Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 24, 1891

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 24, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 24, 1891" ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

October 24, 1891.

LAISSEZ FAIRE.

(_INSCRIPTION FOR A FREE PUBLIC LIBRARY._)

[Illustration]

Here is an Institution doomed to scare
The furious devotees of _Laissez Faire_.
What mental shock, indeed, could prove immenser
To Mumbo Jumbo--or to HERBERT SPENCER?
Free Books? Reading provided from the Rates?
Oh, that means Freedom's ruin, and the State's!
Self-help's all right,--e'en if you rob a brother--
But human creatures must _not_ help each other!
The "Self-made Man," whom SAMUEL SMILES so praises,
Who on his fellows' necks his footing raises,
The systematic "Sweater," who sucks wealth
From toiling crowds by cunning and by stealth,--
_He_ is all right, _he_ has no maudlin twist,
_He_ does not shock the Individualist!
But rate yourselves to give the poor free reading?
The Pelican to warm her nestlings bleeding,
Was no such monument of feeble folly.
_Let folks alone_, and all will then be jolly.
Let the poor perish, let the ignorant sink,
The tempted tumble, and the drunkard drink!
Let--no, _don't_ let the low-born robber rob,
Because,--well, that would rather spoil the job.
If footpad-freedom brooked no interference,
Of Capital there might be a great clearance;
But, Wealth well-guarded, let all else alone.
'Tis thus our race hath to true manhood grown:
To make the general good the common care,
Breaks through the sacred law of _Laissez Faire_!

* * * * *

A REMONSTRANCE.

_TO LUKE'S LITTLE SUMMER._

[Illustration]

Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run,
With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like one
Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day,
Till half the guests and all the joy is gone,
And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.

What though the faithful trees, still gladly green,
Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between,
Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn,
It only tells us of what might have been
Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.

Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain,
How can the roses dare to trust again
The tricksy mistress whom they once adored?
Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain,
Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.

Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs,
When the tall simple lilies--the giraffes
That browse on loftier air than other flowers--
When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs,
Like chidden children droop among the bowers.

Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds,
The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads,
And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran
When showers, in mockery of his moist needs,
Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.

What woman's rights have crazed thee?
Would'st thou be
A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he?
Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing?
Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea,
Nor wake thy cowslips up on May morning?

What, shall we brew us possets by the fire
And let the wild rose shiver on the brier.
The cowslip tremble in the meadows chill,
While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher
And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill?

It is too late; thou art no love of mine;
I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine;
The sunlight penitently streaming down
Shines through the paling leaf like thinnest wine
Quaff'd in the clear air of a mountain town.

Farewell! For old love's sake I kiss thy hands;
Go on thy way; away to other lands
That love thee less, and need thee less than we;
Pour out thy passion on some desert sands,
Forget thy lover of the Northern Sea.

Away with fond pretence; let winter come
With snow that strikes the heaviest footfall dumb.
We know the worst, and face his rage with glee;
And, though the world without be ne'er so glum,
Sit by the hearth, and dream and talk--of thee.

Yes, come again with earliest April; stay,
Thyself once more, through the fair time when day
Clasps hand with day, through the brief hush of night--
A twilight bower of roses, where in play
Dance little maidens through from light to light.

* * * * *

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

[Lord HAWKE's team of Cricketers were beaten at Manheim by
the Philadelphians by eight wickets whereat the _Philadelphia
Ledger_ cockadoodles considerably. The Britishers, however,
won the return match somewhat easily.]

The Yankee Eagle well might squeal and squawk
At having licked the British bird (Lord) HAWKE.
But when that HAWKE his brood had "pulled together,"
That Eagle found it yet might "moult a feather."
Go it, ye friendly-fighting fowls! But know
'Tis only "Roosters" who o'er conquest _crow_!

* * * * *

HOME SWEET HOME!

(_BY ONE WHO BELIEVES THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE IT._)

[Illustration]

Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers,
After an exile of two months or so,
Swiss or Italian). Sweet--to find your Banker's
Balance getting low.

Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento.
Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen,
Into a climate that you know not when to
Really call serene.

Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters
Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim,
Back to a cook who passionately caters
Not for you, but _him_.

Sweet to return from _Table-d'Hôtes_ disgusting
(Oh, how you grumbled at the _Sauce Romaine_!)
Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting
Solid joints again.

Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely
Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
Back to a land where perquisites are surely
Never, never claimed.

Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
_Pourboires_ and _Trinkgelds_ grudgingly bestowed--
Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
Or the Cromwell Road.

Sweet to return from "all those dreadful tourists,"
Such mixed society as chance allots,
E'en to the social splendour of the purists
Of those sparkling spots.

Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty!
(Some of the latter at our Custom House)
Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty
Of the British mouse!

Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and sweet'll
Welcome the pilgrim, doomed too long to roam,
England's tried sentinel, the black, black beetle
With his "Home, sweet Home!"

* * * * *

[Illustration: LONDON'S DILEMMA; OR, "FAIR ROSAMOND" UP TO DATE.

(_Lately-discovered Fragments of a valuable and interesting "Variant"
of the old Ballad Story._)]

* * * * *

When as VICTORIA rulde this land,
The firste of that greate name,
Faire Loundonne, of the cockneyes lovde,
Attaynd to power and fame.

Most peerlesse was her splendoure founde,
Her favour, and her face;
Yet was there one thing marred her weale,
And wroughte her dire disgrace.

Her dower was all that showered golde,
Like Danaë's, could her lende,
Yet dwelt she in the ogreish holde
Of fell and fearsome fiende.

Yea Loundonne Towne, faire Loundonne Towne,
Her name was calléd so,
To whom the Witch Monopolie
Was known a deadlye foe.

* * * * *

Now when ye Countie Councile woke,
And FARRER rose to fame,
With envious heart Monopolie
To Loundonne straightway came.

