The Skeleton of a Regiment.The Skeleton of a Regiment.
The Skeleton of a Regiment.
I wish I could deny the reports that have found their way into the papers that the I. O. C. R. V. C. is less prosperous than it was of yore. Personally, I have it on my conscience that I have not for many years appeared on parade. To the best of my belief I have only once joined the ranks. The occasion was a prize distribution in Lincoln's Inn Hall. As an honorary member I was posted in the front rank of "A" Company. Then came the perplexing command, "Fours right," which, so far as I was concerned, ended in disaster. A little later I retired from all active military service, and have remained in retreat ever since. Still, at the sound of the bugle my pulse quickens, and I feel that had I chosen the Tented Field instead of the Forum for the exercise of my professional duties my career would not have suffered in prosperity from the alteration. In fact, I believe that with the conditions changed I should have had just as good a chance of becoming Commander-in-Chief as Lord Chancellor. But these are regrets that are out of place in the columns of a periodical that guards the interests of the universe in general, while fostering the loftiest aspirations of the legal profession in particular. So I cast them aside as unworthy the attention of a counsel, a soldier, and a gentleman.
Let me return to the I. O. C. R. V. C. at Bisley. I found "those of the faithful who have been true to their trust" defending themselves—there was no trace of defiance in the action—from the fierce fire of the noonday sun by wearing straw hats and sporting flannels. It was a pretty picture, that made by the martial lawyers at their mid-day parade. The tents, the tubs, the kitchen utensils, and last, but not least, the mess-house, with its dining saloon and ante-room. Alas, that the stability of the latter should be inappropriate! Alas, that the corps, once the pride of the Volunteer Service, should be reduced to four companies, and (so I believe) have lost its adjutant! Ichabod! How the mighty have fallen!
As I watched the sad and yet impressive tableau old memories flocked upon me. Where was the private who caricatured his Colonel, and showed how a shako could be combined with a horse-hair wig, and yet look military and forensic? Where was the lance corporal who invariably confirmed his captain's commands with an "as your Lordship pleases?" Where was the rear-rank wag who, on being told to charge, said he "must leave that sort of thing to his clerk, who kept his fee-book?" Where was the vocalist who would sing the songs ofJ. L. Molloy, Barrister-at-Law, and knew the ins and outs of "The Maske of Flowers?" All of them gone, and their places scarcely filled by new comers! And, as I gazed upon an energetic private of the I. O. C. R. V. C., apparently preparing to meet the demands of an expected detachment of hungry lunchers, I wondered whether anything could be done to revive the fortunes of the Grand Old Battalion. Could the hours of leisure of the warriors be occupied by regimental trips down the river, regimental drags to the races, regimental dinners to one another, regimental visits to the play, regimental strolls in the Row, regimental bicycles in Battersea Park? I fancy something of this kind has already been suggested. Then, if Barristers do not flock in sufficient numbers to the banners of the Lamb, the Horse, and the Griffin, why not throw open the ranks to wealthy persons—so to speak—fond of the leaders of litigation? Again I imagine some such plan has already been under consideration.
And, as I thought the matter over, I became gloomier and gloomier. So sad was I that I had to visit the adjacent cemetery, to revive, under the modified merriment of the place, into comparative cheerfulness. The mere recollection of the I. O. C. R. V. C. unmans me. It is better that I should pause, for I can write no more.
Pump Handle Court, July 12, 1895.
A. Briefless, Jun.
THE CRY OF THE COUNTER.
(By a Shopkeeper who had hoped better things of the Season.)
