Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, October 21st 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
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Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, October 21st 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: THE SHAFTESBURY FOUNTAIN AGAIN.

SENSATIONAL INCIDENT IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS, AS SEEN BY OUR ARTIST.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WAR IN SOUTH AMERICA.

(_From our Correspondent on the Spot._)

  _There or Thereabouts, Saturday._

I hope you will not believe all you hear. I am told that the messages
are tampered with, but this I trust to get through the lines without
difficulty. It is being carried by a professional brigand disguised as
a monk.

First let me disabuse the minds of your readers about the blowing up
of the hospital. It is quite true that the place was sent spinning
into the air. But the patients were put to the minimum of
inconvenience. They were removed from the wards without being called
upon to quit their beds. They went somewhere after returning to the
ground, but where I do not know. Some of the local doctors say that
the change of air (caused by the explosion) may have done them good.
It is not impossible.

I am glad to be able to contradict the report that the Stock Exchange
and the apple-stall at the corner were both bombarded. This is a
deliberate falsehood. The Stock Exchange, it is true, was razed to the
ground, but the apple-stall escaped uninjured. This is an example of
the reckless fashion in which reports are circulated.

Then about the burning of the city. It is certainly true that the
place was set alight in two hundred places at once. But the day was
cold, and I think it was only done because the troops wanted to warm
their hands. You must not believe all you hear, and it is unwise to
impute motives before receiving explanations. The people here are
warm-hearted and sympathetic, and the soldiers (as a body) are the
mildest-mannered persons imaginable.

And the report about the blowing-up of the bridges. Here again there
has been gross exaggeration. The bed of the river, in spite of reports
to the contrary, was left undisturbed. Only the stone-work was sent
spinning, and yet some reporters insist that everything was blown into
smithereens! Reporters really should be more careful.

And now I must conclude, as my brigand, disguised as a priest, is just
off.

As a parting request, I would urge upon my stockbrokers to buy. We
are sure to have a rise presently, and I predict this with the
greater confidence as I know that the house in which I am writing is
undermined.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WASTED SWEETNESS.

A HEARTRENDING STUDY OF SHADOW ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY!]

       *       *       *       *       *

The _P. M. Magazine_ goes in for discussion of Bi-metallism. Sir JOHN
LUBBOCK writes about "The Case for Gold," and Mr. VICARY GIBBS, M.P.,
about "The Case for Silver." Considering the relative value of the
metals, the case for gold ought to be out and away the stronger of the
two, impregnable, and burglar-proof, so that it could be advertised
thus: "It's no use having gold unless you have Sir JOHN LUBBOCK'S
'case for gold' to keep it in."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BEHEMOTH AND THE LION; OR, SPEARS AND QUILLS.

_A Fable for Pseudo-Philanthropists._

_Philanthropist Press-Man._ "OH STOP, STOP, MISTER LION! WAIT A BIT!
PERHAPS THE PRETTY CREATURE MEANS NO HARM!"

_Leo (curtly)._ "_LOOK AT HIS TEETH!_"]

[Mr. RIDER HAGGARD (writing to the _Times_) remarks that a
considerable section of the English Press seems to be of opinion that
LOBENGULA is an innocent and worthy savage, on whom a quarrel is
being forced by the Chartered Company for its own mercenary ends.
He suggests that the appearance of an armed Matabele impi in Mayfair
might alter their views.]

  "Behemoth is big and black, and monstrous-mouthed and toothfull,
  But to say he is carnivorous were cruelly untruthful!"
  So quoth the Querulous Quillman, or Pen-armed Philanthropist,
  Whose intellect seems ever in a sentimental mist.
  Now Leo, little given to read books on Natural History,
  Was watchful of Dame Nature's _facts_. "It seems to me a mystery
  My querulous Press Porcupine," observed the wary Lion,
  "That what you've set your heart on, you can never keep clear eye
          on.
  _Look at his teeth!_" "Oh, nonsense!" cried the Querulous
          Quillman, quoting
  From a book on Big Mammalia, to which he'd been devoting
  All his odd moments recently. "Those tusks may look terrific,
  But the monster's graminivorous, and pleasant, and pacific.
  They're solely meant for cutting grass! Huge uppers and big lowers,
  Though threatening as ripping-saws, are harmless as lawn-mowers.
  As weapons of offence they're seldom used, so here 'tis stated,
  'Unless the creature's wounded sore, or greatly irritated.'
  He is innocent and worthy, this Titanic-jawed Colossus.
  Those gleaming tusks won't 'chump' you, he won't trample us, or
          toss us,
  Unless we interfere with him. He likes to stand there grinning,
  With those terrible incisors, in a way which mayn't be winning,
  Still, _'tis but his style of smiling_, and it's not his fault,
          poor fellow!
  If his maw's a crimson cavern, and his tusks are huge and yellow."

