Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893" ***

* * * * *

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, October 28th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

* * * * *

MY LANDLORD.

(_By a Tenant._)

Who asked a rent absurdly high;
Who never scrupled at a lie?
The house well built! The soil so dry!
My Landlord.

Whose saving schemes cause constant fears
The house will fall about my ears?
I say it totters, and he sneers.
My Landlord.

The cellar's flooded when it rains;
The ceilings show damp, mouldy stains.
Who swindled me about the drains?
My Landlord.

Who called the house extremely nice?
It's simply overrun with mice,
The cook has had hysterics twice.
My Landlord.

Who praised the garden in a way
To seem like Eden? I should say
The soil is brickbats mixed with clay.
My Landlord.

Who said each kind of plant succeeds?
Yet when I sow the choicest seeds
They all develop into weeds.
My Landlord.

What's this? A note from him--a few
Short lines to say the rent is due.
Who tells me facts not new, if true?
My Landlord.

* * * * *

A SUGGESTION.--A decoration for JABEZ BALFOUR,--"The Order of the
Golden Fleece."

* * * * *

[Illustration: RECKLESS.

_Moderate Swell._ "GOING TO TAKE A CAB?"

_Immoderate Swell._ "ER--NO."

_M. S._ "NO UMBRELLA, I SEE."

_Imm. S._ "ER--NO, DEAR BOY. SEE--IF YOU--ER--CARRY 'BRELLA--LOOKS AS
IF YOU'D ONLY ONE SUIT A CLOTHES!"]

* * * * *

MY TENANT.

(_By a Landlord._)

Who haggled long about the price;
Who says my house is far from nice;
Who seeks solicitor's advice?
My Tenant.

Who wants incessantly repairs
To floors and ceilings, steps and stairs;
Who doats on hygienic scares?
My Tenant.

Who lives in fear of sewer gas,
So that the plumbers soon amass
Vast sums, once mine? That utter ass,
My Tenant.

Eternally some fresh complaint;
Distemper, whitewash, paper, paint!
He is enough to vex a saint--
My Tenant.

Who lets the garden go to pot?
What used to be a pleasant spot
Is worse than an allotment plot.
My Tenant.

Deferring payments suits his bent;
When various demands I've sent;
Unwillingly he pays the rent,
My Tenant.

A note from him? Another growl!
Some chimney smokes, he wants a cowl.
Thus he complains, that moping owl,
My Tenant.

* * * * *

Mrs. R. says she always understood you must "catch your hare before
you cook it;" so she cannot for the life of her make out what a friend
of hers meant by telling her that "when their kitchen-maid cooked the
hare _she caught it afterwards_!"

* * * * *

A DIARY À LA RUSSE.

_Monday._--Rather tired of this constant hand-shaking, and even the
lady-kissing is somewhat wearisome. Especially when the fair dames do
not draw the line at sixty. However, no doubt well meant. Found usual
collection of miscellaneous presents. Don't quite know what I shall
do with ton of tallow. Somehow our hosts fancy we require it. Latest
addition from the advertising merchants--a Patent Tombstone (with
space for _affiches_ at back) and Somebody's Remedy for Neuralgia.
Wish our hosts would not send us such a lot of things! Have been
staying at my hotel all day long on the chance of escaping attention,
and thus be able to find my way to the Moulin Rouge. Just got past the
porter, when I was caught by one of the _attachés_ and carried off to
a State Dinner. Spent the rest of the evening in shouting "Long Live
France!" and listening to the Russian National Hymn.

_Tuesday._--Hope I shall have better luck to-day. My hand is twice
its normal size, thanks to the shaking. More presents. Candles by
the hundredweight, and bear's-grease by the ton. Some one has sent a
Boot-blacking Machine, and wants a testimonial. On the watch all day.
Trust to get to the Folies Bergères some time or another. Just crawled
out when seized by a friendly _député_, and hurried off to a function
at the Hotel de Ville!

_Wednesday._--Absolutely done up. Deafened with the "_Marseillaise_,"
and sick to death of "_The Emperor's Hymn_." Usual collection of
presents. Five thousand fire-alarms! One of them alone enough to wake
up a slumbering town of half a million inhabitants! Ladies of all ages
(especially of mature age) anxious to kiss me. Could not walk across
the road this morning for them! Had to stop in the hotel all day long.
Tried to escape in the evening on the chance of finding my way to a
"concert-music-hall," when seized by an officer of the French Marine,
and carried away to a Reception!

_Thursday._--I have now been in Paris four days and seen nothing,
absolutely nothing! Of course most gratifying from a patriotic point
of view, but if this is Paris why give me St. Petersburg, or even
Siberia! Can't move a step without having my hand shaken off. Not a
moment's privacy; and as for the presents, I am absolutely deluged
with them! and such idiotic gifts! All the advertisers in the
country seem to have found us out. What use on earth can I make of an
elephant's feeding-spoon or a lady's comb for curling the hair? I made
a last effort to get to the Moulin; but, of course, again frustrated.
I was seized by an "A.-D.-C." and taken to a State Lecture!

_Friday._--Giving way to despair! What a hollow thing is popular
applause! I am absolutely tired to death of it. I cannot repeat (for
very weariness), the various ovations I have received. I have been
accepted with cheers at all hours of the day and night! Oh, how glad
I would be to get back! At the last moment I saw my way to a stealthy
visit to the Folies, when I was secured and booked for two dinners and
a "_punch_." Betrayed! Betrayed!

_Saturday._--Still hunted. Not allowed to go anywhere except when
my tormentors drag me to some official function. Have sold all my
presents for ten francs. Have received marching orders for Toulon.
Just as I was about to escape and proceed to the Moulin Rouge,
captured by "my friends the enemy," or should it be "my enemies the
friends"? Had to submit to the usual enthusiasm on my road to the
railway station. Fortune of war I suppose, or rather of peace. Of the
two, the latter I should think was the more deadly. Last strain of the
"_Marseillaise_," last kiss from some one's grandmother, and curtain!
Glad it's all over!