Great Scott! Sold again! It's all up with the Season,Though SummerisSummer, and Goodwood's not gone!We Shopkeepers hoped for good luck, and with reason,For things did look bright. But once more we are done;Done, clean as a whistle! A General Election!Sprung on us, throughBrodrick, and cordite, and stuff!A plague on both parties, a curse on each section!Your M.P.'s a mooncalf, a muddler, a muff!The weather was stunning; Death had not been busyWith Royalties—bless 'em!—and London was full;And though of courseRoseberyis not aDizzy,Hedidwin the Derby, which gave him some pull.The Parties kept wrangling,—but nobody bothered;They didn't make progress,—but none of us cared;ThoughLabbyplayed tricks, orSilomo pothered,We stuck to our counters, unshocked and unscared.And now, betwixt grass-time and harvest, the duffersFight over sheer fudge and kick over the show.And so once again the poor Shopkeeper suffers.A murrain onHarcourt, a plague uponJoe!For policyBalfoursets forth "Dissolution,"And thinks he has scored. Had I temper, and breath,Andhis ear, I could smash up his smart elocution,Hisgame's Dissolution,—to us it means death.The fat's in the fire, and the spark's in the powder,We're in for a long spell of wigs on the green.Our clients will scatter, and louder and louderWill swell the fool-chorus of partisan spleen.SirBottleby Snipemust be off beyond Humber,And sweet LadySpendwellgoes Primrosing, south,And I, poor shopkeeper, may just as well slumber,With rage in my heart and my thumb in my mouth.Oh, slaves of the shop, from Pall Mall to far Peckham,Say, is it not time thatyourose and rebelled?The parties just play with us. Can we not check 'em?By Jove, if one chorus of shopdom but swelled,Like the working man's howl, on those Westminster wobblers,The sweet little game they all play it might stop.For Socialist dockers and Radical cobblersThey've ears; but they're deaf to the Cry of the Shop.The rents, rates and taxes pile higher and higher,The Stores undersell us—and cop ready cash!The Hebrew monopolist, fiercer and slyerThan tiger-cat, schemeth to send us to smash.The landlord rack-rents us, and then pops the profitHe draws out of us into syndicate Stores!I tell you the shopkeeper's life is a Tophet,M.P.'s play at "Progress," andwepay all scores.And then they ask me for my vote!!! Why, what guerdonHave I for my votings these twenty years past?Continual addition to back-breaking burden!I say the last straw has been laid on, at last;At least upon this individual camel.To forward true Progress I don't think I'm loth,But sick of prolonged Party trick, trap, and trammel,If I had my wish, I would—vote against both!
The Modern Ixion.—This mythological character finds his present representative in a shareholder Bound to the Great Wheel at Earl's Court. However, Ixion and his wheel went on for ever! In which case Modern Ixion ought to be an exceptionally lucky person.
I say, Old Man,"I say, Old Man, what's that awful Row going on Next Door?""Oh, that's the Omphale Club. The Ladies are having their first Whist Party of the Season!"
"I say, Old Man, what's that awful Row going on Next Door?"
"Oh, that's the Omphale Club. The Ladies are having their first Whist Party of the Season!"
THE NEW NORRIBLE TALE.
(From a Philistinish Point of View.)
Air—"The Norrible Tale."
'Tis a norrible tale I'm going to tellOf the frightful fortunes which befelA family who late residedIn the same suburban street that I did.O it is a norrible tale!'Twould make a Maëterlinck turn pale,With its frightful blend of the grim and glum,Of fiddle-de-dee, and fi-fo-fum!O they were a decent Philistine lotTill they caught the contagion of "Tommy-Rot,"That kind of mental, malarial fever,Which floors the foolish and foils the clever.O it is a norrible tale, &c.This Influenza of the SoulHaunted their house like some gruesome "troll."(The family—which their name wasGibson—Knew all about such from the works ofIbsen.)The father first felt the spell unholy,And the man's demeanour grew truly "trolly."He was—in Peckham—a Master Builder,And he "carried on" with a drudge named'Tilder.The slavey said it was truly thrilling,But struck for another—weekly—shilling."She was ready to thrill till all was blue,But itmustbe reckenised in her 'screw!'"His wife declared he was most inhuman,And, for her part, she should turn New Woman!So she grew—to him—an emotional icicle,And mounted knickers, and rode a bicycle.The eldest son, an athletic young fellow,Who had gained his "Blue," took at once to Yellow."Muscle," he said, in a tone despotic,"Is beastly vulgaw; good form's Neurotic!"The youngest daughter, a blue-eyed fairy—(Her pies were prime, and her name wasMary—)Now took to cricket, and cigarette-smoking,And manly manners in togs—and joking.The eldest one, of a statelier carriage,Conceived quaint notions about "Group-marriage:""Since man's a satyr, and brings satiety,The only virtue is—invariety!"Another girl took to writing novelsOn dirt in "dosses," and vice in hovels;Varying the same with Kiplingy verses,With ingenious rhymes to street-slang and curses.The youngest boy, who was "only a nipper,"Contributed "Art" to the "Sixpenny Snipper,"Which his sisters said was "supremely delicious,As a blend of the infantile and vicious."