  Behemoth meanwhile snorted in his own earthquaky fashion,
  And yawned, and lashed and trampled like a tiger in a passion.
  By the gleaming of his optics, and the clashing of his tushes,
  He _seemed_ to be preparing for the Ugliest of Rushes.
  Quoth Leo, "Good friend Porcupine, you _may_ be quite prophetic,
  And I a bit 'too previous.' Your picture's most pathetic;
  But I've seen your pachydermatous Poor Innocent when furious,
  And for a gentle graminivorous creature, it is curious
  How he'll run amuck like a Malay, and crunch canoes and foes up,
  With those same tusks, which might have made a Mammoth turn his
          toes up.
  So if you please, friend Porcupine, your quills I shall not trust
          again
  To meet those spears, which hate would wash--in blood, 'ere they
          should rust again.
  Mere quills won't quell an Impi, or make Behemoth good-neighbourly.
  Leo must guard this spot, where British enterprise and labour lie,
  The Monster seems to meditate attack, if _I_ may judge of him,
  So let _me_ have the first slap at, whilst you keep on scribbling
          fudge of him!

  MORAL.

  It may appear superfluous to point this fable's moral;
  But--teeth that could crush chain-mail seem scarce shaped for
          mumbling coral!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A WEIGHTY PROSPECT.

_The Captain (who has just been giving a spin to his last purchase,
for his Wife's inspection)._ "GOOD GOER, AIN'T HE? AND A FULL
FOURTEEN-STONE HORSE, YOU KNOW!"

_Young Wife (as yet somewhat innocent in horsey matters)._ "OH,
I'M SURE HE'S _MORE_ THAN THAT, DEAR. WHY, _MAMMA_ WEIGHS NEARLY AS
MUCH!"]


       *       *       *       *       *

A LETTER HOME.

(_From our Youngest Contributor._)

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--This is about the last letter you will receive
from me. I know it is, as all will soon be over! And I shall be glad
of it. I can't last out until the Christmas holidays. Who could with
such food? Why, it would make a dog cough!

It's no use learning anything. Why should I, when it will be all over
almost directly? What's the good of Latin and Greek if you are going
to chuck it almost at once? And mathematics, too! What use are they if
the end is near? It's all very well to cram, but what's the good of it
when you know you won't survive to eat the plum pudding?

There's no news. There's never any news. SMITH Minor has got his
cap for football, and SNOOKS Major is going up to Oxford instead of
Cambridge. What does it matter when the beef is so tough that you
might sole your boots with it? And as for the mutton! Well, all I can
say is, that it isn't fit for human food, and the authorities should
be told about it. As for me, I am passing away. No one will ever see
me more. For all that, you might send me a hamper. Your affectionate
friend,

  JACKY.

       *       *       *       *       *

STAR-GAZING.

["Astronomy has become a deservedly fashionable hobby with young
ladies."]

  My love is an astronomer,
    Whose knowledge I rely on,
  She'll talk about, as I prefer,
  The satellites of Jupiter,
    The nebulous Orion.

  When evening shades about us fall
    Each hour too quickly passes.
  We take no heed of time at all,
  When studying celestial
    Phenomena through glasses.

  The salient features we descry
    Of all the starry pattern;
  To see with telescopic eye
  The citizens of Mars we try,
    Or speculate on Saturn.

  To find another planet still
    If ever we're enabled,
  The world discovered by her skill
  As "ANGELINA TOMKYNS" will
    Triumphantly be labelled.

  The likeness of the stars elsewhere
    By day we view between us,
  We recognise the Greater Bear,
  I grieve to say, in TOMKYNS _père_,
    And close at hand is Venus!

  In fact, the editorial note
    Above, which is of course meant
  To lead more ladies to devote
  Attention to the stars, I quote
    With cordial endorsement!

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN THE NAME OF THE PROPHET!"--Which is the right way of spelling the
name of the Prophet of Islam? Is it MOHAMMED? MAHOMET? MUHAMMED?
or MAHOMED? Are his followers Mohammedans? Mahommedans? Mahometans?
Moslems? Mussulmen? or Muslims? Perhaps, to adapt _Mr. Mantalini's_
famous summary, and merely substituting "all" for "both," and "none
of 'em" for "neither," we may say "So all are right, and none of 'em
wrong, upon our life and soul, O demmit!"

       *       *       *       *       *


UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

SCENE IX.--CHARLES COLLIMORE'S _Sitting-room at Keppel Street,
Bloomsbury_. TIME--_Saturday afternoon_.

_Mrs. Cagney_ (_the landlady, showing_ Mr. TOOVEY _in_). Oh, I thought
Mr. COLLIMORE had come in, Sir, but I expect him in every minute. Will
you take a seat?

_Mr. Toovey_ (_sitting down_). Thank you, I'm in no hurry--no hurry at
all. (_To himself._) CORNELIA wished me to put a few questions quietly
to the landlady. I suppose I'd better do it while----(_Aloud._) Hem,
I hope, Ma'am, that you find Mr. COLLIMORE a--an unexceptionable
lodger--in all respects?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_crossing her hands stiffly in front of her_). Mr.
COLLIMORE conducks hisself as a gentleman, and treats me as a lady,
which is all _my_ requirements.

_Mr. Toov._ Quite so--very satisfactory, I'm sure, but--does he keep
fairly regular hours? Or is he at all inclined to be--er--fast?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_on her guard_). I can't answer for the time his watch
keeps, myself. I dessay it goes as reg'lar as what most do.

_Mr. Toov._ No, no; I was referring to his habits. I mean--does he
usually spend his evenings quietly at home?

_Mrs. Cagn._ You'll excuse _me_, but if you're arsking me all these
questions out of mere himpertinent curiosity----

_Mr. Toov._ I--I trust I have a higher motive, Ma'am. In fact, I may
as well tell you I am Mr. COLLIMORE'S uncle.

