DEFINITIONS.

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Mater.—One who findsmatesfor her daughters.

Check Mate.—A husband with money.

Mrs. R.says:—"My nephew, who has just returned from a long voyage, tells me that in the Red Sea it is so hot that the gentlemen sleep on deck in their bananas."

ONE TOO MANY FOR HIM.ONE TOO MANY FOR HIM.Signor W. H. Smithini(sotto voce). "WISH I COULD HAVE KEPT 'EM ALL THREE ABREAST, JUST FOR THE LOOK OF THE THING!"

Signor W. H. Smithini(sotto voce). "WISH I COULD HAVE KEPT 'EM ALL THREE ABREAST, JUST FOR THE LOOK OF THE THING!"

HINTS FOR THE PARK.HINTS FOR THE PARK.Don't try to turn your Tandem at the Trot, particularly if your Leader is of a somewhat wilful disposition.

Don't try to turn your Tandem at the Trot, particularly if your Leader is of a somewhat wilful disposition.

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Outand alas! The "May" is o'er;The polish of the ball-room floorIs streaked and marred by heedless feet,The pretty convoys in the streetStir no more envy, nor make proudThe escort of the dainty crowd.No more the archway dark and grim,No more the tortuous staircase dimWake to a glow of living light,WhenJones'ssisters, like a flightOf tuneful birds in plumage gayCome into College, in the May.The little girl in grey is gone,Who like a silvery marsh-flower shoneWhat time the long and strenuous trainOf eights round Grassy pulled amain.Gone is the musical low voiceThat made the general heart rejoice,Mazing prim scholars with her wit,Or chattering simply, not a bitAbove the sporting schoolboy's range.At that grave dinner, for a change,With just as flattering a charm,She took the formal Tutor's arm,With sparkling eyes, that scattered lightOn the dark Don's self-centred night.Bare are the windows, flowering then,The cynosure of lingering men,Whence over the darkling court would floatThe chorus of the College boat;Not shouted with the tuneless zealWhich tells how Undergraduates feel;But by such sweet girl-voices givenAs might the strictest "gates" have riven,Drawn iron tears down Tutors' cheek,And made Deans grant what loafers seek.And listening oarsmen softly sworeTo pull as men ne'er pulled before,And, let the next boat do its worst,To make to-morrow's bump, or burst.Out, and alas! May follows May,And other little girls in grey,With hair as bright and eyes as blue,Will hold the torch, pass'd on by you,And none the bygone years recall;For even this May's College prideWill be as dead as flowers that diedAt some forgotten festival.

Outand alas! The "May" is o'er;

The polish of the ball-room floor

Is streaked and marred by heedless feet,

The pretty convoys in the street

Stir no more envy, nor make proud

The escort of the dainty crowd.

No more the archway dark and grim,

No more the tortuous staircase dim

Wake to a glow of living light,

WhenJones'ssisters, like a flight

Of tuneful birds in plumage gay

Come into College, in the May.

The little girl in grey is gone,Who like a silvery marsh-flower shoneWhat time the long and strenuous trainOf eights round Grassy pulled amain.Gone is the musical low voiceThat made the general heart rejoice,Mazing prim scholars with her wit,Or chattering simply, not a bitAbove the sporting schoolboy's range.At that grave dinner, for a change,With just as flattering a charm,She took the formal Tutor's arm,With sparkling eyes, that scattered lightOn the dark Don's self-centred night.

The little girl in grey is gone,

Who like a silvery marsh-flower shone

What time the long and strenuous train

Of eights round Grassy pulled amain.

Gone is the musical low voice

That made the general heart rejoice,

Mazing prim scholars with her wit,

Or chattering simply, not a bit

Above the sporting schoolboy's range.

At that grave dinner, for a change,

With just as flattering a charm,

She took the formal Tutor's arm,

With sparkling eyes, that scattered light

On the dark Don's self-centred night.

Bare are the windows, flowering then,The cynosure of lingering men,Whence over the darkling court would floatThe chorus of the College boat;Not shouted with the tuneless zealWhich tells how Undergraduates feel;But by such sweet girl-voices givenAs might the strictest "gates" have riven,Drawn iron tears down Tutors' cheek,And made Deans grant what loafers seek.

Bare are the windows, flowering then,

The cynosure of lingering men,

Whence over the darkling court would float

The chorus of the College boat;

Not shouted with the tuneless zeal

Which tells how Undergraduates feel;

But by such sweet girl-voices given

As might the strictest "gates" have riven,

Drawn iron tears down Tutors' cheek,

And made Deans grant what loafers seek.

