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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. XCVIII.


FEBRUARY 22, 1890.




[Illustration: THE SCIENTIFIC VOLUNTEER.]

    "If ever I have to choose.... I shall, without hesitation,
    shoulder my rifle with the Orangeman."--_See Professor Tyndall's
    Reply to Sir W. V. Harcourt._ "_Times_," Feb. 13, 1890.

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY ON EQUALITY.

  DEAR CHARLIE,--Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy.
  I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie
          of toy
  Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's _me_, CHARLIE! My back seemed to open
          and shut,
  As the _grippe_-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss
          with my nut.

  Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one.
  The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's
          their fun.
  I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but _this_ weren't no cold,
          leastways _mine_.
  Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.

  Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me.
  When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old
          _D. T._
  A party named ROBERT BUCHANAN, as always appears on the job,
  Was a slating a chappie called HUXLEY. Thinks I, I'll take stock of
          friend BOB.

  Well, _he_ ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never
          wos.
  Old HUXLEY's wuth ten on him, CHARLIE, though _he's_ rather huppish and
          poz.
  Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout.
  BOB B., he says "Yus;" HUXLEY, "No;" and BOB'S wrong, there's no manner
          of doubt.

  "Free and equal?" Oh, NEBUCHADNEZZAR! how _can_ they talk sech tommy-rot?
  Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot.
  Nice hidea, but _taint so_, that's the wust on it. There's where these
          dreamers go wrong.
  Ought's nothink, and that as is, _is_; all the rest isn't wuth a old
          Song.

  Bad as BUGGINS, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez BUGGINS, sez he,
  Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me?
  Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts _for_ us all.
  It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's
          Stall.

  All I've got to say, CHARLIE, is this. If so be Nature meant all that
          there,
  She must be a fair "J." as a mater. _I've_ bin bested out of _my_ share.
  So has BUGGINS, and nine out o' ten on us. _If_ the few nobble the quids
  Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.

  Poor BUGGINS! He's nuts upon HENERY GEORGE, WILLIAM MORRIS, and such.
  He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch
  Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. _Him_ born free and equal?
          Great Scott!
  'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot.

  Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't
          exist,
  Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist.
  It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. _Is_ men equal in muscle and pith?
  Arsk BISMARCK and DERBY, dear boy, or arsk JACKSON the Black and JEM
          SMITH.

  There'd be precious few larks if they wos, CHARLIE--where'd be the chance
          of a spree
  If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me?
  It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun--for the
          ups.
  Equal? Yus, as old BARNUM and BUGGINS, or tigers and tarrier pups.

  He's a long-winded lot, is BUCHANAN, slops over tremenjous, he do;
  Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few,
  Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher
          know,
  But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so ROBERT, my nabs, it's no go.

  Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up.
  Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp.
  'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me,
  But to fancy as them as _has_ got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.

  Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay
          they did.
  Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid!
  Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish _I_'d a spanking
          estate
  Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the
          slate.

  No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the
          nobs,
  Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S.
  As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy.
  Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to
          enjoy.

  Life's a great game of grab, fur's _I_ see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well,
          _call_ it that.
  If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat.
  There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each,
  It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at
          the peach.

  _High priori_ hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot.
  Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot!
  "Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's
          religion and law;
  Pooty fakes! But when _sharing's_ the word they ain't in it with sheer
          tooth and claw.

  Orful nice to see Science confirming wot _I_ always held. Blow me tight,
  If I don't rayther cotton to HUXLEY; he's racy, old pal, and he's right.
  The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream,
  And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's
          Dream!

  Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs,
  Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old BUGGINS, he flushes
          and coughs;
  Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
  Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or
          _you'll_ choke.

  Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
  As 'cute Bishop MAGEE sez Religion would do--_carried out_--with the
          State.
  Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common
          sense,
  To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!

  All cop and no blue ain't _my_ motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum;
  And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum.
  And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there,
          dontcher know;
  But shake up the Bag and share round, like good pals a pot-lucking?
          Oh no!

  Wot these jokers call Justice means knocking all 'andicap out of life's
          race;
  "Equal chances all round," they declare, wouldn't give equal power and
          pace!
  Wy, no; but if things weren't made nice for the few with the power and
          the tin,
  The 'andicapped many would be in the 'unt, and some on 'em might _win_.

  Pooty nice state o' things for the perkers! Luck, Law, and the Longheads,
          dear boy,
  Have arranged the world so that the many must work that the few may
          enjoy.
  These "Equality" jossers would spile it; if arf their reforms they can
          carry,
  The enjoyers will 'ave a rough time, and there won't be a look in for
          'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

LE PETIT DUC.

[Illustration: _Audience._ "BRAVO, MONSEIGNEUR!"]

  "BRAVO Monseigneur!" Quite a natural cry,
    For he looks picturesque, and appears to be plucky,
  The Roscius _role_ the young actor would try;
    His _debut_ "gets a hand," which is certainly lucky.
  These Infant Phenomena frequently fail
  To rouse anything more than good-natured derision;
  But clappings and cheers this boy histrion hail.
                What then is his Vision?

  "The thoughts of youth, they are long, long thoughts;"
    Exceedingly true, most mellifluous LONGFELLOW!
  But later come crosses, oft leading to noughts,
    And "_l'homme necessaire_" often finds he's the wrong fellow.
  How many _debuts_ have occurred on the Stage
    With various set scenes, and with properties varied?
  Sensationalism, the vice of the age,
                To extremes has been carried.

  A good situation all actors desire,
    All playrights approve, and all managers glory in.
  He has struck out his own with decision and fire.
    What part will he play a more serious story in?
  Who knows? For the moment the cue is applause.
    "_Vive_, ROSCIUS!" It may mean mere _claque_, empty chatter.
  And whether the youngster will further the Cause
                Is a different matter.

  _A coup de theatre_ is not everything,
    As well he's aware, that tragedian troubled
  Who is gliding so gloomily off at the wing.
    Hope's cup at his lips lately brimmingly bubbled,
  Now "foiled by a novice, eclipsed by a boy!"
    Is the thought in his mind. The reflection is bitter--
  Theatrical taste often craves a fresh toy,
                And is captured by glitter.

