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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, January 23, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, January 23, 1892" ***

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.



January 23, 1892.



THE COVENT GARDEN MASQUE.

  Mumming--masking--masquerading;
  Fanning--fun--fanfaronading;
  Dancing--duncing--deft disguises;
  Singing--supping--strange (sur) prizes;
  Galloping and gallivanting
  Couples much in need of BANTING;
  All the customary make-up
  CLARKSON's customers can fake up;
  All the little childish raiment,
  Fatties don--for sylph and fay meant;
  Tally-hos and Hey-no-nonnies:
  Jackies--Jillies--Jennies--Johnnies--
  Barber's blockhead--nothing dafter--
  Heralding "Before and After":
  "Auntie's Bottle Hot"--a phial
  Only for external trial--
  Gems of London--gems of Paris--
  Arid gusts--AUGUSTUS HARRIS--
  Splitting mirth--some garbs that split, too--
  Aching heads next morning, ditto!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO BE AVOIDED.--An Intemperate tone by a Temperance lecturer.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Benevolent Stranger_. "ALLOW ME, SIR, TO OFFER YOU A
DRINK!"

_Unfortunate Sportsman_ (_just out of Brook_). "THANKS; BUT I'VE HAD A
DROP TOO MUCH ALREADY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

RESPECTABILITY.

    ["What is Respectability?"--_Daily Telegraph, Jan. 12._]

  It's having money at the Bank.
  It's being a personage of rank.
  It's having spent three years at College
  With great, or little, gain of knowledge.
  It's going to Church twice every Sunday,
  And keeping in with Mrs. GRUNDY.
  It's clothes well-cut, and shiny hat,
  And faultless boots, and nice cravat.
  It may be Law, or Church, or Ale,
  Or Trade--on a sufficient scale.
  It's being "something in the City."
  It's carefully to shun being witty.
  It's letting tradesmen live on credit.
  It's "Oof"--to earn it, or to wed it.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR JOLLY, of Berlin, who, if his name express his disposition,
ought to be a follower of _Mark Tapley_, reckons that twenty-five per
cent. of the inmates of asylums have been inebriates. Is the Professor
"Jolly well right?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A DIALOGUE OF THE FUTURE.

    SCENE--_Rooms of a Cambridge Tutor._

    PERSONS--_A Tutor and an Undergraduate._

_Tutor_. I understand you were at Newmarket yesterday. Is that so?

_Undergraduate_. It is. I was.

[Illustration]

_Tutor_. A shameless avowal. Are you aware that you have broken one of
the disciplinary regulations of your College? I fear I must punish you
severely. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed
upon you. [_Assumes the black College Cap._

_Undergraduate_. Yes, Sir, I have.

_Tutor_. Then say it at once.

_Undergraduate_. I went to Newmarket to see-- [_Hesitates._

_Tutor_. Proceed, Sir. Time presses. You went to see what?

_Undergraduate_. As a matter of fact, I was particularly anxious to
see the Head of the University.

_Tutor_. What do you mean, Sir?

_Undergraduate_. The chief Dignitary of Cambridge, the Chancellor, the
Duke of DEVONSHIRE.

_Tutor_. You are trifling with me.

_Undergraduate_. Not at all, Sir. The Chancellor was there in state. I
saw him. My curiosity was satisfied, and I returned to Cambridge.

_Tutor_ (_after a pause_). Ah, of course that alters the case. If you
can assure me you did not go for the purpose of watching horse-races--

_Undergraduate_ (_breaking in_). Certainly, Sir. I do give you the
assurance.

_Tutor_. That being so, I dismiss you with a caution.

    [_Exit Undergraduate. The Tutor is left pondering._

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER RURAL CONFERENCE.

    [A Church Dignitary, writing to _The Globe_, suggests that the
    rural reform most urgently needed is a better postal system in
    the shires.]

[Illustration]

_Radical Reformer_ (_meeting Rural Labourer tramping to London_).
Yours is a typical case, my man. You are a victim of our insensate
Land Laws, or exploded Feudalism. No doubt you are leaving the country
because you could not find employment there?

_Rural Labourer_. 'Tisn't that so much. Old Gaffer always had summat
for a man to do, I can tell ye.

_Radical Reformer_. Glad to hear it, though it's unusual. Then I
suppose it is the intolerable dulness of the country that drives you
away from it.

_Rural Labourer_. 'Tisn't that either. Things be a bit dull in
winter-time, cert'nly. But there--we've a Public, also a Free Reading
Room, and--

_Radical Reformer_ (_disappointed_). Glad to hear it, again, I'm sure,
though that also is unusual. Your house, now--rather, I ought to call
it, your hovel, perhaps--lets in the rain badly--reeks with damp--only
one room, and that a pigstye, eh?

_Rural Labourer_ (_offended_). Come now, don't you call my house a
pigstye! Three good rooms, and not a bit o' damp or dirt about it.

_Radical Reformer_. Then the wages are low, and a tyrannical landlord
refuses allotments, eh?

_Rural Labourer_. Allotments! I could have as many as I wanted for the
asking. But there--I _didn't_ want 'em, y'see, and I _didn't_ ask.

_Radical Reformer_ (_gravelled_). Then would you explain to me what is
the _real_ reason of your determination to quit the country for Town?

_Rural Labourer_ (_surprised_). Why, don't you know? _There was only
one collection and one delivery of letters daily!_ I couldn't stand
_that_, of course. I expect I shall find more in Lunnon. Good-day!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LE KHÉDIVE EST MORT! VIVE LE KHÉDIVE!

_British Lion_. "I HELPED YOUR FATHER AND I'LL STAND BY _YOU_."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Cardinal Manning.]

BORN, JULY 15, 1808. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.

  One more great Voice gone silent! Friends or foes,
  None well could watch that long life's gentle close
      Without a softening thrill.
  A valiant champion of the faith he held,
  No conflict ever his strong courage quelled,
      Or shook his steadfast will.

