Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, April 8, 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 104.

APRIL 8, 1893.


Edited by Sir Francis Burnand



SPORTING ANSWERS.

ANGLING.

FLEACATCHER.--Yes, the trout in the river Itching (this is the only
correct spelling) are red, and, before they are boiled, raw. The best
method of catching them is to tickle them. When you have hooked an
Itching trout, you first scratch him, and then cook him.

NOVICE.--We only knew one man who could make a decent rod, and he died
twenty years ago. Remember the old adage so dear to IZAAK, _Qui parcit
virgæ spoliat puerum_. For instructions as to use of implement, and
translation of Latin, apply to any head-master. Failure in the latter
will inevitably lead to application of the former. Then pause for
reflection, but _don't sit down_.

SPOOK.--What on earth is the use of applying to us about a phantom?
We never keep one on the premises. Try personal interview with W. T.
STEAD, who has a fine selection, JULIA being specially effective. Why
do you ask if we generally spin? Not having been born a top, we prefer
walking.

CONTEMPLATIVE.--(1) It's absolutely useless offering us these paltry
inducements to betray the secrets of our skill. We are--we hope we may
say it without undue pride--an All-Round Angler, and we are not going
to be squared by a bait of that kind. (2) We have never pretended we
were a salmon. If ANDREW LANG says we have, we challenge him to repeat
it to our face before witnesses. (3) Whitebait are no longer kept in
the Round Pond at Kensington. We knew as many as four there ten years
ago.

CALIPEE.--You are quite right. When a ship turns turtle the fact is
instantly communicated to the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of
London. They proceed to the spot in the _Maria Wood_, and the one
who secures the interesting saurian is allowed to eat all the green
fat. With you we hope devoutly that the time is far distant when the
desecrating hand of a Socialistic Government will be allowed to lay a
finger on these ancient civic customs. No. The Fishmongers' Company do
not sell fish. Their motto is, _Edo, non vendo_.

       *       *       *       *       *

ACTON EST.--_The Cornhill Magazine_ for this month has an interesting
article on "Actors and Actresses in Westminster Abbey," not seen there
much when alive, but there for good after their decease. It is stated
of Mrs. BARRY that she was not interred in the Abbey, as has been,
it appears, generally supposed, but found her resting-place at Acton.
Odd, that when she had ceased to act, she should be sent to Act-on!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "TAKE CARE OF THE PENCE, AND THE POUNDS," &c.

_Muriel._ "MAMMA, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT THE CARRIAGE OUT FOR SO LATE?
WHERE _ARE_ YOU GOING?"

_Mrs. Goldie._ "NOW, MURIEL, YOU KNOW HOW YOUR FATHER KEEPS WORRYING
ABOUT EXTRAVAGANCE, AND OF COURSE I MUST SET AN EXAMPLE. SO I'M GOING
TO THE PUBLIC LIBRARY TO SEE THE EVENING PAPER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CRY OF THE CUE-IST. (_To the Champion, by a Discouraged
Competitor._)

  Break, break, break,
    On the smooth green board, O JOHN!
  And I would civil words could utter
    My thoughts, as the game goes on!

  O well for the three-figure runs
    You have made since we opened play!
  O ill for my nine thousand start,
    Which you're lessening day by day!

  And the marvellous shots go on
    To your score, which is mounting still!
  But O for a touch of that wondrous hand,
    And a slice of that startling skill!

  Break, break, break!
    _There's_ a shot! Great Scott! O, see!
  What tender grace! And if once ahead
    You will never "come back" to me!

       *       *       *       *       *

    "EPSOM SPRING MEETING."--In former times this used to be a
    fashionable rendezvous for invalids who went there to drink
    the beneficial waters of the Epsom Spring. Now there is not
    much water taken at these Spring Meetings; and what water is
    taken is not "an unmixed good."

       *       *       *       *       *

    A LESSON IN "BOOK-KEEPING."--Never lend one.

       *       *       *       *       *

AFTER THE VOLUNTEER REVIEW.

SCENE--_An Office._ BROWN _and_ JONES _discovered talking over the
incidents of the recent holiday._

_Brown._ Yes; I was up at six on the Monday.

_Jones._ Well, you were in luck; for I had to be ready by four. The
battalion had to be drawn up at the station by 4.45.

_Brown._ To be sure. You went down before we did.

_Jones._ Yes. I wish we had got some coffee before starting.

_Brown._ But you had your breakfast on your arrival, didn't you?

_Jones._ Yes, to be sure; but as we were a bit late, it was rather a
scramble.

_Brown._ Well, of course one has to get on to parade as soon as
possible. We cut it rather fine too. But that's the case with all of
us.

_Jones._ To be sure; and if you lose time at one end, you must make up
for it at the other--that stands to reason. And how did you get on?

_Brown._ First rate. We were on the march from nine to five.

_Jones._ So were we; and didn't have time scarcely to get to our
havresacks.

_Brown._ Just our fortune. Always on the move. I wore out my leathers
in fine style.

_Jones._ So did I. And then we had to go back to the train before we
could get any dinner.

_Brown._ My fate too. And, when I got home, the slavey had forgotten
to lay supper!

_Jones._ So had mine. But still it was a glorious holiday--now, wasn't
it?

_Brown._ I should say it was! A glorious holiday!

[_They return to their ledgers._

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.

ABSCONDRELISM.--I belong to a Building Society. At present the concern
is exceptionally prosperous, and I have no reason to suppose that the
Directors and Manager are not scrupulously honest. Still, it is as
well to be prepared for all eventualities, and, as a couple of years
seems to be about the time required by the authorities before they can
make up their minds to prosecute anybody, I should like to know if
I could apply for a warrant against the officials of my Society _at
once_, so as to have everything ready in case any of them should
develop fraudulent tendencies a few years hence? Would there be any
objection to this? Perhaps some legal reader would reply. Also, is it
a fact that Messrs. BALBERT AND HURLFOUR have started a model Colony,
on entirely new and philanthropic lines, in Mexico, and are inviting
English settlers (unconnected with the "Liberator" Society) to join
them there, the prospectus of the scheme being headed:--"By kind
permission of the Public Prosecutor"?--PROPHYLACTIC.

