PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 108. June 22, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
It has been noticed by philosophers that a mere name will often lead a man to his ruin. Why, for example, was John Darley fined twenty shillings and costs at the Tynemouth Petty Sessions? He met a boiler-smith, Richard Rothwell, riding on a bicycle. Thereupon, without any apparent reason, he used abusive language, bashed the unoffending boiler-smith on the nose, brandished a knife, and shouted out, "Come on!—I'm Johnny Darley, from Byker." There you have it. Residing, as he did, in a perpetual comparative, he naturally despised and loathed the positive "byke." Hence his violent assault on its rider.
I observe, with deep regret, that Professor Lloyd, of Southport, has been fined for trespassing on a railway bridge at Preston. The Professor did not want to stay there. All he wished to do, and all that he actually did, was to dive off into the water below. He is an aquatic Professor, and informed the Bench that he was obliged to do these things to keep up his reputation.
I'll tell you a tale of Professor Lloyd,
Who dived off a bridge at Preston—
An act that the magistrates much annoyed,
Though he kept both his coat and vest on.
They said "You mustn't repeat this joke,
Professor, or else you'll rue it."
But Lloyd, the Professor, he up and spoke,
And said, "I'm obliged to do it.
Up on the bridge I stand for awhile,
I stand till I fairly shiver.
Then down I go—it seems like a mile—
And I plunge in the bubbling river.
I hope your worships won't "queer my pitch,"
For I'm sorry to give you trouble
In maintaining a reputation which
Is so closely combined with bubble."
I wish I had been in Hawick lately. Ever since I first learnt the rudiments of the English language I have been haunted by a desire to know how a man looked and acted when he "bussed the Standard." They've done that at Hawick "in connection," as I read, "with the celebration of the ancient custom of the Common Riding." Later on "the local slogan 'Teribus' was sung with great vigour." There is something crushing, scattering, and battle-heralding about the mere sound of that fearful word.
J. B., who describes himself as "A Residenter in Oswald Road," writes to The Scotsman to complain of the flimsy material used in the construction of the lamp-posts near his dwelling. The other day a milk-van ran away—at least, the horse drawing it did. "One would think," says J. B., "the progress of such a small vehicle would have been arrested by coming into collision with one lamp-post, but four posts were destroyed by the van. On examination it is found that the foundation of a street lamp-post only goes three inches into the stone below it. With such a short hold the lamp-post is easily toppled over." Of course it is. To fix lamp-posts so inadequately gives a direct encouragement to milk-vans to run away and attempt their destruction. Let the Lord Provost of Edinburgh look to it.
The Master and the Matron of the workhouse at Stratford-on-Avon have resigned, and the guardians have been "considerably discussing" the appointment of their successors. Eventually it was resolved, not only to reduce the salaries, but also—hear this, ye licensed victuallers!—to cut off the beer-money hitherto paid. What dignity can possibly attach to a workhouse officer who has to pay for his own beer? It is by such insidious attacks as this that the foundations of public confidence are shaken, and the whole fabric of the Constitution is endangered. My mind misgives me when I attempt to forecast the future of Stratford.
At Tetbury there is a lodge of the recently-established Conservative Working Men's Benefit Society. It is called—absit omen—the Trouble House Lodge, and quite recently it held a fête and dinner. 'Tis always fête-day somewhere in the world. Indeed, the amount of fêtes that take place on any given day in provincial England is astounding. Without frequent fêtes no district can be considered respectable.
In the world that we live in our troubles are great;
To add to their number is scarcely the game.
Nay, how can these lodgers delight in their fête,
With perpetual trouble attached to their name?
At Owens College, Manchester, so I gather from the letter of "An Old Student" in The Manchester Guardian, some of the students are beginning to feel, that "while its teaching of specific subjects is admirable, in fact, unsurpassed, its general education—that education which consists in the development of men—has not yet reached the same level." They therefore wish to develop athletics, and by making the modest subscription of 10s. 6d. compulsory on all, "to decoy the unathletic man into taking exercise almost without knowing it." At present only 150 out of 800 students pay up. I heartily commend this proposal, though I confess I should like to know what sort of exercise it is that a man can take almost without knowing it. Let the unathletic man be decoyed by all means, but let him thoroughly understand that he is to take exercise, and take it, if possible, with reasonable violence.
Mr. N. F. Druce, of Cambridge, is, as I write, at the head of the batting averages of this year, and next to him comes the marvellous W. G.
Ye batsmen attend, of my hints make a use,
And consider the greatness of Grace and of Druce.
If you wish to make hundreds your names, you'll agree
Must be monosyllabic and end with c, e.
To Monsieur Punch.
Cher Monsieur,—Last year I am gone to your races of Ascot. It is beautiful, it is ravishing, but how it is dear! Thousand thunders, how it is dear! I go to the Grand Prix, I pay twenty francs, that is also dear, but it is all, it is finished. Eh well, I desire to see one time your Gold Cup, and I go of good hour by railway. Arrived there I pay one pound, that what you call one sov., and I enter. I suppose I can go by all—partout, how say you? Ah, but no! I see by all some affiches "One Pound."
I can to write your language enough well, but I speak with much of difficulty. Therefore I read the affixes without nothing to ask. Thus when I read "One Pound" I go no more far. I walk myself in the charming garden and I see the beautiful misses. Ah how they are adorable! Daudet has wrong, Daudet is imbecile, they are adorable. It is not the pain to pay again some pounds for to see to run the horses, when I can to see the misses who walk themselves here, without to pay of more.
But in fine I am fatigued. Also I have great