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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari,  Volume 108, March 2nd 1895
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari,  Volume 108, March 2nd 1895" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.


Volume 108. MARCH 2nd, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

[Illustration: "ANIMAL SPIRITS."


       *       *       *       *       *


(_By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller._)


In these awful circumstances, with the night air whistling past me,
and with my beloved CHUDDAH and her nurse hurtling upwards beside me,
it is scarcely necessary for me to say that I never for an instant
lost my coolness and my perfect self-possession. That the situation
was dangerous, nay, almost desperate, I fully realised, but it is in
these very situations that true courage and resourcefulness are always
of the highest value. Again and again in the course of my long life
have I plucked safety, aye, and that which is higher and better than
all safety, namely, reputation, from the nettle danger. Let fools
prate as they will; the brave man must always rise triumphant above
the stormy waves of envy and detraction.

These thoughts, I admit, did not occur to me at the moment. Our flight
was too perilous and too swift to allow me to think of aught save what
concerned the immediate necessities of this truly fearful crisis. Poor
little CHUDDAH, I observed, being made of lighter material, was
gradually outstripping me in this dreadful and involuntary race. First
her head topped me; then her shoulders soared beyond me; at last her
feet were on a level with my face. As one of them (I forget which)
passed upwards, I was just able by leaning slightly forward, to
imprint a kiss upon it. "Farewell, CHUDDAH," I sighed, as the lovely
foot left my lips. "Farewell, ORLANDO," she murmured all but
inaudibly, and fled up, up, up into the dismal night. I never saw her

The Ayah, however, a stout and heavy woman, was still beside me,
rising inch for inch as I rose. By turning slightly round I could look
at her. I did so. Judge of my horror when I realised by the faint
light of the stars that the Ayah was no longer alive! The shock of the
sudden ascent must have proved too much for one accustomed to the
sedate and comfortable life of an eastern palace, and enfeebled,
moreover, by advancing age. The explosion acting on such a
constitution had snapped the cords that kept life in her faithful
body. The Ayah was dead, and I who tell this tale was alone with a
corpse in the encircling atmosphere! As I realised this horrible
situation, I confess that for the first and last time in my life I
turned faint with a feeling almost amounting to fear. In imagination I
saw myself speeding for ever, as the æons revolved in their courses,
with only a dead Indian nurse to keep me company. Then, by an
instantaneous revulsion, the grim humour of the situation struck me.
With only my knapsack of provisions and my brandy-flask, it was
unlikely, even under the most favourable circumstances, that I should
be able to prolong life for more than a week. At the end of a week,
then, I too should be a corpse. I laughed aloud as I thought of the
last scion of the WILBRAHAMS, the unconquerable ORLANDO, mated in
mid-air to the dusky Ayah, a skeleton to a skeleton, and my sepulchral
"Ha, ha," went reverberating through the dim spaces of night. The
sound roused me once more. Why, after all, should I die? Life was
sweet; much remained to be done; there were wrongs still to be
redressed in the world below; millions of the oppressed still waited
for a deliverer; countless herds of big game still roamed the prairies
or made their lairs in the forests of earth. No, I would live if I
could, and prove once more the unquenchable fortitude of my race.

At this moment I looked down.

    (_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *


_Monday._--Now that the Law lectures at the different Inns have been
"thrown open to the public," _any_ outrage in the way of cringing to
the democracy may be expected. They'll be opening Lincoln's Inn Fields
next to the mob!

_Tuesday._--They _have!_ And a steam merry-go-round set up within
thirty yards of my formerly tranquil Chambers! Oh, why was I ever

_Wednesday._--Dinner in Hall to-day. Found two perfect strangers
dining at my table! Seems that the Benchers have thrown open
dining-hall to the public as well! Asked strangers if they intended
being called to the Bar? One of them replied (with a wink) that _he_
didn't--why should he? He could get all the legal training, use of
library, &c., without going to expense of a call.

_Thursday._--In Court. Unknown Counsel opposed to me. Seem to
recognise his face. _Can_ it be the stranger who dined in Hall last
night? It is. New rule has thrown the Courts open to amateur pleaders!
What _are_ we coming to? Must say stranger pleads uncommonly well. And
Judge _so_ deferential to him!

_Friday._--Wonders never cease. To-day my stranger of yesterday found
seated on Bench! Judge ill--has appointed him as Commissioner in his
place. New rule allows this sort of thing. What is the reason of this
sudden democratising of the Profession?

_Saturday._--Mystery explained. One of the Benchers wants to be made a
L. C. C. Alderman! In his Election Address he even stoops so far as to
give way to the vulgar delusion that Law is expensive, and recommends
a rule that costs should always be "on the lower scale." Perhaps he is
right. Everything on the lowest possible scale at Bar nowadays!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RE-GILDING THE GOLDEN EAGLE. (United States Loan,
February, 1895.)

_John Bull_ (_Painter and Decorator_). "ALWAYS READY TO OBLIGE SO GOOD


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The amount subscribed in England for the United States Loan was
    £120,000,000, or twenty times the sum reserved for London."--_Daily

"Why, I was a thinking, Sir," returned MARK TAPLEY, "that if I was a
painter, and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I
do it?"

"Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose."

"No," said MARK. "That wouldn't do for me, Sir. I should want to draw
it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its
bragging; like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its
vanity; like an Ostrich, for its putting its head in the sand, and
thinking nobody sees it----"

"And like a Ph[oe]nix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its
faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!" said MARTIN.