The father died of his drudge and drink,The wife broke her back at a skating rink;And as to the slavey, whose name was'TILDER,She "thrilled"—on street-preaching and rum—till they killed her.The eldest son readNordauandLombroso,Till his brain went shaky—'twas always so-so—He imagines himself a pot of mustard,Of which egomaniacs are making a custard.The youngest daughter's an "Amazon Queen"At the East-end Halls, and she's loud and lean;The eldest—whose freedom all bonds would sully—Is tied to—and thrashed by—a pugilist bully.The writer of sensuous snippety novels,In Grub Street gutters forlornly grovels;The "Boy Genius of Gehenna," of the babbling boasters,Turns a very poor penny by Stygian Posters!O itisa norrible tale!And what do New Women and New Art avail?Egomania-Tommyrotica is all a hum,Half fiddle-de-dee, and half fi-fo-fum!
Bands and Bombs.—How many Hungarian Bands are there about? There's a "Real Blue Hungarian" (does this mean a "True Blue," good old Tory, Band?)—there's an "Anglo-Hungarian," and a "White Hungarian." In fact, Hungarian Band "with variations." The Real Hung'ry-an'-Thirsty Bands are to be seen every night in the Feeding Places of the Indian Exhibition, Earl's Court, where, specially within the bowers of the al fresco Welcome Club,canbe served a very good dinner whichmaybe bettered; and, if you are a Lucullus, youcomme gourmetwill have to Look-ullus-where for it. [N.B.—To get this jest well received give the dinner yourself, and towards the middle of the feast try the jape. They'll all laughen—mais après?]
"AYE! BUT HOW?""AYE! BUT HOW?"Squire(in dog-cart). "Here! you Fool! Hold his Head!!"
"AYE! BUT HOW?"
Squire(in dog-cart). "Here! you Fool! Hold his Head!!"
MISONEOGYNY.
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Dear Mr. Punch,—New Woman dead? Not a bit of it. Don't believe she ever existed. Never met her anywhere myself, and never met anybody who has. It's my belief there "ain't no sich person." Merely an idea or an influence, don't you know; and you can't shake hands, go into dinner, dance, or flirt with a poisonous influence, any more than you can with a bad smell. Whatever she is, though, afraid she's driven me into evil courses—rhymes. Here they are:—
Oh, where is that horrible modern monstrosity,Where is the woman whom people call "New,"Who thinks, speaks, and acts with such utter atrocity,Tell me, oh where are the "women who do"?Half angry, half sad (upon grounds sentimental) manBegs the New Woman to stoutly proclaim—"No longer a lady, and not yet a gentleman"—Where are the creatures who own to the name?This monster has, surely, no lasting vitality,Only existing in fancy and print;It is just an unlovely abstract personality,Coin from the end-of-the-century mint.And, therefore, in physical prowess and mental, manOwns her supremacy, calm and serene,Because the New Woman is like the "Old Gentleman,"Heard of more often—thank heaven—than seen.
Shouldn't worry if I were "Misoneogynist." New woman fad nearly played out, only a black cloud floating across the blue sky of common sense. Nice idea, isn't it? Till cloud rolls by shall remain,
Yours cheerily,A. Bachelor.
The "Bogey-land of Science."—From theGlasgow Herald:—
"The fourth meeting of the eleventh session of the Andersonian Naturalists Society was held at 204, George Street, ProfessorG. Bell Todd, M.B., C.M., President, in the chair. After the minutes of last meeting had been read, Mr.Archibald Shanksexhibited an Ichthyodorulite of Gyracanthus."
