The Rival ForcesThe Rival Forces.(Scene—Lonely Yorkshire moor. Miles from anywhere.)Passing Horse-dealer(who has been asked for a tow by owners of broken-down motor-car). "Is it easy to pull?"Motorist."Oh yes. Very light indeed!"Horse-dealer."Then supposin' you pull it yourselves!"[Drives off.
The Rival Forces.
(Scene—Lonely Yorkshire moor. Miles from anywhere.)
Passing Horse-dealer(who has been asked for a tow by owners of broken-down motor-car). "Is it easy to pull?"
Motorist."Oh yes. Very light indeed!"
Horse-dealer."Then supposin' you pull it yourselves!"
[Drives off.
The OwnerThe Owner(after five breakdowns and a spill). "Are y-you k-keen on r-riding home?"His Friend."N-not very."The Owner."L-let's l-leave it a-andwalk, s-shall we?"
The Owner(after five breakdowns and a spill). "Are y-you k-keen on r-riding home?"
His Friend."N-not very."
The Owner."L-let's l-leave it a-andwalk, s-shall we?"
Cyclist to rural policemanSunday Morning.—Cyclist(to rural policeman). "Nice crowd out this morning!"Rural Policeman(who has received a tip). "Yes, an' yer can't do with 'em! If yer 'ollers at 'em, they honly turns round and says, 'Pip, pip'!"
Sunday Morning.—
Cyclist(to rural policeman). "Nice crowd out this morning!"
Rural Policeman(who has received a tip). "Yes, an' yer can't do with 'em! If yer 'ollers at 'em, they honly turns round and says, 'Pip, pip'!"
RusticRustic(to beginner, who has charged the hedge). "It's no good, sir. They things won't jump!"
Rustic(to beginner, who has charged the hedge). "It's no good, sir. They things won't jump!"
The Universal Juggernaut.—"Anyone," says theDaily Telegraph, "who has driven an automobile will know that it is quite impossible to run over a child and remain unconscious of the fact."Any one who has driven an automobile!Heavens! what a sweeping charge! Is there none innocent?
Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down"'Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down! Stands to reason a motor-caw goin' down 'ill'sboundto be goin' too fast. So we'll put it down at about thirty mile an hour! Your name and address, sir,hifyou please."
"'Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down! Stands to reason a motor-caw goin' down 'ill'sboundto be goin' too fast. So we'll put it down at about thirty mile an hour! Your name and address, sir,hifyou please."
["When every one has a bicycle and flies to the suburban roads, the suburban dwellers will desert their houses and come back to crowded London to find quiet and freedom from dust."—Daily Paper.]
Time was desire for peace would stillMy footsteps lure to Richmond Hill,Or to the groves of Burnham I,Much craving solitude, would fly;Thence, through the Summer afternoon,'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June,Lulled by the song of birds and bees,I'd saunter idly at mine easeTo that still churchyard where, with Gray,I'd dream a golden hour away,Forgetful all of aught but this—That peace was mine, and mine was bliss.But now should my all-eager feetSeek out some whilom calm retreat,"Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane,"Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again,"Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye,"Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry,As through the thirsty, fever'd day,The red-hot scorchers scorch their way.Peace is no longer, Rest is dead,And sweetest Solitude hath fled;And over all, the cycling lustHath spread its trail of noise and dust.So, would I woo the joys of Quiet,I see no more the country's riot,But the comparatively stillEnvironment of Ludgate Hill.There, 'mongst the pigeons of St. Paul's,I muse melodious madrigals,Or loiter where the waters sport'Mid the cool joys of Fountain Court,Where, undisturbed by sharp "Pip, pip!"My nimble numbers lightly trip,And country peace I find againIn Chancery and Fetter Lane.
Time was desire for peace would stillMy footsteps lure to Richmond Hill,Or to the groves of Burnham I,Much craving solitude, would fly;Thence, through the Summer afternoon,'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June,Lulled by the song of birds and bees,I'd saunter idly at mine easeTo that still churchyard where, with Gray,I'd dream a golden hour away,Forgetful all of aught but this—That peace was mine, and mine was bliss.
