Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, October 6th 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

The Club; A grim Story of Change.

LORD ROSEBERY IN THE NORTH.

The Prime Minister has been having a high old time of it lately in the North, and has become the "youngest burgess" of goodness knows how many ancient boroughs. But it has been left to a reporter to note with an eagle eye the really interesting performance which Lord Rosebery has put to his credit. "Immediately on leaving Dornoch," says this gentleman (the reporter, not the Premier), "Lord Rosebery and the Duke of Sutherland drove to the Meikle Ferry, a distance of four miles, crossed the ferry, and again drove to Tain, four miles farther on. Crossing the ferry they both took a turn at the oars, and generally discussed the sport of seal shooting!" This suggests quite a fresh phase of the New Journalism. We shall soon read such paragraphs as the following:—

"Sir William Harcourt left town for Malwood on Tuesday. Going down in the train the right hon. gentleman played marbles with a fellow-passenger, and discussed generally the virtues of resignation."

"Mr. H. H. Fowler transacted important business at the India Office yesterday. He and his private secretary played a game of trundling hoops, and had an animated talk on the subject of whist."

"Mr. A. J. Balfour played at golf with a gentleman, with whom he had a very interesting conversation on the sport of chute shooting."

The moral of which would seem to be that, since even conversation is now reported, silence is more golden than ever; though Mr. Punch notices that the Prime Minister showed rare diplomacy in his choice of a subject. Not even a reporter could extract any political meaning out of the sport of seal shooting!

Very Near.—The Record has been taking Mr. Hall Caine to task for the baptismal scene in The Manxman, and the novelist has been telling the Record to remember its Rubrics. "Mr. Caine," says the Record, "has been in a hurry." The Record lost a chance, as, evidently expecting a storm of fury, it should have deprecated the author's anger by saying, "Don't be in a hurry-Caine."

"TERRIBLE IN HIS ANGER!"

Mr. J-st-n McC-rthy (reading the speech of the German Emperor to the Mayor of Thorn). "For you know, I can be very disagreeable too!" Ah! and so can I—when I like!

I CAN BE VERY NASTY, WHEN I LIKE!

(The Song of a Mouton Enragé.)

["I own that I am sorry that a louder, and a stronger, and a prompter note of reassurance has not been given to the Irish people with regard to this obstructive power of the House of Lords, and that I look to the Autumn Campaign with anxious hope for a clear and certain signal."—Mr. Justin McCarthy in the "New Review."]

Enraged (and enrhumé) Leader, with his feet in "hot water," sings:—

In Nuce.

NEW READING FOR THE NEW ART.

THE LUNNON TWANG.

Demolition of Doctors' Commons.

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART XIV.—LE VETÉRINAIRE MALGRÉ LUI.

Scene XXIII.—Outside the Stables at Wyvern.

Time—About 10 P.M.

Undershell (to himself, as he follows Adams). Now is my time to arrange about getting away from here. (To Adams.) By the bye, I suppose you can let me have a conveyance of some sort—after I've seen the horse? I—I'm rather in a hurry.

Adams. You'd better speak to Mr. Checkley about that, Sir; it ain't in my department, you see. I'll fetch him round, if you'll wait here a minute; he'd like to hear what you think about the 'orse.

[He goes off to the coachman's quarters.

Und. (alone). A very civil fellow this; he seems quite anxious to show me this animal! There must be something very remarkable about it.

[Adams returns with Checkley.

Adams. Mr. Checkley, our 'ed coachman, Mr. Undershell. He's coming in along with us to 'ear what you say, if you've no objections.

Und. (to himself). I must make a friend of this coachman, or else —— (Aloud.) I shall be charmed, Mr. Checkley. I've only a very few minutes to spare; but I'm most curious to see this horse of yours.

Checkley. He ain't one o' my 'orses, Sir. If he 'ad been——But there, I'd better say nothing about it.

Adams (as he leads the way into the stables, and turns up the gas). There, Sir, that's Deerfoot over there in the loose box.

Und. (to himself). He seems to me much like any other horse! However, I can't be wrong in admiring. (Aloud, as he inspects him through the rails.) Ah, indeed? he is worth seeing! A magnificent creature!

Adams (stripping off Deerfoot's clothing). He's a good 'orse, Sir. Her ladyship won't trust herself on no other animal, not since she 'ad the influenzy so bad. She'd take on dreadful if I 'ad to tell her he wouldn't be fit for no more work, she would!

