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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 98, JUNE 14TH 1890

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




[Illustration: MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. No. VI.

"Never miss a chance of ingratiating yourself with the Jury, even at
the expense of the Judge." (An opportunity often occurs after Lunch.)]

       *       *       *       *       *

"GOOD OLD GRACE!"

(_Doggerel on "The Doctor," by an "Old Duffer."_)

    "Dr. GRACE, who seemed to forget his lameness, played with
    great vigour and dash, and his cuts and drives possessed all
    their old brilliancy."--_The Times, on the exciting finish in
    the Cricket Match between the M.C.C. and the Australians, June
    3, 1890._

  One hundred and eleven runs, and eighty-five minutes to make 'em in,
  And with TURNER and FERRIS to trundle as fast as they could pitch
          and break 'em in!
  And it looked any odds on MURDOCH'S men contriving to make a draw
          of it;
  But Cricket, my lads, is a curious game, and uncertainty seems the
          sole law of it.
  So they sent in GRACE and SHUTER to start. Well, the Doctor is now
          called "a veteran,"
  But at forty-two when he's on the job 'tisn't easy to pick out a
          better 'un.
  And he "spanked for four," like a lad once more, and he cut and he
          drove like winking;
  Though his leg _was_ lame, he forgot that same, and he "played the
          game" without shrinking.
  And Surrey's SHUTER he did his part, and so did Notts' GUNN, Sir,
  Though he _might_ have chucked the game away when the Doctor he
          managed to out-run, Sir.
  It was hard, you see, upon W. G. in _that_ way to lose his wicket,
  But all the same he had won the game, and had played superlative
          Cricket.
  Forty-three to make, and forty-five minutes! But GRACE and GUNN
          were equal to it;
  And a win, with a quarter of an hour in hand, was the satisfactory
          sequel to it.
  The Australians played a manly game, without any dawdling or
          shirking;
  And if they didn't avoid defeat why it wasn't for want of hard
          working.
  But the stiff-legged "Doctor" who forced the game in the most
          judgmatical fashion,
  And forgot his leg and his "forty year" odd, full flushed with a
          Cricketer's passion!
  Why he's the chap who deserves a shout. Bravo, brave "W. G," Sir.
  And when you next are on the job, may the "Duffer" be there to
          see, Sir!

       *       *       *       *       *

DEVELOPING HAWARDEN.

    "The locality is extremely healthy, and Hawarden will probably
    become a large residential place, and a centre of mining
    industry."--_Mr. Gladstone's Evidence before the Commissioners
    for Welsh Intermediate Education._

_Monday._--Wood-cutting. Inconvenient having so many villas built all
round park. Inhabitants inspect everything I do. Nasty little boys
(whom I can see over their garden wall) shout "Yah!" and wave large
primrose wreath. Irritating. Perhaps due to healthiness of air. Retire
to another part of the demesne. Heavens! what is that erection? Looks
like a Grand Stand, in a private garden, crowded with people. It
is! Invited (by owner of garden) specially to view me and (I hear
afterwards) my "celebrated wood-cutting performance," at a shilling
a-head. Disgusted. Go in.

_Tuesday._--Down local coal-mine. Interesting to have one at
Park-gates. Explain to colliers principle of the Davy lamp. Colliers
seem attentive, Ask me at the end for "a trifle to drink my health
with." Don't they know I am opposed to Endowment of Public-houses?
Yes, "but they aren't," they reply. Must invite WILFRID LAWSON to
Hawarden.

_Wednesday._--Curious underground rumblings. Wall of Castle develops
huge crack. _What_ is it? A dynamite plot? Can SALISBURY have
hired----? HERBERT comes in, and tells me the proprietor of Hawarden
Salt Mine has just sent his compliments; with a request that I would
"shore up" the Castle. Otherwise "he is afraid it may fall in on his
workmen." Impudence! Why can't they dig under Eaton Hall instead?

_Thursday._--WATKIN here. Offers to make a Tunnel under Castle, from
one mine to the other. Why a Tunnel? Also wants to dig for gold in
Park. Ask him, if there's any reason to suppose gold exists there? He
says you never can tell what you may come to if you bore long enough.
"At all events, even if no gold there, the boring useful if at any
time I feel inclined for a Tunn----" Go in. WATKIN _has_ bored long
enough already.