Time was desire for peace would still
My footsteps lure to Richmond Hill,
Or to the groves of Burnham I,
Much craving solitude, would fly;
Thence, through the Summer afternoon,
'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June,
Lulled by the song of birds and bees,
I'd saunter idly at mine ease
To that still churchyard where, with Gray,
I'd dream a golden hour away,
Forgetful all of aught but this—
That peace was mine, and mine was bliss.
But now should my all-eager feetSeek out some whilom calm retreat,"Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane,"Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again,"Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye,"Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry,As through the thirsty, fever'd day,The red-hot scorchers scorch their way.Peace is no longer, Rest is dead,And sweetest Solitude hath fled;And over all, the cycling lustHath spread its trail of noise and dust.
But now should my all-eager feet
Seek out some whilom calm retreat,
"Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane,
"Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again,
"Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye,
"Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry,
As through the thirsty, fever'd day,
The red-hot scorchers scorch their way.
Peace is no longer, Rest is dead,
And sweetest Solitude hath fled;
And over all, the cycling lust
Hath spread its trail of noise and dust.
So, would I woo the joys of Quiet,I see no more the country's riot,But the comparatively stillEnvironment of Ludgate Hill.There, 'mongst the pigeons of St. Paul's,I muse melodious madrigals,Or loiter where the waters sport'Mid the cool joys of Fountain Court,Where, undisturbed by sharp "Pip, pip!"My nimble numbers lightly trip,And country peace I find againIn Chancery and Fetter Lane.
So, would I woo the joys of Quiet,
I see no more the country's riot,
But the comparatively still
Environment of Ludgate Hill.
There, 'mongst the pigeons of St. Paul's,
I muse melodious madrigals,
Or loiter where the waters sport
'Mid the cool joys of Fountain Court,
Where, undisturbed by sharp "Pip, pip!"
My nimble numbers lightly trip,
And country peace I find again
In Chancery and Fetter Lane.
Vehicular Progression.—Mr. Ikey Motor(to customer). Want a machine, sir? Certainly, we've all sorts to suit your build.
Customer.It isn't for me, but for my mother-in-law.
Mr. Ikey Motor.For your mother-in-law! How would a steam roller suit her?
[Mr. I. M.is immediately made aware that the lady in question has overheard his ill-timed jest, while the customer vanishes in blue fire.
Experto Crede.—What is worse than raining cats and dogs?—Hailing motor omnibuses.
Comprehensive.Comprehensive.—Owner(as the car starts backing down the hill). "Pull everything you can see, and put your foot on everything else!"
Comprehensive.—Owner(as the car starts backing down the hill). "Pull everything you can see, and put your foot on everything else!"
Farmer in cartFarmer(in cart). "Hi, stop! Stop, you fool! Don't you see my horse is running away?"Driver of Motor-car(hired by the hour). "Yes, it's all very well for you to say 'stop,' but I've forgotten how the blooming thing works!"
Farmer(in cart). "Hi, stop! Stop, you fool! Don't you see my horse is running away?"
Driver of Motor-car(hired by the hour). "Yes, it's all very well for you to say 'stop,' but I've forgotten how the blooming thing works!"
SIMPLE ENOUGHSIMPLE ENOUGHYokel(in pursuit of escaped bull, to Timmins, who is "teaching himself"). "Hi, Mister! If yer catch hold of his leading-stick, he can't hurt yer!"
Yokel(in pursuit of escaped bull, to Timmins, who is "teaching himself"). "Hi, Mister! If yer catch hold of his leading-stick, he can't hurt yer!"
Anti-Bicyclist Motto.
—Rather a year of Europe than a cycle of to-day.
Motto for those who "Bike."—"And wheels rush in where horses fear to tread."
A Case of Mistaken Identity.A Case of Mistaken Identity.—Major Mustard(who has been changing several of his servants). "How dare you call yourself a chauffeur?"Alfonsoe."Mais non! Non, monsieur! Je ne suis pas 'chauffeur.' J'ai dit que je suis le chef. Mais monsieur comprehend not!"