  Yet, were that all, some well might turn away
  With custom's passing courtliness, to-day,
      And bid a cold farewell
  To the great priest, shrewd marshaller of men,
  Subtle of verbal fence with tongue or pen,
      Ascetic of the cell.

  But there was more; and many a hundred hearts,
  Who not in cleric conflict played their parts,
      Will mourn him well and long,
  Friend of the poor, apart from creed or clique,
  And ardent champion of the struggling weak
      Against the selfish strong.

  Toiler for Temperance, hastener on of Light,
  In many a fray where right's at odds with might,
      Might's foes will miss their friend.
  Farewell! It moves the common heart to hear
  The crowning of so glorious a career
      By such a gracious end!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SANITARY CONGRESS AT VENICE.--Mrs. RAM's Nephew was talking on
this subject, when his Aunt was heard murmuring to herself, "I stood
in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs;" then she looked up, and repeating
the last word, observed, "Well, it never struck me before, often as
I've heard that line quoted. But what an extraordinary thing to make a
bridge of! I suppose it was painted over first, because I know that's
how 'size' is commonly used."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _The Irish Curate_ (_to the New Vicar_). "THAT POOR
MAN, SIR, HAS ALWAYS GOT A SKELETON JUST IN FRONT OF HIM THAT FOLLOWS
HIM ABOUT WHEREVER HE GOES!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BOXING IMBROGLIO.

  Oh, SLAVIN, FRANK SLAVIN, you'd fain be a whacker
  Of SULLIVAN, JOHN, but you can't find a backer,
  While SULLIVAN, biggest of Yankee big fellows,
  Blows froth all the time from his own patent bellows.
  Well, fight if you must; I am sure you'll fight fair;
  Bag his wind if you can, FRANK, but don't beat the air.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONLY FANCY!

Mr. CHAPLIN has, we hear, entered with native enthusiasm into his
mission to the Agricultural Labourer. It was entirely his own idea.
"The Liberals have their Rural Conferences," he said at a recent
Cabinet Council, "and we should do something of the same kind; only we
must go one better. Of course the delegates liked their trip to London
(expenses paid, their free breakfast, their shake of Mr. GLADSTONE's
hand, and the opportunity of gazing on the supple form of Mr.
SCHNADHORST.) That's all very well for them. But think of the hundreds
of thousands green with jealousy because they weren't selected for
the trip? These are all ripe to vote for us at the General Election
if only delicately handled. What you want is a man of commanding
presence, unfailing tact, a knowledge of horses, and some gift of
oratory. If no one else occurs to you, I'll go." No one else did occur
to the mind of the Cabinet. So the Minister of Agriculture set forth
on his missionary enterprise.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have been gratified by the receipt of many tokens of interest and
appreciation elicited by our paragraph last week, reporting the state
of the household markets. One takes the form of a parcel of Russian
tongues. "These," writes our esteemed Correspondent (we omit
complimentary preface), "should before cooking be soaked for a week in
cold water, and then boiled for a day." We are not disposed to spoil
a ship for a ha'p'orth of tar, and shall improve upon these generous
instructions. Having spent a week and a day in personally directing
the preliminary process, we intend to grill the tongues for thirty-six
hours, fry them for an afternoon, stew them for two days, hang them
out of the window for five hours, and then bray them in a mortar. We
fancy what is left will be worth eating.

       *       *       *       *       *

RYMOND has been reading, with much interest, HENED's account of how he
got the Influenza, and what he did with it. Apparently the first thing
to do is, to "send for a thermometer," (as others would send for a
Doctor), and take it to bed with you.

"Evidently," HENED writes last week in _his_ journal, "when a person
does not feel well, he should try his temperature, and, if it be
abnormally high, he should go to bed, and stay there until it comes
down."--"Of course," RYMOND observes, with rare lapse into cynicism,
"when the bed comes down, he is bound to go."

       *       *       *       *       *

MATRIMONY UP TO DATE.

    [The Defendant in a recent breach of promise case wrote to his
    intended, "When we are married you will have to sit with me
    when I am queer."]

      Dear Ladies, who contemplate marriage,
      And imagine you'll ride in a carriage,
  With a house of your own, and your servants to wait for you,
  I'm afraid there's a totally different fate for you.
  When the word has been said, and the honeymoon's over,
  And you're safely returned, say, from Folkestone or Dover,
      If you see your hub ailing,
      And painfully paling,
  And you wish to be off, and not linger about him,
  But enjoy to the full your new freedom without him,
      Remember, remember,
      From Jan. to December,
  You must tie yourselves down, and be constantly near
      With the pill-box and posset,
      And all that may cosset
  That bore of a husband, whenever he's queer.

       *       *       *       *       *

CELA VA SANS DIRE.--In reply to the Salvationists' Solicitors, an
opinion was given, signed by Sir CHARLES RUSSELL, with WIT. Why drag
in WIT? When CHARLES RUSSELL's name appears, the wit is taken for
granted.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. XXIV.

    SCENE--_The Piazza of St. Mark at night. The roof and part
    of the façade gleam a greenish silver in the moonlight. The
    shadow of the Campanile falls, black and broad, across the
    huge square, which is crowded with people listening to the
    Military Band, and taking coffee, &c., outside the caffés.
    Miss TROTTER and CULCHARD are seated at one of the little
    tables in front of the Quadri._

_Miss T._ I'd like ever so much to know why it is you're so anxious
to see that Miss PRENDERGAST and me friendly again? After she's been
treating you this long while like you were a toad--and not a popular
kind of toad at that!

_Culch._ (_wincing_). Of course I am only too painfully aware of--of
a certain distance in her manner towards me, but I should not think
of allowing myself to be influenced by any--er--merely personal
considerations of that sort.

_Miss T._ That's real noble! And I presume, now, you cann't imagine
any reason why she's been treading you so flat.