       *       *       *       *       *

HER "DAY OF REST."

(_The Song of the Shop-Girl._)

[Illustration: ["As one poor shop-girl said:--'After the fatigue and
worry of the week, I am so thoroughly worn out, that my only thought
is to rest on a Sunday; but it goes too quickly, and the other days
drag on so slowly!'"--_Quoted by Sir John Lubbock in the recent Debate
on Early Closing for Shops._]]

      Eight o'clock strikes!
      The short day's sped,--
  My Day of Rest! That beating in my head
  Hammers on still, like coffin-taps. He likes,
  Our lynx-eyed chief, to see us brisk and trim
  On Monday mornings; and though brains may swim,
  And breasts sink sickeningly with nameless pain,
  _He_ cannot feel the faintness and the strain,
  And what are they to him?

      This morning's sun peeped in
      Invitingly, as though to win
  My footsteps fieldwards, just one day in seven!
  The thought of hedgerows was like opening heaven,
      And the stray sunray's gleam,
    Threading the dingy blind,
      Seemed part of a sweet dream,
  For in our sleep the Fates _are_ sometimes kind.
  "Come out!" it said, "but not with weary tread,
      And feet of lead,
  The long, mud-cumbered, cold, accustomed way,
  For the great Shop is shuttered close to-day,
    And you awhile are free!"
  _Free?_ With a chain of iron upon my heart,
  That drags me down, and makes the salt tears start!

  Oh, that inexorable weariness
  That through the enfeebled flesh lays crushing stress
    On the young spirit! Young? There is no youth
    For such as I. It dies, in very truth,
  At the first touch of the taskmaster's hand.
  A doctrine hard for you to understand,
    Gay sisters of the primrose path,
  Whose only chain is as a flowery band.
    The toil that outstays nature hath
  A palsying power, a chilling force
  Which freezes youth at its fresh source.
      Only the Comus wand
  Of an unhallowed Pleasure offers such
  Freedom, and with pollution in its touch.

      The languid lift
  Of head from pillow tells us the good gift
  Of Sabbath rest is more than half in vain.
    Tired! Tired! In flesh, bone, brain,
    Heart, fancy, pulse, and nerve!
  Such is our doom who stand and serve
  The unrewarding public, thoughtless they
    Of slaves whose souls they slay!

  Oh, that long standing--standing--standing yet!
  With the flesh sick, the inmost soul a-fret,
    Pale, pulseless patiences, our very sex,
  That should be a protection, one more load
    To lade, and chafe, and vex.
  No tired ox urged to tramping by the goad
    Feels a more mutely-maddening weariness
  Than we white, black-garbed spectral girls who stand
  Stonily smiling on while ladies grand,
    Easily seated, idly turn and toss
    The samples; and our Watcher, 'neath the gloss
  Of courtly smugness glaring menace, stalks
  About us, creaking cruelty as he walks.

      Stand! Stand! Still stand!
      Clenched teeth and clutching hand,
  Swift blanching cheek, and twitching muscle, tell
  To those who know, what _we_ know all too well,
      Ignored by Fashion, coldly mocked by Trade.
      Are we not for the sacrifice arrayed
  In dainty vesture? Pretty, too, they say
  Male babblers, whom our sufferings and poor pay
      Might shock, could they but guess
      Trim figure and smart dress
  Cover and hide, from all but doctor-ken,
  Disease and threatening death. Oh! men, men, men!
    You bow, smile, flatter--aught but _understand_!
      Long hours lay lethal hand
  Upon our very vitals. Seats might save
      From an untimely grave,
  Hundreds of harried, inly anguished girls;
  _You_ see--their snow-girt throats and neatly-ordered curls!

      Out to the green fields? Nay,
      This all too fleeting day
  To rest is dedicate. But not the rest
  Of brightened spirit, and of lightened breast.
  The dull, dead, half-inanimate leaden crouch
  Of sheer exhaustion on this shabby couch
      Is all my week's repose.
      Read? But the tired eyes close,
    The book from nerveless fingers drops;
      Almost the slow heart stops.
  But the clock halts not on its restless round.
  Weariness shudders at the whirring sound,
      As the sharp strike declares
      Swift to its closing wears
  One more of those brief interludes from toil
  Which leave us still the labour-despot's spoil,
    Slaves of long hours and unrelaxing strain,
    Unstrengthened and unsolaced, soon again
    To tread the round, and lift the lengthening chain;
  _Stand_--till hysteria lays its hideous clutch
  On our girl-hearts, or epilepsy's touch
    Thrills through tired nerves and palsied brain.
      Again--again--again!
  _How long?_ Till Death, upon its kindly quest,
    Gives a true Day of Rest!

       *       *       *       *       *

EASTER MANOEUVRES.

[Illustration: BACCHUS ON A BICYCLE!

(A "SAFETY" TOO!!)

_This incident repeated itself to infinity from the East End to
Hammersmith and back!!_]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROYAL REWARDS TO GOOD PLAYERS.--"As a sequel to the performance of
_Becket_ at Windsor, Mr. IRVING"--as we were informed by the _Daily
News_--"was presented by the QUEEN with a stud." What will he do with
the stud? Will he take to the turf, go racing, and keep the stud at
some Newmarket training-stables? Perhaps "the stud" consisted of fifty
"ponies"--but this is a purse-an'-all matter, into which we are not
at liberty to inquire. Miss ELLEN TERRY received a brooch from HER
MAJESTY, on which are the letters "V.R.I." Our 'ARRY says these
initials signify "_Ve Are 'I_ghly pleased." Or, taking the two
presents together, as speaking, V.R.I, might mean, says 'ARRY, "_Ve
R-Ived safely._"

       *       *       *       *       *

LION AND LAMB.

