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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, October 15th 1887

by Various

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93, October 15th 1887.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand.

'ARRY ON OCHRE

Dear Charlie,

Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'Arry, wus luck! 's back in town, Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all brown, Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I do 'ate the Autumn, dear boy, When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or enjoy.

Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to blue. Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about her. Yah!—Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they purr.

Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal! Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!—oh, well, jigger that gal! Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, Charlie, so 'elp me, she did. Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.

Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, Charlie! The yaller god rules us all round. Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be found. If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up a tree. That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.

They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"—old Collars is red on that rot!— There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not. The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot you please. It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't wuth a sneeze.

O Charlie, I wish I'd got millions! I ought to be rich, and no kid. I feel I wos made for it, Charlie. To watch every bloomin' arf quid, Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns carn't go the pace, But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.

Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion, dear boy! You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what it means to "enjoy." Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are the chaps As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game, mate, by laps.

That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; them asses I calls 'em, old man, Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this plan. Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un, no doubt, Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs who're about.

Twig, Charlie, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant Purviders, and such Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the touch! Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees, Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey to squeeze.

The honey—or money—wants massing, that's jest wot the Masses can do— And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on the screw. That's the doctrine of "Dannel the Dosser," a broken-down toff, as I know; And if Dannel ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. That's ow yer big money-piles grow.

Rum party the Dosser is, Charlie—I can't make him out, mate, not quite. Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His delight Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon— That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer mammon.

He eyes me in sech a rum style, Charlie, sort of arf smile and arf sneer, Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground—when he's well on the beer. A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam, For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,—a lay as he stands like a lamb.

"You ought to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of his game To call me nicknames out of Shakspeare, and so on; but "Wot's in a name?" "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says "Dosser." I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if he does, poor old josser!

'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift," Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed brains at a gift.
Save, hay,—out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in that shape. You must swag in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no bottles to scrape.

The Turf or the Stock Exchange, Charlie, would suit me, I'd trust to my luck, And my leariness, not to get plucked like that silly young Ailesbury duck, Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a fluke, And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie—that is if I carn't be a Dook.

In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to double the part, As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start. With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to carry. The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is

'Arry.

Turning To the Left.—At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council (in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said, was the appointment by the Recorder of the

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Assistant-Judge of the Mayor's Court. It is rumoured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S. Wright, (with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not to confirm that appointment. But why all this mystery? What had the Councillors to fear? Obviously, they could be doing nothing wrong if they were sustained by Wright!

JUMPING AT CONCLUSIONS.

"Who's that tiny little Gentleman talking to Mamma, Tom?" "Mr. Scribbins, the Writing Master at our School."
"Ah! I suppose he teaches Short-hand!"

A LORD MAYOR'S DAY IN DUBLIN.

(A Lay of the Criminal Law Amendment Act.)

"Shure it's Balfour would be troublin', meeself Lord Mayor o' Dublin, But every charge he makes I'll meet in fashion you'll call nate; For I'll face the accusation that he brings against the Nation, Attired from head to foot, my boys, in all my robes of State.

"So on with hat and gown, boys, for we're goin' through the town, boys, And you must help your City's Chief to make a real display," Thus Tim Sullivan he cried out, as straightway he did ride out, In civic pomp to near the Court on that eventful day.

And Town Councillors in numbers, woke from their normal slumbers, And, donning gowns and tippets, rose and put on all they knew, And with approbation glancing at the City Marshal, prancing On a hired hack, they followed him, a rather motley crew.

At length the Court they entered, when attention soon was centred, On a squabble that had risen about the Sword and Mace: For some swore they were not able to lie upon the table, Though the Lord Mayor hotly argued it was their proper place.

So when 'twas shown quite plainly, after pushing for it vainly, Beyond the "bar" the civic baubles had to be conveyed, With vow that none should floor them, their guardians upstairs bore them, And in the front seats flaunted them conspicuously displayed.

Then up stood Mr. Carson, quite as quiet as a parson, And read out his indictment with a settled, stone-like face, Till Tim Healy, quick replying, rose then and there, denying That the Counsel for the Crown had a shadow of a case.

And then as legal brother argued each against the other, The while Tim Sullivan reclined in all his civic blaze, O'Donel he looked vexed there, and he seemed somewhat perplexed there, As if the matter struck him as involved in doubtful haze.