[Illustration: "A mean cuss? Me! Really--"]

_Culch._ (_with a shrug_). I really haven't troubled to speculate Who
can tell how one may, quite unconsciously, give offence--even to those
who are--er--comparative strangers?

_Miss T._ Just so. (_A pause._) Well, Mr. CULCHARD, if I wanted
anything to confirm my opinion of you, I guess you've given it me!

_Culch._ (_internally_). It's very unfortunate that she _will_ insist
on idealising me like this!

_Miss T._ Maybe, now, you can form a pretty good idea already what
that opinion is?

_Culch._ (_in modest deprecation_). You give me some reason for
inferring that it is far higher than I deserve.

_Miss T._ Well, I don't know that you've missed your guess altogether.
Are you through your ice-cream yet?

_Culch._ Almost. (_He finishes his ice._) It is really most
refreshing!

_Miss T._ Then, now you're refreshed, I'll tell you what I think about
you. (_CULCHARD resigns himself to enthusiasm._) My opinion of you,
Mr. CULCHARD, is that, taking you by and large, you amount to what we
Amurrcans describe as "a pretty mean cuss."

_Culch._ (_genuinely surprised_). A mean cuss? Me! Really, this
unjustifiable language is _most_--!

_Miss T._ Well, I don't just know what your dictionary term would
be for a man who goes and vows exclusive devotion to one young lady,
while he's waiting for his answer from another, and keeps his head
close shut to each about it. Or a man who backs out of his vows by
trading off the sloppiest kind of flap-doodle about not wishing to
blight the hopes of his dearest friend. Or a man who has been trying
his hardest to get into the good graces again of the young lady he
went back on first, so he can cut out that same dearest friend of his,
and leave the girl he's haff engaged to right out in the cold. And
puts it all off on the high-toned-est old sentiments, too. But I
don't consider the expression, "a mean cuss," too picturesque for that
particular kind of hero myself!

_Culch._ (_breathing hard_). Your feelings have apparently undergone a
sudden change--quite recently!

_Miss T._ Well, no, the change dates back considerable--ever since we
were at the Villa d'Este. Only, I like Mr. PODBURY pretty well, and I
allowed he ought to have fair play, so I concluded I'd keep you around
so you shouldn't get a chance of spoiling your perfectly splendid act
of self-denial--and I guess I've _kept_ you around pretty much all the
time!

_Culch._ (_bitterly_). In other words, you have behaved like a
heartless coquette!

_Miss T._ You may put it at that if you like. Maybe it wouldn't have
been just the square thing to do if you'd been a different sort of
man--but you wanted to be taught that you couldn't have all the fun
of flirtation on _your_ side, and I wasn't afraid the emotional strain
was going to shatter you up to any serious extent. Now it's left off
amusing me, and I guess it's time to stop. I'm as perfectly aware as
I can be that you've been searching around for some way of getting out
of it this long while back--so there's no use of your denying you'll
be real enchanted to get your liberty again!

_Culch._ I may return your charming candour by admitting that
my--er--dismissal will be--well, not wholly without its consolations.

_Miss T._ Then _that's_ all right! And if you'll be obliging enough to
hunt up my Poppa and send him along, I guess I can dispense with your
further escort, and you can commence those consolations right away.

_Culch._ (_alone_). The little vixen! Saw I was getting tired of it,
and took care to strike first. Clever--but a trifle crude. But I'm
free now. Unfortunately my freedom comes too late. PODBURY's _Titania_
is much too enamoured of those ass's ears of his--How the brute will
chuckle when he hears of this! But he won't hear of it from _me_. I'll
go in and pack and be off to-morrow morning before he's up!

    _Next Morning. In the Hall of the Grand Hotel Dandolo._

_The German Porter_ (_a stately person in a gold-laced uniform and a
white waistcoat, escaping from importunate visitors_). In von momendt,
Matam, I attend to you. You want a larcher roûm, Sare? You address ze
manager, blease. Your dronks, Laties? I haf zem brod down, yes.

_A Lady_. Oh, Porter, we want a gondola this afternoon to go to the
Lido, and _do_ try if you can get us BEPPO--that _nice_ gondolier, you
know, we had yesterday!

_The Porter_. Ach! I do nod know _any_ nah-ice gondolier--zey are
oal--I dell you, if you lif viz zem ade mons as me, you cot your
troat--yes!

_Another Lady_. Porter, can you tell me the name of the song that man
is singing in the barge there?

_Porter_. I gannot dell you ze name--pecause zey sing always ze same
ting!

_A Helpless Man in knickerbockers_ (_drifting in at the door_). Here,
I say. We engaged rooms here by telegram from Florence. What am I to
give these fellows from the station? _Combien_, you know!

_Porter_. You gif zem two franc--and zen zey vill gromble. You haf
engage roûms? yes. Zat vill pe oal rahit--Your loggage in ze gondola,
yes? I haf it taken op.

_The H.M._ No, it's left behind at Bologna. My friend's gone back for
it. And I say, think it will turn up all right?

_Porter_. Eef you register it, and your vrient is zere, you ged
it--yes.

_The H.M._ Yes, but look _here_, don't you know? Oughtn't I to make a
row--a fuss--about it, or something, eh?

_Porter_ (_moving off with subdued contempt_). Oh, you can make a
foss, yes, if you like--you ged nossing!

_Culch. and Podb._ (_stopping him simultaneously_). I say, I want
my luggage brought down from No. ---- in time for the twelve
o'clock--(_To each other_.) Hallo! are _you_ off too?

_Culch._ (_confused_). Er--yes--thought I might as well be getting
back.

_Podb._ Then I--I suppose it's all settled--with Miss T.--you
know--eh?

_Culch._ Fortunately--yes. And--er--_your_ engagement happily
concluded?

_Podb._ Well, it's _concluded_, anyway. It's all _off_, you know. I--I
wasn't artistic enough for her.

