PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 101.
October 24, 1891.
LAISSEZ FAIRE.
(Inscription for a Free Public Library.)
Here is an Institution doomed to scare
The furious devotees of Laissez Faire.
What mental shock, indeed, could prove immenser
To Mumbo Jumbo—or to HERBERT SPENCER?
Free Books? Reading provided from the Rates?
Oh, that means Freedom's ruin, and the State's!
Self-help's all right,—e'en if you rob a brother—
But human creatures must not help each other!
The "Self-made Man," whom SAMUEL SMILES so praises,
Who on his fellows' necks his footing raises,
The systematic "Sweater," who sucks wealth
From toiling crowds by cunning and by stealth,—
He is all right, he has no maudlin twist,
He does not shock the Individualist!
But rate yourselves to give the poor free reading?
The Pelican to warm her nestlings bleeding,
Was no such monument of feeble folly.
Let folks alone, and all will then be jolly.
Let the poor perish, let the ignorant sink,
The tempted tumble, and the drunkard drink!
Let—no, don't let the low-born robber rob,
Because,—well, that would rather spoil the job.
If footpad-freedom brooked no interference,
Of Capital there might be a great clearance;
But, Wealth well-guarded, let all else alone.
'Tis thus our race hath to true manhood grown:
To make the general good the common care,
Breaks through the sacred law of Laissez Faire!
A REMONSTRANCE.
To Luke's Little Summer.
Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run,
With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like one
Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day,
Till half the guests and all the joy is gone,
And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.
What though the faithful trees, still gladly green,
Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between,
Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn,
It only tells us of what might have been
Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.
Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain,
How can the roses dare to trust again
The tricksy mistress whom they once adored?
Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain,
Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.
Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs,
When the tall simple lilies—the giraffes
That browse on loftier air than other flowers—
When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs,
Like chidden children droop among the bowers.
Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds,
The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads,
And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran
When showers, in mockery of his moist needs,
Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.
What woman's rights have crazed thee?
Would'st thou be
A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he?
Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing?
Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea,
Nor wake thy cowslips up on May morning?
What, shall we brew us possets by the fire
And let the wild rose shiver on the brier.
The cowslip tremble in the meadows chill,
While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher
And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill?
It is too late; thou art no love of mine;
I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine;
The sunlight penitently streaming down
Shines through the paling leaf like thinnest wine
Quaff'd in the clear air of a mountain town.
Farewell! For old love's sake I kiss thy hands;
Go on thy way; away to other lands
That love thee less, and need thee less than we;
Pour out thy passion on some desert sands,
Forget thy lover of the Northern Sea.
Away with fond pretence; let winter come
With snow that strikes the heaviest footfall dumb.
We know the worst, and face his rage with glee;
And, though the world without be ne'er so glum,
Sit by the hearth, and dream and talk—of thee.
Yes, come again with earliest April; stay,
Thyself once more, through the fair time when day
Clasps hand with day, through the brief hush of night—
A twilight bower of roses, where in play
Dance little maidens through from light to light.
Birds of a Feather.
[Lord HAWKE's team of Cricketers were beaten at Manheim by the Philadelphians by eight wickets whereat the Philadelphia Ledger cockadoodles considerably. The Britishers, however, won the return match somewhat easily.]
The Yankee Eagle well might squeal and squawk
At having licked the British bird (Lord) HAWKE.
But when that HAWKE his brood had "pulled together,"
That Eagle found it yet might "moult a feather."
Go it, ye friendly-fighting fowls! But know
'Tis only "Roosters" who o'er conquest crow!
HOME SWEET HOME!
(By one who believes there's no place like it.)
Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers,
After an exile of two months or so,
Swiss or Italian). Sweet—to find your Banker's
Balance getting low.
Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento.
Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen,
Into a climate that you know not when to
Really call serene.
Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters
Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim,
Back to a cook who passionately caters
Not for you, but him.
Sweet to return from Table-d'Hôtes disgusting
(Oh, how you grumbled at the Sauce Romaine!)
Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting
Solid joints again.
Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely
Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
Back to a land where perquisites are surely
Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
Pourboires and Trinkgelds grudgingly bestowed—
Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
Or the Cromwell Road.