  What thinks Madame France of the attitude struck
    By this confident slip of good stock histrionic?
  Though dames swear their dear _Petit Duc_ is a duck,
    The smile of old stagers is somewhat ironic.
  But "Bravas!" resound. A lad's "resolute will,"
    The "wisdom of twenty years," stir admiration,
  The political _Cafe Chantant_ pluck will thrill
                In a stage-loving nation.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROYAL BERKSHIRE.--Go to DOWDESWELL'S, in Bond Street, and they will
show you how County-history is written in the present day. It is
altogether different to the dull, old, dry volumes, "the musty
histories," which our grandfathers exhibited on their shelves, but
never took down to read; and these County-historians are of a much
more entertaining character. Those who know Royal Berkshire well--as
most of us do--will be glad to have their memory refreshed by the
fresh, bright, breezy pictures by YEEND KING, JOHN M. BROMLEY, and J.
M. MACKINTOSH. KEELEY HALSWELLE'S superb painting of "_Royal Windsor_"
occupies the place of honour in the room. It is one of the best
pictures--and at the same time one of the most unconventional--ever
produced of this oft-painted subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ROOT OF THE MATTER.

(_The Typical Woman's Reply to the Arguments of the Rational Dress
Society._)

  My dear LENNOX BROWNE, and my good Dr. SMITH,
  There is probably truth, there is certainly pith,
    In your Kensington talk about Rational Dress.
  Dr. GARSON and Miss LEFFLER-ARNIM also,
  Talk sound common sense, but they'll find it no go;
    The Crusade they have started _can't_ meet with success.

  No, sage Viscountess HARBERTON, sweet Mrs. STOPES,
  You had better not nourish ridiculous hopes
    About "rationalising" our frocks and our shoes.
  There is just one invincible thing, and that's Fashion!
  That object of every true woman's chief passion,
    'Tis vain to attack, and absurd to abuse.

  You may say what you please about feminine "togs,"
    That they're ugly, unhealthy, are burdens or clogs,
  Too high, or too low, or too loose, or too tight,
  There is just one reply (but 'tis more than enough)
  To such "rational," but most irrelevant stuff:--
    _If not in the Fashion, a Woman's a Fright!!!_

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE ZOO.--The Tapir, the _Daily Telegraph_ stated in one of the
paragraphs of its useful and amusing diary of "London Day by
Day,"--"The Tapir," at the Zoological Gardens, is a specimen of a
species now "verging on the brink of extinction. He was an old Tory;
the world changes, but change he would not." He should be known as the
"Red Tape-ir."

       ***

THE SEAS-ON.--Mr. J. L. TOOLE, until he reaches Australia.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A WOMAN'S REASON.]

_Cousin Jack._ "Then why did you Marry him, Effie?"

_Effie._ "Oh, well--I wanted to see the Paris Exhibition, you know!"

       *       *       *       *       *

SHOOTING ARROWS AT A SONG.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I observe, that a gentleman has written, in a book
called _In Tennyson Land_, an account of the exact localities of "the
Moated Grange," and other well-advertised places--statements, which
however, have been promptly challenged by the Poet's son in the
_Athenaeum_. As there seems to be some doubt upon this subject,
perhaps, you will allow me to give a few notes anent the interesting
objects which Lord TENNYSON has so obligingly immortalised in song.

_The Owl._--The name of a bright little newspaper which, amongst other
items of news and flashes of humour, gave a list of proposed
marriages--hence, no doubt, the refrain of "To wit and to woo." It
owed its temporary success both to its fun and its matrimonial
intelligence.

_The Dying Swan._--Probably, suggested by the condition of one of
these interesting creatures on the Thames, whose plumage had changed
from white to blue, owing to the River being made the temporary
repository for the outcome of some chemical works.

_Oriana._--This name, there is every reason to believe, was suggested
by a character in the opening of a pantomime at one of the minor
theatres, very popular some twenty or thirty years ago.

_The Miller's Daughter._--A very touching reference to the domestic
life of a hero of the Prize Ring.

_Lady Clara Vere de Vere._--Tradition has it that this aristocratic
sounding title was originally intended for a new sort of velveteen,
that would have been sold at a profit at three-and-sixpence a yard,
double width.

_The May Queen._--Believed to have been changed at the last moment
from "The Jack-in-the-Green," a subject that had already been used by
a poet of smaller fame than ALFRED TENNYSON.

_The Lotos Eaters._--No doubt adapted from the English translation to
a German picture of some children playing at a once well-known game
called "The Loto Seaters."

_The Northern Cobbler._--Suggested by a favourite coal, supplied to
this day from Newcastle.

_The Moated Grange._--The site of the original still exists at
Haverstock Hill, and was fifty years ago more remote than it is now.
Hence the title of one of the most pleasing little poems of
comparatively modern times.

Trusting that these hints may be of service to those who take an
interest in Lord TENNYSON'S very entertaining works, I remain, my dear
_Mr. Punch_, yours sincerely,
                  A SCOTCH COUSIN (THRICE REMOVED AGAINST HIS WILL) OF
  _Brain Cobwebby, Hatchley Colwell._           BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. VII.--RECLAIMED!

_Or, How Little Elfie taught her Grandmother._

                       CHARACTERS.

  _Lady Belledame_ (_a Dowager of the deepest dye_).
  _Monkshood_ (_her Steward, and confidential Minion_).
  _Little Elfie_ (_an Angel Child_). This part has been specially
    constructed for that celebrated Infant Actress, Banjoist, and
    Variety Comedienne, Miss BIRDIE CALLOWCHICK.