But after some reflection, with a soupçon of dejection, He announced that he had settled (though, doubtless, mid some fears He might stir up Balfour's fury), there was no case for a jury. His judgment was received in Court with hearty ringing cheers.

Then, wild with exultation, up rose Mayor and Corporation, And, greeted by the crowd without, were cheered along the way, Til the Mansion House on nearing, the mob cried, 'midst their cheering, A speech they wanted, and would hear what he had got to say.

Then Tim Sullivan he spouted;—the mob they surged and shouted, And the upshot of the speech was this, that if, through legal flaws, By any chance your way you see, to battle with the powers that be, You're hero both and martyr if you break the Saxon's laws.

So it's no use, Balfour, troublin' the Civic powers of Dublin; For if you do, you know that they will meet you just half way; And if fresh accusation you but bring against the Nation, The City shure will answer with another Lord Mayor's Day!

THE REAL GRIEVANCE OFFICE.

(Before Mr. Commissioner Punch.)

An Official of Epping Forest introduced.

The Commissioner. Now, Sir, what can I do for you?

Witness. You can confer a favour upon me, Sir, by correcting some sensational letters and paragraphs on "Deer-Maiming in Epping Forest," that have lately appeared in the newspapers.

The Commissioner. Always pleased to oblige the Corporation. Well, what is it?

Witness. I wish to say, Sir, that deer-shooting in Epping Forest, so far as its guardians are concerned, is not a sport, but a difficult and disagreeable duty?

The Commissioner. A duty?

Witness. Yes, Sir, a duty; because, in fulfilment of an agreement with the late Lords of the Forest Manors (to whom we have to supply annually a certain amount of venison), and in justice to the neighbouring farmers, whose crops are much damaged by the deer, we are obliged to keep down the herd to a fixed limit.

The Commissioner. But how about the stories of the wounded animals that linger and die?

Witness. We have nothing to do with them—we are not in fault. I mean by "we" those who have a right to shoot by the invitation of the proper Authorities.

The Commissioner. But are not the poor animals sometimes wounded?

Witness. Alas, yes! Unhappily the forest is infested by a gang of poachers of the worst type, and it is at their door that any charge of cruelty must be laid. So far as we are concerned, we kill the deer in the most humane manner. We use rifles and bullets, and our guns are excellent shots. As no doubt you will have seen from the report of the City Solicitor, such deer as it has been necessary to kill, have been shot by, or in the presence of, two of the Conservators renowned for their humanity and shooting skill.

The Commissioner. It seems to me that you should put down the poachers.

Witness. We do our best, Sir. You must remember the Corporation has not been in possession very long. We have to protect nearly ten square miles of forest land, close to a city whose population is counted by Millions.

The Commissioner. Very true. Can I do anything more for you?

Witness. Nothing, Sir. Pray accept my thanks for affording me this opportunity of offering an explanation. I trust the explanation is satisfactory?

The Commissioner. Perfectly. (The Witness then withdrew.)

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THE OCTOPUS OF ROMANCE AND REALITY.

(As much Fact as Fancy.)

"I had one curried, and found it most excellent—something like tender tripe."—Extract from Mr. Tuer's Letter.

"Devil-fish" of Victor Hugo, Dread Pieuvre of caves where few go But are made your palsied prey, Where are now your gruesome glories, Dwelt upon in shocking stories? Realism a big bore is "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

You who, worst of ocean's gluttons, Swallowed man, his boots, and buttons, Cooked in this familiar way? You who, in the tales of dreamers, Sucked down ships and swallowed steamers, Made the prey of kitchen schemers? "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

Swallowed, you colossal cuttle? Nemesis is really subtle! Carted on the Coster's tray, Dressed in fashions culinary, Which the cunning chef will vary After every vain vagary? "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

Your huge arms, so strong, so many, Like tarantula's antennæ_, Just like tenderest tripe, they say! Only wait a little longer, Turtle soup—as from the Conger— They will make from you, but stronger. "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

Octopus—or is't Octōpus?— Fame, that should outshine Canopus, All too swiftly fleets away. Yet our feelings it must harrow, That your demon-fame should narrow To cook-bench and coster barrow. "Devil-fish is cheap to-day!"

