The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104,
February 11, 1893, by Various, Edited by Francis Burnand
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893
Author: Various
Editor: Francis Burnand
Release Date: June 12, 2007 [eBook #21818]
Language: English
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
VOL. 104, FEBRUARY 11, 1893***
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 104
FEBRUARY 11, 1893
THE LAST WOMAN.
(_A contemporary Pendant to "The Last Man."_)
[It is stated that the dreaded Crinoline has actually made its
appearance in one or two quarters.]
All modish shapes must melt in gloom,
Great WORTH himself must die,
Before the Sex again assume
EVE'S sweet simplicity!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
Which made me bow my head and weep
As one aghast, accurst!
Was it a spook before me past?
Of women I beheld the last,
As ADAM saw the first.
Regent Street seemed "No Thoroughfare,"
Bond Street looked weird, inhuman;
The spectres of past fashions were
Around that lonely Woman.
Some were the work of native hands,
Some had arrived from foreign lands,
Nondescript jumbles some!
Pall-Mall had now nor sound nor tread,
Park Lane was silent as the dead,
Belgravia was dumb.
Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,
Or whisked her skirts around,
Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,
And strews with leaves the ground.
Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun
Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.
Solitude is _too_ slow!
True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes
(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),
But--now the thing lacks go.
"What though the grumbler Man put forth
His pompous power and skill!
He could not make Woman and WORTH
The vassals of his will;--
Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownéd Queen! To play
To empty box and stall;
To dress--when not another She
Exists to quicken rivalry--
No, it won't pay at all!
"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the works of men!
Nothing they did that's worth recall,
With sword, or spade, or pen.
Their bumptious bunglings bring not back!
Man always _was_ a noisy quack
Who thought himself a god;
But when he fancied he had scored
Prodigiously, the Sex he bored
Subdued him with a nod.
"Now I am weary. No one tries
The fit of new attire!
Doom, that the joys of Dress denies,
Bids Woman's bliss expire.
But shall _La Mode_ know final death?
Forbid it Woman's latest breath!
Death--who is _male_--shan't boast
The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall
Shall not like Darkness cover all--
Till _I_ give up the ghost!
"What would most vex and worry _him_,
Dull, modeless Man, whose spark
Long (beside Woman's) burning dim,
Has now gone down in dark?
Ha! He'd kick up the _greatest_ shine
(If he _could_ kick) at--CRINOLINE.
Were he recalled to breath,
I'll have one last man-mocking spree
By _donning hooped skirts_. Victory!
_This_ takes all sting from Death!
"Go, Sun, while Fashion holds me up,
Swollen skirt and skimpy waist
Shall fill--male--sorrow's bitter cup,
And mortify--male--taste!
Go, tell the spheres that sweep through space,
Thou saw'st the last of EVE'S fair race,
In high ecstatic passion;
The darkening universe defy,
To quench her taste for Toggery,
Or shake her faith in Fashion!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE GOVERNESS WHO, MA' SAID, WOULDN'T DO."]
* * * * *
A PLAINT FROM PARNASSUS.
(_By an "Unrecommended" Resident._)
[Mr. GLADSTONE (replying to Mr. JOHNSTON, of Ballykilbeg) announced
that no recommendation had been submitted to Her MAJESTY upon the
subject of the succession to the office of Poet Laureate, and that
there was no immediate intention of submitting one.]
Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard!
Fancy JOHN BULL without Official Bard!
His plight is sad as that of the great men
Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen,
Before great AGAMEMNON. Ah, my HORACE,
Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race!
As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily,
'Twill serve him right if thine "_illacrimabile_"
Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet?
England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it.
Void of a _Sacer Vates_ to enshrine
In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line,
Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour?
Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor.
When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses,
When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes,
And stand in need of verbal calcitration;
When--let's say ASHMEAD-BARTLETT--saves the nation
In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo;
When BULL gives toko or delivers stingo.
To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages;
When our great guns commit most gallant ravages
Among the huts of some unhappy village,
Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage;
When SOMEONE condescends to be high-born,
Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn,
Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine,
For Fame and--say, about a pound per line?
I must submit. I have not been "submitted,"
But poetless JOHN BULL is to be pitied.
Of course self-praise is no "recommendation,"
(In GLADSTONE'S sense) or else, unhappy nation,
I, even I, could spare you natural worry at,
Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!
* * * * *
IN A PICKWICKIAN SENSE.--When "a nate Irishman" (as the song has it) "meets
with a friend," he incontinently "for love knocks him down," whether with a
"sprig of shillelagh" or a "flower of speech," depends upon circumstances.