_Culch._ She has refused you? My _dear_ PODBURY, I'm really delighted
to hear this--at least, that is--

_Podb._ Oh, don't mind _me_. I'm getting over it. But I must
congratulate you on better luck.

_Culch._ On precisely similar luck. Miss TROTTER and I--er--arrived at
the conclusion last night that we were not formed to make each other's
happiness.

_Podb._ Did you, by Jove? Porter, I say, never mind about that
luggage. Do you happen to know if Mr. and Miss TROTTER--the American
gentleman and his daughter--are down yet?

_Porter_. TRODDERS? Led me see; yes, zey ged zeir preakfast early, and
start two hours since for Murano and Torcello.

_Podb._ Torcello? Why that's where BOB and Miss PRENDERGAST talked of
going to-day! CULCHARD, old fellow, I've changed my mind. Shan't leave
to-day, after all. I shall just nip over and see what sort of place
Torcello is.

_Culch._ Torcello--"the Mother of Venice!" it really seems a pity to
go away without having seen it. Do you know, PODBURY, I think I'll
join you!

_Podb._ (_not over cordially_). Come along, then--only look sharp.
Sure you don't mind? Miss TROTTER will be there, you know!

_Culch._ Exactly; and so--I think you said--will
the--er--PRENDERGASTS. (_To Porter._) Just get us a gondola and two
rowers, will you, for Torcello. And tell them to row as fast as they
can!

       *       *       *       *       *

A FAIR PHILOSOPHER.

[Illustration]

  Ah! Chloris! be as simple still
    As in the dear old days;
  Don't prate of Matter and Free Will,
    And IBSEN's nasty plays,
  A girl should ne'er, it seems to me,
    Have notions so pedantic;
  'Twere better far once more to be
    Impulsive and romantic.

  There was a time when idle tales
    Could set your heart aflame;
  But now the novel nought avails,
    Philosophy's your game.
  You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest,
    And pessimistic teaching;
  Believe me that I loved you best
    Before you took to preaching.

  There's still some loveliness in life,
    Despite what cynics say;
  It is not all ignoble strife,
    That greets us on our way.
  Then prithee smooth that pretty brow,
    So exquisitely knitted;
  Mankind in general, I trow,
    Can do without being pitied.

  We'll linger over fans and frills,
    Discuss dress bit by bit,
  As in days when the worst of ills
    Were frocks that would not fit.
  'Twas frivolous, but I'm content
    To hear you talk at random;
  For life is not all argument,
    And "_Quod est demonstrandum_."

  You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang,
    To be yourself once more,
  To let philosophy go hang,
    With every Buddhist bore.
  "_Pro aris_," like a Volunteer,
    A girl should be, "_et focis_;"
  Supposing then you try, my dear,
    A new metempsychosis.

       *       *       *       *       *

A COMPLICATED CASE.--The careless little boy who caught a cold from
his cousin, caught it hot from his mother afterwards.

       *       *       *       *       *

VENICE IN LONDON.

(_BY A MOSQUITO "OUT OF IT."_)

[Illustration]

  Oh, it's all very fine, Mr. IMRE KARALFY,
    Thus to blazon your "Venice in London" around,
  To portray the Piazzetta for 'ARRY and ALFY,
    But dispense with my tintinnabulary sound.
  Ask the Tourist if, reft of my wee fellow-creatures,
    On the face of the waters (and watermen) blown,
  He can honestly recognise Venice's features
    In their miniature--or, for that matter, _his own_.

  Ever watchful, we guard, Messrs. ALFY and 'ARRY,
    With our trumpet and spear for the Doges, their mute,
  Opalescent, profanity-proof sanctuary,
    And we swell the lagoon--and lagoonster, to boot.
  Stare away at this pageant of eld--ever new 'tis,--
    In the glimmering gondolas loll, if you like;
  But I'll warrant one eye would be closed to their beauties,
    Could I only escape for a second on strike.

  Could I quiver concealed by yon mimic Rialto,
    Till I swooped with a warrior's music and swing,
  Were I only allowed, as I ought, and I shall, to
    Be avenged on your barbarous hordes with my sting.
  I would tilt at the fogs that mock Italy's glory,
    I would pounce on the rabble--an insolent fry;--
  With my forefathers' motto, "_Pro Patria mori_,"
    I'd annihilate ALFY and 'ARRY--and die!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

_The Real Japan_ is the title modestly given by Mr. HENRY NORMAN to
his book published by FISHER UNWIN. This, my "CO." remarks, seems to
imply that all the rest (including the lady BIRD's not unknown work)
is, as the Gentleman in trouble, who wanted to secure the advocacy
of _Mr. Jaggers_, said, "cagmagger." This tone of bumptiousness
is occasionally apparent in passages of the book, and is perhaps
sufficiently explained by the circumstance, mentioned in the preface,
that a number of the papers originally appeared in the _Pall
Mall Gazette_. Foible apart, HENRY the Norman has contributed an
interesting chapter to the history of a singularly attractive people.
There is nothing new in the heavier parts, which smell vilely of Blue
Books, and might as well have been written in Northumberland Street
as in Yokohama. HENRY is best in the glimpses he gives of the people
living their daily life--in the hands of justice, at school, working
at their Arts and Crafts, dining and dancing.

In _The Poet's Audience_ and _Delilah_, CLARA SAVILE CLARKE (whether
Miss or Mrs. the Baron is unaware, and must apologise for stating
the name as it appears _tout court_) has written two interesting but
tragic stories. The Baron does not like being left in doubt as to the
fate of any hero or heroine in whom he may have been interested, and
therefore calls for "part second" to the first story. _Delilah_, short
and dramatic. The Baron shrinks from correcting a lady's grammar, but
to say "_Mrs. Randal Morgan_ lay down the law" is not the best Sunday
English as she is spoke. From _Fin-de-Siècle Stories_, by Messrs
LAWRENCE AND CADETT, the Baron selects "A Wife's Secret" (nothing
to do with the old play of that name), "Mexico," and "Honour is
Satisfied." Try these, and you'll have had a fine specimen of an
interesting _passe-temps_ collection says,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

In an article on the Salvationist disturbances at Eastbourne,
the _Times_ said that after the scuffle, "the Army reformed its
dishevelled battalions, and marched back to its 'citadel' without
molestation." In another sense, the sooner a reformation of the entire
Army is effected in the exercise of Christian charity, which
means consideration for their neighbours' feelings, the better for
themselves and for the non-combatants of every denomination.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A BAR MESS."--Recent difficulties about latitude of Counsel in
Cross-examination.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OF THE WORLD WORLDLY.

