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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, Sept. 27, 1890 by Various

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VOL. 99.

September 27, 1890.




The Servant of Society is one who, having in early life abdicated
every claim to independent thought or action, is content to attach
himself to the skirts and coat-tails of the great, and to exist for
a long time as a mere appendage in mansions selected by the unerring
instinct of a professional tuft-hunter. It is as common a mistake to
suppose that all tuft-hunters are necessarily of lowly birth and of
inferior social position, as it is to believe them all to be offensive
in manner and shallow in artifice. The coarse but honest Snob still
perhaps exists, and here and there he thrusts and pushes in the old
familiar way; but more often than not the upstart who has won his
way to wealth and consideration finds himself to his own surprise
courted and fawned upon by those whose boots his abilities would
have fitted him to black, and his disposition prompted him to lick.
Noble sportsmen are proud to be seen in his company, aristocratic
guinea-pigs are constantly in his pocket in the congenial society
of the great man's purse, art willingly reproduces his features,
journalism enthusiastically commemorates his adventures, and even
Royalty does not thrust away a votary whose ministrations are as
acceptable as they are readily performed. Without much effort on his
own part he is raised to pinnacles which he imagined impossible of
access, and soon learns to look down with a contempt that might spring
of ancient lineage and assured merit, upon the hungry crowd whose cry
is that of the daughter of the horse-leech.

But the genuine Servant of Society is of a different stamp. Ordinarily
he is of a good family, and of a competence which both differs from
and resembles his general character in being possessed at once of the
attributes of modesty and assurance. From an early age he will have
been noted for the qualities which in after-life render him humbly
celebrated in subordinate positions. At school he will have had
the good fortune to be attached as fag to a big boy who occupied an
important place as an athlete, and whose condescending smiles were
naturally an object of greater ambition to the small fry than the
approval of the school authorities. For him he performed with much
assiduity the various duties of a fag, happy to shine amongst his
companions as the recipient of the great boy's favours. To play the
jackal without incurring universal dislike is (at school) no very
easy task, but he accomplishes it with discretion and with a natural
aptitude that many maturer jackals might envy.


At the age of seventeen he is withdrawn from school. His own
marked disinclination saves him from a military career, and he is
subsequently sent to pass a year or two upon the Continent of Europe,
in order that he may first of all pass the examination for the
Diplomatic Service, and subsequently foil foreign statesmen with their
own weapons, and in their own language. Returning, he secures his
nomination, and faces the Examiners. Providence, however, reserves him
for lower things. The Examiners triumph, and the career of the Servant
of Society begins in earnest. The position of his parents secures for
him an entrance into good houses. He is a young man of great tact and
of small accomplishments. He can warble a song, aid a great lady to
organise a social festivity, lead a cotillon, order a dinner, and help
to eat it, act in amateur theatricals, and recommend French novels to
inquiring matrons. His manners are always easy, and his conversation
has that spice of freedom which renders it specially acceptable in
the boudoirs of the smart. The experience of a few years makes plain
to him that, in social matters, the serious person goes down before
the trifler. He therefore cultivates flippancy as a fine art, and
becomes noted for a certain cheap cynicism, which he sprinkles like a
quasi-intellectual pepper over the strong meat of risky conversation.
Moreover, he is constantly self-satisfied, and self-possessed. Yet
he manages to avoid giving offence by occasionally assuming a gentle
humility of manner, to which he almost succeeds in imparting a natural
air, and he studiously refrains from saying or doing anything which,
since it may cause other men to provoke him, may possibly result in
his being forced to pretend that he himself has been ruffled. Yet it
must be added that he is always thoroughly harmless. He flutters about
innumerable dovecots, without ever fluttering those who dwell in them,
and, in course of time, he comes to be known and accepted everywhere
as a useful man. As might be supposed, he is never obtrusively manly.
The rough pursuits of the merely athletic repel him, yet he has the
knack of assuming an interest where he feels it not, and is able to
prattle quite pleasantly about sports in which he takes little or no
active part. At the same time it must be admitted that he holds a gun
fairly straight, and does not disgrace himself when the necessity
of slaughtering a friend's pheasants interrupts for a few hours the
rehearsals of private theatricals, in company with the friend's wife.
Certainly he is not a fool. He gauges with great accuracy his own
capacities, and carefully limits his ambition to those smaller desires
which, since they exact no vaulting power, are never likely to bring
about a fall on the other side. The objects of his admiration are
mean; and since he meanly admires them, he comes quite naturally under
the Thackerayan definition of a Snob.

Whilst he is still a year or two on the fair side of thirty, it may
happen that a turn of the political wheel will bring into high office
a statesman who is quite willing to be served by those who are able
to make themselves useful to him, without exacting from them solidity
either of character or of attainments. With him the Servant of
Society, with an instinct that does credit to his discernment, will
have established friendly relations. The politician was first amused
and then impressed by his versatility; now, having the opportunity,
he offers to him the position of Assistant Private Secretary (unpaid),
and it is scarcely necessary to say that the young man accepts it
with a gratitude which proves that he believes his patron capable
of conferring further favours. From this time forward he begins to
abandon the merely frivolous air that has hitherto distinguished him.
He lays in a mixed stock of solemnity, mystery, and importance, and
occasionally awes the friends of his flippant days by assuming the
reticent look and the shake of the head of one who is marked off from
common mortals by the possession of secrets the revelation of which
might, perhaps, imperil the peace of the world. In country-houses,
in London drawing-rooms, and at Clubs, where he had hitherto been
mentioned with a laugh as "Little So-and-So," he comes to be talked
of as "So-and-So--of course you know him--Lord BLANK'S Private
Secretary." Thus he becomes quite a personage. But he is far from
abandoning the _role_ of Servant of Society. Indeed, he only enlarges
and glorifies the scope of his ministrations, without in any way
ceasing to cultivate those smaller trifles which stood him in such
good stead at the outset of his career. He now has the satisfaction
of seeing many of those who desire anything that a Cabinet Minister
can give, cringing to one whom they despise, and who rejoices in the
knowledge that he can afford to patronise them, and perhaps crush them
by obtaining for them that which they want.