* * * * *

BY MR. JUSTICE CHARLES (_omitted in reports of his decision last
week_).--"The Dahomey Troupe of Amazons appear only in the evenings
at certain music-halls. Their name should be changed to 'Day-homey and
Night-outy Amazons.'"

(_Signed_)
"CHARLES HIS FRIEND."

* * * * *

THE CHESHIRE CRUELTY TO CHILDREN CASE.--Rightly were condemned the two
unfeeling PHELANS. No jury could possibly have any consideration
for such PHELANS as these. If for the male prisoner the jury had
recommended a tail or two of the Cheshire Cat (o'-nine-tails), it
would not have been thought too much.

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR MR. INDERWICK, Q.C.--The eminent Counsel of the QUEEN has
been recently admitted to the freedom of the borough of Rye. He has
added to his coat of arms the words, "Mind your Rye."

* * * * *

NEW DESCRIPTIVE TITLE OF THE G. O. M. SUGGESTED BY LORD SALISBURY'S
LATEST SPEECH.--"The Autocrat of the Round Table."

* * * * *

[Illustration: "EMINENTLY A SCOTTISH GOVERNMENT."

(_Mr. Asquith's Speech, Tuesday, October 17._)]

* * * * *

[Illustration: TOO PARTICULAR.

"LOOK HERE--CONFOUND IT, ISAACSON! YOU'VE PLAYED ME A PRETTY TRICK
WITH THIS ANCESTOR YOU SOLD ME! SHOWED IT TO A FRIEND YESTERDAY, AND
TOLD HIM IT WAS THE PORTRAIT OF MY ANCESTOR WHO CAME OVER WITH WILLIAM
THE FIRST; AND HE SAID, 'WHAT A FUNNY THING HE SHOULD HAVE DRESSED
HIMSELF IN THE STYLE OF WILLIAM THE FOURTH!'"

"VELL THAT'TH NOTHING. I JETH MADE A MITHTAKE OF A FEW YEARTH--VILLIAM
THE FIRTHT AND VILLIAM THE FOURTH; ONLY HITH GREAT-GRANDTHON!"]

* * * * *

THE SAX SCOTCH PIPERS.

["The present Government is eminently a Scottish Government.
You must remember that there are in the present Cabinet no
less than five Scotch members of the House of Commons ... and
we have also a member of the House of Lords who is one of the
most eminent Scotchmen--I mean Lord ROSEBERY."--_Mr. Asquith
in Glasgow._]

"_A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, a kilt;
Stick a skeän in his hose--wear an acre of stripes--
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes._"

--_Bab Ballads._

AIR--"_The Hundred Pipers._"

Wi' sax stalwart pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' sax stout Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',
Oh! it's Sassenach bummlers awa', awa'!
Our WULLIE'S a Scotsman sae braw, sae braw,
We'll on an' we'll march to St. Stephen's ha',
Wi' its seats an' its salaries an' a', an' a'!
Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a', &c.

Oh! wha' is formaist o' a', o' a'?
Oh! wha' does follow the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie WULLIE, the king o' us a', hurrah!
Wi' his five stout pipers an' a', an' a'!
His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high.
His bagpipes wheeze, an' his ribbons fly;
The nor' win' plays wi' his thin white hair,
While the pipers blaw wi' an unco' flare.
Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a', &c.

PRIMROSE, an' CAMPBELL, sae dink an' sae deep,
Shouther to shouther wi' _Marjoribanks_ they keep,
ROBERTSON, BALFOUR, an' ASHER a' round
Dance themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.
Dumfoundered the English saw, they saw,
Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw
Hath a Southron ae chance ava' ava',
Wi' these sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a'?
Wi' the sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',
The Saxon must go to the wa', the wa'!
WULLIE'S up an' gies them a blaw, a blaw
Wi' his sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a'!

* * * * *

A CONTRIBUTION TO THE CELEBRATED PICKWICKIAN EXAMINATION PAPER.--_To
Students of Pickwick._--On what (as far as this questioner is aware)
solitary occasion is champagne mentioned in _Pickwick_? who drank
a bottle of it? where was it consumed? after what exhilarating
performance?--ED.

* * * * *

"_TA TA'_D AND FEATHERED."--"_A soft thing that waves_" was the
description of a feather given by a Lady Correspondent--and therefore
a perfectly Fair One--in the _Times_ last Saturday. But surely "_a
soft thing that waves_" is evidently a lady's hand bidding somebody
"_Ta! ta!_"

* * * * *

BY OUR OWN CRAMMER.--In unsuccessful candidates for Army and Navy
Exams. England may have lost some of her best "pluck'd" soldiers and
sailors.

* * * * *

BRIC-À-BRAC.

(_By a Gallio._)

["Poetry will degenerate into mere literary _bric-à-brac_,
such as the composition of rondels and triolets."--DR. C. H.
PEARSON.]

Literary odds and ends
Will for lays be scribbled!
PEARSON thus ahead portends
"Litter"-ary odds and ends.
Pessimist, you owe amends
For this forecast ribald:--
"Literary odds and ends
Will for lays be scribbled!"

Call you then mere _bric-à-brac_
Triolet and rondel?
_All_ that's knocked off with a knack
Call you then mere _bric-à-brac_?"
Man of prose, you thus attack
VILLON, DOBSON, BLONDEL.
Call you _then_ mere _bric-à-brac_
Triolet and rondel?!

'Pon my word, _I_ don't much care
If you prove your thesis.
Poetry's not _my_ affair--
'Pon my word, I don't much care!
My three triolets pray tear
As you please, to pieces!
'Pon my word, I don't much care
If _they_ prove your thesis!

* * * * *

The recent illuminations in Paris, it is said, were a very costly
matter. Naturally, as an "_affaire de LUX(E)_."