A Case of Mistaken Identity.—
Major Mustard(who has been changing several of his servants). "How dare you call yourself a chauffeur?"
Alfonsoe."Mais non! Non, monsieur! Je ne suis pas 'chauffeur.' J'ai dit que je suis le chef. Mais monsieur comprehend not!"
The Little Handle-Bar SpringNo more Accidents! No more Stolen Cycles!
The Little Handle-Bar SpringNo more Accidents! No more Stolen Cycles!
All our bicycles are fitted with the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which, when pressed, causes the machine to fall into 114 pieces.
Anyone can press the spring, but it takes an expert three months to rebuild it, thus trebling the life of a bicycle.
We are offering this marvellous invention at the absurd price of
50 guineas cash down,
50 guineas cash down,
or 98 weekly instalments of 1 guinea. [Special reductions to company promoters and men with large families.]
We can't afford to do it for less, because when once you have bought one you will never want another.
Advice to Purchasers
Advice to Purchasers
Don't lose your head when the machine runs away with you down the hill; simply press the spring.
Don't wait for your rich uncle to die; just send him one of our cycles.
Don't lock your cycle up at night; merely press the spring.
Don't be misled by other firms who say that their machines will also fall to pieces; they are only trying to sell their cycles; we want to sellYOU.
Note.—We can also fit this marvellous Little Spring to perambulators, bath-chairs, and bathing machines.
We append below some two out of our million testimonials. The other 999,998 are expected every post.
July, 1906.
Dear Sirs,—I bought one of your cycles in May, 1895, and it is still as good as when I received it. I attribute this solely to the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which I pressed as soon as I received the machine.
P.S.—What do you charge for rebuilding a cycle?
August, 1906.
Gentlemen,—Last month I started to ride to Barnet on one of your cycles. When ascending Muswell Hill, I lost control of the machine, but I simply pressed the spring, and now I feel that I cannot say enough about your bike. I shall never ride any other again.
P.S.—I should very much like to meet the inventor of the "Little Handle-Bar Spring."
Going about thirty, are we?Friend."Going about thirty, are we? But don't you run some risk of being pulled up for exceeding the legal pace?"Owner."Not in a sober, respectable-looking car like this. Of course, if you go about in a blatant, brass-bound, scarlet-padded, snorting foreign affair, like that, you are bound to be dropped on, no matter how slow you go!"
Friend."Going about thirty, are we? But don't you run some risk of being pulled up for exceeding the legal pace?"
Owner."Not in a sober, respectable-looking car like this. Of course, if you go about in a blatant, brass-bound, scarlet-padded, snorting foreign affair, like that, you are bound to be dropped on, no matter how slow you go!"
AN AMBUSCADE.AN AMBUSCADE.--Captain de Smythe insidiously beguiles the fair Laura and her sister to a certain secluded spot where, as he happens to know, his hated rival, Mr. Tomkyns, is in the habit of secretly practising on the bicycle. He (Captain de S.) calculates that a mere glimpse of Mr. T., as he wobbles wildly by on that instrument, will be sufficient to dispel any illusions that the fair Laura may cherish in her bosom respecting that worthy man.
AN AMBUSCADE.--Captain de Smythe insidiously beguiles the fair Laura and her sister to a certain secluded spot where, as he happens to know, his hated rival, Mr. Tomkyns, is in the habit of secretly practising on the bicycle. He (Captain de S.) calculates that a mere glimpse of Mr. T., as he wobbles wildly by on that instrument, will be sufficient to dispel any illusions that the fair Laura may cherish in her bosom respecting that worthy man.
Our own UndergraduateOur own Undergraduate(fresh from his Euclid). "Ha! Two riders to one prop."
Our own Undergraduate(fresh from his Euclid). "Ha! Two riders to one prop."
Insult Added to InjuryInsult Added to Injury.—Wretched Boy."Hi, guv'nor! D'yer want any help?"
Insult Added to Injury.—Wretched Boy."Hi, guv'nor! D'yer want any help?"
[With acknowledgments to the Editor of "The Car"]
[With acknowledgments to the Editor of "The Car"]
Who is the happy road-deer? Who is heThat every motorist should want to be?