_Friday._--STEPHEN drops in, and says "new Hawarden
Cathedral"--_really_ built to accommodate people who come to hear
me read Lessons, only STEPHEN thinks it's his sermons that are the
attraction--"will soon he finished." I suggest that he should have
Welsh "intermediate" services now and then. STEPHEN says "_he_ doesn't
know Welsh, and can't see why Welsh people can't drop their horrible
tongue at once, and all speak English." Pained, Tell him _he_ needn't
conduct service--any Welsh-speaking clergyman would do. STEPHEN
replies that if he introduced Welsh service, "villa-residents would
boycott the Cathedral altogether." Well, supposing they do? STEPHEN
retorts that "I had better have an Irish service at once, and get
PARNELL up to read the Lessons." Something in the idea. Must think it
over.

_Saturday._--My usual holiday. Fifteen speeches. Park literally
crammed. Excursionists, colliers, salt-miners, villa-residents, and
Chester Liberals, all seem to find locality tremendously healthy. All
enjoying themselves thoroughly. Wish _I_ was. Worn-out in evening.
Begin to wonder what Park and Castle would fetch, if I were to go and
settle in Hebrides to escape mob.

_Sunday._--Escorted by two regiments of mounted Volunteers to Church.
Volunteers have great difficulty in securing a passage. Have to use
butts of their muskets on more impulsive spectators. Curious that just
at this point I should Remember Mitchelstown. Must try and get over
the habit. Lessons as usual. Find a crushed primrose between the
pages, evidently put there on purpose. Those villa-residents again!
Surely DREW might inspect the lectern before service commences! Home,
and think seriously of Hebrides.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE SPOT.

(_By a Practical Sportsman._)

  The spot for me all spots above
    In this wide world of casual lodgers,
  Is not the nook sacred to love;
    The "cot beside a rill" of ROGER'S.
  'Tis not the spot which TOMMY MOORE
    Praised in "_The Meeting of the Waters_."
  Avoca's Vale my soul would bore;
    I should prefer more lively quarters.
  Thy "little spot," ELIZA COOK,
    Means merely patriotic flummery;
  And COLERIDGE'S "hidden brook"
    Won't fetch me, e'en when weather's summery.
  I hold the Picturesque is rot,
    "Love in a Cot" means scraps for dinner;
  I only know _one_ pleasant spot,--
    I mean the "spot" that "finds a winner!"

       *       *       *       *       *

PRIVATE AND SPECIAL LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.--Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH'S new
novel is to be entitled, _Won of the Conquerors_. It would be unfair
to the author to mention how what the Conquerors had conquered was won
from them in turn. "I am at liberty to inform the public, however,"
says the BARON DE B.-W., "that WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR is not in it
with the others. I am able also to assure his numerous admirers that
_Beauchamp's Career_ is not a medicinal romance, and has no sort of
connection with a certain widely-advertised remedy."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WILL HE GET THROUGH?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAM HENRY _loquitur_:--

  Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and
          terrified scamper,
  With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that
          Milo would hamper.
  Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile
          that nipped him;
  No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a
          pine-tree that gripped him.
  But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in
          one, Sir.
  And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much
          further _I_ can run, Sir.
  Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and
          stop him?
  Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the _cloture_ pound
          they should pop him,
  With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its
          three blessed wings, confound it!
  I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of
          getting round it;
  And I _am_ that fat--no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear
          ARTHUR, quite lathy.
  And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is
          getting exceedingly wrathy.
  Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile
          wings is the floorer.
  If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my
          rear to yon roarer.
  Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously
          prodding.
  Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded
          with woollen "wadding."
  Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one
          second.
  I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I
          must have misreckoned.
  That bull of GLADDY'S most certainly mad is, though he gave me his
          word, the Old Slyboots,
  It was perfectly quiet. I have SALISBURY'S fiat, but I wish he was
          only in _my_ boots.
  "Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings,
          and perspiration,
  I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that
          "Compensation,"
  It is sure to stick. "_Quick_, SMITH, _man_, _quick!_" Oh, it's all
          very well to holloa;
  With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy
          that counsel to follow.
  My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by
          Taurus.
  Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us,
          and score us, and gore us.
  "_Run! run!_" Oh, _ain't_ I running like winking? Reach the
          turnstile? I may just do it
  But with its three wings--oh, confound the things!--I much doubt
          if I'll ever get _through_ it!