Und. (sympathetically). I can quite imagine so. Not that he seems in any danger of that!

Check. (triumphantly). There, you 'ear that, Adams? The minute he set eyes on the 'orse!

Adams. Wait till Mr. Undershell has seen him move a bit, and see what he says then.

Check. If it was what you think, he'd never be standing like he is now, depend upon it.

Adams. You can't depend upon it. He 'eard us coming, and he's quite artful enough to draw his foot back for fear o' getting a knock. (To Undershell.) I've noticed him very fidgety-like on his forelegs this last day or two.

Und. Have you, though? (To himself.) I hope he won't be fidgety with his hind-legs. I shall stay outside.

Adams. I cooled him down with a rubub and aloes ball, and kep 'im on low diet; but he don't seem no better.

Und. (to himself). I didn't gather the horse was unwell. (Aloud.) Dear me! no better? You don't say so!

Check. If you'd rubbed a little embrocation into the shoulder, you'd ha' done more good, in my opinion, and it's my belief as Mr. Undershell here will tell you I'm right.

Und. (to himself). Can't afford to offend the coachman! (Aloud.]) Well, I daresay—er—embrocation would have been better.

Adams. Ah, that's where me and Mr. Checkley differ. According to me, it ain't to do with the shoulder at all—it's a deal lower down.... I'll 'ave him out of the box and you'll soon see what I mean.

Und. (hastily). Pray don't trouble on my account. I—I can see him capitally from where I am, thanks.

Adams. You know best, Sir. Only I thought you'd be better able to form a judgment after you'd seen the way he stepped across. But if you was to come in and examine the frog?——I don't like the look of it myself.

Und. (to himself). I'm sure I don't. I've a horror of reptiles. (Aloud.) You're very good. I—I think I won't come in. The place must be rather damp, mustn't it—for that?

Adams. It's dry enough in 'ere, Sir, as you may see; nor yet he ain't been standing about in no wet. Still, there it is, you see!

Und. (to himself). What a fool he must be not to drive it out! Of course it must annoy the horse. (Aloud.) I don't see it; but I'm quite willing to take your word for it.

Adams. I don't know how you can expect to see it, Sir, without you look inside of the 'oof for it.

Und. (to himself). It's not alive—it's something inside the hoof. I suppose I ought to have known that. (Aloud.) Just so; but I see no necessity for looking inside the hoof.

Check. In course he don't, or he'd ha' looked the very fust thing, with all his experience. I 'ope you're satisfied now, Adams?

Adams. I can't say as I am. I say as no man can examine a 'orse thoroughly at that distance, be he who he may. And whether I'm right or wrong, it 'ud be more of a satisfaction to me if Mr. Undershell was to step in and see the 'oof for himself.

Check. Well, there's sense in that, and I dessay Mr. Undershell won't object to obliging you that far.

Und. (with reluctance). Oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of it.

[He enters the loose box delicately.

Adams (picking up one of the horse's feet). Now, tell me how this 'ere 'oof strikes you.

Und. (to himself). That hoof can't; but I'm not so sure about the others. (Aloud, as he inspects it.) Well—er—it seems to me a very nice hoof.

Adams (grimly). I was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of Art, Sir. Do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? That's what I should like to get out of you!

Und. (to himself). Does this man suppose I collect hoofs! However, I'm not going to commit myself. (Aloud.) H'm—well, I—I rather agree with Mr. Checkley.

Check. I knew he would! Now you've got it, Adams! I can see Mr. Undershell knows what he's about.

Adams (persistently). But look at this 'ere pastern. You can't deny there's puffiness there. How do you get over that?

Und. If the horse is puffy, it's his business to get over it—not mine.

Adams (aggrieved). You may think proper to treat it light, Sir; but if you put your 'and down 'ere, above the coronet, you'll feel a throbbing as plain as——

Und. Very likely. But I don't know, really, that it would afford me any particular gratification if I did!

Adams. Well, if you don't take my view, I should ha' thought as you'd want to feel the 'orse's pulse.

Und. You are quite mistaken. I don't. (To himself.) Particularly as I shouldn't know where to find it. What a bore this fellow is with his horse!

Check. In course, Sir, you see what's running in Mr. Adams' 'ed all this time, what he's a-driving at, eh?