When, in the course of a few years, Lord BLANK'S party ceases to
direct the government of the country, his Assistant Private Secretary
follows him into the cold shade of adversity and opposition, and
stands by him with exemplary usefulness and fidelity. But, though he
is often pressed, he never contests a constituency, feeling, perhaps,
that it is impossible to serve both Society and the Caucus. In time
his name becomes the common property of all Society journals--his
biography is published in one, his discreet service is extolled in
another, while a third goes so far as to hint that, if the truth were
known, it would be found that the various departments of the State
could not possibly carry on their affairs without his enlightened
counsel. He adopts an antique fashion of dress, in order to emphasise
his personality. He wears a stock, and a very wide-brimmed hat, and
carries a bunch of seals dangling from a fob.

At forty-five he marries the daughter of a powerful Peer, and, shortly
afterwards, insures so much of the favour of Royalty as to be spoken
of as a _persona grata_ at Court. Henceforward his services are often
employed in delicate negotiations, which may necessitate the climbing
of many back-stairs. On such occasions, and after it has been
announced in the papers that "Mr. So-and-so was the bearer of an
important communication" from one great person to another, it is his
custom to show himself in his Clubs and in crowded haunts, so that he
may enjoy the pleasure of being pointed out, _digita praetereuntium_,
and of catching the whispers of those who nudge one another as they
mention his name.

Finally, it will be rumoured that he has been collecting materials for
the Memoirs which he proposes shortly to publish. But though he never
disclaims the intention, and is even understood, on more than one
occasion, to allude in conversation to the precise period of his life
to which his writing has then brought him, it is quite certain that
he will never carry out the intention, or bring out the book. At
the age of sixty he will still be a young man, with a gay style of
banter peculiarly his own. Towards the end of his life he will often
talk darkly of great events in which he has played a part, and of
extraordinary services which only he could have performed; and when he
dies, the country will be called upon to mourn for one who has saved
it from social degradation, and from political disaster.

* * * * *



[According to the _Standard_, by the new Meat Inspection Law,
just come into force in the United States, American cattle
and pigs for export to England, France, or Germany, are to be
inspected before leaving America, with a view to removing the
grounds of objection on the part of those Governments to the
unrestricted reception of these important American exports.
Should any foreign Government, fearful of pleuro-pneumonia
or trichinosis, refuse to trust to the infallibility of the
American inspectors, the President of the United States is
authorised to retaliate by directing that such products of
such foreign State as he may deem proper shall be excluded
from importation to the United States.]

O SENATOR EDMONDS, of verdant Vermont,
Of wisdom you may be a marvellous font;
But you'll hardly get JOHN,--'tis too much of a joke!--
To buy in your fashion a Pig in a Poke;
Which nobody can expect!

To slaughter your Cattle when reaching our shore,
You probably think is no end of a bore;
But even your valiant Vermonters to please,
We cannot afford to spread Cattle-disease,
Which nobody can desire.

A Yankee Inspector is all very fine,
But if pleuro-pneumonia crosses the line,
And with BULL'S bulls and heifers should play up the deuce,
A Yankee Inspector won't be of much use,
Which nobody can dispute.

A Yankee Inspector you seem to suppose is
A buckler and barrier against trichinosis;
Bat trichinae pass without passports. Bacilli
And microbes that Yankee _might_ miss willy-nilly,
Which nobody can deny.

Port-slaughter restrictions may limit your trade.
Well, your Tariffs Protective to help _us_ aren't made,
And we cannot run dangers to plump up your wealth,
Until you can show us a clean bill of health,
Which nobody can assert.

And as to that cudgel tucked under your arm,
You fancy, perhaps, it will act as a charm.
No, JONATHAN! JOHN to your argument's dull,
And you will not convince him by cracking his skull,
Which nobody can suppose.

The Gaul and the Teuton seem much of my mind,
And, despite your new Law, you will probably find
That Yankee Inspectors, plus menaces big,
Rehabilitate not the American Pig,
Which nobody can affirm.

No, JONATHAN, JOHNNY feels no animosity,
He'd like, with yourself, to have true Reciprocity;
But neither your Law, nor a smart cudgel-stroke,
Will make him--or them--buy your Pig in a Poke--
Which nobody can particularly
wonder at, after all; now can

* * * * *

"NOMINE MUTATO."--For some weeks there was a considerable amount of
correspondence in the _Times_, anent "Ecclesiastical Titles," which
suddenly disappeared. Was the topic resumed one day last week under
the new heading, "_The Symbolical Representation of Ciphers_?"

* * * * *

LATEST FROM THE LYCEUM.--With a view to supplying the entire world
with the current number, _Mr. Punch_ goes to press at a date too early
to permit of a criticism of _Ravenswood_. So he contents himself (for
the present) by merely recording that at the initial performance on
Saturday last all went as happily ("merrily," with so sombre a plot,
is _not_ the word) as a marriage-bell. There was a striking situation
towards the end of the drama which was both novel and interesting. Mr.
IRVING received and deserved a grand reception, and it was generally
admitted that amongst the many admirable impersonations for which MISS
ELLEN TERRY is celebrated, her _Bride of Lammermoor_ appropriately
"takes the cake!"

