mr. Benson's company are not entirely satisfactory. As thinkers, however, they are worthy of the greatest possible respect. Under these circumstances, it is to be hoped, that should they ultimately, for sufficient reason, decide to give up acting, they will yet resolve to continue what they do so well, and, in three words—go on thinking.

(Signed)

Bene Vestitus.

Covent Gardening Prospects.—The prospectus of the Italian Opera Season lies on Mr. Punch's table; but though this is its attitude, there is no reason to doubt the truthfulness of its statements. More anon. En attendant, we may say that the stage-management, in the hands of Augustus Druriolanus, is a guarantee for the excellence of the mises-en-scène, of the misses-en-scène, and of the "hits"-en-scène.

MODERN TYPES.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer.)
No. V.—THE DILETTANTE.

The Modern Dilettante will have been in boyhood a shorn lamb, for whom it was necessary to temper the wind of an English education by a liberal admixture of foreign travel. A prolonged course of interrupted studies will have filled him with culture, whilst a distaste for serious effort, whether mental or physical, and an innate capacity for mastering no subject thoroughly will have produced in him that special refinement which is to the Dilettante as a trade-stamp to Britannia metal. In after-life, he will speak with regretful fondness, and with an accuracy which he fails to apply to other matters of his "days" (four in number) at a German University, and will submit with cheerfulness to the reputation of having drunk deep from the muddy fountains of metaphysical speculation, which are as abundant and as ineffective in Germany, as her springs of mineral water.

Having passed his period of storm and stress without committing any of those follies or indulging in any of those excesses by which the parents of ordinary young men are afflicted, he will arrive without reproach at the borders of an apparently blameless middle age, and, finding himself after the death of his father, in the enjoyment of a settled income of considerable size, he will set up in life as an acknowledged amateur of all that is truly precious. In order that nothing may be wanting to him for the proper pursuit of this calling, he will gather round him a little band of boneless enthusiasts, who after paying due devotion to themselves, and to one another, will join him in worshipping the dead or living nonentities whose laurelled photographs adorn his rooms. He will cover his couches with soft silks, his walls will be hung with impressionist etchings and engravings of undraped ladies of French origin, terra-cotta statuettes principally of the young Apollo, will be placed in every corner, and a marble bust of the young Augustus will occupy the place of honour next to the grand piano, on which, will be ranged the framed cabinet photographs of interesting young men. Each photograph will bear upon it an appropriate inscription, announcing it to be, for instance, a gift "From Bobby to Toddlekins." Nothing more is necessary for the perfect life of dilettantism, except to settle an afternoon for tea, and an evening for music. When this is done the Dilettante is complete.

It is curious, however, that although he aims at being considered a poet, an artist, a dramatist, and a musical composer, the Dilettante rather affects the society of those who are amateurs of imperfect development, than of those who have attained fame by professional effort. Yet since his nature is tolerant, he does not exclude the latter from the scope of his benevolence, and they may occasionally be seen at his parties, wondering how so strange a medley of second-rate incompetencies can have been gathered together into one room.

It is noticeable, that the Dilettante loves the society of ladies, and is not averse to encouraging amongst his intimates the belief, which none of them holds though all express it, that he is in reality a terrible fellow and much given to the destruction of domestic happiness. He finds a sense of rest and security in fancying that he is suspected of an intrigue. But it is somewhat remarkable, that the evil tongues which make sad havoc of many unwilling reputations are very slow to gratify the willing Dilettante in this respect. No Dilettante can be considered genuine, unless he expresses a pitying contempt for everything that is characteristically English, and for the unfortunate English who are imbued with the prejudices of their native land. He gives a practical expression to his scorn by quavering in a reedy voice, the feeble chansonnettes of an inferior French composer, and by issuing a volume of poems in which the laws of English Grammar are trampled under foot, and the restrictions of English metre are defied. In his lyrical effusions he breathes the passionate desire of a great soul for Love that is not of the earth. He aspires to the stars, and invokes the memory of dead heroes, his intimates. He sets out to win imperishable glory amidst the embattled ranks of his country's foes. He lashes the cold and cruel heartlessness of the world with a noble scorn. He addresses the skeletons of departed friends with passionate longing. He finds that life and its gaudy pleasures are as dust and ashes in the mouth.

Having read these efforts to an admiring circle, he betakes himself with infinite zest to the discussion of aesthetic tittle-tattle over a cup of tea and a toasted bun. "Dear fellow," his friends will say of him at such a moment, "he is so etherial; and his eyes, did you observe that far-away, rapt look in them?" They will then take pleasure in persuading one another without much difficulty, that they are the fine flower of created beings.