          SCENE--_The Panelled Room at Nightshade Hall._

[Illustration]

_Lady Belledame_ (_discovered preparing parcels_). Old and
unloved!--yes, the longer I live, the more plainly do I perceive that
I am _not_ a popular old woman. Have I not acquired the reputation in
the county of being a witch? My neighbour, Sir VEVEY LONG, asked me
publicly only the other day "when I would like my broom ordered," and
that minx, Lady VIOLET POWDRAY, has pointedly mentioned old
cats in my hearing! PERGAMENT, my family lawyer, has
declined to act for me any longer, merely because MONKSHOOD
rack-rented some of the tenants a little too energetically in the
Torture Chamber--as if in these hard times one was not justified in
putting the screw on! Then the villagers scowl when I pass; the very
children shrink from me--[_A childish voice outside window_: "Yah, 'oo
sold 'erself to Old Bogie for a pound o' tea an' a set o' noo
teeth?"]--that is, when they do not insult me by suggestions of
bargains that are not even businesslike! No matter--I will be avenged
upon them all--ay, all! 'Tis Christmas-time--the season at which
sentimental fools exchange gifts and good wishes. For once I, too,
will distribute a few seasonable presents.... (_Inspecting parcels._)
Are my arrangements complete? The bundle of choice cigars, in each of
which a charge of nitro-glycerine has been dexterously inserted? The
lip-salve, made up from my own prescription with corrosive sublimate
by a venal chemist in the vicinity? The art flower-pot, containing a
fine specimen of the Upas plant, swathed in impermeable sacking? The
sweets compounded with sugar of lead? The packet of best ratsbane?
Yes, nothing has been omitted. Now to summon my faithful MONKSHOOD....
Ha! he is already at hand.

  [_Chord as_ MONKSHOOD _enters_.

_Monkshood._ Your Ladyship, a child, whose sole luggage is a small
bandbox and a large banjo, is without, and requests the favour of a
personal interview.

_Lady B._ (_reproachfully_). And you, who have been with me all these
years, and know my ways, omitted to let loose the bloodhounds? You
grow careless, MONKSHOOD!

_Monks._ (_wounded_). Your Ladyship is unjust--I _did_ unloose the
bloodhounds; but the ferocious animals merely sat up and begged. The
child had took the precaution to provide herself with a bun!

_Lady B._ No matter, she must be removed--I care not how.

_Monks._ There may be room for one more--a little one--in the old
well. The child mentioned that she was your Ladyship's granddaughter,
but I presume that will make no difference?

_Lady B._ (_disquieted_). What!--then she must be the child of my only
son POLDOODLE, whom, for refusing to cut off the entail, I had falsely
accused of adulterating milk, and transported beyond the seas! She
comes hither to denounce and reproach me! MONKSHOOD, she must not
leave this place alive--you hear?

_Monks._ I require no second bidding--ha, the child ... she comes!

  [_Chord._ _Little_ ELFIE _trips in with touching self-confidence._

_Elfie_ (_in a charming little Cockney accent_). Yes, Grandma, it's
me--little ELFIE, come all the way from Australia to see you, because
I thought you must be sow lownly all by yourself! My Papa often told
me what a long score he owed you, and how he hoped to pay you off if
he lived. But he went out to business one day--Pa was a bushranger,
you know, and worked--oh, _so_ hard; and never came back to his little
ELFIE, so poor little ELFIE has come to live with you!

_Monks._ Will you have the child removed now, my Lady?

_Lady B._ (_undecidedly_). Not now--not yet; I have other work for
you. These Christmas gifts, to be distributed amongst my good friends
and neighbours (_handing parcels_). First, this bundle of cigars to
Sir VEVEY LONG, with my best wishes that such a connoisseur in tobacco
may find them sufficiently strong. The salve for Lady VIOLET POWDRAY,
with my love, and it should be rubbed on the last thing at night. The
plant you will take to the little PERGAMENTS--'twill serve them for a
Christmas tree. This packet to be diluted in a barrel of beer, which
you will see broached upon the village green; these sweetmeats for
distribution among the most deserving of the school-children.

_Elfie_ (_throwing her arms around_ Lady B.'s _neck_). I _do_ like
you, Grandma; you have such a kind face! And oh, what pains you must
have taken to find something that will do for everybody!

_Lady B._ (_disengaging herself peevishly_). Yes, yes, child. I trust
that what I have chosen will indeed do for everybody,--but I do not
like to be messed about. MONKSHOOD, you know what you have to do.

_Elfie._ Oh, I am sure he does, Grandma! See how benevolently he
smiles. You're such a good old man, you will take care that all the
poor people are fed, _won't_ you?

_Monks._ (_with a sinister smile_). Ah! Missie, I've 'elped to settle
a many people's 'ash in my time!

_Elfie_ (_innocently_). What, do they all get hash? How nice! I like
hash,--but what else do you give them?

_Monks._ (_grimly_). Gruel, Missie. (_Aside._) I must get out of this,
or this innocent child's prattle will unman me!

  [_Exit with parcels._

_Elfie._ You seem so sad and troubled, Grandma. Let me sing you one of
the songs with which I drew a smile from poor dear Pa in happier days.

_Lady B._ No, no, some other time. (_Aside._) Pshaw! why should I
dread the effect of her simple melodies? Sing, child, if you will.

_Elfie._ How glad I am that I brought my banjo!      [_Sings._
  Dar is a lubly yaller gal that tickles me to deff;
  She'll dance de room ob <DW54>s down, and take away deir breff.
  When she sits down to supper, ebery  gemple-man,
  As she gets her upper lip o'er a plate o' "possum dip," cries,
          "Woa, LUCINDY ANN!" (Chorus, dear Granny!)
  Woa, LUCINDY! Woa, LUCINDY! Woa, LUCINDY ANN!
  At de rate dat you are stuffin, you will nebber leave us nuffin; so woa,
          Miss SINDY ANN!

_To Lady B._ (_who, after joining in chorus with deep emotion, has
burst into tears_). Why, you are _weeping_, dear Grandmother!

_Lady B._ Nay, 'tis nothing, child--but have you no songs which are
less sad?

_Elfie._ Oh, yes, I know plenty of plantation ditties more cheerful
than that. (_Sings._)

  Oh, I hear a gentle whisper from de days ob long ago,
    When I used to be a happy darkie slave. (_Trump-a-trump._)
  But now I'se got to labour wif de shovel an' de hoe--
    For ole Massa lies a sleepin' in his grave! (_Trump-trump._)

                          _Chorus._

  Poor ole Massa! Poor ole Massa! (_Pianissimo._) Poor ole Massa, dat I
          nebber more shall see!
  He was let off by de Jury, Way down in ole Missouri--But dey lynched him
          on a persimmon tree.

_Elfie._ You smile at last, dear Grandma! I would sing to you again,
but I am so very, very sleepy!