And listening oarsmen softly sworeTo pull as men ne'er pulled before,And, let the next boat do its worst,To make to-morrow's bump, or burst.

And listening oarsmen softly swore

To pull as men ne'er pulled before,

And, let the next boat do its worst,

To make to-morrow's bump, or burst.

Out, and alas! May follows May,And other little girls in grey,With hair as bright and eyes as blue,Will hold the torch, pass'd on by you,And none the bygone years recall;For even this May's College prideWill be as dead as flowers that diedAt some forgotten festival.

Out, and alas! May follows May,

And other little girls in grey,

With hair as bright and eyes as blue,

Will hold the torch, pass'd on by you,

And none the bygone years recall;

For even this May's College pride

Will be as dead as flowers that died

At some forgotten festival.

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Rather Shifty.—"The Members of the Metropolitan Police Force," the Memorial stated, as quoted in theTimesof June 13, urged the Government to concede, among other demands, this, which sounds peculiar:—

"Duty to consist of eight hours (in one shift) out ofeverytwenty-four."

The words in brackets are a puzzle. Is "shift" a misprint for "shirt"? Is a Policeman now compelled to wear more than one of these in every twenty-four hours? Is it flannel or linen? We confess that we do not understand this, which we may fairly designate as "The Washerwoman's Clause."

Peregrinus Jocosuswrites thus:—"Sir,—I was visiting Tintern Abbey. Admission is by a gateway, close to which is an instruction to ring the bell. How much simpler and pleasanter if the proprietor had written up, 'Tinternabbeylate!'—Yours, much pleased, P. J."

On Army Exams.—As long as Examinations are what they are, cramming is a necessity. Therefore,Mr. Punchhas only one retort to present objections to cramming, and that is—"Stuff!"

"His paramount aim was to make the world better by the humanising influences of literature."—Professor Jebb on Erasmus.

FriendofColetand ofMore,Genial wit and learned scholar,Never pedant, prig, or bore.Dulness and the Mighty DollarRule too much our world of books;Slang, sensation, crass stupidity;Talk of "oof" and prate of "spooks,"Sciolism, sheer aridity;Smartness, which is folly deckedIn true humour's cast-off raiment,Clap-trap which has never reckedAught save chance of praise and payment;These our literature infest,NoErasmusnow arising,Style to purge and taste to testIn the way of "humanising."Could you but come back to us,How you'd flay sensation-mongers,Gird at gush, and flout at fuss,Chasten morbid thirsts and hungers:Puncture philosophic sham,"Blugginess," the coarse erotic;Show up callow Cockney "cram,"Logic shallow, thought chaotic;Lash our later Euphuism,And the pseudo-Ciceronian;Rottenness of "Realism,"Battening in its bogs Serbonian.Thanks, O philosophicJebb!In this age of advertising,Literature, at a low ebb,Needs a little "humanising."

FriendofColetand ofMore,

Genial wit and learned scholar,

Never pedant, prig, or bore.

Dulness and the Mighty Dollar

Rule too much our world of books;

Slang, sensation, crass stupidity;

Talk of "oof" and prate of "spooks,"

Sciolism, sheer aridity;

Smartness, which is folly decked

In true humour's cast-off raiment,

Clap-trap which has never recked

Aught save chance of praise and payment;

These our literature infest,

NoErasmusnow arising,

Style to purge and taste to test

In the way of "humanising."

Could you but come back to us,

How you'd flay sensation-mongers,

Gird at gush, and flout at fuss,

Chasten morbid thirsts and hungers:

Puncture philosophic sham,

"Blugginess," the coarse erotic;

Show up callow Cockney "cram,"

Logic shallow, thought chaotic;

Lash our later Euphuism,

And the pseudo-Ciceronian;

Rottenness of "Realism,"

Battening in its bogs Serbonian.

Thanks, O philosophicJebb!

In this age of advertising,

Literature, at a low ebb,

Needs a little "humanising."

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"On, Stanley!"—The officer whom the explorer did not take with him was his leftTennant.

'SHADOWING' MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT."'SHADOWING' MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT."

[Cornelia, daughter ofScipio Africanus, and wife ofSempronius Gracchus, when a lady displayed her jewels to her, pointed to her two sons, exclaiming, "These aremyjewels!"]

THE MODERN CORNELIA.