The Dilettante, moreover, is a constant attendant at the first nights of certain theatres. He figures with equal regularity as a large element in the society gossip of weekly journals. He is a delicate eater and never drinks too much out of the Venetian glasses, which his butler ruthlessly breaks after the manner of domestics. There is amongst the inner circle of the Dilettanti a jargon, both of voice and of gesture, which passes muster as humour, but is unintelligible to the outer world of burly Philistines. They dangle hands rather than shake them, and emphasise their meaning by delicate finger-taps. Their phrases are distinguished by a plaintive cadence which is particularly to be remarked in their pronunciation of the word "dear."

At charitable concerts in aristocratic drawing-rooms the Dilettante is in great request. On these occasions, he astonishes and delights his friends with a new song, of which, he will have composed both the words and the music, if he may be believed, whilst he was leaning from his casement "watching the procession of the moon-lit clouds." He sometimes smokes cigarettelets (a word must be coined to express their size and strength), but he never attempts cigars, and loathes the homely pipe. In gait and manner he affects a mincing delicacy, by which he seeks to impress the thoughtless with a sense of his superior refinement. In later life, he is apt to lose his hair, and to disguise the ravages of time upon his cheeks by the aid of rouge. Yet he deceives nobody, and having grown stout and wheezy is eventually carried off by a common cold in an odour of pastilles. He will be buried in a wicker-work coffin covered with lilies, and a rival Dilettante having written a limp and limping sonnet to his memory, will take his evening.

COMIC SLAUGHTER!

(The Story of the Next Battle, written in advance for Next Month's "Powder Magazine," by a Soldier in the Ranks.)

The Victory of Rumtumidity was certainly one of the most amusing things I ever saw in my life. We landed at six o'clock in the evening, and finding a grog-shop, were soon gone coons. Speaking for myself, I saw the colours of the Regiment magnified by twenty! Well, we were ordered to march, and off we started, staggering along in fine style. Out came the moon, and one of us fell down in a dead faint.

"Suffering from sunstroke!" said the Surgeon, who was a Welsh Irishman. "Leave him in the sand, and he will soon come to himself when he finds you gone—if he doesn't, the vultures will hasten his movements."

This jest made us all laugh. Our Captain hearing one of us roaring a trifle too loud, put his sword through him. Immense!

We marched along to the music of the prisoners, who yelled out bravely when they were prodded by the guards set over them.

"Did you see the like!" said Tim O'Flanagan (from Edinburgh), who, no doubt, would have developed the idea, had not his head at that moment been carried off by a cannon-ball. Very comic!

"Now, my lads," said our Captain, who wasn't much of an orator, "look here—England expects every man to do his duty; and, if you don't, why I am having you all watched, and, as sure as beans is beans, the laggards will be bayoneted."

This little speech had the desired effect, especially after it had been strengthened by a double ration of grog.

Then came the order to charge. We charged, and killed everyone we saw, including our own officers. This simplified matters. A little later the whole place was in our hands. Rumtumidity was taken!

Then came the order to bury the dead. But we did more—we buried the living with them! Oh, how it made us laugh! Then came supper, and we amused ourselves by telling to one another our adventures. I was just recounting how I had emptied the pockets of a deceased officer, when—"whisk!"—up came a cannon-ball and struck me! I was able to say nothing more at that time; as, when the cannon-ball had passed, I found it had left me defunct! And I have been dead ever since. My companion and chum, whose name I must not give without permission, will vouch for every word I've said.

(Signed)

A. Munchausen,
Late Lance-Ensign, the Lincoln Longbowers.

"ENGLISH, YOU KNOW, QUITE ENGLISH."

Perhaps, the good old rule that, "You should never look a gift-horse in the mouth," cannot be so rigorously applied to gifts of pictures to the Nation as to other things. Nevertheless, Mr. Tate's munificent proffer of his Collection to the National Gallery, is surely too good a thing to be missed through matters of mere detail. Mr. Punch's view is—well, despite Touchstone's attack on "the very false gallop of verses," there are two things that come most insinuatingly in metre; offers of love, and of friendly advice:—

English Art no longer paints

Those "squint-eyed Byzantine saints"

Mr. Orrock so disparages.

Martyrdoms and Cana Marriages

Over-stock our great Art Gallery,

Giving ground for Orrock's raillery.

Scenes in desert dim, or dun stable,

Than Green English lanes by Constable

Are less welcome, or brown rocks

And grey streams by David Cox.

Saint Sebastian's death? Far sweeter

Sylvan scenes by honest Peter;

There's a charm in dear De Wint

Cannot be conveyed in print.

Verdant landscapes, sea-scapes cool,

Painted by the English School.

Must be welcome to our British

Taste, which is not grim or skittish;

Rather Philistine, it may be.

Sweet on cornfields and the Baby;

Yet of Romney's grace no spurner,

Or the golden dreams of Turner.