"Cast off from thee those schemes," said she,
"That greate and costlye bee,
And drinke thou up this deadlye cup,
Which I have brought to thee!"

"Take pitty on my awkward plight!"
Faire Loundonne she dyd crye,
"And lett me not with poison stronge
Enforcéd be to dye!"

Then out and laught that wicked Witch:
"If that you will not drinke,
This dagger choose! Though you be riche,
You'll shrinke from _that_, I thinke."

The dagger was a magic blayde,
With figures graven o'er,
Which, as you gazed thereon, did seeme
To growe to more and more.

"Nay," quothe faire Loundonne, "'tis but choyce
'Twixt dyvill and deepe sea!
I praye thee take thyself awaye,
And leave the jobbe to me!"

But nothynge could this grasping Witch
Therewith appeaséd be.
The cup of deadlye poison stronge,
As she knelt on her knee,

She gave this comely dame to drinke,
Who tooke it in her hande,
Then from her bended knees arose,
And on her feet did stande.

And casting Council-wards her eyes,
She did for rescue call,
When--[_Fragmentes further may be founde,_
_At presente thys is alle!_

_If close researche, as welle we hope,_
_Perchaunce complete ye texte,_
_This ballade, as scribes saye, shall be_
_"Continued in our next!"_]

* * * * *

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

[Illustration]

Wanted, a few good extra Judges, who will be prepared to do all the
work at present delayed or neglected by the existing members of the
Bench. They will be expected to dispense with all vacations except a
week at Christmas, five days at Easter, and a fortnight from the first
to the fifteenth of October. They will devote their entire time to the
service of the State, both day and night. Their day will be devoted to
business in the High Court of Justice in the Strand, and when required
they will go Circuit (by special express) sitting at the various
assizes from 9 P.M. until 3 A.M., returning to London by trains timed
to reach the Metropolis sufficiently early to allow of the usual
morning sitting. They will be further required to consider their
leisure (if any) entirely at the disposal of those members of the
Bar and Solicitors who require it. If they do this punctually and
diligently, without knocking up, they will be permitted to draw
salaries computed at the rate of about one-third of the emoluments
received by a third-rate Queen's Counsel; and if they grow lazy, or
are incapacitated by illness, they will be rewarded by a number of
personal attacks in the London newspapers. Applications to be sent
to the Lord Chancellor (endorsed "Extra Judges to suppress outside
clamour") as early as possible. Every candidate for an appointment
will be expected to be as strong as a horse, and as insensible to
feeling as the back of a rhinoceros.

* * * * *

Big Drinkers, Moderate Drinkers, and Little Drinkers--this is the
Tipple Alliance!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."--NO. 3.

WHEN HIS DENTIST _WILL_ SUSPEND OPERATIONS TO TELL HIM FUNNY STORIES.]

* * * * *

GILBERT À BECKETT.

BORN, APRIL 7, 1837. DIED, OCT. 15, 1891.

"Wearing the white flower of a blameless life."

TENNYSON.

GILBERT the Good! Title, though high, well earned
By him through whose rare nature brightly burned
The fire of purity,
Undimmed, unflickering, like some altar flame
Sky-pointing ever. Friend, what thought of blame
Hath coldest heart for thee?

A knightly-priest or priestly-knight wert thou,
Man of the radiant eye and reverent brow;
Chivalry closely knit
With fervent faith in thee indeed were blent;
Thought upon high ideals still intent,
And a most lambent wit.

Serene, though with a power of scathing scorn
For all things mean or base. Sorrow long borne,
Though bowing, soured not thee.
Bereaved, health-broken, still that patient smile
Wreathed the pale lips which never greed or guile
Shaped to hypocrisy.

A saintly-hearted wit, a satirist pure,
Mover of mirth spontaneous as sure,
And innocent as mad;
Incongruous freak and frolic phantasy
Were thy familiar spirits, quickening glee
And wakening laughter glad.

Dainty as _Ariel_, yet as _Puck_ profuse
Of the "preposterous," was that wit, whose use
Was ever held "within
The limits of becoming mirth." His whim
Never shy delicacy's glance could dim,
Or move the cynic grin.

But that fate's hampering hand lay on him long
He might have won in drama and in song
A more enduring name.
But he is gone, the gentle, loyal, just,
Whence all these things fall earthward with the dust
Of fleeting earthly fame.

Gone from our hoard, gone from the home he loved!
With what compassion are his comrades moved
For those who sit alone
With memories of him! Gracious memories all!
A thought to lighten, like that flower, his pall,
And hush love's troubled moan.

Farewell, fine spirit! To be owned thy friend
Was something to illume the unwelcome end
Of comradeship below.
A loving memory long our board will grace,
In fancy, with that sweet ascetic face.
That brow's benignant glow.

* * * * *

RHYME AT RHYL.

(_BY A LISTENING LAYMAN._)

If Cleric Congresses could only care
A little less for the mere Church and Steeple,
Parochial pomp and power in lion's share,
And have one aim--to purify the People,
They need not shrink from Disestablishment,
Or any other secular enormity;
Unselfish love of Man destroys Dissent,
True Charity provokes no Nonconformity.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. XI.

SCENE--_A Balcony outside the Musik-Saal of the Insel Hotel,
Constance. Miss PRENDERGAST is seated; CULCHARD is leaning
against the railing close by. It is about nine; the moon has
risen, big and yellow, behind the mountains at the further
end of the lake; small black boats are shooting in and out of
her track upon the water; the beat of the steamers' paddles
is heard as they come into harbour. CULCHARD has just
proposed._

_Miss Prendergast_ (_after a silence_). I have always felt very
strongly with RUSKIN, that no girl should have the cruelty to refuse a
proposal--

_Culchard_ (_with alacrity_). RUSKIN is always so right.
And--er--where there is such complete sympathy in tastes and ideas, as
I venture to think exists in our own case, the cruelty would--

[Illustration: "It does seem rather rough on fellows, don't you
know."]

