Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895" ***


PUNCH VOL CVIII

[Illustration: The Double Event. 1894.--1895.]

  LONDON.

  PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,

  AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS

  1895.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LONDON:
  BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108.

JUNE 29, 1895.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: _A Midsummer Day-dream, and its waking Sequel._]

It was the luncheon-hour at Lord's. Likewise it was exceeding hot, and
Mr. PUNCH, after an exciting morning's cricket, was endeavouring to
cool himself with an iced tankard, a puggreed "straw," and a fragrant
whiff.

"Willow the King!" piped Mr. PUNCH, pensively. "Quite so! A merrier
monarch than the Second CHARLES is WILLIAM (GILBERT) the very First!
And no one kicks at King Willow, even in these democratic days. The
verdant, smooth-shaven lawn, when wickets are pitched, is your very
best 'leveller'--in one sense, though, in another, what stylish
RICHARD DAFT calls 'Kings of Cricket' ('by merit raised to that _good_
eminence'), receive the crowd's loyal and most enthusiastic homage.
But, by Jove, the Harrow boys will want a new version of their
favourite cricket song, if prodigy be piled on prodigy, like Pelion
on Ossa, in the fashion to which the Doctor during the first month of
Summer in this year of Grace has accustomed us."

"The 'Doctor's' throne has never been disputed by anyone outside
Bedlam," said a strong and sonorous voice.

Mr. PUNCH looked up, and perceived before him a stalwart six-footer in
flannels, broad-belted at the equator, and wearing broad-brim'd silken
stove-pipe.

"ALFRED MYNN, quoting 'the Old Buffer,' or I'm a Dutchman," said the
omniscient and ever-ready one.

  "'And, whatever fame and glory these and other bats may win,
  Still the monarch of hard hitters, to my mind, was ALFRED MYNN;
  With his tall and stately presence, with his nobly-moulded form,
  His broad hand was ever open, his brave heart was ever warm'--

as PROWSE sang pleasantly."

The Kentish Titan blushed--if Shades can with modesty suffuse. "You
know _everything_, of course, Mr. PUNCH," said he; "and therefore you
know that the object of my visit is _not_ to have my praises sung even
by you or the Poet PROWSE, but to back up that National Testimonial to
_the_ Cricketer of the century--and the 'centuries'--of which I'm
glad to hear whispers in the Elysian Fields, where--alas!--we do _not_
pitch the stumps or chase the flying 'leathery duke' of Harrow song."

"Well, it's a far cry from Hambledon to Downend," quoth Mr. PUNCH,
pensively; "but even the gods of 'the Hambledon Pantheon,' as
picturesque JOHN NYREN called them, might have admitted the Downend
Doctor as their Jove. Or, adopting his other figure, have made him the
King ARTHUR of their Round Table, _vice_ old RICHARD NYREN retired."

"I see you read what is worth reading," responded the Kentish Big 'Un.
"DICK NYREN'S style was as sound and honest and brisk as the English
ale he lauded,--'barleycorn, such as would put the soul of three
butchers into one weaver.' But the great Gloucestershire gentleman is
worthy to bend the bow of Ulysses."

"Or to wear the pads of ALFRED MYNN, which, I believe, were presented
to him," said Mr. PUNCH, cordially.

"Ah! There is another and a bigger Presentation afoot, I understand,
thanks largely to a truly Gracious Prince," returned "the monarch
of hard hitters." "A knighthood? Well, that's as it may be! Quite
deserved indeed; but a 'King' hardly needs the addition of the lesser
honour, and indeed W. G. won his spurs on the tented field years and
years agone. But a National Testimonial! Faith, the Briton who grudges
a subscription to _that_ doesn't deserve to see a sixer run out, or
drink a flagon of genuine Boniface at the 'Bat and Ball' on Broad
Halfpenny. Only wish we old willow-wielders in the Elysian Fields
could contribute each our obolus. By Castor and Pollux, here he
comes!"

Broad, bronzed, black-bearded, bear-pawed, bell-mouthed, beaming, in
loose-cut flannels and M. C. C. cap, the redoubtable Doctor entered.
'Twas a sight to see those two six-foot-odders shake hands! And to
hear the talk of the Cricket Heroes of two generations----

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hillo, Mr. PUNCH! Wake up, old man! Match over!"

It was the veritable voice of the Gloucester Giant. But where was
the Pride of Kent? He came like a shadow in summer slumber, and so
departed. But WILLIAM GILBERT was at least satisfactorily solid.

"Where are the Bats of yester year?" murmured the drowsy Sage.

"Oh, still scoring--some of 'em," said the practical smiter,
cheerfully. "Keeping up a fair average, too."

"What is yours just now, Doctor?"

"Oh, ask DRUCE! _His_ tops it, I believe--for the present."

"Ah, well! But the Century of Centuries, the Thousand of Merry May,
the suggested knighthood, the coming National Testimonial, H. R. H.'s
letter----"

"I never saw a nicer letter, and I hope to see as good wherever I go,"
interrupted the modest and taciturn giant, with a grin reminiscent
of _Wickets in the West_ and "the rapt oration flowing free," in a
fourfold iteration of a single sentence.

"Better _before_ the stump than _on_ it, eh, WILLIAM?" smiled the
Sage, who had read his rollicking R. A. FITZGERALD, and understood
W. G.'s allusion. "Unlike the _other_ W. G., at present out in the
Baltic."

"Ah, _he_ could give the bowling beans, in his own way, which
certainly isn't mine," said the Man of Many Centuries.

"What a season!" exclaimed Mr. PUNCH, preparing to puff.

    "Centuries to right of us,  |  "Centuries all round us,
     Centuries to left of us,   |       Volley and thunder!