    _Martin Chuzzlewit._

    BROTHER JONATHAN _loquitur:_--

  He was prejudiced, that _Mark_, a Eur[=o]pian, in the dark,
    Concernin' of our Glorious Institutions.
  _He_ paint our Bird o' Freedom? Lots have tried, but we don't heed 'em;
    And revolvin' years bring curus retributions.
  _We_ don't care a brass farden! DICKENS had to beg our pardon,
    And that MAX O'RELL will eat his words one day, Sir!
  The real Yankee Eagle is as strong-winged as a Sea-gull,
    With a beak as sharp as any Sheffield razor.

  Still, he's been a trifle pippy, and has looked a little chippy--
    By the mighty Mississippi yes, Sir!--lately.
  Kinder moulty as to feathers, as though blizzards and bad weathers
    Of every blamed big sort had tried him greatly.
  Good Jee-rusulum! No wonder! for great snakes and buttered thunder!
    Our blasts have been fair busters for his pinions.
  In the words of Mister _Chollop_, all creation he can wallop,--
    But tornaders _have_ been sweepin' his dominions!

  As to that _Mark Tapley's_ twaddle, why the Peacock ain't the model,
    _Nor_ the Bantam, _nor_ the Ostrich, I'd be pickin'
  For the finest fowl in Natur. Better dub him Alligator,
    A Whangdoodle, or a Cincinnati Chicken!
  Like the Ph[oe]nix he's immortal, and he soars to the Sun's portal,
    But--the Ph[oe]nix has sick spells, like lesser poultry.
  Wants fresh fixing up, I reckon, then the dawn once more he'll beckon,
    And sprint--from Memnon's statue to Fort Moultrie.

  BULL ain't an Eagle builder, but he makes a bully gilder,
    And I reckon, guess, and calc'late I'll jest try him.
  If I git from the old fellow a good coat of British Yellow--
    A sort o' paint J. B. keeps always by him--
  My Bird o' Freedom soaring, where the blizzards are a roaring,
    And the cloud-bursts are out-pouring, will jest flicker
  Real rollicking and regal, like a genu-ine Golden Eagle.--
    _Wal!--you've fixed him real smart, JOHN! Let us liquor!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LION IN THE PATH?


       *       *       *       *       *


Now that hypnotism is in the air, our conversation-books will have to
be remodelled, as thus:--

Good morning, have you hibernated well?

Yes, I have had a most successful trance this winter. Have you laid up
at all?

Only for a few days at Christmas, just to escape the bills. I had a
delightfully unconscious Boxing Day.

Well, you take my advice old man, and rent a private catacomb on the
three-years' system. It comes much cheaper in the end, and you save
all your coal and gas, to say nothing of clothes.

We've started a Nirvana Club in our neighbourhood on the tontine
principle. The last person who wakes gets the prize, unless the first
who comes to makes off with it.

It is capital, anyway, when you are taking a tour. Saves all the
trouble of sight-seeing. You are just packed up and forwarded from
place to place, with an automatic Kodak which records everything you
visited. Try it!

Will, some day. By Jove, I must be off! I've got to attend an
anæsthetic concert, absolutely painless.

And I've got a mesmeric dinner-party on to-night. All the bores will
be put in glass-cases, and fed mechanically.

Good-bye, then. Sleep well!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MEN OF THE HOUR.


This eminent individual, born in the early forties, comes of a
numerous family, and was originally destined by his parents for the
career of a night-watchman. Not feeling, however, any vocation in this
direction, he tried many other professions, and many other professions
tried _him_. At last, in the year 1864, he entered the service of the
Twiddlesex Water Company, where, by strict attention to the quality of
his liquor, and his unfailing perception of the right time to be
sober, he has risen to his present conspicuous and responsible

       *       *       *       *       *


    _Canton des Grisons, Feb. 10._

For the neighbourhood it is a sultry day; glass up to 5° Fahrenheit
and a taint of scirocco, or _föhn_, as the facetious native calls this
wind. My toboggan lies idle by stress of drifting snow. "No chance," I
say, "of doing a record this afternoon!" This is what I say openly and
pompously to my fellows. With my own dear heart I commune otherwise,
saying how heaven should be praised for this one blessed day's recess
from broken scalp.

If I have asked myself once (as is proper with an enigma) I have asked
myself a thousand times, "Why did I come out here, to this resort of
invalids and polar athletes?" My right lung is flawless: my left is
very perfect. On the other hand I do not show well on ice; my legs are
ill-shaped for bandy; curling I find to be but poor sport after
skittles; and I have met one wayfarer only, and that a fool, who did
not laugh upon my figure-skating.

In a climate where one must either do or suffer something to justify
one's existence, there remained this sole thing--to toboggan. I said,
"I will surely toboggan!"

"Good!" they said; "but on an instrument of what sort? 'Swiss' for
women and children; ordinary 'Americas' for men; 'Skeleton Americas'
for heroes."

"I will choose the last," I said; for if I do anything at all I like
to do it passing well, and with the best of tools.

There was no lack of willing teachers to illustrate for me the true
posture--_ventre à terre_, and to show me how I should go armed as to
my Alpine boots with spiked rakes screwed to the forefront of my sole
for the better negotiation of sharp angles on the side of a ravine.