_Miss P._ Pray allow me to finish! "Refuse a proposal _at once_" is
RUSKIN's expression. He also says (if my memory does not betray me),
that "no lover should have the insolence to think of being accepted at
once." You will find the passage somewhere in "_Fors_."

_Culch._ (_whose jaw has visibly fallen_). I cannot say I recall it
at this moment. Does he hold that a lover should expect to be accepted
by--er--instalments, because, if so--

_Miss P._ I think I can quote his exact words. "If she simply doesn't
like him, she may send him away for seven years--"

_Culch._ (_stiffly_). No doubt that course is open to her. But why
seven, and where is he expected to go?

_Miss P._ (_continuing calmly_). "He vowing to live on cresses and
wear sackcloth meanwhile, or the like penance."

_Culch._ I feel bound to state at once that, in my own case, my
position at Somerset House would render anything of that sort utterly
impracticable.

_Miss P._ Wait, please,--you are so impetuous. "If she likes him a
little,"--(_CULCHARD's brow relaxes_)--"or thinks she might come to
like him in time, she may let him stay near her,"--(_CULCHARD makes
a movement of relief and gratitude_)--"putting him always on sharp
trial, and requiring, figuratively, as many lion-skins or giants'
heads as she thinks herself worth."

_Culch._ (_grimly_). "Figuratively" is a distinct concession on
RUSKIN's part. Still, I should be glad to know--

_Miss P._ If you will have a little more patience, I will make myself
clear. I have always determined that when the--ah--occasion presented
itself, I would deal with it on Ruskinian principles. I propose in
your case--presuming of course that you are willing to be under vow
for me--to adopt a middle course.

_Culch._ You are extremely good. And what precise form of--er--penance
did you think of?

_Miss P._ The trial I impose is, that you leave Constance
to-morrow--with Mr. PODBURY.

_Culch._ (_firmly_). If you expect me to travel for seven years with
him, permit me to mention that I simply cannot do it. My leave expires
in three weeks.

_Miss P._ I mentioned no term, I believe. Long before three weeks
are over we shall meet again, and I shall be able to see how you
have borne the test. I wish you to correct, if possible, a certain
intolerance in your attitude towards Mr. PODBURY. Do you accept this
probation, or not?

_Culch._ I--ah--suppose I have no choice. But you really must allow me
to say that it is _not_ precisely the reception I anticipated. Still,
in your service, I am willing to endure even PODBURY--for a strictly
limited period; that I _do_ stipulate for.

_Miss P._ That, as I have already said, is quite understood. Now go
and arrange with Mr. PODBURY.

_Culch._ (_to himself, as he retires_). It is _most_ unsatisfactory;
but at least PODBURY is disposed of!

_The same Scene, a quarter of an hour later. PODBURY and
Miss PRENDERGAST._

_Podbury_ (_with a very long face_). No, I _say_, though! RUSKIN
doesn't say all that?

_Miss P._ I am not in the habit of misquoting. If you wish to verify
the quotation, however, I daresay I could find you the reference in
_Fors Clavigera_.

_Podb._ (_ruefully_). Thanks--I won't trouble you. Only it does seem
rather rough on fellows, don't you know. If everyone went on his
plan--well, there wouldn't be many marriages! Still, I never thought
you'd say "Yes" right off. It's like my cheek, I know, to ask you at
all; you're so awfully clever and that. And if there's a chance for
me, I'm game for anything in the way of a trial. Don't make it stiffer
than you can help, that's all!

_Miss P._ All I ask of you is to leave me for a short time, and go and
travel with Mr. CULCHARD again.

_Podb._ Oh, I say, Miss PRENDERGAST, you know. Make it something else.
_Do!_

_Miss P._ That is the task I require, and I can accept no other. It is
nothing, after all, but what you came out here to do.

_Podb._ I didn't know him _then_, you see. And what made me agree
to come away with him at all is beyond me. It was all HUGHIE
ROSE's doing--he said we should get on together like blazes. So we
have--_very_ like blazes!

_Miss P._ Never mind that. Are you willing to accept the trial or not?

_Podb._ If you only knew what he's like when he's nasty, you'd let
me off--you would, really. But there, to please you, I'll do it. I'll
stand him as long as ever I can--'pon my honour I will. Only you'll
make it up to me afterwards, won't you now?

_Miss P._ I will make no promises--a true knight should expect no
reward for his service, Mr. PODBURY.

_Podb._ (_blankly_). Shouldn't he? I'm a little new to the business,
you see, and it _does_ strike me--but never mind. When am I to trot
him off?

_Miss P._ As soon as you can induce him to go--to-morrow, if possible.

_Podb._ I don't believe he'll _go_, you know, for one thing!

_Miss P._ (_demurely_). I think you will find him open to persuasion.
But go and try, Mr. PODBURY.

_Podb._ (_to himself, as he withdraws_). Well, I've let myself in for
a nice thing! Rummest way of treating a proposal _I_ ever heard of.
I should just like to tell that fellow RUSKIN what I think of his
precious ideas. But there's _one_ thing, though--she can't care about
CULCHARD, or she wouldn't want him carted off like this.... Hooray, I
never thought of that before! Why, there he is, dodging about to find
out how _I've_ got on. I'll tackle him straight off.

[_CULCHARD and PODBURY meet at the head of the staircase,
and speak at the same moment._

_Culch._ Er--PODBURY it has }
occurred to me that we might-- }
} leave this place to-morrow!
_Podb._ I say, CULCHARD, we }
really ought to-- }

_Podb._ Hullo! we're both of one mind for once, eh? (_To himself_.)
Poor old beggar! Got the sack! That explains a lot. Well, I won't tell
him anything about this business just now.