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_to herself_). The old fox! So he's trying to ferret out
something against him, is he? Well, he _won't_--that's all. (_Aloud._)
If you _are_ his huncle, Sir, all I can say is, you've got a nephew to
be proud on. I wouldn't wish to let my first floor to a steadier or
a more industrious young gentleman; comes in punctual to a tick every
night of his life and 'as his dinner, and sets studyin' his book till
'alf-past ten, which is his bed-time. I don't know what more you want.

_Mr. Toov._ (_to himself_). This is really very satisfactory--if I
could only believe it. (_Aloud._) But do I understand you to say that
that is his invariable practice? Occasionally, I suppose, he goes out
to a place of amusement--such as a music-hall, now?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_to herself_). Well, he may; and why not? He don't get
into no mischief, though light-'earted. _I_ ain't going to give him
a bad name. (_Aloud._) Lor, Sir, don't you go and put such ideas into
his 'ed. Bless your 'art alive, if he knows there _are_ such places,
it's as much as he does know!

_Mr. Toov._ (_testily_). Now, now, my good woman, I'm afraid you're
trying to deceive me. I happen to know more about my nephew's tastes
and pursuits than you imagine.

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_roused_). Then, if you know so much, whatever do you
come 'ere and ask _me_ for? It's my belief you ain't up to no good,
for all you look so respectable, comin' into my 'ouse a-pokin'
your nose into what don't concern you, for all the world like a
poll-pryin', sneakin' Russian spy!

_Charles_ (_entering behind her_). Hallo, Mrs. CAGNEY, what's
all this--who's a Russian spy, eh? (_Recognising_ MR. TOOVEY.)
What--Uncle! you don't mean to say it's _you_?

    [Mr. TOOVEY _stands stricken with confusion_.

_Mrs. Cagn._ I may have spoke too free, Mr. COLLIMORE, Sir, but when
a party, as is elderly enough to know better, tries to put under'and
questions to me about where and 'ow any o' my gentlemen pass their
hevenins, and if they go to the music-'all and what not--why, I put it
to you----

_Charles._ All right, Mrs. CAGNEY, put it to me some other time; you
didn't understand my uncle, that's all--you needn't stay. Oh, by
the way, I'm dining out again this evening. Tell CAGNEY to leave the
chain, as I may be late. (_After_ Mrs. C. _has retired_.) Well, Uncle,
I'm afraid your diplomacy hasn't had quite the success it deserved.

[Illustration: "Mr. Collimore conducks hisself as a gentleman, and
treats me as a lady."]

_Mr. Toov._ (_sheepishly_). I assure you, my boy, that I--I was not
inquiring for my own satisfaction. Your Aunt is naturally anxious to
know how you---- But your landlady gave you an excellent character.

_Charles._ She didn't seem to be equally complimentary to _you_,
Uncle. "A Russian spy," wasn't it? But really, you know, you might
have come to me for any information you require. _I_ don't mind
telling you all there is to tell. And surely Aunt knows I've been to a
music-hall; why, she pitched into me about it enough last Sunday!

_Mr. Toov._ I--I think she wanted to know whether you went frequently,
CHARLES, or only that once.

_Charles._ Oh, and so she sent you up to pump my landlady? Well, I'll
tell you exactly how it is. I don't set up to be a model young man
like your friend CURPHEW. I don't spend all my evenings in this
cheerful and luxurious apartment. Now and then I find the splendour of
the surroundings rather too much for me, and I'm ready to go anywhere,
even to a music-hall, for a change. There, I blush to say, I spend an
hour or two, smoking cigars, and even drinking a whisky and soda, or
a lemon squash, listening to middle-aged ladies in sun-bonnets and
accordion skirts singing out of tune. I don't know that they amuse
me much, but, at all events, they're livelier than Mrs. CAGNEY. I'm
dining out to-night, at the Criterion, with a man at the office, and
it's as likely as not we shall go in to the Valhalla or the Eldorado
afterwards. There, you can't say I'm concealing anything from you. And
I don't see why you should groan like that, Uncle.

_Mr. Toov._ (_feebly_). I--I'd rather you didn't go to the--the
Eldorado, CHARLES.

_Charles._ There's ingratitude! I thought you'd be touched by my
devotion.

_Mr. Toov._ (_to himself_). I _can't_ tell him I was thinking of going
there myself! (_Aloud._) You will show your devotion best by keeping
away. The less young men go to such places, my boy, the better!

_Charles._ Not for _you_, Uncle. You forget that it's the humble five
bob of fellows like me that help to provide your next dividend.

_Mr. Toov._ (_wincing_). Don't, CHARLES, it--it's ungenerous and
undutiful to reproach me with being a shareholder when you know how
innocently I became one!

_Charles._ But I _wasn't_ reproaching you, Uncle, it was rather
the other way round, wasn't it? And really, considering you _are_ a
shareholder in the Eldorado, it's a little too strong to condemn me
for merely going there.

_Mr. Toov._ I--I may not be a shareholder long, CHARLES. Unless I can
conscientiously feel able to retain my shares I shall take the first
opportunity of selling them.

_Charles._ But why, Uncle? Better stick to them now you have got them!