    ["I think that when we consider an Opposition, in which Lord
    SALISBURY and Mr. CHAMBERLAIN pacifically sit down--or lie
    down, together, we need not, ourselves, feel very sensitive
    on the subject of homogeneity."--_Mr. Gladstone at the F. O.
    Liberal Meeting._]

  Solly had a little Lamb,
    From Brummagem you know!
  And wheresoever SOLLY went
    That Lamb was bound to go.
  The Lion and the Lamb in fact!
    And what could be more jolly?
  Yet some _do_ whisper that--sometimes--
    The Lamb seems leading SOLLY.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHAT HO, APOTHECARY!"--Last week the Earl of BESSBOROUGH was
announced as having arrived at Bessborough, Pilltown, Ireland. What
an appropriate spot for erecting an Irish Apothecaries' Hall! What is
Lord BESSBOROUGH'S family name? Is it The O'COCKLE?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AUTHOR.

  It lay on the book-stall for sale,
    But no one to purchase seemed willing,
  The ticket was "Humorous Tale,
    Two-and-sixpence--reduced to a shilling."

  But the humour was lost upon me.
    And the jest fell uncommonly flat.
  Could the jokes I had written then be
    So fallen in value as that?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FIRST DUTY OF AN OPPOSITION (_As it now seems to
be understood_).--"To lie in cool Obstruction, and talk
rot."--(_Shakspeare_--slightly _adapted_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

MODERN TRANSLATION BY OUR YOUNGEST SPORTING ETONIAN.--"_In formâ
pauperis_"--_i.e._, "in rather poor form."

       *       *       *       *       *

AT AN AFTERNOON ENTERTAINMENT.

SCENE--_Prince's Hall, Piccadilly. Among the Audience are_--A London
Aunt, _and her_ Eldest Daughter, _with a_ Cousin from the Country,
_who is just a little difficult to amuse; a_ Serious-minded Lady _from
Brixton, with a more frivolous_ Friend; _a pair of_ Fiancés; _and
an_ Unsophisticated Father, _with an_ Up-to-date little Daughter.
_An exhibition of "Pure Sleight-of-Hand" has just been given on the
Stage._

_The Serious Lady._ Clever? Yes, my dear, it is _clever_ enough,
if that's all; but I never can quite reconcile _my_ conscience
to encouraging a fellow-creature to make a living by deliberate
deception!

_Her Friend._ Oh, I don't see any harm in conjuring, myself.

_The S. L._ I can't forget that Pharaoh had his Sorcerers and
Magicians, and how _they_ acted!

_Her Friend._ Ah, I never saw _them_.

_The London Aunt_ (_to her_ Niece). Enjoying it, SOPHY? Such a _treat_
for you, to see really good conjuring!

_Sophy._ Yes, Aunt, thank you. But our new Curate did that trick with
_two_ rabbits at the last Penny Readings we had!

[_A calico screen is brought forward on which the Entertainer throws
various shadows with his hands._

_The S. L._ Is that a little house at the corner? Oh, he doesn't do
_that_ with his hands--then I see no merit in it. Who's that? (_A
small male shadow, cast by the performer's right hand, crosses the
screen, and knocks timidly at the door, which is opened by the
left hand, in the character of a little Lady. The couple embrace
effusively, and retire inside._) Ah, that's the husband coming home!

[_Another male shadow enters and knocks furiously, while the little
Lady reconnoitres cautiously from the window above._

_Her Friend._ I expect _that_ must be the husband.

_The S. L._ What?--and the wife behaving like that in his absence! If
I thought _that_ was the---- (_The first male shadow comes out, and
fights the second, who retreats, worsted._) I never saw anything so
scandalous. How you can call yourself consistent, and sit there and
_laugh_ at such things----!

_Her Friend_ (_apologetically_). I can't help laughing--and, after
all, perhaps they're only rival lovers, or he's her _father_, or
something.

_The S. L._ And she inviting one to come into the house in that bold
way--a nice example for young persons! Look there, he's come back with
a flageolet, and she's actually poured a jug of water on his head
out of the window! "Only a pair of hands," did you say? So it _may_
be--but we all know _who_ it is that "Finds some mischief still For
idle hands to do"--and there we have an illustration of it, my dear.

[_She shakes herself down in her sealskins with virtuous disapproval._

_The Unsophisticated Father_ (_who has been roaring with laughter_).
Capital! It is amazingly clever, 'pon my word! Can't imagine how they
do these things--can _you_, VIVVIE? [_To Up-to-Date Child._

_Miss Vivien._ Oh, well I've seen so much conjuring at parties, you
know, Father, that I don't notice it particularly,--but it's nice to
see _you_ so amused!

_The U. F._ I'm _young_, you see, VIVVIE; but I hope you're not bored?

MISS V. No, I'm not _bored_--only I thought there'd be some Serpentine
dancing, and more of the _Music Hall_ about it.

_The U. F._ Music Hall! Why, what do _you_ know about Music Halls, eh?

_Miss V._ (_with calm superiority_). Several of their songs--if you
call _that_ anything.

_The U. F._ I should be inclined to call it a good deal too much!

_Miss V._ (_compassionately_). Would you? Poor dear Father! But you
never _were_ very modern, were you?

[_A Blind-folded Lady on the Stage has been reading and adding up
figures on a black board, and now offers to tell the day of the week
of any person's birth in the audience._

_Her Colleague._ Will some gentleman kindly oblige me with the date of
his birth?

_The Fiancée._ Now, JACK, tell yours. I _want_ you to.

_Jack_ (_in an unnaturally gruff voice_). Fourteenth of February,
eighteen-sixty-nine!

_The Blindfolded Lady_ (_with the air of the Delphic Pythia_).
Yes--_that_ fell upon a Monday.      [_Applause._

_Her Coll._ Is that correct, Sir?

_Jack._ Don't know.

[_He reddens, and tries to look unconscious._

_Her Coll._ Now I will ask the Lady if she can mention some event of
importance that took place on the same date.

