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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 105, August 12th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




THE CLOSURE AT HOME.

Paterfamilias entered the drawing-room at ten minutes to six o'clock,
and found the family still undecided. There was a pause in the
conversation when he made his appearance.

"Where are we to go?" he asked, taking out his watch. "You have been
quarrelling for the last week, and I have given you till this hour. So
get through your amendments as fast as you can."

"I prefer Paris," said Materfamilias, "and I am supported by all the
girls. We are decidedly in a majority."

"Paris is simply awful at the end of July!" cried the eldest son.
"Give you my word, mother, the place is impossible."

"Venice would certainly be better," said his younger brother.
"Charming place, and you get a very decent _table d'hote_ at
DANIELI'S."

"Oh, Venice is too dreadful just now!" exclaimed Aunt MATILDA. "If
_we_ are to go with you, we certainly can't travel there. Besides,
there's the cholera all over the Continent. Now Oban would be nice."

"Are you speaking seriously?" asked Cousin JANE. "Scotland never
agrees with me, but Cairo would be perfect."

"Do you think so, my dear girl?" put in Uncle JOHN. "I fancy you
are making a mistake. Egypt is very well in the winter, but it
is fearfully hot in August. Now they tell me Killarney is simply
delightful at this season."

"Ireland! No, thank you!" exclaimed REGINALD. "We have had enough of
Home Rule on this side of the Channel to go across to find it on the
other. No; give me Spain, or even Russia."

The hands of the clock were close upon the hour, but still there was a
minute or so to spare.

"Russia indeed!" snapped out PRISCILLA. "Who ever would go to Russia?
But people do tell me that Chicago is well worth seeing, and----"

At this moment the clock struck six.

"Time's up," cried Paterfamilias. "We will all go to Herne Bay."

And they did.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE TEST OF TRUE GENIUS.

_Pictor Ignotus Number One._ "YES; I RATHER FLATTER MYSELF THERE ARE
PRECIOUS FEW OF MY CONTEMPORARIES WHO CARE ABOUT _MY_ WORK!"

_Pictor Ignotus Number Two_ (_not to be beaten_). "BY JOVE! I RATHER
FLATTER MYSELF I'VE GOT THE PULL OF YOU _THERE_, OLD MAN! WHY, THERE'S
_NOBODY_ CARES ABOUT _MINE_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

The New Atomic Theory.

(_According to the New Journalism_).

  Mankind are debtors to two mighty creditors,
  Omniscient Science, and infallible Editors.
  Nature is summed in principles and particles;
  The moral world in Laws and Leading Articles!

       *       *       *       *       *

CRICKET ACROSS THE CHANNEL.

[Illustration]

We believe that our lively neighbours, the French, having seen that
there is a chance of some alteration being made in the rules of
cricket in England, have determined to suggest some changes on their
own account. We give the first list of proposals:--

1. The ball in future is to be made of india-rubber.

2. Armour to be allowed to the striker, so as to prevent accidents
from the ball.

3. The umpires to be henceforth experienced surgeons, so that their
medical services may be available for the wounded.

4. Camp-stools to be permitted to the long-stop, and other hard-worked
members of the field.

5. Fielders expected to run after a rapidly-driven ball, to be allowed
to follow the object on bicycles.

6. The wicket-keeper to have a small portable fortress in front of him
to keep him out of danger.

7. The bats to be made of the same materials as those used in
lawn-tennis.

8. The game to commence with the "luncheon interval," to be employed
in discussing a _dejeuner a la fourchette_.

9. The uniform of the cricketer in future to consist of a horn, a
hunting-knife, jockey-cap and fishing-boots, in fact the costume of
the earliest French exponent of the game.

10. The outside to have the right to declare the game closed when
fatigued.

11. A band of music to be engaged to play a popular programme. A
flourish of trumpets to announce the triumph of the striker when he
succeeds in hitting the ball.

12. Those who take part in the great game to be decorated with a
medal. All future matches to be commemorated with clasps, to denote
the player's bravery.

Should these reforms be adopted by the M. C. C., there seems little
doubt that the national game of England will receive a fresh lease of
popularity in the land that faces Albion.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST CRISIS.

    [Mr. BARTLEY protested in the House of Commons against Mr. W.
    O'BRIEN'S conduct in dining in the House with strangers at
    a table reserved for Members. Mr. O'BRIEN explained that Mr.
    AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN had taken a table which he (Mr.
    O'BRIEN) had previously reserved. The question is under the
    consideration of the Kitchen Committee.]

  A crisis! A crisis! The man is a fool
  Who desires at this moment to talk of Home Rule.
  Though we know that in Egypt a something is rotten,
  The intrigues of young ABBAS are straightway forgotten;
  And we think just as much of the woes of Siam
  As we care for that coin of small value--a _dam_.
  For a crisis has come, and the House is unable
  To detach its attention from questions of table.
  Their tongues and their brains all the Members exhaust in
  Discussing the rights of O'BRIEN and AUSTEN.
  They debate in an access of anger and gloom
  As to who took from which what was kept, and for whom.
  The letters they wrote, the retorts they made tartly
  Are detailed--gracious Powers preserve us--by BARTLEY,
  Who can bend--only statesmen are formed for such feats--
  His mind, which is massive, to questions of seats,
  And discuss with a zest which is equal to TANNER'S,
  The absorbing details of a matter of manners.
  Mr. BARTLEY you like to be heard than to hear
  Far more, but, forgive me, a word in your ear.
  Though we greatly rejoice when all records are cut
  By your steam-hammer mind in thus smashing a nut,
  Yet we think it were well if the Kitchen could settle
  In private this question of pot _versus_ kettle.
  And in future, when dog-like men fight for a bone,
  Take a hint, Mr. BARTLEY, and leave them alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST FROM THE NATIONAL BOXING SALOON (_with the kind regards of the_
SPEAKER).--"The nose has it, and so have the eyes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SAINT IZAAK AND HIS VOTARIES.

