BAYARD AND BOBBY.

STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.The Chick-a-leary Cochin.

STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.

The Chick-a-leary Cochin.

Oh,Robert, in our hours of easeButt of those outworn pleasantries,Not less with pride thy praise we hearHymned in another hemisphere,WhenBayard, chivalrously graphic,Tells how you regulate the traffic.Firm as a statue on its plinth'Midst the vertiginous labyrinthOf circus, street and bridge you stand,And rule the storm with calm, unarmèd hand.Rarely our soldiers of the lawDo Themis' awful truncheon draw,Their Orphic whistle sùbdue canAll save the crew ofHooligan.Though westernJonathanpreferA force not vainlyclaviger,YetBayard, taught in English ways,That suaver regiment must praiseThat trusts to moral weight and nerveAnd keeps the bludgeon in reserve.Stalwart and patient 'midst the strifeOf all our seething city life,When pageants twice or thrice a yearThrow the whole Empire out of gear,Then, stolid symbol of good sense,A wonder-worker,sanspretence,Fulfill'st authority's decrees,With thy familiar "Stand back, please!"And rather by that sober charmThan by the might of brawny arm,The many-headed own thy sway;They laugh, they jostle, and obey.Worthy thy deeds of loftier rhyme,Than topic-song or pantomime.Not quite sublime, but on the border,Type of our British law and order,Thy figure shall be graved uponThe frieze of some new Parthenon,Wherein by glyphic art portray'dReigns the ideal parlour-maid,Thy dauntless soul's domestic lureTrim, natty, roguish, and demure,Waiting the age's unbornLayardTo illustrate the praise ofBayard.

Query in the Country.—New agricultural version of an ancient cockney slang phrase—"Has your farmer sold his mangel?"

Advice to any Dramatic Author who has written a Lengthy Piece.—"Cut, and run."

Bedad, 'twas meself was as plaised as could beWhen they tould me the vote had bin given to me."St. Pathrick," ses Oi, "Oi'm a gintleman too,An' Oi'll doine ivry day off a grand Oirish stew."The words was scarce seen slippin' off of me tongueWhen who but the Colonel comes walkin' along!"Begorrah, 'tis callin' he's afther, the bhoy,Oi'm a gintleman now wid a vingeance," ses Oi.The Colonel come in wid an affable air,An' he sat down quite natteral-loike in a chair."So,Rory," ses he, "'tis a vote ye've got now?""That's thrue though ye ses it," ses Oi, wid a bow."Deloighted!" ses he, "'tis meself that is g'ad,For shure ye're disarvin' it,Roryme lad.An' how are ye goin' to use it?" ses he,"Ye could scarcely do betther than give it to me."Oi stared at the Colonel, amazed wid surprise."What! Give it away, Sorr?—Me vote, Sorr?" Oi cries."D'ye think that Oi've waited ontil Oi am gray,An' now Oi'm jist goin' to give it away?"The Colonel he chuckled, an "Rory," ses he.But "No, Sorr," Oi answers, "ye don't diddle me."Thin he hum'd an' he haw'd, an' he started agin,But he'd met wid his equal inRory O'Flynn.Thin the smoile died away, an' a frown come instead,But for all that he tould me, Oi jist shook me head,An' he gnawed his moustache, an' he cursed an' he swore,But the more that he argued, Oi shook it the more.Thin he called me a dolt an' an ignorant fool,An' he said that Oi ought to go back to the school,An' he flew in a rage an' wint black in the face,An' he flung in a hullaballoo from the place.Bedad, Oi was startled. Him beggin' me vote,An' he'd three of his own too!—The gradiness o't!Ye could scarcely belave it onless it was thrue,An' him sittin' oop for a gintleman too!Was it betther he thought he could use it than Oi?Begorrah, Oi'll show he's mistaken, me bhoy.Oi'll hang it oop over me mantlepace shelf,For now that Oi've got it, Oi'll kape it meself.

Bedad, 'twas meself was as plaised as could beWhen they tould me the vote had bin given to me."St. Pathrick," ses Oi, "Oi'm a gintleman too,An' Oi'll doine ivry day off a grand Oirish stew."