_Lady B._ Poor child, you have had a long journey. Rest awhile on this
couch, and I will arrange this screen so as to protect your slumbers.
[_Leads little_ ELFIE _to couch._

_Elfie_ (_sleepily_). Thanks, dear Grandma, thanks.... Now I shall go
to sleep, and dream of you, and the dogs, and angels. I so often dream
about angels--but that is generally after supper, and to-night I have
had no supper.... But never mind.... Good night, Grannie, good night
... goo'ni' ... goo ... goo! [_She sinks softly to sleep._

_Lady B._ And I was about to set the bloodhounds upon this little
sunbeam! 'Tis long since these grim walls have echoed strains so sweet
as hers. (_Croons._) "Woa, LUCINDY," &c. "Dey tried him by a jury, way
down in ole Missouri, an' dey hung him to a possum-dip tree!" (_Goes
to couch, and gazes on the little sleeper._) How peacefully she
slumbers! What a change has come over me in one short hour!--my
withered heart is sending up green shoots of tenderness, of love, and
hope! Let me try henceforth to be worthy of this dear child's
affection and respect. (_Turns, and sees_ MONKSHOOD.) Ha, MONKSHOOD!
Then there is time yet! Those parcels ... quick, quick!--the
parcels!----

_Monks._ (_impassively_). Have been left as you instructed, my Lady.

[_Chord_: Lady B. _staggers lack, gasping, into chair. Little_ ELFIE
_awakes behind screen, and rubs her eyes._

[N.B.--The reformation of a Grandmother being necessarily a process of
some length, the conclusion of this touching little Drama is
unavoidably deferred to a future number.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MODERN TYPES.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Type-writer._)

No. I.--THE DULL ROYSTERER.

[Illustration]

The Dull Roysterer, or, as he is termed by the slangiest of his
intimates, the "Bluff Boozer," is ordinarily the son of a wealthy, but
injudicious father, who, having sent him to a good public school,
furnished him with an income that would keep a curate in luxury. He
developes an early inclination for check trousers, and the pleasures
of the table. Appalled by the difficulties of English spelling, he
seeks comfort in Scotch whiskey, and atones for a profound distaste
for the tongues of ancient Greece and Rome by cultivating an
appreciative palate for the vintages of Modern France. His burly
frame, and a certain brute courage, gain for him a place in the School
Football team, and a considerable amount of popularity, which he
increases by the lavish waste of his excessive allowance. He has a
fine contempt, which he never fails to express, for those boys who
attempt to cultivate their minds by the reading of books, and,
naturally, does not hesitate to degrade his own by the immoderate
absorption of strong drinks.

Having, however, been discovered in a state of intoxication, he leaves
school hurriedly and betakes himself to an Army-crammer's where
discipline is lax and dissipation easy. Here he keeps half-a-dozen
fox-terriers, and busies himself about the destruction of domestic
cats. Yet, by dint of much forcing on the part of his Coach, he
succeeds in passing into Sandhurst, and eventually obtains a
commission in a Cavalry Regiment. During this stage of his career he
frequents race-courses and worships earnestly at the shrine of
Bacchus. He entangles himself with the wife of a brother officer, and,
after figuring as the co-respondent in an undefended case, marries
her. In the meantime he sends in his papers, and retires from the
Army. Shortly afterwards he enlists in the ranks of those who seek
pleasure in the night-resorts of the town. He soon becomes the boon
companion of shady sporting men, latter-day coachmen, pink and
paragraphic journalists, and middle-aged ladies, who, having once
been, or been once, on the stage, still affect the skittish manners of
a ballet-dancer. He is a man of short speech, but his humour is as
broad as his drinks are long. He affects a rowdy geniality and a
swaggering gait, by which he seeks to overawe the inoffensive. Though
he has but a small stock of intelligence, he passes for a wit amongst
his associates by dint of perpetually repeating an inane catch-word.
With this, and a stamp of the foot, he will greet a friend who may
meet him before lunch. Amongst his intimates such a welcome is held to
be intensely humorous. He scatters the same sort of stamp and the
identical remark broadcast over the loungers who congregate in front
of HATCHETT's; by these signs and tokens he announces his presence at
a Sporting Restaurant, and to the same accompaniment he sups at the
Camellia, or looks on, in a heavy, sodden sort of way, while others
dance, at the ball of a _demi-mondaine_.

Yet his general ignorance leads him into perpetual pitfalls, and makes
him the butt of those of his associates who are cleverer than himself.
Having on a certain occasion been addressed as Falstaff, in delicate
allusion to his size and capacity for drink, he is easily persuaded
that the original owner of this name was celebrated in history for his
grace and sobriety. He takes much pride in recounting the incident
ever afterwards.

Though the Roysterer is generally fuddled, he is rarely glorious.
Having once driven a tandem, he is credited with a complete knowledge
of horses, which, however, he invariably fails to turn to any
profitable account. He begins his day with whiskey cock-tails,
continues it with a series of brandy-and-sodas, followed by unlimited
magnums of _brut_ Champagne, and concludes it with more Champagne, a
liberal allowance of liqueur brandies, and two or three tumblers of
whiskey-and-seltzer to round off the night. As the hours advance, his
face assumes a ruddier glow. With the progress of years, being
compelled to conceal the increasing girth of his lower chest by the
constant inflation of his upper, he wears frock-coats. The point which
is lacking in his conversation is conspicuous in his boots, whilst his
collars possess an elevation entirely denied to his manners.

He suffers from no restraint in consequence of his marriage. He is
adored by a certain class of burlesque actresses. He flatters them by
adoring himself. He owns a small house in Belgravia, but he frequently
lives elsewhere. No pigeon-shooting matches, and few poker parties,
amongst a certain set, are complete without him. Having benefited only
to a limited extent under the will of his father, he is not generally
reputed to be wealthy, but he is always extravagant. Yet he manages to
steer clear of the painful consequences of writs with some astuteness.
In middle-age he becomes obese, and cannot go the pace as formerly.
His friends therefore abandon him, and he dies before he is fifty, in
reduced circumstances, of an enlarged liver.

       *       *       *       *       *

"JOHNNYKIN AND THE GOBLINGS."