_Mr. Punch's Tercentenary Tribute to the Author of "The Compleat
Angler."_

    [August 9th this year is the 300th anniversary of the birth,
    in the ancient house at Stafford, of IZAAK WALTON.]
]

  Good IZAAK of the diction quaint,
    The calendar holds many a fellow
  Less worthy to be dubbed a saint
    (For gentle heart and wisdom mellow)
  Than thou, the Angler's genial guide
  By wandering brook and river wide.

  "I care not, I, to fish in seas,"
    So chirped WILL BASSE, thy favourite singer,
  "Fresh rivers best my mind do please."
    Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer
  Of England's pastoral scenes and songs,
  All England's praise to thee belongs.

  Thy Book bewitches more than those
    Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle."
  Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose,
    All trailing flowers that intertangle
  In England's hedgerows, seem to fill
  Its pages and our pulses thrill.

  We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil,"
    Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning;
  We hear VIATOR praise the skill
    That he was first inclined to scorning;
  We mark the Master's friendly proffer
  Change him to votary from scoffer.

  Those "many grave and serious men,"
    He chid as "men of sowr complexions,"
  If they resist his graphic pen,
    His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections,
  Must have indeed mere souls of earth,
  To beauty blind, untuned to mirth.

  The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so
    All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity.
  His song's queer "trollie lollie loe,"
    Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty,
  To men in populous city pent,
  Who know the Angler's calm content.

  And even those who know it not,
    Nor care--poor innocents!--to know it,
  Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot
    Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet,
  May love to turn the leaves, and halt on
  The quaint conceits of honest WALTON.

  The man whose only "quill" 's a pen,
    Who keeps no rod and tackle handy,
  May hear thy "merry river" when
    "It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy."
  May sit beneath thy beech, and wish
  To catch thy voice, if not thy fish:

  May love to sit or stroll with thee,
    Amidst the grassy water-meadows;
  The culverkeys and cowslips see,
    Dancing in summer's lights and shadows;
  And watch yon youngster gathering stocks
  Of lilies and of lady-smocks:

  To hear thy milkmaid, MAUDLIN, troll
    Choice morsels from KIT MARLOW sweetly;
  And MAUDLIN'S mother,--honest soul,
    Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!--
  Respond with RALEIGH'S answering rhyme
  Of wisdom past its active prime:

  To take a draught of sound old ale--
    What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?--
  At the old ale-house in the vale,
    With CORYDON and brother PETER;
  And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout,
  As they at supper shared the trout.

  Then to that cleanly room and sweet--
    After a gay good night to all--
  Lavender scent about the sheet,
    And "ballads stuck about the wall,"
  And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow,
  With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow.

  What wonder WALTON'S work has charmed
    Three centuries? That his bait has captured
  The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed,
    The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured,
  Gay girl--are fish her only spoil?--
  And grave Thames-haunting son of toil!

  Thy votaries, good Saint IZAAK, are
    "All who love _quietnesse_, and _vertue_."
  Is there on whom such praises jar?
    Well, join for once--it scarce can hurt you--
  In _Punch's_ Tribute; fortune wishing
  To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GUESSES AT TRUTH.

_Mr. Laidislaw._ "HANDSOME WOMAN OUR HOSTESS--DON'T YOU THINK? BY THE
BYE, WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE HER AGE IS?"

_Miss St. Cyr._ "WELL, I SHOULD FANCY, WHAT THE ILLUSTRATED
BIOGRAPHIES CALL 'PRESENT DAY!'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"HERE'S TO THE CLIENT."

  Here's to the client who makes his own will,
    And here's to his friends who dispute it;
  Here's to the case which is drawn up with skill,
    And the time that it takes to refute it.

  Here's to the felon whose crimes are a score,
    And here's to the wretch with but one, Sirs;
  Fraudulent trustees, directors galore,
    And the various things that they've done, Sirs.

  Here's to the costs which will mount up apace,
    When the action comes on for a hearing,
  "Retainers," "refreshers," and all of their race,
    Which they lavish on us for appearing.

  Here's to the Law, with its hand just and strong,
    Which has grown from the earliest ages;
  And here's to this lay, which we hope's not too long
    For _Punch_ to put into his pages.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SAYING (_adapted for exclusive swells who cannot
enjoy even a Sport when it becomes "so common, don't-cha!"_).--What is
Everybody's pleasure is Nobody's pleasure!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A SWISS BAROMETER.

  Oh, optimistic instrument,
    No other ever seeks
  To raise one's hopes--benevolent
    You always show _Beau fixe_!

  Though meteorologic swells
    Predict wet days for weeks,
  Your well-intentioned pointer tells
    Of nothing but _Beau fixe_.

  How sweet, when in the dewy morn--
    So dewy!--up the peaks
  We start through drizzle all forlorn,
    To read again _Beau fixe_.

  It makes us think of sunny lands,
    Where weather has no freaks,
  To see, they're always so, your hands
    Both point to that _Beau fixe_.

  And though we're sodden to the skin,
    Through coat and vest and breeks,
  You did not mean to take us in
    In spite of your _Beau fixe_.