The words was scarce seen slippin' off of me tongueWhen who but the Colonel comes walkin' along!"Begorrah, 'tis callin' he's afther, the bhoy,Oi'm a gintleman now wid a vingeance," ses Oi.

The Colonel come in wid an affable air,An' he sat down quite natteral-loike in a chair."So,Rory," ses he, "'tis a vote ye've got now?""That's thrue though ye ses it," ses Oi, wid a bow.

"Deloighted!" ses he, "'tis meself that is g'ad,For shure ye're disarvin' it,Roryme lad.An' how are ye goin' to use it?" ses he,"Ye could scarcely do betther than give it to me."

Oi stared at the Colonel, amazed wid surprise."What! Give it away, Sorr?—Me vote, Sorr?" Oi cries."D'ye think that Oi've waited ontil Oi am gray,An' now Oi'm jist goin' to give it away?"

The Colonel he chuckled, an "Rory," ses he.But "No, Sorr," Oi answers, "ye don't diddle me."Thin he hum'd an' he haw'd, an' he started agin,But he'd met wid his equal inRory O'Flynn.

Thin the smoile died away, an' a frown come instead,But for all that he tould me, Oi jist shook me head,An' he gnawed his moustache, an' he cursed an' he swore,But the more that he argued, Oi shook it the more.

Thin he called me a dolt an' an ignorant fool,An' he said that Oi ought to go back to the school,An' he flew in a rage an' wint black in the face,An' he flung in a hullaballoo from the place.

Bedad, Oi was startled. Him beggin' me vote,An' he'd three of his own too!—The gradiness o't!Ye could scarcely belave it onless it was thrue,An' him sittin' oop for a gintleman too!

Was it betther he thought he could use it than Oi?Begorrah, Oi'll show he's mistaken, me bhoy.Oi'll hang it oop over me mantlepace shelf,For now that Oi've got it, Oi'll kape it meself.

The Zuyder Zee.—"Wha' be the Zider Zee?" repeated a Devonian farmer. "Why, I always thought as the Zee of Exeter were the Zider Zee. Ain't it pratty well in the middle o' Zider Country?"

IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. I.—PROPOSED HAIR-DRESSING ROOM."A series of alterations has, during the recess, been in active progress within the Houses of Parliament," &c.... "Space will be set apart to provide dressing-room accommodation and a hair-dressing saloon."—Times,Wednesday, October 17.

IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. I.—PROPOSED HAIR-DRESSING ROOM.

"A series of alterations has, during the recess, been in active progress within the Houses of Parliament," &c.... "Space will be set apart to provide dressing-room accommodation and a hair-dressing saloon."—Times,Wednesday, October 17.

(Vide last Number of "Punch.")

DearPunch, your praiseOf MayonnaiseIs certainly most telling:But don't it seemThat such a themeDeserves the proper spelling?I sometimes lookAt a cookery bookByA. Dumas, the younger;And find he saysThat Mayennaise(A certain cure for hunger)Should be spelt so;Not with ano,But like Mayenne, that city,Whose siege's fameSupplied the nameMis-spelt now; more's the pityMaybe D's right,Although it mightBe just a yarn he's telling.So hope your bardWon't be too hardAnd simply "D" my spelling.

DearPunch, your praiseOf MayonnaiseIs certainly most telling:But don't it seemThat such a themeDeserves the proper spelling?

I sometimes lookAt a cookery bookByA. Dumas, the younger;And find he saysThat Mayennaise(A certain cure for hunger)

Should be spelt so;Not with ano,But like Mayenne, that city,Whose siege's fameSupplied the nameMis-spelt now; more's the pity

Maybe D's right,Although it mightBe just a yarn he's telling.So hope your bardWon't be too hardAnd simply "D" my spelling.

'Tother Way About.—Mr.Le Galliennesays, epigrammatically, that "Beauty is the smile on the face of Power." Humph! GallantMr. Punchprefers to put it the other way, and say "Power is the smile on the face of Beauty!" Surely that is equally true. But it's a poor rule (or paradox) that won't work both ways.

Motto most Practical for all who are compelled to Travel constantly in our Metropolitan Public Conveyances.—"In Omnibus Caritas."

OUR DECADENTS.Algy."What's the matter, Archie? You're not looking well!"Archie."Youwouldn't look well, if you'd been suffering from Insomnia every Afternoon for a Week!"