One may add that if a pine-tree, or a telegraph post, or an ascending
hay-sleigh opposes your career, you learn by the simple interposition
of your head to save the delicate machinery of the toboggan from
brutalization. It may be that by inadvertence you have attained an
impetus so terrific that you overtake a walking horse in possession of
the path. Once again your headpiece will protect the instrument from
the fiery choler of the beast's hind hoof. After some two miles of
fortuitous descent, diversified by such checks as I have here shadowed
forth, you will be rounding the final corner at a pointed angle of
45°, travelling perhaps several miles per hour, when a large beer-cart
with an upward tendency will dispute the road. Then the banked snow
shall be your pall, and your _requiescat_ shall be rendered by the
local teamster in German of a bastard order.

Nor is this all. To the beetling edge of the descent you will first
have been conveyed by an impetuous _zwei-spänner_, thoughtlessly gay
with bells and feathers. Twenty-five candidates having urged their
claims for the five seats, some will have need to be content to trail
behind on their toboggans. As one wanting in experience, you will have
the last place assigned to you, or else the last but one, with a
casual riderless machine at the tail-end to give you an unholy spasm
as it swings off the track round the corners. At intervals, while your
pensive mind is absorbed upon the maintenance of a happy equilibrium,
rendered strangely-difficult by the ruthless speed of the sleigh, some
two or perhaps three of the tailing-party will fall off in front. The
sharp contact of several raked boots with your open countenance draws
your attention to the altered condition of things. Over the mangled
bodies of friend and foe you are carried forward. The sleigh is
tardily arrested, and your innocent head becomes the recipient of
fearless abuse.

Or again, from some mountain-hut upon the route issues forth a gross
and even elephantine dog, born of unhallowed union between a wolfhound
and an evilly-bred St. Bernard. Foiled in his attack upon the head of
the caravan he revenges himself upon the outstretched leg of the
hindmost. The lacerated calf will be your own.

This is well enough in open daylight, and when you are swathed in
buskins from heel to hip, and your rakes are good for retaliation. But
in doubtful moonlight with the air at 15° below zero, as you toboggan
back to your hostelry in the valley from a fancy dress ball, where you
have simulated _Hamlet_ in black silk tights and pumps, the humour
lies purely on the side of the dog.

But apart from the lower animal nature, in this barbaric sport you are
never confident of your dearest friends. Thus, we had been a pleasant
and hilarious party at the international _bal masqué:_ the ardour of
the stirrup-cup was still upon us as we attained the brow of the
decline. By a happy inspiration I had proposed that my friend Mr.
STARK MUNRO, being a heavy-weight and disguised as a _Völsunga Saga_,
should proceed in the van to clear any incidental drift or desultory
avalanche. He disappeared headlong down the pine-forest track followed
by the Ace of Clubs, a Sardinian Brigand, and a Tonsured Benedictine.
All the costumes gained in picturesqueness from the Arctic background.

The New Woman of the party, attired as Good Queen BESS, begged me to
precede her, arguing that I should go faster on my Skeleton than she
on her Swiss. I engaged to do so on the understanding that she should
allow me seven minutes' start in case of eventualities, the course
being usually done in some 5-3/4 minutes under happy conditions. She
was to be succeeded by Antigone, the Spirit of the Engadine and the
Mother of the Gracchi.

I do not greatly care to linger over the details of my descent. I had
started gaily humming those Elizabethan lines, "Fain would I climb,
but that I fear to fall,"--out of pure gallantry to Good Queen BESS
who had given me a dainty little cow-bell as a favour at the
_cotillon;_ and I had been travelling cautiously for 8-1/2 minutes,
with my nose, no fewer than six fingers, and all the toes on each foot
frostbitten, and a half-moon piece already gone out of my calf at the
spot where it had attracted the notice of the St. Bernard wolf-hound,
when, even as I was navigating a rotten bridge at a sharp turn, I
heard a rushing sound out of the night behind me, and "_Achtung!_"
(the terrible warning-note of the tobogganer) rang in my stricken ear.

I had barely time to throw a backward glance of horror and
deprecation, when the projecting feet of Good Queen BESS, her toboggan
and her spiked steering-pegs were upon me.

The bridge had never been strong in point of bulwarks; the torrent
which it spans is rapid and fed from icy heights; its banks do not
lend themselves to debarkation.

      * * *

When I recovered consciousness by force of exquisitely painful
restoratives applied by the _Völsunga Saga_, the Mother of the Gracchi
and Good Queen BESS (herself unscratched, though the plush of her
toboggan was tarnished with my gore). I was solemnly intoning, "World
without end: _Achtung!_" with all the conviction of a cathedral tenor.
I am going home the day after to-morrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUGGESTION.--A certain restaurant not a hundred miles away from the
St. James's Theatre advertises, among other attractions, "_Dîner Salon
Gobelin, 7s. 6d._" But wouldn't it be more appropriate to spell the
last word "Gobbling"?

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["After its recent behaviour, Ecuador cannot be said to have any
    credit worth talking about."--_Times City Article, February 19._]

  Ecuador, contento?
    Ecuador! Ecuador!
  You have all our money spent O,
    Who will lend you more?
    No one here on British shore
    Will lend you more, Ecuador! Ecuador!