SALUBRITIES ABROAD.

("Is this the Hend?"—Miss Squeers.)

Skurrie puts us in the train, gives us our Cook's tickets all ready stamped and dated. No trouble. Then he insists on comparing his notes of our route with mine, to see that all is correct.

"Wednesday," he says, "that's to-day. Geneva dep. 12, Bâle arr. 7.45." He speaks a Bradshaw abbreviated language. "Change twice, perhaps three times, Lausanne, Brienne, Olten. Not quite sure; but you must look out." Oh, the trouble and anxiety of looking out for where you change! "Then," he goes on, "Thursday, Bâle dep. 9.2 A.M., Heidelberg arr. 1.55."

"Any change?" I ask, as if I wanted twopence out of a shilling.

"No; at least I don't think so. But you had better ask," he replies. Ah! this asking! if you are not quite well, and don't understand the language (which I do not in German Switzerland), and get hold of an austere military station-master, or an imbecile porter, and then have to carry that most inconvenient article of all baggage, a hand-bag, which you have brought as "so convenient to hold everything you want for a night," and which is so light to carry until it is packed! "Then," goes on the imperturbable Skurrie, "you'll 'do' Heidelberg, dine there, sleep there, and on Friday Heidelberg dep. 6 A.M.——"

Here I interrupt with a groan—"Can't we go later?"

"No," says Skurrie, sternly. "Impossible. You'll upset all the calculations if you do."

Jane says, meekly, that when one is travelling, and going to bed early, it is not so difficult to get up very early, and, for her part, she knows she shall be awake all night. Ah! so shall I, I feel, and already the journey begins to weigh heavily on me, and I do not bless Skurrie and his plan. "But," I say aloud, knowing he has done it all for the best, and that I cannot now recede, "go on."

He does so, at railroad pace:—"Heidelberg dep. 6. Mannheim arr. 7.5, dep. 7.15. Mayence arr. 8.22, in time for boat down the Rhine 8.55. Cologne arr. 4.30. And there you are."

"Yes," I rejoin, rather liking the idea of Cologne, "there we are—and then?"

"Well, you'll have a longish morning at Cologne; rest, see Cathedral, breakfast," and here he refers to his notes, "Cologne dep. 1.13 P.M., and Antwerp arr. 6.34."

"Change anywhere?" I inquire, helplessly. "Yes," he answers, meditatively. "At this moment I forget where, but you've got examination of baggage on the Belgian frontier, and you have two changes, I think. However, it's all easy enough."

"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am depressed: and Cousin Jane isn't much better, though she tries to put everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all events "the travelling will soon be over."

Skurrie continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with my notes, "Sunday—Antwerp dep. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael arr. 7.45—yes—then Rosendael dep. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at Flushing. Queenborough arr. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by 7.55."

"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."

"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full consideration. "Ha!—let me see——" Then, as if by inspiration, he continues quickly—"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish you bon voyage."

I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he is not going to accompany us?

"Can't—wish I could," returns Skurrie, "but I've got to go off to Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and can't make any mistake. Au plaisir!"

And he is off. So are we.

Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin Jane, too.

Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and small things, of which Jane—poor Jane!—has her share, and, but for her sticking to every basket and package, I should, in

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despair, have surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at Bâle, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."

Our treatment in the salle-à-manger of that Monarchical Hostelrie is enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter with insubordinate assistants—and we are miserable.

Off early to Heidelberg. Delighted, at all events, to bid farewell to the worthy Monarchs. This trip seemed to invigorate us, and if civility, polite attention, good rooms, and an excellent cuisine could make any invalid temporarily better, then our short stay at the Prinz Karl Hotel—a really perfectly managed establishment—ought to have revived us both considerably. And so it did. A lovely drive to the heights among the pine woods and in the purest air went for something, but alas the knowledge that we had to rise at 5 A.M., to be off by six—it turned out to be a 6.30 train—drove slumber from our eyes, and only by means of a cold bath, the first thing on tumbling out of bed, could I brace myself for the effort. Then on we went, taking Skurrie's pre-arranged tour.

Let the remainder be a blank.