* * * * *

UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

SCENE XI.--_At the entrance to The Eldorado Music-hall._
TIME--_Saturday evening, about_ 8.30. Mrs. TOOVEY, _who has just
alighted from a Waterloo bus, approaches; she wears a veil, under
which her spectacles gleam balefully, and passes the various boards
and coloured posters with averted eyes_.

_Mrs. Toovey_ (_to herself_). I'm late--I ought to have taken a cab,
instead of that dawdling bus. Still, I shall be in plenty of time to
surprise Pa in the very midst of his profligacy. (_She looks
around her._) Gilding, rosewood and mahogany panels, plush, stained
glass--oh, the wicked luxury of it all! (_She pushes open a swing
door._) Where is the place you call Box C? I--I have to meet somebody
there.

[_She finds herself in a glittering bar, where she produces a
distinct sensation among a few loungers there._

_A Barmaid_ (_tartly_). There's no entrance to the music-hall this
way. You've come to the wrong place.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_with equal acidity_). Ah, young woman, you need not
tell me _that_! (_She goes out with a withering glance, and hears
stifled sniggers as the doors swing after her._) A drinking-bar on the
very threshold to trap the unwary--disgraceful! (_She tries the next
door, and finds a stalwart official, in a fancy uniform._) Will you
have the goodness to conduct me to Box C, instantly?

_The Official._ Next door, please, Ma'am. This only admits to the
Grand Lounge.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). The "Grand Lounge," indeed! (_She opens
another door, and finds a Pay-box, where she addresses the check-taker
through the pigeon-hole_.) I want to go to Box C. I've asked for it at
I don't know how many places, and----

_Checktaker_ (_politely_). I'm really afraid you'll have to ask again,
Ma'am. This is the Promenade. Box-office _next_ entrance.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself, indignantly_). I only hope they make it as
difficult for other people to get in as they do for me! So Pa comes
here to lounge and promenade, does he? Oh, let me only catch him, I'll
send him promenading! (_She goes to the Box-office._) I want Box C,
wherever that is.

_Book-Keeper._ Can give you Box D, if you like. Box C is reserved for
this evening.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_sharply_). I am quite aware of that. For Mr. THEOPHILUS
TOOVEY. I have come to join him here.

_Book-K._ (_referring to book_). It is entered in that name,
certainly; but--hem--may I ask if you belong to Mr. TOOVEY'S party?

_Mrs. Toov._ (_crushingly_). No doubt you consider that his wife has
no claim to---- Most certainly I belong to his party.

_Book-K._ That is quite sufficient, Madam. (_To_ Attendant.) Show this
lady to Box C. (_To himself, as_ Mrs. T. _follows the_ Attendant _up
some velvet-covered stairs_.) Well, it's no business of mine; but if
Mr. TOOVEY, whoever _he_ is, isn't careful what he's about, he may be
sorry for it--that's all!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). They never even asked for my ticket.
Pa's evidently well known here! (_To_ Attendant.) A programme? with
pictures of dancing girls all over it! You ought to be ashamed to
offer such things to a respectable woman!

_Att._ (_surprised_). I've never heard them objected to before, Ma'am.
Can I bring you any refreshments? (_Persuasively._) Bottle-ale or
stout? Lemonade and brandy? Whisky and soda?

_Mrs. Toov._ Don't imagine you can tempt _me_, man. I've been a total
abstainer ever since I was five!

_Att._ (_opening box-door_). Indeed, Ma'am. I suppose now you 'aven't
mistook this for Exeter 'All?--because it _ain't_!

_Mrs. Toov._ I am in no danger of making _that_ mistake! (_She enters
the box._) I am here before Pa after all. What a gaudy, wicked,
glaring place to be sure! Ugh, this _filthy_ tobacco; it chokes me,
and I can scarcely see across the hall. Not that I _want_ to see.
Well, if I sit in the corner behind the curtain I shan't be seen
myself. To think that I--_I_--should be here at all, but the
responsibility is on Pa's head, not mine! What are those two girls
singing about on the stage? They are dressed _decently_ enough, I'll
say _that_ for them, though pinafores and baby bonnets at _their_ age
are ridiculous.

[_She listens._

_The Sisters Sarcenet_ (_on stage_).
You men are deceivers and awfully sly. Oh, you _are_!

_Male portion of audience_ (_as is expected from them_).
No we _aren't!_

_The Sisters S._ (_archly_). Now you _know_ you are!
You come home with the milk; should your poor wife ask why,
"Pressing business, my pet!" you serenely reply.
When you've really been out on the "Tiddle-y-hi!" Yes, you _have_!

_Male audience_ (_as before_). No, we've _not_!
_The Sister S._ (_with the air of accusing angels_).
Why, you _know_ you have!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). It's to those young women's credit that
they have the courage to come here and denounce the men to their
faces--like this. And it's gone _home_ to them, too! they're shouting
out "Over!" (_Here the Sisters suddenly turn a couple of "cart-wheels"
with surprising unanimity, amidst roars of applause._) Oh, the
shameless minxes! I will _not_ sit and look on at such scandalous
exhibitions. (_She moves to the corner nearest the stage, and turns
her back upon the proceedings._) How much longer will Pa compel me to
assist at such scenes, I wonder? _Why_ doesn't he come? Where is he
now? (_Bitterly._) No doubt on what those vulgar wretches would call
the "Tiddle-y-hi!" (_The_ Brothers BIMBO, _Eccentric Clowns, appear on
the stage_.) I can't sit here in a corner looking at nothing. If I do
see anything improper, THEOPHILUS shall answer for it. (_She changes
her place again._) Acrobats--well, they're inoffensive at least. Oh, I
do believe one of the nasty things is climbing up to the balcony; he's
going to walk along here!

_First Brother Bimbo_ (_on stage, to his confrère, who is balancing
himself on the broad ledge of the box tier_). Ohè--'old up, there.
Prenny garde! Ah, il tombera! There, I _told_ yer so! (_The_ Second
Brother B. _has reached the front of_ Mrs. TOOVEY'S _box, where he
pretends to stumble_.) Oh, le pover garçong, look at 'im _now_! Come
back, do! Ask the lady to ketch 'old of your trousers be'ind!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to the_ Second Brother, _firmly_). Don't expect me to
do anything of the sort. Go back, as your brother asks you to, you
silly fellow. You shouldn't attempt such a foolhardy thing at all!