MYNN was here just now--in my vision. Wish you could have met him, as
I dreamed you did! _Par nobile fratrum!_ But even _he_ never hit
his hundred hundreds, though he played up to the age of fifty. Well,
WILLIAM mine, you've topped the toppers and cut all records. May the
National Testimonial do likewise. Wish you a sovereign reward for
every good hit with which you've pleased the populace--a '_quid_' for
every _quo_. And, to prove the sincerity of my love and admiration for
the greatest Cricketer of all time, I propose, my dear (prospective)
Sir WILLIAM GILBERT GRACE, K.G. (Knight of _the_ Game), to head that
same National Testimonial with a contribution outshining and out
summing all others, to wit my

  =One Hundred and Eighth Volume!="

[Illustration]



       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108, JANUARY 5, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Vol. CVIII]

       *       *       *       *       *



MR. PUNCH WELCOMES THE NEW YEAR.

          So, 'Ninety-Five, my boy, you've come at last!
            Another year has gone, and I am here
          To greet you, as your brothers in the past
            Were greeted on their coming, year by year;
  For it's always been my practice, Sir--a bit of _Punch's_ lore--
  Since the day that I was volumed, until now I'm fifty-four

          Aye, fifty-three New Years I've welcomed. This
            I pray to Heaven in its arms may bear
          A whole New Yearful of a nation's bliss--
            A world without a tear, without a care.
  'Tis thus that I have prayed, young Sir, full many years before;
  But to know how oft I've prayed in vain, would make your young heart sore.

          The Year that's dead was better, sure, than some;
            But even he brought with him strikes and war,
          Whose ghastly horrors smote the soft heart numb
            And wrung and chilled it to the very core.
  'Twas a villainous attention, this suffering and gore,
  That we'd rather have dispensed with, from your brother 'Ninety-Four

          But even he, my lad, a jest could work,
            And on occasion smile, and nod, and beck;
          To England gave--a rising Son of York,
            And gave to Ireland--Mr. GLADSTONE'S cheque!
  Thus tickling Mr. BULL from smiles and laughter to a roar.
  But hearty laughs like these, my friend, were few in 'Ninety-Four.

          And you, young shaver, what is it you bring?
            Razor and soap, like shavers young and old--
          The soap to soothe, razor to cut and sting?--
            Will wedding-bell be heard, and death-knell toll'd?
  You see, my lad, we're anxious as to what you have in store,
  For there's still some things to put to rights bequeathed by Ninety-Four.

          In Parliament, no doubt, you'll make your game--
            In Camp, and Court, and County Council, too?
          Make sport of love--make foul an honoured name--
            And all the little fun you're wont to do?
  Well--take my tip. Just do your level best, remember! For
  The blame, my son, lies at your own, not _Mr. Punch's_ door.

          So mind, young Sir, for _Mr. Punch's_ eye
            Is cocked upon you through your little life.
          Go--rule the world!--and if before you die
            You fill the earth with joy instead of strife,
  You'll be the first of all your race--for all the smiles they wore--
  That gave the country what she asked--from 0 to '94!

       *       *       *       *       *

PROTEST FROM THE PLAYGROUND.

Dear MR. PUNCH,--I know you sympathise with boys, and isn't it a jolly
shame the masters set us such awfully hard questions in exams.? My
Report has just come home, and my Pater has given me a fearful rowing,
and all because it says "WILKINS Terts. (that's me) has done badly in
Examinations, and does not take the trouble to use what intelligence
he possesses." My Pater threatens not to take me to the Pantymime,
and I hear it's awfully beefy this year! Well, we had a "History and
General Knowledge" paper, and one of the questions was this beastly
one, and of course I couldn't tackle it--"What, or where, are the
following:--'Imperium in Imperio, The Korea, Bimetallism, The Grand
Llama, Balance of Power, and One Man One Vote?'" I answered all right
about the Korea, because I kicked young SMITH under the table to
give me a tip about it, and he said it was the book the Turks use
in church; and I put that down, but all the other things floored me.
Please will you say what Bimetallism is? JONES Junior said afterwards,
in the playground, that it was a sort of lozenge, and ROBINSON
Senior said he didn't know what it was, but he knew his Pater was
a Bimetallist; and JONES said ROBINSON Senior's Pater must be a
confectioner then; and so ROBINSON punched JONES'S head; but what _is_
it? And is it fair to ask us boys such questions? My Pater said at
breakfast the School Board was fond of sending out sirkulers. Do you
think they would send one to our Head-master, and ask him to stop such
rot?

  Your obedient young friend

  JACKY.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SPORT IN COURT.

["The Anti-Gambling League has decided to take proceedings against the
Jockey Club.... In the view of the League every member of the Jockey
Club is equally open to indictment."--_Morning Post._]]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A VIEW HALLOO.

(_Hounds at fault._)

_Whip_ (_bustling up to Young Hodge, who has just begun to wave his
cap and sing out lustily_). "NOW THEN, WHERE IS HE?"

_Young H._ "YONDER, SIR! ACOMIN' ACROSS YONDER!"

_Whip._ "GET OUT, WHY THERE AIN'T NO FOX THERE, STOOPID!"

_Young H._ "NO, SIR; BUT THERE BE OUR BILLY ON T' JACKASS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SPORT IN COURT;