Sweet to return from "all those dreadful tourists,"
Such mixed society as chance allots,
E'en to the social splendour of the purists
Of those sparkling spots.
Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty!
(Some of the latter at our Custom House)
Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty
Of the British mouse!
Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and sweet'll
Welcome the pilgrim, doomed too long to roam,
England's tried sentinel, the black, black beetle
With his "Home, sweet Home!"
LONDON'S DILEMMA; OR, "FAIR ROSAMOND" UP TO DATE.
(Lately-discovered Fragments of a valuable and interesting "Variant" of the old Ballad Story.)When as VICTORIA rulde this land,
The firste of that greate name,
Faire Loundonne, of the cockneyes lovde,
Attaynd to power and fame.
Most peerlesse was her splendoure founde,
Her favour, and her face;
Yet was there one thing marred her weale,
And wroughte her dire disgrace.
Her dower was all that showered golde,
Like Danaë's, could her lende,
Yet dwelt she in the ogreish holde
Of fell and fearsome fiende.
Yea Loundonne Towne, faire Loundonne Towne,
Her name was calléd so,
To whom the Witch Monopolie
Was known a deadlye foe.
Now when ye Countie Councile woke,
And FARRER rose to fame,
With envious heart Monopolie
To Loundonne straightway came.
"Cast off from thee those schemes," said she,
"That greate and costlye bee,
And drinke thou up this deadlye cup,
Which I have brought to thee!"
"Take pitty on my awkward plight!"
Faire Loundonne she dyd crye,
"And lett me not with poison stronge
Enforcéd be to dye!"
Then out and laught that wicked Witch:
"If that you will not drinke,
This dagger choose! Though you be riche,
You'll shrinke from that, I thinke."
The dagger was a magic blayde,
With figures graven o'er,
Which, as you gazed thereon, did seeme
To growe to more and more.
"Nay," quothe faire Loundonne, "'tis but choyce
'Twixt dyvill and deepe sea!
I praye thee take thyself awaye,
And leave the jobbe to me!"
But nothynge could this grasping Witch
Therewith appeaséd be.
The cup of deadlye poison stronge,
As she knelt on her knee,
She gave this comely dame to drinke,
Who tooke it in her hande,
Then from her bended knees arose,
And on her feet did stande.
And casting Council-wards her eyes,
She did for rescue call,
When—[Fragmentes further may be founde,
At presente thys is alle!
If close researche, as welle we hope,
Perchaunce complete ye texte,
This ballade, as scribes saye, shall be
"Continued in our next!"]
ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.
Wanted, a few good extra Judges, who will be prepared to do all the work at present delayed or neglected by the existing members of the Bench. They will be expected to dispense with all vacations except a week at Christmas, five days at Easter, and a fortnight from the first to the fifteenth of October. They will devote their entire time to the service of the State, both day and night. Their day will be devoted to business in the High Court of Justice in the Strand, and when required they will go Circuit (by special express) sitting at the various assizes from 9 P.M. until 3 A.M., returning to London by trains timed to reach the Metropolis sufficiently early to allow of the usual morning sitting. They will be further required to consider their leisure (if any) entirely at the disposal of those members of the Bar and Solicitors who require it. If they do this punctually and diligently, without knocking up, they will be permitted to draw salaries computed at the rate of about one-third of the emoluments received by a third-rate Queen's Counsel; and if they grow lazy, or are incapacitated by illness, they will be rewarded by a number of personal attacks in the London newspapers. Applications to be sent to the Lord Chancellor (endorsed "Extra Judges to suppress outside clamour") as early as possible. Every candidate for an appointment will be expected to be as strong as a horse, and as insensible to feeling as the back of a rhinoceros.
Big Drinkers, Moderate Drinkers, and Little Drinkers—this is the Tipple Alliance!
"WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."—No. 3.
WHEN HIS DENTIST WILL SUSPEND OPERATIONS TO TELL HIM FUNNY STORIES.Gilbert à Beckett.
BORN, APRIL 7, 1837. DIED, OCT. 15, 1891.
"Wearing the white flower of a blameless life."
TENNYSON.
GILBERT the Good! Title, though high, well earned
By him through whose rare nature brightly burned
The fire of purity,
Undimmed, unflickering, like some altar flame
Sky-pointing ever. Friend, what thought of blame
Hath coldest heart for thee?