"THERE GO THE SPICER WILCOXES, MAMMA! I'M TOLD THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW
US. HADN'T WE BETTER CALL?"

"CERTAINLY NOT, DEAR. IF THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW US, THEY'RE NOT WORTH
KNOWING. THE ONLY PEOPLE WORTH _OUR_ KNOWING ARE THE PEOPLE WHO
_DON'T_ WANT TO KNOW US!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BRIDAL WREATH.

IN MEMORIAM

H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.

BORN, JAN. 8, 1864. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.

  "I thought thy bridal to have deck'd ...
  And not have strew'd thy grave."--_Hamlet_.

      But yesterday it seems,
      That, dreaming loyal dreams,
  _Punch_, with the People, genially rejoiced
      In that Betrothal Wreath;[1]
      And now relentless Death
  Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.

      The Shadow glides between;
      The garland's vernal green
  Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand.
      Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
      Hushed is the bridal lute,
  And general grief darkens across the land.

      Surely a hapless fate
      For young hearts so elate,
  So fired with promise of approaching bliss!
      Oh, flowers we hoped to fling!
      Oh, songs we thought to sing!
  Prophetic fancy had not pictured this.

      Young, modest, scarce yet tried,
      Later he should have died,
  This gentle youth, loved by our widowed QUEEN!
      So we are apt to say,
      Who only mark the way,
  Not the great goal by all but Heaven unseen.

       At least our tears may fall
       Upon the untimely pall
  Of so much frustrate promise, unreproved;
      At least our hearts may bear
      In her great grief a share,
  Who bows above the bier of him she loved.

      Princess, whose brightening fate
      We gladly hymned of late,
  Whose nuptial happiness we hoped to hymn
      With the first bursts of spring,
      To you our hearts we bring
  Warm with a sympathy death cannot dim.

      Death, cold and cruel Death,
      Removes the Bridal Wreath
  England for England's daughter had designed.
      Love cannot stay that hand,
      And Hymen's rosy band
  Is rent; so will the Fates austere and blind.

      Blind and austere! Ah, no!
      The chill succeeds the glow,
  As winter hastes at summer's hurrying heel.
      Flowers, soft and virgin-white,
      Meant for the Bride's delight,
  May deck the pall where love in tears must kneel.

      Flowers are they, blossoms still,
      Born of Benignant Will,
  Not of the Sphingian Fate, which hath no heed
      For human smiles or tears;
      The long-revolving years
  Have brought humanity a happier creed.

      Prince-Sire of the young dead,
      Mother whose comely head
  Is bowed above him in so bitter grief;
      Betrothed one, and bereaved,
      Queen who so oft hath grieved,--
  Ye all were nurtured in this blest belief.

      Hence is there comfort still,
      In a whole land's good-will,
  In hope that pallid spectre shall not slay.
      The unwelcome hand of Death
      Closes on that white wreath;
  But there is that Death cannot take away!

[Footnote 1: See Cartoon, "_England, Home, and Beauty!_" p. 295,
December 19, 1891.]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT MRS. RAM'S.--They were talking of Mr. JOHN MORLEY. "He's not a
practical politician," said some one, "he's a doctrinaire." "Is he,
indeed?" said our excellent old Lady, "then I daresay I met him when
I was in Scotland." Observing their puzzled expression, she added,
"Yet it's more than likely I didn't, as, when in the North, I was so
uncommonly well that I never wanted a medical man." Subsequently it
turned out that she had understood Mr. J.M. to be a "_Doctor in Ayr_."

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG FOR LORD ROSEBERY.

(_AFTER "TOM TUG," IN THE "WATERMAN."_)

  Then farewell, my County Council,
    Cheek, and fads, and bosh farewell,
  Never more in Whitehall Gardens
    Shall your ROSEB'RY take a spell.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHANGE OF NAME SUGGESTED.--Why call the place _Monte Carlo_, why not
_Mont "Blanc" Junior_? The Leviathan Winner who broke the record and
the tables, Mr. HILL WELLS, might also alter his name according to his
luck. A run of HILL-luck would settle him: but when "WELL's the word,"
he could forget the HILL-doing of the previous day.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JANUARY 14, 1892.]

       *       *       *       *       *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

II.--THE SOCIAL DUFFER.

If my Confessions are to be harrowing, it is in this paper that they
will chiefly provoke the tear of sentiment. Other Confessors have
never admitted that they are Social Duffers, except Mr. MARK PATTISON
only, the Rector of Lincoln College; and he seems to have Flattered
himself that he was only a Duffer as a beginner. My great prototypes,
J.J. ROUSSEAU, and MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, never own to having been Social
Duffers. But I cannot conceal the fact from my own introspective
analysis. It is not only that I was always shy. Others have fled, and
hidden themselves in the laurels, or the hedgerows, when they met a
lady in the way--but they grew out of this cowardly practice. Often
have I, in a frantic attempt to conceal myself behind a hedge, been
betrayed by my fishing-rod, which stuck out over the top. The giggles
of the young women who observed me were hard to bear, but I confess
that they were not unnatural.