* * * * *



[It is said that the price of wheat and the marriage-rate go
together, most people getting married when wheat is highest.]

My pretty JANE, my dearest JANE,
Ah, never look so shy,
But meet me, meet me in the market,
When the price of wheat rules high.
The glut is waning fast, my love,
And corn is getting dear;
Good (Hymen) times are coming, love,
Ceres our hearts shall cheer.
Then pretty JANE, though poorish JANE,
Ah, never pipe your eye,
But meet me, meet me at the Altar,
For the price of wheat rules high!

Yes, name the day, the happy day,
I can afford the ring;
For corn rules high, the marriage rate
Mounts up like anything;
The "quarter" stands at fifty, love,
Which, for Mark Lane is dear.
Our wedding day is coming, love,
Our married course is clear.
Then, pretty JANE, if poorish JANE,
Ah, never look so shy;
But meet me, meet me at the Altar,
When the price of wheat rules high!

* * * * *

[Illustration: TAKEN ON TRUST.

_Viscount Conamorey_ (_whose recollections of the antique are somewhat

_Mrs. B._ (_who has never even seen the Venus of Milo_). "_OH_! YOU

* * * * *




Come back to Town! Why wander where
The snow-clad peaks arise?
Our English sunsets are as fair,
With red September skies.
Soft is the matutinal mist
Through which the trees loom brown;
Come back, if only to be kist,--
Come back to Town!

For evermore, in days like these,
When musing on your face,
My sad imagination sees
Another in my place.
Say, do you listen to his prayer,
Or slay him with a frown?
At any rate I can't be there.
Come back to Town!

Why linger by some far-off lake
Or Continental strand?
St. Martin's Summer comes to make
A glory in the land.
The river runs a golden stream
Where WREN'S great dome looks down;
Thine eyes, methinks, have brighter gleam;
Come back to Town!

I hear your voice upon the wind,
In dreamland you appear;
But do you wonder that I find
The day so long and drear?
_Lentis adhaerens brachiis_ come
Once more my life to crown;
Without thee 'tis too burdensome.
Come back to Town!

* * * * *



"_So glad to see you at last. Now don't let me interrupt your talk
with Mrs. VEREKER_;" i.e., "If I do, I shall be let in for being

"_Do let me get you some tea--you must be dying for a cup_;" i.e.,
"Know _I_ am."

"_So sorry_--_I fear everything is cold. Do let me have some fresh tea
made for you_;" i.e., "He can't accept _that_ offer."


"_You don't mind my cigar, do you?_" i.e., "I know he does, but I'm
not going to waste it."

(_Reply to the above query._)

"_Oh, not at all!_" i.e., "Beastly thing! If he wasn't so confoundedly
selfish and stingy, he'd throw it away."

* * * * *




I'm afloat, I'm afloat on the coaly black Tyne!
The draft licence sent me I begged to decline;
Though other chaps had 'em, they were not for me;
I prefer a free flag, on the strictest Q.T.
A sly "floating factory" thus I set up
(I'm a mixture of RUPERT the Rover and KRUPP).
At Jarrow Slake moored, my trim wherry or boat
I rejoiced in, and sung "I'm afloat! I'm afloat!"
For quick-firing guns ammunition I made,
Engaging (says FORD) in the contraband trade.
An inquest _was_ held, but its verdict cleared _me_.
I'm afloat, I'm afloat, and the Rover is free!

I fear not the Government, heed not its law.
Much rumpus is made, we shall hear lots of jaw:
An explosion took place on October the third,
My sly "floating factory" blew up like a bird.
It killed one poor fellow, and damaged a lot,
But I am a Great Gun, and got off like a shot;
Indeed all were well, but for cold Colonel FORD,
Who blames _me_, the Rover! Too bad, on my word!
The Pirate of Elswick shall not be the sport
of a fussy Commission's ill-tempered Report.
To bring me to book is all fiddlededee--
I'm afloat, I'm afloat, and the Rover is free!

I contraband, careless? Why, everyone owns
_That_ is natural, 'neath the black flag and cross-bones.
No mere paltry maker of fireworks am I,
But a Rover who's free, whose sole roof is the sky.
The law of the land may the petty appal.
But frighten the Rover? Oh no, not at all!
And ne'er to Commissions or Colonels I'll yield,
Whilst there's Black Tyne to back me or Whitehall to shield.
Unfurl the Black Flag! shake its folds to the wind!
And I'll warrant we'll soon leave sea-lawyers behind.
Up, up with the flag! Pirate's licence for me!
I'm afloat, I'm afloat, and the Rover is free!

* * * * *


DARWINITES.--"The Evolutionary Squadron."

* * * * *


Speaking of _Reynart the Fox_, I was made, by a slip of the printer's
hand--I am accustomed to seeing slips _from_ his hand, which is quite
another thing--to say that this mediaeval romance "presents a truer
picture of life than novels in which vice is punished and virtue
patiently rewarded." After considering for some time what on earth
I could have meant by "patiently rewarded," I remembered that I had
written "patently rewarded." The printer put my "i" out; and without
an "i" it was very difficult to perceive the sense of the phrase.


