As licensing day was approaching, I thought it my duty to visit the Empire Theatre of Varieties in Leicester Square, so that if needs be I could appear as a witness either for the prosecution or the defence. I am happy to say that my expedition has put me in a position to join the garrison. From first to last—from item No. 1 to item No. 10—the entertainments at the Empire are excellent. And in the general praise I am able to include "Living Pictures," which are all that even an archbishop could wish that they should be. But the chief attraction of the evening is a newballet divertissementin one tableau, calledOn Brighton Pier, which has evidently been put up to teach the members of the L. C. C. how much better things are done in the Sussex watering place than in the great metropolis. According to "the Argument," when the scene opens, people are promenading in the sun, and "some gentlemen bribe the bath chairmen to give up their places in the evening so that they may flirt with the girls accompanying the invalids." But possibly as an afterthought this was thought a little too strong for the Censor of Spring Gardens. I found the "gentlemen" (most of them in high white hats), and then I discovered the bath chairmen, but there was nothing to lead me to believe that the connecting links between the two were bribery and corruption. In addition to thisplat à la Don Giovannithere were anentréein the shape of a gathering of schoolboys and schoolgirls, asouffléin some military plus naval drill, and apièce de résistancein a change of scene from the deck of the Pier to the depths of the sea beneath it. And here let me say that I userésistancein a purely culinary sense, as nothing could have worked more smoothly than the transformation.
"I can conscientiously recommend it."
"I can conscientiously recommend it."
MadameKatti Lanner, by whom the ballet has been invented, is a past mistress in the art of concocting terpsichorean trifles, and never admits any difficulty in combining the poetry of fancy with the actuality of fact. In her latest production she finds that after a while a change of scene is necessary. The public, after admiring the refreshment stalls and the distant view of the Grand Hotel, want something more. Certainly, why not? The daughter of an American millionaire, who has met a rather effeminate gentleman for the first time, overcome by the heat, falls asleep. Then, to quote from "the Argument," in her dream she sees sirens and sea-nymphs, led by theQueen Coralie(SignorinaBice Porro), unsuccessfully attempt to lure away her lover, but—awaking from her sleep—the vision disappears, and she finds him at her feet. All this was very pretty, and the scruples of the L. C. C. were considered by the lack of success ofQueen Coralieto shake the swain's fidelity to his betrothed. Although evidently interested in the dances of the sirens and sea-nymphs—in spite of their treating him with little or no attention—he wasultradiscreet in making the acquaintance of her submarine majesty. When the Queen stood on one toe he merely accepted her invitation to hold her hand, and thus enable her to revolve on the tip of her right toe—but went no further. And really and truly, as a gentleman, it was impossible for him to do less. At any rate his conduct was so unexceptional inGrace Dollar'sdream, that hisfiancée, who, according to "the Argument," had had "a slight quarrel with him," immediately sought reconciliation. Besides the submarine interlude,On Brighton Pierhas a serious underplot.Senora Dolares(SignorinaCavallazzi), who has been searching all over the world for her daughter, who had been stolen from her ten years ago, is personally conducted to the pleasant promenade off the beach. Husband and wife seemingly spend the entire day on the Pier. They are here in the morning, in the sunshine, and here when the variegated lamps are lighted at night. The Senora is pleased at nothing. She regards the vagaries of a negro comedian with indifference, and does not even smile at the gambols of a clown dog. Suddenly a girl calledDoraappears. And now once more to quote the Argument. "Doraplays upon her mandoline some melody theSenora Dolaresrecognises. She quickly asks the girl where she first heard it; andDorasays that a lady used to sing it to her in her early days and that the same lady gave her a cross, which she produces. The Senora, by means of the cross, recognises inDoraher long-lost child. Amid great excitement she leads her tenderly away [in the direction of the Hotel Metropole], and, after some further dances, the curtain falls." Nothing can be prettier, and more truly moral, thanOn Brighton Pier. I can conscientiously recommend it to every member of the L. C. C.; some will smile at the eccentric dance ofMajor Spooner(Mr.Will Bishop); others will grin at the more boisterous humour ofChristopher Dollar(Mr.John Ridley); and all must weep at the depressed velvet coat ofDon Diego(Mr.George Ashton), the husband ofSenora Dolares, in search of a (comparatively) long-lost daughter. Judging from the reception the ballet received the other evening, I fancy thatOn Brighton Pierwill remain on London boards for any length of time.