In either case he "means no harm," or at any rate far less harm than the
phlegmatic and matter-of-fact Saxon is apt to fancy. Probably, therefore,
an "Irish Phrase Book," giving the real "meaning" of Hibernian rhetorical
epithets, would prove a great peacemaker, in Parliament and out. Colonel
SAUNDERSON, when he had recovered his temper, and with it his wit, "toned
down" the provocative "murderous ruffian," into the inoffensive "excited
politician." But what a pity it is that "excited politicians" so often
string themselves up to (verbal) "ruffianism."
* * * * *
THE LAST LIGHT.
[Illustration]
It scarce can be thou art the last
To fade before my watchful gaze;
So short the part that each one plays,
A flickering flame, and life is past.
And thou wert clothed in robe of snow,
A crimson veil around thy head,
And now thou liest, charred and dead,
Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.
I held thee in a fond embrace
To guard thee from the whistling wind;
And not another can I find
To comfort me and take thy place.
And though I lay aside my weeds,
Yet like a widow I bemoan;
Nor all the wealth the Indies own,
Could satisfy my present needs.
Thy spark has vanished from my sight,
Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe;
Of perfect misery the type,
A man without another light.
* * * * *
EMPLOYMENT FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.--On Tuesday, in last week, the Unemployed
had their hands full, when at Temple Avenue they unsuccessfully attempted
to overcome the effective resistance of the Police. The Unemployed might
have been better employed.
* * * * *
THE STAR OF HOPE.
(_A New Naval Ode._)
[Illustration]
[The Royal Commission on Telegraphic Communication between Lighthouses
and Lightships and the Shore, have issued their first report
recommending immediate action in the more urgent cases. Dealing with
the same subject, on November 28, 1891, _Mr. Punch_ said:--
"_Punch_ pictures with prophetic pen, a brighter, cheerier page,
Which _must be turned_, and speedily."--_See "The Sweet Little
Cherub that Sits up Aloft_," (_Modern Version as it Must Be_) Vol.
ci., p. 254.
_Mr. Punch_ is mightily pleased that his injunction has been obeyed,
and that his prophecy is in process of fulfilment.]
I.
Ye Mariners of England,
Shipwrecked in our home seas,
How this will calm your wives' wild fears,
And give your stout hearts ease!
Hope's blue eyes gleam above the main,
Her lifted light will glow,
And sweep o'er the deep,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the tempest rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
II.
The spirit comfort gathers,
From schemes designed to save
Brave fellows, who have dared the deep,
Near home to find a grave.
See how o'er rock and quicksand fell,
The Electric ray doth glow,
And sweep o'er the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the tempest rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!
III.
BRITANNIA needs as bulwarks
Light-towers along the steep,
To save her gallant sons from graves
Near home, though on the deep.
With levin as from Jovian hand
She'll light the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the tempest rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
IV.
The Mariners of England
Glad eyes shall shoreward turn
In danger's night. Behold, brave hearts,
Where the Star of Hope doth burn!
Science, tired by Humanity,
Their grateful song shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the storm is o'er, and they're safe ashore,
Thanks to Hope's beacon-glow!
* * * * *
_Q._ Are there any Lighthouses away from the Coast?--_A._ Certainly. _Q._
Where?--_A._ In London. _Q._ Name them.--_A._ The Comedy, Toole's, the
Opéra Comique, and Strand. All Light-and-leading Houses.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SNUB.
"FIFTY GUINEAS FOR A BOA AND A MUFF! THAT'S RATHER DEAR, ISN'T IT?"
"WE DON'T KEEP CATSKIN, MADAM!"]
* * * * *
A METROPOLITAN MAYOR'S NEST.
["The Common Council is stated to have appointed a 'Fighting
Committee' to oppose the Unification of London, and to take steps for
the formation of separate Municipalities in different parts of the
Metropolis."--_Daily Paper._]
_Lord Mayor's Day._--Ah, if only we had not got Parliament to sanction the
plan of splitting London up into distinct Municipalities, what a proud day
this would be for me! As it is, must try and remember that I am _not_ LORD
MAYOR of London at all, but only Mayor of the new Corporate Borough of
Cripplegate Without, one of the half-dozen boroughs into which the old City
has been divided.
