Afloat the water-lily lies,Lolling gold head on soft green coat,The swans drift by in stately wiseAfloat.Faint music from the warbler's throat,The moorhen in the sedge that plies,The plash of oars, a distant boat,The passing flash of dragon-flies—Such sights and sounds I dimly note,The while I watch with straining eyesA float!
Afloat the water-lily lies,Lolling gold head on soft green coat,The swans drift by in stately wiseAfloat.
Faint music from the warbler's throat,The moorhen in the sedge that plies,The plash of oars, a distant boat,The passing flash of dragon-flies—Such sights and sounds I dimly note,The while I watch with straining eyesA float!
Modern Instance of Patience on a Monument.—The Powers sitting on the Ottoman.
"BUNG" IN AFRICA"BUNG" IN AFRICA.Right Hon. J. Ch-mb-rl-n(toKing Khama). "'LOCAL VETO' FOR BECHUANALAND? H'M!—A RATHER TICKLISH BUSINESS! UPSET A GOVERNMENTHERETHE OTHER DAY!"["Khama, the Bechuana chief, arrived in England and was received by Mr.Chamberlainat the Colonial Office.... He desires to be assured in the power of excluding intoxicants absolutely from his territories."—The Times.
"BUNG" IN AFRICA.
Right Hon. J. Ch-mb-rl-n(toKing Khama). "'LOCAL VETO' FOR BECHUANALAND? H'M!—A RATHER TICKLISH BUSINESS! UPSET A GOVERNMENTHERETHE OTHER DAY!"
["Khama, the Bechuana chief, arrived in England and was received by Mr.Chamberlainat the Colonial Office.... He desires to be assured in the power of excluding intoxicants absolutely from his territories."—The Times.
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
Commercial prosperity continues to attend the cheery coster as he hawks his wares about the Liverpudlian streets, and the situation is getting hawkward for the local tradesman, who declares that the itinerant vendor's opposition draws away customers from his shop. So momentous, indeed, to the welfare of the Lancastrian port has this Cockney Crusade become, that the magnates of the City Corporation assembled in Committee to discuss means for "making the coster go back to London." Among other weighty reasons for the expulsion of the intruder, it was stated that "a gentleman trod upon a banana peel the other day, and fell." Whether the peel was deposited by an offending coster, or by one of the many bare-footed but picturesque and ingenuous youths of the town, history does not relate. However, the great gravity of the crisis may be understood when, towards the end of the debate on the question, we are told that the chairman observed that, "if this thing was allowed to go on, perhaps a certain alderman and himself would start a barrow with a picture on it, and go about selling fine arts." Chorus of aldermen:—
Round the town! Up and down!Anything to earn an honest brown:Civic costers enterprising,Up-to-date and early-rising,Why we'll hawk our blooming pictures round the town!
Round the town! Up and down!Anything to earn an honest brown:Civic costers enterprising,Up-to-date and early-rising,Why we'll hawk our blooming pictures round the town!
BraemarCastle is to be restored. "The alterations on the building are to be mostly internal," says theDaily Free Press, "and the external appearance will remain as at present, so that on rounding Creag Choinnich"—a good coigne of vantage this, by the way—"the traveller will have no difficulty in recognising the castle." Good. BeauBrummellonce snubbed a sovereign, but we should hate to run the risk of cutting a castle. The same authority further informs us that the edifice in question "stands on a grassy mound between the Deeside road and the river Dee, andas it is not surrounded by treesit forms a rather conspicuous object in the landscape." Dee-side-dly this smacks more of Erin than of Caledonia, and calls to mindPat O'Feegan'sremark—"Shure, me bhoy, an' I wasn't in the room at all, at all. I was hidin' behind the fire-shcreen!"
Literary Proverb.—Too many characters spoil the novel.
REVENGE IS SWEETREVENGE IS SWEET.Beach Musician(to constant Non-Subscriber). "'Sure we should be most 'appy to put any Gentleman that reelly can't afford to contribute on the Free List!"
REVENGE IS SWEET.
Beach Musician(to constant Non-Subscriber). "'Sure we should be most 'appy to put any Gentleman that reelly can't afford to contribute on the Free List!"