_Culch._ So it appears. (_To himself_.) (Had his _quietus_, evidently.
Ah, well, I won't exult over him.

[_They go off together to consult a time-table._

_Miss. P._ (_on the balcony, musing_). Poor fellows! I couldn't very
well say anything more definite at present. By the time I see them
again, I may understand my own heart better. Really, it is rather an
exciting sensation, having two suitors under vow and doing penance at
the same time--and all for my sake! I hope, though, they won't mention
it to one another--or to BOB. BOB does not understand these things,
and he might-- But, after all, there are only _two_ of them. And
RUSKIN distinctly says that every girl who is worth _anything_ ought
always to have half-a-dozen or so. Two is really _quite_ moderate.

* * * * *

A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN'S REPLY.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S KIND PERMISSION._)

[Illustration]

Yes, I read your effusion that lately got printed,
And at first never guessed there was anything meant.
But when someone suggested that something was hinted,
On your verses some time I reluctantly spent.
They are fair--and perhaps _you_ consider them clever,
You're a poet, no doubt, of a _minor_ degree,
But I never was startled so strangely--no, never!
As to learn that the lady you mentioned was me!

In the coolest of ways you sum up my attractions,
Pray allow me to turn my attention to _you_.
You are good, I believe, at the vulgarest fractions,
You have cheek and assurance sufficient for two.
You are what people reckon "a nice sort of fellow,"
Your sense of importance very strongly you feel.
You are bilious, you've got a complexion of yellow,
You are plainer than I am--which says a good deal.

"Am I free altogether from blame in the matter?"--
And as to my frowning, I don't know the way--
Do you really imagine that insolent chatter
Can affect me, or that _I_ care for what people say?
With fervent adorers around by the dozen,
For whom but my word is the law of their life.
Do you think I'd occasion to pitch on a cousin,
And announce that _you_ wanted myself as your wife?

Do not think I am angry, I am good at forgiving,
Have my constant refusals then made you so sour?
Even poets in _Punch_ have to write for their living,
And must wear their poor lives out at so much the hour.
I am weary and tired of being proposed to,
And at times I'm afraid it will injure my brain,
But my heart for the future yourself, mind, is closed to,
So don't, I implore, come proposing again.

* * * * *

A REAL BURNING QUESTION.--What should be done with the mischievous and
malicious noodles who communicate false alarms (to the number of 518
in one year) to the London Fire Brigade, by means of the fire-alarm
posts fixed for public convenience and protection in the public
thoroughfares? The almost appropriate Stake is out of date, but _Mr.
Punch_ opines that the Pillory would be none too bad for them.

* * * * *

THE BULL, THE BEAR, AND THE OXUS.--Russia, it is asserted, "intends to
annex the whole of the elevated plateaus known as the Pamirs, and all
parts of Afghanistan north of a straight line drawn from Lake Victoria
to the junction of the Kotcha River with the Oxus." JOHN BULL might
say, "I should like to Kotcha at it!"

* * * * *

SOME LONDON "FIENDS."

(_HOW TO EXORCISE, AFTER READING CORRESPONDENCE ON THE SUBJECT IN
SEVERAL "DAILIES."_)

_THE "WALKING-STICK AND UMBRELLA FIEND."_

[Illustration]

Provide yourself with a steel-plated umbrella (carriage size), with
a "non-conducting" handle. When open in a shower, where people are
hurrying, let the framework bristle with sharp penknife points. Held
firmly in front of you, you will find everyone get out of your way.
In entering a crowded omnibus or railway carriage, by touching a knob,
let the heat generated by the electric current instantly cause the
whole to become "red-hot." Dexterously moved about in front of you,
you will find this a most thoroughly protecting weapon, clearing
instantly a large space on each side of you, and even sometimes
involving the summoning of the conductor or guard, with a view to your
removal either to another compartment, or even a general request for
your expulsion from the vehicle altogether. This may lead possibly to
your enjoyment of an entire compartment to yourself; for, of course,
you will point out that you cannot be expected to travel without your
umbrella, which, after all, happens merely to be constructed on a
newly-patented principle.

_THE "HANSOM CAB FIEND."_

This is easily overcome. You have merely to employ an agent to
purchase a second-hand steam-roller for you, put in a high-pressure
boiler, and the thing is done. With practice, you can easily get eight
miles an hour out of one of these excellent machines, and you will
find a general indifference as to the rule of the road, especially
if you turn a corner or two at a stiff pace, act as a capital
"road-clearer." Even the smartest butcher's cart will do its best to
get out of your way when it sees you coming.

_THE "PIANO ORGAN, GERMAN BAND, AND GENERAL STREET MUSIC FIEND."_

Get (your best way is through a friend at the Admiralty) several
fog-horns rejected by the Department on account of their excessive and
unbearable shrillness. Whenever any sort of street music commences at
either end of your street, turn on, by an apparatus specially
arranged in your area, the full force of the above. This will not only
overpower your would-be tormentors, but bring every householder in
the neighbourhood to his street-door begging you to desist. You
have merely to say, "When they stop, _I_ turn off," to get them to
comprehend the situation. It may possibly lead to the intervention of
the police, probably in some force; but the net result will be that
you will, for that morning, at least, enjoy a quiet street.

There are other London fiends removable by various measures,
concerning which much might be said if they were not actionable.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN "BREAKING IN" HIS
SHOOTING-BOOTS.]

* * * * *

"GRATITUDE--A SENSE OF FAVOURS TO COME."--Mr. SWINBURNE unexpectedly
says a good word for the much be-mocked BOWDLER. "No man (he says),
ever did better service to SHAKSPEARE than the man who made it
possible to put him into the hands of intelligent and imaginative
children." Can Mr. SWINBURNE be "proticipating" the period when
another BOWDLER may be called upon to do a similar "service" for the
author of _Poems and Ballads?_

* * * * *

[Illustration: FRENCH AND ENGLISH.