  We tramp, expecting soon to see
    In that grey sky some streaks;
  Ah no, it's fixed as fixed can be,
    As fixed as your _Beau fixe_.

  No matter, we get used to rain,
    And mop our streaming cheeks,
  Quite sure, when we get home again,
    You cannot say _Beau fixe_.

  At last, all soaked, we stagger in--
    One's clothing simply leaks--
  And still you say, through thick and thin,
    Unchangeably _Beau fixe_.

  We change, although you don't; no thread
    Is dry on us; small creeks
  Form where we stand, all drenched from head
    To foot. Blow your _Beau fixe_!

  This beastly weather might have riled
    The philosophic Greeks;
  It makes us simple Britons wild,
    Combined with your _Beau fixe_.

  We tell the landlord we must go--
    Poor man, he rather piques
  Himself upon the weather, so
    Incessantly _Beau fixe_.

  "_Ah, non, ca va changer ce soir!_"
    Thus hopefully he speaks,
  "_Si Monsieur voulait bien voir
    Le barometre--Beau fixe!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN AUTHORITY ON THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE "BUFFER
STATE"!!]

       *       *       *       *       *

Adapted.

(_To the Unionist Needs of the Moment._)

  Other men have many faults,
      Mr. GLADSTONE has but two;
  There's nothing wise that he can say,
      and nothing right that he can do.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a recent case, Mr. LANE, the magistrate, is reported to have
informed an inquiring husband, "If your wife turns you out she is not
bound to find you a home; but if _you_ turn your wife out you _are_
bound to find _her_ a home." This suggests a new Charity, "The Home
for Turned-out Wives." These ladies would be seen driving out in
well-appointed traps, and gain a new status in Society as being
"uncommonly well-turned-out" wives.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER SCENE AT THE PLAY.

(_That never should be tolerated._)

SCENE--_Auditorium of a Fashionable Theatre. Vast majority of the
audience deeply interested in the action and dialogue of an excellent
piece. Enter a party of Lady Emptyheads into a Private Box._

_First Emptyhead (taking off her wraps)._ I told you there was no
necessity to hurry away from dinner. You see they are getting on very
well without us.

_Second Empt. (seating herself in front of the box)._ Yes. And it's so
much pleasanter to chat than to listen. This piece, they tell me, is
full of clever dialogue--so satisfactory to people who like that sort
of thing.

_Third Empt. (looking round the house with an opera-glass)._ Why
scarcely a soul in the place we know. Well, I suppose everybody is
leaving town. Stay, is that Mrs. EVERGREEN TOFFY?

_Fourth Empt. (also using her glasses)._ Why, yes. I wish we could
make her see us.

_First Empt._ Haven't you noticed that you never can attract attention
when you want to? Isn't it provoking?

_Second Empt._ Oh, terribly; and there is Captain DASHALONG. Why, I
thought he was at Aldershot.

_Third Empt._ Oh, they always give them leave about this time of the
year.

_Rest of Audience (sternly)._ Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

_Fourth Empt._ I wonder what's the piece about.

_Third Empt._ Oh, it doesn't in the least matter. Sure to be
sparkling. Do you like that woman's hair?

_Fourth Empt._ Scarcely. It's the wrong shade. How can people make
such frights of themselves!

_First Empt._ I wonder if this is the Second Act, or the First!

_Third Empt._ What does it matter! I never worry about a piece, for I
know I shall see all about it afterwards in the papers.

_Rest of Audience (with increased sternness)._ Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

_Second Empt._ I always come to this theatre because the chairs are
comfortable. What is the good of going to the play unless you can
enjoy yourself?

_Third Empt._ Quite so. And it's much better fun without one's
husband, isn't it?

_First Empt._ Of course. I never bring mine, because he always goes to
sleep! So disrespectful to the actresses and actors!

_Second Empt._ Yes. Of course, one ought to listen to what's going on,
even if you don't care what it's all about.

_Fourth Empt._ Quite so. Not that it isn't pleasant to look round the
house.

_Rest of Audience (angrier than ever)._ Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

_Third Empt._ Yes, I often think that this side of the curtain is
quite as amusing as the other.

_Fourth Empt._ I wonder what they are doing on the stage? Oh, I see
that the Act is nearly over! Well, I daresay it has been very amusing.

_Rest of Audience (furious)._ Hush! Hush! Hush!

_First Empt._ There descends the curtain! By the way, what a noise
those people in the pit have been making! I wonder what it was all
about?

_Second Empt._ I haven't the faintest notion. However, when the
play begins again, I hope they won't make any more noise. It is so
disrespectful to the Audience.

_First Empt._ And the Company. Why can't people behave themselves in a
theatre?

_Second, Third, and Fourth Empt. (in chorus)._ Ah yes! Why can't they?

[_Scene closes in upon a renewal of chatter upon the raising of the
Curtain on another Act._

       *       *       *       *       *

"GIVE A _DAY_ A BAD NAME AND----."--It is stated that the day of the
disgraceful Donnybrook in the House of Commons has been nicknamed
"Collar Day," because Mr. HAYES FISHER seized Mr. LOGAN by the collar,
and Mr. CHAMBERLAIN "collared" Mr. O'BRIEN'S table in the dining-room.
This is all very well in its way, but would not "_Choler_ Day" be more
appropriate and intelligible?

       *       *       *       *       *

A DREAM-BOOK

_For Would-be Travellers._

If you dream of--

_Antwerp._ Remember the Reubens and forget the passage over.

_Boulogne._ Remember the Casino and forget the Port.

_Calais._ Remember the Restaurant at the station and forget the dull
surroundings.