Moral? Will a moral, bless us!

Comes like that old shirt of Nessus.

Still, here goes! An Art-official

Should be genial, but judicial.

When an Art-Collection's national,

It is obviously rational

It should be a bit eclectic,

Weeding out the crude or hectic.

He who'd have his country's honour,

As a liberal Art-donor,

Thinks more of his country's fame

Than of his particular name.

Would you win true reputation

As benefactor of the Nation.

Trust me 'tis not "special room"

Keeps that glory in full bloom.

Punch is a plain-speaking chap;

Here's his view of things. Verb. sap.!

Pictures in the Haymarket.—"And there stood the 'tater-man, In the midst of all the wet; A vending of his taters in the lonely Haymarket." So sang one of the greatest of Mr. Punch's singers, years agone. If he had sung in the present day, he would have substituted pictures for 'taters; for surely this pleasant thorough-fare has become a mart for pictures and players rather than potatoes. Look in at Tooth's Gallery, and you will stay a long while, indeed you will age considerably, and may be said to be "long in the Tooth," before you come out, as you will find the exhibition so paletteable. Then having refreshed your eye with the spring sunshine—if there happens to be any about—you will turn into McLean's salon and see a marvellous picture of Jaffa, by G. Bauernfeind, and other works by English and foreign painters. The County Council will have to change the title of this street into the A-market, "A" standing for Art, of course.

A Fancy Portrait of my Laundress, judging by her Handiwork.

THE GRAND OLD HAT.

When this old hat was new,

('Tis not so many years,)

My followers did not view

My course with doubts and fears.

Chamberlain then would praise,

And Henry James was true;

Ah! this was in the days

When this old hat was new.

When this old hat was new

My head was smaller—yes!

Now I'd have much ado

To get it on, I guess.

The cause I cannot tell,

I only know 'tis true;

My head has seemed to swell

Since this old hat was new.

Perhaps, as some maintain,

My cranium may have grown,

Owing to stretch of brain,

Or thickening of bone.

"The hat has shrunk?" Eh? What?

That nonsense will not do!

My head has grown, a lot,

Since this old hat was new.

What Tyndall dares to call,

In wrath, my "traitorous" head,

Is "growing still," that's all;

(Of "Marian" this was said)

My cranial vertex flat?

Pah! Tories may pooh-pooh;

I wore a smaller hat

When this old hat was new!

The New Bishop of Durham.—Westcott and,—no, Bishops don't wear them—so His Reverend Lordship will be known as "Westcott and Apron."

ODE ON A BLACK BALL.

(A Fragment, some way after Addison, picked up in the neighbourhood of the Athenæum Club.)

What though in solemn silence all

Drop in the dark the fatal ball?

What though no overt voice or sound

Amidst the voting throng be found?

In reason's ear they speak of choice,

And utter forth a boding voice,

Saying, as silent they recline,

"Your company we must decline!"

Piping Times for the Empire.—The bagpipes were not heard playing, "The Campbells are Coming," at the relief of Lucknow. Why? Because the regiment hadn't got any. The regimental bagpipes were first introduced by Mr. Boucicault, in his drama of The Relief of Lucknow (that was the subject, whatever the name might have been) at Astley's. Miss Amy Roselle's recitation of the thrilling story specially written for her by Mr. Savile Clarke is most dramatic, and thrills the audience at the Empire. The journalistic discussion, as to the pipes, comes in very appropriately, and will assist to raise the wind and pay the piper. This recitation, is a great "Relief" to the ordinary Music-hall entertainments, and the Empire has "Luck now."

"PROPRIA QUÆ MARIBUS."

Penthesilea straddling on the pigskin?

Surely a male biped need not dwell

In a prejudiced pedantic prig's skin,

Not to like that prospect passing well.

Carlyle, who scoffed at Man, had deemed it caddish

To picture Woman as "a mere forked radish."

Dear Diana after hounds a riding

Like—a clothes-peg on a clothes-line? Nay!

Rub out all unnatural laws dividing

Sex from sex,—'tis the World's drift to-day.

Let ladies mount the 'bus, or Hansom Cab it,

But let not custom new banish old Habit.

Paint, write poems, pose as prandial wit, Ma'am,

Perorate upon the public platform;

Even in the County Council sit, Ma'am,

If Law lets you, and your taste takes that form;

But take Punch's tip, and do not straddle;

Stick to common-sense and the side-saddle.

Lines on the Labour Conference.

The youthful German Emperor may try

By Socialistic plans to prop his rule.

Some think 'twill all result in a great cry,

And little (Berlin) wool.

Still, all good souls will wish young William luck.

The Teutons may not relish Swiss suggestion,

But anyhow it shows the Emperor's pluck