_Mr. Toov._ What? with the knowledge that I was profiting by practices
I disapproved of? Never, CHARLES!

_Charles._ But you can't _sell_ without making a profit, you know;
they've gone up tremendously.

_Mr. Toov._ Oh, dear me! Then, do you mean that I shouldn't even
be morally justified in selling them? Oh, you don't think _that_,
CHARLES?

_Charles._ That's a point you must settle for yourself, Uncle, it's
beyond me. But, as a dutiful nephew, don't you see, I'm bound to do
all I can in the meantime to keep up the receipts for you, if I have
to go to the Eldorado every evening and get all the fellows I know to
go too. Mustn't let those shares go down, whether you hold on or sell,
eh?

_Mr. Toov._ (_horrified_). Don't make me an excuse for encouraging
young men to waste precious time in idleness and folly. I won't allow
it--it's abominable, Sir! You've put me in such a state of perplexity
by all this, CHARLES, I--I hardly know where I am! Tell me, are you
really going to the Eldorado this evening?

_Charles._ I can't say; it depends on the other fellow. But I will if
I can get him to go, for your sake. And I'm afraid I ought to go and
change, Uncle, if you'll excuse me. Make yourself as comfortable as
you can. Here's to-day's _Pink 'Un_, if you haven't seen it.

_Mr. Toov._ I'm not in the habit of seeing such periodicals, Sir. And
I must be going. Oh, by the bye, your Aunt wished me to ask you to
come down and dine and sleep on Monday next. THEA will be back, and I
believe Mr. CURPHEW has got a free evening for once. Shall I tell her
you will come, CHARLES?

_Charles._ Thanks; I'll come with pleasure. But, I say, Aunt doesn't
want to give me another lecture, I hope? After all, she can't say much
if you've told her about those shares, as I suppose you have.

_Mr. Toov._ N--not yet, CHARLES. I have not found a convenient
opportunity. There, I can't stay--good-bye, my boy.

    [_He takes his leave._

END OF SCENE IX.


SCENE X.--_In the Street._

_Mr. Toovey_ (_to himself_). I'm afraid CHARLES has lost every
particle of respect for me. I wish I had never told him about those
wretched shares. And what _am_ I to do now? If I go to this Eldorado
place, he may be there too; and, if he sees me, I shall never hear the
last of it! And yet my mind will never be easy unless I do go and see
for myself what it really is like. That young CURPHEW expects me to
go. But I don't know, I do so dread the idea of going--alone, too!
I should like to ask somebody else what he thinks I ought to
do--somebody who is a man of the world. I wonder if I went to see
LARKINS--he won't be in his office so late as this, but I might
catch him in his chambers. It was all through him I got into this
difficulty; he ought to help me out of it if he can. I really think I
might take a cab and drive to Piccadilly, on the chance.

    [_He hails a Hansom, and drives off._

END OF SCENE X.

       *       *       *       *       *

CARR-ACTORS AT "THE COMEDY."

When we have two original plays like PINERO'S _Second Mrs. Tanqueray_
and GRUNDY'S _Sowing the Wind_, we may congratulate ourselves that
they do _not_ "do these things better in France." _Mrs. Tanqueray_ is
a life-like tragedy, and _Sowing the Wind_ a life-like comedy. It was
a pleasure to congratulate Mr. ALEXANDER at the St. James's on his
choice of a piece, and of the company to suit it, especially on the
engagement of Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL for the heroine; and now it is
equally pleasant to congratulate a _confrère_ in literature, Mr.
COMYNS CARR, on having made so eminently successful a _début_ in
theatrical management, as he has done in choice of the piece and of
the company to play it.

[Illustration: A Portrait from M-Emery. Emery Powder and polish'd
performance.]

It is a canon of comedy-construction that from the first, the audience
should be let into the secret of the _dénouement_, but that they
should be puzzled as to the means by which that end is to be achieved.
This play is an excellent example of the rule. Everybody knows who the
heroine is from the moment of her appearance; but as to how she, the
illegitimate daughter, is to be recognised and acknowledged by her
father, this is the problem that no one except the dramatist, in
the course of four acts, can solve. It is a very clever piece of
workmanship. In these modern matter-of-fact realistic days, fancy
the awful danger to any play in which a father has to discover his
long-lost child! The strawberry mark on the left arm, the amulet,
the duplicate miniature of the mother--these ways and means, and many
others, must occur to the playgoer, and must have presented themselves
at the outset to the author, flattering himself on his originality, as
difficulties almost insuperable because so stagey, so worn threadbare,
so out of date.

Over these difficulties Mr. GRUNDY has triumphed, and with him triumph
the actors and the stage-manager; as, for the most part, except when
there is a needless conventional "taking the centre" for supposed
effect, the stage management is as admirable as the acting and the
dialogue, which is saying a great deal, but not a bit too much.

[Illustration: BRANDON AND MONKEY BRAND-ON.

_Mr. Brandon Thomas Brabazon_ (_to Cyril Maude Watkin_). "I know that
face. I've seen it on the hoardings."

_Watkin_ (_faintly_). "It won't wash!"