_Dieppe._ Remember the Plage and forget the occasional gales.

_Etretat._ Remember the sands and forget the prices.

_Florence._ Remember the pictures and forget the heat.

_Geneva._ Remember the lake and forget the city.

_Heidelberg._ Remember the castle and forget the climbing.

_Interlachen._ Remember the Jung Frau and forget the tourists.

_Japan._ Remember the interesting associations and forget the length
of the journey.

_Lisburn._ Remember that it is little known and forget that it is not
worth seeing.

_Madrid._ Remember that you can get there in two days and forget that
you will regret the time you spend upon the trip.

_Naples._ Remember that you should see the Bay and forget that you are
expected to die immediately afterwards.

_Paris._ Remember that it is always pleasant and forget that the
exception is during August.

_Quebec._ Remember it's in Canada and forget that it's the least
pleasing place in America.

_Rome._ Remember its objects of interest and forget its fever.

_Strasbourg._ Remember that it has a Cathedral and forget that the
clock is a fraud.

_Turin._ Remember that it might be quite worth the journey and forget
that it isn't.

_Venice._ Remember its canals and forget its odours.

_Vichy._ Remember that there is a good hotel and forget that you have
been there a dozen times before.

_Wiesbaden._ Remember the glories of its past and forget the sadness
of its present.

_Zurich._ Remember that it is completely abroad and forget that
there's no place like home.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

_Blenkinsop (on a Friend's Yacht) soliloquises._ "I KNOW ONE THING,
IF EVER I'M RICH ENOUGH TO KEEP A YACHT, I SHALL SPEND THE MONEY IN
HORSES."]

       *       *       *       *       *

ONLY THEIR PLAY!

  Abnormal natures, morbid motives! Yes!
  These things, upon the stage, perhaps impress.
  Monstrosities, not true men's hearts, nor women's.
  Trolls, with a touch of the _delirium tremens_,
  Neurotic neurospasts, puppets whose wires
  Are pulled by morbid dreams and mad desires;
  Not men and women 'midst our world's temptations,
  But fevered phantasy's bizarre creations.
  Despite _Solness_ and _Mrs. Tanqueray_,
  "People don't do these things"--except _in play_!

       *       *       *       *       *

AS IN A GLASS DARKLY.--Grubby and grovelling "Realists" boast that
they only "hold the mirror up to Nature." Perhaps! But when their
particular "mirror" happens to be--as it commonly is--dirty and
distorting, Nature, like the victim of a bad looking-glass at a
country inn, is taken at a disadvantage. There are mirrors which make
a man look a monster, but then the monstrosity is not in the man but
the mirror.

       *       *       *       *       *

TIMON ON BIMETALLISM.

(_Adapted from Shakspeare._)

    ["He advocates bimetallism with the passionate ardour of a
    prophet promulgating a new revelation. On most subjects he is
    cool, analytical, _and perhaps a little cynical_; but on this
    subject he is an enthusiast."--_The Times on Mr. Balfour's
    Speech about Bimetallism._]

_Timon of London, loquitur_:--

                          The learned pate
  Ducks to the golden fool; all is oblique;
  There's nothing level in our currency
  But monometallism! Gold doth lord
  Great lands, societies, and throngs of men.
  That the sun rounds the earth, that earth's a disc,
  Are foolish fads that TIMON much disdains
  As duping dull mankind. But will they rank
  _My_ fad--Bimetallism--along with such?
  I seek a dual standard; gold alone
  Is a most operant poison! What is here?
  Gold? yellow, precious, glittering gold? No, gods,
  I am no aureate votarist. Silver seems
  To me, and to wise WALSH, a fair twin-standard
  Fit to set up, that variable values
  May find stability in dual change,
  _With_ a fixed ratio, which the world must find,
  Or our one standard, like a pirate's flag,
  Will lead us to disaster. Monometallism
  Is--Monomania. This yellow slave
  Will break, not knit, our Commerce. I can be
  Cool, analytical, even cynical
  On trifles--such as Separatism's sin,
  Or County Council Crime; but this thing stirs
  My tepid blood, e'en as Statistics warm
  The chilly soul of GOSCHEN. Come, curst gold,
  Thou common ore of mankind, that putt'st odds
  Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
  Take thy right place! Thou mak'st my heart beat quick,
  But yet I'll bury thee: thou'lt go, strong thief,
  Orthodox keepers of thee cannot stand
  Against a passionate prophet's promulgation
  Of a new economic revelation.
  "Put up your gold!" But put up silver, too,
  (As WALSH, and GRENFELL, and Sage CHAPLIN urge),
  Or banded Europe--some day--shall smash up
  Our City to financial chaos. Aye!
  I may talk lightly about trivial things,
  And cynically smile on twaddle's trifles,--
  Union of hearts, optimist ecstasies,
  Fervours, and faiths, the breeks of prisoned Pats,
  Coercion's bondage and such bagatelles--
  But on this Titan theme--Bimetallism--
  TIMON is in hot earnest!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Short Way with Wasps.

  A plague of wasps infests the South
    In consequence of the hot season!--
  Humph! Is it torrid heat and drouth
    Deprive our Commons of cool reason?
  A plague of wasps infests the House!
    Its managers the matter mull, for
  They have not (like poor HODGE) the _nous_
    To smoke pests out with (moral) sulphur!
  To check HAYES FISHER'S style, or TIM'S tone,
  MELLOR tries treacle; he needs brimstone.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LESSON.