When abroad I had bought a French one-volume novel which I had seen praised in the Figaro. I will not give its name, nor that of its author. If it indeed portrays persons really living in Paris, and if these persons are not wholly exceptional (but, if so, why this novel, which implies the contrary and denounces them?) then is the latest state of Republican Paris worse than its former state in the days of the dégringolade of the Empire, and Paris must undergo a fearful purgation before she will once again possess mens sana in corpore sano. I read this disgusting novel half-way through until its meaning became quite clear to me, and then I proceeded by leaps and bounds, landing on dry places and skipping over the filth in order to see how the author worked out a moral and punished his infamous scoundrel of a chief personage. No. Moral there was none, except an eloquent appeal to Paris to rise and crush these reptiles and their brood. On the wretched night when feverish, ill, and sleepless, I lay miserably in the saloon of the Flemish steamer crossing to Queenborough, I opened the porthole above me and threw this infernal book into the sea. After this I bore the sufferings of that night with a lighter heart.

Suffice it that I arrived at home—and how glad I was to get there—broken down, prostrate and only fit for bed——where with railways running round and round my head, steamboats dashing and thumping about my brain, the shrieks of German and Flemish porters ringing in my ears, Skurrie always forcing me to travel on, on, on, against my will, I remained for about three weeks.

Advice gratis to all Drinkers of Waters.—"The story shows," as the Moral to the fables of Æsop used to put it, that when you have finished your cure, make straight by the easiest stages for the seaside at home. Avoid all exertion: and ask your medical man before leaving to tell you exactly what to eat, drink, and avoid, for the next three weeks at least after the completion of your cure.

While ill, but when beginning to crave for some amusement or distraction, I asked that my dear old Boz's Sketches should be read to me, to which in years gone by I had been indebted for many a hearty laugh. Alas! what a disappointment! Except for a little descriptive bit here and there, the fun of these Sketches sounded as wearisome and old-fashioned as the humours of the now forgotten "Adelphi screamers" in which Messrs. Wright and Paul Bedford used to perform, and at which, as a boy, I used to scream with delight, when the strong-minded mistress of the house, speaking while the comic servant was laying the cloth for dinner, would say of her husband, "When I see him I'll give him——" "Pepper," says the comic servant, accidentally placing that condiment on the table. "He shan't," resumes the irate lady, "come over me with any——" "Butter," interrupts the comic servant, quite unconsciously, of course, as he deposits a pat of Dorset on the table. And so on. Later on, I tried Thackeray's Esmond. How tedious, how involved, and full of repetitions! It is enlivened here and there by the introduction of such real characters as Dick Steele, Lord Mohun, Dean Atterbury, and others, and by the mysterious melodramatic appearances and disappearances of Father Holt, a typical Jesuit of the "penny dreadful" style of literature. But the work had lost whatever charm it ever possessed for me, and, indeed, I had always considered it an over-rated book, not by any means to be compared with Vanity Fair, Pendennis, or even with Barry Lyndon, which last is repulsively clever.

Then I asked for a book that I never yet could get through, and to which I thought that now, with leisure and a craving for distraction, I might take a liking. This was Little Dorrit. I tried hard, but it made my head ache even more than Esmond had done, and I laid it down, utterly unable to comprehend the mystery which takes such an amount of dreary, broken-up, tedious dialogue in the closing chapters to unravel.

I took down Washington Irving's Sketch-book, and read it with delight. Fresh as ever! It did me good. So did Charles Lamb's Essays. And then guess what moved me to laughter, to tears, and to real heartfelt gratitude that we should have had a writer who could leave us such an immortal work? What? It is a gem. It is very small, but to my mind, and not excepting any one of all he ever wrote, the most precious in every way for its true humour, for its natural pathos, and for its large-hearted Christian teaching, is The Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. Had this been his only book, it would have sufficed for his imperishable fame.

And then what made me chuckle and laugh? Why,Thackeray's Sultan Stork, which, somehow or other, I never remembered having read before this time of convalescent leisure. It is Thackeray in his most frolicsome humour, and, therefore, Thackeray at his best.

I am almost recovered, and am finding my "Salubrity at Home."

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

From an Anxious Householder.