Who is the happy road-deer? Who is heThat every motorist should want to be?
Who is the happy road-deer? Who is he
That every motorist should want to be?
The Perfect Automobilist thinks only of others. He is an Auto-altruist.
He never wantonly kills anybody.
If he injures a fellow-creature (and this will always be the fellow-creature's fault) he voluntarily buys him a princely annuity. In the case of a woman, if she is irreparably disfigured by the accident, he will, supposing he has no other wife at the time, offer her the consolation of marriage with himself.
He regards the life of bird and beast as no less sacred than that of human beings. Should he inadvertently break a fowl or pig he will convey it to the nearest veterinary surgeon and have the broken limb set or amputated as the injury may require. In the event of death or permanent damage, he will seek out the owner of the dumb animal, and refund him fourfold.
To be on the safe side with respect to the legal limit, the Perfect Automobilist confines himself toa speed of ten miles per hour. He will even dismount at the top of a steep descent, so as to lessen the impetus due to the force of gravity.
If he is compelled by the nature of his mission to exceed the legal limit (as when hurrying, for instance, to fetch a doctor in a matter of life or death, or to inform the Government of the landing of a hostile force) he is anxious not to shirk the penalty. He will, therefore, send on a swift messenger to warn the police to be on the lookout for him; and if he fails to run into any trap he will, on returning, report himself at all the police-stations on his route, or communicate by post with the constabularies of the various counties through which he may have passed.
At the back of his motor he carries a watering-cart attachment for the laying of dust before it has time to be raised.
Lest the noise of his motor should be a cause of distraction he slows down when passing military bands, barrel organs, churches (during the hours of worship), the Houses of Parliament (while sitting), motor-buses, the Stock Exchange, and open-air meetings of the unemployed.
If he meets a restive horse he will turn back and go down a side road and wait till it has passed. If all the side roads are occupied by restive horses he will go back home; and if the way home is similarly barred he will turn into a field.
He encourages his motor to break down frequently; because this spectacle affords an innocent diversion to many whose existence would otherwise be colourless.
It is his greatest joy to give a timely lift to weary pedestrians, such as tramps, postmen, sweeps, and police-trap detectives; even though, the car being already full, he is himself compelled to get out and do the last fifty or sixty miles on foot.
He declines to wear goggles because they conceal the natural benevolence of the human eye divine, which he regards as the window of the soul; also (and for the same reason he never wears a fur overcoat) because they accentuate class distinctions.
Finally—on this very ground—the Perfect Automobilist will sell all his motor-stud and give the proceeds to found an almshouse for retired socialists.
Obliging HorsemanObliging Horseman(of riverside breeding). "Ave a tow up, miss?"
Obliging Horseman(of riverside breeding). "Ave a tow up, miss?"
Why can't you look where you're goingCyclist."Why can't you look where you're going?"Motorist."How the dickens could I when I didn't know!"
Cyclist."Why can't you look where you're going?"
Motorist."How the dickens could I when I didn't know!"
Middle-aged NoviceMiddle-aged Novice."I'm just off for a tour in the country—'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my flat again."Candid Friend."Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!"
Middle-aged Novice."I'm just off for a tour in the country—'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my flat again."
Candid Friend."Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!"
(The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman)
(The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman)
Air—"The Lost Chord"
Air—"The Lost Chord"
Reading one day in our "Organ,"I was happy and quite at ease.A band was playing the "Lost Chord,"Outside—in three several keys.ButIcared not how they were playing,Those puffing Teutonic men;For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,And was ten-mile champion then!It flooded my cheeks with crimson,The praise of my pluck and calm;Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.But my joy soon turned into sorrow,My calm into mental strife;For my record was "cut" on the morrow,And it cutme, like a knife.A fellow had done the distanceIn the tenth of a second less!And henceforth my name in silenceWas dropt by the Cycling Press.I have sought—but I seek it vainly—With that record again to shine,Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,But they never mention mine.It may be some day at the OvalI may cut that record again,But at present the Cups are givenTo better—orluckier—men!