OUR DECADENTS.

Algy."What's the matter, Archie? You're not looking well!"

Archie."Youwouldn't look well, if you'd been suffering from Insomnia every Afternoon for a Week!"

[Of a recently protracted discussion in theTimeson "Anglican Orders," set to the air of what was once upon a time a popular song, entitledBilly Barlow.]

Ofmyre-appearance,My friends, don't complain,I've turned up before,I shall turn up again!We are where we wereWhen we started, and soFor awhile bid good-byeTo yourWilliam Barlow.O dear! Lackaday oh!What a puzzling old party wasBishopBarlow!

The one, SirBob Reid, Q.C., M.P., "to be Attorney-General"; the other,Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., "to be Solicitor-General."Reidand Right. Commercial value, one "Bob" and a "Frank,"i.e.One-and-tenpence the pair.

Future Fame.—Mr.T. E. Ellis, M.P., "speaking at Colwyn Bay" (unkind of him, this, for what has Colwyn Bay done to him? Why not address Colwyn Bay personally instead of "speakingat" C. B.), spoke at the same time "at" the House of Lords. "Were the wishes of the people to be continually thwarted by an hereditary and irresponsible Chamber?" That's the style! Twopence coloured. Henceforth Mr.T. E. Ellis, from being Nobody in particular, will now be known as "SomebodyEllis."

"He saw the greatest quail before him."

"Nowthat," quoth the Baron emphatically, as he deposedMy Lady Rothain favour of the next novelty, what ever it might be, "thatis a romance after my own heart. Mr.Stanley Weyman, author ofA Gentleman of FranceandUnder the Red Robe, has not as yet, excellent as were both those works, written anything so powerful, so artistic, so exciting, and so all-engrossing (no further participles or adjectives wanted at present) asMy Lady Rotha." This romancer has the rare talent of interesting his reader as much in the action of his crowds as he does in the fortunes of his individuals. He is the SirJohn Gilbertof the pen; and the Baron cautiously expresses his opinion thatMy Lady Rothais not so very far offIvanhoe. To compare with the works of other modern romancers, it may be safely said that, from Chapter XXVI. to Chapter XXIX. inclusive, the situations are as exciting as any ever invented byRider Haggard,Louis B. Stephenson, orJules Verne; "which" the Baron freely admits, "is saying a good deal,—Treasure Islandalways excepted."

The Baron anticipates "Next please," with pleasure, but at the same time he would draw the attention of the prolific author to the ancient proverb "festina lente," which is not at variance with his exclaiming "On!Stanley (Weyman)on!" and these are "the last words" (for the present onthissubject) of the

Baron de Book-Worms.

[On hearing that an Archdeacon had withdrawn from the School-Board Controversy because he found himself opposed to his Bishop.]

The Archdeacon is "sorry he spoke." Not that he has changed his opinion—oh dear no! far from that. But the Bishop thinks otherwise, so the Archdeacon retires as gracefully as may be from the controversy. He is, he explains, as it were, the Bishop's "oculus"—the man to whom the Bishop can proudly point, and say "All my eye!" This theory of subordination of thought to one's superior is highly suggestive. For instance, who will be surprised to read the following highly authentic document, now made public for the first time.

To the Editor of the Once a-Month Review.

Dear Sir,—With reference to my article "Is Horse-racing Justifiable?" I desire to make known that while I still strongly adhere to my views therein expressed as to the wickedness of the turf, I shall, for the reason I am about to mention, take no further active part in the controversy. I find that thePrime Ministeris the owner of some racehorses (a fact previously unknown to me), and as I am his "dextera," if it is not presumptive to say so, it would clearly be unbecoming on my part to take up any antagonistic position. However much I may regret having to take this course, I am sure you will agree with me that it is the only one which is open to me.

Yours faithfully,W-ll-am V-rn-n H-rc-urt.

Dear Mr. Punch,—Last Sunday evening I fully intended going to church. I put on my most attractive bonnet, and an absolutely bewitching jacket, when I discovered thatJim(he's my husband, you know) did not intend to go out. As I had read a little while before the new archidiaconal theory of obedience, that of course prevented my going out. Clearly as I amJim's"better-half" I couldn't go anywhere thathedidn't go. Please,Mr. Punch, was I right? Or can it be that the archdeacon was wrong?

