PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 109. August 17, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
"THE SECRET OF SUCCESS."
Young Man from the Country (with the affable condescension he supposes marks the Man about Town). "'Morning, Coachman! Streets rather busy this Morning, eh?"
Metropolitan Driver. "Yuss—a bit the usual way, Sir. 'Ow's 'Ops lookin'?"
(Modern Version of the Story of the Idle and Industrious Apprentices.)
Mr. Goodchild was admittedly the most successful of merchant princes—not only financially, but morally. From a boy the great trader had advanced on the road of commerce by leaps and bounds. His parents were of humble birth and in poor circumstances, and yet he had risen to the top of the tree of commercial prosperity. Mr. Goodchild had shops, warehouses, wharfs, and a fleet of ships. He had never had a reverse. All he had touched had turned to gold. This is so well understood that a description of his enormous wealth in detail would be entirely superfluous.
"Do you really want to know the secret of my pecuniary triumph?" asked Mr. Goodchild, when he was questioned on the subject.
"Why, certainly," was the reply. "How is it that your companion, the idle apprentice, came to such signal grief?"
"Because he was always reading the worst of literature. He knew the history of every felon recorded in the Newgate Calendar, original edition, and added chapters. That brought my 'colleague as a boy' to such dire disaster."
"And you never perused the pernicious documents?"
"Never. And I can prove my statement to the hilt."
"You never perused them! And why not?"
"Because," returned the prosperous capitalist with a gentle smile, "those in whose hands my future rested had my true interest at heart. I was never taught to read!"
And with this suggestive announcement (well worthy of the attention of ratepayers who can control the expenditure of the School Board) the history of the two apprentices is brought to a conclusion at once pleasing and instructive.
ARITHMETICAL EXERCISE.
Letter to the Editor.
"Sir,—I read in the Money Market article last week that Dumbells Co., Isle of Man, paid 17 per cent. Now, Sir, a long time ago I invested in Dumbells, and use them regularly every morning; also I recommend everybody to invest in Dumbells. But where is my 17 per cent.? I've never received it. I am certainly considerably better in health and muscular development than I was before my investment in Dumbells. But, putting this at 5 per cent. better, I still want the other twelve. I apply, Sir, to you, for further information, and am, yours hopefully,
"A. Wyse Aker."
A QUERY.
(By Omar Khayyam.)
["WANTED.—An Up and Down Girl; aged 16; English; strong."—Advertisement in "Times," August 7.]
And where and wherefore and on what pretence
You're "up-and-down"—this riddle rede, I pray,
And rid my bosom of a care immense!
Is't on a see-saw that you bob and bound?
There's more in this than meets the eye, I fear—
I cannot rest until the clue be found.
And there-and-back, and also round-about?
You may be all at once for aught I know,
For all I know is clouded o'er with doubt.
A-hanging? Is there something that you lack
To play with, love, adore—as, say, a bike
Whereon to travel up and down a track?
I'm glad you're English-born, sixteen, and strong;
Life has its ups and downs (more downs than ups),
But you're a new sort—hence this idle song!
JOVE'S JESTER INTERVIEWED.
(A Page of Mythology written up to Date.)
The Traveller from the Earth left his balloon and trod the cloud that seemed prepared to receive him. As he did this there was a peal of laughter which echoed far and wide.
"Where am I?" asked the explorer in English, for he was British-born.
"You have come to the head-quarters of waggery," returned the Resident, recovering from a violent fit of merriment. "We are never dull here, we have so much to amuse us."
"Indeed! And how is that?"
"Why, I take a delight in effecting the most comical transformations imaginable. By the simplest means I can cause an inhabitant of the Earth to change his costume five times in as many hours. The jest is provocative of limitless mirth, especially amongst the doctors and the undertakers."
"And what are the simplest means?"
"Why, I will serve up on Monday a sun worthy of the most fiery day in an unusually sultry August. On Tuesday I will send a gale and hailstones, suggestive of the arctic regions at Yule-tide. On Wednesday I will resume the oppressive heat until streams dry up, and water rises to a premium. Then on Thursday I will cover the ground with snow, and finish up the week with a deluge."
