Volume 108 — SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.
Reading edition
(As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant.)
It is the summer of 1896—or possibly '97. The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the rendez-vous for the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the masses than the classes. The only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags.
Mr. Woodby-Innett (to the Donkey Proprietor). Kept a moke for me? I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now.
The Donkey Proprietor (after consulting engagement-book). I've not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of Cumberback has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir Hascot Goodwood brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.
Mr. Woodby-Inn. That's no good; no point in ridin' after the right time. (To himself, as he turns away.) Nuisance! Not that I'm so keen about a moke. Not a patch on a bike!—though it don't do to say so. Only if I'd known this, I'd have turned up in a tall hat and frock coat; and then I could have taken a turn on the steam-circus. Wonder if it would be any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts in tweeds and a straw hat. Must ask some chap who knows. More puzzlin' what to put on this year than ever!
Lady Ranela Hurlingham (breathlessly to Donkey Proprietor). That's mine, isn't it? Will you please put me up, and promise me you'll keep close behind and make him run. (Suppliantly.) You will, won't you?
The Donkey Proprietor (with a due sense of his own value). Well, I dessay I can come along presently, Lady 'Urlingham, and fetch 'im a whack or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come and 'old the Marshiness of 'Ammercloth's on 'er moke; but there, you orter be able to git along well enough by yourself now—you ought!
Captain Sonbyrne (just home on leave from India—to Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes). Rather an odd sort of idea this—I mean, coming all the way out here to ride a lot of donkeys, eh?
Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes. It used to be rather amusing a month ago, before they all got used to riding so near the tail; but now they're all so good at it, don't you know.
Capt. Sonb. I went down to Battersea Park yesterday to see the bicyclists. Not a soul there, give you my word!
Mrs. C.-L. No; there wouldn't be this season. You see, all sorts and conditions of people began to take it up, and it got too fearfully common. And now moke-riding has quite cut it out.
Capt. Sonb. But why ride donkeys when you can get gees?
Mrs. C.-L. Oh, well, they're democratic, and cheap, and all that, don't you know. And one really can't be seen on a horse this year—in town, at least. In the country it don't matter so much.
First Mokestrian (to second ditto). Hullo, old chap, so you've taken to a moke at last, eh? How are you gettin' on?
Second Mokestrian. Pretty well. I can sit on his tail all right now, but I can't get into the way of keepin' my heels off the ground yet, it's so beastly difficult.
Fragments from Spectators. That's rather a smart barrow, Lady Barinrayne's drivin' to-day.... Who's the fellow with her, with the paper feather in his pot-hat? Bad style, I call it.... That's Lord Freddy Fugleman—best dressed man in London. You'll see everybody turnin' up in a paper feather in a day or two.... Lot of men seem to be using a short clay as a cigarette-holder now, don't they?... Yes, Roddie Rippingill introduced the idea last week, and it seems to have caught on. [&c., &c.]
After Luncheon; at the Steam-Circus, and other Sports.
Scraps of Small-talk. No end sorry, Lady Gwendolin; been tryin' to get you a scent-squirt everywhere; but they're all gone; such a run on 'em for Ascot, don't you know.... Thanks; it doesn't matter; only dear Lady Buckram has just thrown some red ochre down the back of my neck, and Algy Vere came and shot out a coloured paper thing right in my face, and I shouldn't like to seem uncivil.... Suppose I shall see you at Lady Brabazon's "Kiss in the Ring" at Bethnal Green to-morrow afternoon?... I believe she did send us cards, but we promised to look in at a friendly lead the Duchess of Dillwater is giving at such a dear little public she's discovered in Whitechapel, so we may be rather late.... You'll keep a handkerchief-throw for me if you do come on, won't you?... It will have to be an extra, then, I'm afraid.... Are you goin' to Lord Balmisyde's eight o'clock breakfast to-morrow? So glad; I hear he's engaged five coffee-stalls, and we're all to stand up and eat saveloys and trotters and thick bread and butter.... Oh, I wanted to ask you, my girls have got an invitation to a hoky-poky party the Vavasours are giving after the moke-ridin' next Thursday, and I'm told it's quite wrong to eat hoky-poky with a spoon—do you know how that is?... The only correct way, Caroline, is to lick it out of the glass, which requires practice before it can be attempted in public. But I hear there's quite a pleasant boy-professor somewhere in the Mile End Road who teaches it in a single lesson; he's very moderate; his terms are only half a guinea, which includes the hoky-poky. I'll send you his address if I can find it.... Thanks so much; the dear girls will be so grateful to you.... I do think it's quite too bad of Lady Geraldine Grabber, she goes and sticks her card on the only decent wooden horse in the steam-circus and says she's engaged it for the whole time, though she hardly ever takes a round! And so many girls standing out who can ride without getting in the least giddy!... Rathah a boundah, that fellow, if you ask me; I've seen him pullin' a swing boat in brown boots and ridin'-breeches!... How wonderfully well your daughter throws the rings, dear Lady Cornelia, I hear she's won three walking-sticks and five clasp knives.... You're very kind. She is quite clever at it; but then she's had some private coaching from a gipsy, don't you know.... What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon?... Oh, I'm going to the People's Palace to see the finals played off for the Skittles Championship; bound to be a closish thing; rather excitin', don't you know.... Ah, Duchess, you've been in form to-day, I see, five cocoa-nuts! Can I relieve you of some of them?... Thanks, they are rather tiresome to carry; if you could find my carriage and tell the footman to keep his eye on them. [&c. &c.].