[Illustration]

Shyness is a fine qualification in a Social Duffer, and it is greatly
improved by shortness, and, as one may say, stupidity of sight. I
never recognise anyone whom I know; on the other hand, I frequently
recognise people whom I never saw before in my life, and salute them
with a heartiness which they fail to appreciate. Once, at an evening
party, where the Princess BERGSTOL was present, a lady, who had
treated me with hospitable kindness, I three times mistook her; once
for an eminent novelist, once for a distinguished philanthropist,
and once for an admired female performer on the Banjo. I carried
on conversations with her in each of these three imaginary
characters,--and I ask you, is this the way to shine in Society?
You may say, "Wear spectacles"--but they are unbecoming. As to an
eye-glass, somehow it irritates people even more than mere blindness
does. Besides, it is always dropping into one's soup.

People are always accosting me, people who seem vaguely familiar, and
then I have to make believe very much that I remember them, and to
wait for casual hints. The more I feel confident that I know them, the
more it turns out that I don't. It is an awful thing to stop a hansom
in the street, thinking that its occupant is your oldest College
friend, and to discover that he is a perfect stranger, and in a great
hurry. Private Views are my particular abomination. At one such show,
seven ladies, all very handsome and peculiarly attired, addressed me
in the most friendly manner, calling me by my name. They cannot have
taken me for either of my Doubles,--one is a Cabinet Minister, one is
a dentist,--for they knew my name, The MACDUFFER of Duff. Yet I had
not then, nor have I now, the faintest idea who any one of the seven
was. My belief is that it was done for a bet. The worst of it is when,
after about five minutes, I think I have a line as to who my companion
really is, then, my intelligent features lighting up, I make some
remark which ruins everything, congratulate a stockbroker on getting
his step, or an unmarried lady on the success of her son in the Indian
Civil Service examination.

The thing goes so far that I have occasionally mistaken my wife's
relations for old friends. Then, when I am hostile, it is just as bad.
I never, indeed, horsewhipped the wrong man, but that is only because
I never horsewhipped anybody at all, Heaven forefend! But _once_ I did
mean to cut a man, I forget why. So I cut the wrong man, a harmless
acquaintance whose feelings I would not have hurt for the world.
Of course I accidentally cut all the world. Some set it down to an
irritable temper, and ask, "What can we have done to The MACDUFFER?"
Others think I am proud. Proud! I ask, what has a Duffer to be proud
of? Nobody, or very few, admit that I am just a Duffer; a stupid,
short-sighted, absent-minded child of misfortune.

All these things do not make my life so pleasant to me that I, the
MACDUFFER, should greatly care to dine out. Ah, that _is_ a trial.
First, I never know my host and hostess by sight. Next, in a summer
dusk, I never know anybody. Then, as to conversation, I have none.
My mind is always prowling about on some antiquarian hobby-horse,
reflecting deeply on the Gowrie Conspiracy, or the Raid of Ruthven, or
the chances in favour of PERKIN WARBECK's having been a true man. Now
I do object to talking shop, I am not a lawyer, nor yet am I an actor;
I do not like people who talk about their cases, or their parts.
It would he unbecoming to start a conversation on the authenticity
of "HENRY GORING's _Letter_." Then I never go to the play, I do
not even know which of the Royal Family is which: modern pictures
are the abominations of desolation to me; in fact, I have no
"conversation-openings." A young lady, compelled to sit beside me,
has been known to hum tunes, and telegraph messages of her forlorn
condition to her sister, at the opposite end of the table. I pitied
her, but was helpless. My impression is that she was musical, poor
soul! When I do talk, things become actively intolerable. I have
no tact. To have tact, is much like being good at Halma, or whist,
or tennis, or chess. You must be able to calculate the remote
consequences of every move, and all the angles and side-walls from
which the conversational hall may bound. It is needless to say that,
at whist, I never know in the least what will happen in consequence of
the card I play; and life is very much too short for the interminable
calculations of chess. It is the same in conversation. I never know,
or, if my sub-consciousness knows, I never remember, who anybody
is. I speak to people about scandals with which they are connected.
I frankly give my mind about Mr. DULL's poems to Mr. DULL's
sister-in-law. I give free play to my humour about the Royal Academy
in talk with the wife of an Academician of whom I never heard. I am
like _Jeanie Deans_, at her interview with Queen CAROLINE, when, as
the MACALLUM MORE said, she first brought down the Queen, and then
Lady SUFFOLK, right and left, with remarks about unkind mothers, and
the Stool of Penitence.

Thus you may see me forlorn, with each of my neighbours turning
towards me the shoulder of indignation. I do not blame them, but how
can I help it? It is the Fairy's fault: the curse has come upon me.
WILLIAM BUFFY, the Statesman, has a great clan of kinsfolk. Did I ever
express my views about WILLIAM BUFFY, but one of Clan Buffy was there,
to be annoyed? When I find out what has occurred, I become as red as
any tomato, but that does nobody any good.

Oh, I am a Pariah, I am unfit to live! In a savage country, to which
my thoughts often wander, I would stumble over every taboo, and soon
find myself in the oven. As it is, I stumble over everything, stools
and lady's trains, and upset porcelain, and break all the odds and
ends with which I fidget, and spill the salt, and then pour claret
over it, and call on the right people at the wrong houses, and put
letters in the wrong envelopes: one of the most terrible blunders of
the Social Duffer. Naturally, in place of improving, MACDUFFER gets
worse and worse: every failure which he discovers makes him more
nervous: besides he knows that, of all his errors, he only finds out a
small per-centage. Where can he take refuge? If _Robinson Crusoe_ had
been a social Duffer, he and _Friday_ would not have been on speaking
terms in a week. People think the poor Duffer malignant, boorish,
haughty, unkind; he is only a Duffer, an irreclaimable, sad, pitiful
creature, quite beyond the reach of philanthropy. On my grave write,
not MISERRIMUS (though that would be true enough), but FUTILISSIMUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR SPECIAL ARTIST ON TOUR.

_Effect of Sketching in the Train_. (_The Ladies were drawn at the
Stations._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

A GLADSTONIAN MENU.