_The Bl. L._ Let me think. Yes. (_Solemnly._) On the same
date, in the year seventeen-hundred-and-thirty-seven, goloshes were
first invented!     [_Loud applause._

_Miss V._ (_as the pair retire_). Well, thank goodness, we've seen the
last of that beastly black-board. I didn't come here to add up sums.
What is it next? Oh, a "Farmyard Imitator." I expect that will be
rather rot, Father, don't you?

[_Enter a Gentleman in evening dress who gives realistic imitations of
various live-stock._

_The Country Cousin._ That's _exactly_ the way our little Berkshire
pig grunts, and "Sweetlips" calls her calf just like that--and, oh,
KATIE, I _wonder_ if he could have heard our Dorkings clucking at
home--I think he _must_ have--he does it so exactly the same!

_Katie._ Then you do think _that's_ clever, SOPHY?

_Sophy._ Oh, well--for an _imitation_, you know!

[_A "Sensational Cage Mystery" is introduced; a pretty child is shut
up in a cage, which is opened a moment after, and found to contain a
Negro who capers out, grinning._

_The London Aunt._ SOPHY, do you see that?--there's a black man there
now, instead!

_Sophy_ (_without enthusiasm_). Yes, Aunt, I see, thank you.

_Katie._ Don't you _like_ it, SOPHY?

_Sophy._ I don't see why it need have been a _Nigger_!

_The S. L._ (_after a "Humorous Musical Sketch" by a clever and,
charming young Lady_). Like _that_, my dear?--a Young Woman giving a
description of how she actually went on the Stage, and imitating men
in that way! It was as much as _I_ could do to sit still in my seat!

_Her Friend._ I must say I thought it was very amusing.

_The S. L._ Amusing? I daresay. But, to my mind, young girls have no
_business_ to be amusing, and take off other people. I've no opinion
of such ways myself. I don't know what my dear Mother would have done
if _I'd_ ever been amusing--she would have broken her heart, I do
believe!

_The Friend_ (_to herself_). She wouldn't have split her sides, that's
very certain!

[_A_ Lady Physiognomist _appears in cap and gown, and invites
a subject to step upon the stage, and have his or her character
revealed._

_Jack_ (_to his Fiancée_). No, I say--but look here, FLOSSIE, _really_
I'd rather not--with all these people looking!

_Flossie._ Then I shall think you've something to _conceal_, JACK--you
wouldn't like me to feel that _already_, would you?

[Illustration: "He blinks and smiles in feeble confusion."]

[JACK, _resignedly, mounts the platform, and occupies a chair, in
which he blinks and smiles in feeble confusion, while the_ Professor
_studies his features dispassionately._

_The Lady Phys._ The first thing to notice is the disposition of
the ears. Now here we have a Gentleman whose ears stick out in a very
remarkable manner.      [_Delight of Audience._

_Flossie_ (_to herself_). They _do_--awfully! I never noticed it
before. But it really rather suits him; at least---- [_She meditates._

_The L. Ph._ This denotes an original and inquiring mind; this
gentleman takes nothing on trust--likes to see everything for himself;
he observes a good deal more than he ever says anything about. His
nose is wide at the tip, showing a trustful and confiding disposition;
it has a bump in the centre, denoting a moderate amount of
combativeness. The nostrils indicate a keen sense of humour. (_Here_
JACK _giggles bashfully._) There is a twist in the upper lip,
which indicates--well, I won't say that he would actually tell an
_untruth_--but if he had the opportunity for doing so, he has the
capacity for taking advantage of it. I think that is all I have to say
about this Gentleman.

_Flossie_ (_to_ JACK, _after he has returned to her side_). JACK, if
you can't leave off having an original and inquiring mind, you must at
least promise me _one_ thing--it's very little to ask!

_Jack._ You know I'd do any blessed thing in the world for you
FLOSSIE,--what is it?

_Flossie._ Only to wear an elastic round your ears at night, JACK!

_The Unsophisticated Father_ (_at the conclusion of the exhibition,
as the Missing Lady disappears with a bang, in full view of the
Audience_). There, VIVVIE; she's vanished clean away. What do you say
to that, eh?

_Vivien_ (_composedly_). Well, I think we may as well vanish too
Father. It's all over!

_The S. L._ (_going out_). I don't wish to judge _others_--far from
it--but, speaking for myself, ELIZA, I _cannot_ feel this has been
a profitable method of employing precious moments which can never be
recalled.

_Her Friend._ Oh, it's quite early. You'll have plenty of time to get
a cup of tea, and do some shopping before it's dark.

_The S. L._ (_severely_). That was not precisely what I _meant_,
ELIZA!

[_But it is precisely what she does._

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVERTISEMENT'S ADVERSARIES.

["A Society has been formed to deliver us from hideous
advertisements."

_The Saturday Review._]

  O newly-formed Society, we note with admiration
    The truly novel purpose which you seem to have at heart,
  And with no little eagerness await its consummation,
    When popular advertisements will shine as works of art.

  Then picturesque localities no longer will be crowded
    With puffs of panaceas for our universal ills,
  No longer will the atmosphere be permanently clouded
    By sky-signs built to promulgate a patent soap or pills.

  No more in train or omnibus will every inch of boarding
    Be covered with advertisements of variegated hue;
  No more in every thoroughfare will each obtrusive hoarding
    Blaze, hideously chromatic, with its yellow, red, and blue.

  One thing, perhaps, you'll tell us,--you will pardon the suggestion--
    We doubt not your ability your purposes to win,
  But yet our curiosity would fain propound the question,--
    How, excellent Society, and when, will you begin?

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE FLOWERS THAT BLOOM IN THE SPRING" may now be seen in all their
glory at the Crystal Palace Show. The excellent arrangements there
made for their exhibition prove that they have been designed and
carried out by a clever "Head"-Gardener.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration: At Easter Time the Baron de B.-W. visits his friend
_The_ Peer of Brighton.]