"The fourth meeting of the eleventh session of the Andersonian Naturalists Society was held at 204, George Street, ProfessorG. Bell Todd, M.B., C.M., President, in the chair. After the minutes of last meeting had been read, Mr.Archibald Shanksexhibited an Ichthyodorulite of Gyracanthus."
Plucky of Mr.Shanks, that! As the Gyracanthus is an animal with both a fin and a spine, and it was captured in Ayr, it must be a sort of flying shark. How on earth did Mr.Shanksget it to George Street? It ought to be called "By George Street!" in future.
"The Colonel's" Paradoxical Purpose.—To convert West Leeds into "NorthLeads."
A TRUE SPORTSMAN'S TIP.
At anti-gambling "spoil-sports," loudlyThe "sportsmen" they would spoil are fretting.Good friends, though you protest so proudly,Thetruespoil-sport is—Betting!Although it suit the baser sort,What's sport to them is death to Sport!
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"Piccadilly Sports" is a headline conjuring up pleasant visions of races, and other jinks unconducive to the peace and comfort of law-abiding citizens—only authorised race in Piccadilly, the "purblind race of miserable men." Yet let no irate old gentleman storm the columns of theTimeswith a tirade against the police and County Council on this account. Because there happens to be another Piccadilly up north.Hinc (Piccad) illi ludi.We shall expect to be reading shortly of "Holborn miners out on strike," "Heroic rescue by the Pall Mall lifeboat," or "A serious affray with poachers at Paddington."
ELECTION INTELLIGENCE.
TOBY ONCE MORE M.P.
On Monday the Electors of Barkshire assembled in the great hall of their county town to elect a Member to serve in the Fourteenth Parliament of QueenVictoria. The High Sheriff presided. Owing to the constitutional rule which forbids Peers to take part in Parliamentary electoral proceedings, the Lord Lieutenant of the county was precluded from showing himself on the platform. It was said that, indisposed to be entirely out of so interesting and popular an event, his lordship was present disguised as a tide-waiter. Our representative, however, did not observe in the throng any person in nautical dress.
"Carried unanimously.""Carried unanimously."
"Carried unanimously."
The hall, which was crowded to its utmost capacity, was gaily decorated with flags. Across the full length of the hall was suspended a banner bearing the proud device "Barks's is willin'."
Our esteemed ex-Member was accompanied on the platform by the principal county gentry of all shades of political opinion. On taking his seat in the front row of chairs, he was received with rounds of Kentish fire, made in Barkshire. Having been proposed and seconded in eulogistic terms, report of which he has expressed a desire we should suppress, the High Sheriff inquired if any elector desired to propose another candidate?
"I should think not," said a burly Barkshire farmer, ominously grasping a stout blackthorn.
After this no one seemed disposed to move, and the High Sheriff declaredToby, M.P., duly elected. There were loud cries for the Member, who, overcoming natural and usually insuperable diffidence, got on his hind legs.
