Punch: Punch (69.1875)

July 31, 1875.] PUNCH, OE THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

41

A NOVEL EXHIBITION.

og Shows and
Donkey Shows,
Horse Shows and
Hound Shows,
Cat Shows and
Cattle Shows,
have been plenti-
ful of late; and
at last by way of
novelty the Crys-
tal Palace has
been tempting us
to go and see a
Groat Show. Baby
Shows we have
beheld, which
some may have
called Kid Shows';
but a Goat Show
is a new thing in
the way of Exhi-
bitions, and if it
be found success-
ful, it will doubt-
less be succeeded.
Perhaps we may
ere long be treat-
ed to a Bore
Show, and this,
if got up properly, would we daresay prove attractive. The
only fear is lest the Bores, being mostly private persons, would
not quite like to be exhibited in public; and though each of them
is perfectly well used to make an exhibition of himself, we may
doubt if they would wish to be advertised and shown " en masse.''''
The Crystal Palace is quite welcome to our notion of the Show, and
we venture to append a catalogue of Bores, who might with great
propriety apply to be exhibited.

That the Show would be attended well we entertain no question.
Indeed there cannot be a doubt that their friends would all flock
thither to see—at a safe distance—such immense Bores as the fol-
lowing :—

The Bore who interrupts your story with irrelevant remarks, and
asks, " Well, what happened then ?" when you have come to what
your emphasis has shown to be the climax.

The Bore who fancies he is gifted with poetic inspiration, and
publishes small pieces "for private circulation," and expects to hear
them quoted by his friends.

The Bore who takes you by the button-hole when he meets you at
the Club, and bothers you to death by asking your opinion on some
family affair, which he describes with such prolixity that long
before he finishes you have utterly forgotten what he said at
starting.

The Bore who falls asleep behind you in the Stalls, and, by his
snoring obligato, spoils your hearing of the Opera.

The Bore who, having spent a fortnight in Calcutta, seizes every
chance of lugging in allusions to his Indian experience.

The Bore who has the fame of being " such a funny fellow," and
thinks himself obliged to sustain his reputation by making silly puns
and senseless practical jokes.

The Bore with a big voice who bawls your name out like a toast-
master when he sees you in society, and slaps you on the back when
he accosts you in the street.

The Bore who always tries to travel' with the carriage-windows
shut, and kicks up a great row if you insist on opening one of them.

The dyspeptic Bore who takes delight in talking of his ailments,
and often ends by making you feel out of health yourself.

The aesthetic Bore who worries you with lectures on fine Art,
and tempts you to buy pictures which you think extremely ugly,
but which he assures you are " worth their weight in gold "—which,
if you were to weigh them, would not come to very much.

The Bore who, somehow or another, always manages to forestall
you in telling the good thing which you were told the other day, and
which you meant to tell yourself if you could anyhow lead up to it.

The Bore who waltzes at a pace peculiar to himself, and causes
endless collisions in his circle of (dance) acquaintance.

The Bore who, if he hears you say that you like music, treats you
to a sermon upon Lohengrin and Wagner.

And, finally, the Bore who with some vehemence starts off talking

shop" while you are talking " shop," and you discover, to your
horror, that his shop is not your shop !

Sports of Last Week.—Aquatics everywhere.

PARAPLUIE v. PARASOL.

'T was the voice of the Sunshade, I heard her complain,
" I'm of no use at all, for we've nothing but rain !
Bright Sol is deposed by the Demon of Damp,
And I'm put in the shade by that odious Gamp ! "

Stout Gingham laughed loud till her ribs seemed to split.

"Aha! Madame Upstart, you 're lowered a bit.

Tour flauntings and flirtings with Phoebus are over,

I warned you the God was a changeable lover!

Hoho! but you used to look down upon me,

As the symbol of Dowdiness! Fiddle-de-dee!"

No doubt your supreme self-conceit, Miss, it vexes

To see me the favourite friend of both sexes ;

In the sunshine of fortune so upstart and proud,

What a poor thing you are, now you 're " under a cloud!"

THE ASTRONOMER-ROYAL AMONG THE
SPECTACLE-MAKERS.

he Honourable Com-
pany of Spectacle-
Makers gave Sir
George Airy a din-
ner the other day.
He in return gave
them some good ad-
vice, which was—to
learn to make Specta-
cles I " He knew only
one capable maker of
glasses." This advice,
strange to say,_ was
very kindly received;
and, after dining last
week at the Castle at
Richmond, the Spec-
tacle-Makers deter-
mined to turn over
a new leaf and study
their business. Hi-
therto, evidently, the
blind have been mak-
ing glasses for the
blind. But Mr. Punch
begs leave to inform
S^T) his friend the Astro-
nomer - Royal that
when his keen sight

fails, if anything so improbable should occur, he will ask him for
the name and address of that "one capable maker of glasses"
already in existence.

Competent judges, if invited to dinner by other Honourable Com-
panies, might give them equally useful and appropriate advice
— Cuique in sua arte credendum est. The best dressed man in
England (commonly reputed to be the Master of Her Majesty's
Buckhounds) should be banqueted by the Merchant Taylors, that he
might give them his opinion as to how many of them can cut a
coat properly. The Lorimers should certainly invite the Chairman
of the Eour-in-Hand Club, who could tell them what he thought
of their bits and chains. The Bowstring-Makers could not do
better than entertain the Member for Orton, as he draws the long
bow with fatal facility. As to Mr. Punch, he reserves himself for
the Vintners, who may rely on his being quite as candid and in-
structive as to the difference between sound and unsound liquor,
and the importance of the choice of houses, as affecting your
chances of getting one or the other, as Sir George Airy on the
qualities and makers of spectacle-glasses. The Vintners' glasses,
by the way, have this advantage over the spectacle-makers'—that
they make one see double.

New Reading of an Old [Rhyme.

{Written under St. Swithin's Wet Blanket.)

Dirty days hath September,
April, June, and November,
And from February until May
The rain it raineth every day.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Without a single gleam of sun;
And if any should have thirty-two,
They'd be dull and dirty too.