_Father_ (_on receiving Bill for Luncheon at one of our very modern
London Restaurants_). "HALLO! WHAT!! OVER TWO GUINEAS FOR MERELY----!
WHY, HANG IT----!"

_His Son_ (_small Etonian_). "OH, WELL NEVER MIND, FATHER. IT'S A
THING TO DO _ONCE_, AND WE WON'T DO IT AGAIN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE STORMY PETREL.

    ["This bird has long been celebrated for the manner in which
    it passes over the waves, pattering with its webbed feet
    and flapping its wings so as to keep itself just above the
    surface. It thus traverses the ocean with wonderful ease, the
    billows rolling beneath its feet and passing away under the
    bird without in the least disturbing it."--_Wood's Popular
    Natural History._]

  Only a Petrel, I,
  Telling the storm is nigh;
  Fleet o'er the waves I fly,
    When skies look stormy.
  When things are calm and slow,
  I 'midst Brum rocks lie low;
  But when wild breezes blow
    Men may look for me.

  Lured from my Midland home,
  When gales begin to roam
  Proudly I skim the foam,
    Flappering and pattering!
  I with the airiest ease
  Traverse the angriest seas
  Round the wild Hebrides
    Bellowing and battering.

  But the wild Irish coast
  Suits my strong flight the most.
  Breeze-baffling wings I boast,
    Nothing disturbs me.
  Cool 'midst the tempest's crash,
  Swift through the foam I dash,
  Wind flout or lightning flash
    Scares not, nor curbs me.

  Sea-birds are silly things,
  Squat bodies, stunted wings.
  Where is the bard who sings
    Penguin or puffin,
  Grebe, guillemot, or gull?
  Oh, the winged noodles, null,
  In timid flocks and dull,
    Squattin' and stuffin'!

  I, like the albatross,
  Love on the winds to toss,
  Where gales and currents cross
    My fodder finding.
  Let Gulls and Boobies rest
  Safe in a sheltered nest,
  I'm bold the breeze to breast
    Tamer fowl blinding.

  Only a Petrel, I,
  Calm in a calm I lie,
  But when 'neath darkening sky
    Strife lifteth her face,
  When the red lightnings glare,
  Then, from my rocky lair
  Darting, I cleave the air,
    Skimming sea's surface.

  Some swear the storm I raise;
  That's superstition's craze;
  But on tempestuous days,
    Wild, wet, and windy,
  Herald of storm I fly.
  Only a Petrel, I,
  But when my form you spy,--
    Look out for shindy.

       *       *       *       *       *

"BENEFITS FORGOT."--This is the title of a serial in _Scribners'_.
Many over-strict persons will not read it, being under the impression
that the story is essentially theatrical. A natural mistake. Nothing
in an actor's life could give occasion for more bitter reflection than
the memory of "Benefits Forgot," especially after they had been got up
and advertised at great personal expense.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A FINE WOMAN.

(_By a Little Man._)

  "Can my eyes reach thy size?"
    Asked the Lilliputian poet,
  As I've read. Can my head
    Reach your shoulder? It's below it.

  Women all are so tall
    Nowadays, but you're gigantic;
  One so vast, sweeping past,
    Makes my five feet four feel frantic.

  Each girl tries exercise,
    Rows, rides, runs, golf, cricket, tennis,
  Games for an Olympian--
    Greek Olympia, not "Venice."

  Stalks and shoots, climbs in boots
    Like a navvy's not a dandy's,
  Ice-axe takes, records breaks--
    If not neck--on Alps or Andes.

  Alps in height, girls affright
    Men, like me, of puny figure;
  They are too tall, but you
    Are preposterously bigger.

  At this dance, if I glance
    Round the room, I see I'm smallest;
  You instead are a head
    Over girls and men, you're tallest.

  As a pair, at a fair,
    Any showman might produce us;
  Dwarf I'd do, giant you----
    What! They want to introduce us?

  Can I whirl such a girl?
    Calisthenics could not teach it.
  I, effaced, clasp your waist?
    I'll be hanged if I can reach it!

[Illustration: THE STORMY PETREL!]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(_By Cunnin Toil._)

No. I.--THE BISHOP'S CRIME.

I was sitting alone in my room at 10.29 on the night of the 14th of
last November. I had been doing a good deal of work lately, and I
was tired. Moreover, I had had more than one touch of that old Afghan
fever, which always seemed to be much more inclined to touch than to
go. However, we can't have everything here to please us; and as I had
only the other day attended two bankers and a Lord Mayor for measles,
I had no real cause to complain of my prospects. I had drawn the old
armchair in which I was sitting close to the fire, and, not having
any bread handy, I was occupied in toasting my feet at the blaze
when suddenly the clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour, and
PICKLOCK HOLES stood by my side. I was too much accustomed to his
proceedings to express any surprise at seeing him thus, but I own
that I was itching to ask him how he had managed to get into my house
without ringing the bell. However, I refrained, and motioned him to a
chair.

"My friend," said this extraordinary man, without the least preface,
"you've been smoking again. You know you have; it's not the least use
denying it." I absolutely gasped with astonishment, and gazed at him
almost in terror. How had he guessed my secret? He read my thoughts,
and smiled.

"Oh, simply enough. That spot on your shirt-cuff is black. But
it might have been yellow, or green, or blue, or brown, or
rainbow-coloured. But I know you smoke Rainbow mixture, and as your
canary there in the corner has just gone blind, I know further that
bird's-eye is one of the component parts of the mixture."

"HOLES," I cried, dropping my old meerschaum out of my mouth in my
amazement; "I don't believe you're a man at all--you're a devil."