Seeing that _A Wild Wooing_ (published by F. V. WHITE & CO.) is by
FLORENCE WARDEN, authoress of _The House on the Marsh_, the Baron
anticipated a real treat. But he was somewhat disappointed. The novel
is in one volume, which is an attraction, and that volume is of a
portable size, which is another note in its favour; also it is
not illustrated, which is an undisguised blessing. The story is
interesting up to a certain point, which, however, does not take you
very far into the book, and, after this point, the murmurings behind
walls, the moving and dragging of heavy bodies under the floors, the
insecure rope-ladders, the trap-doors, cellars, underground passages,
smugglers, murderers, victims, and all sorts of mixed mysteries,
become tiresome. There is yet another fault, which is, that the story
is not told in so convincing a style as to make the reader feel quite
sure that the authoress is not "getting at him" all the time, and
just trying to see what quantity of old melodramatic stuff he will
patiently stand.

Henceforth FLORENCE WARDEN will do well to get away from the rusty
bars, bolts, chains, trap-doors, and cellars, from ruined castles,
as grim as that of _Udolpho_, "of which," as Sir WALTER said in his
preface to _Waverley_, "the Eastern wing had long been uninhabited,
and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some aged butler
or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, &c., &c." Accidentally, turning
from "White" to "Black," the Baron took up the first volume of the
excellent re-issue of the _Waverley Novels_, by Messrs. ADAM AND
CHARLES BLACK, called _The Dryburgh Edition_, and commenced reading
the introductory chapter of _Waverley_, which at that time, gave the
death-thrust to the melodramatic horrors of romantic tales, whether
evolved from the inner consciousness of English writers, or openly
acknowledged as "taken from the German."

In view of the sensational romance of the present day, towards which,
when really good, the Baron owns to having a decided leaning--it is
interesting to note how brave Sir WALTER defied the existing fashion
in novels of his own time, spurned the sentimental "Mordaunts," the
"Belvilles," and such like played-out names of ancient chivalry,
laughed at the heroine "with a profusion of auburn hair and a harp,"
and, like the Magician of the North that he was, boldly gave to the
world his historic novels, in which, where History doesn't suit the
requirements of fiction, it is so much the worse for History. Are
there very many of the present generation who have not read Sir WALTER
SCOTT'S novels? If there be any--and there must be, or where would be
the demand to occasion this new and admirably devised supply--let them
at once put aside modern sensationalism, and commence WALTER SCOTT as
a study. The Baron knows personally one man of mature years, who has
read neither _Waverley_ nor several others of the series, and him he
envies, for, as the student in question has already set himself to the
task, he has the greatest literary pleasure of his life yet to
come. Type, size of book, excellent as a library edition; and the
illustrations, so far as they have gone, are good, and not too
distracting. And so, after this unequivocal expression of his
sentiments, he signs himself,

THE BOLD BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LESSON IN ALTRUISM.

ALWAYS BE KIND TO DUMB ANIMALS--THEIR LIVES ARE SHORT, AND SHOULD
BE MADE HAPPY AND AS COMFORTABLE AS POSSIBLE--EVEN AT THE COST OF A
LITTLE TEMPORARY DISCOMFORT TO YOURSELF.]

       *       *       *       *       *

BACK TO SCHOOL; OR, DOCTOR BLIMBER-GLADSTONE AND HIS "LIT-TLE
FRIENDS."

(_Dombeyish Fragments, with a smack of "The Mikado."_)

Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Dr. BLIMBER-GLADSTONE,
he might consider himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor
only undertook the charge of a limited number of young gentlemen at a
time, but he had always ready a supply of "cram" for a hundred, on the
lowest estimate; and it was at once the business and delight of
his life to gorge "his young friends," few or many, to their utmost
capacity, and sometimes beyond it.

In fact, Dr. GLADSTONE'S establishment was a great Hothouse, in which
there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys blew
before their time--or so said the Doctor's rivals and foes. Mental
Green Peas were produced in February, and intellectual Scarlet-Runners
in March. Mathematical Great Gooseberries were common at untimely
seasons, other than the appropriate Silly one.

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing
was attended with its usual disadvantage. There was sometimes not the
right taste about the premature productions, and they didn't always
keep well.

The Doctor's was a mighty fine House, fronting the river. Not always a
joyful style of House within; sometimes quite the contrary. The seats
were in rows, like figures in a sum. The sitters also were often in
rows--with a slight (phonetic) difference. The House was well provided
with Hot Water, on the "constant-supply" system. But somehow this
seemed rather to conduce to discomfort than to real cleanliness,--like
the too frequent and tumultuous "turning-outs" of an over-zealous
housewife. A "Spring Clean," at St. Stephen's School, was a thing
to remember, and shudder at. It was not a quiet House at the best of
times. It seemed ever haunted by the Banshee of Noise, and disturbed
by the cacophonous ghosts of dead Echoes. At the peacefulest periods
it was pervaded by a baneful Spook called the "Party Spirit," and
always by the dull booings of unwilling young gentlemen at their
lessons, like the raucous murmurings of an assemblage of melancholy
rooks, or of kites and crows cawing and screaming in the intervals of
their clamorous scufflings.

       *       *       *       *       *

Holidays? Oh dear yes! If there was one thing Doctor GLADSTONE'S
"young friends" _did_ care for, it was Holidays! The Doctor himself
seemed as though he could--and were it possible--would do without
them. But the Doctor's "lit-tle friends," however docile, could never
be brought to see _that_. They did not usually commence their Spring
"term" until February. And they were rips, even rampant, for a long
"Recess" at Easter. When the Doctor, using his well-beloved formula,
said, "Gentlemen, we will resume our studies upon----" they hung
upon his words, and, if the conclusion of his formula showed any
disposition to cut the Holidays short, they howled loudly in chorus,
like hungry wolves disappointed of their quarry.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a sight to see Doctor GLADSTONE'S little friends returning to
School _after_ the Easter Vacation. The Doctor, looking complacently
expansive, cheerily anticipative, welcomed them on the doorstep.
_They_ did not welcome _him_. Oh, dear no! Look at them; the five
senior pupils in front, headed, of course, by that overgrown and
somewhat ungainly Irish boy, Master PATRICK GREEN, cock of the School,
and prime favourite of Doctor GLADSTONE! Can you not fancy them
singing--after a famous original--the following quintett?