["Autolycus," in thePall Mall Gazetteof October 11, inveighs against the necessity of conversation between friends:—"If I find a girl nice to look at, and she has taken great pains to make herself nice to look at, why cannot we pass the evening, I looking at her, and she being looked at? But no, we must talk."]
["Autolycus," in thePall Mall Gazetteof October 11, inveighs against the necessity of conversation between friends:—"If I find a girl nice to look at, and she has taken great pains to make herself nice to look at, why cannot we pass the evening, I looking at her, and she being looked at? But no, we must talk."]
Undoubtedly, if conversation were abolished, "short stories" in the future would be still further abbreviated. Here is a beautiful specimen of blank—or Anthony Hope-less—dialogue:—
THE NELLY NOVELETTES.
"!" exclaimed MissNelly Eaton, suddenly, with her quivering nostril.
"?" I asked with my right eyebrow, rousing myself from a fit of abstraction.
She pointed at a young man who had just strolled past our seats in the Row without noticing her. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and was accompanied by a lady in very smart attire.
"..." explainedNelly, with her mouth tightly shut.
"Taught him to smoke."
"Taught him to smoke."
I looked at her, and gathered by a swift process of intuition that she hadmadethat boy, and taught him to drink and smoke—of course, in moderation; had got his hair cut, and had rescued him from an adventuress. From her he had learnt not to go to Monday Pops, nor to carry things about in brown paper—in fact, he owed everything to her.... And now——!
"§" I visibly commented, not knowing for the moment how else to express myself. In fact I was getting just a trifle out of my depth. However, I gazed again at her.... Yes, she had deeply eloquent blue eyes, fringed with dark eyelashes, that voiced forth every emotion! Stay, I am afraid that in my admiration my speechless remarks had wandered from the topic of our mute discussion.
"†" interjected her pitying but impatient glance, telling me that my devotion was useless.
I looked very miserable. It is generally understood that I am the most miserable of men since MissEaton'sengagement to an American millionaire.
[Here I am sorry to say that our dialogue becomes somewhat elliptical, owing to the difficulty of finding enough unappropriated printers' symbols to represent our different shades of silence. However, with luck, I may be able to scrape together a few more, and come to some sort of conclusion.]
Let me see—where were we?... Oh, on the subject of the boy and his companion, who, it seems, were engaged.
"* * *" resumedNelly, in a look which spoke three volumes. I divined at once that she had thrown him over, that there had been an awful scene, and his mother had written a horrid letter, that he had come back and abjectly apologised, that he said she had destroyed his faith in women (the usual thing), that he went on sending letters for a whole year: in fact, that it made her quite uncomfortable.... Really,Nellycan give points toLord Burleigh'snod!
"?" inquired my right eye, meaning, had she not been in love with him a little bit?
MissNellyprodded the path with her parasol.
"¿" I asked again, referring to a different person, and, I am afraid, squinting.
MissNellylooked for the fraction of an instant in my direction.
"¿¿" I repeated.
MissNellylooked straight in front of her. There was herfiancé, the American millionaire!
"——! ——!" That is, I smilingly withdrew.
Satisfactory Reports as to the Ameer.—It was not an illness, it was "A mere indisposition."
PREHISTORIC PEEPS.The Annual Football Match between the Old Red Sandstone Rovers and the Pliocene Wanderers was immensely and deservedly Popular!!
The Annual Football Match between the Old Red Sandstone Rovers and the Pliocene Wanderers was immensely and deservedly Popular!!
"Hymen Hymenæe!" (À propos of a Public Favourite).—Mr. Punchwishes health and happiness to the bride of SirWilliam Gregory, known to us all, during a long and honourable theatrical career in the very first line of Dramatic Art, as Mrs.Stirlingthe incomparable, always of sterling worth in any piece wherein she took a part. She was always at her best. Latterly she has been chiefly associated with theNurseinRomeo and Juliet, and no better representative of the character could ever have been seen on any stage. Her recent marriage has in it somewhat of a Shaksperian association, for were not theNurseandGregoryboth together in the same establishment, yclept the noble House of Capulet? And what more natural that these two should come together, and "theNursetoJuliet" should become the "wife toGregory"?