    _Or, The New Year Dream of the National Anti-Gambling
    Leaguer._

  Oh! it must have been the grog, for I slumbered like a log,
    And I dreamed--_such_ a dream! I was holding forth in court,
  And the prisoners in the dock,--how the Sporting League 'twould shock!--
    Were the Princes, and the Nobles, and the Leading Lights of Sport.
  A supreme, successful raid on the Jockey Club we'd made.
    No mere stuffy, sordid set, of poor betting-men _this_ time,
  No cheap winner-spotting snobs, but a lot of topping nobs,
    And I had them on the hip, and I charged the lot with Crime!
  It was prime to see a Prince at my language flush and wince,
    And a Lord Chief Justice squirm, and a stern-faced Judge quite blench.
  _But_--I could not fail to mark the demeanour of the Clerk,
    Who looked on it _as a lark!_--and that Beak upon the bench--
  Ah! he had a mighty "beak," which I felt a wish to tweak--
    Had a wink in his left eye which seemed frivolous, if funny;
  And he didn't seem to suit us, for we wished a stern-faced BRUTUS;
    Nay, a ruthless RHADAMANTHUS were the big-wig for _my_ money.
  Ah! it wanted resolution to conduct that prosecution,
    With a Prince and several Dooks, and an Earl, a County Squire,
  And a Mephistopheles, who sat lounging at his ease,
    Whom the culprits all called "JIMMY," and seemed hugely to admire;
  For although I ramped and raved, Beak and Prisoners behaved
    In a fashion which seemed scornful, and assuredly was light;
  And that Clerk--confound his mug, which looked strangely like a pug!--
    And the chap for the defence, with his eyes so brisk and bright,
  They seemed all upon the grin, or almost, which was a sin,
    And I'm sure I heard a Dook whisper in a Judge's ear,
  "_Don't old Mulberry Nose look funny? I will bet you any money_----!--"
    Well, I missed the wager's point; but oh, dear! oh dear!! _oh_ dear!!!
  Think of betting--in a Court! And I thundered against Sport,
    Which meant Gambling, more or less, and red ruin, and disgrace.
  From the girls who, though they're loves, wager wickedly--in gloves,
    To the Plunger Peer who shames his ancient race--to win a Race.
  Ah! I think I "gave them beans." I'm uncertain what that means,
    But the Lord Chief Justice whispered I was doing so--to "JIM"--
  And the phrase I overhead, and although it sounds absurd,
    I felt it meant a compliment to me, compelled from him.
  So I said "Sport may intrigue and set up a rival League
    To our holy Anti-Gambling One; but Sport is a Foul Sink
  We have pledged ourselves to purge with a besom and a scourge----"
    But here that Punchian eye indulged in a prodigious wink,
  Such a spasm of sheer fun, that I felt the case was done;
    Court, Prisoners, Judge, assumed the guise of a colossal Joke!
  My head appeared to swim, the wild vision did dislimn,
    And with a shriek of bitter disappointment I--awoke!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ANGLO-INDIAN."--We are indisposed to go the full length of agreement
with the learned Editors of the _New English Dictionary_ in their
study of the derivation of the objectionable word "damn." In the
interesting extract you inclose they remark: "The conjecture that the
word is the Hindi _d[=a]m_, _dawm_, an ancient copper coin, of which
1,600 went to a rupee (see YULE), is ingenious, but has no basis in
fact." That may be so. It is, nevertheless, a curious coincidence that
at the present time the steady declension of the money value of
the rupee, combined with its immoveable rating in the salary list,
produces in the Civil Service and the army in India a state of feeling
subject to which at least 1,600 dams go to a rupee. We much fear that,
under this provocation, our army in India is able to compete with
regiments earlier enrolled, who, you will remember, "swore terribly in
Flanders."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COMBINATION COSTUMES FOR COVENT GARDEN.

"THE TWENTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER!"

"WHAT NONSENSE YOU DO TALK. HOW DO YOU MAKE THAT OUT?"

"WHY, ANY FOOL COULD SEE THAT. THE SHORTEST DEY AND THE LONGEST
KNIGHT, OF COURSE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW YEAR NOTIONS.

(_By an Old Buffer._)

  "There is nothing new under the sun," someone says;
    I wish that there _wasn't_, by Jingo!
  It seems to me _everything_'s New in these days,
    And nothing is genuine old stingo.
  A New Poet turns up about once a week
    (According to log-rolling rumour);
  And there's the New Politics, all grab and sneak;
    And something dull dubbed the New Humour!
  The New Art; I'm certain _it_ comes from Old Nick,
    It's so diabolic and dirty.
  Faith! some of their Novelties make me feel sick,
    And most of them make me feel "shirty."
  The New Year!--well, that is as old as the hills.
    The New Leaf--we annually turn it.
  Ah! if the New Newness would banish Old Ills.
    Not e'en an Old Fogey would spurn it.
  New Year, give us books that are healthy and gay,
    And Art that's not impish or queer, Sir!
  And _if_ you'll but cart the _New Woman_ away,
    You _will_ be a Happy New Year, Sir!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN THEATRE LAUGH.

Dear MR. PUNCH,--I crave the hospitality of your columns under the
following circumstances. The other night I went to a burlesque. Being
a man of modest means, I contented myself with paying half-a-crown,
for which sum I was able not only to sit with the plebs in the pit,
but to see Society in the stalls.

Will it be believed, at the end of this so-called nineteenth century,
that songs were sung and things were said which made those everywhere
around me _laugh?_ Sadder still, two-thirds of those I saw were
women!--women, who are our mothers and sisters, when they are not our
wives and sweethearts!

I haven't the least notion where the harm in all this comes in, but
I'm confident there's some somewhere. In any event it's a serious sign
of the times; which reminds me that I should have sent this to the
_Times_, if I had not thought the recent Society-play correspondence
sufficient for one season. I'm so afraid the dear old _Thunderer_ will
drop the telegraphic news and take to _Telegraphic_ Correspondence.

In any case, I invite letters on "The Seriousness of Laughter."

  Yours distressedly,

  A DI-TRI-SYLLABIC PITTITE.

    [No letters on this subject will be inserted.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW YEAR.

  "Ring out, wild bells." We hope that you,
    With '94 that's rung out,
  Will kindly ring out just a few
  Of all those things entitled "new"
  Which plagued us till quite mad we grew
    As mad as dog with tongue out.

  Those novelties! The newest kind--
    With turned up nose and weird, slee-
  -py eyes, that told of vacant mind,
  And monstrous chignon massed behind--
  Were those appalling things designed
    By Mr. AUBREY BEARDSLEY.

  Yes, "things"; for nought of human shape,
    However strangely bizarre,
  Is there portrayed; there's not an ape,
  That feeds on cocoa-nut or grape,
  Between Morocco and the Cape,
    So hideous as these are.

  For goodness' sake, don't let us see
    New Art which courts disaster!
  We much prefer to Mr. B.
  VELASQUEZ, REMBRANDT, even P.
  P. RUBENS or VANDYKE, for we
    Like oldness in a master.

  And then "New Humour." Heavens, why
    It's but a pleasure killer!
  A cause of weary yawn and sigh,
  Which makes us almost long to fly
  To those old jokes collected by
    A certain Mr. MILLER.