_Second Br. B._ (_to the_ First). Oh, my! There's _such_ a nice young
lady in here; she's asking me to come in and set along with her! _May_
I?

[_He lets himself drop astride the ledge, and wags his head
at_ Mrs. TOOVEY, _to her intense horror_.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_in an audible undertone_). If you don't take away that
leg at once, I'll pinch it!

_Second Br. B._ Eh? Not _now_; my brother says I mustn't. "Come round
afterwards?" Well, well, we'll see! (_He springs up on the ledge
again, and kisses his hand to her._) Goo'bye, ducky! 'Ave no fears for
_me_. Whoo-up!

[Illustration: "Goo'bye, ducky! Ave no fears for _me_!"]

[_He continues his tour of the balcony, amidst roars of
laughter._

_Mrs. Toov._ (_falling back in the box, speechless with fury_). And
_this_ is the treatment Pa exposes me to--all those unmanly wretches
laughing at me! But I don't care; here I stay till Pa comes. _Oh_,
this smoke; I shall be poisoned by it soon! Upon my word, there's
a bold hussy coming on to sing, in a man's coat and black satin
knee-breeches. I'll stop my ears; they shall see there's _one_
woman here who respects herself! (_She does so, during that and the
subsequent performances; an hour passes._) How much longer am I to be
compelled to remain here? This is terrible; three creatures in tight
red suits, got up to look like devils! I wonder they've no fear of
being struck dead on the stage! They're standing on each other's
stomachs. I daren't look on at such blasphemy! I'll take off my
spectacles; then, at least, my eyes won't be offended by seeing
anything distinctly! (_She removes her glasses, and replaces them in
their case, which she lays on the box-ledge._) They're gone, thank
goodness. What's this? There's someone opening the box-door. Pa--at
last! Well, I'm ready for him!

[_She stiffens in her chair._

_Attendant's Voice_ (_outside_). This is Box C, Miss. Can I bring you
any refreshments? Bottle-ale, stout, lemonade, Miss?

_A Female Voice._ I--I don't know. There's a gentleman with me; he'll
be here directly; he only stopped to speak to somebody. Ah, he's
coming now.

_Mrs. Toov._ "Miss"?! This is Pa's party, then. _Oh!!_

[_A quietly dressed, and decidedly good-looking girl enters,
and starts on seeing that the box is already occupied._

_Mrs. Toov._ (_rising in towering wrath_). You were not expecting to
find _me_ here, Miss, I've no doubt?

_The Girl_ (_sitting down_). No; PHIL didn't say there would be anyone
else; but any friend of his I'm sure----

_Mrs. Toov._ PHIL? you dare to call him "PHIL!" Do you know who I am,
you insolent girl, you? I am his Wife!

_The Girl._ His wife? I don't believe it. Are you sure you don't mean
his mother. My _Phil_ married to _you_, indeed--a pretty story!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_trembling with rage_). Go out of this box instantly, or
I'll make you!

_The Girl._ I shall do nothing of the kind. Wait till my friend comes,
and we'll soon----(_As the door opens._) PHIL, PHIL, here's an abusive
old female here who pretends she is your wife, and wants to order me
out. I believe she must either be intoxicated or out of her senses!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_pouncing upon the newcomer and boxing his ears
soundly_). Is she? it is you who are out of _your_ senses, Pa! Take
that--and _that_--and now come home with me, do you hear?

_The Newcomer_ (_with his hand to his cheek_). "Pa," am I? I thought
I was your _husband_ just now! Well, I must have married before I
was born, either way. And now, perhaps, you'll explain what all this
means?

_Mrs. Toov._ (_faintly_). Oh, my goodness! I've made a dreadful
mistake; it _isn't_ Pa! Let me go--let me go!

_The Newc._ (_putting his back against the door_). Not yet, Ma'am; not
yet. You don't go like this; after insulting this young lady, to whom
I've the honour of being engaged, and telling her you're my wife, and
then smacking my face in her presence. I've my dignity to consider,
and I want satisfaction out of you. Come, we won't have a row here,
for the sake of this young lady; just step out into lobby here, and
I'll give you in charge for assault. Stay where you are, MILLY, my
dear. Now, Ma'am, will you go, or shall I send for a constable?
(Mrs. T. _totters out, protesting incoherently, and begging to be
released_.) Well, I don't want to spoil my evening's pleasure on your
account. You give me your name and address, and I'll simply summon you
for assault; which is more than you deserve. If you won't, I'll charge
you!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_reluctantly_). Oh, indeed it was an acc----I will
_not_ give you my name. Yes, yes, I will; anything to get out of this
horrible place. (_The young man produces a pencil, and pulls down
his left shirt cuff._) Mrs.--TOO--no, I don't mean TOO--TOMKINSON
JONES--The--the Laburnums--U--upper Tooting. There, _now_ are you
satisfied?

_The Young Man_ (_recording it_). Thank you, that's all _I_ require.
You'll hear from me later on. Good evening!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_as she crawls down the staircase_). I have only just
saved myself by a--a _fib_! And I haven't even found Pa out. But I
_will_. I'll go straight home and sit up for him!

END OF SCENE XI.

* * * * *

[Illustration: IMPROVED GNOMENCLATURE.

(_A popular Song adapted to the Glacial Period._)

"ON AN ICICLE MADE FOR TWO."]

* * * * *

FRAGMENTS FROM A FRANCO-RUSSIAN PHRASE-BOOK.

(_Picked up at Toulon after the recent Fêtes._)

AT THE BANQUET.