"Stopping" the Way in the Colonies.—Where British Colonists are first in the field, be the field where it may, it is unwise to allow any non-Britishers to get as far as a semi-colony, but at once they should be made to come to a full-stop. As it is, Great Britain looks on in a state ofcom(m)a, only to wake up with a note of exclamation, but not of admiration, when it is too late to put a note of interrogation.
COMPREHENSIVE."What'sVolapuk, Doctor Schmitz?""It is ze Unifersal Langvage!""And who Speaks it?""Nopotty!"
"What'sVolapuk, Doctor Schmitz?"
"It is ze Unifersal Langvage!"
"And who Speaks it?"
"Nopotty!"
"City Improvements."—The City isn't likely to lose any chance of a dig at the L. C. C. Last week, at a meeting of City Commissioners of Sewers at Guildhall, AldermanGreen,—not so verdant by any means as the name would seem to imply,—protested against the great delay on the part of the L. C. C. in regard to the improvements in Upper Thames Street. So the London County Council is sitting considering "dum defluitANNUS"—representing the "amnis ævi"—and while Upper Thames Street is,pacethe ever Green Alderman, in a state of stagnation as far as "improvements" are concerned.
A Drouth-and-Mouth-Disease.—A curious disease, originating, it is said, in the East, has lately baffled medical men. It is called "beriberi." Introduce another "e" into the first and third syllable, and the name might serve for that thirsty kind of feverish state with which no Anti-closing-of-the-public-at-any-time-Society is able to cope.
"Prematuer?"—Per theLeadenhall Press, Mr.Tueris bringing out a real old Horn-book, that is, afacsimileof the ancient Horn-book. For years have we longed to see the genuine article. It will be in Hornamental cover, of course. "Succès au livre de la corne!"
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Born 1809. Died October 7, 1894.
"The Last Leaf!" Can it be true,We have turned it, and onyouFriend of all?That the years at last have power?That life's foliage and its flowerFade and fall?Was there one who ever tookFrom its shelf, by chance, a bookPenned by you,But was fast your friend, for life,Withonerefuge from its strifeSafe and true?Even gentleElia'sselfMight be proud to share that shelf,Leaf to leaf,With a soul of kindred sort,Who could bind strong sense and sportIn one sheaf.From that Boston breakfast tableWit and wisdom, fun and fable,RadiatedThrough all English-speaking places.When were Science and the GracesSo well mated?Of sweet singers the most sane,Of keen wits the most humane,Wide yet clear,Like the blue, above us bent;Giving sense and sentimentEach its sphere;With a manly breadth of soul,And a fancy quaint and droll;Ripe and mellow:With a virile power of "hit,"Finished scholar, poet, wit,Andgood fellow!Sturdy patriot, and yet;True world's citizen! RegretDims our eyesAs we turn each well-thumbed leaf;Yet a glory 'midst our griefWill arise.Years your spirit could not tame,And they will not dim your fame;England joysIn your songs all strength and ease,And the "dreams" you "wrote to pleaseGrey-haired boys."And of such were you not one?Age chilled not your fire or fun.Heart aliveMakes a boy of a grey bard,Though his years be—"by the card"—Eighty-five!
"The Last Leaf!" Can it be true,We have turned it, and onyouFriend of all?That the years at last have power?That life's foliage and its flowerFade and fall?
"The Last Leaf!" Can it be true,
We have turned it, and onyou
Friend of all?
That the years at last have power?
That life's foliage and its flower
Fade and fall?
Was there one who ever tookFrom its shelf, by chance, a bookPenned by you,But was fast your friend, for life,Withonerefuge from its strifeSafe and true?
Was there one who ever took
From its shelf, by chance, a book
Penned by you,
But was fast your friend, for life,
Withonerefuge from its strife
Safe and true?
Even gentleElia'sselfMight be proud to share that shelf,Leaf to leaf,With a soul of kindred sort,Who could bind strong sense and sportIn one sheaf.