THE AGE OF LOVE.
(To the Editor of "Punch.")
Sir,—Is it possible, in the so-called end of this so-called nineteenth century, to dream of such a thing as the Age of Love? The man of to-day, if he be wise, thinks not of the face and form of the woman he may care to marry, but asks himself the question, "Will she make me a good wife? Can she clean chimneys, cook and mend; is she capable of discussing intellectually subjects of interest—such as dentistry, hunting, symbolism, and so forth—with her husband? Can she grind the organ, play the comb, is she active at crossing-sweeping and cradle-rocking, quick at smiling away one's smiles and frowning away one's tears, ready to greet all my friends with the same amiability she shows tome, is she prepared for intelligent begging-letter-writing, can she scour, skirt-dance, recite, carve, mangle, and fence?" Too often he is bound to answer, "No, she cannot; so what good is she to me?" I do not mean to say that all women are like this. Heaven forbid! But good housewives are few and far between. There are many girls of the period who are deficient in one or even more of the accomplishments above-mentioned, so how can she be fitted for the wife of a middle-class man?It is all very well to love, but a vastly different matter to marry such women as these. Good sound reason and common-sense are better articles to possess. We cannot have too much of that—indeed, we often get a great deal more than is good for us, so that in my humble opinion friendship, common-sense, logic, and grammar are worth more than all the love any man or woman can give; and it is all very well to sneer at pessimists, but in my humble opinion they have only themselves to blame for it, and through all ages it will ever be the same until there is some alteration.I am, Sir, your obedient servant,A Sensible Pessimist.Alma Villa, Sebastopol Road, Balham.
Sir,—Is it possible, in the so-called end of this so-called nineteenth century, to dream of such a thing as the Age of Love? The man of to-day, if he be wise, thinks not of the face and form of the woman he may care to marry, but asks himself the question, "Will she make me a good wife? Can she clean chimneys, cook and mend; is she capable of discussing intellectually subjects of interest—such as dentistry, hunting, symbolism, and so forth—with her husband? Can she grind the organ, play the comb, is she active at crossing-sweeping and cradle-rocking, quick at smiling away one's smiles and frowning away one's tears, ready to greet all my friends with the same amiability she shows tome, is she prepared for intelligent begging-letter-writing, can she scour, skirt-dance, recite, carve, mangle, and fence?" Too often he is bound to answer, "No, she cannot; so what good is she to me?" I do not mean to say that all women are like this. Heaven forbid! But good housewives are few and far between. There are many girls of the period who are deficient in one or even more of the accomplishments above-mentioned, so how can she be fitted for the wife of a middle-class man?
It is all very well to love, but a vastly different matter to marry such women as these. Good sound reason and common-sense are better articles to possess. We cannot have too much of that—indeed, we often get a great deal more than is good for us, so that in my humble opinion friendship, common-sense, logic, and grammar are worth more than all the love any man or woman can give; and it is all very well to sneer at pessimists, but in my humble opinion they have only themselves to blame for it, and through all ages it will ever be the same until there is some alteration.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,A Sensible Pessimist.
Alma Villa, Sebastopol Road, Balham.
Sir,—There is an old saying with which we are all acquainted, and which affirms that "there are as pretty kettles of fish in the sea as ever came out of it." If you will permit me, I will quote my own case.At the age of seventy-two I married the man of my choice. We had been married for seven days, when, alas! the truth forced itself relentlessly upon me that my husband was suffering from depression of spirits. His nature, which had always been a gay and joyous one, became apathetic; he seemed indifferent to my society, and before many weeks were over he bored himself to death.I think before eighty is only April sort of sunshine, which only brings flowers, &c., into bud; it is June, July, and October sunshine that makes, or the want of it that mars, the harvest. There are many of my own and the other sex still unmarried, pure, gentle, and loving old women, who, I think, would gladly enter matrimony. Alas! Love is laughed about and joked about, but the souls it has ruined are few. Trusting you will find space for my poor scribble, I am, Sir,Your obedient servant,Happy Brown Bess.Earlswood, September 14, 1895.