_Nutshell Novels_, by that crack writer--no, not "crack'd"--and poet,
whose verses send a frill right through us, Mr. J. ASHBY-STERRY, are
coming out. Capital title. As SHAKSPEARE says, "Sermons in stones,
novels in nutshells, and good in everything." SHELLEY'S poems might
be brought out in pocketable form under a similar title, _Nut-Shelley
Poems._ I have not yet seen the volume in question, only heard tell
of it, and should not be surprised to hear that the central novel and
the best was a short military novel, entitled _The Kernel_. Messrs.
HUTCHINSON & Co. are the publishers. I hope Mr. STERRY has illustrated
them himself. He can draw and paint, but he won't, and there's an end
on't. He must follow up the _Nutshells_ with a volume of _Crackers_,
about Christmas time.

Just been looking through _London Street Arabs_, by Mrs. H.M. STANLEY,
published by CASSELL & Co., which firm--whose telegraphic address is
"Caspeg, London," and a good name too--writes to the Baron thus:--"_In
forwarding you an early copy_"--small and early--"_of Mrs. Stanley's
book, we will ask you to be good enough_"--("I am 'good enough'" quoth
the Baron)--"to _confine your extracts from the Introduction to an
extent not exceeding one-third of the whole_." "Willingly, my dear
'Caspeg,'" replies the Baron, who does not like being dictated to,
and, to gratify your wish to the utmost, he will make no extracts
at all from the book, a proceeding which ought mightily to delight
"Caspeg, London." What next? Will publishers send to the Baron, and
request him not even to breathe the names of their books? By all
means. He has no objection, as, whether sent to him for review, or
purchased by him _pour se distraire_, the Baron only mentions those he
likes, or, if he mentions those he dislikes, 'tis _pro bono publico_,
and there's an end on't. Mrs. STANLEY appreciates humour, as the
following anecdote will show--But, dear me, the Baron is forgetful--he
begs "Caspeg's" pardon; he mustn't quote. Mrs. STANLEY can be truly
sympathetic with sorrow, as the following story proves--no, "Caspeg,"
the story must _not_ follow. Never mind--the Baron's dear readers
will read it for themselves if they feel "so dispoged." The Baron
supposes that all this was written and drawn while Mrs. STANLEY was
Miss DOROTHY TENNANT, because her recorded opinion, probably, as a
spinster, is (and here the Baron "quotes" not, but "alludes"), that
you can find better artistic material in this line at home, than you
can obtain by seeking it abroad; yet when she married, off she went
to Milan, Venice, and so forth. For pleasure, of course, not work;
but work to her is evidently pleasure. May happiness have accompanied
her everywhere! The drawings are pretty, rather of the goody-good
"Sunday-at-home-readings" kind of illustrations. And what on earth has
a sort of pictorial advertisement for "Somebody's Soap" got to do with
Street Arabs? "_Washed Ashore; or, Happy At Last_," might be the title
of this mer-baby picture, in which two naked children, not Street
Arabs, or Arabs of any sort, are depicted as examining the inanimate
body of a nondescript creature, half flesh and half fish, which has
been thrown up by the waves "to be left till called for" by the next
high-tide, when, perhaps, its sorrowing parents, Mr. and Mrs. MERMAN,
or its widowed mother, Mrs. MERWOMAN, arrayed in sea-"weeds," may
come to claim it and give it un-christian burial. But that the Baron,
out of deference to the wishes of "Caspeg, London," does not like to
quote one single line, he could give Mrs. STANLEY'S own account of how
this picture of the Mer-baby came to be included in the Street Arab
Collection. For such explanation the Baron refers the reader to the
book itself. "Caspeg," farewell!

I have, the Baron says, commenced the first pages of _The Last Days
of Palmyra_. Good, so far; but several new books have come in, and
_Palmyra_ cannot receive my undivided attention, says


P.S.--My faithful "Co." has been reading _Ferrers Court_, by JOHN
STRANGE WINTER, author of _Bootle's Baby_ and a number of other
novelettes of like kind. He says that he is getting just the least bit
tired of _Mignon_, and the plain-spoken girls, and the rest of them.
By the way, he observes that it seems to be the fashion, judging from
the pages of _Ferrers Court_, in what he may call "Service Suckles,"
to talk continually of a largely advertising lady's tailor. If this
custom spreads, he presumes that the popular topic of conversation,
the weather, will have to give place to the prior claims for
consideration of Somebody's Blacking, or Somebody-else's Soap. This
is to be regretted, as, in spite of the sameness of subject of the
_Bootle's Baby_ series, JOHN STRANGE WINTER is always more amusing
than nine-tenths of his (or should it be her?) contemporaries. B. De
B.-W. & Co.

P.S. No. 2.--The Baron wishes to add that on taking up the _Bride
of Lammermoor_ in order to refresh his memory before seeing the
new drama, he was struck by a few lines in the description of
_Lucy Ashton_, which, during rehearsals, must have been peculiarly
appropriate to her representative at the Lyceum, Miss ELLEN TERRY.
Here they are:--"To these details, however trivial, _Lucy_ lent
patient and not indifferent attention. They moved and interested
_Henry_, and that was enough to secure her ear." "Great Scott!"
indeed! Perfectly prophetic, and prophetically perfect. B. DE B.-W.

* * * * *


"The day of cocked hats and plumes is past and gone. This head-dress
is utterly unsuited for active service."--_Military Correspondent's
Letter to Times_.


* * * * *



I had an invite from JEPSON, a Stock Exchange acquaintance, who has
rented a Moor for the winter months, and who, happening to hear that
I and my two foreign friends were in the neighbourhood, most kindly
asked me to come and have a look at his box, and bring them with me.