Dear Toby,—It was in my mind to write to you some days ago, but I have had my time much occupied with a subject of domestic interest. In fact, I have just been laying the carpet presented to me by our fellow-citizens of the ancient and important community of Kidderminster. The carpet, regarded individually, is a desirable and an acceptable thing. It is, as you have observed in the newspaper reports, woven of the wool known to the trade as the Queen's Clip. In colour it is a rich damson, and in quality Wilton. Apart from its suitability and acceptability, we here see in it the beginning of what I confess we should be inclined to regard as a pleasing habit on the part of our fellow-countrymen. As you are aware, my wife and myself have for some years been the recipients of gifts consisting of what a well-known person

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of the name of Wemmick was accustomed to call, articles of portable property. Our journeys to Scotland were always marked by the presentation of gifts that even became embarrassing by reason of their quantity and variety. We have quite a stock of Paisley shawls. Dundee marmalade is a drug in our domestic market. Plaids, snuff-boxes, walking-sticks, and, above all, axes I have in abundance. Through the medium of an interesting periodical, of which you may have heard—(it is known as Exchange and Mart)—we have managed to average our possessions, a process not entirely free from adventure. In one instance an unscrupulous individual, probably a member of the Primrose League, succeeded in obtaining a two-dozen case of marmalade and a Scotch plaid presented by the working-men of Glasgow, in promise, yet unfulfilled, of delivery of a bicycle warranted new. I have rather a hankering after trying a bicycle. Lowe gave his up with the ultimate remainder of his Liberal principles. But in old times I have heard him speak with enthusiasm of the exercise. When I noticed this person advertising in Exchange and Mart his desire of bartering his bicycle, we entered upon the negotiation which has ended so unfortunately. He has our Paisley plaid and Dundee marmalade, and we have not his bicycle.

This, however, by the way. What I had at heart to write to you about, suggested by the Kidderminster carpet, is the new opening here offered for manifestations of political sympathy at a serious political crisis. We are, to tell the truth, towards the close of a long career, a little overburdened with articles of portable property of the kind already indicated. But our residence is large, and, if I may say so, receptive. Carpets, though a not unimportant feature in the furnishing of a house, do not contain within themselves the full catalogue of a furnishing establishment.

If Kidderminster has its carpets, there are other localities throughout the Kingdom which have their tables and chairs, their bed-room furniture, their curtains, their brass stair-rods, and their gas-fittings. History will, I believe, look with indulgent eye upon an ex-Premier, the Counsellor of Kings, the leader of a great Party, assisting at the hauling in and laying down of an eleemosynary carpet, the wool of which is made from Queen's Clip, has a rich damson colour, and is of Wilton quality. Why should I not give a back to an arm-chair presented by an admiring Liberal Association? or walk upstairs with a bolster under either arm, token of the esteem and admiration of the West of England Home Rulers?

I throw out these thoughts to you, dear Toby, as I sit in my study and survey the carpet of Wilton quality, which covers the floor. As you will have seen in the newspaper reports, "on entering the room where the carpet was displayed the Right Honourable Gentleman remarked that it had a quiet tone, which was so pleasant to the eye; adding that it was a great mistake, (which used to be committed about fifty years ago) when carpets were made with staring patterns." It is, I need hardly say, the growth of Liberal principles which has effected this change in the public taste for carpets. Whether indeed, suppose we were in need of a battle-cry, "Our Quiet Tones and Our Liberal Principles," would not serve as opposed to "Toryism and Staring Patterns," I am not certain. These things we must leave to the evolution of time. Meanwhile I will not deny in the confidence of a friendly letter that we could very well do with a sofa, the tone and construction of which should, of course, match the carpet from Kidderminster. If you are attending any public meeting and you find the popular indignation against the Government of Lord Salisbury rising to an ungovernable pitch, you might gently and discreetly guide it in this direction.

Always yours faithfully,

H-w-rd-n C-stle. W. E. Gl-dst-ne.

P.S.—A mangle and a garden-roller might later, and in due order, occupy your kindly thought.

GENTLE SHEPHERD

A Ballade for the Board.

"The lobby of the Metropolitan Board of Works offices was recently the scene of a serious assault, committed by Mr. Keevil, upon Mr. Shepherd."—Daily Paper.