Reading one day in our "Organ,"I was happy and quite at ease.A band was playing the "Lost Chord,"Outside—in three several keys.ButIcared not how they were playing,Those puffing Teutonic men;For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,And was ten-mile champion then!
Reading one day in our "Organ,"
I was happy and quite at ease.
A band was playing the "Lost Chord,"
Outside—in three several keys.
ButIcared not how they were playing,
Those puffing Teutonic men;
For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,
And was ten-mile champion then!
It flooded my cheeks with crimson,The praise of my pluck and calm;Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.But my joy soon turned into sorrow,My calm into mental strife;For my record was "cut" on the morrow,And it cutme, like a knife.A fellow had done the distanceIn the tenth of a second less!And henceforth my name in silenceWas dropt by the Cycling Press.
It flooded my cheeks with crimson,
The praise of my pluck and calm;
Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"
With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.
But my joy soon turned into sorrow,
My calm into mental strife;
For my record was "cut" on the morrow,
And it cutme, like a knife.
A fellow had done the distance
In the tenth of a second less!
And henceforth my name in silence
Was dropt by the Cycling Press.
I have sought—but I seek it vainly—With that record again to shine,Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,But they never mention mine.It may be some day at the OvalI may cut that record again,But at present the Cups are givenTo better—orluckier—men!
I have sought—but I seek it vainly—
With that record again to shine,
Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,
But they never mention mine.
It may be some day at the Oval
I may cut that record again,
But at present the Cups are given
To better—orluckier—men!
THE MOTOR-BATHTHE MOTOR-BATHNurse."Oh, baby, look at the diver!"
Nurse."Oh, baby, look at the diver!"
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car,Just to tell us where you are,While about the streets you flyLike a comet in the sky.When the blazing sun is "off,"When the fog breeds wheeze and cough,Round the corners as you scourWith your dozen miles an hour—Then the traveller in the dark,Growling some profane remark,Would not know which way to goWhile you're rushing to and fro.On our fears, then, as you gloat(Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"),Just to tell us where you are—Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car,Just to tell us where you are,While about the streets you flyLike a comet in the sky.
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car,
Just to tell us where you are,
While about the streets you fly
Like a comet in the sky.
When the blazing sun is "off,"When the fog breeds wheeze and cough,Round the corners as you scourWith your dozen miles an hour—
When the blazing sun is "off,"
When the fog breeds wheeze and cough,
Round the corners as you scour
With your dozen miles an hour—
Then the traveller in the dark,Growling some profane remark,Would not know which way to goWhile you're rushing to and fro.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Growling some profane remark,
Would not know which way to go
While you're rushing to and fro.
On our fears, then, as you gloat(Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"),Just to tell us where you are—Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.
On our fears, then, as you gloat
(Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"),
Just to tell us where you are—
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.
"Motor Body."—"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette, shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be told fromANYfixed body."—Advt. in the"Autocar."
The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by licking the sparking plug.
Chauffeur. Pardon, monsieurChauffeur."Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she straight to Hele?"Major Chili Pepper(a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf). "Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of the road!"
Chauffeur."Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she straight to Hele?"
Major Chili Pepper(a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf). "Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of the road!"
FACILIS"FACILISBikist(gaily). "Here we go down! down! down! down!"
Bikist(gaily). "Here we go down! down! down! down!"
DESCENSUSDESCENSUS!"The same(very much down). "Never again withyou, my bikey!"
The same(very much down). "Never again withyou, my bikey!"
Should Motors carry Maxims?—Under the title "Murderous Magistrate," theDaily Mailprinted some observations made by a barrister who reproves Canon Greenwell for remarking from the Durham County Bench that if a few motorists were shot no great harm would be done. The same paper subsequently published an article headed, "Maxims for Motorists." Retaliation in kind is natural, and a maxim is an excellent retort to a canon. But why abuse the canon first?
So many accidents have occurred lately through the ignition of petrol that a wealthy motorist, we hear, is making arrangements for his car to be followed, wherever it may go, by a fully-equipped fire-engine, and, if this example be followed widely, our roads will become more interesting than ever.