       *       *       *       *       *

NEWS_.--"Mr. BARLOW approved the action of the Government in exempting
coarser yarns from duties." This is not exactly what might have been
expected from Mr. BARLOW, but no doubt Masters SANDFORD and MERTON in
the Strangers' Gallery were mightily delighted at the prospect of
"coarser yarns"--(which is only another name for men's stories after
dinner when the ladies have left the room)--being "exempted from
duties." Really our old friend, the preceptor of SANDFORD and MERTON,
has deteriorated, and _Mr. Punch_ is severely against him on this

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



(_Scraps collected by Richard Medallion._)

SCRAP I.--HORTICULTURE. (_Boot-trees._)

"Ah! old men's boots don't go there, Sir," said the boot-maker to me
one day, rather pointedly, pointing to the toes of the boots I had
brought him for mending. As I danced home, writing another chronicle
with every springing step, the remark filled me with reflection--such
reflection, reader, as your mirror shows you when you gaze in it to
rejoice in your own beauty.

[Illustration: Published at the Bodily Head. All body and precious
little head.]

Have you kept a diary for thirty years? Dear me! And have you kept
your gas bills, your water-rates, your Christmas-cards, your writs,
your circulars of summer sales? I might never have undertaken to write
this biography if I had not chanced one evening--being unoccupied--to
break open a private desk belonging to my friend NARCISSUS, and
tearing open an envelope (sealed, and labelled "_Compromising
Postcards--to be opened before my death_,") came across these old
boot-bills, and been struck by the manner in which there lay revealed
in them the story of the years over which they ran....

      * * *


The first night we went to see GEORGE DONKEYSTIR we heard in the
kitchen a curious voice--suggestive somehow of the vine-leaves in the
hair--singing "_Ours is a Happy, Happy Home!_" In the hall we saw none
but a wee boy of four, standing on his head, balancing a billiard-cue
on his chin.


"All done by kindness!" lisped the little chap. As we made an attempt
to enter the dining-room, what should fall on our heads but a great
wet sponge, backed by a ring of laughter from the hidden prompter, and
GEORGE appeared, shouting "Bo!" followed by the loving wife, who
helped to make the fun possible. What a time we had! From the moment
we arrived (and fell over a string adroitly arranged by the dear
little children across the little hall) to the moment that we had got
into our little apple-pie beds, all was fun, frolic, merriment, and
domestic joy. Just as we were falling asleep, tired out with a happy
evening, we were disturbed by a chorus, as of _waits_, singing outside
our room these beautiful words--

"O! FLO, what a change you know! When he left the village he was shy,
But since he come into a little bit of splosh His golden hair is
hanging down his back!"

This was more of GEORGE'S loving ingenuity. But we wished he had made
it rhyme. His wife had helped him, but she would not take the credit.
"That was GEORGE'S idea," laughed along her lips. I threatened "to
make copy" of him, and now I have done it. Moreover, I shall further
presume on his forbearance by writing no more about him for the


       *       *       *       *       *

ALL THE DIFFERENCE.--In the programme of the Ballad Concerts given in
the _Times_, Mr. BEN DAVIES was advertised to sing SULLIVAN'S "_Come,
Come, Margherita_." Now the title of this song is its refrain, _i.e._,
"Come, MARGHERITA, come!" which is evidently a lover's passionate
invitation, while if it is written as "_Come, Come, Margherita_," it
is clearly only an expostulation of a rather commonplace character
uttered to MARGHERITA, who has been exasperatingly petulant, and who
won't come when asked. For many many years it was the fashion (as it
still is with the veteran tenor) for "MAUD" to be invited to "come
into the garden," just as the fly used to be requested by the spider
to "walk into his parlour." Now it is MARGHERITA who is having her
turn (in the garden) with BEN DAVIES.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *



    _The new Progressive Dick Whittington, would-be Lord Mayor of
    London, sitteth on Saturday, March 2, 1895, and meditateth on the
    probable meaning of the L. C. C. Election Bells:_--

      Hear the loud Election bells--
              Noisy bells!
  What a world of wonderment their clatter-clash compels!
      How they jangle, jangle, jangle,
        On the air of coming night!
      Like committee-men a-wrangle,
      And my thoughts are in a tangle
        Of mixed doldrums and delight.
      How they chime, chime, chime!
      In my head there runs a rhyme,
  And I wish I were but certain what their shindying foretells,
  What a future I may gather from the voices of the bells--
      The jangling and the wrangling of the bells!

      Now they sound like wedding bells,
              Golden bells!
  Meaning mischief in their music to the Moderates and the swells!
      Their vibrations there's a vox in
      Which to me sounds like a tocsin.
      From their molten golden notes,
              All in tune,
      What a pleasant sound there floats
  Like a promise of Progressive Party Votes,
              Blessed boon!
  Oh, from Bow to Sadler's Wells,
  What a gush of Unity voluminously swells.
              How it swells!
              How it dwells
      On the Future! how it tells
      Of the Progress that impels
      To the swinging and the ringing
              Of the bells, bells, bells.
  From the Brixtons, Claphams, Southwarks, Islingtons and Clerkenwells,
      To the rhyming and the chiming of those bells!