           _The Five._ Five little boys for school are we,
                       Back from a very short ho-li-dee;
                       All as reluctant as well can be,--
                           Five little boys for School!
       _Master Green._ Holiday's over, there's no more fun!      [_Groans._
       _Master Hodge._ Only just started! Wish I was done!      [_Snivels._
        _Master Bung._ As for _me_, wish I'd never _begun_!       [_Howls._
           _The Five._     Five little boys for School!
  _All_ (_shrinking_). Five little boys who, all unwary,
                       Entered old GLADSTONE'S big seminary,
                       Slaves to his Genius tutelary----
  _The Five_ (_suddenly demure, on catching sight of the Doctor_)--
                           Five little boys "back to School!.!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BACK TO SCHOOL; OR, DR. GLADSTONE AND HIS YOUNG
FRIENDS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

SONGS OF SOCIETY. II.--A LETTER OF ADVICE.

_From Miss Belinda Bullion at Monte Carlo, to Miss Angelina Veaudor,
in Mayfair._ (_Being a Pendant to a celebrated Poem by Praed._)

[Illustration]

  They tell me you've "landed" a lover
    (Don't pout at the slang, dear, 'tis _chic_),
  Before your first Season is over,
    Before I have left you a week.
  I learned the good news through my mother.
    Who _is_ he? I wish I could guess.
  If it's dear Lord FITZ-FRUMPINGTON'S brother,
    My own ANGELINA, say "Yes."

  _Tres chère_, we know Fortune and Fashion
    Are sensible girlhood's sole guides,
  Smart maidenhood ridicules passion,
    And sentiment calmly derides.
  I gave you "Bel Ami" as token
    That we were not victims of "glow;"
  You gave me your vow--is it broken?
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  We vowed, dear, no matter at what age,
    By Sentiment not to be hooked,
  Or cheated by Love in a Cottage,
    Or Shepherds enchantingly crook'd.
  Too well, dear, _we_ know modern men's tone,
    Of "briar" the pipes which _they_ blow.
  Say, have you gone soft _à la_ SHENSTONE?
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  Remember the cynic romances
    We read in that Devonshire glen!
  We are not the slaves of girl-fancies,
    We've learned far too much about Men!
  'Tis nice, with your head on his shoulder,
    To whirl through the waltz with FRANK LOWE,
  But should poor Adonis grow bolder,
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  You know without wealth and a carriage
    Life's just a prolonged fit of spleen,
  So don't let me mourn o'er your marriage
    With any poor BROWN, JONES, or GREEN.
  You swore mere romance should not thrill you,
    Nor gold-less good looks make you glow;
  And you will not go back on it--will you?
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  We're parted, but sympathy's fetter
    Unites us, I'm sure of it, still.
  I read your last laughable letter,
   And see you are steering with skill.
  True Love is all fiddlededee, love,
    Full coffers count only, below.
  If he's not what your husband should be, Love,
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  If he's over polite in his wooing,
    If his heart is too plainly a-throb,
  If he scarce seems aware what he's doing,
    If he speaks with a blush or a sob;
  If he is not "dead nuts" on his dinner,
    If his voice or his spirits run low;
  If he seems getting paler or thinner,
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  If he gives too much time to his Tennis,
    Neglectful of dear L. S. D.,
  If he chatters of WHISTLER and Venice,
   If he cares about Five o'clock Tea;
  If he's not sometimes rude or capricious
    (All swells who have money are so),
  Such signs are extremely suspicious;
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  If he shows a contempt for "the City,"
    And drops little jeers about Jews,
  If he talks of "the People" with pity,
    Or rails at the Sweaters as "screws,"
  These things prove a "popular leaning,"
    And popular leanings are low;
  Soft heart, and slack purse, are _their_ meaning--
   My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  If he prates about Property's duties
    In diction at all Gladstonese,
  If he's down on Society Beauties,
    If he has not a stare that can freeze;
  If he does not abuse Foreign Powers,
    And vote all philosophy slow,
  If he's one of the time's "big Bow-wowers,"
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  He must walk like a Cit in his glory,
    Of Money the true modern test,
  He must be--yes, of course, dear--a Tory,
    (As _partis_ that party are best)
  If he knows not the old Carlton's portal,
    Then--unless you've a Duke for a beau--
  I beg you--for girls are but mortal--
    My own ANGELINA, say "No!"

  Don't bother about his extraction
    Although there's a charm in good birth,
  But Wealth yields life's sole satisfaction,
    So find out, dear girl, _what he's worth_!
  He may be but an oil-striking Yankee,
    Eccentric in manners and dress,
  But, if he has tin worth a "thankee,"
    My own ANGELINA, say "Yes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MISTER JACKY'S VADE MECUM FOR THE EASTER HOLIDAYS.

_Question._ What is the chief object you wish to attain during the
Vacation?

_Answer._ To have the best time possible under the most favourable
conditions.

_Q._ Is the comfort of your relations and friends to be taken into
serious account in attaining this desirable end?

_A._ Certainly not; the details to which you refer are unworthy of a
moment's consideration.

_Q._ Have you any objection to upsetting all the household
arrangements on your arrival?

_A._ Unquestionably no. If a morning performance commences at an hour
early enough to require luncheon to be discussed at 12:30, why the
_déjeuner à la fourchette_ (as the French would say) must be
partaken within half-an-hour of noon. In like manner, if an evening
representation begins at seven, the dinner-hour must be put back to
half-past five.

_Q._ If these alterations cause any disturbance of your father's
habits, how would you deal with the matter?

_A._ I would not deal with the matter at all. I would leave all purely
necessary explanations to my mother.

_Q._ During the time of your vacation will you approve of any
dinner-parties?

_A._ I have a rooted objection to such entertainments when the guests
are of my parents' selection. However, I have no objection to a few
fellows, say, like SMITH Major, or BROWN Minor, dropping in to supper
on a Sunday.

_Q._ Assuming that the hour you mention is your parents' favourite
time for peace and quiet, does such an invasion suggest any
reflection?