A knightly-priest or priestly-knight wert thou,
Man of the radiant eye and reverent brow;
Chivalry closely knit
With fervent faith in thee indeed were blent;
Thought upon high ideals still intent,
And a most lambent wit.
Serene, though with a power of scathing scorn
For all things mean or base. Sorrow long borne,
Though bowing, soured not thee.
Bereaved, health-broken, still that patient smile
Wreathed the pale lips which never greed or guile
A saintly-hearted wit, a satirist pure,
Mover of mirth spontaneous as sure,
And innocent as mad;
Incongruous freak and frolic phantasy
Were thy familiar spirits, quickening glee
And wakening laughter glad.
Dainty as Ariel, yet as Puck profuse
Of the "preposterous," was that wit, whose use
Was ever held "within
The limits of becoming mirth." His whim
Never shy delicacy's glance could dim,
Or move the cynic grin.
But that fate's hampering hand lay on him long
He might have won in drama and in song
A more enduring name.
But he is gone, the gentle, loyal, just,
Whence all these things fall earthward with the dust
Of fleeting earthly fame.
Gone from our hoard, gone from the home he loved!
With what compassion are his comrades moved
For those who sit alone
With memories of him! Gracious memories all!
A thought to lighten, like that flower, his pall,
And hush love's troubled moan.
Farewell, fine spirit! To be owned thy friend
Was something to illume the unwelcome end
Of comradeship below.
A loving memory long our board will grace,
In fancy, with that sweet ascetic face.
That brow's benignant glow.
Rhyme at Rhyl.
(By a Listening Layman.)
If Cleric Congresses could only care
A little less for the mere Church and Steeple,
Parochial pomp and power in lion's share,
And have one aim—to purify the People,
They need not shrink from Disestablishment,
Or any other secular enormity;
Unselfish love of Man destroys Dissent,
True Charity provokes no Nonconformity.
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
No. XI.
SCENE—A Balcony outside the Musik-Saal of the Insel Hotel, Constance. Miss PRENDERGAST is seated; CULCHARD is leaning against the railing close by. It is about nine; the moon has risen, big and yellow, behind the mountains at the further end of the lake; small black boats are shooting in and out of her track upon the water; the beat of the steamers' paddles is heard as they come into harbour. CULCHARD has just proposed.
Miss Prendergast (after a silence). I have always felt very strongly with RUSKIN, that no girl should have the cruelty to refuse a proposal—
Culchard (with alacrity). RUSKIN is always so right. And—er—where there is such complete sympathy in tastes and ideas, as I venture to think exists in our own case, the cruelty would—
Miss P. Pray allow me to finish! "Refuse a proposal at once" is RUSKIN's expression. He also says (if my memory does not betray me), that "no lover should have the insolence to think of being accepted at once." You will find the passage somewhere in "Fors."
Culch. (whose jaw has visibly fallen). I cannot say I recall it at this moment. Does he hold that a lover should expect to be accepted by—er—instalments, because, if so—
Miss P. I think I can quote his exact words. "If she simply doesn't like him, she may send him away for seven years—"
Culch. (stiffly). No doubt that course is open to her. But why seven, and where is he expected to go?
Miss P. (continuing calmly). "He vowing to live on cresses and wear sackcloth meanwhile, or the like penance."
Culch. I feel bound to state at once that, in my own case, my position at Somerset House would render anything of that sort utterly impracticable.
Miss P. Wait, please,—you are so impetuous. "If she likes him a little,"—(CULCHARD's brow relaxes)—"or thinks she might come to like him in time, she may let him stay near her,"—(CULCHARD makes a movement of relief and gratitude)—"putting him always on sharp trial, and requiring, figuratively, as many lion-skins or giants' heads as she thinks herself worth."
Culch. (grimly). "Figuratively" is a distinct concession on RUSKIN's part. Still, I should be glad to know—
Miss P. If you will have a little more patience, I will make myself clear. I have always determined that when the—ah—occasion presented itself, I would deal with it on Ruskinian principles. I propose in your case—presuming of course that you are willing to be under vow for me—to adopt a middle course.
Culch. You are extremely good. And what precise form of—er—penance did you think of?