      Hear the Rate-Alarum bells--
              Brazen bells!--
  What base tarradiddles their loud turbulency tells!
      In men's startled ears in spite,
      How they scream out their affright!
      Too much horrified to speak
      They can only shriek, shriek,
              Through the fog,
  In a clamorous appealing to the voters to retire
  That much Progressive Party, which--much like the Rates, or fire--
      Climbeth higher, higher, higher,
      With a desperate desire,
      And a bullying endeavour
      Now--now to sit, or never
              In the seat of Gog-Magog!
      Oh, those bells, bells, bells,
      What a tale their terror tells
              Of despair!
      What reactionary roar!
      What a horror they outpour
  On the bosom of the City and Mayfair.
      Yet the ear it fully knows
              By their twanging
              And their clanging
      How the voting ebbs and flows.
      Yet the ear distinctly tells
              In the jangling and the wrangling
      How Monopoly sinks or swells
  By the sinking or the swelling in the clangour of those bells--
              Beastly bells!--
  There is Landlordism, Ground-rents, Dirty
          Slums, and Drinking Hells
      In the clamour of those horrid Moderate bells!

      Hear the rolling of the bells,--
              Polling bells!
  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels.
      So DICK WHITTINGTON--poor wight!--
      Heard them ringing, with delight
  At the fair prophetic promise of their tone!
      For every sound that floats
      May _I_ too hope my votes
              Will have grown?
      And the People--ah, the People!--
      Is their verdict, from each steeple,
              All mine own?
      Does that tolling, tolling, tolling,
        Mean "Return again my DICK!"
      Or do they as they're rolling
        Mean "turn out" or "cut your stick!"?
  Shall _I_ be "Lord Mayor of London"?
  Or are we Progressives _un_done
              At the Polls?
  Pussy, _what_ is it that tolls
  From each belfry, as it rolls,
      A pæan from the bells
      To the Party of the Swells?
      Or a message from the bells
      That Reaction howls and yells?
      Does that tintinnabulation
      Mean false JOE'S "Tenification"
      Or our own "Unification"?
      Sounds dear "Betterment" this time
      In the rolling Runic rhyme
              Of the bells?
  Does their throbbing mean that jobbing,
  And the London Landlord's robbing,
      Find their finish in these bells?
  That Monopoly is sobbing
      To the sobbing of those bells?
      That their knells, knells, knells,
        Ring out in Runic rhyme?
      Does the rolling of those bells
        Mean that _I_ turn out this time?
      Can they possibly mean _that_,
      Faithful, purring, Pussy-Cat,
      After all your sweet mol-rowing?
      Sounds the verdict "DICK is going"
  In the tolling of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
  In the moaning and the groaning of the bells?



       *       *       *       *       *


Mrs. BONNER has done well to write a record of the life and work of
her father, CHARLES BRADLAUGH, which FISHER UNWIN publishes in two
volumes. If it had been one 'twould have been better. Mrs. BONNER has
been assisted in her labours by Mr. J. M. ROBERTSON, who deals with
Mr. BRADLAUGH'S political doctrine and work, and describes in detail
his parliamentary struggle. The consequence is that the record runs
into two closely-printed volumes, a proportion that somewhat
overweights the interest of the subject. Mrs. BONNER is, naturally,
indignant at the treatment her father received in the early days of
his parliamentary life and in other public relations. But Mr.
BRADLAUGH was a fighting man. He gave hard knocks and, to do him
justice, did not unduly complain when knocks were dealt back to him.
It is a pathetic story how the crowning triumph of his life came in
the hour of his death. He never knew that the House of Commons had
unanimously agreed to the motion which expunged from its journals the
resolution excluding the junior member for Northampton from its
membership. That confession, my Baronite says, was the completest
justification of the action on Mr. BRADLAUGH's part that enlivened the
Parliament of 1880-5 and was the immediate cause of the birth of the
Fourth Party.

Mr. JOHN DAVIDSON'S _Earl Lavender_ is "pernicious nonsense," and the
Aubrey Beardsley frontispiece--if, considering its subject, it can,
with absolute correctness, be described _as_ a
"_front_ispiece,"--might, a few years ago, have endangered its
existence. But "I suppose," quoth the Baron, "I am becoming
old-fashioned, and 'we have changed all that now.' But in view of this
extraordinary illustration, is it a book that can be left out
'promiscuously-like' on the drawing-room table? I trow not," quoth the
Baron. "And as to _The Great God Pan_ ('Key-note' series),
well--infernally or diabolically clever it may be, but should I be
informed," quoth the Baron, "that we should never look upon its like
again, I, for one should not grieve."

Another Keynoteworthy book, _i.e._, one quite worthy to belong to such
of the Key-note series as the Baron has read, is _The Dancing Faun_.
Had a novel appeared some years ago in the palmy, but not less leggy,
days of the drama at the Gaiety, entitled _The Dancing Vaughan_, when
the elegant KATE of that ilk was the light and leading _danseuse_,
what a vogue such a volume would have had among the patrons of the
above-mentioned Temple of Burlesque-Extravaganza. "_Où sont les neiges
d'antan?_" and "Where is dat barty now?"

    B. DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DOUBLE APPLICABILITY.--"Intrigues which render stable government
impossible," though a phrase applied by the _Times_ to Egyptian
affairs, would, it is clear, be applicable to attempts to get at the
jockey, or the stable assistants, guarding the loose box of the Derby

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Professional Model._ "IT'S COMIN' TO SOMEFING. BURNEY

[_Note._--Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES, who designed the costumes for the
L-c-m, has made a drawing representing "Labour" for the _D-ly


       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Dreadful Object-Lesson._)

  I've often thought I'd like to write a sonnet,
    I wonder, though, if I can find the way.
    Sometimes you muse upon your mistress--say
  Her eyebrow, then you poetise upon it.
  Maybe instead you celebrate her bonnet,
    A striking symphony in green or grey.
    And when it's done, for many and many a day,
  With eager eye, you ever scan and con it,
  Intent on seeing that it's quite correct,
  And free from all suspicion of defect,
    No inauspicious phrase, no halting line.
      And when the time of scrutiny is past
    Your thought is probably exactly mine--
      Thank heaven! the horrid thing is done at last!