The Stranger raised his hat and answered, "The Clerk of the Weather, I presume?"
"Quite so," was the immediate response. "And now you must leave me to my work, or Englishmen will have nothing to talk about."
And the balloon once more continued its progress amidst a perfect salad of the elements.
"Very amusing," thought the Traveller, and then he added aloud, speaking incidentally the opinion of all his countrymen, "but distinctly inconvenient!"
Mr Punch (to the Shahzada). "Wouldn't your Highness like to see the North Pole?"
["At the weekly meeting
Pall Mall Gazette, August 7, 1895.
TO CHLOË.
The usual scrambling, headlong letter;
Long vanished are the days of friends
Not otherwise more kind or better,
Who yet excelled in this respect—
In that they grudged not time or trouble
The choicest phrases to select,
Nor wrote their letters "at the double"!
You're but unconsciously reflecting
Our modern life, we cannot halt,
The vice is now beyond correcting,
But yet we sigh for old-world days
When lighter far was toil and worry,
When life was spent in peaceful ways
Without the least idea of hurry.
(The saying's not precisely novel)
That all that glitters is not gold,
The fairy palace proves a hovel,
So, possibly, that age was dull,
And since you've graciously consented
To live to-day—it's wonderful
And wrong, perhaps—but I'm contented!
Five minutes to a swift endeavour
To pen an answer to your note,
But let me sign myself, "Yours ever";
'Tis not an antiquarian taste
Which makes your phrase earn my displeasure
So much as that "you're mine in haste"
Suggests that I'll "repent at leisure"!
One of the Church Militant.—The Venerable Archdeacon Denison celebrated his ninetieth birthday last week. He has been in all the hard fighting, and never shirked. May he yet long be a Denizen amongst us. Prosit!
Mrs. R. says that, though she has known it all her life, yet she could never quite make out what is the meaning of the old saying that "One man can only stand at a door, while another may look over a house."
"Lor' bless yer, Sir, that's all right, Sir! That ain't a Fly, Sir!—That's a bit of Dirt!"
BALLAST FOR THAT BALLOON;
Or, Rubbish to be Shot at the Pole.
(Punch hopes you'll be successful, and he trusts you'll come back soon,)
Could you find a little room for some companions in your car?
We have some whom we should like to see thus travelling afar.
Place aux dames! There's the New Woman whom we really do not want,
And the Female-suffrage female, and the shrieking slave of Cant;
There's the Fashionable Mother who constricts her daughters' waists,
There's the Woman with a Past, who so pollutes the public tastes;
There's the female who is masculine, the male effeminate,
The Hedonist of hollow heart and paradox-muddled pate;
There's that big bore the Degenerate, he'll turn up, divil doubt him!
And that other bore, almost as big, who writes big books about him;
There's the pedlar of Emotions, and the petty foe of Morals,
There's the stirrer up in newspapers of journalistic quarrels;
There's the thorough paced denouncer of Creation's horror—Man;
There's the muckrake wielding maunderer on the Mysteries of Pan;
There's the dirty dynamiter, the neurotic novelist!—
Oh, take them to the Pole, Sir, I'll be happy to assist,
And drop them there—and leave them there—"they never will be missed!"
On account of the vogue for cycling in Battersea Park this summer, the past two months will be remembered as the "Bike-at-Batterseason '95."
BY OUR NOTES-AND-QUERY-MAN.
Mem. for the next Historian of England.
It is probable, from recent discoveries in the Archives of the State Paper Office, that immediately after the time of Cranmer, in consequence of his having recanted two or three times, the See of Canterbury was to have been re-named "The See of Recanterbury." Also the question as to the origin of the name is, we believe, finally settled by the fact having come to light, that, every Archbishop, in consequence of the extent of his diocese and the necessity of his taking exercise, was compelled to be (as was Dr. Tait, and as is the present Archbishop, Dr. Benson) an excellent equestrian, and that the favourite pace for proceeding comfortably and expeditiously was "a canter." The origin of the "bury" has yet to be accounted for, as it has been spelt at various times "bery, "berry", "berie," "burrie," "bury." But Kent being an hop county, and beer the popular beverage from time immemorial, it is highly probable that as "canter" referred to the horse, so "bery" (with the "e" long "beery") referred to the refreshment for man (not for beast) required during the journey. This is from an antiquarian point of view most interesting.