(_As zey are Spoke at ze Country 'Ouse._)

_Hostess_. "OH--ER--J'ESPAIR KER VOOS AVVY TROOVY
VOTRE--VOTRE--ER--ER--VOTRE _COLLAR STUD_, BARRONG?"

_M. le Baron_. "OH, I ZANK YOU, YES! I FIND 'EEM ON MY _CHEST OF
TROWSERS_!"]

* * * * *

"AFTER YOU!"

["I am sure I may say, on behalf of all those whose names are
mentioned (for the Leadership of the House of Commons),
that we do not understand what selfishness is in the Public
Service. Everyone of us would prefer that someone else should
hold that high and honourable office."--_Sir M. Hicks-Beach at
Stockton-on-Tees_.]

_Eminent official Altruist loquitur_:--

Oh, _is_ there such a vice as unholy love of self.
In the Public Service, too? 'Tis a thing I can't believe.
If I thought we could be moved by the love of power or pelf,
To compete for premier office I should very greatly grieve.
But oh no, oh deary no! I am sure it can't be so.
We don't even "understand it," so of course it isn't true.
When we're called upon to go, each will say, all louting low,
"After _you_!"

We are not "competitive," like those naughty goddesses
Who poor Paris fluttered so upon Ida's pine-clad peak.
Of his "choice"--through selfishness--that young shepherd made a mess,
But our Shepherd, SALISBURY, will not be so wildly weak;
And our claims _we_ shall not urge to compulsion's very verge,
On the contrary each one thinks that "another" best will do.
"No, loved comrade" (each will say) "let me make my 'splendid splurge'
"After _you_!"

Look at GOSCHEN! Can't you see he regards with perfect glee
The prospect of promotion of his faithful friend BALFOUR.
_He_ doesn't want to lead. Ah no, indeed, indeed!
Do you think that off friend ARTHUR JOACHIM can wish to score?
Upon the Treasury Bench did he ever try to trench
On the province of the Leader for the time, no matter who?
He would cry, "Dear ARTHUR, No! from priority I blench,--
"After _you_!"

Then bland BALFOUR in his turn such crude selfishness would spurn
As the wish to prove himself popular more than soft J.G.,
With a most becoming blush his pale cheek, I'm sure, would burn,
If his uncle should cry, "Come, nephew dear, and second me!"
He would hint at nepotism, and the chance of secret schism.
"Let the mild ex-Liberal lead, I will be his henchman true!"
He would cry, with selfless joy on his brow like a pure chrism,
"After _you_!"

And as for simple Me! Oh, it's utter fiddle-de-dee
To suppose that I possess, or desire, the least look in.
No, selfishness, my friends, we unitedly agree
In Party life is just _the_ unpardonable sin,
Which "we do not understand," like that other little game
That AH-SIN, reluctant, played, with some small success 'tis true.
But _we_'ve no sleeve-hidden card as we cry, with modest shame,
"After _you_!"

* * * * *

WHAT'S IN A NAME?--The _St. James's Gazette_ says:--"There are
forty-seven divorces in the United States for every one in the United
Kingdom." Evidently "United" is something more than _anagrammatically_
identical with "Untied."

* * * * *

"GRAY'S ELEGY" AMENDED.

["I have often thought that GRAY's _Elegy_ was defective
in having no verse commemorative of the sequestered and
unsophisticated philanthropy of the village doctor."--_Sir
James Crichton-Browne at the Yorkshire College, Leeds._]

And one lies here of whom the scoffer said,
He did his best the green churchyard to fill;
None ever looks upon his lowly bed,
Without the recollection of a pill.

He lived sequestered, and he died unknown,
A truly unsophisticated man;
A medicine-glass adorns his humble stone,
And thus the epitaph they graved him ran:

"Here Doctor BOLUS lies, to dose no more;
His charge was moderate, but quite enough:
Death left a last prescription at the door,
And then the doctor had his '_Quantum suff._'"

* * * * *

[Illustration: "AFTER YOU!"

"HE BELIEVED THAT EVERYONE OF THEM WOULD PREFER THAT SOMEONE ELSE
SHOULD HOLD THAT HIGH AND HONOURABLE OFFICE."--SIR MICHAEL HICKS-BEACH
_at Stockton-on-Tees_.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: WATER V. WINE. "HOLD! ENOUGH!"]

* * * * *

HARRYING OUR HAKIMS.

[A medical journal suggests that all candidates for Medical
Degrees should be required to give proof of good handwriting,
in order to put an end to indistinct prescriptions.]

A few additional requirements, we believe, have been under
consideration, of which the following are a sample:--

All candidates for the M.B. Degree to be able to count up to fifty.
Candidates who are more than fifty not to count.

Nobody to become a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons until he
has mastered Simple Addition and Compound Fractures.

Members of the Royal College of Physicians will henceforth be expected
to know their Weights (with boots off) and Measures (round the
waist). Troy weight only. "Scruples" not allowed. Good knowledge of
Multiplication Table indispensable for dispensers.

No candidate to be accepted for a Degree unless he either has a good
"bedside manner," or undertakes to develop one as soon as possible.

Any candidate to be at once ploughed unless he can answer all the
following questions:--

1. What would you do if asked to hold a consultation with a
practitioner whom you have every reason to suppose an incapable quack?

2. If a good paying patient, suffering from no ailment whatever,
called you in with a view to getting a week's holiday at the seaside
by medical orders, how would you reconcile a desire to oblige that
pardonable weakness with a strict regard for veracity?

3. When the parents of a large family, who do their duty manfully
by calling you in about twice a week, and from whom therefore you
derive a not inconsiderable proportion of your income, object to have
an infant vaccinated at the proper time, because they erroneously
consider it to be unfit for the operation, which would you feel
inclined to strain--friendship, or the law?