Even gentleElia'sself
Might be proud to share that shelf,
Leaf to leaf,
With a soul of kindred sort,
Who could bind strong sense and sport
In one sheaf.
From that Boston breakfast tableWit and wisdom, fun and fable,RadiatedThrough all English-speaking places.When were Science and the GracesSo well mated?
From that Boston breakfast table
Wit and wisdom, fun and fable,
Radiated
Through all English-speaking places.
When were Science and the Graces
So well mated?
Of sweet singers the most sane,Of keen wits the most humane,Wide yet clear,Like the blue, above us bent;Giving sense and sentimentEach its sphere;
Of sweet singers the most sane,
Of keen wits the most humane,
Wide yet clear,
Like the blue, above us bent;
Giving sense and sentiment
Each its sphere;
With a manly breadth of soul,And a fancy quaint and droll;Ripe and mellow:With a virile power of "hit,"Finished scholar, poet, wit,Andgood fellow!
With a manly breadth of soul,
And a fancy quaint and droll;
Ripe and mellow:
With a virile power of "hit,"
Finished scholar, poet, wit,
Andgood fellow!
Sturdy patriot, and yet;True world's citizen! RegretDims our eyesAs we turn each well-thumbed leaf;Yet a glory 'midst our griefWill arise.
Sturdy patriot, and yet;
True world's citizen! Regret
Dims our eyes
As we turn each well-thumbed leaf;
Yet a glory 'midst our grief
Will arise.
Years your spirit could not tame,And they will not dim your fame;England joysIn your songs all strength and ease,And the "dreams" you "wrote to pleaseGrey-haired boys."
Years your spirit could not tame,
And they will not dim your fame;
England joys
In your songs all strength and ease,
And the "dreams" you "wrote to please
Grey-haired boys."
And of such were you not one?Age chilled not your fire or fun.Heart aliveMakes a boy of a grey bard,Though his years be—"by the card"—Eighty-five!
And of such were you not one?
Age chilled not your fire or fun.
Heart alive
Makes a boy of a grey bard,
Though his years be—"by the card"—
Eighty-five!
Young, dark-eyed beauties, graceful, gay,So I expected you to be,Adorning in a charming wayThis silent City of the Sea.But you are very far from that;You're forty—sometimes more—and fat.Oh, girls of Venice!Woods, R.A.,Has frequently depicted you,Idealising, I should say—A thing that painters often do;Still, though your charms have left me cold,At least you are not fat and old!Why should you, flower-sellers, then,Be so advanced in age and size?You cannot charm the foreign men,Who gaze at you in blank surprise.You hover round me—like a gnat,Each of you, but old and fat.Extremely troublesome you are,No gnats were ever half so bad,You dart upon me from afar,And do your best to drive me mad.Oh bother you, so overbold,Preposterously fat and old!You buttonhole me as I drinkMycaffe neroon the square,Stick flowers in my coat, and thinkI can't refuse them. I don't care.I'd buy them, just to have a chat,If you were not so old and fat.Oh go away! I hate the sightOf flowers since that afternoonWhen first we met. I think of flight,Or drowning in the still lagoon.I am, unlike your flowers, sold,You are so very fat and old.
Young, dark-eyed beauties, graceful, gay,So I expected you to be,Adorning in a charming wayThis silent City of the Sea.But you are very far from that;You're forty—sometimes more—and fat.
Young, dark-eyed beauties, graceful, gay,
So I expected you to be,
Adorning in a charming way
This silent City of the Sea.
But you are very far from that;
You're forty—sometimes more—and fat.
Oh, girls of Venice!Woods, R.A.,Has frequently depicted you,Idealising, I should say—A thing that painters often do;Still, though your charms have left me cold,At least you are not fat and old!
Oh, girls of Venice!Woods, R.A.,
Has frequently depicted you,
Idealising, I should say—
A thing that painters often do;
Still, though your charms have left me cold,
At least you are not fat and old!
Why should you, flower-sellers, then,Be so advanced in age and size?You cannot charm the foreign men,Who gaze at you in blank surprise.You hover round me—like a gnat,Each of you, but old and fat.