[Illustration: Bon Voyage! et Au Revoir!]

Two hundred and fifty Goblings in the Grand Banquet room of the Hotel
Metropole assembled, as all the world knows by this time, to bid
"Farewell, but not good-bye," as CLEMENT SCOTT's admirable verses have
it, to JOHNNYKIN; that is, to Mr. J. L. TOOLE, usually and popularly
spoken of as "JOHNNIE TOOLE," and generally endeared to his private
friends as, simply, "JOHNNIE." Quite the best specimen of a "JOHNNIE,"
among all the "Johnnies" of the present time. _Mr. Punch_, for the
first time in his life, permitted his merry men, The Knights of His
Own Round Table, to convert their usual Wednesday dinner into a
"movable feast," and to transfer it to the day beforehand, in order to
do honour to the unique occasion, and the exceptional guest of the
evening. No wonder there were two hundred and fifty acceptances to the
bill of fare, and two hundred and fifty more ready to sign, seeing
that the invitations came in effect from the President, the
Solicitor-General, who could not solicit in vain.

Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., excelled himself in proposing the
toast of "The Drama." He contemned the ancient Greek Drama, but was of
opinion--Counsel's opinion--or, as he was speaking of the Romans,
"Consul's opinion"--that there was "more money in the Latin Drama."
_Mr. Punch_, regretted he was not at his learned friend's elbow to
suggest, that an apt illustration of the truth of his remark might be
found in the success of AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, IMPERATOR.

Mr. HENRY IRVING proved, by his perfect recital of CLEMENT SCOTT's
verses, how thoroughly "by heart" he had got them. HENRY's "heart is"
_not_ "dead" when JOHNNIE is concerned. Sir EDWARD CLARKE, as we
learnt from the speeches made by himself, Mr. IRVING, and Mr. TOOLE,
seems to have been at school with all the leading Actors; and it was a
miracle that he escaped the attractions of the sock and buskin. Pity
that the song, "When we were boys, Merry merry boys, When we were boys
together," had not been arranged as a trio for them. JOHNNIE was in
his best form; very detached, casual, and uncommonly funny. Lord
ROSEBERY apologised by letter for not being able to be in Scotland and
London at the same time; and the Wicked Abbe BANCROFT in replying to
the toast of the Drama, pathetically represented his hard case of
being called upon to make an after-dinner speech, when he hadn't had
any dinner. The Actor's lot is evidently, not always a happy one. He
wanted a "feeding-part" and didn't get it. The dinner was excellent,
and the waiting of the waiters was, as far as I could ascertain,
exceptionally good. Certainly the Metropole, or the New "Holland"
House,--as it might be termed, after its manager,--holds first rank
for this sort of business. We present Mr. HOLLAND, the Metropole
Caterer, with this suggestion:--

  _The Only Condiment for a Farewell Banquet_--"Sauce Ta Ta!"


       *       *       *       *       *

AVENUE THEATRE.--ALEXANDER the Growing, not yet the Great, finds that
for some weeks to come there will be no necessity to doctor his Bill.
He will be wise, however, not to reject any proffered assistance, as,
from his present success, it is evident he cannot get on un-Aide-d.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT.]

"OH, I SAY, OLD MAN, I WISH YOU'D RUN UPSTAIRS AND HUNT FOR MY AUNT,
AND BRING HER DOWN TO SUPPER. SHE'S AN OLD LADY, IN A RED BODY, AND A
GREEN SKIRT, AND A BLUE AND YELLOW TRAIN, WITH AN ORANGE BIRD OF
PARADISE IN HER CAP. YOU CAN'T _POSSIBLY_ MISTAKE HER. SAY I SENT
YOU!"

"AWFULLY SORRY, OLD MAN, BUT--A--I'M TOTALLY COLOUR-BLIND, YOU KNOW.
JUST BEEN TESTED!"                              [_Exit in a hurry._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INCANTATION SCENE.

_Freely Adapted from "Der Freischuetz."_

                  _Caspar_, Mr. L-B-CH-RE.
                   _Zamiel_, Mr. P-RN-LL.

    SCENE--_Stage in complete shadow. An Irish Glen surrounded by bare
    mountains covered with dwarf oaks, overhanging a big bog. The Moon
    is shining dimly._ CASPAR _discovered with a pouch and hanger,
    busily engaged in making a Circle of fairy lanterns, in the middle
    of which is placed a turnip-skull, a shillelagh, a bunch of
    shamrock, a crucible, and a bullet-mould. Distant mutterings
    heard._

    _Chorus of Distant Party-Spirits._

  Shindy now would be a boon,
      ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_")
    Interest in M-tch-llst-wn hath died,
      ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_")
  Mischief must be stirred up soon.
      ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_")
    And Obstruction once more tried.
      ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_")
  Ere this S-ss-n's course is run
  We must really have some fun.
      ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_")

    [_At the end of chorus, a Big Bell booms twelve times; the Circle
    being finished,_ CASPAR _within it, draws his hanger round the
    lanterns, and at the twelfth stroke strikes it into the
    turnip-skull._

  _Caspar (kneeling, and raising the skull on the hanger at arm's length)_.
  ZAMIEL, ZAMIEL, hear me, hear!
  By this bogey-skull appear!
  ZAMIEL, rise, for things look queer!

    [_A confused noise is heard, a Meteor (looking rather like a
    long-expected Blue-Book) falls on the Circle, and_ ZAMIEL,
    _looking coldly triumphant, appears._

  _Zamiel._ Why callest thou?

  _Caspar._     Well, hang it! I like that!
  But, by St. Patrick's beard, your advent's pat,
  Our foes boast three years longer they may live.

  _Zamiel._ No!

  _Caspar._ Then good reason you and I must give.

  _Zamiel._ Who says so?

  _Caspar._ One who hardly dared--till now--
  To face thy really rayther freezing brow;
  But, moved by reason, and a late Report,
  He's on the job; and we shall have some sport.

  _Zamiel._ What doth he seek?

  _Caspar._                   To be supplied
  With bullets which thy skill shall guide.

  _Zamiel._ Six shall obey,
  The seventh--who'll say?