    [_Left trying._

       *       *       *       *       *

WEEK BY WEEK.

THE attention of statisticians has lately been directed to a question
of no little interest. To put it as shortly as possible, the point is
to discover the number and size of the mayonnaises of lobster consumed
in the course of one evening in the district bounded on the east by
Berkeley Square, and extending westward as far as Earl's Court. It is
well-known that no lobster ever walked backwards. Taking this as the
basis of our calculations and assuming that [Greek: pi]^{n_1} is
equal to the digestive apparatus of six hundred dowagers, we reach
the surprising total of 932,146-1/8 lobsters. No allowance is made for
dressing or returned empties.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A Poet" writes to us as follows:--"I have long been puzzled by
the difficulty attending the proper construction of rhymed verse in
English. Some words possess many rhymes, others only a few, others
again none. Yet I find that the temptation to end a line with a
non-rhyme-possessing word like'month' is almost irresistible, and
frequently gives rise to the most painful results. In the course of my
emotional ballad entitled, '_The Bard's Daughter_,' I was compelled on
an average to kill half-a-dozen German bands every day, and to throw
ten jam-pots at my butler for unseasonable interruptions. Can any of
your readers help me?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A flight of ducks was observed to settle on the Serpentine yesterday
at four o'clock exactly. They had been moving in a westerly direction.
The Park-keepers explain this curious incident by the well-known
affection of these birds for water, combined with an occasional
impulse to aerial navigation, but the explanation appears to us
inadequate.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Vienna the other day, a Cabman was observed to claim more than his
fare from an elderly lady, whom he afterwards abused violently in the
choicest Austrian for refusing to comply with his demands. After all,
the nature of Cabmen all over the world varies very little. Elderly
Ladies too, are much the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. STANLEY continues to attend dances, dinners and receptions at
the usual hours. He has lately expressed himself in strong terms with
regard to the action of a friendly Power on the continent of Africa.
Mr. STANLEY appears to think very lightly of the Foreign Office
pigeon-holes, in which his treaties have been stored in the meantime.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.

_Sympathetic Spinster._ "AND IS YOUR OTHER BOY AT ALL LIKE THIS ONE?"

_Proud Mother._ "OH, NO; QUITE A CONTRAST TO HIM!"

_Sympathetic Spinster._ "HOW NICE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THE KNOW.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)

HA! ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates in
the world couldn't have induced me to back _Surefoot_. There they
were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite, gin-palace,
gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them blowing a
_fan-fare_ upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I had my eye on
them all the time. For as the public must have discovered long before
this, if there is one person in the world who sets their interests
above everything, and swerves neither to the right nor to the left in
the effort to save them from the depredations of the pilfering gang
of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter on sporting matters, that
person, I say it without offence, is _me_.

What was it I said last week about _Sainfoin_? "_Sainfoin_," I said,
"is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally
exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this. It meant, of
course, that _Sainfoin_ never lets the grass grow under his feet, and
that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he would win the
race. _And he did win the race._ We all know that; all, that is,
except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they know something
about racing. But I have made my pile, and so have my readers, and
we can afford to snap our fingers at every pudding-headed
barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the Derby.

As for the Oaks, it would be impossible to conceive anything more
scientifically, nay geometrically, accurate than my forecast.
"_Memoir_," I said, "might do _pour servir_." Well, didn't she? And if
anybody omitted to back her, all I can nay is, serve them right for
a pack of goose-brained Bedlamites. For myself, I can only say that,
having made a colossal fortune by my speculations, I propose shortly
to retire from the Turf I have so long adorned.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BIASSED AUTHOR.--One whose MS. is written "on one side only."

       *       *       *       *       *

ASK A WHITE MAN!

(_Highly Humorous Song. Sung with Immense Success by King M'Tesa, of
Uganda._)

"King M'TESA inquired of Mr. STANLEY what an 'Angel' was. He (Mr.
STANLEY) had not seen an angel, but imagination was strong, and M'TESA
was so interested in what he was told