       *       *       *       *       *


The _St. James's Gazette_, in giving the news of the Cabinet Council
meeting last Thursday, said, "Mr. JOHN MORLEY left at 12.30, and Mr.
FOWLER a few minutes later; but a messenger was almost immediately
despatched to call the last-named Minister back, and he returned to
the Council Room, and remained until 12.35, when the Council broke

12.30--Mr. MORLEY leaves.

12.33, _i.e._ "a few minutes later"--Mr. FOWLER leaves.

12.33-1/2--Messenger sent after Mr. FOWLER.

12.34-1/4--Messenger returns with Mr. FOWLER.

12.34-1/4--Discussion with Mr. FOWLER.

12.35--Cabinet Council breaks up.

So you see a good deal may happen in five minutes.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Jones_ (_who has come to stay the night at Little Peddlington Hall,
and finds he's forgotten to bring his white ties_). "I WANT SOME WHITE


       *       *       *       *       *


At the re-opening of the Royal United Service Institution last week by
H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, in new premises at Whitehall, a novel and
ingenious electrical instrument was exhibited. By means of this
addition to the list of communicators a general in the field is able
not only to send an autograph letter to a colleague or subordinate at
a distance, but also to convey in _fac simile_ a drawing of his own
composition. On the occasion to which reference is made, the Prince of
WALES sent a message to his brother. To this despatch the Duke of
CONNAUGHT was obliged to respond that he did not quite understand its
full meaning. According to the reports some slight error was
rectified, and then the machine worked to everyone's satisfaction.
However, the fact remains that the initial attempt to convey
intelligibly a message was not entirely successful. To impress upon
those answerable for the perfect action of the instrument the
importance of their task, we subjoin an imaginary scene of a nearly
impossible situation. We will assume that a commander-in-chief is
conversing with a general in the field some ten miles distant.

_Commander-in-Chief_ (_wiring_). We hear here that a force of
twenty-five thousand infantry are advancing by the Dover road with a
view to turning your left front.

_General in the Field._ Kindly repeat. (_Message repeated._) No, we do
not want any more marmalade, as we have plenty of butter.

_C.-in-C._ I said nothing about marmalade, I was talking of the enemy.
Twenty-five thousand men are advancing on your left front.

_Gen._ I think I now understand what you mean, but we can't get near
Woolwich, because our gas has failed us. However, we will look out for
the twenty-five thousand balloons you say are coming.

_C.-in-C._ I said nothing about balloons. Infantry, I spoke of. They
are approaching by the Dover Road.

_Gen._ Thank you for your offer, but we have plenty of hammocks. We
have just seen this. Can you identify her? I forward sketch.

_C.-in-C._ You have sent me what appears to be a drawing of either a
grand pianoforte or a hippopotamus. Which is it?

_Gen._ It is very difficult to make out your messages. We think we
understand your last. Yes, the mail to India did start without the
elephants. We did not know that any had been ordered.

_C.-in-C._ I said nothing about elephants. What is the meaning of your

_Gen._ Very sorry; can't make out your message. Besides, have no more
time for telegraphing. Twenty-five thousand infantry of the enemy have
just been noticed on the Dover Road, threatening our left front. Why
did you not tell us they were coming?

But of course, as we have already said, when the hour arrives
everything will be in perfect working order. It is to be hoped that
there will be a supplementary signal to be used in cases of extreme
emergency, to decide promptly a line of action where two courses are
open for adoption. It might signify "Toss up."

       *       *       *       *       *

Nursery Rhyme for the New Woman.

(_When Literary._)

  I had a brutal husband, as is our sex's doom,
  I put him in a problem-novel; then I made it boom!
  I bought a little "Log-roller" who twaddled up and down,
  Discovered it, and slavered it, and made it take the town.
  But meaner beauties of my sex declared I wore blue hose,
  And at my Gospel of Revolt cocked each a pretty nose.

       *       *       *       *       *



Once again I salute you, oh actors of the Cambridge A. D. C., and
congratulate you on your rendering of _The Rivals_--no mean task for a
body of amateur actors. Specially do I note the admirably and
grotesquely humorous impersonation of _Mrs. Malaprop_ by Mr. R. A.
AUSTEN LEIGH. Will the elaborate Wildean paradoxes have to a future
generation the freshness and the laughter-provoking qualities of _Mrs.
Malaprop's_ derangements? I doubt it. At Cambridge the other day I saw
a learned Doctor of Letters in convulsions over the Malapropian
sallies. Will a Doctor of Letters towards the end of the next century
be seen to smile over OSCAR'S inversions? Mr. R. BALFOUR made an
excellent _Bob Acres_, broad in his characterisation, self-possessed
and clear. I should have called him, however, a trifle too smart and
modish in dress. Mr. GEIKIE was very effective in the rages of _Sir
Anthony_, and Mr. WATSON played well as _Jack Absolute_. Admirable,
too, was the _Fag_ of Mr. TALBOT. The leading ladies were, as usual,
miracles of curls and divine complexions. Yet did their voices and
their hands bewray them. We were fortunately spared the gloomy
maunderings of _Julia_ and _Faulkland_. "Hearty congratters," as they
say at the sister university.