Why should you, flower-sellers, then,
Be so advanced in age and size?
You cannot charm the foreign men,
Who gaze at you in blank surprise.
You hover round me—like a gnat,
Each of you, but old and fat.
Extremely troublesome you are,No gnats were ever half so bad,You dart upon me from afar,And do your best to drive me mad.Oh bother you, so overbold,Preposterously fat and old!
Extremely troublesome you are,
No gnats were ever half so bad,
You dart upon me from afar,
And do your best to drive me mad.
Oh bother you, so overbold,
Preposterously fat and old!
You buttonhole me as I drinkMycaffe neroon the square,Stick flowers in my coat, and thinkI can't refuse them. I don't care.I'd buy them, just to have a chat,If you were not so old and fat.
You buttonhole me as I drink
Mycaffe neroon the square,
Stick flowers in my coat, and think
I can't refuse them. I don't care.
I'd buy them, just to have a chat,
If you were not so old and fat.
Oh go away! I hate the sightOf flowers since that afternoonWhen first we met. I think of flight,Or drowning in the still lagoon.I am, unlike your flowers, sold,You are so very fat and old.
Oh go away! I hate the sight
Of flowers since that afternoon
When first we met. I think of flight,
Or drowning in the still lagoon.
I am, unlike your flowers, sold,
You are so very fat and old.
SUGGESTED MOTTO FOR THE AËRATED BREAD COMPANY..... "His sleepWas aëry light, from pure digestion bred."Paradise Lost, B. V., line 4.
SUGGESTED MOTTO FOR THE AËRATED BREAD COMPANY.
.... "His sleepWas aëry light, from pure digestion bred."
.... "His sleepWas aëry light, from pure digestion bred."
.... "His sleep
Was aëry light, from pure digestion bred."
Paradise Lost, B. V., line 4.
There is no doubt that one's first impressions are always the brightest and the best; therefore I resolve to record the first impressions of a first visit to the Italian lakes.
British Bellagio.—"Hôtel Victoria, Prince de Galles et des Iles Britanniques," or some such name, is usually, asBaedekersays, "frequented by the English." They are here certainly, and one hears one's native language everywhere. There are the honeymoon couples, silent and reserved, who glare fiercely at anyone who might be supposed to imagine for a moment that they are newly married; there are people who converse in low monotonous voices about the weather, which changes every hour; there is an old lady, who gives one startling information, telling one, for instance, thatPaul Veronesewas born at Verona; and there are two or three British menservants, gazing with superb disdain at the poor foreigners. The hotel is very quiet. The evening of a week-day is like Sunday evening, and Sunday evening is——!!! If only the weather were not also English, or even worse. On the last day of September the only warm place is by the fire in thefumoir. So let us hurry off from this wintry climate to somewhere, to anywhere. By the first boat we go.
Still English everywhere. At Bellagio a great crowd, and heaps of luggage. At Cadenabbia a greater crowd, and more heaps of luggage. Here they come, struggling along the gangway in the wind. There is a sad-faced Englishman, his hands full of packages, his pockets stuffed with others, carrying under his arm a little old picture wrapped loosely in pink tissue paper, which the wind blows here and there. He is a forgetful man, for he wanders to and fro collecting his possessions. With him is another forgetful Englishman in very shabby clothes, who also carries packages in paper, and who drags after him an immensely fat bull-dog at the end of a cord five yards long, which winds round posts and human legs and other obstacles. At last they are all on board—the forgetful Englishmen have darted back for the last time to fetch in an ice-axe and an old umbrella—and on we go over the grey water, past the grey hills, under the grey sky, towards Como. At Cernobbio the shabby Englishman lands, dragging his bull-dog at the end of the cord, and carrying in his arms two rolls of rugs, a bag, and other trifles. His sad-faced companion, still holding his tiny Old Master in the ever-diminishing pink paper, wanders in and out seeking forgotten treasures, an ice-axe, a bag, another paper parcel. Finally all are landed; the gangway is withdrawn, the steamer begins to move. Suddenly there is a shout. The shabby Englishman has forgotten something. The sympathetic passengers look round. There is a solitary umbrella on a seat. No doubt that is his. A friendly stranger cries, "Is this yours?" and tosses it to him on the quay. Then there is another shout. "Ach Himmel, dat is mine!" The frantic German waves his arms, the umbrella is tossed back, he catches it and is happy. But meanwhile another English man, the most egregious ass that ever lived, has discovered yet another solitary umbrella, which he casts wildly into space. For one moment the captain, the passengers, the people on the quay, gaze breathless as it whirls through the air. It falls just short of the landing-stage, and sinks into the grey waters of that chilly lake, never more to be recovered, in any sense of the word. In those immeasurable depths its neat silk covering will decay, its slender frame will fall to pieces. It has gone for ever. Beneath this grey Italian sky some Italian gamp must keep off these Italian showers. Then the captain, the passengers, and the people smile and laugh. I, who write this, am the only one on whose face there is not a grin, for that umbrella was mine.