"The Cowes Week."—This, read out aloud to a dairyman and a butcher, sounds bad; as the first would be anxious as to the milk, and the second as to the veal: for he would argue, "If the cow's weak, what'll the calf be?"
The Poet Laureateship in Abeyance.—Why not go to the City for our Poet Laureate? If a name be any indication, the choice ought at once to fall upon "Alderman Rymer."
THE COUNTRY OF COCKAIGNE.
A Monologue—with a Moral.
Scene—An airless Court in a London back street. Time—August.
Jimmy (aged eight, to Florrie, aged seven). No, I ain't comin' to the Reckereation Groun', not jess yit, I carn't.... I'm goin' ter wyte about 'ere till the lidy comes.... Why, 'er as is comin' to see my Muvver 'bout sendin' me fur a fortnight in the kerntry.... Yus, where I was larst year.... It's settled as I'm ter go agine—leastways as good as settled. My Farver 'e've sent in a happlication to the K'mitty, and Teacher 'e sez 'e kin reckermend me, an' Mr. and Mrs. Delves—them as 'ad the cottidge where I went afore—they've arst fur to 'ave me agin—so yer see, Florrie, it's all right. On'y I carn't settle to nuffink afore I know when I'm goin', an' about the trine an' that. Yer 'ave ter roide in a trine ter git to the kerntry, yer know.... Wot, ain't yer never bin there?... Yer'd wanter fawst enough if yer knoo what it was loike.... There's grorss there, an' trees an' that.... Na-ow, a lot better 'n the Reckereation Groun'—that's all mide outer old grivestones as the deaders 'as done wiv. There's 'ills an' bushes an' 'edges where yer can pick flowers. ...There ain't no perlice to git yer locked up.... An' everyfink smells so lovelly, kinder 'elthy like—it mikes yer feel 'ungry.... Not like sassages an' inions azackly—'tain't that sorter smell.... On'y 'ere an' there, an' yer'd 'ardly tell they was shops, they kerry 'em on that quoiet.... Yer wouldn' call it poky if yer was there. Mr. Delves 'e was a kind man, 'e was; mide me a whistle outer a sickermore brornch, 'e did; an' Mrs. Delves she lemme 'elp her feed the chickings.... They 'ad a garding beyind, an' there was rasberries an' gooseberries a growin on bushes—strite, they was—I ain't tellin' yer no lies—an' eat as many as yer like, yer could. An' they 'ad a dog—Rover 'is nime was—'e was a koind dog, lemme lay insoide of 'is kennel orfen, 'e would.... I'd like ter 'ave a run over thet Common agen, too. I dessay as I shell—p'reps the d'y arter to-morrer.... There's a pond on it, an' geese, an' they comes at yer a stritching out their necks an' a-'i sin' thet sevidge.... Na-ow, yer've on'y got ter walk up to 'em, an' they goes orf purtendin' they took yer fur somebody else, an' wasn't meanin' no offence. I ain't afride o' no geese, I ain't—nor yet Lily wasn't neither. We sor a pig 'aving a ring put froo 'is nose one day. 'E 'ollered out like 'e was bein' killed—but 'e wasn't. An' there was a blecksmiff's, where they put the 'orse's shoes on red 'ot, an' the 'orse 'e never took no notice. Me an' Lily used ter go fur long walks, all under trees. Once she showed me a squill—"sqerl" she kep' a-callin' of it, till I tole 'er 'ow—an' it run up a tree zigzag, and jumped on to another ever so fur. That was when we was pickin' nuts. We went a blackberryin', too, one day.... Na-ow, there warn't nobody dead. An' Lily.... Lily Delves 'er nime was, b'longed to them I was stoppin' wiv.... I didn't notice partickler.... Older nor you, an' bigger, an' lots redder 'bout the cheeks.... She wasn't a bad sort—fur a gal.... I dunno; I liked all on 'em.... Well, there was Farmer Furrows, 'e was very familiar, said as 'ow I might go inter 'is horchard an' pick the happles up as was layin' there jest fur the arskin'. An' Bob Rumble, 'im as druv Mr. Kennister the grocer's cart, 'e used ter gimme a roide along of 'im when 'e