    [_Collapses._

]

Mr. BRANDON THOMAS and Miss EMERY have never done anything better. The
former with his peculiar north-country "burr," and with his collars
and general make up reminding many of the G. O. M., whilst Mr. IAN
ROBERTSON as the wicked old Lord is not unlike the pictures of the
Iron Duke when Lord DOURO. Mr. EDMUND MAURICE, as representing the
slangy, sporting, about-town Baronet of the Tom-and-Jerry day, is
a kind of _Goldfinch_ in _The Road to Ruin_, with a similar kind of
catchword, which I suppose, on Mr. GRUNDY'S authority [though I do not
remember the expression nor the use of the word "chuck" in _Tom and
Jerry_--the authority for Georgian era slang] was one of the slang
phrases of that period. For my part (a very small part), I am inclined
to credit Mr. GRUNDY with the invention of "smash my topper," and of
the introduction of "chuck it" into eighteenth century London slang.

Admirable are the quaint sketches of character given by Miss ROSE
LECLERCQ and Miss ANNIE HUGHES. Manly and lover-like is Mr. SYDNEY
BROUGH. In the dramatic unfolding of the plot, faultlessly acted as
it is, the audience from first to last are thoroughly interested.
Here and there, speeches and scenes would be all the better for some
judicious excision. When you are convinced, further argument weakens
the case, and I confess I should like to hear that ten minutes' worth
of dialogue had been taken out of the parts played by Mr. BRANDON
THOMAS and Miss WINIFRED EMERY. But this is a small matter--a very
small matter. To sum up, it is good work and good play, and so the new
manager and lessee is at this present moment a Triumphal CARR.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Portrait of the Great Duke of Wellington, when Marquis
of Douro, by Mr. Ian Robertson.]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Q._ Why was there at one time a chance of the _Times_, which has
always been up to date, ever being behind time?--_A._ Because formerly
there was so much _Delayin!!_

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR LADIES WHO "GRUB SHORT" TO AVOID OBESITY.--Grace before
Meat!

       *       *       *       *       *

Nulli Secundus.

(_By a Lover of the Links._)

  Lyttleton asks--great cricketer, for shame!--
  If Golf--Great Scot!!!--is quite "a first-class game."
  Well, if first-class it cannot quite be reckoned,
  'Tis that it stands alone, and hath no second!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PROTEST.

"AND PRAY, AM I _NEVER_ TO BE NAUGHTY, MISS GRIMM?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"L'UNION FAIT LA--FARCE!"

    ["France turns from her abandoned friends afresh And soothes
    the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh."

      --CAMPBELL.]

  Yes, history here doth repeat itself verily!
    Fancy fair France, in Republican rig,
  "Soothing the Bear" again; footing it merrily
    In--well now, what _is_ the name of this jig?
  _Cancan_, or _Carmagnole_? Blend of the two?
  Anyhow, 'tis a most strange "_Pas de Deux_"!

  Policy makes pride and principles plastic,
    And 'tis most true that extremes often meet;
  Yet as a sample of joint "Light Fantastic"
    _This_ dual dance must be baddish to beat.
  Beauty and Beast _vis-à-vis_ in the dance,
  Were scarce funnier partners than Russia and France.

  Autocrat Bruin, can he really relish
    The larkish high-kick, the tempestuous twirl,
  That risky Republican dances embellish?
    And she--a political "Wallflower," poor girl!--
  Can she truly like the strange partner that fate
  Apportions her, lumpish, unlovely, and late?

  Like 'Arry and 'Arriet out for a frolic,
    They've interchanged head-gear, by curious hap!
  Of what is this strange substitution symbolic?
    The Autocrat crown and the Phrygian cap
  They've "swopped," but they both most uneasily sit,
  And each for the other appears a poor fit.

  That Liberty cap upon Bruin's brown noddle!
    That crown--much awry--on the Beauty's fair head!
  Absurd! And the Bear's heavy lumbering waddle
    Sorts oddly enough with the lady's light tread.
  He won't get _her_ step! Will she try to catch _his_?
  As soon shall small beer take the sparkle of fizz.

  Is she "soothing the Bear"--with a show of lip-honey?
    Is he flattering the Bee--with an eye on the hive?
  Sting hidden, claws sheathed--for how long? Well, 'tis funny,
    This queer little game, whilst they keep it alive!
  Dance-partnership is not "for better for worse,"
  And "union of hearts" sometimes smacks of--the purse.

  "Twos and Threes" is a game to the playground familiar!
    "Two's Company!" Yes, so, in this case, are Three!
  Alliances frequently made willy-nilly are
    Dual _or_ Triple. The Eagles we see
  Foregather; so may they not meet--in the dance--
  The Big Northern Beast and the Beauty of France?

       *       *       *       *       *

ANGELS.

  I wonder if you give your mind
    At all to angels. "Which?" you say?
  Why, angels of the hymn-book kind,
    Not imitation ones in clay.

  I often do. They fascinate
    My fancy to a strange degree;
  And meditating much of late
    There came two serious points to me.

  You notice in the Holy Writ
    Angels are never feminine;
  But, wheresoever they may flit,
    _He_ came, _he_ spake, _he_ gave the sign.

  The men who wrote of them were sage,
    And knew their subject out and out;
  But _we_ live in a wicked age,
    That twists the angels' sex about.

  And painters paint them girls. And then
    The question sets one's brains afire--
  Why choristers on earth are men,
    If women form the heavenly choir?

  And if they _do_ paint here or there
    A man among the cherubim,
  I claim to know why not a hair
    May grow upon the face of him?