4. Do you believe in Influenza?

5. Have you ever seen a Microbe?

6. "In the multitude of visits there is safety." Comment on this
declaration. How many visits do you think a common catarrh will
support? Give reasons.

7. What is the etiquette about Red Lamps?

* * * * *

"HORSE AND 'RYDER'".--Last week, on the 15th, as was reported in the
_Globe_, and elsewhere, "a humble crossing-sweeper," named RYDER,
stopped a runaway cab-horse (a great rarity this, too) just as he was
about to descend headlong the steps of the Duke of York's column, and
so saved the two passengers, who, we hope, in consideration of what he
has done for _their_ lives, have settled something hansom upon him for
_his_ life. If not, the proposition is here made, and after the prop
comes the RYDER.

* * * * *

GHOSTLY COUNSEL.--Prizes are being offered for "Good Ghost Stories."
This may mean _Stories of Good Ghosts_; but supplying the hyphen and
supposing that the requirement is for "Good Ghost-stories," then _Mr.
Punch_ makes a present of a good title to any sanguine amateur who
may compete. Let him call his story, "A Ghost of a Chance." And _Mr.
Punch_ wishes he may get it!

* * * * *

PENNY FOOLISH.--Somebody has published a penny _A B C of Theosophy_.
To the appeal of this Occult A B C the enlightened public will
probably be D E F.

* * * * *

"QUI DORT, DÎNE," ET "QUI DÎNE, DORT."--A man who "goes nap" _at_
dinner, is pretty safe to go nap immediately _after_ it.

* * * * *

ONLY FANCY!

(_FROM MR. PUNCH'S OWN HUMOURISTS._)

It is not generally known that the Emperor of RUSSIA visited London
the other day on his way to Paris, where he is to hold an important
secret conference with the President of the Republic and M. BLOWITZ.
His Imperial Majesty's disguise was complete, consisting as it did of
an aquiline nose of considerable size, and a secondhand gaberdine of
primitive cut. He visited the principal Music Halls of the Metropolis
and left by the last train for Surbiton, where his private yacht was
in waiting to convey him to Marseilles, and so on to Paris by the new
French canal system.

* * * * *

Monaco has adhered to the Triple Alliance. The negotiations thus
brought to a successful issue, have been for a long time in progress.
Obligations of honour, which no longer exist, have hitherto compelled
me, as your Correspondent, to keep secret the fact that amongst the
_croupiers_ of the _trente-et-quarante_ tables at the Casino for the
past three months have been the Chancellors of the German and Austrian
Empires, and the MARCHESE DI RUDINI, who, thus disguised, carried out
their delicate mission to the Court of Monaco. By this post I send
you the draft treaty by which Monaco engages, in the event of war, to
furnish a completely equipped contingent of ten men.

* * * * *

The BARON DE BOOK-WORMS arrived in town yesterday afternoon and
transacted business at his office in Bouverie Street, afterwards
returning to his country seat at Stow-in-the-Wold.

* * * * *

BROWNING SOCIETY VERSES.

[Dr. FURNIVALL announces that the Browning Society is about to
be dissolved.]

Hark! 'tis the knell of the Browning Society,
Wind-bags are bursting all round us to-day;
FURNIVALL fails, and for want of his diet he
Pines like a love-stricken maiden away.

Long has he fed upon cackle and platitude,
FURNIVALL sauce to a dish full of dearth,
Still, in the favourite FURNIVALL attitude,
Grubbing about like a mole in the earth.

Now must he vanish, the mole-hills are flat again,
(Follies grow fewer it seems by degrees);
Lovers of BROWNING may laugh and grow fat again,
Rid of the jargon of Furnivallese.

* * * * *

NEW AND OLD TERMS.--"Slate, Slite, Slote, Slitten," is the title of
an amusing article in the _Saturday Review_, on the derivation of the
verb "to slate." How "slote" comes in is not quite evident, but that
when the pages of a dull book are "slitten" by the paper-knife, it
will be read and slated by a critic, and then "slited" (or "slighted")
by the public, is quite sufficient without "putting a penny in the
'slote'" on the chance of getting something better.

* * * * *

SO LIKE HIM!--Tuesday last week was the seventieth birthday of
Professor VIRCHOW. He has refused all titles and emoluments, observing
that "VIRCHOW is its own reward."

* * * * *

VERY POP-ULAR!--Through the _Times_ came the information that, since
the famine, the Russian Officers have given up drinking champagne.
Their conduct is really quite Magnuminous!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "GRANDOLPH AD LEONES."]

* * * * *

"ADSCRIPTUS GLEBÆ."

["He (Mr. GOSCHEN) was in favour of giving the agricultural
labourer every opportunity of becoming more attached to the
soil."--_Mr. Goschen at Cambridge_.]

Attached to the soil! Pretty optimist phrase
We are so, and have been, from _Gurth's_ simpler days,
Though now platform flowers of speech--pleasant joke!--
May wreath the serf's ring till men scarce see the yoke.
Attached to the soil! The soil clings to our souls!
Young labour's scant guerdon, cold charity's doles,
The crow-scarer's pittance, the poor-house's aid
All smell of it! Tramping with boots thickly clayed
From brown field or furrow, or lowered at last
In our special six-feet by the sexton up-cast,
We smack of the earth, till we earthy have grown,
Like the mound that Death gives us--best friend--for our own.
We tramp it, we delve it, we plough it, this soil,
And a grave is the final reward of our toil.
Attached? The attachment of love is one thing,
The attachment of profit another. _Gurth's_ ring
Is _our_ form of attachment at bottom, Sir, still,
And to favour _that_ bond HODGE doubts not your good will.
But when others talk of improving our lot
By possession of more than a burial plot,
By pay for our toil, and by balm for our troubles,
You ban all such prospects as "radiant bubbles."
Declare "under-currents of plunder" run through
All plans for our aid save those favoured by you,
Attached to the soil! Ah! how many approve
_That_ attachment, when founded on labour and love!
But about "confiscation" they chatter and fuss
At all talk of attaching the soil to poor us!