"Thank you for the compliment," he replied, without moving a single
muscle of his marble face. "You ought not to sup----" He was going
to have added "pose," but the first syllable seemed to suggest a
new train of thought (in which, I may add, there was no second class
whatever) to my inexplicable friend.

"No," he said; "the devilled bones were not good. Don't interrupt me;
you had devilled bones for supper, or rather you would have had them,
only you didn't like them. Do you see that match? A small piece
is broken off the bottom, but enough is left to show it was once
a lucifer--in other words, a devil. It is lying at the feet of
the skeleton which you use for your anatomical investigations, and
therefore I naturally conclude that you had devilled bones for
supper. You didn't eat them, _for not a single bone of the skeleton is
missing_. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do," I said, marvelling more than ever at the extraordinary
perspicacity of the man. As a matter of fact, my supper had consisted
of bread and cheese; but I felt that it would be in extremely bad
taste for a struggling medical practitioner like myself to contradict
a detective whose fame had extended to the ends of the earth. I picked
up my pipe, and relit it, and, for a few moments, we sat in silence.
At last I ventured to address him.

"Anything new?" I said.

"No, not exactly new," he said, wearily, passing his sinewy hand over
his expressionless brow. "Have you a special _Evening Standard_? I
conclude you have, as I see no other evening papers here. Do you mind
handing it to me?"

There was no deceiving this weird creature. I took the paper he
mentioned from my study table, and handed it to him.

"Now listen," said HOLES, and then read, in a voice devoid of any sign
of emotion, the following paragraph:--"This morning, as Mrs.
DRABLEY, a lady of independent means, was walking in Piccadilly, she
inadvertently stepped on a piece of orange-peel, and fell heavily
on the pavement. She was carried into the shop of Messrs. SALVER AND
TANKARD, the well-known silversmiths, and it was at first thought she
had broken her right leg. However, on being examined by a medical man
who happened to be passing, she was pronounced to be suffering
from nothing worse than a severe bruise, and, in the course of
half-an-hour, she recovered sufficiently to be able to proceed on her
business. This is the fifth accident caused by orange-peel at the same
place within the last week."

[Illustration: "The Bishop was in his night-gown, and the sight of two
strangers visibly alarmed him."]

"It _is_ scandalous!" I broke in. "This mania for dropping orange-peel
is decimating London. Curiously enough I happen to be the medical man
who----"

"Yes, I know; you are the medical man who was passing."

"HOLES," I ejaculated, "you are a magician."

"No, not a magician; only a humble seeker after truth, who uses as a
basis for his deduction some slight point that others are too blind
to grasp. Now you think the matter ends there. I don't. I mean to
discover who dropped that orange-peel. Will you help me?"

"Of course I will, but how do you mean to proceed? There must be
thousands of people who eat oranges every day in London."

"Be accurate, my dear fellow, whatever you do. There are 78,965, not
counting girls. But this piece was not dropped by a girl."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Never mind; it is sufficient that I do know it. Read this," he
continued, pointing to another column of the paper. This is what I
read:--

"MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE.--A great conference of American and Colonial
Bishops was held in Exeter Hall this afternoon. The proceedings opened
with an impassioned speech from the Bishop of FLORIDA----"

"Never mind the rest," said HOLES, "that's quite enough. Now read
this":--

"The magnificent silver bowl to be presented to the Bishop of Florida
by some of his English friends is now on view at Messrs. SALVER
AND TANKARD'S in Piccadilly. It is a noble specimen of the British
silversmith's art." An elaborate description followed.

"These paragraphs," continued HOLES, in his usual impassive manner,
"give me the clue I want. Florida is an orange-growing country. Let us
call on the Bishop."

In a moment we had put on our hats, and in another moment we were in
a Hansom on our way to the Bishop's lodgings in Church Street, Soho.
HOLES gained admittance by means of his skeleton key. We passed
noiselessly up the stairs, and, without knocking, entered the Bishop's
bedroom. He was in his night-gown, and the sight of two strangers
visibly alarmed him.

"I am a detective," began HOLES.

"Oh," said the Bishop, turning pale. "Then I presume you have called
about that curate who disappeared in an alligator swamp close to my
episcopal palace in Florida. It is not true that I killed him. He----"

"Tush," said HOLES, "we are come about weightier matters. This morning
at half-past eleven your lordship was standing outside the shop of
SALVER AND TANKARD looking at your presentation bowl. You were eating
an orange. You stowed the greater part of the peel in your coat-tail
pocket, but you dropped, maliciously dropped, one piece on the
pavement. Shortly afterwards a stout lady passing by trod on it and
fell. Have you anything to say?"

The Bishop made a movement, but HOLES was before-hand with him. He
dashed to a long black coat that hung behind the door, inserted his
hand deftly in the pocket, and pulled out the fragmentary remains of a
large Florida orange.

"As I supposed," he said, "a piece is missing."

But the miserable prelate had fallen senseless on the floor, where we
left him.

"HOLES," I said, "this is one of your very best. How on earth did you
know you would find that orange-peel in his coat?"

"I didn't find it there," replied my friend; "I brought it with me,
and had it in my hand when I put it in his pocket. I knew I should
have to use strong measures with so desperate a character. My dear
fellow, all these matters require tact and imagination."

And that was how we brought home the orange-peel to the Bishop.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ben Trovato.

  A penny-a-liner heard--with a not unnatural choler--
    That he of all invention was apparently bereft;
  And so he up and told them that a smart left-handed bowler,
    "Manipulates the leather with the left!"
  That's very chaste and novel, and alliterative too;
  As a sham Swinburnian poet we should think that man might do!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EDUCATED.