Sir,—There is an old saying with which we are all acquainted, and which affirms that "there are as pretty kettles of fish in the sea as ever came out of it." If you will permit me, I will quote my own case.
At the age of seventy-two I married the man of my choice. We had been married for seven days, when, alas! the truth forced itself relentlessly upon me that my husband was suffering from depression of spirits. His nature, which had always been a gay and joyous one, became apathetic; he seemed indifferent to my society, and before many weeks were over he bored himself to death.
I think before eighty is only April sort of sunshine, which only brings flowers, &c., into bud; it is June, July, and October sunshine that makes, or the want of it that mars, the harvest. There are many of my own and the other sex still unmarried, pure, gentle, and loving old women, who, I think, would gladly enter matrimony. Alas! Love is laughed about and joked about, but the souls it has ruined are few. Trusting you will find space for my poor scribble, I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,Happy Brown Bess.
Earlswood, September 14, 1895.
[Space forbids further insertions of letters on this subject.—Ed.]
[Space forbids further insertions of letters on this subject.—Ed.]
THE CONQUEROR.
[Mr.H. N. Pillsbury, a young American master of twenty-two years, won the first prize in the Chess Tournament at Hastings.]
[Mr.H. N. Pillsbury, a young American master of twenty-two years, won the first prize in the Chess Tournament at Hastings.]
Two Battles of Hastings—when young scholars rattleTheir "dates" off—henceforth may be reckoned:IfWilliamthe Norman did win the first battle,'TwasPillsburypulled off the second.A very young player oldSteinitzto tackle,Or enter the lists againstLasker!When History's Muse is henceforth on the cackle,One question a scholar may ask her,—"Oh, which was the greater, chess-champion or war-man?"In chess there is no hanky-panky;Lessfairwas the win of the tricky old Norman,Than that of the quiet young Yankee!
Two Battles of Hastings—when young scholars rattleTheir "dates" off—henceforth may be reckoned:IfWilliamthe Norman did win the first battle,'TwasPillsburypulled off the second.A very young player oldSteinitzto tackle,Or enter the lists againstLasker!When History's Muse is henceforth on the cackle,One question a scholar may ask her,—"Oh, which was the greater, chess-champion or war-man?"In chess there is no hanky-panky;Lessfairwas the win of the tricky old Norman,Than that of the quiet young Yankee!
The "alliterative" epidemic, in connection with the names of marine resorts, is spreading to an alarming extent. A Welsh newspaper heads a quotation from theWestern Daily Pressby the taking title of "Improving Ilfracombe." This, however, has nought to do with the excellent mental and physical benefits derived by visitors to the North Devonian pleasure port, but refers to District Council resolutions for the improvement of the place itself—a Quixotic idea, which seems identical with that of "painting a lily." To the scribe of the "Seaside Series," whose penchant is for "apt alliteration's artful aid," we beg to offer—without any extra charge—a few suggestions to go on with:—Soothing Southend, Winsome Whitby, Congressional Cardiff, Sweltering Swansea, Peaceful Penzance, or "piratical" ditto, and so onad nau-sea-am.
THE JUDGE'S DREAMTHE JUDGE'S DREAM.
THE JUDGE'S DREAM.
BALLVERSUSBALL.
An Autumn Eclogue.
The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damœtas, defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like Palemon) judge of their performances.
The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damœtas, defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like Palemon) judge of their performances.