The following _menu_ of a banquet, said to have been given at Biarritz
not long ago, has been forwarded to us:--

POTAGES.

Faux Col. Marée Coulante. Bonne Femme.

POISSONS.

Harpe Irlandaise, Sauce Verte. Anguilles Glissantes.

ENTRÉES.

Petits Cultivateurs en Caisses. Tête de Joseph frite, Sauce Jessé.
Conservateurs Foudroyés en brochette.

RÔTS.

Vieille Main Parlementaire à la Renard. Parti de Parnell à la
Conscience Nonconformiste.

LÉGUMES.

Discours en Branches. Pommes Maître du Ministère. Choux d'Homère.

ENTREMETS.

Sucrerie d'Office. Conseils de Paroisse à la Cirque d'Été. Mots de
Labouchère.

DESSERT.

Plans Varies. Elections Assorties.

The waiting was done by Candidates, and during the evening the band
played a selection, containing such well-known pieces as "_Souvenir
de Mitchelstown_," the opening chorus of "_Mosé in Egitto_," "_Où
sont nos Ducs_," "_Partant pour le Sud_," and "_Irland, Irland über
alles_."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. BAYLY'S COAST-SPECTRE.

"It is scarcely credible that, at this moment, the elaborate
telegraphic system of this country has little or no connection with
our Lighthouses and Coastguard Stations." So said, quite recently,
the _Illustrated London News_ in an excellent article, appropriately
entitled, "A Flagrant Scandal." It _is_ scarcely credible, and
creditable not at all. "Shiver my timbers!" cries _Mr. Punch_ (in a
nautical rage), "if there _is_ a purpose for which JOHN BULL should
eagerly utilise his 'telegraphic system,' it is for the saving of his
sailors' lives." Mr. ROBERT BAYLY, of Plymouth, wrote a letter to the
_Times_, "giving some instances in which lamentable loss of life was
solely due to the inability of the Lighthouse-keeper or Coastguard
to communicate in time with the nearest life-boat station." Think of
_that_, ye British Gentlemen, who sit at home at ease.

Aren't you ashamed of yourselves at the very thought of it! Well
may "T. LAWRENCE-HAMILTON, M.R.C.S., late Honorary President of
the Fishermen's Federation," say, in an indignant letter to _Mr.
Punch_:--"Perhaps ridicule may wake up some of our salary-sucking
statesmen, and permanent, higher, over-paid Government officials, who
are legally and morally responsible for the present state of chaotic
confusion in which these national matters have been chronically
messed and muddled." Perhaps so, my valiant M.R.C.S. And, if so, that
"ridicule" shall not be wanting--on _Mr. Punch's_ part, at least. Here
goes, for once:--

IMPORTUNATE MR. BAYLY.

A SONG OF A SHAMEFUL SEA-COAST SCANDAL.

AIR--"_Unfortunate Miss Bailey_."

  A Captain bold, of British birth, might bless his stars and garters,
  That if he _must_ be wrecked at all, it should be near home quarters;
  But Britons' conscience smites them when we hear of lives lost daily
  For want of--some electric wires! So says stout ROBERT BAYLY.
    Ah, BOB BAYLY! Importunate BOB BAYLY!

  At night, when he retires to rest, is BULL, the brave and clever,
  Troubled with thoughts of Jack Tars lost for want of care? No, never.
  But sure, JOHN's nightcap would wag wild, his ruddy cheek wax palely,
  If he only realised the tale as told by Mr. BAYLY.
    Ah, R. BAYLY! Importunate R. BAYLY!

  Avaunt, BOB BAYLY! So will cry officials cold and steely,
  Who do not wish to be disturbed while pottering genteely,
  At their old business of Red Tape circumlocuting gaily,
  By tales of wrecks for want of wires, as truly told by BAYLY.
    Oh, R. BAYLY! Importunate R. BAYLY!

  Importunate? And quite right too! This shame must once for all close,
  Or _Punch_ will plant some stirring kicks on--well, _somebody's_
      small-clothes.
  The scandal's getting far too grave, alas! to sing of gaily,
  But _Punch_ in earnest will back up brave HAMILTON and BAYLY!
    Go it, BAYLY! Be importunate still, BOB BAYLY!

See to it, Mr. BULL! _Mr. Punch_, echoing Importunate Mr. BAYLY and
Indignant LAWRENCE HAMILTON, lays it upon you as one of the most
urgent of New Year duties!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MAJOR AND MINIMUS.

_Major_ (_impatiently, to Page-Boy_). "WHY THE DEUCE DON'T YOU _LIFT_
THE COAT ON TO MY SHOULDERS?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DAWN OF A NEW ERA.

THE ACTORS' OWN PRESS-NOTICES COMPANY LIMITED.

    "Then came each actor with his Association." _Shakespeare, New
    Reading_.

CAPITAL--quite excellent. The usual thing in sharing terms.

DIRECTORS.

The Managers of London who live at home at ease.

The Actors of England who have a pretty taste for literature.

[Illustration]

BANKERS.--The Wild Time Bank, late PUCK's Limited.

SOLICITORS.--Messrs. BOX AND COX, Bouncer Buildings.

AUDITORS.--Messrs. HEXTRA, SUPER, NUMERY & CO., Mum Street, E.C.

SECRETARY (_pro tem._).--A. PLYACK TORR.

OFFICES.--In the Adelphi.

ABRIDGED PROSPECTUS.

This Company has been formed for the purposes of establishing a
thoroughly reliable newspaper in the interests of the Drama, and the
shareholders belonging to the Theatrical Profession of the United
Kingdom.