  In politics Newcastle, too,
    With programme was prophetic;
  And now Leeds leads, and shows who's who.
  The Grand Old Man--there's age for you!--
  Has found much better things to do,
    Not prosy but poetic.

  But all the things, so new in time,
    Are nothing to the woman,
  Who now is "new," and seeks to climb
  To heights which seem to her sublime;
  (Excuse the execrable rhyme)
    She is indeed a rum 'un.

  Of course we know that youth is sweet;
    Old women are not charming;
  But no old woman we could meet,
  With featless form and formless feet,
  This wild New Woman now could beat,
    She's perfectly alarming.

  Ring out, wild bells, wild belles like these
    New-fangled fancies screaming;
  Ring in the woman bound to please,
  A lady, always at her ease,
  Not manlike woman, by degrees
    More man that woman seeming.

  Old '94, who now has fled,
    Encouraged blatant boldness
  In things called "new," as we have said;
  New '95, now he is dead,
  Might bring some things which are instead
    Remarkable for oldness.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A VITAL QUESTION.

(_Asked at a Penny Reading._)

  "Who will stand on either hand,
  And keep the bridge with me?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"SHOULD CHRISTMAS BE ABOLISHED?"

    [A symposium on the above question appears in the December
    Number of _The Idler_.]

  With what philosophy sublime
    The institutions are discussed,
  Which foolish men of olden time
    Were well content to take on trust!
  "Is life one great mistake?" we cry,
    "Our modern teachers deem it so;"
  "Man's place shall woman occupy?"
    And now this last--"Shall Christmas go?"

  They mock at any plea for mirth,
    With fine derision they allude
  To any wish for peace on earth
    As just a pulpit platitude;
  This Christmas-time, it seems, is fraught
    With fancies anything but clever;
  The lessons that CHARLES DICKENS taught
    Are obsolete, and gone for ever!

  They tell us, in their stead, to praise
    The jokes on seasonable ills,
  The epigrams on quarter-days,
    The _jeux d'esprit_ on mud and bills;
  But as for honest glee and cheer,
    Since every cause for joy's demolished,
  Why, Christmas, too, it's amply clear,
    Should be left out--in fact, "abolished."

  Well, let them talk; to please themselves
    By all means let them demonstrate
  That fairies, Santa Claus, and elves
    Are manifestly out-of-date.
  Well, let them talk; and find a joy
    In cynical philosophy,
  But every English girl and boy
    Will give their empty words the lie!

  Nor only these: In every land
    When Christmas brings, to brighten life,
  The sturdy grip of hand with hand,
    The softened heart, the ended strife,--
  Then air your pessimistic views,
    Then ask again, "Shall Christmas go?"
  And find your answer, if you choose,
    In one emphatic, hearty--"NO!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "LOOK WHAT I'VE BOUGHT YOU FOR A CHRISTMAS BOX!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

VIII.--AFTER THE POLL.

I am overwhelmed with congratulations, from all classes, from all
sections, from all ranks, and I am acclaimed on all hands as a worthy
head man for a Mudford, if not yet a model, village. Not the least
welcome have been the communications which have reached me from those
who have made my acquaintance in these published Chronicles. The mayor
of a borough whose charter dates well back into the beginning of the
second half of the present century, wrote to say that he is emboldened
by the fact that his wife's maiden name commenced with a W to write to
tell me how rejoiced he is to hear of my success. A gentleman writes
from "The Burning Plains of the Sahara" to say that he is always proud
of the triumphs of a TIMOTHY. (My daughter points out that this is
clearly a forgery, since the Sahara mail isn't in till next week.
But I can't go into that.) Then there is a very important letter from
Birmingham, of which I will only say that WINKINS, who has backed many
a Bill, may yet live to indorse a Programme. I may here add that there
has been an attempt in some quarters to decry these Chronicles as
absurd and imaginary. My Birmingham correspondent describes them as
"an important picture of things as they actually are." He is right. I
am as serious as a Prime Minister.

My wife is back--which reminds me that I received a post-card, which
his had the effect usually produced by a bomb. Here is what was on
it:--

AFTER THE POLL.

  After the poll is over,
    After the voting's done,
  Mudford will be much duller,
    No more election fun.
  But ONE man will be more happy,
    Not so disturbed in his soul (?),
  WINKINS'S wife is come back now--
        After the Poll!

Of course, I should have destroyed the card at once--but I was out
when it came, and MARIA read it first! What happened was a good
instance of the monstrous way in which one man's sin is another man's
punishment. In this case (1) it was my wife who had persisted in
going away, and (2) it was an unknown post-cardist who had written the
insulting doggerel. Yet I paid the entire penalty.

The great puzzle--who is the seventh councillor?--is still unsolved.
All that has happened so far is that Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE
MARCH are no longer on speaking terms. It has leaked out that Mrs.
MARCH had more plumpers than Mrs. HAVITT, whereupon ructions--as
JACKY, who has just come home for the Christmas holidays says. I think
he's quite right.

Our Parish Council meets next Monday--on the 7th. With the New Year we
commence our reign of beneficent activity. I need hardly say that it
is certain that I am to be Chairman. My position on the poll suggests
it, common decency demands it, moreover I expect it. I refuse to
believe that I shall be disappointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GLAD NEW YEAR.

    _A Reflecting Roundel._

  "A Glad New Year!" Why, bless my heart, how fast
    The time flies by! The year's no sooner here
  Than it is gone and numbered with the past--
                    A Glad New Year!

  For some the sun shines bright, the sky is clear,
    No threatening clouds o'erhead exist to cast
  A single shadow. Yet, ah me, how drear
    The sad estate in which some lives are passed!
  The day when none are sad may not be near,
    But then--and not till then--there'll be at last
                    A Glad New Year!

       *       *       *       *       *

UP-TO-DATE VERSION FOR MATURE VIRGINS AND PREMATURELY GRIZZLED WORKING
MEN.--They whom the gods _don't_ love, _dye_ young!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PROBLEM PLAY.