Football.Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away!September's here, and Cricket's had its day.You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom,Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room!Cricket Ball.Amanliersport? Tell that to sordid Tykes!The "brass," and not the game, is what he likesWho kicks your swollen and unshapely formThrough snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm;And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf,Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself;Then calls it—Sport! O, there! don't talk to me.I'm not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.Football.Pooh! If I'm kicked you're spanked. The foot ofGunnHurts less than does his bat. Pray is it funTo bideO'Brien'sbuffet? Have you scoredAfter two hours—at Hastings—with bigFord?Gracethumps you for nine Centuries in one season,And afterthatyou crow with little reason!Cricket Ball.Oh,GraceandGunnlay on to mein love,Ford's"gentle tap,"O'Brien's"friendly shove"Hurt not my feelings more than a slight slapFrom rosy fingers hurts an amorous chap.But you stand kicksfor halfpence. Question it?Well, just you read about the Football SplitAnd the two rival Unions!Football.That's all fudge.The North is of true Sport the truest judge!How aboutGrace'sTestimonial?Cricket Ball.NotA sample of the Hunting of the Pot,But a free tribute to a sportsman prime,Who plays the game right through, and laughs at Time.But rowdyism and mere greed of gainWill spoil the noblest sport. I speak with pain.Football.You spheric Pharisee! Don't sniff and brag,Go join the Bat in his green winter bag!A hum-drum hibernation is your doom,The winter season's mine, for me make room!Cricket Ball.Alas! 'tis true! Retirement is my lot.The bright green sward, blue skies, and sunshine hot,September sees an end of. I rejoiceThe Surrey Cricket Club has given its voiceAgainst the money-mania that would makeThe Oval turf a frozen swampy lake,Pounded by heavy-footed Football cracks,Galloping "forwards," elephantine "backs."It makes me shudder on my shelf to thinkOf that green sward, smooth-surfaced as a rinkWhere sturdyAbelcut and drove amain,AndRichardsonsent "rippers" down like rain;Where the white-flannel'd fielders sometimes flopped,While saucy Surrey sparrows pecked and hopped,—To think of it all trampled, pounded, ploughed,By fierce footballers, whilst a furious crowdHowled in a hideous ring.Football.Oh, shut up, do!The S. C. C.'s are an old-fashioned crew,Who soon will find they are not up to date,And they'll be sorry—when perhaps too late.Football's a manly sport for Titan lads!Cricket Ball.But spoiled by huckster cliques and noisy cads.Football.Cricket is slow, quite stodgy now and then.Cricket Ball.But 'tis a sport for friends and gentlemen.Palemon Punch.In either sport such honest pleasure liesThat both must win, as each deserves, a prize.The summer sport is each true Briton's care,But Football's death would leave our winters bareOf numerous joys. Damœtas sweetly sangAnd clear the music of Menalcas rang;"Rest equal happy both," in friendly strainsPalemon said to the Virgilian swains;"Long live and prosper both,"Punchsays to you;But O beware the howling harpy crewWho'd knock the "I" out of our good old PlayAnd make it all a matter of mere Pay!The rowdies follow where the hucksters lead,Football beware of ruffianly greed!You're treading far too near that fatal trap;Avoid it, or you'll suffer.Verbum sap!You, cricket ball, to bounce be not a slave.Let "championships" and "averages" haveTheir proper place. Let love of Number OneSpoil not good sport, good fellowship, good fun.In short, whether good luck or bad luck comesJust "play the game," like gentlemen and chums!So having given his verdict somewhat loth,Punchends with wishing the best luck to both!
Football.Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away!September's here, and Cricket's had its day.You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom,Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room!
Cricket Ball.Amanliersport? Tell that to sordid Tykes!The "brass," and not the game, is what he likesWho kicks your swollen and unshapely formThrough snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm;And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf,Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself;Then calls it—Sport! O, there! don't talk to me.I'm not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.
Football.Pooh! If I'm kicked you're spanked. The foot ofGunnHurts less than does his bat. Pray is it funTo bideO'Brien'sbuffet? Have you scoredAfter two hours—at Hastings—with bigFord?Gracethumps you for nine Centuries in one season,And afterthatyou crow with little reason!
Cricket Ball.Oh,GraceandGunnlay on to mein love,Ford's"gentle tap,"O'Brien's"friendly shove"Hurt not my feelings more than a slight slapFrom rosy fingers hurts an amorous chap.But you stand kicksfor halfpence. Question it?Well, just you read about the Football SplitAnd the two rival Unions!
Football.That's all fudge.The North is of true Sport the truest judge!How aboutGrace'sTestimonial?
Cricket Ball.NotA sample of the Hunting of the Pot,But a free tribute to a sportsman prime,Who plays the game right through, and laughs at Time.But rowdyism and mere greed of gainWill spoil the noblest sport. I speak with pain.