Gentle Shepherd, tell me true, Did, selecting time and place, Wary Keevil go for you,— Hit you on the chest and face? Did he, waiting on the stairs, Watch until you passed him by, Then adroitly, unawares, Plant one on your weather eye? Did, O Shepherd, tell me true, Wary Keevil get at you!

Gentle Shepherd, answer me, Say, did you, when last you spoke, Language use that possibly Wary Keevil might provoke? If so, p'raps 'twas not too wise, Though it could involve no right To attempt to black your eyes In a stand-up Board-Room fight! Ah! sweet Shepherd, sure his due He will get who went for you!

Proud o' the Title."—The Bishop of Lichfield, in one of his speeches at the Church Congress last week, included the English Roman Catholics among the "other Nonconformists." Then his Lordship was graciously pleased to observe that he was very willing to acknowledge the Queen as supreme, but objected to the authority of Parliament, in Church matters. It is very evident on which side Dr. Maclagan would have been in the reign of the pure and pious Henry the Eighth, when that amiable monarch ordered the decapitation of those bigoted and obtuse "Nonconformists," Bishop Fisher, and Sir Thomas More.

HARDLY FAIR.

"Our Artist paints an interesting Study of a Furze Bush."

THE NEW NORTH-WEST PASSAGE.

A Colloquy on the Canadian Shore.

Canada. "Westward the course of empire takes its way."

Britannia. The Bishop's famous line, dear, bears to-day Modified meaning; westward runs indeed The route of empire,—ours!

Canada.If I succeed In drawing hither Trade's unfaltering feet And yours, my triumph then will be complete.

Britannia. Across your continent from sea to sea All is our own, my child, and all is free. No jealous rivals spy around our path

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With watchfulness not far remote from wrath. The sea-ways are my own, free from of old To keels adventurous and bosoms bold. Now, from my western cliffs that front the deep To where the warm Pacific waters sweep Around Cathay and old Zipangu's shore, My course is clear. What can I wish for more? To your young enterprise the praise is due.

Canada. The praise, and profit, I would share with you. Canadian energy has felt the spur Of British capital; the flush and stir Of British patriot blood is in our heart; Still I am glad you think I've done my part.

Britannia. Bravely! Yon Arctic wastes no more need slay My gallant sons. Had Franklin seen this day He had not slept his last long lonely sleep Where the chill ice-pack lades the frozen deep. "It can be done; England should do it!" Yes, That is the thought which urges to success Our struggling sore-tried heroes. Waghorn knew Such inspiration. Many a palsied crew Painfully creeping through the Arctic night Have felt it fill their souls like fire and light. Well, it is done, by men of English strain, Though in such shape as they who strove in vain With Boreal cold and darkness never dreamed When o'er the Pole the pale aurora gleamed Perpetual challenge.

Canada.Here's your Empire route! A right of way whose value to compute Will tax the prophets.

Britannia.Links me closer still With all my wandering sons who tame and till The world's wild wastes, and throng each paradise In tropic seas or under southern skies, See, Halifax, Vancouver, Sydney, set Fresh steps upon a path whose promise yet Even ourselves have hardly measured. Lo! Far China brought within a moon or so, Of tea-devouring London! Here it lies, The way for men and mails and merchandise, Striking athwart your sea-dividing sweep Of land; one iron road from deep to deep! Well thought, well done!

Canada.No more need you depend On furtive enemy or doubtful friend. Your home is on the deep, and when you come, To the Dominion's land you're still at home.

Britannia. And woe to him the Statesman cold or blind, Of clutching spirit or of chilling mind, Pedantic prig or purse-string tightening fool, Who'd check such work and such a spirit cool! Yours is the praise and may the profit flow In fullest stream, 'midst your Canadian snow A true Pactolus. Trade's prolific fruit, Should freely flourish on our Empire Route.

Loaded with Presents.—In the account given in the Times (Oct. 7) of the unveiling of Mr. Boehm's statue of the Queen in the presence of its donors, Her Majesty's tenants and servants on the Balmoral Estates assembled at Crathie, there is a funny misprint:—

"At this point (i.e. after Her Majesty's reply to the Prince of Wales's address) the soldiers saluted and fired a feu de foie."

As refreshments were supplied by the Queen's command immediately afterwards, perhaps the guns had been loaded with "foie gras," tightly compressed into cartridges.