       *       *       *       *       *

HER PUZZLE.--"I recollect," quoth Mrs. R., "a sort of riddle that used
to puzzle me when I was a child, and I can't say I quite see the
answer now. It is this: 'If DICK'S uncle is TOM'S son, what relation
is DICK to JOHN?'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE RIGHT MAN IN THE WRONG PLACE."--LABBY, M.P., in the Unionist Lobby,
Monday, February 18.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Son of Toil._ "OW YUS, ME AN' MY MISSUS GITS ON

_Philanthropist._ "EVER TELL HER A LIE?"

_Son of Toil._ "TELLS 'ER EVERYTHINK, I TELL YER----!"]

       *       *       *       *       *



(_Fragment found between the St. James's and Haymarket Theatres_).

    AUNT AUGUSTA (_an Aunt_).
    COUSIN CICELY (_a Ward_).
    ALGY (_a Flutterpate_).
    DORIAN (_a Button-hole_).

    TIME--_The other day._ _The_ SCENE _is in a garden, and begins and
    ends with relations_.

_Algy_ (_eating cucumber-sandwiches_). Do you know, Aunt AUGUSTA, I am
afraid I shall not be able to come to your dinner to-night, after all.
My friend BUNBURY has had a relapse, and my place is by his side.

_Aunt Augusta_ (_drinking tea_). Really, ALGY! It will put my table
out dreadfully. And who will arrange my music?

_Dorian._ _I_ will arrange your music, Aunt AUGUSTA. I know all about
music. I have an extraordinary collection of musical instruments. I
give curious concerts every Wednesday in a long latticed room, where
wild gipsies tear mad music from little zithers, and I have brown
Algerians who beat monotonously upon copper drums. Besides, I have set
myself to music. And it has not marred me. I am still the same. More
so, if anything.

_Cicely._ Shall you _like_ dining at WILLIS'S with Mr. DORIAN
to-night, Cousin ALGY?

_Algy_ (_evasively_). It's much nicer being here with you, Cousin

_Aunt Augusta._ Sweet child! I see distinct social probabilities in
her profile. Mr. DORIAN has a beautiful nature. And it is _such_ a
blessing to think that he was not brought up in a handbag, like so
many young men of the present day.

_Algy._ It is such a blessing, Aunt AUGUSTA, that a woman always grows
exactly like her aunt. It is such a curse that a man never grows
exactly like his uncle. It is the greatest tragedy of modern life.

_Dorian._ To be really modern one should have no soul. To be really
mediæval one should have no cigarettes. To be really Greek----

    [_The_ Duke of BERWICK _rises in a marked manner, and leaves the

_Cicely_ (_writes in her diary, and then reads aloud dreamily_). "The
Duke of BERWICK rose in a marked manner, and left the garden. The
weather continues charming." ...

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, February 18._--Debate on Address finished,
at last. Been on the whole dreary business. Instead of sharp roar of
honest artillery from Opposition camp at opening of campaign, series
of squibs popped off; some of them damp. Novel idea at commencement of
new Session for Opposition chiefs to lurk in the wood armed with
blunderbusses, watching efforts of lesser villains to waylay and
murder Ministers, they coming on scene when these efforts been
repulsed. Novel, but on whole not so successful that we are likely to
see repetition.

Odd thing is that in series of divisions Government had nearest squeak
on motion for the Closure. S. WOODS had amendment on paper; wanted to
have debate adjourned so that another day might be appropriated for
his use; SQUIRE OF MALWOOD thought really been enough talk round
Address. Moved closure. WOODS and two or three other good Radicals go
into Lobby against Ministers; others abstain; Opposition seeing
opportunity flock into Lobby; Ministry saved by eight votes.

"Yes," said the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD as we walked home together, after
last division, "it is not exactly encouraging. But what distresses me
most is the way some of our fellows talk about ROSEBERY. Used to be
old constitutional maxim that the King can do no wrong. Modern reading
on our side is that PREMIER can do no right. Speeches like DILKE'S
to-night hurt me more than anything else." This conversation followed
close on one I had earlier in day with the noble lord.

"How's the Squire looking?" he asked, anxiously. "Bearing up I trust,
against the fatigues of a thankless task. What a few of our men say
about me not the slightest consequence. Passes over me like fluttering
of idle wind. Know all about it. Could, an' I would, describe
animating motive in each case. What cuts me to the heart is their
treatment of the SQUIRE. He manages admirably. Spares no labour; makes
no mistake. Yet whenever some men returned to support us are not
permitted to take in own hands direction of public business, they go
over to the enemy. Great blessing the SQUIRE is endowed by nature with
angelic temper. Otherwise, when this sort of thing happens, he would
chuck up the whole business, and tell malcontents and deserters to
manage matters for themselves."

So nice to have this state of things existing. Sufferers in common
affliction, each thinks only of the other.

_Business done._--Address agreed to after ten days talk.