(_From a Yorkshire Moor._)

_Keeper (to the Captain, who has missed again, and is letting off
steam in consequence)._ "OH DEAR! OH DEAR! IT'S HAWFUL TO SEE YER
MISSIN' OF 'EM, SIR; BUT"--(_with admiration_)--"YE'RE A SCHOLARD I'
LANGWIDGE, SIR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CRICKET CONGRATULATIONS.

  843! Well done! Well played! Well hit!
  It opens _Mr. Punch's_ eyes a bit
  To see our friends of the Antipodes
  Pile up their hundreds with the utmost ease.
  BRUCE leads the way, and shows Blues--Dark and Light--
  Left-handed men may play the game aright.
  Then BANNERMAN, safe as a GUNN is he,
  Exceeds the Century by thirty-three,
  While five more than a hundred runs are due
  To TRUMBLE, whom his friends call simply "HUGH."
  Well played, Australia! Banks may fail--they do,
  And, truth to tell, you _have_ lost one or two,
  But this at any rate's a clear deduction--
  Your Cricket Team can need no reconstruction!

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, July 31._--No one who chanced last
Thursday to see HAYES FISHER and LOGAN engaged in controversy on
Front Opposition Bench would suspect them of essentially retiring
disposition. This conclusively proved to-night. Decided on further
consideration that something must really be done in direction of
modifying effects of Thursday's riot. Someone must apologise. This
put to HAYES FISHER, who delighted WALROND with swiftness, even
enthusiasm, of acquiescence.

"Right you are, dear boy," he cried. "I have thought so from the
first. Indeed I have publicly placed the matter in its true light.
Daresay you read my little affidavit written within an hour of what
I quite agree with the SPEAKER in alluding to as 'the regrettable
incident.' Here's what I said: 'To put a stop to his (LOGAN'S)
aggressive conduct, I immediately seized him by the neck and forcibly
ejected him on to the floor of the House. That began the scrimmage.'
Then I go on to point the moral, though indeed it points itself.
This is where you and I particularly agree. 'In my opinion the
responsibility for the discreditable scene rests even more with Mr.
GLADSTONE than with Mr. LOGAN.' Yes, WALROND, you are quite right in
what you are about to say. I have shown clearly that Mr. G. was at the
bottom of the whole business, and he should apologise. Don't you think
he'd better be brought in at the Bar? And if he spent a night or two
in the Clock Tower it would have most wholesome effect, vindicate
dignity of House, and prevent recurrence of these regrettable scenes."

WALROND'S face a study, whilst HAYES FISHER, carried away by
enthusiasm of moment, rubbed his hands and smiled in anticipation of
the scene.

The Opposition Whip had tough job in hand. To FISHER'S logical mind
the proposal that _he_ should apologise was a _non sequitur_. Why,
what had he done? As he told House later, seeing LOGAN come up and
sit down on bench below him, he thought he was going to strike him.
Natural attitude for a man meaning to let out straight from the
shoulder at another is to sit down with back turned towards intended
victim. FISHER'S quick intelligence taking whole situation in at
glance, he promptly proceeded to take in as much as his hands would
hold of the back of LOGAN'S neck, with intent to thrust him forth.
That, as he wrote, "began the scrimmage." In other words, Mr.
GLADSTONE was responsible for the whole business, even more so than
LOGAN, who had wantonly brought the back of his neck within reach of
FISHER'S hand.

However, there were reasons of State why the guilty should go
unpunished. Not the first time Innocency has been sacrificed that
Guilt might stalk through the land unfettered. FISHER would apologise;
but here again the untameably logical mind asserted itself. LOGAN must
apologise first. It was he who had been forcibly ejected. On Thursday
night FISHER had come up behind him; _argal_, he must follow him
now. Thus it was settled, or so understood. But when critical moment
arrived, House waiting for someone to speak, hitch occurred. FISHER
waited for LOGAN; LOGAN, in excess of politeness, hung back. Awkward
pause. SPEAKER observed he had certainly understood something might be
said by the two gentlemen. Another pause. LOGAN and FISHER eyed each
other across the floor.

  Lord CHATHAM, with his sword drawn,
  Stood waiting for Sir RICHARD STRACHAN;
  Sir RICHARD, longing to be at 'em,
  Stood waiting for the Earl of CHATHAM.

[Illustration: "THE HAPPY FAMILY."

(_By Our Artist in Fret-Work._)]

At length PRINCE ARTHUR interposed; gently, but firmly, drew the coy
FISHER to the front. His apology followed by one from the lingering
LOGAN. Scene ended amid mutual tears.

"Yes, it's all very well," said FISHER, wringing his
pocket-handkerchief and glaring angrily at Mr. G. "But, after all, the
real criminal has escaped, and logic, as applicable to events of daily
life, has received a staggering blow."

_Business done._--ACLAND explained English Education Estimates in
speech admirable alike in matter and manner.

[Illustration: Another Injustice to Ireland.]

_Tuesday._--Some men are born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.
Of these is WILLIAM O'BRIEN. It would seem that fate had expended its
malignity when PRINCE ARTHUR deprived him of his breeches. Now JOSEPH
has appropriated his dinner-table. The lynx eye of BARTLEY detected
the irregularity which disclosed existence of this fresh outrage.
BARTLEY favourably known in House as guardian of its honour and
dignity. From time to time spirit moves him suddenly to rise and point
fat forefinger at astonished Mr. G., whom he has discovered in
some fresh design upon stability of the Empire or symmetry of the
Constitution. At stated hours, formerly on Thursdays ten o'clock now
generally on stroke of midnight, he is seen and heard shouting "Gag!
gag!"

