Volume 100 — THE TRAVELLER'S FRIEND.
Reading edition
(A Hint for the coming Holidays.)
DEAR MR. PUNCH,—As we are within measurable distance of the time when everyone will be thinking of going abroad, perhaps you will allow me to make a practical suggestion. No doubt you will have observed that, according to the Correspondent of the Times, recounting the "recent railway outrage in Turkey," the Brigands "chose five of the most opulent-looking of their victims, and told them that they meant to hold them to ransom." I am not surprised at this occurrence, for something of the same sort once happened to me. I am very well to do, and I am fond of what I believe is vulgarly called "globe-trotting." I do not care to be encumbered with too much luggage, and if there is a thorn to the rose of my sweet content it is the objection that my wife makes to my personal appearance. She will have it that a suit of thoroughly comfortable dittos is not the proper garb for a stroll on the Boulevards des Italiens, or a lounge on the Piazza San Marco. As for my wide-awake, she declares (and I can assure you that I have not had it for more than ten years) it is absolutely disgraceful!
But to my story. I have said that I myself was once attacked by Brigands. Our train was stopped in strictly regulation fashion. I believe the customary number of engine-drivers, stokers, and guards were shot, or otherwise accounted for. Then the passengers were inspected. I was rather nervous, for, truth to tell, my pockets were lined with untold gold and notes. The Chief of the Brigands—a most gentlemanly person—glanced at my coat with a slight shudder of pain, and then raised his eyes to my head-gear. That seemed to satisfy him. "Set him free!" he cried to the two ruffians who guarded me, "and never let him see me again!" I never did!
Yours sincerely,
ONE WHO WAS SAVED BY HIS HAT,
The Retreat, Old Closeborough.
A POLITICAL MILITARY TOURNAMENT.
THE BUSMEN'S ALPHABET.
A is the Ache which the Drivers delay. B is the Bus, which they're chained to all day. C 's the poor Cad who is sick of his trade. D is the Dividend that must be paid. E 's the day's End, which finds him dead-beat. F is the Food he has no time to eat. G is his Good, for which nobody cares. H is the Horse who so much better fares. I 's the Increase in his pay that he waits, J 's the fine Jump he'll soon take with his mates. K is the Knife-board, which funds should provide. L are the Ladies, who now go outside. M is the Money that's earned every day. N the New lines, that they start, and make pay. O Opposition, they speedily chase. P is the Public that fills every place. Q is the Question, that hints at Reform. R the Reply, that soon raises a storm. S the Shareholder, blind in his greed. T is the Tension which he'd better heed. U 's the Upset he won't certainly like. V 's the Vigorous Vengeance of strike. W Wisdom that comes somewhat late. X Express Action which may avert Fate! Y, Yell triumphal, the men win the day. Z—"Zounds!" which is all Directors can say.
BENDIGO.
[A Monument to BENDIGO, the famous prize-fighter, has been lately erected at Nottingham.]
Old Prize-fighter soliloquises:—
If ever to the "Pelican" alone or with a friend I go, I sigh for men of muscle who could fight a fight like BENDIGO. He didn't fight in feather-beds, or spend his days in chattering, But faced his man, and battered him, or took his foeman's battering. He didn't deal in gas, or waste his time in mere retort at all; But now the "pugs" are interviewed, and journalists report it all. A man may call it what he will, brutality or bravery, I'd rather have the prize-ring back than give a purse to knavery. Knaves fight for points, the audience shouts and wrangles in allotting 'em; I hate their fancy-work, I'm off to take the train to Nottingham. I like a Man; though modern men and modern manners mend, I go To drop a last regretful tear o'er poor departed BENDIGO.
GENTLE SARCASM.
"YESSIR; I GITS 'OME FROM MY LAST JOURNEY AT MIDNIGHT,—AN' THEN I 'AS THE
REST
OF THE HEVENIN' TO
MYSELF!
"