



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 109, November 9, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




[Illustration: FIRST IN THE FIELD.

WEATHER BREAKS. DELIGHTFUL PROSPECT! GOING STRONG!]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have been staying recently at Oxford, the home of perennial
youth--and of innumerable dogs. In fact, it was the canine aspect of
Oxford that impressed me on this occasion more than any other. Nearly
every self-respecting undergraduate keeps his dog, and the mediaeval,
academic look of the place is pleasantly tempered by these careless,
happy, intrusive, "warlike wearers of the wagging tail," who career up
the High, make the meadows to resound with their barkings, and bring
the bicycled rowing coach to eternal smash on the tow-path. There
being, roughly speaking, some 3,000 undergraduates, the floating
population of Oxford dogs cannot be less than 2,500.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps, however, the most remarkable thing about Oxford dogs is the
variety of their migrations. Some dogs, of course, remain constant to
one owner. Others spend their lives under the general ownership of
the whole University. These know the best rooms for bones from term to
term; they can track the perfumed ash-pan to its lair, and indulge
in hideous orgies of fish-heads and egg-shells. The most prominent
representative of this class is, of course, _Oriel Bill_, who has,
perhaps, the most gorgeously ugly and tenderly pathetic face ever
granted by nature to a bull-dog.

       *       *       *       *       *

But ordinary dogs, though they remain nominally the possession of one
original owner, migrate from sub-owner to deputy-sub-owner, and thence
to pro-deputy-sub-owner, with a wonderful rapidity. For instance,
I once gave a retriever puppy to an Oxford friend. This is the
life-history of that amiable animal, so far as I can gather it up to a
recent date.

       *       *       *       *       *

A. (my friend) kept the dog faithfully for a term. As he was going
down, it occurred to A. that _Ponto_ would be happier in Oxford than
in London, so when the following term began, _Ponto_, still in his gay
puppyhood, was once more found in Oxford under a different master,
B. B. kept _Ponto_ in his lodgings in the High. They were prettily
furnished; there were cretonnes, and embroidered cushions, and
handsome rugs. One day _Ponto_ was left in solitary charge for one
short hour. Upon B.'s return he found that remarkable dog sleeping
soundly, with a well-gnawed slipper under each of his forepaws, amidst
a ruin of tattered stuffs. Not a hanging, not a cushion, not a rug
remained entire. This was too much, and _Ponto_ promptly became
the fleeting property of C., a Balliol man, who changed his name to
_Jowler_ (this happened in the time of the late Master), and taught
him to worry cats.

       *       *       *       *       *

After three weeks of glorious scrimmages amongst the surrounding
feline inhabitants, _Jowler_ took it into his head to get lost for
a week. C. mourned him, but took no further steps when he found him
living under the protection of D., a Brasenose man, totally unknown to
A., the original owner. D. took him home in the vac, broke him to
the gun, imbued him with an extraordinary fondness for beer, and
re-christened him "_Hebby_."

       *       *       *       *       *

At the beginning of the following term _Hebby_ once more turned up
in Oxford, being then almost a full-grown dog. He again lived in
lodgings, this time in Turl Street. By this time he had acquired
luxurious habits, and was particularly fond of taking his naps in any
bed that might be handy. Having on four separate occasions covered
himself with mud and ensconced himself in the bed of the landlady, he
was not as popular as a dog of his parts ought to have been. But
the culminating point was reached when _Hebby_, having stolen a cold
pheasant and the remains of a leg of mutton, took the bones to the bed
of his master, into which he tucked himself. After this he was passed
onto E., a Magdalen man, and was called _The Pre_.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot follow his wanderings after this point in any detail. I know
he has gone the round of the Colleges twice. He has been a boating
dog, a cricketing dog, an athletic dog, and a footballing dog. He
has been a canine member of Vincent's Club; he has waited outside the
Union unmoved while a debate, on which the fate of the Ministry hung,
was in progress. He has been smuggled into College, he has disgraced
himself, and caused a change of carpets in nearly every lodging in
Oxford. He has lived near New College under the name of _Spoo_, has
been entered at Christ Church as _Fleacatcher_ (a delicate compliment
to distinguished oarsman), and has frequented the precincts of the
Radcliffe Infirmary, and been joyfully hailed as _Pego_ by budding
doctors. I believe he is still a resident member of the University,
but his exact place of residence is more than I can tell. His original
owner endeavoured to trace him not long ago. He got as far as Lincoln
College, and there lost the clue.