_New Woman_ (_with the hat_). "NO! _MY_ PRINCIPLE IS SIMPLY _THIS_--IF
THERE'S A _DEMAND_ FOR THESE PLAYS, IT MUST BE _SUPPLIED!_"

_Woman not New_ (_with the bonnet_). "PRECISELY! JUST AS WITH THE
BULL-FIGHTS IN SPAIN!"

    [_Scores._
]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLD FERRYMAN'S NEW FARE.

AIR--"_Twickenham Ferry._"

  O-hoi-ye-ho! Ho-ye-ho! Who's for the ferry?
    (_The moon sails on high, and the snow's coming down_,)
  A light gleams afar, and the church chimes are merry,
    Their message goes pealing o'er country and town.
  The ferryman's grey, and the ferryman's old;
  But the passenger's young, and the passenger's bold;
    And he's fresh as a pippin, and brown as a berry,
  He laughs at the night, and he heeds not the cold.
    O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

  O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho! "I'm for the ferry!"
    (_The moon rides on high, and the snow's coming down_,)
  "Sure it's late that it is, but I care not a penny;
    I'll brave the rough river and winter's grim frown."
  He'd his hands in his pockets, and oh! he looked brave
  As the toughtest old tar who e'er ventured the wave.
    With his cheeks like a rose, and his lips like a cherry,
  "Ah! sure, and you're welcome! _Your_ presence _all_ crave!"
    O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

  O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho! One flits slow from the ferry,
    (_The moon rides on high, and the snow's coming down_,)
  With shadowy form, and with footfall unsteady;
    You'd think 'twas a ghost at the dawn-signal flown.
  The ferryman turns on the phantom a glance,
  But the eyes of the youngster there glitter and dance,
    And with youth like a star in the stern of the wherry
  There is but one watchword for Time,--tis "Advance!"
    O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

  O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho! Old is that ferry,
    (_The moon rides on high, and the snow's drifting down_,)
  Still, older that steersman, though stalwart and steady,
    And many a journey and fare hath he known.
  For the Ferryman's Time, and his fares are the Years,
  And they greet him with smiles, and oft leave him in tears,
    And the youth who to-night takes his seat in that wherry,
  Knows not how 'tis freighted with hopes and with fears.
    O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

  O-hoi-ye-ho-Ho! 'NINETY-FIVE tries the ferry,
    (_The moon rides on high, and the snow silvers down_,)
  There's a smile on his lips, and his laughter is merry;
    Right little he bodeth of Fortune's dark frown.
  But the Ferryman's old, and the Ferryman knows
  That River of Years, with its joys and its woes;
    But we'll wish the young fare a snug seat in Time's wherry,
  And sun on his way, though he starts 'midst the snows.
    O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WINTER ACADEMY OF 1995.

(_An Elegant Extract from a Future Development._)

The Committee this year has wisely been recruited from the Master Bill
Posters' Guild; the old-fashioned method of "hanging" is abandoned,
and advertisements are now "stuck" on the walls by the New "B"
Gum Process (for which Sir J. MILLBOARD contributes a charming
illustration No. 20,000). During a preliminary survey, we were
astonished by the blatant excellence of the exhibition. "_A Bicycle
Made for Five_," by Mr. LOWTHER R. CADE (No. 2006), is especially
delicate and sudden; the tone is aluminium throughout, and although no
children are represented as bodily on the machine, a Kineto-Phonograph
inserted in the axle dexterously responds to a penny in the slot--when
the youthful athletes are both seen and _heard_ in the adjacent
horse-pond. "_Gregory the Grateful_" (No. 612) fully sustains Dr.
UTTERSON'S reputation for historical advertisement; by pressing a
spring the Pope actually swallows the powder, and seems to like it.
It is quite equal to this Master's "_Columbus in Wall Street_" of
last year. Mr. G. MORLAND'S "_Carter's Pill-gathering in the Old Kent
Road_" (No. 69) is too realistic for modern taste; the fine oaks in
the background are absolutely hidden by placards; but Lord BOXALL'S
"_While there is Life there is Soap_" (No. 15,000z) is truly
impressionist; the life is full of soap, and the soap full of life. In
"_Glycerine_" (unnumbered), by Miss TOPSY TURVY (the Presidentess),
we have a fine example of "_The Newer Symbolism_,"--a patent revolving
motor displays its liquidity to equal advantage upside down.

Altogether the show is calculated to promote business--which is
the true end of Art; it also opens out infinite possibilities for
house-decoration.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW PASSENGER.]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN "OLD MASTER'S" GROWL.

_Burlington House, January 1, 1895._

  It's all very pretty to hang us up here,
    And pretend that you worship our genius and paint;
  You fancy it's "Cultchah" that rings in the year--
                    But it ain't!

  You find us, you say, "a delight to the eye;"
    You exclaim that "such painting you never did see!"
  You "do" us--then scamper below with the cry--
                    "Cup o' tea!"

  "Old Masters," indeed! It's "Young Students" with you--
    To their show in your thousands you flock in the spring;
  But of Me you exclaim, as you come in my view--
                    "What a thing!"

  Just six months ago in these rooms you'd declare
    It was "exquisite Art" that you saw; you forgot
  That you'd said that of us. Bah! What do you care?
                    Not a jot!

  Of course, there are some who are men of the day,
    Who belong to the band of the talented few;
  Right gladly we put forth our hand, as we say--
                    "How de do?"

  For example, young RAPHAEL--my excellent friend--
    And the later Italians and Germans as well,
  They consider Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON no end
                    Of a swell.

  Then REYNOLDS declared, in the course of a chat,
    The "_Cherry Ripe_" picture of MILLAIS to be
  As good as "_Penelope Boothby_." What's that?
                    "_So does he?_"

  VAN DE VELDE asserts he knows less of a wave,
    It's colour and drawing, than MOORE at his best.--
  But when of your COLES and your HUNTERS you rave,
                    I protest!

  Talk of TITIAN and WATTS in a breath--which you may;
    Young GILBERT and SWAN you may praise if you will;
  But the thought of the annual summer display
                    Makes me ill!