I am glad to be next to a Russian. Believe me, France has always been
the best friend of Russia.... No, _that_ was not France--it was the
Corsican. Altogether a different thing.... _Were_ we at the Crimea? It
is possible--through the perfidy of those English.... Try some of this
old sherry. Your shark-fin soup is delicious.... As I was saying, we
are a Republic now, and adore Liberty.... Siberia must be a charming
place, and the climate ravishing. You have never been there? A
pleasure to come!... Take a _carafe_ of champagne--there is plenty
more. We are a democratic nation, and the hearts of our populace go
out to an autocrat. I know well that all autocrats are not nice--but
_yours!!_ _Do_ have some more champagne.... These are _Cailles
Schuvaroff_. They are Russian--so they _must_ be good!... Do you know
that my wife and I kissed the hands of (_ten--fifteen--fifty--two
hundred_) Russian sailors through the portholes of your flagship this
afternoon?... Not at all--we quite enjoyed it.... There is a proposal
to present your Admiral with a model of the Tour Eiffel in brilliants.
I remember it was exhibited in Paris at a franc for admission--but
few people went. I wish he may get it. I subscribed ten
(_Napoleons--francs--centimes_) towards the fund for presenting
commemorative brooches to the wives, daughters, and sweethearts of
your seamen. I hope they will all arrive quite safely.... Have you
received a silver cup with a suitable inscription? Only a yellow
champagne-glass with a motto! That is mean, miserable, shabby! I will
speak to a waiter about it.... Why do you not drink? Fill your glass.
I am filling mine.... Have you heard that our warm-hearted nation has
forwarded to the Russian Fleet one hundred cases of the best blacking?
The Triple Alliance is trembling in its shoes.... You drink nothing!
All the same, it seems to me your Tsar might have sent _more_ ships
while he was about it. Yes, I repeat; more--and bigger ones. It would
have been more polished. But you Russians are _not_ polished; you are
cold, brutal, phlegmatic. You remind me of an Englishman I once saw
on the stage of the Variétés. But he had red whiskers, and said, "Aoh,
yes!" You drink too much. The Russians are all intemperate--it is the
climate. So long as you help us to our revenge, we do not care _what_
you are. I speak quite frankly. This is a great day for France. As
a Frenchman, I shall never see caviar again without a thrill of
heartfelt emotion. But your shark-fin soup was disgusting--beastly. It
is that which is making me so ill.... _Au revoir_, dear friend. I am
going under the table for a little while--to think.

* * * * *

Mrs. R. wants to know what was the classic story about Ajax and
Telephone? "So," says she, "as _that_ was hundreds of years ago, it
isn't such a _very_ new invention."

* * * * *

[Illustration: UNCALLED-FOR REVELATIONS.

_Tommy_ (_to Caller_). "OH, WE'VE BEEN HAVING SUCH FUN! PAPA HAS BEEN
PUTTING ON MAMMA'S HAIR AND FRIGHTENING BABY!"]

* * * * *

LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.

_A Dialogue in Dialect, some way after Bret Harte's "Jim."_

[Referring, in the course of conversation, to the deadlock
in the Senate, Mr. CHAMBERLAIN said:--"My opinion is that the
Americans are the most patient people on the globe. Such
an outcome from an organised system of obstruction would be
impossible in England, which I venture to say, with my foot on
New York soil, is far more democratic than America. Democracy,
as I take it, means the government of the people by the
people."--_The "Times'" New York Correspondent, Oct. 13._]

"C[oe]lum, non (?) animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt."

_Jonathan to Joseph, loquitur:_--

Say thar! P'r'aps
You're of them chaps
_Approve_ this child,
Who makes _me_ wild!--
_No?_--no offence:
Thar ain't much sense
In gittin' riled!

JOE, old chum,
Welcome ye are!
Say! Ye've jest come
Up from down thar.
Lookin' round, JOE?
That's right, Sir! _You_
Ain't of that crew
Makes freedom rar'.

_Tory?_ Not much,
That ain't _my_ kind:
I ain't no such,--
Democrat--blind!
Rayther like _you_!

Well, this yer boy
(With his derned toy),
Is a fair limb.--
Not much--in size!
Stirs _your_ surprise?--
Wal, that _is_ strange:
_Your_ nipper, now,
Riz up some row,
Down under thar,
Ony this year!

Since you came here.
You've felt a change!
Wal, he licks _us_!
Eh?
_Spank him_, you say!
_Spank?_--
_This_ little cuss?

You make me star,--
Down under, thar,
Minorities stop
Truck--in your shop,
And _you_ don't rar'!
Here, wide awake
To our mistake.
_Our_ boy you bar!

_Spank!_--
This--little--cuss?
Wal, he does fuss,
Raises a muss.
His "Silver" whim,
His spoutin' prank--
(Leather-lung'd limb!)
Does crab the swim.
_Should_ like to yank
Him crost my knees,
And--but thar! spank
_Him?_

_Patient_, Sir--I?
No democrat?
Here, Sir, stand by!
I can't stand _that_!
_You_ wouldn't stand
_Him_--in your land?
Eh?
What's that you say?
Why, dern it!--sho!--
Draw it mild, JOE!

Bold?
Obstruction? Yes!
Still, as I guess--
Though I'll confess
_You_'re an authority--
'Tain't no new thing
(_You_'ve had your fling!),
But ornery,
Derned old,
Loud-lunged--Minority!
Little--Master--Minority!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Barabbas_ is a romance by MARIE CORELLI, founded upon the narrative
given by the Four Evangelists. It is in three volumes, and _Barabbas_
is the principal character. Oratorios have been composed musically
illustrating the sacred story, mystery plays there have been showing
it forth in action, but never yet have we been taken, as it were,
behind the scenes, introduced to JUDAS ISCARIOT'S sister, and been
informed as to the motives of human action underlying "the World's
Tragedy." Whether "the stock of _Barabbas_" hath been sold out or not,
the Baron cannot imagine that this novel form of treating Holy Writ
will ever be popular with any section of our ordinary reading public.
MARIE CORELLI is a writer as picturesque as prolific, but she has
wasted her time and talents on this romance. There used to be a
perversion of the text, which took this form, "Now BARABBAS was--a
publisher" (was it SYDNEY SMITH'S jest?); but if that applies
nowadays, the publisher who depended solely upon this particular work
for his success would, probably, far nearer resemble ZACCHEUS than
BARABBAS, inasmuch as he might find himself "up a tree."