Und. (to himself). I only wish I did! This will require tact. (Aloud.) I—I could hardly avoid seeing that—could I?

Check. I should think not. And it stands to reason as a vet like yourself'd spot a thing like navickler fust go off.

Und. (to himself). A vet! They've been taking me for a vet all this time! I can't have been so ignorant as I thought. I really don't like to undeceive them—they might feel annoyed. (Aloud, knowingly.) To be sure, I—I spotted it at once.

Adams. He does make it out navicular after all! What did I tell you, Checkley? Now p'r'aps you'll believe me!

Check. I'll be shot if that 'orse has navickler, whoever says so—there!

Adams (gloomily). It's the 'orse'll 'ave to be shot; worse luck! I'd ha' give something if Mr. Undershell could ha' shown I was wrong; but there was very little doubt in my mind what it was all along.

Und. (to himself, horrified). I've been pronouncing this unhappy animal's doom without knowing it! I must tone it down. (Aloud.) No—no, I never said he must be shot. There's no reason to despair. It—it's quite a mild form of er—clavicular—not at all infectious at present. And the horse has a splendid constitution. I—I really think he'll soon be himself again, if we only—er—leave Nature to do her work, you know.

Adams (after a prolonged whistle). Well, if Nature ain't better up in her work than you seem to be, it's 'igh time she chucked it, and took to something else. You've a lot to learn about navicular, you 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that!

Check. Ah, I've 'ad to do with a vet or two in my time, but I'm blest if I ever come across the likes o' you afore!

Und. (to himself). I knew they'd find me out! I must pacify them. (Aloud.) But, look here, I'm not a vet. I never said I was. It was your mistake entirely. The fact is, my—my good men, I came down here because—well, it's unnecessary to explain now why I came. But I'm most anxious to get away, and if you, my dear Mr. Checkley, could let me have a trap to take me to Shuntingbridge to-night, I should feel extremely obliged.

[Checkley stares, deprived of speech.

Adams (with a private wink to Checkley). Certainly he will, Sir. I'm sure Checkley'll feel proud to turn out, late as it is, to oblige a gentleman with your remarkable knowledge of 'orse-flesh. Drive you over hisself in the broom and pair, I shouldn't wonder!

Und. One horse will be quite sufficient. Very well, then. I'll just run up and get my portmanteau, and—and one or two things of mine, and if you will be round at the back entrance—don't trouble to drive up to the front door—as soon as possible, I won't keep you waiting longer than I can help. Good evening, Mr. Adams, and many thanks. (To himself, as he hurries back to the house.) I've got out of that rather well. Now, I've only to find my way to the Verney Chamber, see this fellow Spurrell, and get my clothes back, and then I can retreat with comfort, and even dignity! These Culverins shall learn that there is at least one poet who will not put up with their insolent patronage!

Check. (to Adams). He has got a cool cheek, and no mistake! But if he waits to be druv over to Shuntingbridge till I come round for him, he'll 'ave to set on that portmanteau of his a goodish time!

Adams. He did you pretty brown, I must say. To 'ear you crowing over me when he was on your side. I could 'ardly keep from larfing!

Check. I see he warn't no vet long afore you, but I let it go on for the joke of it. It was rich to see you a wanting him to feel the 'oof, and give it out navickler. Well, you got his opinion for what it was wuth, so you're all right!

Adams. You think nobody knows anything about 'orses but yourself, you do; but if you're meanin' to make a story out o' this against me, why, I shall tell it my way, that's all!

Check. It was you he made a fool of, not me—and I can prove it—there!

[They dispute the point, with rising warmth, for some time.

Adams (calming down). Well, see 'ere, Checkley, I dunno, come to think of it, as either on us'll show up partickler smart over this 'ere job; and it strikes me we'd better both agree to keep quiet about it, eh? (Checkley acquiesces, not unwillingly.) And I think I'll take a look in at the 'Ousekeeper's Room presently, and try if I can't drop a hint to old Tredwell about that smooth-tongued chap, for it's my belief he ain't down 'ere for no good!