Yours very perplexed,Ethel Dinmere.

(A Brown Study in a Yellow Book.)

By Mortarthurio Whiskersley.

Nay, but it is useless to protest. Much bosh and bauble-tit and pop-limbo has been talked aboutGeorge THE Phorth.Thackeraydenunciated him in his charming style (we never findThackeraysearching for themot justeas for a wisp of hay in a packet of needles), but inverideed he was not sufficiently merciful to the last gentleman in Europe. We must not judge a prince too harshly. How many temptations he had with all the wits and flutterpates and malaperts gyring and gimbling round him!Georgewas a sportsman. He would spend the morning with his valet (who was a hero to him), assuming gorgeous apparel, and tricking himself, with brush and pigment, into more charm. He was implected with a passion for the pleasures of the wardrobe, and had a Royal memory for old coats. Then he would saunter intoWhite'sfor ale and tittle-tattle, and drive a friend into the country, stopping on the way forcursoryvisits at the taverns; I mean, swearing if the ale was not good. He had his troubles. QueenCarolinewas a mimsy, out-moded woman, a sly serio, who gadded hither and thither shrieking for the unbecoming. Mrs.PhoxensorcelledGeorgewith her beautiful, silly phace, shadowed with vermeil tinct and trimly pencilled. There was no secernment between her soul and surface; she was mere,insouciant, with a rare dulcedo.

Georgecollected locks of hair and what not, and whatnot. He gave in his bright flamboyance a passing renascence to Society. But the Victorian era came soon, and angels rushed in where fools had not feared to tread, and hung the land with reps, and drove Artifice phorth, and setMartin Tupperon a throne of mahogany to rule over them.

In the tangled accrescency ofGeorge'sdegringolade—in fact when he was dyeing—he thought he had led the charge of Waterloo! Tristfully he would describe the scene, referring to the Duke ofWellingtonfor corroboration. An unfortunate slip, for it is well known the old soldier was never there himself.

It is brillig, and from my window at the Métropole, Brighton, I see the trite lawns and cheeky minarets of the Pavilion. I can see the rooms crusted with ormolu, the fauns foisted on the ceiling, the ripping rident goddesses on the walls. Once I phancied I saw a swaying phigure, and a wine-red phace....

P.S.—I like to phancy the watchful evil phaces of my Criticks as they read this article. Phair men, but infelix, they will lavish their anger in epigramme. Not that I care a little tittle about adverse remarks kicked from a gutter into a garret! But! But let them not outgribe too soon, but rather dance and be glad, and trip the cockawhoop. For! For, slithy toves as they are, they will read it with tears and desiderium, unless I do as didArtemusof shameful memory, and in jolliness and glad indulgence whisper to them—

This is a Goak!

've a natural eye for evil,And folly I love to shoot,And to prod for a latent weevilIn the wholesomest-looking root.Myipse dixitmust always fix it—The song, the dance, the cup;And my back gets stiffer the more you differFrom the standard that I set up.I went to the "halls" crusading,And I found what I meant to find.I had said they were all degrading,And I never alter my mind.In virtue strong I gazed at the throngOf smoking chatters and grinners;With a righteous frown my soul looked downOn the publicans and the sinners.Loftily, proudly, lonelyI bore what I had to bear,For I knew that I was the onlyRespectable Person there!That the others were not respectableWas easy and plain to see,For they frankly found delectableWhat didn't appeal to me.Yet none of the revellers stonily,Or scornfully seem'd to stare,They took no note of the onlyRespectable Person there.My vigilant virtue perchance may hurt youBy putting constructions worse onThe pose or picture that draws no stricturesFrom the non-respectable person.But my earliest vigilance wakèdTo look askance at the nude,As another name for naked,And therefore distinctly rude.From an icy peak of stupendous cheekOn an alien world I glare,And never feel lonely, although I'm the onlyRespectable Person there!

've a natural eye for evil,And folly I love to shoot,And to prod for a latent weevilIn the wholesomest-looking root.

Myipse dixitmust always fix it—The song, the dance, the cup;And my back gets stiffer the more you differFrom the standard that I set up.