_The Show._--Well, thank goodness, we do keep _that_ up! All the 674 Mayors
of all the different districts of London take part in it. That reminds me
that I must put on my Civic robes, edged with imitation ermine, and my
aluminium chain of office, and prepare to start. A little hitch to begin
with. Mayors all assembled outside Guildhall. Mayor of South-South-West
Hammersmith tries to join us. Nobody seems to know him. Very suspicious,
especially as, on referring to official records, we find that there is no
such borough as South-South-West Hammersmith! We tell him so. He replies,
sulkily, that it was created last night by a Special Vote of the South-West
Hammersmith Town Council, who found the work getting too much for them, and
that, anyhow, "he intends to take part in the procession." Awkward--but we
have to yield.
_In the Streets._--The 675 Mayors don't inspire as much respect as I should
like. Perhaps it is due to the fact that a regular scramble took place for
seats in the old LORD MAYOR'S Coach, in the course of which the Mayor of
Tottenham Court Road was badly pommeled by the Mayor of Battersea Rise, and
the coach itself had one side knocked out of it. Also that we other Mayors
have to follow on foot, and are repeatedly asked if we are a procession of
the Unemployed!
_At the Law Courts._--In the good old days Lord Chief Justice used to
deliver a flowery harangue congratulating the Chief Magistrate on his
elevation. But who _is_ the Chief Magistrate now? To-day a free fight among
the Mayors to get first into the Court. In consequence, Chief Justice
angrily orders Court to be cleared, and threatens to commit us for
contempt! Yet surely in former days a Judge would have been imprisoned in
the deepest dungeons of the Mansion House for much less.
_Evening._--The hospitable custom of the Ministerial banquet still
retained. Prime Minister adopts tactics of the Music Hall "Lion Comique,"
and, after addressing a few genial words to the guests assembled at the
table of the Mayor of West Ham, jumps into brougham, and appears a few
minutes later at Mayor of Shadwell's banquet, and so on to Poplar and
Whitechapel, and as many as he can crowd in. Other Ministers do the same.
Still, not enough Cabinet Councillors to go round, and to-night I am
horrified to find that the assistant Under-Secretary to the deputy Labour
Commissioner had been chosen to reply to the toast of the health of the
Ministry at _my_ banquet! Ichabod, indeed! [By the way, what a good name
for a new Lord Mayor, "Ichabod," say, if knighted, "Sir THOMAS ICHABOD."
Air to be played by band on his entering Guildhall, "Ichabody meet a body."
But alas! these are dreams! Ichabod!] Yet, as the only building in which
the Mayor of Cripplegate Without can entertain his guest is the fourth
floor of an unused warehouse, perhaps we really don't deserve a higher
official. Still, one can't help regretting that the City, in its natural
dread of the so-called "Unification of London," persuaded the Government to
agree to this sort of "Punification of London."
* * * * *
TOAST FOR THE NEXT "QUEENSLAND MEAT" BANQUET.--"The Army, the Gravy, and
the Preserved Forces!"
* * * * *
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A STORY IN SCENES.
SCENE V.--_The Dining-room; walls distempered chocolate; gaselier with
opal-tinted globes; two cast-iron Cavaliers holding gas-lamps on the
mantel-piece. Oil-portrait, enlarged from photograph, of_ Mrs.
TIDMARSH, _over side-board; on other walls, engravings--"Belshazzar's
Feast," "The Wall of Wailing at Jerusalem," and_ DORÉ'S _"Christian
Martyrs." The guests have just sat down_; Lord STRATHSPORRAN _is
placed between_ Miss SEATON _and his hostess, and opposite_ Mr.
GILWATTLE.
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself_). Deuced quaint-looking people--wish they
wouldn't all eat their soup at me! Why can't somebody say something? Wonder
who's the Lady in black, all over big silver tears--like a foreign funeral.
Don't feel equal to talking to MARJORY again till I've had some Sherry.
(_After sipping it._) Wormwood, by Jove! Champagne will probably be
syrup--touch old GILWATTLE up if he isn't careful--ah, _he_ jibs at the
Sherry!
_Uncle Gab._ Where the dickens did MONTY get this stuff, MARIA? Most
'strordinary bitter taste!
_Mrs. Tid._ (_to herself, in an agony_). I _knew_ that bottle of GWENNIE'S
Quinine Wine had got down into the cellar _somehow_! (_Aloud._) Don't drink
it, Uncle, please, if it isn't _quite_ what you like!
_Uncle Gab._ I'll take his Lordship's opinion. What do _you_ think of this
Sherry, my Lord? Don't you find it rather--eh?