Football.You spheric Pharisee! Don't sniff and brag,Go join the Bat in his green winter bag!A hum-drum hibernation is your doom,The winter season's mine, for me make room!
Cricket Ball.Alas! 'tis true! Retirement is my lot.The bright green sward, blue skies, and sunshine hot,September sees an end of. I rejoiceThe Surrey Cricket Club has given its voiceAgainst the money-mania that would makeThe Oval turf a frozen swampy lake,Pounded by heavy-footed Football cracks,Galloping "forwards," elephantine "backs."It makes me shudder on my shelf to thinkOf that green sward, smooth-surfaced as a rinkWhere sturdyAbelcut and drove amain,AndRichardsonsent "rippers" down like rain;Where the white-flannel'd fielders sometimes flopped,While saucy Surrey sparrows pecked and hopped,—To think of it all trampled, pounded, ploughed,By fierce footballers, whilst a furious crowdHowled in a hideous ring.
Football.Oh, shut up, do!The S. C. C.'s are an old-fashioned crew,Who soon will find they are not up to date,And they'll be sorry—when perhaps too late.Football's a manly sport for Titan lads!
Cricket Ball.But spoiled by huckster cliques and noisy cads.
Football.Cricket is slow, quite stodgy now and then.
Cricket Ball.But 'tis a sport for friends and gentlemen.
Palemon Punch.
In either sport such honest pleasure liesThat both must win, as each deserves, a prize.The summer sport is each true Briton's care,But Football's death would leave our winters bareOf numerous joys. Damœtas sweetly sangAnd clear the music of Menalcas rang;"Rest equal happy both," in friendly strainsPalemon said to the Virgilian swains;"Long live and prosper both,"Punchsays to you;But O beware the howling harpy crewWho'd knock the "I" out of our good old PlayAnd make it all a matter of mere Pay!The rowdies follow where the hucksters lead,Football beware of ruffianly greed!You're treading far too near that fatal trap;Avoid it, or you'll suffer.Verbum sap!You, cricket ball, to bounce be not a slave.Let "championships" and "averages" haveTheir proper place. Let love of Number OneSpoil not good sport, good fellowship, good fun.In short, whether good luck or bad luck comesJust "play the game," like gentlemen and chums!So having given his verdict somewhat loth,Punchends with wishing the best luck to both!
THE PITY O' IT"THE PITY O' IT!""Well, Simpson, how do you like the Hot Weather?""Can't stand it, Sir! It's hawful! Ain't got no Stomach for my victuals, Sir!"
"THE PITY O' IT!"
"Well, Simpson, how do you like the Hot Weather?"
"Can't stand it, Sir! It's hawful! Ain't got no Stomach for my victuals, Sir!"
Goose and Gander.—A sapient Somebody (or Nobody) modestly proposes that, in taking a poll for a Free Library, everybody who does not take the trouble to register his vote at all shall be counted as if he had votedagainstthe proposal! Well, what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Suppose that all who don't take the trouble to vote should be counted as votingforthe proposal. There's at least as much to be said for that as for the opposite plan.
ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
untitled
Ostend must be a glorious place. From an advertisement which has appeared in an evening contemporary I gather that "the multitude, anxious to spend an elegant and fashionable sojourn in the country, has rendered itself this year at Ostend. It is a long time since such an opulent clientèle has been united in a seaside resort. At the fall of day the vast terraces of the fashionable restaurants, situated along the sea-bank, present a fairy aspect. There is quite a confusion of dazzling costumes upon which sparkle thousand gems, and all this handsome cosmopolitan society passes through the saloons of the Kursaal Club, in which one hears spoken all known languages as at Babel and Monte Carlo, and of which the attractions are identical to those of the latter place." This is the first time I have heard of a similarity to Babel being mentioned as an attraction. But no doubt an opulent clientèle has peculiar tastes of its own, especially when its dazzling costumes sparkle with thousand gems.
In a small Belgian town (naturally not Ostend) I once saw the following notice hung over the door of a washerwoman's establishment:—
Anglish linge tooke here from 1 souShert, cols, soaks, sleep-shert, pokets.I eet my hatt.
Anglish linge tooke here from 1 souShert, cols, soaks, sleep-shert, pokets.I eet my hatt.