  I know the Roman Church decreed
    "A priest shall wear a shaven face."
  But what of angels? There indeed
    Razor and strop seem out of place.

  Then why this hairless cheek and chin?
    I ask, and Echo answers Why?
  Have angel-cheeks no roots within?
    --Here comes my keeper. So, good-bye!

       *       *       *       *       *

RECKLESS.--"Mr. ALLEN, Senator of Albraska, a prominent silverite,
spoke for fifteen hours." "Speech is silver. Silence golden." If all
silverites go on at this length, there'll be no silence, _ergo_, no
gold. Q. E. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "L'UNION FAIT LA-FARCE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OUT FOR AN OTTER-DAY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MY PRETTY JANE AT A LATER SEASON.

(_Respectfully submitted for the consideration of Mr. Sims Reeves._)

  My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane,
    You still, you still are looking shy!
  You never met me in the evening
    When the bloom was on the rye.
  The year is waning fast, my love;
    The leaves are in the sere;
  The fog-horns now are humming, love;
    And the moonshine's "moonshine," dear.
  But, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,
    I never will "say die";--
  Come, meet me, meet me in our parlour,
    Where the bloom is on the fly.

  Just name your day, that mother may
    Produce her best in china things,
  And stop yon man in apron white,
    Whose muffin-bell, whose muffin-bell now rings.
      The year is waning fast, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A TRIPLE BILL."--"The Home Rule Bill," said Mr. CHAMBERLAIN to his
American friends, "is not scotched. It is killed." Of course our JOE
knows that were it "scotched" it would be only "half kilt." But the
idea of an Irish Bill being Scotched! Our only JOE might have added
that it was "Welsh'd" in the Lords.

       *       *       *       *       *

PH[OE]BUS, WHAT A NAME!--Sir COMER PETHERAM, Chief Justice of Bengal,
is coming home. Welcome, Sir HOME-COMER PETHERAM. Or, why not Sir
HOMER PETHERAM for short?

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A YOUNG COUNTRY FRIEND, AGED SEVEN.

(_Who whistled of Monte Carlo not wisely, but too well._)

  Sweet youth! I wonder if you'll feel much pain
  To know that that sweet soul-inspiring strain
  You whistle at so wonderful a rate
  Is now in point of fact quite out of date.
  Down in the country pr'aps you hardly know
  At what a pace these street-songs come and go.
  At present you're a day behind the fair,
  And want (as I myself) a change of air.
  You should protest you're being driven crazy
  By waiting for the answer of fair DAISY;
  Or else ask sadly what was she to do
  Who, "silly girl," got taken on to Crewe.
  Whistle _that_ charming ditty, if you must,
  Until, (forgive the phrase) until you bust,
  But do _not_ whistle, if you wish to rank
  As in the know, "_The Man who broke the Bank_."

       *       *       *       *       *

UPON JULIA'S MOTHER.

(_To depart presently._)

  Julia, I deemed that I had wed
    Not thine, but only thee;
  A child I wept my mother sped,
  Thou'st given thine to me.

  She came as wandering sea-birds come
    To rest upon a spar
  Of ships that trail the lights of home
    Where homeless billows are.

  From Aix-les-Bains to Harrogate,
    From Bath to Tunbridge Wells,
  She's sojourned in Imperial state,
    Yet here content she dwells.

  Content--and yet no truce with truth
    Such Roman mothers know;
  Quick to detect the faults of youth,
    And prompt to tell us so.

  I knew not I possess'd the charms
    Her wandering will to bind,
  To keep me from my JULIA'S arms,
    And mould the baby's mind.

  When first I held thee to my breast
    I little dreamt the day
  Another bird would share the nest
    As there content to stay.

  Thy kindred, dear, I wooed not them,
    Such wealth I'd fain resign;
  Since I have won the brightest gem
    I covet not the mine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. says that when she thinks the drains are likely to be
offensive she invariably uses "bucolic."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CRISIS IN CONJUGAL LIFE.

_Fond Husband._ "LOOK HERE, ETHEL, I SEE YOU DAILY GETTING THINNER AND
PALER; YOU CANNOT EAT, YOU CANNOT SLEEP, WHILE I FIND LIFE A BURDEN TO
ME. I CAN BEAR IT NO LONGER! LET US MAKE A BARGAIN. IF YOU PROMISE NOT
TO GIVE ME A CHRISTMAS PRESENT, I'LL PROMISE NOT TO GIVE _YOU_ ONE.
THERE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

FAREWELL!

(_On hearing that snow had fallen in the North._)

  Snow has fallen, winter's due;
  In the months that now ensue
  Smoky fogs will hide the view,
  Mud will get as thick as glue,
  Rain, snow, hail will come in lieu
  Of the warmth to which we grew
  Quite accustomed, and will brew
  Colds, coughs, influenza, rheumatism
  to thrill us through.
  Gone the sky of southern hue,
  Cloudless space of cobalt blue!
  Gone the nights so sultry--phew!
  Quite without rheumatic dew.
  Gone the days, when each anew
  Seemed yet finer! In Corfu,
  California, Peru,
  This would not be strange, but true;
  But the weatherwise at Kew
  Say in England it is new.
  Peerless summer, in these few
  Lines we bid farewell to you!
  Or as cockneys say, "Aydew!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A "SHAKSPEARIAN STUDENT" wants to know "if, when _Richard the Third_
calls out 'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!' he is not
alluding to the Night-Mare from which he is only just recovering."
[Can't say. Highly probable. So like SHAKSPEARE.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Dear MR. P.,--I believe you do not know that Mrs. R. recently visited
Rome. She tells me that she thinks it an excellent thing that the
Tontine Marshes have been planted with Apocalypses.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CITY HORSE.