  Yet that's what the mass of the people enjoyed.
    And the few who come here, both the great and the small,
  Mostly come to be seen. What--you think I'm annoyed?
                    Not at all!

  We expect it.--I said just as much to VANDYCK--
    There's but one in a hundred that comes who'll descry
  The beauty of Art. It's the sham I dislike.
                    Well--good-bye!

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW TO WRITE AN EXTRA NUMBER.

(_An Up-to-date fragment for Yuletide._)

The author was hard at work. He heeded not the snow that beat against
the window, nor the wintry wind that whistled through the leafless
trees. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and the shadows on the
walls seemed to inspire him with seasonable tales. He wrote for
dear life, as his copy was late, and he knew that the printers were
clamouring for more and more from his facile pen. Every now and again
he glanced at a volume of drawings (there were many sketches in the
book on his desk), and, pausing for a moment, seemed to be lost in
thought. Then he would resume his labours with fresh energy. Very
rarely he would murmur to himself, and then his words would be few.

[Illustration]

"Confusion!" he muttered on one such occasion; "how the Dickens (or
should it be Thackeray?) am I to get in the Christmas waits?" He
pondered for a moment, and then his eyes glistened with delight.
"Eureka! I have it! They must appear in a dream. Yes, that will get
over the difficulty, they must appear in a dream!"

And then he continued his writing. During the whole day he had been
hard at work. His breakfast was scarcely touched. He waved away the
servant girl who would have set before him his lunch. It was now close
upon his customary dinner hour, but still he insisted upon isolation.
Even the wife of his devotion did not dare to come near him. She knew
that he would not speak to her, but only cast at her a glance. But
such a glance! A terrible tirade compressed into a solitary look!

The short day waned and passed away. The evening quickly changed into
night. There were cheery songs without, as it was Christmas Eve, when
all men were thinking of wassail, and holly and mistletoe. Even the
performers in the forthcoming pantomime were nearing the close of
their last rehearsal, when they would go back to their homes to count
the mince pies and glance for the last time at the cooking of the
familiar plum pudding.

At length the writer was interrupted, and by his old familiar friend.

"I will not disturb you," said the caller, taking up a newspaper and
commencing its perusal; "I know how busy you are, and will be silent
as Cornhill on a Sunday."

[Illustration]

The writer nodded and continued his work. His pen moved quicker and
quicker until at length it stopped.

"Hurrah!" shouted the author. "At last my task is completed. I have
brought in every cut and got through the necessary number of lines.
Yes, my dear old comrade, I have done. The printer will be satisfied,
and the publisher will cease to be alarmed. And now, my dear fellow,
I can enjoy Christmas conscious of the fact that I have thoroughly
earned a holiday."

"Ah!" observed the visitor glancing at the recently-written pages; "I
see you have been writing something for Yuletide."

"Yuletide!" exclaimed the author. "Why, that was accomplished ages
ago. No, my dear fellow, I have just finished a summer number timed to
appear in August. I shan't think of touching the work of next year's
Christmas until April!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"YOU CAME TO TEA."

  In spite of Fate invincible,
    Of lack of wit, and lack of gold,
  Of pictures that too cheaply sell,
    Or pictures never sold,
  Oh, yet, when I am old and grey,
    If old and grey I live to be,
  I shall recall one happy day,
    The day you came to tea!

  You came. Of course I am aware
    You did not, could not, come alone.
  You were between the millionaire
    And a stout chaperon.
  My work they called to criticise,
    But what they said I do not know,
  For gleams of laughter in your eyes
    That seemed to come and go.

  The hurrying moments how I rued!
    There flashed a scheme into my brain.
  With unexpected tea, I would
    My visitors detain.
  The ever-willing household slave
    Into my service I impressed;
  To her my tea, my gold I gave,
    She vowed to do the rest.

  That tea was strong, for all my hoard,
    Some half a pound, two shilling tea,
  Into the teapot had been poured--
    Only the milk--ah me!
  So pallid, comfortless a stream,
    Into your cup I saw it glide.
  For a true jug of country cream
    I felt I would have died!

  But with the cake I was content,
    Its richness no one could mistake,
  For my whole store the slave had spent
    On a superior cake.
  'Twas all in layers, almonded,
    And crowned with white and rosy ice:
  "What a delightful cake!" you said;
    "But, please, a smaller slice!"

  I flushed and stammered. I suspect
    A pound I'd cut you unaware.
  On what I did could I reflect
    When you were sitting there?
  That revel, ah, how soon 'twas o'er!
    How swiftly came the moment when
  After my guests I shut the door,
    I mounted to my den.

  Then down I sat beside the wall,
    And, feeling doubtful and amazed,
  I strove your accent to recall
    As at your chair I gazed.
  I heard your soft laugh echo through
    The dingy room grown dear to me,
  Where now was silence; and I knew
    That you had been to tea!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SHAKSPEARE LESSON.

_Holiday Tutor_ (_quoting_)--

        "'LETTING I DARE NOT WAIT UPON I WOULD,
          LIKE THE POOR CAT IN THE ADAGE.'

  NOW, GEORGE, WHAT IS AN ADAGE?"

_George._ "A PLACE TO KEEP CATS IN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

    (_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Guide._)

HOW TO RECEIVE A DEPUTATION.

It does not take very long to make yourself quite at home as Secretary
of the Public Squander Department--the office I will suppose you to
be filling. You will find everything ready to your hand. All you will
have to remember is this--the golden rule of the Service--that what
was done last year, should be followed this, and arranged for next.
Ministries may come and Cabinets may go, but the P. S. D. continues
for ever. The policy of the office must never be disturbed. If it has
been the custom (say) to put orange-trees in the open spaces under
the control of the Department out to bloom in February, under no
consideration whatever must the date be changed. It may be advanced
(generally in the newspapers when there is nothing more interesting
ripe for discussion) that July would be the better month. It may be
declared that an orange-tree taken from a hothouse and thrust into
the uncertain atmosphere of the Metropolis, and indeed the provinces,
stands less chance of weathering that climate in the second month of
the year than it would in the seventh. That may be very true, but
what has been done by the Public Squander Department once should be
repeated for ever. If an alteration has to be made it must not be
accomplished except "under-pressure." Questions must be asked in
the House, returns moved for, and all the rest of it. So long as the
alteration can be resisted, it is the duty of every member of the
Department to stand shoulder to shoulder to oppose. You will find a
case in point in the matter of your own pet grievance the condition
of "Milestones." You will recollect (if you have a good memory) that
"Milestones" were the steps of the staircase that led you from the
hall of Parliament to the comfortable apartments reserved for the
special use of the Secretary of the P. S. D.