_Catriona_ is written by R. L. STEVENSON, and published in one volume
by CASSELL & CO. "Aweel, aweel, mon!" quoth the Baron, after several
praiseworthy attempts at mastering the Scotch dialect in which the
story is told; "aweel, aweel! I am swier to leave ye, _Catriona_!
But it maun be as it will; I'm nane sae muckle learned in your Scotch
tongue; sae I'll e'en put doun the book, or I'll be wearyful, deil hae
't!" No: Scotch the Baron cannot manage--except taken as whiskey. But
he will tell those who love the language that MCSTEVENSON'S _Catriona_
they will enjoy to their heart's content. All the same it remains a
mystery to the Baron de B. W.

* * * * *

IN HIGH FEATHER.--It would not be fair even, for Mr. HUDSON, to define
all ladies wearing feathers as "a Feather-headed Lot."

* * * * *

[Illustration: LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.

BROTHER JONATHAN. "WA'AL, MR. JOSEPH; I GUESS ALL YOUR SYMPATHIES ARE
WITH THIS LITTLE CUSS?"

MR. CHAMBERLAIN. "NOT AT ALL, NOT AT ALL,--ON _YOUR_ SIDE OF THE
ATLANTIC!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BOOM IN BEETLES--THE LATEST FROM AFRICA.

["The new arrival at the Zoo is a specimen of the Goliath Beetle from
West Africa--a giant even among its own kind."--_Daily Graphic._]]

* * * * *

TO A LOST FRIEND.

(_By a Briefless Barrister._)

No more! alas! completely gone,
No shadow of a trace is left,
And I have still to linger on,
Of your companionship bereft,
And fight the battle to the end,
As best I may with one less friend.

It seems a cruel stroke of Fate.
How eagerly I watched you grow!
How much I loved you; how elate
When other people came to know
On what I always had insisted--
That you in point of fact existed.

I played with you, who every day
Grew more responsive to my touch.
I stroked you in the gentlest way,
With sweet caresses. Ah! how much
We seemed, as though a child and mother,
To be bound up in one another.

You _did_ appear to like me then,
No mere lip-service seemingly
Was that you rendered to me when
You never contradicted me,
But hung upon my words, though true
It also was they hung on you.

And then one day you disappeared,
Cut off in life's most sunny prime.
I missed you sadly as I feared
And thought I should do at the time.
Though now your image comes and plain
Grows on me sometimes once again.

Oh! my moustache! I did the deed,
I own it frankly, I alone.
I felt it (for it made me bleed),
Yet still you always must have known,
Though you were of proportions regal,
You hardly helped me to look legal.

* * * * *

A TRIUMPH IN COOKERY.--When the Cook makes a hash of the marrow-bones.

* * * * *

"HE IS A MANN, TAKE HIM FOR ALL IN ALL, WE NEVER WANT TO LOOK UPON HIS
LIKE AGAIN." (_Shakspeare adapted_).--It is said he is going to join
the Ministry--not the Cabinet--but that of the Established Church. But
how will so independent a spirit ever submit to "take orders" from an
Archbishop? This is to reduce himself from a MANN to a Mannikin. Not
likely.

* * * * *

UP TO DATE TRANSLATION.--"_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a sur le tapis?_"
asked the Frenchman. "You mean 'what's on the tape?'" returned the
Englishman.

* * * * *

THE IDEAL DRAMA.

Oh think what a change would soon be wrought
In sins society now condones,
Were virtue and honesty properly taught
By Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans!
The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop,
Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top,
From a _Dancing Girl_ in a _Bauble Shop_--
At least so thinks Mr. H. A. JONES.

We shall call it "the work," and not "the play,"
When due solemnity prompts the tones
Of serious actors, more grave than gay;
They may be bores, but they won't be drones.
So learn, should you wish to have a spree,
What your Criterion ought to be,
Or the _Tempter_ will put you up a Tree.
Hear eloquent Mr. H. A. JONES!

Amusement? What! Do you dare to think
That those respectable classic crones,
Melpomene, Thalia, they should sink
To make you laugh, like a nigger Bones?
If you should expect to be amused,
Your money would simply be refused,
And you would be turned away, abused
By furious Mr. H. A. JONES.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.

"AND WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"

"MARIAN WATSON. BUT MY LAST MISTRESS USED TO CALL ME MARY, BECAUSE
MARIAN ISN'T A PROPER NAME FOR A SERVANT, SHE SAID."]

* * * * *

REPARTEES FOR THE RAILWAY.

"Smoking not allowed." Of course, but I am going to enjoy my cigar in
silence.

"Want the window closed." Very sorry, but I can't find a cathedral.

"Find my journal a nuisance." Dear me! was under the impression it was
a newspaper.

"Allow you to pass." Afraid only the Secretary can manage that for
you; he alone has power to issue free tickets.

"Do I mind the draught?" Not when I am attending to the chessman.

"Do I know the station?" Of the people on the platform? Probably lower
middle class.

"Is this right for Windsor?" Yes, if it's not left for somewhere else.

"Are we allowed five minutes for lunch?" Think not; but you can have
sandwiches at the counter.

"Isn't this first-class?" Quite excellent--first-rate--couldn't be
better!

"I want to go second." Then you had better follow me.

"I am third." Indeed! And who were first and second?

"I think this must be London." Very likely; if it is, it mustn't be
anywhere else.

* * * * *

A CRY TO WHYMPER.--Last Wednesday Mr. EDWARD WHYMPER lectured at the
Birkbeck. His subject was "_Twenty thousand feet above the Sea._"
"That's ten thousand pairs of boots!" writes our shoemaker. "Wish I'd
had the order! Well, well, soled again!"