  _Caspar._ Lord of the mystic League,
  I hope, by sly intrigue,
  To rule the seventh also,
  And let it kill--_you_ know!

  _Zamiel._ Too risky.

  _Caspar._            Oh, I say,
  Let's have no more delay.
  Three long years yet to sway?
  Pooh, ZAMIEL! It's child's-play.

  _Zamiel._ Enough--no more! I'll tell thee now
  By this day month there'll be--a row?

    [_More mutterings are heard and repeated in chorus. The skull and
    hanger sink, and in their place a hearth with lighted coals and
    <DW19>s, rise out of the earth, within the Circle. The Moon
    becomes red._

  _Caspar._ Well served! Bless thee, ZAMIEL!
  The day will be ours!

    [CASPAR _moves to and fro, places <DW19>s on the coals, blows the
    fire, which blazes and fumes. In the smoke certain cabalistic
    letters appear._

Now for it! Every moment is precious. "Every bullet hath its billet,"
saith the old saw. Rather! Black C-C-L, beware! Bland WILLIAM H., look
out! Brutal B-LF-R, mind your eye! Shrewish G-SCH-N, be warned!
Haughty H-RT-NGT-N, take care! Perfidious J-S-PH, watch it! That
accounts for Six out of the fatal Seven. 'Twill suffice, even if the
seventh--bah! that's silly superstition. Here goes! First this
lead--heavy as SM-TH's speeches; then this glass, brittle as the bond
between the Unionists; some quicksilver of Randolphian shiftiness;
three charmed balls which have already hit their mark. See, they are
marked. "P-G-TT," "P-RN-LL," "C-mm-ss-n"!!! _Probatum est!_ Now for
the blessing of the balls.

    [CASPAR _bowing down his head three separate times (as to three
    Judges) before he commences his incantation._

  Thou who hast Fate's mystic dower,
  ZAMIEL, ZAMIEL, work thy power!
  Spirit of the evil dead
  (At Madrid), bless, bless the lead!
  May they be as featly sped
  As the one that pierced his head.
  I am sick of shilly-shally,
  May they--metaphorically,
  For, of course, I don't mean murder,
  Nothing could be--well, absurder--
  May they spifflicate our foes.
  Neither progress nor repose,
  On Bench or in Cabinet,
  May they any of them get
  Till they get their last quietus
  From these bullets (That will seat us
  Comfortably in their places,
  To the rapture of three races)
  How the fire fumes! There'll be ruction.
  Characters _look_ like OBSTRUCTION!
  But they _mean_--and that's their beauty!--
  Merely, simply, purely DUTY!
  Therefore, 'tis my occupation
  So at present, Incantation!
  G. O. M. won't take a part;
  He objects to the Black Art.
  Though he rather shirks my cult,
  He will relish the result.
  ZAMIEL! you're the chap I like,
  Charm the bullets that they strike.
  ZAMIEL, lend thy might to kill
  To each burning drop we spill!
  Now then for it! Out on fear!
  ZAMIEL, ZAMIEL, be thou near!

    [_Sets to work at--THE CASTING OF THE BULLETS. Music._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE "INCANTATION."

(_Scene from the Very Latest Version of "Der Freischuetz_.")]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RUSTIC POLITENESS.]

_Squire Roadster._ "WHERE ARE THE HOUNDS, MY MAN?"

_Yokel._ "GAR ON WITH YER! DON'T KNAW WHEER THE 'OUNDS BE, AND GOT A
RED COAT AND A BIG 'OSS! YER OUGHTER BE ASHAMED OF YERSELF!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST CATCH-LINE.--Good DAY! Have you read the Report of the
Special Commission?

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Leaves of a Life._ So MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C., and Worthy Beak, styles
his Reminiscences. The Leaves are fresh, and will be Evergreen.
Nothing in his Life has become him so well as his leave-ing it. I
fancy that the most popular part of it will be the early days--his
salad days--when his leaves were at their greenest. Certainly, to all
old Etonians, the opening of Volume One must prove the most
interesting part of the two books; and after this, in point of
interest to the general reader, will rank all the stories about
persons whose names, for evident reasons, the learned Reminiscenser
cannot give in full. When you read about what enormities "C----"
committed, and what an unmitigated scoundrel "D----'s" brother was,
there is in the narrative a delightful element of mystery, and an
inducement to guess, which will excite in many a strong desire for a
private key, which, of course, could not be placed in any publisher's
hands, except under such conditions as hamper the trustee of the
_Talleyrand Memoirs_.

Mr. WILLIAMS has better stories of Sergeant BALLANTINE than the latter
had of himself in his own book. But I should like more of the MONTAGU
out of Court--more of the behind-the-scenes of the cases in which he
was engaged or interested. All his book is written in a dashing style,
and there would be an enormous demand for a third volume, which might
be all dash--C---- D---- E----; every letter of the alphabet dash--a
dash'd good book, in fact, giving us the toothsome _fond d'artichaut_
after the "leaves" have been disposed of. But that this should be the
strong feeling expressed not alone by the Baron DE B.-W., but by very
many readers, is proof sufficient of the art with which these
Reminiscences have been compiled, so as, according to _Sam Weller's_
prescription for a love-letter, to make us "wish there was more of
it." By the way, I doubt whether WHATELEY'S _Evidences of
Christianity_ was the work that MONTAGU WILLIAMS was dozing over
during "Sunday Private" in pupil-room; doesn't he mean PALEY's
_Evidences_? Also, wasn't the old College Fellow's name spelt PLUMTRE,
or PLUMPTRE, not PLUMPTREE? However, the Baron is less likely to be
right than the Magistrate, who is evidently blessed with a wonderfully
retentive memory.

My faithful Co. reports that he has read _On the Children_, a not very
interesting novel, by ANNIE THOMAS, otherwise Mrs. PENDER CUDLIP. The
story deals with a young girl, who, after serving in a village
newspaper shop, marries the local nobleman, and no doubt lives happily
ever afterwards. Persons who are interested in the doings of the class
JEAMES calls the "hupper suckles," will perhaps be a little
disappointed, as, truth to tell, the narrative is rather homely. Many
of the characters seem to have that exaggerated awe of rank which used
to be characteristic of the tales in the _London Journal_. The book
should, however, be welcome in the homes of some of the lower middle
class.