1. To uphold every Shareholder's claim to Acting as an Art.

2. To secure the best possible criticism by enabling every shareholder
to write the notices of his own performances.

3. To take cognisance of the literature that grows up around the
Stage, especially criticism in other quarters.

4. To notice the Drama all the world over, when space permits.

5. To support the work of the Profession in general, and the
Shareholders in particular.

6. To afford a means of exercising hobbies.

7. To contain Articles by any of the recognised critics
("distinguished writers of the day").

8. To serve as a Directory, or _Vade Mecum_, or Press-notes container
for the benefit of the Shareholders.

Many leading theatrical lessees, managers, and actors, have expressed
themselves strongly in favour of the necessity of establishing a
paper, written by themselves, for themselves, to read. Without such
an organ it is impossible that they can be adequately represented.

The need of such a journal has long been felt by those whose
theatrical notices have been the reverse of satisfactory.

A large number of prominent players have promised to take shares, and
advertise, not only in the advertisement columns, but in other parts
of the proposed paper.

The price of the paper will be hereafter settled by the Directors,
who feel that this is a mere matter of detail. The charge for
advertisements will be very moderate, to suit the requirements of
the shareholders.

Pictures and all sorts of clever things will be introduced when the
capital is subscribed, but it's no use making promises until the
bankers have got the money.

If there is a rush for shares (as anticipated), those who come first
will have the preference.

It may be stated that lots of people have promised to become
shareholders which is satisfactory. But it is necessary to add that
no one will be permitted to become a contributor to the paper even of
the most interesting nature (i.e., Press notices, &c.), until he has
contributed to its capital.

It is the intention of the Promoters that the majority of the shares
that be allotted to persons in or connected with the profession, so
that there shall be no nonsense from outsiders.

No promotion money will be paid to anyone. The only preliminary
expenses will be those connected with law and stationery.

It is proposed to start the Journal at once, per contract. The
Promoters are in communication with a gentleman who will make a
first-rate Editor, and who will (they believe) be delighted to accept
such an appointment if offered to him. Special arrangements will be
made for the insertion of such advertisements as "Wigs on the Green"
and "Curtain Razors."

As the paper will be sent about largely, it should have a good
circulation, and the Promoters give as a standing toast, "Success to
the Advertisement Department!"

Under such brilliant auspices, both the Company and the paper (as the
legal advisers, Messrs. BOX & COX would say) "should be satisfied."

In the event of no money being received, the amount will be returned
without deductions.

       *       *       *       *       *

CRIES WITHOUT WOOL.

NO. 1.--"HALL THE WINNERS!"

[Illustration]

  Of all the cries this world can boast--
  A loud, unconscionable host--
  There's one that I detest the most--
  It haunts me o'er my morning toast,
    It scares my luncheon's calm and dinner's.
  It dogs my steps throughout the week,
  That cursed crescendo of a shriek;
  I cannot read, or write, or speak,
  Undeafened by its howl unique,
    That demon-yell of "Hall the Winners!"

  I'm not, I own, a racing man;
  I never loved a horse that ran,
  And betting is a vice I ban;
  Still, to the sporting caravan--
    Or good, or bad, or saints, or sinners--
  I bear no malice; nor would take
  A leaf from any books they make;
  Why then, should _they_, for mercy's sake,
  Pursue me till my senses ache
    With that relentless "Hall the Winners?"

  If it were only but a few,
  But "_Hall_ the Winners!"--why, the crew
  Must winning be the whole year through!
  Why can't a veteran or two
    Retire in favour of beginners?
  I'd rather welcome e'en the strain
  Of "Hall the Losers!" than remain
  A martyr frenzied and profane
  To that importunate refrain
  Of (There! they're at it!!) "Hall the Winners!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HONOUR OF THE BAR.

_TO THE EDITOR OF PUNCH._

SIR,--As the _London Charivari_ is recognised all the world over
as the universally acknowledged organ of the legal profession in
England, will you permit me to make an explanation nearly touching my
professional reputation. A few days since, a Correspondent to one of
your contemporaries complained that the leading Counsel of the epoch
were in the habit of accepting fees they never intended to earn. He
more than hinted that we Barristers were prone to receive cheques for
briefs that we knew we would never attend to; that we were ready to be
paid for being present in one Court, when we knew that we were sure to
be engaged in another. And so and so on.

Now there can be but one interpretation to such a statement. I am
reluctantly compelled to believe that some learned friend or other,
annoyed at my increasing practice, has levelled this blow at me, with
a view to lessening my prosperity. Will you let me say then, once and
for all, I have never received fees for briefs to which I have paid no
attention; that my presence has never been required in one Court when
I have been professionally engaged in another? My Clerk, PORTINGTON,
who has been with me for many years, will tell anyone interested in
the matter, that I am most careful not to accept papers promiscuously.
In conclusion, anyone who knows me will refuse to believe that I have
ever accepted more business than that to which I have been able to
give proper attention. It is not my custom to crowd my mantelpiece
with papers appealing to me in vain for my consideration. At this
moment I have not a single matter demanding my care, except a bundle
sent in to me three years ago by a madman.

  Believe me, yours most truly,
  (_Signed_) A BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR.
  _Pump-Handle Court_,
  _January 18, 1892._

       *       *       *       *       *

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.--_Mr. Punch_ is glad to congratulate
everybody on the improvement in the health of JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE,
comedian. It may be remembered that Mr. TOOLE, being at Mr. EDMUND
ROUTLEDGE's house, and suddenly feeling unwell, was pressed by his
kind host to stay there the night. He accepted and stopped about
three weeks. Mr. J.L. TOOLE recommends the "ROUTLEDGE Treatment" to
everybody. He is enthusiastic on the subject. So many persons have
acted on his advice, and when calling on Mr. ROUTLEDGE, in quite a
casual and friendly way, apparently, have been suddenly taken worse,
that the benevolent publisher who feels deeply the necessity of
showing these distressing visitors at once to the door, wishes it
generally to be known that "Open House" is closed as a "Casual Ward,"
and that he is not at home to anybody; except _bonâ fide_ visitors
who will give their written word, under penalties, not to be taken ill
during their brief interview with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.





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