[Illustration]

"I do not think we need bother about those Milestones," you will say
to the Chief Clerk after you have got accustomed to your messengers
and have chosen your easiest of easy chairs; "I daresay there are many
matters of more pressing importance."

The courteous official to whom you have made the suggestion will
readily acquiesce, and then inform you that a deputation are anxious
to see you upon the subject. And here you will find one of the
disadvantages inseparably connected with making a question exclusively
your own. The moment you come into power you are expected to do
something. It is of course unreasonable, but none the less for that
unavoidable.

[Illustration]

"I think you had better see them, Sir," the Chief Clerk will observe.
"They know the ropes fairly well, and I do not think we shall get much
peace until you have got rid of them. Of course, we have sent them
travelling a bit, but they have got back to us at last."

"Sent them a--travelling?" you will query.

"Well, yes. We have referred them to this department, where they have
been asked to apply to that. They have been passed on from office to
office until they have come back to us. It is the rule of the game.
And now I think the time has arrived when you should see them in
person."

Of course, you have nothing to do but to take your subordinate's
advice. It is one of the regulations of the Civil Service that the
tail wags the dog. It stands to reason that a man who has grown grey
in the Department is more likely to know the business of the bureau
better than you who have just joined. So the spokesman of the
deputation receives a polite communication informing him that you
will be pleased to see him and his friends at such and such a date.
Of course, you are furnished with the names of the friends in advance,
and your private secretary (your right-hand man) makes it his special
business to post you up in all that is necessary about them. The day
arrives, and with it the deputation. If the House is sitting, you can
see the Members in your own room. It looks well if you can show your
accosters how small a chamber you occupy, and how hard at work you
have to be at all hours of the day and night. Failing a meeting in
Parliament, you can receive them in the Department itself. In this
case contrive, if possible, to see them in official uniform. Chat with
them after you have been to a _levée_, or Cabinet, or something of
that sort. It gives you a distinct advantage if you can overawe
them with the glories of a well-feathered cocked-hat, and many yards
(chiefly on the back of your coat) of gold lace.

You will have, of course, in attendance upon you several heads of
departments. These gentlemen will say nothing, but will look wonders.
If you are at loss for figures or facts, you will glance at them and
make a bold statement. That daring declaration will, of course, be
qualified with the announcement that it is made "to the best of your
belief." You will turn your face towards the heads, and they will
receive your mute appeal with sympathetic attention. They will not
say anything, but will, I repeat, look wonders. They will not be
comprehensible, but merely convincing.

Chairs will have been set for the members of the deputation. Some
of your visitors will be personally known to you, and these you will
greet with effusion. Remember that you must be nothing if not genial.
Single out for special cordiality the spokesman. Not, of course,
one of your parliamentary colleagues who is going to introduce your
visitors to you, but the principal member of the deputation. If you
have to contradict him in the course of the interview you will have
the sympathy of his colleagues, and they will be glad to see one who
has the pleasure of your acquaintance (why should he have it more than
they?) soundly snubbed. After every one has got comfortably into their
places, you will ask if the Press are to be present. If the reply is
in the affirmative (as it most probably will be, as all deputations
like to see themselves in print), continue your generalities, and say
with a good-natured laugh, "that you must be on your guard." If the
interview is not to be reported, then you require no further guide.
You can say or do almost anything in reason. But assuming that the
reporters are to be present (and here it may be observed that, if your
private secretary knows his business, the gentlemen of the Press will
to some extent be "selected"), you must be more careful.

You will listen to your parliamentary colleague's speech of
introduction and the address of your friend the spokesman with many
silent tokens of goodwill. When there is a trace of a compliment you
will smile and bow, and if any figures are introduced you will ask to
have them repeated, and make a note of them on a piece of paper.
It does not matter what kind of paper you use, as the piece will
subsequently disappear into the basket reserved for valueless
documents.

You will ask several questions, and, when the spokesman has completed
his harangue, you will look round to see if anyone desires to follow
him. If there is any hesitation, commence your reply at once. But if
anyone is ready, let him speak. It is far better that the eloquence
of the deputation should come out (like the measles) rather than be
suppressed. When your visitors have had their turn, then will come
yours.

Of course the less you say the better. I do not mean in words, but
in purport. If you have time you can chatter for an hour, but that
chatter should be absolutely innocuous. Remember not to give yourself
away. Mind, you are bound in office by nothing you have uttered out
of it. Be genial. Indulge in small jokes. Let them be at your own
expense. Complain that you are powerless. Explain that had you your
way you would do all sorts of good things, but "that tyrant, the
Chancellor of the Exchequer," interferes. It is not the fault of the
Public Squander Department; but the crime of the Treasury. Wind up by
assuring the members of the deputation of your personal sympathy, and
assure them that you will take "an early opportunity of laying the
representations they have made before your colleagues."

By following these directions you may be sure that you will gain
golden opinions. You will be thanked with effusion for your courtesy,
and your visitors will retire entirely satisfied with the reception
that has been accorded to them.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "I SAY, TIBBINS, OLD MAN, IS IT TRUE THAT YOUR WIFE HAS
BEEN ASKED TO RESIGN AT THE OMPHALE CLUB?"

"WELL, YES; YOU SEE THE COMMITTEE FOUND THAT SHE'D BEEN GUILTY OF
UNGENTLEMANLY CONDUCT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO ALTHEA.--(Out of Town.)