                                             BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PARKER SMITH, the recently elected M.P., appeared in the House
looking Partickularly happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Mr Punch's suggestion for the Betterment of Parliament

The House of Commons altered so as to accommodate all its members.]

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT,
EXTRACTED FROM the DIARY of TOBY M.P.

_House of Commons, Tuesday, February 11._--"Rather slow this," said
Commandant (of the Yeomanry Cavalry) Lord BROOKE to Admiral (in black
velvet suit, with silver buckles) ROYDEN.

They were locked up in a room adjoining OLD MORALITY'S private
apartment, at back of SPEAKER's chair. Both dressed in warlike
costumes, both uniforms new, unaccustomed, and uncomfortable. Both
warriors had waked in the morning full of joy and proud anticipation.
"If you're waking call me early," Quartermaster-General Lord BROOKE
had said to his man; "this is the happiest day of all the bright new
year; for I'm to Second the Address. Yes, I'm to Second the Address."

Captain ROYDEN had made a remark of a similar purport to his body
servant, though he had kept more closely to prose. Now here they were
locked in, with a glass of sherry wine and a sponge cake, waiting for
the signal that might never come. Ordinary course on opening night of
Session is, for SPEAKER to take Chair; Notices of Motion to be worked
off; Queen's Speech read; then Mover and Seconder of Address march
into seats immediately behind Ministers, especially kept for them;
dexterously dodge tendency of sword to get between their knees; sit
down with the consciousness that they are the cynosure of every eye,
including those of JOSEPH GILLIS, regarding them across House through
horn-bound spectacles. To-day everything upside down. Instead of
moving the Address, HARCOURT on with question of Privilege--HARCOURT,
a plain man, in civilian costume! Worst of it was, they could not go
away and change their clothes. No one knows what may happen from hour
to hour in House of Commons; debate on Privilege might break down;
Address brought on, and what would happen to British Constitution if
Mover and Seconder were dragged in in their dressing-gowns?

"Dem'd dull," said Captain of Yeomanry Cavalry Lord BROOKE, toying
with his sword-tassel.

"Trenormous!" yawned Bosun's Mate ROYDEN, loosening his belt, for he
had been beguiled into taking another sponge-cake. "If they'd only let
us walk about the corridors, or lounge in the House, it would be
better. But to sit cooped up here is terrible. Worst of it is I've
conned my speech over so often, got it mixed up; end turning up in
middle; exordium marching in with rear-guard; was just right to go off
at half-past six; now it's eight, and we won't be off duty till
twelve."

Vice-Admiral ROYDEN feebly hitched up his trousers; sadly sipped his
sherry wine, and deep silence fell on the forlorn company.

No one in crowded House thought of these miserable men. HARCOURT made
his speech; GORST demonstrated that Motion was indefensible, being
both too late and too soon; the Mouse came and went amid a spasm of
thrilled interest; GLADSTONE delivered oration in dinner-hour; PARNELL
fired up at midnight; House divided, and SPEAKER left the Chair. Then
was heard the rattling of keys in the door by OLD MORALITY's room; two
limp warriors were led forth; conducted to four-wheel cab; delivered
at their own doorways, to spend night in pleased reflection on the
distinction of Moving and Seconding the Address.

[Illustration: "Ridiculus Mus," the New Member.]

_Business done._--Charge of Breach of Privilege against _Times_,
negatived by 260 Votes against 212.

_Wednesday._--House met at Noon as usual on Wednesdays; the two men of
war in their places in full uniform, which looked a little creased as
if they had slept in it. The eye that has sternly reviewed the
Warwickshire Yeomanry Cavalry, lacks something of its wonted
brightness; whilst ROYDEN's black velvet suit sets off the added
pallor of a countenance that tells of sleepless vigil.

House nearly empty; Members won't turn up at Noon even to hear the
thrilling eloquence clothing the original thoughts of the Mover and
Seconder of the Address. Amid the dreary space the stalwart figure of
GEORGE HAWKESWORTH BOND, Member for the East Division of Dorset,
stands forth like a monument. Curious to see how BOND avoids vicinity
of Cross Benches. Was standing there in contemplative attitude last
night, whilst GORST was demonstrating that HARCOURT's Motion on Breach
of Privilege was, (1) too late, and (2) that it was too soon. It was
at this moment that the Mouse appeared on the scene, leisurely
strolling down floor apparently going to join the majority. A
view-halloa started him; doubled and made for Cross Benches; BOND,
awakened out of reverie by the shout, looked down and saw the strange
apparition. Never believed a man of his weight could get so high up
into the air by sudden swift gyration. Mouse, more frightened even
than the man, dodged round the Benches and disappeared. "All very
well once in a way," said BOND this afternoon, sinking into a seat far
removed from the Cross Benches; "but it is foolish unnecessarily to
court danger; won't catch _me_ standing at the bar any more when GORST
is orating."

[Illustration: Before the Mouse came.]

And his word is as good as his Bond.

After Mover and Seconder had completed their story, Grand Old Man
appeared at the table, and talked for nearly an hour. Few to listen,
but that no matter. A rapt auditor in OLD MORALITY, sitting forward
with hands on knees, eyes reverently fixed on orator, drinking in his
honeyed words. Something paternal in his attitude towards Ministers.
Here and there they had done not quite the right thing. The MARKISS,
in particular, had been particularly harsh to Portugal; but, on the
whole, things might have been worse.

"Bless you, my children; bless you!" were the last words of the Grand
Old Man as he stretched forth his hands across the table. Not a dry
eye on the Treasury Bench. OLD MORALITY deeply touched, but through
his sobs managed to make acknowledgment of the unexpected clemency.
_Business done._--Address Moved.

_Thursday._--The languor in which House steeped since Debate on
Address opened, not varied to-night till, at ten o'clock, copies of
Report of Parnell Commission brought to Vote Office. Then such a
scrimmage as never before seen.

[Illustration: Fight for the Report of the Royal Commission.]