The last sentence puzzled me for a long time. Finally I came to the conclusion that it was not intended so much to be a statement of actual fact as an enticement to English people, who would of course take all their washing to a lady commanding so gay and accurate a knowledge of an English catch-phrase.
My third example of English as she is spoke is from a notice issued by an out-of-the-way hotel in Italy, which had changed its management:—
The nobles and noblesses traveller are beg to tell that the direction of this splendid hotel have bettered himself. And the strangers will also find high comforting luxuries, hot cold water coffee bath and all things of perfect establishment and at prices fixed. Table d'hôte best of Italy France everywere. Onclean linens is quick wash and every journals is buy for readers. Beds hard or soaft at the taste of traveller. Soaps everywere plenty. Very cheaper than other hotel. No mosquits no parrot no rat.
The nobles and noblesses traveller are beg to tell that the direction of this splendid hotel have bettered himself. And the strangers will also find high comforting luxuries, hot cold water coffee bath and all things of perfect establishment and at prices fixed. Table d'hôte best of Italy France everywere. Onclean linens is quick wash and every journals is buy for readers. Beds hard or soaft at the taste of traveller. Soaps everywere plenty. Very cheaper than other hotel. No mosquits no parrot no rat.
untitled
And this (though the connection is not, at first sight, very clear) brings me to the Vicar of Sparkbrook. Only the other day he was presiding at a meeting held in aid of the funds of the Christ Church (Sparkbrook) Day Schools. Alluding to the importance of maintaining Church Schools, he said (I quote from a Birmingham paper) that "though he did not want to touch on politics, he must express his thankfulness that they had a Government in power which was favourable to Church Schools, and which was pledged to construct, and not to destruct." The Vicar's feeling for emphasis is admirable. The sentence gains immeasurably in force by the perversion "destruct." And we ought to be specially grateful to him for refraining from the other alternative. If he had said, as it was open for him to say, "which was pledged not to destroy, but to constroy," the effect would have been terrible.
I was staying at a London hotel a short time ago and had occasion to write a letter in the public reading-room. Sitting down to one of the writing-tables and opening the portfolio I found that a previous occupant had left in it an unfinished letter which, with all necessary apologies, I here transcribe in full:
My darling Harry,—I am fading like a flower deprived of its natural nourishment without you, my darling, my own little sniperpop——
My darling Harry,—I am fading like a flower deprived of its natural nourishment without you, my darling, my own little sniperpop——
Now what, in the name of Dr.Samuel Johnson, can a "sniperpop" be?
How shall I name you? Darling, dove,Partridge (or any other bird)Are not the names I seek, my love;I want just one caressing word,One word which, whether old or new,Shall prove my depth of love for you.Without it all my power is gone,Without my own I feebly fade:In vain I turn the lexicon,The word I want is not yet made.Must I entreat, to ease my pain,Divine Philology in vain?Ah, little nowadays it bootsTo imitate primeval man;Our Aryan ancestors had rootsWith which to formulate their plan.They used them all—they had their fun—And left us not a single one.Yet, oh myHarry, something tellsYour own she may, she must succeed—What's this? Yes, yes, ring out the bells;From grief's dark thunder-cloud I'm freed.No longer shall I droop or drop—Eureka, "little Sniperpop."
How shall I name you? Darling, dove,Partridge (or any other bird)Are not the names I seek, my love;I want just one caressing word,One word which, whether old or new,Shall prove my depth of love for you.
Without it all my power is gone,Without my own I feebly fade:In vain I turn the lexicon,The word I want is not yet made.Must I entreat, to ease my pain,Divine Philology in vain?
Ah, little nowadays it bootsTo imitate primeval man;Our Aryan ancestors had rootsWith which to formulate their plan.They used them all—they had their fun—And left us not a single one.
Yet, oh myHarry, something tellsYour own she may, she must succeed—What's this? Yes, yes, ring out the bells;From grief's dark thunder-cloud I'm freed.No longer shall I droop or drop—Eureka, "little Sniperpop."