* * * * *

A WALK IN DEVON.

PART I.--THE START.

_Notes from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P._

_The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon._

Went out for a walk just now; nothing remarkable in that; the wonder
came in when I got back. Present postal address given at head of this
note. The Cottage is there all right, but where the township, hamlet,
village, or whatever Burrow-in-the-Corner may be, is situated, haven't
the least idea, and I've tramped pretty well round the country. The
Cottage stands at four cross roads, on the top of a hill. Specks in
the distance, in the valley and on the hillsides, understood to be
farm-houses. Three miles off is Tipperton; it is approached from this
point by a steep hill: most convenient way of getting to bottom is to
lie down on top and roll; some people said to have become adepts in
practise; can even enjoy quiet sleep on the way, and pull up at the
very shop in High Street where they have business. So it is said; but
I rarely see any people about Burrow-in-the-Corner; so how can they
approach Tipperton in this or other way? The only persons that pass
The Cottage palings are men who stop to ask their way. The population
is sparse, and seems to fill up its time by losing itself. This should
have been a warning to me, but it wasn't.

The Cottage been standing here for at least two hundred years. Began
life as a smithy; only recently retired from business. The initials of
one of its tenants are "R. B." He has carved the letters on the front
door, with the date, 1813, following it. Fancy he must have been
pretty old then, for, two years later, he cuts his initials again
with date 1815; the writing quite shakey; possibly he had heard of
Waterloo, and his hand was tremulous with patriotic joy. On second
thought, that improbable. News of Waterloo not likely to have reached
Burrow-in-the-Corner within limit of twelve months.

The smithy still stands as "R. B." left it when his bellows blew their
last gasp. The Cottage itself transformed. The thatched roof remains;
also the whitewashed walls, the porch, the little windows embayed in
thick walls, which quite naturally form window-seats, where, if you
take care not to bang your head, you may sit at ease, and look out
over the swelling upland--rich red where it has just been ploughed;
for the most part green pastures trending down to the Exe, a silver
stream, rippling on to the sea, reckless of all it will pass through
before it joins it. We have a parlour, but prefer to sit in the
kitchen, a dainty room with gleaming dark-red sideboard; a kitchener,
polished to distraction, so that looking-glasses are superfluities; a
piano in recess by fireplace; a chimney-piece, on which gleam copper
pans, brass candlesticks, and pewter plates, with their initials and
ancient birth-dates polished almost out of sight; white-curtained
windows, bright with begonias and cyclamen; a low ceiling, supported
by a pragmatical beam, strictly conforming to the regulation that
forbids a straight line in the room.

Have discovered that kitchen is best place in house to dine in; only
drawback is that everything served so unexpectedly hot, new-comers
scald themselves. Soon grow used to it, and to get grilled mushrooms
served really hot is compensation for inconvenience. As for pancakes
(made with freshly-laid eggs), begin to think I never tasted the real
delicacy before. Your true pancake, as BRILLAT-SAVARIN omitted to say
in his well-known treatise, should be eaten to the music of the one
in the pan preparing to follow. When we go back to town, mean to ask
servants to sit in dining-room whilst we dine in kitchen.

When I speak of going back to town, of course I imply the certainty
of being able to find our way out of Burrow-in-the-Corner to nearest
railway station.

Seems a good deal to have four cross roads all to yourself at your
front door. The Cottage scarcely of sufficient importance to justify
such lavish accommodation. But in these parts the amount of arable
land wasted in roads and lanes is almost criminal. It was a Saturday
evening when I went out to find the post-office. Nothing seemed
plainer than instructions.

[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.--No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING.]

"Go straight down the road facing you, and you'll come to a church.
Close by it is a house; letter-box inserted in side of house; box
painted red, you know."

Of course I knew; set off with a light heart and handful of letters.
A little way down high road, on right-hand side, lane suddenly opened
and delved downwards, its sinuous course embowered in trees; where
they failed, barricaded with hedges. High road seemed originally bent
upon taking this direction; changed its mind; turned abruptly to left.
Suppose a few traps driven down hill must occasionally have taken this
dip; feeble attempt to avoid too frequent recurrence of accident made
by setting posts on line of high road, and painting tops white. If,
after this, anyone on pitch-dark night mistakes road, only themselves
to blame. Other roads and lanes perplexingly branching out to right
and left at short intervals; kept on steadily till church came in
view; found the house; not difficult, as there was only one; also
discovered letter-box painted red. Twenty minutes to five was hour for
clearing box; barely that; posted letters. Turning away when observed
remark on letter-box, "Next collection Monday."

Pretty go, this; postman evidently been before his time; no sign of
him on wide expanse. Looking round perceived Elderly Gentleman sitting
in garden behind house; doubtless this was the householder; apparently
had anticipated Sunday by putting on best clothes; black frock coat,
getting brown about the seams; high collar, nearly covering black
stock; black waistcoat, which seemed to belong to other suit than the
coat; (was buttoned close up over stock, whilst coat, with generous
lapels folded back, buttoned low down); brown trousers, a little short
in leg; stout green umbrella under left arm. Elderly Gentleman was
sitting on rustic bench, with cup of cider at hand, and expression of
serene content on his wrinkled face. A quaintly-coloured cup, with two
handles close together, presumably with view to taking a good pull
at contents. "Bin my grandfather's," he said, looking at it with
affection, and incidentally half emptying it. There was a motto
roughly scrawled by the potter; Elderly Gentleman read it to me:

Erth I am et es most trew,
Disdain me not for so be yew.

Thus it was spelled, but no one born out of Devon could convey the
tremendous sound of the _u_ in the rhyming words. This peculiar to the
soil; even barndoor fowls have it; notice that gamecock at The
Cottage when it wakes me early in the morning, always shrilly pipes
"cock-a-doodle-_dew_!" Asked Elderly Gentleman if he lived here?
Born in the house, he said. Was he going for a walk? No, only sitting
about. Then why the umbrella? Ah! he always took it out of drawer with
his Sunday clothes, and put it under his arm, if he was only sitting
in the garden.