Are there motor-cars in the celestial regions? Professor Schaer, of Geneva, has discovered whathedescribes as a new comet plunging due south at a rate of almost 8 degrees a day, and careering across the Milky Way regardless of all other traffic.
OUR ELECTIONOUR ELECTION—POLLING DAYEnergetic Committeeman."It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!"
Energetic Committeeman."It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!"
I am he: goggled and unashamed. Furred also am I, stop-watched and horse-powerful. Millions admit my sway—on both sides of the road. The Plutocrat has money: I have motors. The Democrat has the rates; so have I—two—one for use and one for County Courts. The Autocrat is dead, but I—I increase and multiply. I have taken his place.
I blow my horn and the people scatter. I stand still and everything trembles. I move and kill dogs. I skid and chickens die. I pass swiftly from place to place, and horses bolt in dust storms which cover the land. I make the dust storms. For I am Omnipotent; I make everything. I make dust, I make smell, I make noise. And I go forward, ever forward, and pass through or over almost everything. "Over or Through" is my motto.
The roads were made for me; years ago they were made. Wise rulers saw me coming and made roads. Now that I am come, they go onmaking roads—making them up. For I break things. Roads I break and Rules of the Road. Statutory limits were made for me. I break them. I break the dull silence of the country. Sometimes I break down, and thousands flock round me, so that I dislocate the traffic. But Iamthe Traffic.
I am I and She is She—the rest get out of the way. Truly, the hand which rules the motor rocks the world.
(By an Old Whip)
(By an Old Whip)
Jerking and jolting,Bursting and bolting,Smelling and steaming,Shrieking and screaming,Snorting and shaking,Quivering, quaking,Skidding and slipping,Twisting and tripping,Bumping and bounding,Puffing and pounding,Rolling and rumbling,Thumping and tumbling.Such I've a notion,Motor-car motion.
Jerking and jolting,Bursting and bolting,Smelling and steaming,Shrieking and screaming,Snorting and shaking,Quivering, quaking,Skidding and slipping,Twisting and tripping,Bumping and bounding,Puffing and pounding,Rolling and rumbling,Thumping and tumbling.Such I've a notion,Motor-car motion.
Jerking and jolting,
Bursting and bolting,
Smelling and steaming,
Shrieking and screaming,
Snorting and shaking,
Quivering, quaking,
Skidding and slipping,
Twisting and tripping,
Bumping and bounding,
Puffing and pounding,
Rolling and rumbling,
Thumping and tumbling.
Such I've a notion,
Motor-car motion.
ADDING INSULT TO INJURYADDING INSULT TO INJURYCyclist(to Foxhunter, thrown out), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'ounds?"
Cyclist(to Foxhunter, thrown out), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'ounds?"
True Philosophy.True Philosophy.—Ploughman."Ah, things be different like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got 'osses wi' no trap."
True Philosophy.—Ploughman."Ah, things be different like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got 'osses wi' no trap."
THE RECKLESS ONETHE RECKLESS ONEWife of Injured Cyclist(who, having found considerable difficulty in getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour). "Well, I do believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I said to him, what haveyougot to do with the 'record'?"
Wife of Injured Cyclist(who, having found considerable difficulty in getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour). "Well, I do believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I said to him, what haveyougot to do with the 'record'?"
AN INOPPORTUNE TIMEAN INOPPORTUNE TIMEJones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to the village for assistance. In the meantime several village children gather around and sing, "God rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay," etc.
Jones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to the village for assistance. In the meantime several village children gather around and sing, "God rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay," etc.
The Great Motor Mystery.—At Lancaster two motorists were fined, according to theManchester Evening News, "for driving a motor-car over a trap near Carnforth, at twenty-nine and thirty-four miles per hour respectively." We are of the opinion that the action of the second gentleman in driving at so high a speed over the poor trap when it was already down was not quite in accordance with the best traditions of English sport.
Breaking it Gently.Breaking it Gently.—Passer-by."Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?"Farmer."Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there."Passer-by."Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by."
Breaking it Gently.—
Passer-by."Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?"
Farmer."Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there."
Passer-by."Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by."