In theNewcastle Daily JournalI read that "for some time a certain amount of feeling has existed at Crawcrook on the question of horse-shoeing." This culminated in a challenge byJoseph DelafieldtoGeorge Lathan, both these gentlemen being master blacksmiths. A match for £5 was soon made, "each man to shoe the foot of a draught-horse in the quickest and best style." Here there must be some mistake, since if each man did the job in the quickest and best style, the result obviously must be a dead heat. However "the match commenced on Saturday morning at the shop ofLathan.AfterLathanfinished his work, which occupied forty-three minutes, the horse was driven to the shop ofDelafield, who occupied forty-one minutes in the operation. Large crowds were on the spot to witness the match. Mr.John Chapmanof Whittonstall, the judge, gave his decision in favour ofLathan."
There is something very sporting and attractive about all this. One man wins the match, the other can console himself by the reflection that he had two minutes the better of it on time. There seems to have been no grumbling, and (although the fact is not stated) I have no doubt the parties met at an enthusiastic dinner in the evening and toasted the good old English sport of horse-shoeing. The authorities at Oxford and Cambridge might do worse than institute a horse-shoeing competition between teams of undergraduates, who would of course strike blue nails into blue shoes with blue hammers. A "blazer" would be particularly appropriate to such a contest.
OUR FASHION LETTER.
(Extracted from the "Poppleton Academy College Gazette.")
Dear Thomas,—As September advances, the wave of fashion is once more filling our best academies, so that a few hints as to the latestmodesmay well be of service to you. Have you seen the new double pocket? It is quitechic. It is constructed simply enough by making a large hole in the side-pockets of your coat, thereby you will find there is an useful space beneath the lining, in which such necessary trifles as a lump of toffee or a Jew's-harp can be comfortably disposed of. Buttons will not be much worn, especially as the term advances. It is rumoured thatForkermajorhas gone into tails; and if this be true, probably others will follow his example before long.
My old friendRichard—a well-known connoisseur in such matters—strongly recommends the new confectioner's shop near the school. The Turkish Delight sold there is quite admirable, I am told, and a single bar of the stick-jaw, if used carefully, will last for an entire day. Talking of shopping, I have been to the bookseller's lately. What a misfortune it is that the publishers do not issue Messrs.Bohn'sClassical Library at a lower price! The present one is almost prohibitive to those of us who wish to avoid a certain amount of drudgery, and to please our excellent pedagogues at the same time.
Have you heard rumours of a boom in marbles? Hitherto one has associated the game with the lower classes, but I understand that two Upper-Fifth gentlemen were seen to play it last week. If so, it will soon be widely popular. By the way, the report thatJohnsonminoris seriously ill is absurd. The truth of the matter is, that this dashing sportsman had undertaken to eat thirty cracknels in ten minutes, without drink of any kind. The result—he lost by half a cracknel—was to cause him some temporary inconvenience, but he is now completely restored to health.
Here are two recipes, which, I think, you will like:—
1.Bacon à la Dormitory.Procure a piece of bacon, and cut it into strips. Impale these, one at a time, on a penholder, and frizzle them slowly over the dormitory gas. (Care should be taken that the tutor is out, as the fragrance caused by the bacon is considerable.) When sufficiently done, chop up with penknives, and serve hot. Condensed milk should be drunk with this dish.
2.Marrons à la Poppleton.Place some chestnuts between the bars of the fireplace. Do not break the skins. Presently the roasted nuts will fly into the room with a loud report, and much amusement will be caused if they happen to hit anybody on the face. They may then be picked up and eaten. Sherbet is an appropriate drink with which to accompany them.
Yours ever,William.
[A]Since writing this Your Own Torrist is glad to find his remarks anticipated by theWestern Daily Press(Bristol, September 6), which hints at improvements about to be made in the landing of passengers both at Lynmouth and at the Mumbles. Let the condition of things be bettered also at Lundy and at Ilfracombe.
[A]Since writing this Your Own Torrist is glad to find his remarks anticipated by theWestern Daily Press(Bristol, September 6), which hints at improvements about to be made in the landing of passengers both at Lynmouth and at the Mumbles. Let the condition of things be bettered also at Lundy and at Ilfracombe.