Miss P. The trial I impose is, that you leave Constance to-morrow—with Mr. PODBURY.
Culch. (firmly). If you expect me to travel for seven years with him, permit me to mention that I simply cannot do it. My leave expires in three weeks.
Miss P. I mentioned no term, I believe. Long before three weeks are over we shall meet again, and I shall be able to see how you have borne the test. I wish you to correct, if possible, a certain intolerance in your attitude towards Mr. PODBURY. Do you accept this probation, or not?
Culch. I—ah—suppose I have no choice. But you really must allow me to say that it is not precisely the reception I anticipated. Still, in your service, I am willing to endure even PODBURY—for a strictly limited period; that I do stipulate for.
Miss P. That, as I have already said, is quite understood. Now go and arrange with Mr. PODBURY.
Culch. (to himself, as he retires). It is most unsatisfactory; but at least PODBURY is disposed of!
The same Scene, a quarter of an hour later. PODBURY and Miss PRENDERGAST.
Podbury (with a very long face). No, I say, though! RUSKIN doesn't say all that?
Miss P. I am not in the habit of misquoting. If you wish to verify the quotation, however, I daresay I could find you the reference in Fors Clavigera.
Podb. (ruefully). Thanks—I won't trouble you. Only it does seem rather rough on fellows, don't you know. If everyone went on his plan—well, there wouldn't be many marriages! Still, I never thought you'd say "Yes" right off. It's like my cheek, I know, to ask you at all; you're so awfully clever and that. And if there's a chance for me, I'm game for anything in the way of a trial. Don't make it stiffer than you can help, that's all!
Miss P. All I ask of you is to leave me for a short time, and go and travel with Mr. CULCHARD again.
Podb. Oh, I say, Miss PRENDERGAST, you know. Make it something else. Do!
Miss P. That is the task I require, and I can accept no other. It is nothing, after all, but what you came out here to do.
Podb. I didn't know him then, you see. And what made me agree to come away with him at all is beyond me. It was all HUGHIE ROSE's doing—he said we should get on together like blazes. So we have—very like blazes!
Miss P. Never mind that. Are you willing to accept the
Podb. If you only knew what he's like when he's nasty, you'd let me off—you would, really. But there, to please you, I'll do it. I'll stand him as long as ever I can—'pon my honour I will. Only you'll make it up to me afterwards, won't you now?
Miss P. I will make no promises—a true knight should expect no reward for his service, Mr. PODBURY.
Podb. (blankly). Shouldn't he? I'm a little new to the business, you see, and it does strike me—but never mind. When am I to trot him off?
Miss P. As soon as you can induce him to go—to-morrow, if possible.
Podb. I don't believe he'll go, you know, for one thing!
Miss P. (demurely). I think you will find him open to persuasion. But go and try, Mr. PODBURY.
Podb. (to himself, as he withdraws). Well, I've let myself in for a nice thing! Rummest way of treating a proposal I ever heard of. I should just like to tell that fellow RUSKIN what I think of his precious ideas. But there's one thing, though—she can't care about CULCHARD, or she wouldn't want him carted off like this.... Hooray, I never thought of that before! Why, there he is, dodging about to find out how I've got on. I'll tackle him straight off.
Culch. Er—PODBURY it has occurred to me that we might— } leave this place to-morrow! Podb. I say, CULCHARD, we really ought to—[CULCHARD and PODBURY meet at the head of the staircase, and speak at the same moment.
Podb. Hullo! we're both of one mind for once, eh? (To himself.) Poor old beggar! Got the sack! That explains a lot. Well, I won't tell him anything about this business just now.
Culch. So it appears. (To himself.) (Had his quietus, evidently. Ah, well, I won't exult over him.
[They go off together to consult a time-table.
Miss. P. (on the balcony, musing). Poor fellows! I couldn't very well say anything more definite at present. By the time I see them again, I may understand my own heart better. Really, it is rather an exciting sensation, having two suitors under vow and doing penance at the same time—and all for my sake! I hope, though, they won't mention it to one another—or to BOB. BOB does not understand these things, and he might— But, after all, there are only two of them. And RUSKIN distinctly says that every girl who is worth anything ought always to have half-a-dozen or so. Two is really quite moderate.