was tikin' round porcels an' that. We'd go along lanes that 'igh yer couldn't see nuffink fur leaves; and once 'e druv along a Pork with tremenjus big trees in it, an' stagses walkin' about underneath with grite big 'orns.... Suthink like 'im as is drawed outside the public round the corner—on'y they warn't none o' them gold. I 'speck them gold ones is furrin.... An' the grub—we 'ad beefstike pudd'n o' Sundays, an' as much bread an' treacle every day as ever I could eat, an' I was 'ungry when I was in the kerntry.... An' when I come away Mrs. Delves she gethered me a big noseguy fur to tike 'ome to Muvver—kissantimums, marigoles, an' dyliers, all sorts there was—an' Muvver she put 'em in a jug, an' soon as ever I shet my eyes an' sniffed, I could see that garding an' Rover an' Lily as pline—but they went bad, an' 'ad to be froed aw'y at larst. I shall see 'em all agine very soon now, though, won' thet be proime, eh?... Whatsy? 'Ere, Florrie, you ain't croyin', are yer?... Why don't yer arsk yer Farver if 'e won't let you go.... Oh, I thought as yer wanted to go. Then what are yer——?... No, I ain't gled to git aw'y from you.... A-course I shell be gled to see 'er; but that ain't why, it's jest——You ain't never bin in the kerntry, or you'd know 'ow I'm feelin'.... There's the lidy comin' now. I must cut across an' 'ear what she sez to Muvver.... Don' tike on—'tain't on'y fur a fortnight, anyway.... Look 'ere, I got suthink for yer, Florrie, bought it orf a man what 'ad a tray on 'em—its a wornut, d'yer see? Now open it—ain't them two little choiner dolls noice, eh?... I'd rorther you 'ad it nor 'er, strite, I would!... I'll be back in a minnit.
After an Interval of Twenty-four hours.
No, I ain't bin nowhere partickler.... Settled? yus, it's all settled 'bout me goin' ter the kerntry.... To-morrer? no, I ain't goin' to-morrer.... Nex' week? not as I knows on.... You wanter know sech a lot, you do!... If I do tell yer, you'll on'y go an' larf.... Well, I ain't goin' at all—now I 'ope you're pleased.... What's the good o' bein' sorry?... Oh, I don't keer much, I don't.... Set down on this step alonger me, then, and don' you go sayin' nuffink, or I'll stop tellin' yer.... You remember me goin' in yes'day arternoon to 'ear what the lidy said? Well, when I got in, I 'eard 'er s'y, "Yus, it'll be a great disappintment fur 'im, pore boy," she sez, "arter lookin' forward to it an' all; but it can't be 'elped." An' Muvver, she sez, "'Is Farver'll be sorry, too; it done Jimmy ser much good larst time. 'E can't pay not more nor 'arf-a-crownd a week towards it, but he can manage that, bein' in work jes now." But the lidy sez, "It's this w'y," she sez, "it costis us neelly arf a suffering over what the parints pays fur each child, and we ain't got the fun's fur to send more 'n a few, 'cos the Public don' suscroibe ser much as they might," she sez. "An' so this year we're on'y sending children as is delikit, an' reelly wants a chinge." So yer see, I ain't a goin'. I dunno as I'm delikit; but I do want the kerntry orful bad, I do. I wish I never 'adn't bin there at all, 'cos then preps I shouldn' mind. An' yit I'm gled I bin, too. I dreamt about it larst night, Florrie, I did. I was a-settin' on this 'ere step, sime as I am now, an' it was 'ot an' stoiflin', like it is; an' all of a suddink I see Mr. Kennister's cart wiv the grey 'orse turn into our court an' pull up hoppersite, an' Bob Rumble 'e was a-drivin' on it. An 'e sez "Jump up!" he sez, "and I'll tike yer back to Mr. Delves's cottidge." And I sez, "May Florrie come too." An 'he sez, "Yus, both on yer." So up we gits, an' we was droivin' along the lanes, an' I was showin' yer the squills an' the stagses, an' jes as we come to the turn where yer kin see the cottidge——Well, I don' remember no more on it.