"Odd," says Member for Sark, "how phrases change in similar
circumstances though at different epochs. When Closure first invented,
put in motion by dear OLD MORALITY, and supported by BARTLEY, HANBURY,
JIMMY LOWTHER, and the rest, it used to be spoken resentfully of
as 'pouncing.' Now it is 'gagging.' But it is precisely the same,
inasmuch as the minority of the day, against whom it is enforced,
denounce it as iniquitous, whilst the majority, who took that view
when they were on other side of House, now regard it as indispensable
to conduct of public business. BARTLEY having lived through both
epochs is useful illustration of this tendency. When OLD MORALITY
pounced on Irish members his lusty shout of approval used to echo
through House with only less volume than now his roar of anguish goes
up to glass roof when OLD MORALITY'S original thumbscrews are fitted
on him and his friends. A quaint, mad world, my TOBY."

To-night BARTLEY not so well-informed on subject as usual. Thought
it was JOHN DILLON, who, acting the part of AMPHITRYON, piloted his
guests within preserves of members' private dining-room. Turned out it
wasn't DILLON at all, but WILLIAM O'BRIEN, who in most tragic manner
tells how, having secured in advance a table for his guests, found
when the dinner-hour struck JOSEPH and his Brethren seated thereat,
merrily profiting by his forethought. Straightway O'BRIEN led his
guests to the table in members' room which Unionist Leaders have
marked for their own. This he appropriated, and there, regardless of
surprised looks from ex-ministers at adjoining table, he truculently
dined.

"Well, at any rate," said TIM HEALY, that Man of Peace, "I'm glad it
wasn't mere English or Orangemen who were thus treated. If JOSEPH had
appropriated SAUNDERSON'S table, the Colonel would have taken him in
his arms, dropped him outside on the Terrace, and, returning to his
seat, ordered a fresh plate of soup." _Business done._--BARTLEY adds
fresh dignity to Parliamentary debate.

_Thursday._--Was it this day week the House was in volcanic upheaval,
with HAYES FISHER--or was it Mr. GLADSTONE?--clutching LOGAN by
the back of the neck, a mad mob mauling each other round the white
waistcoat of EDWARD OF ARMAGH? According to the almanack this is so;
according to appearances an eternity and a hemisphere divide the two
scenes.

In Committee on Vote on Account; average attendance from twenty to
thirty. Orders bristle with amendments; papers read in support
of them; occasionally a Member follows with observations on topic
suggested; sometimes he doesn't; then next gentleman who has prepared
paper takes the floor; the audience turns over; goes to sleep again;
wakened by Chairman putting question "that Amendment be withdrawn."
Isn't even vigour sufficient to induce a division.

Only person free from somnolent influence of hour is Mr. G. Has
nothing to do in this galley; looks on wistfully whilst LOWTHER
(not JIMMY) talks about Vitu and the Pamirs; JIMMY (_lui meme_) is
sarcastic on subject of Board of Trade engaging in experiments
in journalism; and DICKY TEMPLE wants to know all about reported
modifications in constitution of St. Paul's School by the Charity
Commissioners. Mr. G. liked to have offered few remarks on one or all
these subjects. TOMMY BOWLES nearly succeeded in drawing him. Dropping
lightly out of Siam, _via_ Morocco, upon question of Collisions at
Sea, TOMMY brought MUNDELLA into full focus and fairly floored him
with a problem.

"Suppose," he said, "the right hon. gentleman were at sea, and the
whole fleet bore down upon him on the weather bow. What would he do?"

MUNDELLA nonplussed. Mr. G. knew all about it; would have answered
right off and probably silenced even TOMMY with proposition of counter
man[oe]uvre. But MARJORIBANKS kept relentless eye on him. Vote on
Account must be got through Committee to-night. The less speaking
the better; so with profound sigh Mr. G. resisted the temptation
and composed himself to listen to LENG'S paper on the prohibition
of importation of live cattle from Canada. Here was opportunity of
learning something which Mr. G. gratefully welcomed. Gradually, as
the new knight went on reading extract after extract in level voice,
remorselessly deliberate, Mr. G.'s eyes closed, his head drooped, and
in full view of the crowded Strangers' Gallery he fell into peaceful,
childlike slumber.

_Business done._--Vote on Account passed Committee.

[Illustration: Reading the G. O. M. to sleep.]

_Friday._--Morning sitting devoted to miscellaneous talk around
Ireland. Evening, a long STOREY about iniquities of House of Lords.
The evening and the morning a dull day. Had time to look over Mr. G.'s
letter about retention of Irish Members. "What do you think of it?" I
asked the Member for Sark. "Haven't read it," he said. "When I saw
it was a column long, I knew Mr. G. didn't want to say anything
that would be understood. When he does, a few lines suffice; when he
doesn't, nothing less than a column of print will serve."

_Business done._--Vote on Account through Report Stage.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRANCE AND SIAM.--The situation at Bangkok will probably result in
further Develle-opments.

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's Note:

Page 64: 'barometre' corrected to 'barometre'. "Le barometre--Beau
fixe!"

Page 65: 'Jung Frau' ... the author may have had something else in
mind, besides the mountain (Jungfrau)?

"_Interlachen._ Remember the Jung Frau and forget the tourists."

Page 69: 'measeles' corrected to 'measles'. "attended two bankers and
a Lord Mayor for measles,"







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
105, August 12th 1893, by Various

*** 