_Tuesday Night._--Every prospect of quiet evening, even talk of count
out. After spending our nights and days with Address during last
fortnight, small wonder if the hearts of Members, untravelled, fondly
turn to home. Diversion created by appearance on scene of HOWARD
VINCENT. Got up in extraordinary fashion. Round his waist a belt, in
which slung miscellaneous assortment of brushes and other articles of
domestic use. Pendent were hair brushes, hat brushes, tooth brushes,
boot brushes (with case in solid leather), whisk brooms, carpet
sweepers, wall brushes, chimney-sweeping machine (with whalebone head
and chimney cloth), deck scrubbers, one venetian blind-duster, feather
brushes (eight feet long with jointed handles), floor polishers,
hearth brushes (white hair and black), lamp brushes, aid one hair
waver patent for producing in a few minutes, without the use of heated
irons, a natural wavy appearance in the hair. (FRANK LOCKWOOD much
interested in this.)

Other brushes peeped out from every pocket save those at coat-tails,
which, as being more roomy, were reserved for specimens of filters,
fish-kettles, bread-platters, revolving boot-cleaners, specimens of
boxes in which eggs may be safely sent through the parcel-post, and a
lemon-squash stand (oak and nickel mounts complete, with four
tumblers, corkscrew, lemon-knife, and glass sugar basin).

[Illustration: Colonel Howard Vincent bristles with indignation, and
has a brush with the enemy.]

"Been to a bazaar?" I asked; "or are you going to give up military
pursuits, and set up a stall somewhere on your own account?"

"No, TOBY," said the Colonel, severely--"would you just hitch round
the handle of that frying-pan? Thank you; it might get in BARTLEY'S
way whilst I am addressing the House--these few things you see only
partially concealed about my person are the result of the labours of
convicts and felons working in foreign prisons. A Government lost to
all sense of public duty permits their free importation, to the
detriment of honest British workman. You'd better stop and hear me
broil BRYCE."

Colonel walked off with curious clatter, much more effective than the
spurs he wears on field days with the Queen's Westminster Volunteers.
Most interesting lecture, occasionally marred by Colonel, intending at
particular point to produce a blacking-brush, fishing forth from his
miscellaneous store a plated biscuit-box. But the moral all the same.
The articles all made in Germany or elsewhere on Continent. BRYCE glad
to get out of difficulty by offering Committee.

_Business done._--Motion carried for restriction of foreign
prison-made goods.

_Thursday Afternoon._--"Hist!" said Sir HENRY JAMES to JOEY C. "A word
in thine ear. PRINCE ARTHUR away to-night; ground clear; suppose we
occupy it? show PRINCE ARTHUR how we would manage business, and let
the MARKISS see that there are statesmen other than those who hail
from Hatfield and its dependencies. Here's this import duty added on
British yarn entering India. Lancashire members sore about it. Don't
know much on subject myself, but can do simple rule in arithmetic. If
we can detach seven or eight Lancashire Liberals and put on all our
forces, the Government must go. Think how pleasant for PRINCE ARTHUR,
sitting with his feet in hot water and his head out of the window, to
hear the tramp of our messenger along Carlton House Terrace bringing
news that Government is out. If we'd only time we might hire man with
wooden-leg, like the party in _Treasure Island_, wasn't it? Sound of
wooden-leg tramping along silent broadway where PRINCE ARTHUR lives,
and is just now nursing his cold, would be most dramatic. That a mere
detail. Thing is this, Indian cotton business is so much gun-cotton
for Government; I apply torch; up they go--HARCOURT, FOWLER, ASQUITH
(who was so rude to you the other night), and the rest of them. What
do you think?"

JOEY C. is sly, de-vilish sly; said nothing. But he winked.

HENRY JAMES knew that all was well.

[Illustration: Daring Act of attempted Incendiarism; or, "The Light
that failed."]

_Friday_, 12.10 A.M.--Not quite so well as it looked when House met at
three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Ministerialists then in state of
trepidation; Ministers assuming air of resignation. Odds distinctly in
favour of defeat of Government. HENRY FOWLER, formally recognising
situation, had declared they were prepared for the worst. Somehow
things got mixed; explosion took place as arranged; gun-cotton went
off with genial roar; but it was HENRY JAMES blown into the air, and
with him JOEY C. 109 Members mustered under new Opposition Leadership;
304 going with Ministers. Majority, 195.

"Glad I didn't engage the messenger with a wooden leg," said HENRY
JAMES with deepened gloom. "Awful to have a man of that kind going
stamping through a quiet thoroughfare in the dead of the night
carrying news of Government majority of a trifle under 200. Wish
PRINCE ARTHUR would stick to his post and not take colds at such
inconvenient seasons."

_Business done._--HENRY JAMES and JOEY C. go out to shear and come
back shorn.

_Friday_, 8 P.M.--House counted out. Members gone home in state of
hair-bristling perturbation. BRUNNER brought under notice of SPEAKER
circumstances attendant upon mysterious disappearance of JOEY C. last
night. When House cleared for division on JAMES'S motion, JOE seen to
leave and go into Lobby. Thereafter all trace lost of him. Name does
not appear in division list. Witnesses report he was seen endeavouring
to induce SERJEANT-AT-ARMS to unlock door and let him pass through.
SERJEANT incorruptible, inflexible. JOSEPH turned back and straightway
lost to human ken.

"When I was a lad," says WILFRID LAWSON, "I used to be baffled by
inquiry, 'Where was MOSES when the candle went out?' That a plain
proposition compared with this new one, 'Where was JOSEPH when the
division was taken?'" House faced by mystery could not set itself down
to business. Something uncanny about the place. Accordingly got itself
counted out at eight o'clock.

_Business done._--Second reading of London Waterworks Bill carried.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari,  Volume 108, March 2nd 1895" ***

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