The Moral.—The offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer.
"Now I'm set up!" as the first page in type observed to his companion pages in MS.
"RULE, 'BRITANNYER'!"
Being a loyal letter from Mr. Jeames, at Cowes Regatta, to Mary in Mayfair.
As there isn't not one like it, not to make a man feel martial,
Pattryottic, and all that, dear. But at this serblime conjunction—
Of ryalties and regattas—wy I hutters it with hunction.
Rule, Britannyer! As you'll understand I mean the Ryal yot!
Hah! Haitch-Har-Haitch—Eving bless him!—knows hexactly wot is wot
In the way of yots and racing; wich I'm free to own, my dear,
As I don't. And moresomever it do make me faint and queer
When I think of Hengland's 'Ope aboard that skittish, sloping thing,
As looks to my shore-going eyes like a white bird all wing.
Well, I own I'm not a Wiking; all I want of the blue sea
Is a kipper for my breakfust, and a winkle with my tea.
But the Guv'nor, he's a topper at the nortickle. Great Scott!
'Ow he do put on the Brayvo 'Icks when once aboard a yot!
He's a puffeck pocket Neptune, wich a chubby little chap,
Looks perticularly fetchin' in a trotty yotting cap.
Then he loves the swells—like I do—and it's sweet to 'ear him tork
Of his pal the P. of W. and his chum the Dook o' York.
He's just like a locomotive on the everlastin' puff,
He enjys hisself like fifty, and he's never 'ad enuff:
I do like to 'ear him patter to the cumpany ashore,
He keeps his friends a-bustin', and the table in a roar.
I on'y wish, dear Mary, I could phonygraff his chat,
And kinettyscope his haction; you would roar all round your 'at.
The Cowes Week would 'ave been rippin' if it 'adn't bin for rain;—
(As was bad for Ryal Princes, and likeways for Messrs. Pain).
And them tuppenny-apenny "trippers," as did ought to be kep out
When hus gentry is a-swarmin', and there's Ryalties about.
The Solent should be cordon'd hoff for Hemperors once a year,
For a mix o' Margit manners, and Salvationists, and beer,
Ain't no welcome for a Kyser, no, nor yet a Shazydar,
As demmocrycy is gettin' too permiskus like, by far.
A orty Owen Zollern didn't ought to be mixed hup
With Bank 'Olidays and bikes, when he's a runnin' for a Cup.
'Tis his seventh Solent wisit, and things went a trifle rum;
And if he took the Himperial 'Ump and nex' year didn't come,
W'y it wouldn't be serprisink, and hus Bulls, and Cowes, would suffer.
Whate'er that Hemperor may be, he ain't no idle duffer!
The Guv'nor, he hadmires him most tremenjus; so do hi.
It is suthink a'most touchin' for to see him, smart and spry
In his simple yotting costoom, with his snowy cap an' ducks,
A-taking it so heasy, though he'd none the best of lucks.
And his hironclads!!! Great Gumbo—as the Guv'nor loves to say—
They do not spare the powder, and if this is but their play,
I don't want to see'em workin'. The young Hemperor whisked about—
With our Guv'nor on his track, too, don't you make no sort of doubt—
His hork-heye—the Guv's—wos heverywhere. He watchin' each puff an' pop.
From the scrubbin' of a binnycle or the twirlin' of a mop,
To polishin' the funnel-tops with rottenstone and ile,
Wich he said he watched each mornin', Guv wos in it all the while.
He fair shaddered the young Kyser. And the story he'd reherse,
With a eloquence and hunction quite like droppin' into werse.