At re-opening of Debate, HOWORTH started off with reference to
Portugal. Immediately Members, with one consent, went forth,
discovering that they had special business in the Lobby, the Library,
the Tea-room, anywhere out of the House. The SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE's GATE
had not even waited for resumption of Debate to quit the scene; was
comfortably ensconsed in Smoking-room, distilling words of wisdom to
listening circle. Someone dropping in, accidentally mentioned that
HOWORTH had brought on Portugal business. SAGE jumped up nearly as
high as BOND when he saw the Mouse. Had an Amendment on the paper
referring to Portugal; had prepared a few paragraphs elucidating it.
If opportunity missed, speech would be lost. So bolted off; arrived
just in time to follow HOWORTH. Whilst discoursing, Our Latest Duke
came in, fresh from the pageant of his installation in House of Lords.
Seated in Peers' Gallery, toying with his walking-stick, thinking no
evil, started to hear his name mentioned. SAGE's quick eye had caught
sight of him.

"Halloa!" said the SAGE to himself, "here's a Duke; let's throw arf a
brick at him!"

So, with innocent manner and pretty assumption of ignorance of the
presence in Peers' Gallery of the highly favoured young gentleman with
the walking-stick, the SAGE traced all the evils of Central Africa,
leading directly up to the quarrel with Portugal, to the action of the
British South Africa Company, of which the Duke of FIFE, he said, was
a Promoter and Director.

"Very odd thing that, TOBY," said the Duke, under his breath, as he
left the Gallery on tip-toe; "most remarkable coincidence; odds seemed
to be a thousand to one against it; and yet it came off. Don't look
into Peers' Gallery twice a year; yet on very night I happened to be
there for five minutes, LABBY on his legs and talking about ME!"

_Business done._--Debate on Address.

_Friday._--A dull night, uplifted, at outset, by powerful speech
from PARNELL, and, towards finish, by Colonel SAUNDERSON riding
in, and slashing off heads all round. After him came SHEEHY.
Splendid fellow, SHEEHY; must see more of him.

"What you want is blood!" SHEEHY shouted across the House
at BALFOUR, lounging, dull and depressed, on Treasury Bench;
"I repeat the phrase--Blood!"

"Blood," said SAUNDERSON, carelessly passing his hand through
the black locks that crown his lofty brow, "is not exactly a phrase.
Besides, after eight hours of this, a cup of black coffee would be
more in BALFOUR'S way. But a good deal must be conceded to
SHEEHY. What a nation we are for genders! We had an O'SHEA,
we have an O'HEA; and here's a SHEE-HE. I have occasional
differences with some of my countrymen; but I am proud of my
country."

_Business done._--Debate on Address.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "IN KIND."]

_Country Editor's Wife._ "OH, JOHN DEAR! SOMEBODY'S SENT US SUCH A
SPLENDID SALMON!"

_Editor_ (_after a moment's thought_). "AH, YES--I KNOW--AND CHEAP
TOO! ON'Y HALF A COLUMN!"

       *       *       *       *       *

FIFTY YEARS OF RAILWAY PROGRESS--FIFTY YEARS HENCE.

A large and attentive audience assembled yesterday evening to hear Mr.
FAIRWEATHER'S discourse on the highly interesting and instructive
subject of the progress made in the matter of Railway Travelling in
the course of the last fifty years.

The lecturer commenced by reminding his audience that, in the days of
their fathers and grandfathers, fifty years ago, towards the close of
the Nineteenth Century, the wretched Public had to content themselves
with a miserable conveyance called a Pullman Car, that they in those
days considered a triumph of elegant and convenient locomotion,
because they could get tucked away on a shelf at night as a sort of
apology for a bed, and be served with a mutton-chop by day, as a
makeshift for lunch, and this they considered wonderful, because they
were being dragged over their road at the marvellous, soul-thrilling
pace of sixty miles an hour. (_Loud laughter._) What would the poor
benighted travellers of those days say to their present Grand Circular
Express, that ran from London to York in two-and-twenty minutes, and
ran up to the most northern point in Scotland, then down the Western
Coast to Land's End, and back again to London all along the Channel
Shore, doing the entire circuit in four hours and a quarter, and this
while you reclined on the rich red velvet cushions of the lofty and
sumptuously decorated third-class carriage at a one-and-ninepenny
fare? No wonder that people took monthly tickets, and went round, and
round, and round the two kingdoms; living, in fact, in the train, and
being thus perpetually on the move. Look at the advantages offered by
the Company, on their new extra-triple width line. A Brass Band, a
Theatrical Company, a Doctor, Dancing-Master, Teacher of Elocution,
Solicitor, Dentist, and Police Magistrate, accompanied every train,
which was, moreover, provided with Turkish Shower and Swimming Baths,
Billiard-rooms, Circulating Library, and offered attractive advantages
to families wishing, either at their doctor's orders or for the mere
sake of the run on its own account, continual change of air, complete
sets of handsomely furnished apartments not fitted up with sleeping
shelves--(_laughter_)--but supplied with regular six foot
four-posters, such as would have delighted the eyes of their great
grandfathers a hundred years ago. The law, too, recently passed, which
consigned a Director to penal servitude, in the event of a train being
ten minutes after its time, which had been passed owing to the
persistent unpunctuality of the South-Eastern Company, had worked
admirably, and to it, no doubt, they owed the present orderly
management of all the lines in the three kingdoms. What would be the
next development of Railway travelling he could not venture to
predict, but he thought that if, in the next fifty years, they made as
much progress as they had in the fifty years just expired, he was of
opinion, that though the shareholders might possibly receive a smaller
dividend even than that they were drawing to-day--(_loud
laughter_)--the Railway, as an institution in the country, could not
be regarded but as being in a highly flourishing condition.

A vote of thanks having been passed to the Lecturer for his lively and
instructive discourse, which he briefly acknowledged, the proceedings
terminated.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another "Competitive."

  Why have we no Exams, for our M.P.'s.?
    Why not give marks for intellectual variance?
  And range each class according to degrees--
    Here the Tomfoolites--there the Noodeletarians?

       *       *       *       *       *

    NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
    Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in
    no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and
    Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be
    no exception.






Transcriber's Notes:

  Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_.

  Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest
  paragraph break.

  Printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation,
  and ligature usage have been retained.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
98, February 22nd, 1890, by Various

*** 