  If ever this message should find you,
    I think that perhaps you will guess
  Who sent it, in hopes to remind you
    Of one who has not your address,
  And who if he had dare not use it,
    The chaperon's eye to offend.
  ALTHEA, yet do not refuse it,
    The humble good wish of a friend!

  To give you a New Year's greeting,
    Explain, what I cannot explain,
  How your look, at our very last meeting,
    Is photographed firm on my brain.
  Without you, I'm twenty years older;
    And yet I'm glad you're away.
  For each day it grows darker and colder,
    The sky is a smoky brown-grey.

  ALTHEA--I am weary of winter
    Without you! The fogs never clear.
  My missive I send to the printer
    To tell you how dull it is here.
  I hope you are faring far better,
    I trust, as I bid you adieu,
  That you may divine that this letter
    Is really intended for you!

       *       *       *       *       *

"RICHARD HIMSELF AGAIN."

"Return again _Whittington_, Pantomime of London" were the words to
the chimes that on or about Boxing Day must have been ringing in the
ears of Mr. Ex-Sheriff HARRIS, Knight, and spectacle maker from morn
to dawn. This is not the first time that our own DRURIOLANUS has
chosen the intermittent Lord Mayor (for did not _Dick_ pass the chair
thrice?) as the subject for his annual. That he has been wise in
making the selection has been proved by the result. Sir AUGUSTUS (with
the assistance of his literary colleagues, Messrs. H. HAMILTON and
WALTER RALEIGH; and his chief of the staff, Mr. ARTHUR COLLINS) has
beaten his own record. Nothing better than the present show has been
seen at Drury Lane within the recollection of the existing generation.
And it is highly probable that the memory of man does not, anent times
past, run to the contrary.

[Illustration: "Listening to the Belles."]

The ex-sheriff has begun a new lease of the old house, and seemingly
has taken the success he has so long established on the premises as
one of the fixtures. A most excellent commencement to a contract that
should be highly satisfactory to both manager and public.

[Illustration: "Haul by the Sea."]

So much for pantomimic things in general, and now to turn to details
in particular. The book of the words is decidedly a superior article.
Hitherto when the Drury Lane Annual has contained a fault the mistake
has been discovered in "the cackle." On former occasions it has been
said (by the dyspeptic and consequently disappointed) that "the
turns of the halls" have been too numerous. Those excellent comedians
Messrs. DAN LENO and HERBERT CAMPBELL have sometimes been a little too
much in evidence to suit every taste. In 1894-95 they have plenty to
do, but only enough to satisfy the most fastidious. They are quite
as amusing as usual, and when the curtain falls before "the
transformation" people are rather inclined to ask for more than to
say that they have had quite enough. This is the token of a good sign.
Then the Brothers GRIFFITHS are particularly pleasing. That member of
the brethren who plays the cat is at once comic and pathetic. He makes
_Malkin_ quite a loveable character. Then Miss ADA BLANCHE, as _Dick_,
is altogether a hero of romance. She may sing the old songs of the
halls, but she tempers her comic vocalism with a touch of sentiment
that makes the whole world kin after it has had its grin. Miss
MARIE MONTROSE, too, is winsome, and so are Misses AGNES HEWITT, EVA
WESTLAKE, and MADGE LUCAS. In fact, the opening is well played by
"all concerned." It is a wonder that, after the first innings of
the morning performance, they should have scored so heavily in
the evening's representation. But score they do, and are likely to
"continue the movement" until Easter.

The scenery must be seen. It baffles description. Who could paint
the sun? Who could report the wonders of the solar system? A first
impressionist would declare that the gorgeous production of colour,
light, and form, could only be adequately suggested by the word
"HARRIS." So the entire audience thought on Boxing Night. Let it be
known that after the wonderful "Feast of Lanterns" Scene, Sir AUGUSTUS
was called to the front three or four times, and might have "gone on"
indefinitely so far as the house was concerned. Indeed, the enthusiasm
showed no sign of diminution when the lessee had made his exit. Still
the Gallery called for "'ARRIS!" still the Stalls expressed their
opinion by the gentle tapping of well-gloved hands. Nay more, there
were members of the superior classes who not only rapped out their
applause, but roared with laughter. From first to last, thanks to a
thoroughly appreciative (and yet discriminating) audience, the play
went admirably.

[Illustration: "Cook and Gaze."]

So the bells will ring for _Whittington_ for a long time to come. And
where the belles are there will be found the beaux. To continue the
association of ideas, the shot of Sir AUGUSTUS has ended in a hit. It
does not take a prophet to predict that _Dick_ will not only be the
centre of numberless _matinées_, but the hero of at least a hundred
nights. _Dick_ will listen to his bells until Easter changes the
music.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHY DOST THOU SING?

  Why dost thou sing? Is it because thou deemest
    We love to hear thy sorry quavers ring?
  My poor deluded girl, thou fondly dreamest!
              Why dost thou sing?

  Why dost thou sing? I ask thy sad relations--
    They shake their heads, and answer with a sigh.
  They can explain thy wild hallucinations
              No more than I.

  Why dost thou sing? Why wilt thou never weary
    Why wilt thou warble half a note too flat?
  I can conceive no reasonable theory.
              To tell me that.

  Why dost thou sing? O Lady, have we ever
    In thought or action done thee any wrong?
  Then wherefore should'st thou visit us for ever
              With thy one song?

  Why dost thou sing?--None offers a suggestion,
    None dares to do so desperate a thing,
  And Echo only answers to my question,
              "Why dost thou sing?"

       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Note:

= = denotes Old English Font, large size, bold.

Page 1: 'exams.' is an abbreviation.

Page 6: Comma moved to correct place after 'PLAYS'.

"--If there's a _demand_ for these Plays, it must be _supplied!_"

Page 6: 'toughtest' may be correct (poetic licence), or a typo for
'toughest'. Retained.

"As the toughtest old tar who e'er ventured the wave."

Page 11: 'If' corrected to 'It'.

"It looks well if you can show your accosters how small a chamber you
occupy,..."





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895" ***

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