A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN'S REPLY.
(By Mr. Punch's kind permission.)
Yes, I read your effusion that lately got printed,
And at first never guessed there was anything meant.
But when someone suggested that something was hinted,
On your verses some time I reluctantly spent.
They are fair—and perhaps you consider them clever,
You're a poet, no doubt, of a minor degree,
But I never was startled so strangely—no, never!
As to learn that the lady you mentioned was me!
In the coolest of ways you sum up my attractions,
Pray allow me to turn my attention to you.
You are good, I believe, at the vulgarest fractions,
You have cheek and assurance sufficient for two.
You are what people reckon "a nice sort of fellow,"
Your sense of importance very strongly you feel.
You are bilious, you've got a complexion of yellow,
You are plainer than I am—which says a good deal.
"Am I free altogether from blame in the matter?"—
And as to my frowning, I don't know the way—
Do you really imagine that insolent chatter
Can affect me, or that I care for what people say?
With fervent adorers around by the dozen,
For whom but my word is the law of their life.
Do you think I'd occasion to pitch on a cousin,
And announce that you wanted myself as your wife?
Do not think I am angry, I am good at forgiving,
Have my constant refusals then made you so sour?
Even poets in Punch have to write for their living,
And must wear their poor lives out at so much the hour.
I am weary and tired of being proposed to,
And at times I'm afraid it will injure my brain,
But my heart for the future yourself, mind, is closed to,
So don't, I implore, come proposing again.
A REAL BURNING QUESTION.—What should be done with the mischievous and malicious noodles who communicate false alarms (to the number of 518 in one year) to the London Fire Brigade, by means of the fire-alarm posts fixed for public convenience and protection in the public thoroughfares? The almost appropriate Stake is out of date, but Mr. Punch opines that the Pillory would be none too bad for them.
THE BULL, THE BEAR, AND THE OXUS.—Russia, it is asserted, "intends to annex the whole of the elevated plateaus known as the Pamirs, and all parts of Afghanistan north of a straight line drawn from Lake Victoria to the junction of the Kotcha River with the Oxus." JOHN BULL might say, "I should like to Kotcha at it!"
SOME LONDON "FIENDS."
(How to Exorcise, after reading Correspondence on the subject in several "Dailies.")
The "Walking-stick and Umbrella Fiend."
Provide yourself with a steel-plated umbrella (carriage size), with a "non-conducting" handle. When open in a shower, where people are hurrying, let the framework bristle with sharp penknife points. Held firmly in front of you, you will find everyone get out of your way. In entering a crowded omnibus or railway carriage, by touching a knob, let the heat generated by the electric current instantly cause the whole to become "red-hot." Dexterously moved about in front of you, you will find this a most thoroughly protecting weapon, clearing instantly a large space on each side of you, and even sometimes involving the summoning of the conductor or guard, with a view to your removal either to another compartment, or even a general request for your expulsion from the vehicle altogether. This may lead possibly to your enjoyment of an entire compartment to yourself; for, of course, you will point out that you cannot be expected to travel without your umbrella, which, after all, happens merely to be constructed on a newly-patented principle.
The "Hansom Cab Fiend."
This is easily overcome. You have merely to employ an agent to purchase a second-hand steam-roller for you, put in a high-pressure boiler, and the thing is done. With practice, you can easily get eight miles an hour out of one of these excellent machines, and you will find a
The "Piano Organ, German Band, and General Street Music Fiend."
Get (your best way is through a friend at the Admiralty) several fog-horns rejected by the Department on account of their excessive and unbearable shrillness. Whenever any sort of street music commences at either end of your street, turn on, by an apparatus specially arranged in your area, the full force of the above. This will not only overpower your would-be tormentors, but bring every householder in the neighbourhood to his street-door begging you to desist. You have merely to say, "When they stop, I turn off," to get them to comprehend the situation. It may possibly lead to the intervention of the police, probably in some force; but the net result will be that you will, for that morning, at least, enjoy a quiet street.
There are other London fiends removable by various measures, concerning which much might be said if they were not actionable.