_Lord Strath._ (_observing his hostess frown at him imperiously_). Oh,
excellent, Sir--very--er--mellow and agreeable!
_Uncle Gab._ Ha--yes--now your Lordship mentions it, there's a sort of
nuttiness about it.
[_He empties his glass._
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself_). There is--a _rotten_-nuttiness! I'm hanged
if he hasn't bolted it! Wonderful old Johnny!
_Mrs. Tid._ (_to him, in an under-tone_). You said _quite_ the right thing!
_Lord Strath._ (_ambiguously_). Oh, not at all!
[_Turbot and lobster-sauce are taken round, and conversation becomes
general._
_Conversational Scraps._ Assure you if I touch the smallest particle of
lobster it instantly flies to my.... Yes, _alive_. A dear friend of mine
positively had to leave her lodgings at the seaside--she was so disturbed
by the screams of the lobsters being boiled in the back-kitchen.... I was
reading only the other day that oysters' hearts continue to beat down to
the very moment they are being assimilated.... _What_ they must suffer,
poor dears! Couldn't there be a law that they should only be eaten under
chloroform, or something?... I _never_ get tired of turbot--cod, now, I
_don't_ care for, and salmon I _like_--but I can't digest--_why_, is more
than I can tell you.--(&c.)
[Illustration: "Don't make a fuss--you can take _one_ glass, as he wishes
it."]
_Miss Seaton._ (_to herself._) To see DOUGLAS here a--a _paid
parasite_--and actually seeming to _enjoy_ his food--it's like some
dreadful nightmare--I _can't_ believe it! But I'm glad he hasn't the face
to speak to me!
_Lord Strath._ (_to_ SEAKALE _offering Hock._) If you please. (_To himself,
after tasting._) Why, it's quite decent! I begin to feel up to having this
out with MARJORY. (_Aloud._) Miss SEATON, isn't it rather ridiculous for
two such old friends as we are to sit through dinner in deadly silence?
Can't you bring yourself to talk to me? we shan't be overheard. You might
tell me _why_ you think me such a ruffian--it would start us, at any rate!
_Miss Seaton._ I don't _want_ to be started--and if you really don't know
why I hate your coming here in this way, Lord STRATHSPORRAN, it's useless
to explain!
_Lord Strath._ Oh, we got as far as that upstairs, didn't we? And I may be
very dense, but for the life of me I can't see yet why I shouldn't have
come! Of course, I didn't know I was in for _this_ exactly, but, to tell
you the truth, I'm by way of being here on business, and I didn't care much
whether they were cheery or not, so long as I got what I _came_ for, don't
you know!
_Miss Seaton._ Of course, that is the main thing in your eyes--but I didn't
think you would confess it!
_Lord Strath._ Why, you know how keen I used to be about my Egyptian
work--you remember the book on Hieroglyphs I always meant to write? I'm
getting on with it, though of course my time's a good deal taken up just
now. And, whether I get anything out of these people or not, I've met _you_
again, MARJORY--I don't mind anything else!
_Miss Seaton._ Don't remind me of--of what you used to be, and--and you are
not to call me MARJORY any more. We have met--and I only hope and pray we
may never meet again. Please don't talk any more!
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) That's a facer! I wonder if MARJORY'S
quite--is this the effect of that infernal influenza?
_Mrs. Tid._ (_to him in an under-tone_). You and Miss SEATON appear to be
on very familiar terms. I really feel it my duty to ask you when and how
you made the acquaintance of my daughter's governess.
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself_). The governess! That explains a lot. Poor
little MARJORY! (_Aloud._) Really? I congratulate you. I had the honour of
knowing Miss SEATON in Scotland a year or two ago, and this is the first
time we have met since.
_Mrs. Tid._ Indeed? That is _so far_ satisfactory. I hope you will
understand that, so long as Miss SEATON is in my employment, I cannot allow
her to--er--continue your acquaintanceship--it is not as if you were in a
position----
_Lord Strath._ (_with suppressed wrath._) Forgive me--but, as Miss SEATON
shows no desire whatever to renew my acquaintance, I don't see that we need
discuss my position, or hers either. And I must decline to do so.
_Mrs. Tid._ (_crimsoning._) Oh, very _well_. I am not accustomed to be told
what subjects I am to discuss at my own table, but (_scathingly_) no doubt
your _position here_ gives you the right to be independent--ahoo!
_Lord Strath._ I venture to think so. (_To himself._) Can't make this woman
out--is she trying to be rude, or what?