And he always soots the haction to the word in sech a way,
That when fairly on the cackle he's as good as any play.
But, O, Mary! it wos orkerd, and yumillyhating too,
When our yot—her name's the Polywog—to git a better view,
Shoved 'erself a bit too forrad, and, amidst a general skoff,
Wos tackled by a snortin' tug, and coolly carted hoff!
Guv swore he'd tell his pal the Dook but p'r'aps that wos his fun;
He also said he'd arsk him why the Meteor didn't run.
Owsomever "Rule, Britannyer" is quite good enuff for me
(Though the "Hail, Sir" 'ad a hinnings). I am nuts on Germany,
But when Haitch-Har-Haitch wos winnin', why I felt a bustin' throb
Swell this buzzum, for I thinks, thinks I, "Old England's on the job!"
Wich to see her rule the waves, dear, is the hackmy of my dreams,
So no more at present, Mary, from your fellow-servant,
At a banquet given in Bristol in honour of the invincible bicyclist, Mr. A. A. Zimmerman, a reverend gentleman suggested that the Town Councillors should present the freedom of that city to the two champions W. G. Grace and A. A. Zimmerman. Another spokesman, on the same festive occasion, remarked that he had heard of a book called Zimmerman on Solitude. He had never seen Zimmerman on Solitude, but he had beheld him on a safety. Really in Bristol their badinage is quite brilliant!
ESSENCE of PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Monday, August 12.—Back in the old place. Same address; same walls; same benches; same stage in short, but almost entirely new company. Squire of Malwood lends friendly look to Front Opposition Bench. But there are many vacant places to right and left of him. Where is John Morley, and Arnold Morley, and Shaw-Lefevre who saved our Commons but could not save his seat among them? What has become of John Hibbert, gentlest mannered man that ever repulsed attack on the public purse? And George Russell and Leveson-Gower? Was not even a Brand plucked from the burning? Was "Bobby," in laager behind his collar, cut off in the full fragrance of youth and beauty?
Sark, looking round on other quarters of House, cannot refrain from dropping a salt if silent tear. "You call this the House of Commons," he said, bitterly, "and find in it no place for Alpheus Cleophas? One black man may be as good as another, and even better; that is the Markiss's affair. As Virgil wrote of Trojan and Tyrian,"
Bhownaggree Naoroji mihi nullo discrimine agetur.
But how is Parliament going to limp along without our Conybeare, our Seymour Keay, and our Don't Keir Hardie? I suppose it's all right. The Speaker will take Chair at usual hour; questions will be put and answered; Bills will make progress and 'the House will now adjourn.' But if the House of Commons is itself without the eminent persons I have mentioned, I at least shall not be able to recognise its identity."
"Oh, cheer up," said St. John Brodrick, Premier-maker, Destroyer of Majorities, sort of Parliamentary Warwick. "You don't know what the future may have in store for you. There are fathomless possibilities in this unfamiliar crowd. It's true no new Members, as far as I observed, came down in a brake accompanied by trumpets also and shawms. But Don't Keir Hardie didn't live up to that introduction. The fact is, it probably had something to do with his distinct failure. It raised expectation too high, and even his collarless shirt, his short jacket, his Tweed cap, and his tendency to shed papers out of his over-stuffed pockets as he walked about the premises, didn't make up what was lacking."
Whilst Warwick Brodrick talking, he was constantly turning over things in his pockets. Thought at first it was money. "Been drawing your salary a quarter in advance?" I asked, anxious to learn the habits of the new Ministry.
"No," said Warwick, "it's not that. See," he said, picking out handful of small bullets; "these are what we use in the new rifles fired with cordite. Nice things you know. Will hop across two miles before you know where you are. In the other pocket got a few charges of cordite. No! Rather not see them? Well, no accounting for prejudice. I mean to keep a supply always on hand, or rather in pocket. Opposition not likely to do anything much yet awhile. But they'll try and form up by-and-by. When they do, I'll show 'em a cordite cartridge, rattle a few of these bullets, with their cupro-nickel jackets, and, poof! they're off just as they were when I defeated the late Government in June. Can't have too much of a good thing. What cordite's done once it may do again."