But that's another story, told me after we had caught the postman.

* * * * *

"THE ART OF 'SAVOY FARE.'"

Mr. D'OYLY CARTE is to be heartily congratulated on his brilliant
mounting of Messrs. GILLIVAN and SULBERT'S most recent production
entitled _Utopia (Limited)_. "Limited" it is in more senses than one.
As there was, according to the immortal _Cyrus Bantam, M.C._, when he
was giving his information to _Mr. Pickwick_, "nobody old or ugly in
Ba-ath," so there is on "the spindle side" no one old or ugly on the
stage of the Savoy Theatre. And this, too, with a difference, applies
to Sir ARTHUR'S music, in which if there be nothing particularly
new--and the old familiar friends receive the heartiest welcome--there
is at all events nothing dull, even though it may "hardly ever" rise
above mere commonplace. Occasionally there is a snatch of sweet melody
that brings to mind the composer's happiest inspirations, whether in
oratorio or burlesque.

As to dramatic plot--well, strictly speaking, there is none; and it
would be difficult to name a single telling "situation," in _Utopia
(Limited)_. The Monarch of Utopia wishes to introduce English customs
into his kingdom; there is a court party opposed to this innovation:
that's the essence of it. In the First Act the one hit, is the
introduction of _Captain Corcoran_ from _The Pinafore_ of years
ago, and the repetition of the once popular catch-phrase about "What
never?" and "Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our most recent
tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated. Beyond this,
as far as dialogue and music go, in the First Act there is very little
anyone would care to "carry away with him" after a first visit. And
if that little were carried away the residuum would offer scant
attraction.

[Illustration: THE UNION OF ARTS. "Again we come to thee,
Savoy."--_Old Duet._]

As for the Second Act, with its Royal Drawing-room scene, its splendid
costumes, and its mimicry of Court etiquette, have we not witnessed a
similar spectacle on a larger scale in a Drury Lane Pantomime, not so
very many years ago? And was not that arranged by the same artistic
stage-manager, who is now, by a wise dispensation of theatrical
providence, in command at the Savoy, yclept Mr. CHARLES HARRIS? I
fancy the Drury Lane Pantomime had the best of it in point of broad
fun, as, if I remember right, HERBERT CAMPBELL was the Queen, and
HARRY NICHOLLS the King. Before this scene is the principal hit of
the Second Act, when the King, Mr. BARRINGTON,--to whom author and
composer are under considerable obligations for the success of
the piece, and without whose acting, dancing, and singing the
entertainment would fare indifferently well,--with his counsellors,
an admiral, a Lord Chamberlain, and so forth, place their chairs in
a row, and detaching from the back of each seat a musical instrument,
turn themselves into a St. James's ("Hall" not "Court") Christy
Minstrel Company, Unlimited, of which Mr. BARRINGTON, as the _Mr.
Johnson_, is the life and soul. Is this the remarkably original
creation of the united intellects of Messrs. GILBERT and SULLIVAN?
Have they ever heard of, or did either of them ever see a burlesque
entitled _Black Eye'd Susan_ at the Royalty, which ran a long way over
six hundred nights, and in later days was revived at the Opera
Comique and elsewhere? I will quote from the _Times_' notice of that
burlesque:--

"The court-martial arranged after the fashion of the
Christy's orchestra, every admiral being dressed in a colour
corresponding to his title, an actual 'nigger' figuring as
Admiral of the Black, is another odd device which keeps the
audience in a roar."

And it is this "odd device," with a Lord Chancellor, if I remember
right, or some legal luminary in black, for one of the "corner men,"
which is, after all is said, sung, and done, just the one thing (of
the two in the show) that brings down the house, and is applauded
to the echo as the outcome of the combined whimsical originality of
Messrs. GILBERT and SULLIVAN! Imitation being the sincerest flattery,
the author of _Black Eye'd Susan_ must be indeed gratified by this
tribute to his original success paid by the librettist and the
composer of _Utopia_, and having no further use for this particular
bit of humour, he will, no doubt, be willing to make a present of it,
free of charge, for nightly use, to the distinguished Savoyards as a
practical congratulation to the pair of them on their return to the
scene of some of their former triumphs.

Mr. BARRINGTON is the life and soul of the show; withdraw him, and
then there would be precious little left to draw, excepting, of
course, the _mise en scène_, due to Messrs. HARRIS and CARTE, if I may
put the HARRIS before the CARTE,--and to the Scenic Artist, CRAVEN.
Nor must I forget to mention the Electric Lightists, Messrs. LYONS and
KERR, which last is a queer combination of names, from the king of
the forest to the lowest of snappy dogs. Miss ROSINA BRANDRAM is, of
course, excellent in what she has to do, and Miss NANCY MCINTOSH is
equal to the occasion of her appearance. PERCY ANDERSON'S costumes are
gorgeous and artistic; and to the "Parisian Diamond Company" are due
the gems of the piece. The dances are by the ever fertile and agile
D'AUBAN, and everybody who has contributed to the success of the show
obtains honourable mention in the neat programme-card.

* * * * *

"Inquirer" writes: "I see an advertisement of a series called '_The
Aldine Poets_.' Exceptional bards I suppose, as I was always given
to understand that poets rarely eat anything. Will this series be
followed by '_The Allunch Poets_,' _The Allbreakfast Poets_,' and
'_The Allsup Poets'_? The last-mentioned, of course, will sing in
praise of ALLSUP'S Ale."

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note:

Missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired.

Page 197: 'wav' corrected to 'way'

"There's no entrance to the music-hall this way."

Page 197: 'champage' corrected to 'champagne'

"Take a _carafe_ of champagne--there is plenty more."

Page 204: 'aRd' corrected to 'and'

"What never?" and "Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our
most recent tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893" ***

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