_Uncle Gab._ Hullo, your Lordship's got no Champagne! How's that? It's all
_right_--"FIZZLER, '84," my Lord!
_Lord Strath._ I daresay--but the fact is, I am strictly forbidden to touch
it.
_Uncle Gab._ Pooh!--if your Lordship will excuse the remark--_this_ won't
do you any harm--comes out of my own cellar, so I _ought_ to know. (_To_
SEAKALE.) Here, you, fill his Lordship's glass, d'ye hear?
_Mrs. Tid._ (_in a rapid whisper._) Don't make a fuss--you can take _one_
glass as he wishes it!
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) Can I though? If she imagines I'm going to
poison myself to please her uncle! (SEAKALE _gives him half a glass, after
receiving a signal from_ Mrs. T.) I suppose I must just----(_After
tasting._) Why it's _dry_! Then why the deuce was I cautioned not to----?
_Uncle Gab._ That's a fine wine, isn't it, my Lord? Not much of _that_ in
the market nowadays, I can tell you!
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) Precious little _here_. (_Aloud._) So I
should imagine, Sir.
_Uncle Gab._ Your Lordship mustn't pass this _entrée_. My niece's cook
knows her business, I will say that for her.
_Lord Strath._ (_as he helps himself._) I have already discovered that she
is an artist.
_Mrs. Tid._ (_in displeased surprise._) Then you know my cook _too_? An
_artist_? and she seems such a _respectable_ person! Pray what sort of
pictures does she paint?
_Lord Strath._ Pictures? Oh, really I don't know--potboilers probably.
[Mrs. TID. _glares at him suspiciously_.
_Conversational Scraps._ And when I got into the hall and saw them all
sitting in a row with their faces blacked, I said "I'm sure _they_ can't be
the Young Men's Christian Association!"... Hysteria? my poor dear wife is a
dreadful sufferer from it--I've known her unable to sleep at all except
with one foot curled round her neck!... (&c. &c.)
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) There's no doubt about it--this woman _is_
trying to snub me--hardly brings herself to talk at all--and _then_ she's
beastly rude! What did she ask me here _for_ if she can't be civil! If she
wasn't my hostess--I'll try her once more, she may know something about
antiquities--(_Aloud._) I suppose Mr. CARTOUCHE keeps his collection in a
separate room? I was told he has some hunting scarabs of the Amenhoteps
that I am very curious to see.
_Mrs. Tid._ (_stiffly_). Mr. CARTOUCHE may keep all sorts of disagreeable
pets, for anything _I_ know to the contrary.
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself, in amazement_). Pets! I'm hanged if I let
myself be snubbed like this! (_Aloud._) I'm afraid you have very little
sympathy with his tastes?
_Mrs. Tid._ Sympathy, indeed! I don't even know if he _has_ any tastes. I
am not in the habit of troubling myself about my next-door neighbour's
affairs.
_Lord Strath._ (_with a gasp_). Your next-door----! (_He pulls himself
together._) To be sure--of course not--stupid of me to ask! (_To himself._)
Good Heavens!--these _aren't_ the CARTOUCHES! I'm _at the wrong
dinner-party_--and this awful woman thinks I've done it on purpose! No
wonder she's so confoundedly uncivil!... And MARJORY knows it, too, and
won't speak to me! Perhaps they _all_ know it.... What on earth am I to
do?... I feel such a fool!
_Miss Seaton_ (_to herself_). How perfectly _ghastly_ DOUGLAS is looking!
Didn't he _really_ know the CARTOUCHES lived next door?... Then--_oh_, what
an idiot I've been! It's a mistake--he _doesn't_ come from BLANKLEY'S at
all! I _must_ speak to him--I must tell him how----no, I _can't_--I forgot
how horrid I've been to him! I should have to tell him I believed
_that_--and I'd rather die! No, it's too late--it's too late now!
[Miss SEATON _and_ Lord STRATHSPORRAN _sit regarding the tablecloth
with downcast eyes, and expressions of the deepest gloom and
confusion_.
(_End of Scene V._)
* * * * *
Rhyme by a Rad.
[The question where the Liberal-Unionists shall sit has excited some
discussion.]
They have stolen the old Tory togs bit by bit,
And we wish they would openly don them.
However, it matters not much _where_ they sit,
For wherever it be we'll sit _on_ them!
* * * * *
"RAILWAY RATES."--Whatever question there may be on this subject, there can
be none whatever as to the rates at which "The Bournemouth Express," "The
Granville L. C. & D.," and "The Flying Dutchman," severally travel. Such
rates are first rate.