"I hear," he writes, "that the deer are very lively, and if you want
to show your foreign friends some first-rate British Sport, you can't
do better than bring them."

Need I say that I jumped at this. Coming along on the top of the
coach, that takes us to Spital-hoo, the place my friend has rented, I
have been endeavouring to describe what I _imagine_ to be the nature
of the sport of Deer-stalking to the Chief and the Bulgarian Count.
The former, who has been listening attentively, says that, from my
description, stalking a stag must be very much the same as hunting
the double-humped bison in Mwangumbloola, and that the only weapon he
shall take with him will be a pickaxe. I have pointed out to him that
I don't think this will be any use, as in deer-stalking I fancy you
follow the stag _at some distance_, but he seems resolute about the
pickaxe, and so, I suppose, I must let him have his way. The Bulgarian
Count was deeply interested in the matter, and says that evidently
the proper weapon to use is a species of quick-firing, repeating
Hotchkiss, and that he has one now on its way through Edinburgh, the
invention of a compatriot, that will fire 2700 two-ounce bullets in
a minute and a-half. I fancy, if he uses this, he will surprise the
neighbourhood; but, of course, I have not said anything to interfere
with his project.


We have arrived at Spital-hoo all safe and sound, and JEPSON has given
us a most cordial welcome. But I must now have once more recourse to
my current notes.

I have now been something like five hours on the tramp, plodding my
way through a deep glen in a pine forest, but have not yet come across
any sign of a stag, I started with the Chief and the Count, but the
former soon went off at a tangent somewhere on his own hook, and the
latter, who had got his Hotchkiss with him and found it heavy work to
drag it up and down the mountain paths, I have left behind to take a
rest and recuperate himself. I pause in my walk and listen. The forest
is intensely still. Not a sign of a stag anywhere.

JEPSON is left at home, as he is expecting a couple of local Ministers
to tea, but he has told me I'm "bound to come across whole herds of
them," if I only tramp long enough. Well, I've been at it five hours,
and I certainly ought to have spotted something by this time. By Jove,
though, what's that moving in the path ahead of me? It is! _It is a
stag!_ A magnificent fellow--though he appears to have only one horn.
But, how odd! I believe he has seen me, and yet doesn't seem scared!
Yes, he is actually approaching in the most leisurely fashion in the
world. But that isn't the correct thing. In deer-stalking, I'm sure
you ought to stalk the deer, not the deer stalk you. And this creature
is absolutely coming down on me. Oh! I can't stand this. I shall have
a shot at him. Bang! Have fired--and _missed_! And, by Jove, the stag
doesn't seem to mind! He is coming nearer and nearer. He actually
comes close to where I am kneeling, and with facetious friendliness
removes my Tam o'Shanter! But, hulloah! who is this speaking? "Ha, and
would ye blaze awa wi' your weepons upon poor old Epaminondas, mon!"
It is an aged Highlander who is addressing me, and he has just turned
out of a bye-path. He is fondling the creature's nose affectionately,
and the stag seems to know him. I remark as much.

"Ha! sure he does," he replies, "Why there's nae a body doon the glen
but has got a friendly word for puir Old Epaminondas. You see he's
blind o' one 'ee, and he's lost one o' his antlers, and he's a wee bit
lame, and all the folk here about treat him kindly, when ye thought to
put that bit o' lead into him just noo, sure he was just oomin' to ye
for a bit o' oatmeal cake."

I express my regret for having so nearly shot the "Favourite of the
Glen" through inadvertence! I explain that I came out deerstalking,
and did not expect, of course, to come across a perfectly tame and
domestic stag.

"A weel, there's nae mischief done," continues my interlocutor;
"but it's nae good a stalking Epaminondas, for he's just a sagacious
beastie altogether."

* * * * *

Here we are at the Lodge. But, hulloah! what's this uproar on the
lawn? A herd of deer dashing wildly over everything, flowerbeds
and all, and, yes, absolutely five of them bursting into the house,
through one of the drawing-room windows, while JEPSON and the two
kirk Ministers emerge hurriedly, terrified, from the other. Crash!
And what's _that_? Why, surely it _can't_ be--but yes, I believe it
is--yes, it _positively is_ the Chief's pickaxe that has flown through
the air, and just smashed through the upper panes, scattering the
glass in a thousand fragments in all directions!

And thus ends my Stalking for the Present, and (probably) the Future!

* * * * *

[Illustration: BLACK SYRENS.

_This is how the lovely and accomplished Miss B----ns (of ----,
Portland Place) managed to defray the expenses of their Sea-side Trip,
this Autumn, without anybody being any the wiser!_


* * * * *




"When Fox with Lion hunts, one would be sorry
To say who gains--until they've shared the quarry!"
Such was the Moral
Of the first chapter of our modern Fable.
Is the co-partnership still strong and stable,
Or are there signs of quarrel
More than mere querulous quidnuncs invent
To break companionship and mar content?

Reynard has settled down into that latitude,
Pilgrim, perhaps, but certainly a Trader.
Does he not show a certain change of attitude,
Suggestive rather less of the Crusader,
Eager to earn the black-skinned bondsman's gratitude,
Than of the Bagman with his sample-box?
Ah, Master Fox!
Somehow the scallop seems to slip aside,
And that brave banner, which, with honest pride
You waved, like some commercial Quixote--verily
'Tis not to-day so valorously flaunted,
And scarce so cheerily.
You boast the pure knight-errantry so vaunted,
Some two years since,
Eh? You unfeigned Crusading zeal evince?
Whence, then, that rival banner
Which you coquet with in so cautious manner?
Hoisting it? Humph! Say, rather, just inspecting it.
But whether with intention of rejecting it,
Or temporising with the sly temptation
And making Proclamation
Of views a trifle modified, and ardour
A little cooled by thoughts of purse and larder.
Why, that's the question.
Reynard will probably resent suggestion
Of playing renegade, in the cause of Trade,
To that same Holy, Noble, New Crusade.
"Only," he pleads, "don't fume, and fuss, and worry,
The New Crusade is not a thing _to hurry_;
I never meant hot zealotry or haste--
Things hardly to the solid Teuton taste!"