Exclusive.Exclusive.—Fair Driver."Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good man?"The Good Man."Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill! 'Orse."
Exclusive.—
Fair Driver."Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good man?"
The Good Man."Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill! 'Orse."
The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views.
"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"
(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought itinfra dig., and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.")
"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."
"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"
"What is more, I have made up yours."
"To make up the mind of an English Duke,"he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."
(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane was a chronic sorrow.)
"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay."
"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock—a revelation. I have fallen! Not once—but many times."
"Wretched woman!—I beg pardon!—wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett to cover you!"
"I am madly in love with——"
"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear——"
"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky—that is Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."
The Duke groaned.
"Horrid, awful slips!"
With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.
"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."
A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs.
With womanly impulse—flinging caste to the winds—Jane caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I have—been—learning—to—bike! There! On the sly!"
The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.
"I am madly enamoured of—my machine."
The peer smoothed a ruffled top-knot with ineffable grace.
"Likewise am determinedyoushall take lessons. Now it is no use, duky. I mean to be tender but firm with you."
The Potentate gave a stertorous chortle, and, stretching out his arms, fell in a strawberry-leaf swoon on the parquet floor, his ducal head on the lap of his adored Jane.
The Freemasonry of the Wheel.The Freemasonry of the Wheel.—"Rippin' wevver fer hus ciciklin' chaps, ain't it?"
The Freemasonry of the Wheel.—"Rippin' wevver fer hus ciciklin' chaps, ain't it?"
BROTHERS IN ADVERSITYBROTHERS IN ADVERSITYFarmer."Pull up, you fool! The mare's bolting!"Motorist."So's the car!"
Farmer."Pull up, you fool! The mare's bolting!"
Motorist."So's the car!"
QUITE RESPECTFULQUITE RESPECTFULFair Cyclist."Is that the incumbent of this parish?"Parishioner."Well, 'e's theVicar. But, wotever some of us thinks, we never calls 'im ahencumbrance!"
Fair Cyclist."Is that the incumbent of this parish?"
Parishioner."Well, 'e's theVicar. But, wotever some of us thinks, we never calls 'im ahencumbrance!"
Gipsy Fortune-tellerGipsy Fortune-teller(seriously). "Let me warn you. Somebody's going to cross your path."Motorist."Don't you think you'd better warn the other chap?"
Gipsy Fortune-teller(seriously). "Let me warn you. Somebody's going to cross your path."
Motorist."Don't you think you'd better warn the other chap?"
(After William Watson)
(After William Watson)
I do not, in the crowded streetOf cab and "'bus" and mire,Nor in the country lane so sweet,Hope to escape thy tyre.One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore,With one petition kneel,At least abuse me not beforeThou break me on thy wheel.
I do not, in the crowded streetOf cab and "'bus" and mire,Nor in the country lane so sweet,Hope to escape thy tyre.
I do not, in the crowded street
Of cab and "'bus" and mire,
Nor in the country lane so sweet,
Hope to escape thy tyre.
One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore,With one petition kneel,At least abuse me not beforeThou break me on thy wheel.
One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore,
With one petition kneel,
At least abuse me not before
Thou break me on thy wheel.
A motorist wishes to point outA motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before things go too far.
A motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before things go too far.
A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date
A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date
As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace, 1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all itsfin-de-siècleinwardness; it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography.
But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and comforters.
Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby.
"Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely.
"Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot it really is."
"When are they—eh—going to—ahem—put the horses to?" murmured Mr. Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with great perplexity.
"'Osses?" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with sharp suspicion in his eye. "'Osses?d'ye say. Oh, who are you a-gettin' at?"
Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar.
The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master, whom he would never see snubbed ifheknew it.
"There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller, Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do you call that thing in frontof you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a top of a coach instead o' under it?"
"This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver.
"It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come tothis!!!"
The driver—if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate him—gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air; Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick took off his glasses and wiped them furtively.
"Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor, "Sam, this is dreadful! A—ahem!—vehicle with no visible means of propulsion pounding along like—eh—Saint Denis without his head, is more uncanny than Charon's boat."