"Brother electors," he said, "it is an old saying, 'What Barkshire thinks to-day, England will do to-morrow.' Obviously some inaccuracy underlies the aphorism, since whilst you have to-day thought me worthy of being elected your Member, it's no use England coming round to-morrow and asking me to represent it in the Commons House of Parliament. This is the fourth time Barkshire has done me this honour; and base indeed is the man—(A Voice, 'Who pays')—who could be insensible to such testimony of confidence and esteem. Brother electors—(A Voice, 'Who stole the Emperor William's uniform?' Disturbance at the end of the hall. Another Voice, 'Chuck him out.') No, electors of Barkshire, let him stay. If he is put outside, he loses the opportunity of observing your behaviour, and learning how gentlemen comport themselves when publicly assembled in discharge of a solemn duty. (Loud cheers. A Voice, 'That fetches 'em!') I was about to observe, when our friend's feelings temporarily overcame him, that since I entered the room I have had a number of questions handed up to me. They are a little late, since I am no longer a candidate but am duly elected. That, however unusual the case may be, makes no difference. The first question is: 'Will you, if elected, see that every man in Barkshire over fifty years of age has three acres of the best land in the parish, with a cow for every adult child and a calf a-piece for each infant in arms?' Certainly; I hope I may live to see established those desirable conditions as between man and man. (Cheers.) Another esteemed friend asks: 'Do you understand Local Veto to mean that a man may go into the public-house, take his noggin or what not, and when asked to pay may refuse?' I could not if I tried put my views on the situation more clearly. The Veto, as you all know, is a Latin word meaning tovete, or, as we say in English, to refuse to stump up. A public-house is, according to 19 Vict. c. 190, a locality. Local Veto is, therefore, the inalienable right of the English citizen as defined by my friend. (Loud cheers.) 'Are you in favour of Equalisation of the Rates?' To be frank with you, my idea of rates is that they should be equalised to the extent that makes them absolutely impalpable. ('No, no.' 'Yes, yes.' Uproar under the gallery. Cries of'Judas!'A free fight, during which a man was ejected, omitting to take his coat with him.) Don't put him out; don't put anyone out. If there's a renewal of the interruption, form a ring round the man; then we will see where we are. Here's another question: 'Do you approve of Ice Creams made in foreign prisons smuggled over here in barrel-organs and ground out in our streets, ruining the digestion of our working men?' That is a question which hardly seems to need reply from a patriotic Englishman. But I will say—and you observe I say it emphatically—No. (Loud cheering.) 'Are you in favour of a Second Chamber, or do you go the length of Tenification?' That is a very nice question. It shows how deeply and intelligently the men of Barkshire study the questions of the day. It is not a matter on which I, for one, care to dogmatize; I will therefore content myself with saying, that between two and ten we might find the happy medium. (More cheering, the audience rising to their feet, waving hats and handkerchiefs.) Now, gentlemen, that's all the questions I have, and I hope you'll agree that I have answered them frankly. Ah! here's another one coming up. (A dirty piece of paper is passed from hand to hand till it reached the hon. Member.) 'Could you lend me five bob till Saturday night?' (Laughter, in which the hon. Member heartily joined.) I think, gentlemen, it is time we now proposed a vote of thanks to the High Sheriff." (This was carried unanimously, and the meeting broke up. A torch-light procession conducted the popular member to his family seat, The Kennel, Barks.)
A LITERARY TURN.
There was a case in the Edinburgh Court of Session the other day, which shows what is thought of authors north of the Tweed—and not by publishers, either. A witness remarked of a "defender" that "he was of a literary turn of mind, and he thought that spoiled him." Many persons have had similar thoughts, but they have generally refrained from uttering them quite so bluntly.
MistressHathawayrejoiced in a daughter christenedAnne,Whose proceedings she regarded with concern;Quoth she—"ThatWillum Shakspeareas a son-in-law I ban.Why? Because he has a literary turn."Growled SirW-ll-m, on perusal of a certainLife of Pitt—"Well, we all unquestionably live and learn;But, in spite ofDizzy'sprecedent, I don't believe one bitIn a Premier with a literary turn."SaidW-ls-l-y, when a recent work he blankly had surveyed—"To answer this biography I yearn.What an admirable soldierH-ml-ymight, perhaps, have made,If he had not had a literary turn!"
"Just on the Cards."—HerrIff'sorchestra. In how uncertain a state of mind would a telegram from HerrIffleave the giver of the entertainment who, having requested wire informing him whether HerrIffand his band could come, should receive this reply: "If can come will be there at hour stated." This supposes that some well-informed, grammatical, telegraphic young lady-clerk has corrected the spelling of "Iff."À proposofIff, a complete entertainment would be a recital by the VeteranHoweofWatts'poems, accompanied byIff'sband; and a reading fromLe Château d'If.
Intelligible, but not Clear.—"I think," said Mrs. R.'s married niece, "that good singing is quite wasted on an ordinary evening party. Now I remember an evening whenSantleysang in a crowded drawing-room at our house, anda pin might have dropped!"
A Decision. The Dr. G. Testimonial.—TheD. T.is a good judge of popular sentiment, and, attired as a Judge, isD. T. erminedthat '95 shall be remembered as "theYear ofGrace."