And Leo? Well, he always had his doubts,
Yet to indulge in fierce precipitate flouts
Is not his fashion.
The Anti-Slavery zeal, with him a passion,
He knows less warmly shared by other traders;
But _soi-disant_ Crusaders
Caught paltering with the Infidels, like traitors,
And hot enthusiast Emancipators
Who the grim Slavery-demon gently tackle,
Wink at the scourge, and dally with the shackle,
Such, though they vaunt their zeal and orthodoxy,
Seem--for philanthropists--a trifle foxy!

* * * * *

Reclame (Gratis).--Where is the Lessee of the Haymarket? He ought
to have been in India. He was wanted there. The _Daily News_, last
week, told us in its Morning News Columns that "at a place called
Beerbhoom"--clearly the Indian spelling of Beerbohm--"there was
a desirable piece of land lying waste"--the very spot for a
theatre--"because it was reputed to be haunted by a malignant
goddess,"--that wouldn't matter as long as the "gods" were well
provided for. Then it continues, "They" (who?) "did all they could to
propitiate her, setting apart a tree--." Yes; but it wasn't the right
tree: of course it ought to have been a BEERBHOOM TREE. His first
drama might have shown how a Buddhist priest couldn't keep a secret.

* * * * *



A Yankee Journal raises wordy strife
About "the happiest hour of Woman's life."
I'll answer in less compass than a sonnet:--
"When she outshines her best friend's smartest bonnet!"

* * * * *


(_Vide Cartoon, Nov. 17, 1888._)]

* * * * *


1. The Meet was to be at Cropper's Gorse, 5:30. At 4:30 Thompson
called for me. He said he knew the way perfectly.

2. After we had gone a couple of miles, a steady rain came on. I
didn't think much of the beauties of early morning.

3. "Well, my man," said Thompson, "seen the hounds? This is Cropper's
Gorse, I suppose?" "Noa, Sur; this be Cropper's Plantation. The Gorse
be four miles over yonder!"

4. "Extraordinary thing I should have been mistaken," said Thompson.
"Never mind. Let's canter on, and we'll see some fun yet."

5. "Hi! my boy, is this Cropper's Gorse?" asked Thompson. "Noa, Sur.
This be Cropper's Common. The Gorse be five miles over yonder!"

6. Then Thompson had the decency to say, "Let's go back and have

* * * * *


A mass meeting of Rats was held (unknown to the Park-keepers) under
the Reformer's Oak in Hyde Park, at midnight of last Sunday. The
object of the gathering was to protest against the proposal made by a
Correspondent of _The Times_, that the "sewer-rats who had established
themselves in the sylvan retreat" known as Hyde Park Dell, should be
exterminated by means of "twenty ferrets and a few capable dogs."

Mr. RODENT (Senior) was called upon to preside. He took the hillock
amid waving of tails and much enthusiasm, and remarked that he trusted
that that vast assembly, one of the most magnificent demonstrations
that even Hyde Park had ever known, would show by its orderly
behaviour, that Rats knew how to conduct business. (_Cheers._) They
lived in strange times. A barbarous suggestion had been made to evict
them--to turn them out of house and home, by means of what he might
call Emergency Ferrets. (_Groans, and cries of "Boycott them!"_)
He feared that boycotting a ferret would not do much good. (_A
squeak--"Why not try rattening?"--and laughter._) Arbitration seemed
to him the most politic course under the circumstances. (_Cheers._)
They were accused of eating young moor-chicks. Well, was a Rat to
starve? ("_No, no!_") Did not a Rat owe a duty to those dependent upon
it? (_Cheers, and cries of "Yes!"_) He appealed to the opinion of
the civilised world to put a stop--At this point in the Chair-rat's
address, an alarm of "Dogs!" was raised, and the meeting at once
dispersed in some confusion.

* * * * *


Who would not be a Journalist-at-Arms?
Life for that paladin hath poignant charms.
Whether in pretty quarrel he shall run
Just half an inch of rapier--in pure fun--
In his opponent's biceps, or shall flick
His shoulders with a slender walking-stick.
The "stern joy" of the man indeed must rise
To raptures and heroic ecstacies.
Oh, glorious climax of a vulgar squabble,
To redden your foe's nose, or make him hobble
For half a week or so, as though, perchance,
He'd strained an ancle in a leap or dance!
Feeble sword-play or futile fisticuffs
Might be disdained by warriors--or roughs;
But to the squabbling scribe the farce has charms.
Who would not be a Journalist-at-Arms?