A First Impressionist.
(By a Constant Admirer.)
Your pretty face I saw two years ago,You looked divine—if I'm not wrong, in lace.I noticed you, and thus I got to knowYour pretty face.To-day I travelled to a distant place.We stopped at Bath. I read myPunch, when lo!You came into my carriage and Your GraceRode with me for a dozen miles or so.Tell me, should we in this Fate's finger trace?I care not since you had the heart to showYour pretty face.
Your pretty face I saw two years ago,You looked divine—if I'm not wrong, in lace.I noticed you, and thus I got to knowYour pretty face.
Your pretty face I saw two years ago,
You looked divine—if I'm not wrong, in lace.
I noticed you, and thus I got to know
Your pretty face.
To-day I travelled to a distant place.We stopped at Bath. I read myPunch, when lo!You came into my carriage and Your GraceRode with me for a dozen miles or so.Tell me, should we in this Fate's finger trace?I care not since you had the heart to showYour pretty face.
To-day I travelled to a distant place.
We stopped at Bath. I read myPunch, when lo!
You came into my carriage and Your Grace
Rode with me for a dozen miles or so.
Tell me, should we in this Fate's finger trace?
I care not since you had the heart to show
Your pretty face.
'Tis November makes the (Lord) Mayor to go. As the ninth approaches, the year's tenant of the Mansion House packs up and says farewell to all his greatness. On the principle that attributes happiness to a country that has no annals, the outgoingLord Mayoris to be congratulated on his year of office. It is probable that out of aldermanic circles not one man of a hundred in the street could straight off say what is his Lordship's name.Mr. Punch, who knows most things, only ventures to believe that the good alderman is known in the family circle as SirEdward Tyler. And a very good name, too. In the occult ceremonies pertaining to freemasonry it is understood there is an official known as the Tiler, whose duty is to guard the door, strictly excluding all but those whose right of entrance is peremptory. Our SirEdwardhas indeed been the Tiler of the traditionally hospitable Mansion House.
It is curious to observe the attitude of Western Powers towards the life-and-death struggle going on in the far East. We of course regret the loss of life, but are mainly interested in observing the effect in actual work of ships and guns identical with our own. It is a sort of gigantic test got up for our benefit at somebody else's expense. That an ancient empire seems tottering to a fall moves no emotion. "Yes," said the Member forSark, to whom these recondite remarks were addressed; "Popewasn't far out of it when he very nearly said 'Europe is mistress of herself though China fall.'"
(By a prejudiced but puzzled Victim of Teacaddies and Ginger-jars.)