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Aha!" quoth the Baron. "This book of Master Stanley Weyman's, called Under the Red Robe, delighteth me much. A stirring story of swashbucklers, pistols, daggers, conspirators, gay gallants, and gentle dames! Exciting from first to last, and all in one volume, which, beshrew me, by my hilts!" quoth the Baron, "the reader, be he who he may, will find easy to take up, and most difficult to put down, until quite finished. 'Tis published by one Methuen, of London, whose house Cavalier Weyman hath favoured more than once ere he wrote this stirring romance." Towards the finish there is a spice of Bulwer Lytton's drama Richelieu,—indeed the last situation in this tale is almost one with the action of the scene in the play where Richelieu brings the lovers together. Yet is this but a mere detail, and those who follow the Baron's literary tips will do well and wisely to read Under the Red Robe. By the way, Mr. Caton Woodville's illustrations to the story are excellent, having the rare merit of assisting the action without revealing the plot. "Caton, thou pictureth well."

Within the limits of a hundred pages Lord Dufferin has given the world a picture it will not willingly let die. It is a portrait of his mother, "one of the sweetest, most beautiful, most accomplished, wittiest, most loving and lovable human beings that ever walked upon the earth." This, as my Baronite says, is the superlative of praise, and it might reasonably be suspected that filial feeling has warped critical acumen. But here in this volume of Songs, Poems, and Verses (John Murray) we have Lady Dufferin though dead yet speaking, and may judge for ourselves. It is characteristic of her son that, whilst on the first page the above title is boldly set forth in large ruddy-hued type, a smaller line lower down, in plain black ink, refers to the "Memoir." In its felicity of literary style, its clear touches of characterisation, and its flashes of quiet humour, this monograph is a masterpiece. It fittingly frames the extract from the journal commenced by Lady Dufferin when she felt the hand of death gripping her. This fragment is prose worthy of the author of The Irish Emigrant, whose simple pathos has stirred the heart on both sides of the Atlantic. Within the brief limits he has assigned to himself, Lord Dufferin manages to give a succinct account of the illustrious family of which Helen, Lady Dufferin, was a bright, particular star. It would be difficult to parallel the sustained brilliancy of the Sheridans, from Richard Brinsley down to his great-great-grandson, at present Her Majesty's Minister at Paris. To the possession of all the graces they have added display of all the talents. It is hard to live up to the literary standard of the Sheridans. In this delightful volume Lord Dufferin shows that the marvel was accomplished by his mother, and is possible for himself.

My Baronite has made an attempt to read Lourdes in the convenient shape in which Messrs. Chatto and Windus present it to the English-speaking public. He honestly admits that, finding on a rapid glance through its pages the first chapter was a fair sample of the bulk, he gave it up. M. Zola has avowedly set himself the task of minutely describing the pitiful experience of the halt, the lame, the blind, and much worse, who journey to Lourdes in the desperate hope of miraculous recovery. He may at least be congratulated on having achieved his object. Only, the report with all its horrible detail would more fittingly have appeared in the pages of the Lancet or the British Medical Journal. Since it has been published in book form realism should have been carried one step further. The volume ought to have been bound in a poultice instead of ordinary cloth. As it is, the leaves turned over fill the room with faint, sickening smell of the hospital ward. Lourdes is certainly not alluring. It is, in truth, lourd—et sale aussi.

Once again, for the benefit of all brother-scribes who, for a while, or frequently, may have to do their scribbling when journeying, or while compelled by illness to remain in Bedford-under-Clothes,—as was but recently the case with your own Baronius, pains and counterpanes all over him,—the use of "The Hairless Author's Paper-pad," i.e. "The Author's Hairless Paper-pad," issued by the Leadenhall Press, on which the author can write with pencil or with pen,—for the blotter is handily placed at the back of the pad,—is strongly recommended by the Ready Writer's and Ready Reader's best friend,

The blameless Baron de Book-Worms.

Mem. by an Old Maid.—If you "look over your age," you won't find anyone else willing to do the same.

"FOR EXAMPLE!"

Or, an Ex-Radical's Reflections in a Peer-Glass.

["I say that I, at any rate, am ready to view with favour any reasonable proposal which would add an elective element to the composition of the House of Lords, which would bring them into closer touch with popular sentiment."—Mr. Chamberlain at Leeds (Times' Report).]

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

Written upon hearing that Mr. Gladstone's enforced rest is lightened by the reading aloud of relays of Devoted Friends.

AIRS RESUMPTIVE.

IV.—To Julia in Shooting Togs (and a Herrickose vein).

A Safe Prediction.—That the New Woman of this decade will be the Old Maid of the next.