(_A Legend of the "Coming Ninth."_)

"You _must_ let me have him on the day I have specified," said the
military-looking man, with an air of determination.

"And you order this, Sir, after learning his history?" replied the
well-educated cabman. "You know that he has been in a circus?"

"I do; it is one of his greatest qualifications. A circus, I think you
said, where there was a brass band?"

"Not only a brass band, but a very brassy band indeed; a brass band
all drum, trombone, and cymbal! A brass band that could be heard for
miles!"

"And he bore it well?" asked the ex-soldier. "He did not mind the
noise?"

"Not he," was the reply. "Why should he mind it? For remember he was
accustomed to insults from the clown. When a horse regards insults
from the clown with equanimity, you may be sure he will object to
nothing."

"And what were the nature of these insults?" queried the veteran
warrior, with renewed interest. "Did the clown push him about? Did he
tell him to gee-up?"

"Why, certainly. Had he been an unruly crowd at Blackheath on a Bank
Holiday, the clown could not have behaved worse. And _Rufus_, poor
beast! bore it all--six nights a week, with a _matinée_ thrown in on a
Saturday--without complaining."

"And you do not think he would mind being called 'cat's-meat?' Not
even by a rude boy?"

"Bless you, Sir, it is what I often call him myself. _Rufus_ is his
name, but cat's-meat is his nature. But don't you want him for more
than a day? Won't you buy him?"

"No," returned the veteran soldier, sternly. "I only require him for
the Ninth."

"He is getting too old for cabwork," argued the well-read driver. "He
would make a splendid charger for the adjutant of a Yeomanry corps,
and out of training might be put in the harness of a bathing-machine.
No, pray don't interrupt me, Sir. You are going to urge that he would
be useless in the winter. But no, Sir, you are wrong. He might take
round coal (in small quantities), when the nights draw in. Can I not
tempt you, Sir? You shall have him a bargain. Shall we say a penny a
pound?"

"I have already told you," replied the warrior, "that I have need of
him only on the 9th. You understand, the 9th of next month."

The well-read cab-driver nodded, and the two men parted. It was a
bargain. _Rufus_ (_alias_ "Cat's-meat") was to be ready for hire on
the 9th of November.

"What does he want to do with the brute?" the well-read cabman asked
himself again and again. "Surely he cannot mean to ride it? And yet he
desired to learn if _Rufus_ were up to his weight; and when I answered
Yes, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the animal with renewed
interest."

And all through the day the mystery puzzled him. He could not solve
the problem, try as he would. Suddenly, as he was discussing a cup of
tea in a shelter, a ray of light flooded his perplexed mind.

"Eureka!" he exclaimed; "the warrior must have been the City Marshal;
and he wanted _Rufus_ ('Cat's-meat'), of course, for the Lord Mayor's
Show!" And perhaps the cabman had guessed rightly. Only the future can
tell.

       *       *       *       *       *

A QUESTION FOR SCOTCHMEN.--The Duke of ATHOLE announces that he is in
future to be described as the Duke of ATHOLL. Why has he changed his
name? Because he canna thole it.

  A Duke cannot add to his stature a cubit,
    Like the frog in the fable in vain he may swell;
  And in vain does he alter his name with a new bit,
    Its length is the same, though he tacks on an "l."

       *       *       *       *       *

M. ZOLA is a Son of France. Around him are many literary planets and
stars, and imitators, shining with reflected light--the French Zolar
System. This is the Theory of _Mr. Punch_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS. A GOLF MEETING.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A "FANTASTIC" ACTION.

["A young lady of Newark while dancing a few nights ago fell and broke
her leg, and she has now commenced an action for damages against her
partner, to whom she attributes the cause of the accident."--_Daily
Telegraph._]

  "Oh, bother!" girls will sigh; "a fresh excuse
    For men not fond of dancing to forsake us!
  We fancy we can hear them say 'the deuce!
  We can't dance _now_; to drop a girl might break us!'

  Now e'en 'the better sort,' who used to beg
    To see our cards, will--or our wits deceive us--
  Reflect that they may break a partner's leg,
    And, choose, alas, to 'make a leg,' and leave us."

       *       *       *       *       *

DRAMA COLLEGE.

ESTABLISHMENT FOR YOUNG LADIES, AND PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR LITTLE BOYS,

_Conducted by_

THE MISSES MELPOMENE AND THALIA.

The Curriculum includes thorough grounding in Knowledge of Life, and
in High-class Virtue and Honesty. The Pupils are carefully restrained
from the practice of "unlovely middle-class virtue." Severe morality
constantly inculcated. Mere amusement strictly excluded. Aristocratic
Deportment and Etiquette taught by experienced Assistants.

For further particulars apply to Mr. ENRY HAUTHUR JONES.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PRICELESS POSSESSION.