"GRATITUDE—A SENSE OF FAVOURS TO COME."—Mr. SWINBURNE unexpectedly says a good word for the much be-mocked BOWDLER. "No man (he says), ever did better service to SHAKSPEARE than the man who made it possible to put him into the hands of intelligent and imaginative children." Can Mr. SWINBURNE be "proticipating" the period when another BOWDLER may be called upon to do a similar "service" for the author of Poems and Ballads?
FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
(As zey are Spoke at ze Country 'Ouse.)
Hostess. "OH—ER—J'ESPAIR KER VOOS AVVY TROOVY VOTRE—VOTRE—ER—ER—VOTRE COLLAR STUD, BARRONG?"
M. le Baron. "OH, I ZANK YOU, YES! I FIND 'EEM ON MY CHEST OF TROWSERS!"
"AFTER YOU!"
["I am sure I may say, on behalf of all those whose names are mentioned (for the Leadership of the House of Commons), that we do not understand what selfishness is in the Public Service. Everyone of us would prefer that someone else should hold that high and honourable office."—Sir M. Hicks-Beach at Stockton-on-Tees.]
Oh, is there such a vice as unholy love of self.
In the Public Service, too? 'Tis a thing I can't believe.
If I thought we could be moved by the love of power or pelf,
To compete for premier office I should very greatly grieve.
But oh no, oh deary no! I am sure it can't be so.
We don't even "understand it," so of course it isn't true.
When we're called upon to go, each will say, all louting low,
"After you!"
We are not "competitive," like those naughty goddesses
Who poor Paris fluttered so upon Ida's pine-clad peak.
Of his "choice"—through selfishness—that young shepherd made a mess,
But our Shepherd, SALISBURY, will not be so wildly weak;
And our claims we shall not urge to compulsion's very verge,
On the contrary each one thinks that "another" best will do.
"No, loved comrade" (each will say) "let me make my 'splendid splurge'
"After you!"
Look at GOSCHEN! Can't you see he regards with perfect glee
The prospect of promotion of his faithful friend BALFOUR.
He doesn't want to lead. Ah no, indeed, indeed!
Do you think that off friend ARTHUR JOACHIM can wish to score?
Upon the Treasury Bench did he ever try to trench
On the province of the Leader for the time, no matter who?
He would cry, "Dear ARTHUR, No! from priority I blench,—
"After you!"
Then bland BALFOUR in his turn such crude selfishness would spurn
As the wish to prove himself popular more than soft J.G.,
With a most becoming blush his pale cheek, I'm sure, would burn,
If his uncle should cry, "Come, nephew dear, and second me!"
He would hint at nepotism, and the chance of secret schism.
"Let the mild ex-Liberal lead, I will be his henchman true!"
He would cry, with selfless joy on his brow like a pure chrism,
"After you!"
And as for simple Me! Oh, it's utter fiddle-de-dee
To suppose that I possess, or desire, the least look in.
No, selfishness, my friends, we unitedly agree
In Party life is just the unpardonable sin,
Which "we do not understand," like that other little game
That AH-SIN, reluctant, played, with some small success 'tis true.
But we've no sleeve-hidden card as we cry, with modest shame,
"After you!"
WHAT'S IN A NAME?—The St. James's Gazette says:—"There are forty-seven divorces in the United States for every one in the United Kingdom." Evidently "United" is something more than anagrammatically identical with "Untied."
"GRAY'S ELEGY" AMENDED.
["I have often thought that GRAY's Elegy was defective in having no verse commemorative of the sequestered and unsophisticated philanthropy of the village doctor."—Sir James Crichton-Browne at the Yorkshire College, Leeds.]
And one lies here of whom the scoffer said,
He did his best the green churchyard to fill;
None ever looks upon his lowly bed,
Without the recollection of a pill.
He lived sequestered, and he died unknown,
A truly unsophisticated man;
A medicine-glass adorns his humble stone,
And thus the epitaph they graved him ran:
"Here Doctor BOLUS lies, to dose no more;
His charge was moderate, but quite enough:
Death left a last prescription at the door,
And then the doctor had his 'Quantum suff.'"
"AFTER YOU!"
"HE BELIEVED THAT EVERYONE OF THEM WOULD PREFER THAT SOMEONE ELSE SHOULD HOLD THAT HIGH AND HONOURABLE OFFICE."—SIR MICHAEL HICKS-BEACH at Stockton-on-Tees.HARRYING OUR HAKIMS.