Timour-Mammon'striumph's fullIn this grace-abandoned creature.Look at her! A tawdry trull,Blear of eye and blurred of featureFrom the cult of her god—Drink!Herod'scruel self might shrinkFrom a—Mother, calculatingOn her children's loss, awaitingWith impatience their last breath,And the devilish gains of Death.Such as she, her cronies cry,Are "In luck when children die!"Luck! The luck of willing loss.Children dead bring in the dross.LittleSarah'spale and sickly;Death is near, but comes not quickly,Art may hasten his slow tread.Blows, exposure, hunger, pain,Are auxiliaries of gain,Gain that comes "whenSarah's dead,"When to death her "friends" have done her."We have got four pounds upon her,"Babbles littleSarah'sbrother,Echoing the modern Mother.Wemyssthe wise advises "thrift,"As the only thing to liftLabour from the Sweater's slough.Laws, he swears, are wholly vain;Thought may scheme, and Love may strainFruitlessly to raise the browOf the poor above the slimeOf starvation, suffering, crime.Thrift's the thing! Well, here is thrift!Children,—they are fortune's gift.Motherhood to rear them strives?Not so; itinsures their lives!Burial Insurance comesAs a boon unto the slums.The insurance love may fixAt five pounds, or even six;A child's funeral costs a pound,And the balance means—drinks round!Here's the luck of loss, a luckCare may hasten. Blows are struck,Raiment stinted, food denied,Hunger and exposure tried;Infants overlain—by chance!Is it not a Moloch dance?Modern Motherhood, plus Drink,Beats oldMoab, will not shrinkFrom child-sacrifice to win,Not a false god's smile, but Gin!Children are possessions, truly,To be sold, and paid for, duly,Pledged like other property,Bringing interest—when they die.ModernCornelia! That is she,With a semi-drunken gleeAping, all unconsciously,The proud Roman mother's vaunt."Seemyjewels! What I want—Dress, and drink, and selfish ease,I can win at will—through these."What was it littleBobbysaid?"We'll get four pounds whenSarah's dead!"Golden-tonguedPeterborough, flayThe harpies with your burning breath;And you, braveWaugh, assist to stayThis plague of fiends who thrive on death.Cut short the course of callous crimeOf thisCorneliaof our time!

Timour-Mammon'striumph's full

In this grace-abandoned creature.

Look at her! A tawdry trull,

Blear of eye and blurred of feature

From the cult of her god—Drink!

Herod'scruel self might shrink

From a—Mother, calculating

On her children's loss, awaiting

With impatience their last breath,

And the devilish gains of Death.

Such as she, her cronies cry,Are "In luck when children die!"Luck! The luck of willing loss.Children dead bring in the dross.LittleSarah'spale and sickly;Death is near, but comes not quickly,Art may hasten his slow tread.Blows, exposure, hunger, pain,Are auxiliaries of gain,Gain that comes "whenSarah's dead,"When to death her "friends" have done her."We have got four pounds upon her,"Babbles littleSarah'sbrother,Echoing the modern Mother.Wemyssthe wise advises "thrift,"As the only thing to liftLabour from the Sweater's slough.Laws, he swears, are wholly vain;Thought may scheme, and Love may strainFruitlessly to raise the browOf the poor above the slimeOf starvation, suffering, crime.Thrift's the thing! Well, here is thrift!Children,—they are fortune's gift.Motherhood to rear them strives?Not so; itinsures their lives!Burial Insurance comesAs a boon unto the slums.The insurance love may fixAt five pounds, or even six;A child's funeral costs a pound,And the balance means—drinks round!

Such as she, her cronies cry,

Are "In luck when children die!"

Luck! The luck of willing loss.

Children dead bring in the dross.

LittleSarah'spale and sickly;

Death is near, but comes not quickly,

Art may hasten his slow tread.

Blows, exposure, hunger, pain,

Are auxiliaries of gain,

Gain that comes "whenSarah's dead,"

When to death her "friends" have done her.

"We have got four pounds upon her,"

Babbles littleSarah'sbrother,

Echoing the modern Mother.

Wemyssthe wise advises "thrift,"

As the only thing to lift

Labour from the Sweater's slough.

Laws, he swears, are wholly vain;

Thought may scheme, and Love may strain

Fruitlessly to raise the brow

Of the poor above the slime

Of starvation, suffering, crime.

Thrift's the thing! Well, here is thrift!

Children,—they are fortune's gift.

Motherhood to rear them strives?

Not so; itinsures their lives!

Burial Insurance comes

As a boon unto the slums.

The insurance love may fix

At five pounds, or even six;

A child's funeral costs a pound,

And the balance means—drinks round!