Lady Rosehugh (to Mr. Luke Walmer, on the way home). You know I do think it's such a cheering sign of the times, Society getting simpler in its tastes, and sharing the pleasures of the Dear People, and all that; it must tend to bring all classes more together, don't you know!
Mr. Luke Walmer. Perhaps. Only I was thinking, I don't remember seeing any of the Dear People about.
Lady Rosehugh. No; somebody was telling me they had taken to playing Polo on bicycles in Hyde Park. So extraordinary of them—a place nobody ever goes near now, you know!
THE LAST TOURNAMENT
(Of Tennis—in the North).
By a Manchester Enthusiast of Tennis-onian Tastes and Hibernian Sympathies.
["For once in a way the Northern Tournament, which has long boasted of being second only to Wimbledon, has not proved an unqualified success.... The withdrawal of Messrs. Pim and Stoker must for some time be severely felt by tournaments of first-class importance."—Bradford Observer.]
Air—"The Battle of the Baltic."
Of Tennis in the North, Sing the—more or less—renown! But—some champions of worth From the netted lists are flown; The Great Brethren from the verdant courts are gone! Once they mustered a brave band, Lawford long, and Lewis grand, Whilst the Renshaws, hand o'er hand, Smashed—and won! Now the other—Baddeley—twins Have it nearly their own way; And they score repeated wins, Though the Allens, too, can play, And can send a swift one down the centre line. When those twins are on the job It is little use to lob. Then there's Barlow,—bet your bob He is fine! But the might of England flush'd In those courts of emerald sheen. Wilfrid flew, and H. B. rush'd.— Oh! the wearing of the Green!— Where is Irish Pim, where Stoker, that great gun? Though they smashed and volley'd madly, The Hibernians murmured sadly, "Faix! Auld Erin's beaten—Baddeley At this fun!" Then there's sweet Miss Dod again! Oh, how sad it seems, and odd. To survey the chalk-marged plain In the absence of Miss Dod, Who they say is wholly given up to Golf!!! Shall the links then lick the Court? Tennis champions run short? And the slaves of the Scotch sport Jeer and scoff? True Mahoney and Miss Martin Did their best our sport to save; And Miss Cooper took stout part In mixed doubles—which was brave: But where was Mrs. Hillyard, "whom we knew?" (As Ulysses said of him In the Shades.) Oh, Stoker, Pim! E'en bright Manchester looked dim Missing you! Still, joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of your might! Yet we hope that Golfing craze Will not come, like a big blight, And seduce our Dods and Renshaws any more. For to mar the sweet content Of our Northern Tournament, By much time on links misspent Were a Bore!!!
"The Seeley Lecturers."—We have a wholesome dread of lecturers generally. Perhaps the more learned the lecturer, the greater the boredom to the listeners, specially if the latter be frivolously inclined. But in any case, if lectures must be, then we would rather hear a Wise lecturer than a Seeley one. On second thoughts, the only entertaining Seeley Lecturer that we know is the one at the Zoo, who discourses on, while exhibiting, the seal.
AT A FRENCH HOTEL.
"Tell him to clean your Boots, John—and mine too."
"All right. Er—Garçong, nettoyez may Bot, si voo play—et aussee mah Fam!"
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
Mr. H. T. Waddy, the Liberal Candidate, has been telling the voters of the Truro-Helston division of Cornwall stories about those wicked publicans. At one of the bye elections they got out posters, which read, "If you vote for the Liquor Traffic Bill, this house will be closed," and displayed them in their premises. But the Radical humorist was on the warpath, and, having provided himself with copies of the poster, attached them to the respective doors of the prison, the lunatic asylum, and the workhouse. This was quite excellent. But Mr. Waddy might have carried the joke a little further, say as far as London. There, at all events, the Bill may possibly lead to the early closing of one public house, where business has for some time been in a very bad way. This would of course be a source of great satisfaction to Mr. Waddy—and his leaders.
In connection with the course of lectures given at Truro by Mrs. Thwaites, principal of the Liverpool School of Cookery, a large Company recently dined in the Concert Hall, at the invitation of the directors of the Truro Gas Company, when the advantages of cooking by gas were put to practical test. Truly there be epicures at Truro who know what's what. Cooking by G. A. S. must have been a great success, and Truro will look forward to a repetition of this cook's excursion. In any case, it will have added to the list of the good things it has seen and people it has known.