Isupposethere's a war in the East,(I am deluged with pictures about it,)But I can'trealiseit—no, not in the least,And, in spite of the papers, I doubt it.A Chinaman seems such a nebulous chap,And I can't fancy shedding the gore of a Jap.Those parchmenty fellows have fleets?Big Iron-clads, each worth a million?I cannot conceive it, my reason it beats.The lord of the pencil vermilionFits in with a teacaddy,nota torpedo.Just picture a Ram in that queer bay of Yedo!It seems the right place for a junk,(With a fine flight of storks in the offing),But think of a battle-ship there being sunkBy a Krupp! 'Tis suggestive of scoffing.I try to believe, but 'tis merely bravado.It all seems as funny asGilbert'sMikado.And then those preposterous names,Like a lot of cracked bells all a-tinkling!I try to imagine their militant games,But at present I can't get an inklingOf what itcanmean when a fellow namedHongAnd oneTing(Lord High Admiral!) go it ding-dong!ANelsonwhosenomenisWhangTo me, I admit's, inconceivable.And war betweenWo-HungandChing-a-Ring Chang,Sounds funny, but quite unbelievable.And can you conceive Maxim bullets a-singRound a saffron-hued hero calledPong, orPing-Wing?A ship calledKow-Shing, I am sure,Can be only a warshippour rire.And CountYamagata—hemustbe a cure!No, no, friends, I very much fearThat in spite of the pictures, and portraits, and maps,Ican'tmake live heroes of Johnnies and Japs!
Isupposethere's a war in the East,(I am deluged with pictures about it,)But I can'trealiseit—no, not in the least,And, in spite of the papers, I doubt it.A Chinaman seems such a nebulous chap,And I can't fancy shedding the gore of a Jap.
Isupposethere's a war in the East,
(I am deluged with pictures about it,)
But I can'trealiseit—no, not in the least,
And, in spite of the papers, I doubt it.
A Chinaman seems such a nebulous chap,
And I can't fancy shedding the gore of a Jap.
Those parchmenty fellows have fleets?Big Iron-clads, each worth a million?I cannot conceive it, my reason it beats.The lord of the pencil vermilionFits in with a teacaddy,nota torpedo.Just picture a Ram in that queer bay of Yedo!
Those parchmenty fellows have fleets?
Big Iron-clads, each worth a million?
I cannot conceive it, my reason it beats.
The lord of the pencil vermilion
Fits in with a teacaddy,nota torpedo.
Just picture a Ram in that queer bay of Yedo!
It seems the right place for a junk,(With a fine flight of storks in the offing),But think of a battle-ship there being sunkBy a Krupp! 'Tis suggestive of scoffing.I try to believe, but 'tis merely bravado.It all seems as funny asGilbert'sMikado.
It seems the right place for a junk,
(With a fine flight of storks in the offing),
But think of a battle-ship there being sunk
By a Krupp! 'Tis suggestive of scoffing.
I try to believe, but 'tis merely bravado.
It all seems as funny asGilbert'sMikado.
And then those preposterous names,Like a lot of cracked bells all a-tinkling!I try to imagine their militant games,But at present I can't get an inklingOf what itcanmean when a fellow namedHongAnd oneTing(Lord High Admiral!) go it ding-dong!
And then those preposterous names,
Like a lot of cracked bells all a-tinkling!
I try to imagine their militant games,
But at present I can't get an inkling
Of what itcanmean when a fellow namedHong
And oneTing(Lord High Admiral!) go it ding-dong!
ANelsonwhosenomenisWhangTo me, I admit's, inconceivable.And war betweenWo-HungandChing-a-Ring Chang,Sounds funny, but quite unbelievable.And can you conceive Maxim bullets a-singRound a saffron-hued hero calledPong, orPing-Wing?
ANelsonwhosenomenisWhang
To me, I admit's, inconceivable.
And war betweenWo-HungandChing-a-Ring Chang,
Sounds funny, but quite unbelievable.
And can you conceive Maxim bullets a-sing
Round a saffron-hued hero calledPong, orPing-Wing?
A ship calledKow-Shing, I am sure,Can be only a warshippour rire.And CountYamagata—hemustbe a cure!No, no, friends, I very much fearThat in spite of the pictures, and portraits, and maps,Ican'tmake live heroes of Johnnies and Japs!
A ship calledKow-Shing, I am sure,
Can be only a warshippour rire.
And CountYamagata—hemustbe a cure!
No, no, friends, I very much fear
That in spite of the pictures, and portraits, and maps,
Ican'tmake live heroes of Johnnies and Japs!
Transcriber's Note:Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.On page 181, a period was added after "thou dost bless".On page 182, "he meet" was replaced with "he meets".On page 185, a period was added after "At Homes".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.
On page 181, a period was added after "thou dost bless".
On page 182, "he meet" was replaced with "he meets".
On page 185, a period was added after "At Homes".