_A._ No. If my parents have become slow during my enforced absence
from home in the search of knowledge, it is time they should have the
benefit accruing from contact with my revivifying characteristics.

_Q._ Supposing your father expostulates with you, and advances
the fact that you have received greater advantages than he himself
enjoyed--for instance, that you have been to Eton--what should you
reply?

_A._ Practically nothing. However, in the cause of justice and truth,
it might be advisable to answer his statement of fact that "he had
never been to Eton" with the reply, "Anyone could see that."

_Q._ If he complains that you do not rise until eleven, smoke
cigarettes in the dining-room before lunch, smash the grand piano in
the drawing-room, lame his favourite cob in the Row, and upset all his
documents in the study, what answer would you make?

_A._ That you were not responsible for the training which he had taken
under his personal control. He must be satisfied with the broad result
of your bringing-up.

_Q._ If he declares his intention of addressing the Superintendent of
your scholastic career on the matter, what would you do?

_A._ Explain that your present position in the school, to which you
supposed you would have to reluctantly return, was lacking in the
element of popularity, and that any further move in the direction
of increased reduction in that element might possibly lead to your
expulsion. Deprecate personal objection to expulsion, but suggest
that such a course might, by preventing your getting employment in the
Church, Army, or Bar, lead to your being on your parents' hands for
life.

_Q._ When the time has all but arrived for your return to school, what
should you do?

_A._ Promptly catch the whooping-cough, the influenza, or measles. You
will then afford a sufficient reason for extending the length of your
vacation indefinitely.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TERRIBLE TURK.

_Little Spinks._ "AH! ONCE I WAS AS INNOCENT AS A LITTLE CHILD! WHAT I
AM _NOW_, YOUR SEX HAS MADE ME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOBLE SELF-SACRIFICE.

"The Duke of DEVONSHIRE has arranged to return from Monte Carlo
on Saturday," so said the _Morning Post_, "in order to address a
political meeting at Glasgow on April 14th." His Grace having torn
himself away from delightful Monte Carlo, will then attempt to turn
the tables on the _Liberales Gladstonienses_. But fancy renouncing
sunny Mount Charles--"O Charley Mount is a pleasant place," as sang
_Miles na Coppaleen_, who was, by the way, miles away from Monte
Carlo--with its azure sky, its deep blue sea, its verdant green-cloth
table land, its delightful _promenades à pied_, and its frisky
_gambols à la roulette_, where the sunset and sunrise are _rouge_,
and _noir_ is only "on the cards." Fancy renouncing these gay southern
delights to live a laborious day in dry, hard, northern Glasgow!
"O swallow, swallow, flying, flying South," how would you like to be
checked in your holiday-making airy career in order to be brought back
to the cold and cruel North? Such a self-sacrifice as this is indeed
memorable.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE BY THE SEA.   WIND N.E. BY E.

  "We do not speak as we pass by!"
  But tears down trickle from our eye!
  Alas! Our love remains untold----
  For each has got a thundering cold!

       *       *       *       *       *

BOOKS THAT OUGHT TO APPEAR.

_I Banish the Street Organs!_ By the Author of _I Forbid the Banns!_

_A Boy's Present._ (Birthday Book.) By the Author of _A Girl's Past_.

No. 1 of _The Domestic Lyre_, as a Companion to _The Family
Storyteller_.

       *       *       *       *       *

YET THEY LOOK SO INNOCENT!--In the Language of Flowers, what species
should always express untruths?--Li-lies.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday Night, March 27._--The Lowther Arcade not
getting on so well as thought when projected. The Master Builder
been diligently at work, but result disappointing. On Friday he
got terribly snubbed by SPEAKER. Comes up to-day to make personal
explanation. That a bait at which House usually jumps; always ready to
be amused, or interested with scandal about Queen ELIZABETH and other
persons. These things usually promised by personal explanation. To-day
no flutter of excitement moved crowded House. JEMMY, approaching table
with most judicial air, received with mocking laughter, and ironical
cheers. Some difficulty in quite making out what he was at. Evidently
something to do with SQUIRE of MALWOOD; but SQUIRE so inextricably
mixed up with Supplementary Estimates, couldn't make out which
was which. JAMES pounded along in most ponderous style; SQUIRE
contemptuously replied; no one else inclined to join in conversation,
and the Master Builder gloomily resumed his seat.

"Never mind," I said, not liking to see an old friend cast down; "Rome
wasn't built in a day, nor the Cave of Adullam excavated in a week.
These things grow. You must have patience, and the Lowther Arcade
will still flourish. Let me see, whom you have got? There's BARTLEY,
HANBURY, and TOMMY BOWLES. LOWE, forming his Cave, hadn't so many to
start with."

"Yes," said the Master Builder, "that's all very well; but, fact is,
you can't reckon upon these fellows as being, so to speak, colonnades
in the Arcade. They are all on their own hook; fighting for their own
hand; won't take the lead from me; must go foraging for themselves.
HANBURY thinks he can boss a show better than most men. BARTLEY'S
obstreperous. TOMMY BOWLES would be all right if he were left to
himself, free from the companionship of designing men. He is young,
ingenuous, not wholly lost to a sense of regard for his pastors and
masters, lack of which is the curse of modern Youth. I believe TOMMY
respects me, and, only for the evil communications to which he is
subject on the back bench, would work loyally with me in establishing
the Arcade."

There was unwonted moisture in the Master Builder's eye as he turned
round, and regarded the Member for King's Lynn what time he softly
whistled to himself the old Jacobite air, "_Tommy make Room for your
Uncle_."

_Business done._--Vote of Censure moved by Prince ARTHUR; Government
majority runs up on division to 47; Ministerialists, fresh from
meeting at Foreign Office, agree that, on whole, have spent a happy
day. Debate spasmodically dull. Prince ARTHUR could not lift it out of
the rut, nor GRANDOLPH either. Only Mr. G. shone with effulgent light
through gloom of evening. Principal result of manoeuvre, beyond
giving fillip to majority, is that a day will be filched from meagre
holidays, and House must needs sit on Thursday.