I went to the "halls" crusading,And I found what I meant to find.I had said they were all degrading,And I never alter my mind.

In virtue strong I gazed at the throngOf smoking chatters and grinners;With a righteous frown my soul looked downOn the publicans and the sinners.

Loftily, proudly, lonelyI bore what I had to bear,For I knew that I was the onlyRespectable Person there!

That the others were not respectableWas easy and plain to see,For they frankly found delectableWhat didn't appeal to me.

Yet none of the revellers stonily,Or scornfully seem'd to stare,They took no note of the onlyRespectable Person there.

My vigilant virtue perchance may hurt youBy putting constructions worse onThe pose or picture that draws no stricturesFrom the non-respectable person.

But my earliest vigilance wakèdTo look askance at the nude,As another name for naked,And therefore distinctly rude.

From an icy peak of stupendous cheekOn an alien world I glare,And never feel lonely, although I'm the onlyRespectable Person there!

Wonderful Feat OF Strength.—The strong man supporting four men on a chair is nothing in comparison withan entire train "held up" by four men! This was reported in thePall Mall Gazettelast Saturday as having occurred to a "Texas Pacific train." The armed robbers went off with 20,000 dollars. Nice "Pacific" train to travel by!

Heirlooms.—Mr. Punchcongratulates Mr. and Mrs.Beerbohm Tree, and their Olive Branch little MissTree, on the valuablesouvenirsof their Balmoral performance presented them byHer Majesty, which, from all others, will distinguish this particular "FamilyTree."

Morbid fleshliness is markOf the modern (sham) Art-lover.Vulgar seems the soaring lark,Music (and meat) are in the plover.Painters once made pink the fleshOf their Titianesque creations;Caught in Sham's sepulchral meshArt now raves ofGreenCarnations!

At Lugano.—Geographically this seems to be Italy. But people remind one always of the artificial frontier which makes it Switzerland. What's that matter? Get up early. Ha! there it is. Cloudless sky! And such a blue! Ultramarine at a guinea the thimbleful. Hurry down to enjoy its beauty as long as possible. Fortunate I did so, for by ten o'clock it has all vanished. Go up a hill. View from top would be fairly clear for Helvellyn. But for Italy! Amiable and chatty Italian reminds me that I am not in Italy. Ah, of course not. Will get there as soon as I can. Meanwhile mope in hotel, for it is now raining steadily. Not a magnificent mountain downpour, with thunder and lightning, howling of wind, crashing of elements, alarums and excursions, and that sort of thing; only a quiet, steady rain, which would be disliked even in Ambleside. But in Ambleside there would be a fire. Here I sit in a draughty, chilly corridor, with some melancholy Germans, all of us wearing overcoats indoors. They remind me that I am not in Italy. Anyone could see that.

At Pallanza.—Here on Lago Maggiore there must really be theRowbothameffects. My room looks over the lake. "La vista è bellissima," says the waiter in the evening. Hooray! Now to forget the gloom of Switzerland and England. Wake early. Misty morning. Good sign of fine weather probably. Into bed again. Wake again. Only half-past seven. Still misty. Into bed again. Wake once more. Still misty. Evidently quite early. Hullo! still half-past seven. Watch stopped. Ring. "Si, Signore," says the chambermaid, in the mixed dialect which she has invented for foreigners, "il est dieci heures." Ten! By Jove! With that fog? She assures me it will clear away, "se non oggi, domani."Bellissima vistalooks exactly like Derwentwater in rain. Grey water, grey sky, grey mountains, wreathed in grey mist. It does not clear to-day, so it may to-morrow.

Next day even worse. Fog greyer, and rain with it. Mud everywhere. Notice a practical German tourist with three umbrellas strapped on his knapsack. Wise man! He knows this climate, and also the advantage of a change of clothes, or of umbrellas. So useful to have a morning umbrella, an afternoon umbrella, and a sort of evening-dress umbrella to bring down to thetable d'hôte. When tired of gazing at the mist, I read a three days oldTimes, preserved in the reading-room. Hullo! what is that sound? A piano-organ! Heavens! To think that I should have travelled hundreds of miles from London to hear the grinding of an organ while I read theTimesin a fog! Why, in Kensington Gardens I could have done as much.

A First Impressionist.

Transcriber's Note:Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

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