[A medical journal suggests that all candidates for Medical Degrees should be required to give proof of good handwriting, in order to put an end to indistinct prescriptions.]
A few additional requirements, we believe, have been under consideration, of which the following are a sample:—
All candidates for the M.B. Degree to be able to count up to fifty. Candidates who are more than fifty not to count.
Nobody to become a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons until he has mastered Simple Addition and Compound Fractures.
Members of the Royal College of Physicians will henceforth be expected to know their Weights (with boots off) and Measures (round the waist). Troy weight only. "Scruples" not allowed. Good knowledge of Multiplication Table indispensable for dispensers.
No candidate to be accepted for a Degree unless he either has a good "bedside manner," or undertakes to develop one as soon as possible.
Any candidate to be at once ploughed unless he can answer all the following questions:—
1. What would you do if asked to hold a consultation with a practitioner whom you have every reason to suppose an incapable quack?
2. If a good paying patient, suffering from no ailment whatever, called you in with a view to getting a week's holiday at the seaside by medical orders, how would you reconcile a desire to oblige that pardonable weakness with a strict regard for veracity?
3. When the parents of a large family, who do their duty manfully by calling you in about twice a week, and from whom therefore you derive a not inconsiderable proportion of your income, object to have an infant vaccinated at the proper time, because they erroneously consider it to be unfit for the operation, which would you feel inclined to strain—friendship, or the law?
4. Do you believe in Influenza?
5. Have you ever seen a Microbe?
6. "In the multitude of visits there is safety." Comment on this declaration. How many visits do you think a common catarrh will support? Give reasons.
7. What is the etiquette about Red Lamps?
"HORSE AND 'RYDER'".—Last week, on the 15th, as was reported in the Globe, and elsewhere, "a humble crossing-sweeper," named RYDER, stopped a runaway cab-horse (a great rarity this, too) just as he was about to descend headlong the steps of the Duke of York's column, and so saved the two passengers, who, we hope, in consideration of what he has done for their lives, have settled something hansom upon him for his life. If not, the proposition is here made, and after the prop comes the RYDER.
GHOSTLY COUNSEL.—Prizes are being offered for "Good Ghost Stories." This may mean Stories of Good Ghosts; but supplying the hyphen and supposing that the requirement is for "Good Ghost-stories," then Mr. Punch makes a present of a good title to any sanguine amateur who may compete. Let him call his story, "A Ghost of a Chance." And Mr. Punch wishes he may get it!
PENNY FOOLISH.—Somebody has published a penny A B C of Theosophy. To the appeal of this Occult A B C the enlightened public will probably be D E F.
"QUI DORT, DÎNE," ET "QUI DÎNE, DORT."—A man who "goes nap" at dinner, is pretty safe to go nap immediately after it.
ONLY FANCY!
(From Mr. Punch's Own Humourists.)
It is not generally known that the Emperor of RUSSIA visited London the other day on his way to Paris, where he is to hold an important secret conference with the President of the Republic and M. BLOWITZ. His Imperial Majesty's disguise was complete, consisting as it did of an aquiline nose of considerable size, and a secondhand gaberdine of primitive cut. He visited the principal Music Halls of the Metropolis and left by the last train for Surbiton, where his private yacht was in waiting to convey him to Marseilles, and so on to Paris by the new French canal system.
Monaco has adhered to the Triple Alliance. The negotiations thus brought to a successful issue, have been for a long time in progress. Obligations of honour, which no longer exist, have hitherto compelled me, as your Correspondent, to keep secret the fact that amongst the croupiers of the trente-et-quarante tables at the Casino for the past three months have been the Chancellors of the German and Austrian Empires, and the MARCHESE DI RUDINI, who, thus disguised, carried out their delicate mission to the Court of Monaco. By this post I send you the draft treaty by which Monaco engages, in the event of war, to furnish a completely equipped contingent of ten men.
The BARON DE BOOK-WORMS arrived in town yesterday afternoon and transacted business at his office in Bouverie Street, afterwards returning to his country seat at Stow-in-the-Wold.
BROWNING SOCIETY VERSES.
[Dr. FURNIVALL announces that the Browning Society is about to be dissolved.]