And the Financial Secretary to the War Office walked off, ostentatiously rattling the contents of his pockets as he passed Cawmell-Bannerman, who visibly faltered.
Business done.—New Speaker elected.
Arcades Ambo.
Seem largely alike, in Gehenna's black work.
The earth would smile fairer, methinks, were it free
Of Unspeakable Turk and of Heathen Chinee.
"And so that's her Husband, is it? Looks as if she'd won him in a Raffle!"
"And as if the Tickets for that Raffle hadn't been very expensive!"
THE OLLENDORF GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.
THE CHEAP EXCURSIONIST.
Did the good neighbour go by the cheap excursion? Yes, the good neighbour did go by the cheap excursion, and so did his wife, his wife's mother, and his six children. Did he catch the cab of the early driver? No, he did not catch the cab of the early driver, but he used the omnibus of the sleeping coachman, who took him as far as half-way (half-way as far as). Had the good neighbour to finish the journey to the railway station on foot? Yes, he had, and so had his wife, his wife's mother, and his six children. Are they in a good temper, or a bad temper? They are in a bad temper, because it is raining, and because the mother of the wife of the good neighbour had not wished to go. Have they found the right train? No, they have not found the right train, but are entering carriages bound for another destination. Has the guard of the wrong train disturbed the good neighbour, his wife, his wife's mother, and his six children? The guard of the wrong train has disturbed them, and has thrust them into the bad carriages of the right train. Were not the bad carriages of the right train already crowded? They were already crowded with the hairdresser, the artist's model, the plasterers, the builders, the sweeps, the fruiterers, and the quiet young man who contributes poetry to the columns of a local paper. Did not the entrance of the good neighbour, his wife, his wife's mother, and his six children, inconvenience the hairdresser, the artist's model, the plasterers, the builders, the sweeps, the fruiterers, and the quiet young man who contributes poetry to the columns of the local paper? It did, and caused most of them to use bad language (i.e., oaths). Did the quiet young man who contributes poetry to the columns of a local paper use bad language? No, the quiet young man who contributes poetry to the columns of a local paper did not use bad language, because he was in a fit. How did the good neighbour enjoy his journey? The good neighbour did not enjoy his journey, because he had to submit to the smoke of the hairdresser, the lavender water of the artist's model, the snuff of the plasterers, the smoke of the builders, the concertinas of the sweeps, the comic songs of the fruiterers, and the gasps of the quiet young man who contributes poetry to the columns of a local paper. Did the good neighbour have to submit to any further inconvenience? Yes, he was abused by his wife, bullied by his wife's mother, and plagued by his six children. Was the weather at the destination of the good neighbour favourable? No, it was not favourable, as it rained heavily all day. Did the good neighbour find time hang heavily on his hands? Yes, he did find time hang heavily on his hands; but not so
On the Cards.
And Healy mild Justin remorselessly drubs.
Alas, that long over-due "Union of Hearts,"
Will become a Collision of Clubs!
Monopoly.—M. Max O'Rell, who has commonly "a guid conceit o' himsel'," and shows it, with more than Scottish—or, as he says, Scotch—simplicity, dislikes the monopolist egotism shown in the phrase "an English gentleman." "A gentleman of France" would perhaps less shock his fine altruistic sensibilities. He suggests that speaking of a courteous Scot we dub him "an English gentleman," but were he a murderer should call him "a Scotch murderer." Perhaps he will write a new book, and call it "John Bull and his Bile." "It is wonderful" (he continues) "how John Bull manages to monopolise all that is good, and let the rest of the world partake of what he does not want." Well, not entirely, perhaps. For example, John Bull does not wish to "monopolise" Max O'Rell himself, though, of course, he is "good," and full of "good things."
First Porter (A. J. B.) "COME MATE! PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT—WE'VE GOT TO SHUNT THIS BEFORE WE CAN GO OFF DUTY!"
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HARRY ON 'ARRY.