_Tuesday._--Mr. G. looked in in time to say a few words in reply to
Prince ARTHUR'S inquiries as to business arrangements. Later he came
back, and delivered excellent speech; brief, and direct to point.
House been talking all morning round Vote on Account. MACFARLANE done
Rule-of-three sum, to show how twelve hundred days are lost every week
by necessity imposed upon Members of coming down two hours in advance
to take their seats. Some disposition shown by practical Members to
argue question whether there could be twelve hundred days in any week,
even in Leap-Year.

"I know I'm right," said MACFARLANE, and the sceptics, gazing
respectfully at his flowing beard, withdrew from controversy.

House divided on Motion by LEGH to reduce Foreign Office Vote.
Ministerial majority run up at a jump to 225. Time by Westminster
clock, 6.10 P.M.; in twenty minutes, sitting will be suspended; Vote
must be through Committee to-day; TOMMY BOWLES (who hasn't made a
speech for a quarter of an hour) on his feet; sheafs of manuscript in
his hand; would certainly oblige to extent of twenty minutes; BARON
DE WORMS also has a few remarks to offer; probable length of Channel
Tunnel. Mr. G. interposes. "Mr. MELLOR," he said, addressing Chairman,
"I claim to have the question now put."

Ringing cheers went up from Ministerialists. TOMMY resumed his seat;
gruefully glanced at notes. The Noble Baron saw in this manoeuvre
fresh proof that Mr. G. had sold himself to Germany; having completed
preparation for separation of the Empire on the side of the Irish
Channel, would immediately after, by medium of WATKIN'S Tunnel, place
what was left of the country at the mercy of a foreign foe. Meanwhile
Closure moved; what's more, carried on division by swingeing majority
of over a hundred. So Vote agreed to; Mr. G. gets off for short drive
before dressing for dinner.

[Illustration: EASTER AT THE ZOO.]

Earned a night's rest, and a longer Easter holiday than he has
allotted to himself and us. Older he gets, the younger he seems. His
work to-day should make the eight-hours' man blush. At bay in Downing
Street since twelve o'clock with two hostile deputations. Came from
Ulster and the City, resolved to beard Home-Rule Lion in his den.
Alone he met them; one down, the other come on; no interval of rest;
picked men from Ulster, Selected Captains from the City, surged around
table at which he sat. Hardly left him time to reply. Having politely
conducted Ulster to door, enter the City Fathers, fresh and eager for
fray. Told him over again in varied phrase how he was bringing country
to verge of ruin; listened with perfect courtesy, as if they'd been
discussing someone else--say, his next-door neighbour, SQUIRE of
MALWOOD and Junior Lord of Downing Street. Up again when last in list
of City speakers had concluded. Almost persuaded JOHN LUBBOCK to be
a Home-Ruler; then down to House, dealing with mass of correspondence
littering his table in room behind SPEAKER'S chair; alert on sound of
division-bell; comes in to move Closure; remembers that in long list
of speeches never made this particular one before; looks up PALGRAVE'S
_Handbook_; cons his lesson and declaims brief formula in deep rich
voice that lends touch of eloquence to its unadorned, remorseless
demand. All this, too, following on a day like yesterday, when two
other deputations stormed Downing Street; drew from him weighty reply;
followed, after hasty dinner, by a speech in the House on the eternal
Irish question, which GRANDOLPH rightly termed, "entrancing."

"A Grand Old Man, indeed!" said PRINCE ARTHUR, talking over these
things to-night, when he should have been listening to TOMMY BOWLES,
who having at the morning sitting had his speech on Vote on Account
closured, delivered another at evening sitting on the question of the
Depreciation of Silver as it affects domestic architecture in China
and Peru.

_Business done._--Vote on Account through Committee.

_Thursday._--CAINE going about House this afternoon, his slim figure
bulging out at the pockets in mysterious fashion, "Brought your supper
with you?" I asked, lightly touching one of the excrescences that felt
like an imperial pint of ginger-beer (WHITE 1880). "You seem bursting
with broiled bones. All no use. No more all-night sittings _this_ side
of Easter."

[Illustration: Portrait of a Member of Parliament examining the
Signatures to a Petition against the Local-Veto Bill, to see if they
are genuine or not. (_Vide_ Report of the Proceedings in the Commons,
March 28, which suggests that they are obtained in Public Houses.)]

"No, my boy, you're wrong," said CAINE. "Fact is, I'm going off to
the country, and these protuberances you observe about my person are
phonograms. All labelled, you see," he said, taking out cylinders from
several pockets. "Here are a few remarks on Registration; that's my
Local-Veto Speech; and here is an entirely new view of the Home-Rule
question. If you like to come over to my house at Clapham--close by,
you know, busses every ten minutes--you shall have a night's thorough
enjoyment. Leave you in the room by yourself with the phonograph. Pop
in one of these cylinders; set the phonograph whizzing; and you'll
hear me on Local Veto. Take out cylinder, put in another, and you'll
know more about Home Rule in five minutes than you ever dreamt.
Can only let you have them for to-night. To-morrow they go down to
Yorkshire, and thro' Easter Recess I shall be delivering, at various
places, six speeches every night, I myself comfortably making holiday
in Wales." "Thank you," I said; "but, if you'll excuse me, I think
I'll go home and go to bed." In truth, a little depressed. Here's a
nice prospect for the holidays! Bad enough to have Members working off
at public meetings speeches that had been closured in Commons. But if
every man is, during the recess, to multiply himself by phonography,
the last state of this country will be worse than the first.

_Business done._--Adjourned for Easter Holidays. Just escaped sitting
over Good Friday. Back next Thursday.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW "FOURTH PARTY."

T. G. B-wl-s.  Right Hon. J-m-s L-wth-r.  G. C. B-rtl-y.  R. W. H-nb-ry.]

       *       *       *       *       *


[Transcriber's Note:
Missing or illegible/damaged punctuation has been repaired.]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, April 8, 1893" ***

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