       *       *       *       *       *

This, I am sure, is no solitary example. Hundreds of Oxford dogs are
at this very time undergoing the same vicissitudes, through a similar
Odyssey of wanderings. And probably, if the truth were known, there
are Cambridge dogs in no better case.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"I like it muchly," quoth the Baron, finishing BARING GOULD'S
_Noemi_:--

  "This scribe for publishers ne'er writes in vain;
  His pen prolific, Baring Goulden grain."

And _Noemi_, if a trifle less Gouldish than Weymanish, is a tale
of stirring times, when to plunder, hack, stab, and string up a few
unfriendly fellow-creatures, who would have done the same by you if
the turn of luck had been theirs, came in the day's work; while to
roast an offender whole "all alive O," just for once and away, was,
so to speak, "quite a little 'oliday," as a special and exceptional
treat. And all these jocular barbarities were occasioned, not by any
religious fervour, or by intolerant persecuting zeal, excusing itself
on the score of anxiety for future spiritual welfare of victim, but
simply out of pure cussedness, and for the humour of the thing, much
as, now-a-days, the bowie-knife and the cord are used "down West."
Personally, the Baron gives not full credit to all these tales of
mediaeval cruelty, but the "scenes and properties" serve an excellent
artistic purpose, and so he loves them as he loves such romances as
those of _She who must be obeyed_, and _Treasure Island_. Therefore
here's to the lass _Noemi_, and, as she herself would of course say,
in response to the toast, "You'll like me the more you _Know-o'-me_."

[Illustration]

Another capital story by FRANK BARRETT, entitled _A Set of Rogues_,
is strongly recommended by the faculty; the faculty in question being
that of deciding upon what sort of book is certain to suit the tastes
of the majority of romance-readers, who, aweary of the plodding
every-day business in this "so-called nineteenth century," like to
get away from it occasionally and live, just for a change, in the
seventeenth. Stirring tale this of _A Set of Rogues_, without a dull
chapter in it: and just enough human sentiment in it to soften down
the roguery. In fact, so skilfully is the tale told that the reader
will find himself siding with "their knavish tricks"; for the hearts
of these rogues are in the right place, though their bodies very
seldom were, and their heads never, in the noose. But "no noose is
good noose," and so let the honest reader procure the book from INNES
& CO. of Bedford Street; he will come to love the scoundrels, and will
ask, with the Baron, "What on earth became of that captivating _Don
Sanchez?_" and another query, "Was the villainous old Steward really
killed?" Perhaps the author is reserving the Don and the Steward for
another romance. If so, "What will he do with 'em?" asks the

  INTERESTED BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LAST SALUTE!

_Tommy Atkins_ (_to Commander-in-Chief H.R.H. The Dook of C-mbr-dge_)
"SORRY TO LOSE YOU, SIR! YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A VERY GOOD FRIEND TO
US!"

"In this, his first Army Order, Lord WOLSELEY wishes, in the name of
the Army, to assure His Royal Highness of the affectionate regard
of all who have served under him during his long period of
office."--_London Gazette_, November 1, 1895.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOPE DEFERRED.

_Old Gent_ (_pulling up, not fancying the timber_). "CONFOUND IT ALL!
SURELY ONE OF 'EM 'LL MANAGE TO BREAK THE TOP RAIL."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWO SOLDIERS' TEARS.

(_Some way after Thomas Haynes Bayly's "Soldier's Tear."_)

  When at the porch he turned,
    To take a last fond look.
  (Human emotion will have way
    In TOMMY or in Duke.)
  He listened to the tramp,
    So familiar to his ear;
  And the soldier gripped his good old sword,
    And wiped away a tear.