_Mrs. Golightly._ "OH, I HOPE YOU WON'T THINK IT RUDE, BUT WOULD YOU
MIND TELLING ME WHAT THAT WONDERFUL BLACK STONE YOU'RE WEARING IS?"

_Mrs. Luxor._ "OH, CERTAINLY. I FIND MOST PEOPLE ENVY ME THAT. IT'S A
PIECE OF REAL ENGLISH COAL!"

_Mrs. Golightly._ "HOW WONDERFUL! AH, I WISH _MY_ HUSBAND WAS A
MILLIONAIRE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AWFUL RESULT OF THE COAL FAMINE.

(_Upon an Ordinarily Innocent and Non-punning Fire-worshipper_).

  Oh! _what_ a period! Strikes might puzzle SOLON!
    I love, in winter--having shut up shop--
  My snug back-parlour fire to _semi-colon_,
    Now there's no _colon_, fuel's at a _full-stop!_
  I have burned coke, wood, turf, aye, even slate,
  But to _no_ fire myself cannot a-comma-date!

       *       *       *       *       *

"PRACTICAL JOHN."--Mr. HOLLINGSHEAD'S advertisement, headed "Plain
Words to the Public," is eminently characteristic of the author. Says
he, "The prices I start with I shall stand or fall by." Certainly,
as the prices are moderate, the public will stand them, so he needn't
trouble himself on that score. If he be riding for a fall, and if the
public won't come down heavily, let us hope, if he fall at all, he
will come down lightly. Then he adds, in his own independent way,
"If it is thought necessary to tamper with these prices in an upward
direction" ["tampering upward" is pretty], "I shall give up this,
my final effort in theatrical management" [Oh, no, don't!--please
don't!!], "and walk out of the building." Why "walk"? By his own free
admission he will be driven out (which sounds like a contradiction in
terms), so why make a virtue of walking out. Never walk when you can
ride. But J. H. walk out!! "_J. H. y suis et J. H. y reste._"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL WORKING-MAN.

(_As described by Sir E. Arnold at Birmingham._)

  A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
  In his magnificent happiness,
  Is the working-man of whom I sing,
  Who fares more royally than a king.
    Seeing his "board" Sir EDWIN'S floored--
      _Hors d'[oe]uvres_, soup, fish, _entrée_, joint, game, ices.
    _Ab ovo_ nothing has been ignored
      _Usque ad malum_, not minding prices.
    AUGUSTUS might have hurt his sight
      Reading with only a lamp or taper;
    The working-man's electric light
      Glows on immaculate daily paper.
  Go search in MOMMSEN'S history,
  Then come you home and sing with me--
  No life of emperor could, or can,
  Be bright as that of the working-man!

  "Machinery turns his toil to art."
  BURNE-JONES and MORRIS at this would start.
  Though the "Arts and Crafts" be with horror dumb,
  A Birmingham Parthenon yet may come!
    The School Board's pains mature his brains,
      Masses beat classes--he'll soon annul us.
    Never went--as he goes--in trains
      HELIOGABALUS or LUCULLUS.
    He, should he care, can daily stare
      At statues draped by dear Mrs. GRUNDY,
    And ride in trams for a halfpenny fare,
      And "wire" for sixpence, except on Sunday.

  His letters traverse the ocean wave.
  _Note._--If a penny you fail to save,
  To HENNIKER-HEATON please apply,
  And he will discover the reason why.
    Rich in the things contentment brings,
      In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
    But is he as gay as the poet sings,
      In body and mind as hale and healthy?
    In silence adept, he has certainly kept
      So extremely quiet we should not know it.
    Yet he "as authorities mayn't accept"
      Such blooming blokes as an Eastern poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

OH WHAT A SIR PRYCE!--Sir PRYCE PRYCE-JONES, M.P. for the Montgomery
Boroughs, has received a testimonial from his constituents. That is
to say, because he has been a nice-PRYCE-JONES they have made him a
prize-PRYCE-JONES. Bravo, Sir TWICE-PRYCE-JONES!

       *       *       *       *       *

SUGGESTION TO PROVINCIAL LAWN-TENNIS CLUB.--Why not give Lawn-Tennis
Balls in Costume during the winter?

       *       *       *       *       *

QUOTH DUNRAVEN, NEVERMORE!

  There's many a slip 'twixt "cup" and lip!
    Is there not, good DUNRAVEN?
  You'll take your Transatlantic trip
    Like sportsman, not like craven.
  The "centre-board" against the keel
    Has won. On woe we sup, Sir!
  As in old nursery rhyme we feel
    "The 'dish' ran away with the--cup," Sir!
  The Valkyries, those valiant dames,
    Success might sure have wished us;
  But the _Vigilant_, our yacht-builders shames.
    The "Yankee Dish" has--dished us!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO "HANS BREITMANN."

[Mr. C. G. LELAND, in his recently-published _Memoirs_, informs us of
his very early appreciation of the formula, "I am I--I am myself--I
myself I."]

  You, from mirth to logic turning,
    Doubly proved yourself the right man,
  By your wondrous breadth of learning,
    For the title of "der Breitmann."
  Yes, the lore and fun within you
    Show us yearly greater reasons
  Why we wish you to continue
    _Quite yourself_ for farther seasons.

       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Note:

Page 192: Extra 'have' removed.

"AUGUSTUS might have (have) hurt his sight".





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, October 21st 1893" ***

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