Here's the luck of loss, a luckCare may hasten. Blows are struck,Raiment stinted, food denied,Hunger and exposure tried;Infants overlain—by chance!Is it not a Moloch dance?Modern Motherhood, plus Drink,Beats oldMoab, will not shrinkFrom child-sacrifice to win,Not a false god's smile, but Gin!Children are possessions, truly,To be sold, and paid for, duly,Pledged like other property,Bringing interest—when they die.

Here's the luck of loss, a luck

Care may hasten. Blows are struck,

Raiment stinted, food denied,

Hunger and exposure tried;

Infants overlain—by chance!

Is it not a Moloch dance?

Modern Motherhood, plus Drink,

Beats oldMoab, will not shrink

From child-sacrifice to win,

Not a false god's smile, but Gin!

Children are possessions, truly,

To be sold, and paid for, duly,

Pledged like other property,

Bringing interest—when they die.

ModernCornelia! That is she,With a semi-drunken gleeAping, all unconsciously,The proud Roman mother's vaunt."Seemyjewels! What I want—Dress, and drink, and selfish ease,I can win at will—through these."What was it littleBobbysaid?"We'll get four pounds whenSarah's dead!"

ModernCornelia! That is she,

With a semi-drunken glee

Aping, all unconsciously,

The proud Roman mother's vaunt.

"Seemyjewels! What I want—

Dress, and drink, and selfish ease,

I can win at will—through these."

What was it littleBobbysaid?

"We'll get four pounds whenSarah's dead!"

Golden-tonguedPeterborough, flayThe harpies with your burning breath;And you, braveWaugh, assist to stayThis plague of fiends who thrive on death.Cut short the course of callous crimeOf thisCorneliaof our time!

Golden-tonguedPeterborough, flay

The harpies with your burning breath;

And you, braveWaugh, assist to stay

This plague of fiends who thrive on death.

Cut short the course of callous crime

Of thisCorneliaof our time!

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Time—About 3·30. Leaping Competition about to begin. TheCompetitors are ranged in a line at the upper end of the Hall, while the attendants place the hedges in position. Amongst the Spectators in the Area are—a Saturnine Stableman from the country; a Cockney Groom; a Morbid Man; a Man who is apparently under the impression that he is the only person gifted with sight; a Critic who is extremely severe upon other people's seats; a Judge of Horseflesh; and Two Women who can't see as well as they could wish.

'I should try some other sport if I were you'.

The Descriptive Man. They've got both the fences up now, d'ye see? There's the judges going to start the jumping; each rider's got a ticket with his number on his back. See? The first man's horse don't seem to care about jumping this afternoon—see how he's dancing about. Now he's going at it—there, he's cleared it! Now he'll have to jump the next one!

[Keeps up a running fire of these instructive and valuable observations throughout the proceedings.

The Judge of Horseflesh.Rare good shoulders that one has.

The Severe Critic (taking the remark to apply to the horse's rider).H'm, yes—rather—pity he sticks his elbows out quite so much, though.

[His Friend regards him in silent astonishment.

Another Competitor clears a fence, but exhibits a considerable amount of daylight.

The Saturnine Stableman (encouragingly).You'll 'ev to set back a bit next journey, Guv'nor!

The Cockney Groom.'Orses 'ud jump better if the fences was a bit 'igher.

The S. S.They'll be plenty 'oigh enough fur some on 'em.

The Severe Critic.Ugly seat that fellow has—all anyhow when the horse jumps.

Judge of Horseflesh.Has he? I didn't notice—I was looking at the horse.

[Severe Critic feels snubbed.

The S. S. (soothingly, as the Competitor with the loose seat comes round again).That's not good, Guv'nor!

The Cockney Groom.'Ere's a little bit o' fashion coming down next—why, there's quite a boy on his back.

The S. S.'E won't be on 'im long if he don't look out. Cup an' ballIcall it!

The Morbid Man.I suppose there's always a accident o' some sort before they've finished.

First Woman.Oh, don't, for goodness sake, talk like that—I'm sureIdon't want to see nothing 'appen.

Second Woman.Well, you may make your mind easy—for you won't see nothing here; youwouldhave it this was the best place to come to!

First Woman.I only said there was no sense in paying extra for the balcony, when you can go in the area for nothing.

Second Woman (snorting).Area, indeed! It might be a good deal airier than what it is, I'm sure—I shall melt if I stay here much longer.

The Morbid Man.There's one thing about being so close to the jump as this—if the 'orse jumps sideways—as 'osses will do every now and then—he'll be right in among us before we know where we are, and then there'll be a pretty how-de-do!

Second Woman (to her Friend).Oh, come away, do—it's bad enough to see nothing, let alone having a great 'orse coming down atop of us, and me coming out in my best bonnet, too—come away!