* * * * *


A thoroughly well appointed and handsomely furnished COUNTRY MANSION
(Elizabethan or Jacobaean period preferred) wanted immediately. It must
contain not less than 50 bedrooms, appropriate reception-rooms, and
a hall capable of being utilised for _fetes_ and gala entertainments
on a large scale, and must stand in the midst of extensive timbered
grounds, surrounded by orangeries, hot-houses, and beautifully kept
pleasure grounds replete with the choicest pieces of statuary and
ornamental fountains arranged for electrical illumination, the perfect
installation of which on the premises, on the newest principles, is
regarded as a _sine qua non_ by the Advertiser. The shooting over four
or five hundred acres, and the meeting of not less than three packs
of hounds in the immediate neighbourhood, with salmon and trout
fishing within easy distance of the mansion, are also considered
indispensable. Particulars as to the surrounding country gentry are
requested. Write also stating whether any recognised race-meeting is
held in the immediate vicinity. The distance of the property from
town must not be more than half an hour's railway journey, and the
inclusive rent must not exceed _five and twenty shillings a week_.

* * * * *


* * * * *

[Illustration: THE DEMON ALPS

(_Our Artist's Dream, after reading the numerous Accidents to

* * * * *



"London is a terrible consumer of ozone."--_Standard_.

A'R--"_The Dutchman's Little Dog._"

O where and O where, is our treasured Ozone?
O where, and O where can it be?
From London to leeward 'tis utterly gone,
To windward but little floats free.

Since SCHOeNBEIN of Basle discovered the stuff,
We've lived half a cen-tu-ree.
If of it we only could swallow enough,
How healthy, how happy were we!

Condensed form of oxygen, essence of air
That's fresh, or electricitee,
Ozone is the stuff shaken health to repair.
'Tis for it we all fly to the sea!

Solidified Ozone they talk about now,
To be bought in small bricks like pressed tea.
The air that is cheering when breathed on one's brow
In cubic foot-blocks would bring glee.

How pleasant to buy one's Ozone, like one's coal,
And store it up an-nu-al-lee!
And not fly for it to some dull cockney hol
Just because it is dug by the Sea!

Ah yes, let us have it, this needful Ozone,
In portable parcels! Ah me!
No longer need Paterfamilias groan
At the cost of that month by the Sea!

* * * * *

Artisan left out in the cold_.)--"In the ambush of my name, strike
home!"--_Measure for Measure_.

* * * * *


'Twere hard indeed to try to get
A theme without some poem on it--
A vilanelle, a triolet,
An ode, an epic, or a sonnet.
CASTARA'S charms were sung of old,
Both SWIFT and SIDNEY, wrote to STELLA,
But mine it is to first unfold
The praise of my beloved Umbrella.


You are not difficult to please,
Although no doubt a trifle "knobby;"
Whilst I'm reclining at mine ease,
I leave you standing in the lobby.
I ever treat you thus, and yet
I haven't got a friend who's firmer;
In point of fact, you even let
Me shut you up without a murmur.

Now some seek solace sweet in smoke,
And make a pipe their AMARYLLIS;
So think not that I do but joke
In calling you my darling PHYLLIS.
And though the gossips never spare
For ill-report to seek a handle,
The (indiarubber) ring you wear
Prevents the very thought of scandal.

"Fair weather, friend," we've often heard
Used as a term to throw discredit,
Though clearly it were quite absurd
If speaking of yourself one said it.
When skies are blue (a thing that's rare)
I in the coolest way forsake you,
But when the Forecast tells me "Fair,"
Or "Settled Sunshine," then I take you.

I like to think of one sweet day
When cats and dogs it kept on raining,
(Why "cats and dogs," it's right to say,
Who will oblige me by explaining?)
When someone, who had golden hair,
And I were walking out together,
And underneath your sheltering care,
Were happy spite of wind and weather.

One day I asked a friend to dine,
The friend I most completely trusted.
We sat and chatted o'er the wine,
He liked the port--my fine old crusted.
At length we said "Good-night." He went
But not alone. For to my sorrow
My mind with jealousy was rent,
To find you missing on the morrow.

You had eloped! Yet all the same
I felt quite sure you were his victim,
When back a sorry wreck you came,
I very nearly went and kicked him!
Did Love take wings, and fly away?
Grew my affection less? No, never!
To tell the truth, I'm bound to say
I fondly loved you more than ever!

With him--the man who was my friend--
It's pretty clear you got on badly;
Your ribs, somehow, seem prone to bend,
Your silken dress seems wearing sadly.
It's very hard, I know, to part,
And sentimental feelings smother,
But even though it break my heart,
I'm going, next week, to get another.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON A PLATE OF VENISON (_a suggestion, at the service of those
who collect menu cards_).--"Though lost to sight, to memory deer!"

* * * * *


Last week the _St. James's Gazette_ published an article
proving that the Bastille, so far from being a gloomy prison,
was the most delightful of hotels. This historical record has,
however, caused no surprise in 85, Fleet Street, because the
following extract from a very old diary has for years been
awaiting publication. The time has now arrived for it to see
the light.