* * * * *

FREE AND INDEPENDENT.

SCENE--_Manager's Room of the Ideal Theatre.
Present--Committee of Taste._

[Illustration]

_Manager_. Now, you fellows, I think we have settled what to do next.
Carry out the notion of an afternoon performance of the Ideal Drama.
We have got the moderate guarantee, and the good stock company, and
hope to receive the cooperation of the leading artists from other
theatres. Isn't that so?

_Auditor_. Yes, I can answer for the moderate guarantee--about £20--in
the bank.

_Stage Manager_. And the good stock company was imported early this
morning from Ireland. All very good Shakspearian actors with a taste
of a brogue to give their remarks pungency.

_Manager_. That's all right. And what is the play?

_First Member of the Committee of Taste_. "_Demons_," by the Master.

_Second Ditto_. No, let us have something newer. Why not an adaptation
(by myself) of that charming work by SODALA--I call it _Blood and
Thunder_?

_Manager_ (_producing halfpenny_). By the rules of the Company we toss
for it. (_Throws up coin._) Heads!--_Blood and Thunder_ wins. We
will do _Blood and Thunder_. Well, now as to casting it. Anything for
IRVING in it?

_Second Mem._ Oh, yes--if he would play it. A Policeman who dies
by cutting his throat in Scene 1. Not the sort of part he usually
selects, but capital.

_First Mem._ It is not for Mr. IRVING to pick and choose, it is the
cause of Art we serve.

_Second Mem._ Well, yes. We might telephone and learn his views on the
subject.

[_Subordinate takes instructions_.

_Manager_. All right! Ah, here we have the piece! Rather long, but
the parts seem mild enough. Who's to do this soldier--a sort of heavy
dragoon, with a cold, who dies in the First Scene of the Second Act?

_Second Mem._ Oh, anybody! KENDAL or FARREN; or if they can't, then
HARE or LIONEL BROUGH.

_Manager_. But do you think they will like it? You see they each have
their line, and--

_First Mem._ In the cause of Art they will be prepared to do anything.
At least, they ought to be.

_Manager_. Well, we will telephone to them too. (_Subordinate takes
further instructions_.) And now, how about the Ladies?

_Second Mem._ Oh, there are a lot of school-girls, and a woman who
dies by degrees of general paralysis. The girls, of course will be all
right with--say, Miss EMERY, Miss LINDEN, Miss ALMA MURRAY, and Mrs.
KENDAL. But we want two people to play the woman. First Act, Miss
ELLEN TERRY; second and third, Miss GENEVIEVE WARD. To be properly
played, both should be in it.

_Manager_. But how will that do? I do not think that Miss TERRY will
care to--

_First Mem._ Nonsense! She is a most charming person, and will do
anything in the cause of Art.

_Subordinate_ (_returning from telephone_). Beg pardon, Gentlemen, but
Messrs. KENDAL, FARREN, BROUGH and HARE say they are very sorry, but
they are not at home; and Mr. IRVING presents his compliments,
and would be delighted to do what we wish, but he fears he will be
otherwise engaged. However, he says you have his sympathy, and his
heart goes out to you. [_Exit._

_Manager_. Well, what shall we do?

_Second Mem._ Oh, there's VEZIN, and TERRIS, and PAULTON, and a heap
more!

_Subordinate_ (_returning_). Just heard from the Ladies, Gentlemen,
and they send their kindest regards, but they are out too!

_Acting Manager_ (_entering_). Well, how about the performance?

_Members of the Council_ (_together_). Oh, it's nearly arranged!

_Acting Man._ Well, if I might suggest, as a person of considerable
experience, it doesn't matter a jot whether you get a company together
or not.

_Members_ (_as before_). Why?

_Acting Man._ Because you won't get an audience!

[_Scene closes in upon farther consultation._

* * * * *

[Illustration: MODEST AMBITION.

_The Squire_ (_to his Eldest Son, just home from the 'Varsity_).
"WELL, MY BOY, AND WHAT HAVE YOU SETTLED TO BE?"

_The Squire's Son_. "JUST A _PLAIN COUNTRY GENTLEMAN_ LIKE YOU,
FATHER!"]

* * * * *

THEOSOPHIC TOOLS.

(_BY AN OPPONENT OF OCCULTISM._)

The Theosophic Boom, its wordy strife
And futile fuss are fading out in "fizzle."
They talk a deal about their "_planes_ of life,"
'Tis plain to me the fitter term were "chisel."

* * * * *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG:

OR, MISS BOWDLER AT THE MUSIC HALLS.

"A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse," says the old saw, and
a wink is no doubt as good as a smile to a purblind ass. But the wink
is indeed one of the worst uses to which the human eye can he put. It
signifies usually the vulgarisation of humour, and the degradation of
mirth. It is the favourite eye-language of the cynical cad, the coarse
jester, the crapulous clown, and--above all--the chuckling cheat.

[Illustration]

It must be admitted, that the Muse of the Music Hall--in her Momus
mood--has a strong leaning towards the glorification of cynical
'cuteness of the _Autolycus_ sort. It is a weakness which she seems
to share with party scribes and Colonial politicians. If she had any
classic leanings, which she has not, her favourite deity would be
Mercury, the "winking Cyllenian Argophont" of the Homeric Hymn, the
"little cradled rogue," the Apollo-cheating babe, "the lord of those
who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal and shop-lift," under whom
_Autolycus_ prided himself upon having been "littered." _Autolycus's_
complacent self-gratulation, "How bless'd are we that are not simple
men!" would appeal to the heart of the Music-hall votary. "Ha, ha!
what a fool Honesty is! and Trust his sworn brother, a very simple
gentleman" is, virtually, the burthen of dozens of the most favourite
of the Music-hall ditties.