[They leave.

The Descriptive Man.Now they're going to make 'em do some in-and-out jumping, see? they're putting the fences close together—that'll puzzle some of them—ah, he's over both of 'em; very clean that one jumps! Over again! He's got to do it all twice, you see.

The Judge of Horseflesh.Temperate horse, that chestnut.

The Severe Critic.Is he, though?—but I suppose theyhaveto be here, eh? Not allowed champagne or whiskey or anything before they go in—like they are on a racecourse?

The J. of H.No, they insist on every horse taking the pledge before they'll enter him.

The Descriptive Man.Each of 'em's had a turn at the in-and-out jump now. What's coming next? Oh, the five-barred gate—they're going over that now, and the stone wall—see them putting the bricks on top? That's toraiseit.

The Morbid Man.None of 'em been off yet; but (hopefully) there'll be a nasty fall or two over this business—there's been many a neck broke over a lower gate than that.

A Competitor clears the gate easily, holding the reins casually in his right hand.

The J. of H.That man can ride.

The Severe Critic.Pretty well—not what I callbusiness, though—going over a gate with one hand, like that.

The J. of H.Didn't know you were such an authority.

The S. C. (modestly).Oh, I can tell when a fellow has a good seat. I used to ride a good deal at one time. Don't get the chance much now—worse luck!

The J. of H.Well, I can give you a chance, as it happens. (Severe Criticaccepts with enthusiasm, and the inward reflection that the chance is much less likely to come off than he is himself.) You wait till the show is over, and they let the horses in for exercise. I know a man who's got a cob here—regular little devil to go—bucks a bit at times—but you won't mind that. I'll take you round to the stall, and get my friend to let you try him on the tan. How will that do you, eh?

The Severe Critic (almost speechless with gratitude).Oh—er—it would do me right enough—capital! That is—it would, if I hadn't an appointment, and had my riding things on, and wasn't feeling rather out of sorts, and hadn't promised to go home and take my wife in the Park, and it's her birthday, too, and, then, I've long made it a rule never to mount a strange horse, and—er—so you understand how it is, don't you?

The J. of H.Quite, my dear fellow. (As, for that matter, he has done from the first.)

The Cockney Groom (alluding to a man who is riding at the gate).'Ere's a rough 'un this bloke's on! (Horse rises at gate; his rider shouts, "Hoo, over!" and the gate falls amidst general derision.) Over? Ah, I should just think it was over!

The Saturnine Stableman (as horseman passes).Yer needn't ha' "Hoo"'d for that much!

[The Small Boy, precariously perched on an immense animal, follows; his horse, becoming unmanageable, declines the gate, and leaps the hurdle at the side.

The S. S.Ah, you're aartfullad, you are—thought you'd take it where it was easiest, eh?—you'll 'ev to goo back and try agen, you will.

Chorus of Sympathetic Bystanders.Take him at it again, boy; you're all right!... Hold him in tighter, my lad.... Let out your reins a bit! Lor, they didn't ought to let a boy like that ride.... He ain't no more 'old on that big 'orse than if he was a fly on him!... Keep his 'ed straighter next time.... Enough to try a boy's nerve! &c., &c.

[The Boy takes the horse back, and eventually clears the gate amidst immense and well-deserved applause.

The Morbid Man (disappointed).Well, I fully expected to see 'im took off on a shutter.

The Descriptive Man.It's the water-jump next—see; that's it in the middle; there's the water, underneath the hedge; they'll have to clear the 'ole of that—or else fall in and get a wetting. They've taken all the horses round to the other entrance—they'll come in from that side directly.

[One of the Judges holds up his stick as a signal; wild shouts of "Hoy-hoy! Whorr-oosh!" from within, as a Competitor dashes out and clears hedge and ditch by a foot or two. Deafening applause. A second horseman rides at it, and lands—if the word is allowable—neatly in the water. Roars of laughter as he scrambles out.

The Morbid Man.Call that a brook! It ain't a couple of inches deep—it's more mud than water! No fear (he means, "no hope") of any on 'em getting a ducking over that!

[And so it turns out; the horses take the jump with more or less success, but without a single saddle being vacated. The Judges award a red and blue rosette to the riders of the best and second horses respectively, and the proceedings terminate for the afternoon amidst demonstrations of hearty satisfaction from all butThe Morbid Man,who had expected there would have been "more to see."

finger pointing

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

Sundry missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired.

Page 291: 'Matineé' corrected to 'Matinée': "Miss Blank will make her first appearance in Juliet at a Matinée".

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