  Not far from that same porch
    A Tommy stood at ease,
  But, as he saw, his head braced up,
    And he stiffened at the knees.
  "Sorry to lose you, Sir!
    You've been _our_ friend, and dear!"
  That TOMMY cried, and with his cuff,
    _He_ wiped away a tear.

  Both turned, and left the spot,
    Oh! do not deem them weak,
  For dauntless was each soldier's heart,
    Though a tear bedewed each cheek.
  As _Punch_ gives hearty thanks,
    At the close of a long career,
  To the gallant Duke, _he_ also turns,
    And--wipes away a tear!

       *       *       *       *       *

Seasonable Dialogue.

_First Dissatisfied Sportsman._ What do you think of the present
season, so far?

_Second Dis. Sport._ (_with a terrific "cold id 'is dose"_). Der
preselt seasult? You mead der cubbig season.

_First Dis. Sport._ (_correcting him_). Well, the present season _is_
the "cubbing season."

       *       *       *       *       *

A YELL FROM THE YELLOW.

The "Yellow Dwarf" (in the _Yellow Book_), in an almost incoherent
scream against the literary ladies and gentlemen of the day, wails as
follows:--

    "The bagman and the stockbroker's clerk (and their lady
    wives and daughters) 'ave usurped his (the 'gentleman and
    scholar''s) plyce, and his influence on readers; and the
    pressman has picked up his fallen pen--the pressman, Sir, or
    the press-woman!... With an illiterate reading mob howling at
    our doors, and a tribe of pressmen scribbling at our tables,
    what, in the name of the universe, can we expect? What we get;
    not so?"

Well, "what we get" is (among other things) the above shriek of the
"Yellow Dwarf," who seems to do his full share of the "howling" he
attributes to the "reading mob," and who, indeed, might be better
described as the "_Yeller_ Dwarf."

       *       *       *       *       *

On a Sympathetic Actress.

AIR--"_The Widow Malone._"

  To the Garrick Theayter you'll roam,
                    You'll roam,
  Where MARION TERRY'S at home,
                    At home.
    She melts all the hearts
    Of the swains in such parts
  As she plays in a play by JEROME,
                    JEROME.
  Not much of a play by JEROME.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why should "All Souls," Oxford, be always a distinguished college?
Because it could not be "all souls" without "somebodies" in it.

       *       *       *       *       *

BENN AND JIM.

_A Pathetic_ (_L. C. C._) _Ballad._

    [See recent controversy between Mr. BENN and Lord JAMES in the
    _Times_.]

  BENN, an L. C. C. fighter bold,
    Was used to war's alarms;
  And when JIM knocked him off his legs,
    He wouldn't lay down his arms.

  He cried. "I will not quit the field,
    Though HEREFORD JIM may shoot;
  And though to stand on I've no leg,
    I will not budge a foot!"

  Now HEREFORD JIM, a gunner smart,
    Riddled BENN fore and aft.
  Cried BENN, "Although my decks he's swept,
    He has not sunk my _craft_."

  Says JIM, "Those shanks are not live limbs,
    They're only party pegs!
  You have as wooden members quite,
    As represent your legs!"

  "Alive--and kicking, still am I!"
    Says BENN, with huge elation;
  "But if you think my legs are dead,
    Let's have--an arbitration!"

  Says JIM, "They are mere timber-toes,
    Though as live limbs you sport 'em,
  Though arbitrators have their use,
    They do not sit _post-mortem!_

  "A coroner sits on a _corpse_,
    To find out how he died."
  The _Times_ then "sat on" BENN, and found
    A _mis_take in his inside.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "RUBBER INDUSTRY."--Evidently whist.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEAVES FROM THE HIGHLAND JOURNAL OF TOBY, M.P.

FIRST LEAF.--THE THING TO DO IN SCOTLAND.

_Quiverfield, Haddingtonshire, Monday._--You can't spend twenty-four
hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that
the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of
Tweed they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at
the game to spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of
what VICTOR HUGO called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at
Quiverfield. Blue as the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous
autumn, soon to lapse into November. We can see the Bass Rock from the
eighth hole, and can almost hear the whirr of the balls skimming with