_Newgate, September 29, 17--_.--Got up with the assistance of my
valet, and held my customary _levee_. The Governor of the place asked
my permission to enter my luxuriously furnished apartments, to show me
an amusing set of irons that had been discovered in one of the cells
used during the last two hundred years for the storage of fire-wood.
The droll things were called the "Little Ease," and seemingly, were
intended to create merriment. One of the officers was complacent
enough to assume them, and caused great diversion by his eccentric
gestures. My _levee_ was not quite so successful, as is generally the
case, as that tedious old gossip, GUIDO FAUX, obtained admission. As
usual he had a grievance. It appears that a report has got abroad that
he was executed in the days of our late lamented Monarch, JAMES THE
FIRST of Great Britain, and SIXTH of Scotland. Says GUIDO, "If this be
believed by the multitude there will be a demand for my expulsion, and
what shall I do if I be turned out?" Condoled with him, and escaped
his importunities by joining with Master JOHN SHEPPARD, and Squire
TURPIN in a game of "Lorne Ten Hys," a recreation recently introduced
by my good neighbour Monsieur CLAUDE DU VAL. Failed in making a goal,
and put out thereat. However, regained my usual flow of spirits on
receiving a polite request from the Governor to join him and his
good Dame in a visit to the Tower of London, to call upon Lady JANE
GREY--once Queen--and now a guest in that admirable institution. Was
graciously received by Her Ladyship, who is now of advanced age. Her
Ladyship was vastly amused at the news that had reached her that some
chroniclers do insist that she has lost her head. "I have in good
sooth lost my teeth," laughed the venerable gentlewoman "but my head
is as firmly set upon my shoulders as ever. I do verily believe that
it must be some mad piece of waggery of that Prince of good fellows,
Sir WALTER RALEIGH. The aged Knight is always up to some of his
nonsense!" After playing a game of quoits with Lord BALMARINO and the
Tower Headsman (whose office is a well-paid sinecure), I returned
to Newgate, greatly pleased with my morning's promenade. In the
afternoon, entertained the Governor at dinner, who declared that he
could never get so good a meal in his own quarters. "Strap me, no!"
I exclaimed: "and, were it not that our food was excellent, who
would stay at Newgate?" For I confess that, although there are
pleasure-gardens, and every sort of amusement and comfort, Newgate, at
times, is decidedly damp. Then I raised a glass of punch to my lips,
and wished him the same luck that I myself enjoyed. "And that I had!"
quoth he. "Would I were prisoner instead of Governor. But it would
not be meet. I am not a man of sufficient quality!" And now I must
bring this entry to a conclusion, for there is to be a theatrical
performance in the dining-hall. Little DAVID GARRICK is to play
the principal male character, while Mistress NELLIE GWYNE, Mistress
SIDDONS, and Mistress PEG WOFFINGTON, are also in the cast. The title
of the piece is _Hamlet_, and I am told it is written by a young man
new to Town. The name of the author is either SHAKSPEARE or SMITH. I
am not sure which, but think SMITH.

* * * * *

P.S.--Open my Diary once again. _Hamlet_ a poor piece. It is now
said that it was written by BACON or BUCHANAN. Of the former I know
nothing, and posterity must discover the identity of the latter.
For the rest, if again I am pressed to go to the Play--strap me!
but, comfortable as I am, I will pack up my traps, and be off from
Newgate--for ever!

* * * * *




_The Commissioner_ (_sharply_). Well, Sir, what is it?

_Shareholder_. I have come to complain about the Gas Companies--

_The Com._ I am not surprised. They are generally causing some one or
other trouble.

_Shareh._ No, I beg your pardon, Sir, but you misunderstand me. I am
interested in the prosperity of Gas Companies--


_The Com._ Then I pity you, for they are certain, sooner or later, to
be superseded by the Electric Light.

_Shareh._ Will you allow me to continue? I am annoyed that some
one has been complaining in the _Times_ that "A Chief of a Rental
Department" (invariably a person of the highest respectability) has a
right to the title of "an arbitrary cove!"

_The Com._ No doubt someone (who showed his wisdom in appealing to so
powerful a tribunal) gave his reasons?

_Shareh._ Well, yes; he certainly had been served with a demand to pay
L1 4s. 10d. within three days, to "prevent the necessity" of the gas
supply to his premises being discontinued at a time when he and his
family were out of Town, and his house was closed for the recess.

_The Com._ _Prima facie_, that seems a strong order! And I suppose the
complainant wrote to the Gas Company, and got no redress?

_Shareh._ Well, yes. But then, you see, this demand for payment within
three days may have been a final notice.

_The Com._ (_drily_). Seems to have been very final indeed! Was there
anything on the face of the notice to distinguish it from an ordinary
unstamped circular?

_Shareh._ No, I believe not. But, then, possibly, the account had been
submitted to him before.

_The Com._ How do you know? Speaking from my own experience, a
demand-note is generally left at the house when the master is away,
and the Collector does not take the slightest trouble to _collect_
the money. He leaves it to chance whether the money is _sent_ or not.
Surely _you_ must know that in your character of a householder?

_Shareh._ Well, yes; I fancy that the collector does sometimes act in
a very perfunctory manner.

_The Com._ And that servants frequently are unable to distinguish
between the open circular of a Gas Company asking for the settlement
of an account, and the open circular of a touting coal merchant asking
for custom? And when this happens, both find a home in the dust-hole.
Is not that so?

_Shareh._ Well, yes--very likely--but the law is--

_The Com._ (_sternly_). The Law and its name should not be lightly
taken in vain. I have seen on a Gas Company's circular the terrors of
a statute invoked to secure prompt payment of a few shillings! After
all, the Gas Companies (albeit monopolists) are merely traders, and
the Public are the customers. If a butcher, a baker, or a candle-stick
maker invariably attempted to secure immediate payment by reference
on the invoice to the usefulness of the County Court, it is more than
possible that that butcher, that baker, or that candle-stick maker,
would speedily have to retire from business _via_ the Bankruptcy
column of _The London Gazette_. Thus Gas Companies, who adopt a like
unpleasant tone, are regarded as the natural enemies of the Public
generally. You have a grievance--as a shareholder of one of these
Associations--but this is not the place to obtain redress. If you
want to improve your position, keep your eye upon your _employes_, and
teach them the meaning of that well-worn phrase, _Suaviter in modo,
fortiter in re!_ You may go!

[_The Witness then retired, with difficulty repressing a
painful exhibition of the most acute emotion._]

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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