Sly-scheming Hermes "winked" knowingly at Jupiter when he was
"pitching his yarn" about the stolen oxen, and Jupiter "according to
his wont,"

"Laughed heartily to hear the subtle witted
Infant give such a plausible account,
And every word a lie."

So the Music-hall Muse "winks" knowingly, and knavishly, at her
audience, and her audience "laugh heartily," in Jovian guffaws, at her
winks. What wonder then that she should lyrically apostrophise "The
Wink" in laudatory numbers?

"Say, boys, now is it quite the thing?"

she cries in sham deprecation, but all the while she "winks the other
eye" in a way her hearers quite understand. "Cabby knows his fare,"
and the Music-hall Muse knows her clients. What, we wonder, would
be her reception did she really carry out her ironically pretended
protest and sing to the chuckling cads who applaud her, the following
version of her favourite lay?

NO. II.--THE WINK OF ROGUERY'S EYE.

AIR--"_WINK THE OTHER EYE_."

Say, boys, whatever do men mean
When they wink the other eye?
Why, when "sharps" say the world is "green,"
Do they wink the other eye?
The Radicals and Tories both tell stories, not a few,
About Measures falsely promised, and reforms long overdue;
And when the simple Mob believes that every word is true.
Then they--wink the other eye!

_Chorus_.--Say, boys, now is it quite the thing!
Say, should we let them have their fling?
Ah, when they get us "on a string"
Then they wink the other eye!

Say, boys are Leaders to be loved,
When they wink the other eye?
By artful speech the Mob is moved,
Till _it_ winks the other eye;
The optic Wink's the language of the sly and sordid soul,
The mute freemasonry of Fraud, sign-post to Roguery's goal.
When Circe sees her votaries swine ready in sludge to roll
Then _she_ winks the other eye!

_Chorus_.--Say, boys, _is_ it so fine a thing,
Low Cunning, which Cheat's laureates sing,
The Comus of the Mart and Ring,
Who--winks the other eye?

Say, boys, is Cunning's promise good,
When she winks the other eye?
Noodledom seeks her neighbourhood,
And winks _its_ other eye.
For no one winks so freely as a fool who _thinks_ he's sly;
The dupe of deeper knavery smirks in shallow mimicry
Of the smirking JERRY DIDDLER who is sucking him so dry,
And who winks the other eye.

_Chorus_.--Say, boys, now is the Wink a thing
Worthy of worship; will you fling
Your caps in air for the Knave-King
Who--winks the other eye?

The Politician plucks his geese,
Then he winks the other eye.
Brazen Fraud steals Trade's Golden Fleece,
Then he winks the other eye.
_Autolycus_ pipes ballads; public pockets are his aim;
_Rabagas_ raves of "liberty"; advancement is his game;
And when their dupes aren't looking all these rogues do just the same,
They--wink the other eye!

_Chorus_.--Say, boys, pæans will you sing
To winking harpies all a-wing
To prey on fools; who steal, and sting,
And--wink the other eye?

Wisdom may smile, but Cunning can't,
She winks the other eye.
Humour shall chortle, Mockery shan't,
She winks the other eye.
The stars above us twinkle and the dews beneath us blink,
All the eyes of Nature sparkle, and from merriment do not shrink,
The Language of the Eye of Cynic Knavery is--the Wink!
_Roguery_ "winks the other eye!"

_Chorus_.--Say, boys, is it quite the thing?
"Ducdàme"[1] to fools the Diddlers sing;
Trust me 'tis Rascals in a Ring
Who wink the other eye!

[Footnote 1:

_Amiens_. What's that "ducdàme"?

_Jaques_. 'Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle.

"_As You Like It_," _Act II., Sc. 5._]

* * * * *

THE EVOLUTION OF TOMMY'S PRIVATE-SCHOOL REPORT.

1. _A rough draught, written by the under-master, who certainly has
had rather a trying week with_ TOMMY.

"I am unable to speak highly of either his intelligence or his
industry; but occasionally he works well, and has undoubtedly made
some progress this term. His conduct is not always good."

2. _Second rough draught_; TOMMY _in the meantime has missed a
repetition and accidentally knocked down the black-board._

"Exceptionally stupid and idle. Cannot be said to have made any
progress whatever this term, although he has had every effort made
with him. His conduct is abominable, noisy and unruly in the extreme."

3. _Fair copy to be submitted to the principal; of course_, TOMMY _had
not intended to be overheard when he spoke of the under-master as_
"_Old Pig-face_," _but this is the result._

"A more idle and utterly worthless boy it has never been my misfortune
to teach. Seems to have gone steadily backward all the term. Is most
objectionable in his manners, and has no sense of honour."

4. _Fair copy, as amended by the principal; how was_ TOMMY _to
know that stone would break the conservatory window, and drive the
principal to alter the report to this?_

"Would be better suited in a reformatory than in a school of this
standing. Utterly depraved, vicious and idle, with marked criminal
instincts. In intellect verges on the imbecile. Unless there is a
marked improvement next term, I cannot keep him."

5. _Principal's final copy; it_ was _fortunate that_ TOMMY _happened
to remark that he had four cousins who were, perhaps, coming next
term. One can't lose four pupils, even if it makes it necessary to
write like this._

"A singularly bright and high-spirited boy; a little given to
mischief, as all boys are, but quite amenable to discipline. My
assistant speaks most highly of his progress this term, and of his
general intelligence. He seems well suited by our system. His conduct
is, on the whole, admirable. He is truthful and conscientious."

* * * * *

COUPLET BY A CYNIC.

"Poetry does not sell!" cry plaintive pleaders.
Alas! most modern Poetry _does_--its readers!

* * * * *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 24, 1891" ***

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