* * * * *
CON. FOR THE CONSOLATION OF THE MANY SUFFERERS FROM A CURRENT
CATCH-WORD.--_Q._ What is the only thing that is _really_
"up-to-date"?--_A._ A palm-tree.
* * * * *
MEM. FOR MR. VIVIAN AND THE ROYALISTS.--The Last of the STUARTS,--STUART
_KNILL_. There can be none after _Nil_.
* * * * *
DRAMATIC WITHOUT BEING STAGEY.
[Illustration]
The plan, successfully inaugurated, and, within the last fortnight, still
more successfully carried out by Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS BALMASCUS
PANTOMIMICUS, of giving what may be called "unstagey representations" of
popular Operas--that is, popular Operas sung and acted without the aid of
scenes or properties (though "substitutes" may be permitted, as, for
example, a chair with four legs complete would represent a horse, and a
round table a tower); the singers, however, being in costume, may work an
extensive "Transformation" Scene (which is quite in Sir DRURIO'S line) in
the Dramatic and Operatic world, and may effect such a change as will save
thousands to a Manager. Why not go a step further? Why have "costumes," or
even "hand-properties"? Why not leave everything, except the perfection of
the singing and the dramatic action, to the imagination of the audience?
The prices of admission would be proportionately lowered, and the numbers
admitted, in all probability, would be trebled, on which hypothesis a
calculation may be based. What an exercise it would be for the imagination
of the audience, were the Statue Scene from _Don Giovanni_ to be given with
the Basso Profondo in evening dress, who represents the Stony Commendatore,
seated astride a plank resting on tressels placed on a table which would
have been substituted for the stone pedestal, while the Don or _Leporello_
(it doesn't much matter which) sings his asides to the audience! Here is
novelty, and a great attraction! It is returning to Elizabethan days, when
Managers called a spade a spade, and then so labelled it to prevent
mistakes.
* * * * *
SONG FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT" (_for the Member for East Galway, arranged by
Colonel Saunderson, M.P._).--"What shall he have who shot the Deer?"
* * * * *
A BANK NOTE.--The most likely time for obtaining payment "in hard cash," is
when the Money Market "hardens a little," as was the case, so _The Times_
Money Article informed us, last Friday.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN EARLY PURITAN.
_Bobby_ (_who sees his Mamma in Evening Dress for the first time, and
doesn't like it_). "I'LL WRITE AND TELL PAPA!"]
* * * * *
"A STIFF JOB."
_Grand Old Ploughman sings_:--
Speed the Plough! Ah, that's all mighty fine,
And I like the old saying's suggestion;
But--wi' a small crock such as mine,
The _speed_ may be matter o' question.
I've set my hand to 'un, o' course,
And munna look back, there's no doubt o' it:
Yet I wish I'd a handier horse
For the job, or that _I_ were well out o' it!
Stiff clay on a slaantin' hill-side,
Would tax a strong team. Steady, steady!
The little 'un goes a bit wide,
And seems to be shirkin' already.
To keep a straight furrow this go
Will strain the old ploughman's slack muscle;
And yet my new measters, I know,
Will expect I to keep on the bustle.
Stiff job for a little 'un? Yes!
If he doesn't pull straight there'll be bother,
Must make the best of 'un I guess,
This time, for I sha'an't get no other.
Gee up! I shall have a good try,
On that they may bet their last dollar.
It's do, poor old crook, now, or die!
But--I _must_ keep 'un oop to the collar!
* * * * *
"This room is very close!" said Mrs. R., settling herself down to her
knitting, which her nephew had furtively unravelled. "Open the window, TOM,
and let out the asphyxia."
* * * * *
LINES ON THE AUTHOR OF THE
LABOUR BUREAU.
(_By a Labourer._)
'Ooray for Mister MUNDELLA,
(Who's under Old GLADDY'S umbrella.)
For he's a jolly good fella,
And so say all of _hus_!
With a 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray!
We hope the Bureau may pay.
Of course it might well have been better,
But then--it might have been _wus_!
* * * * *
EMPHASIS GRATIÂ.--What a difference a slight emphasis makes in an ordinary
sentence! The _D. T._ when giving, in advance, an account of a marriage to
be solemnised the same afternoon, spoke thus concerning the costumes of the
very youthful bridesmaids. "They will wear dresses of very pale blue silk,
made up with ivory-hued lace." Now, had the second word been in italics, it
would have read thus, "They _will_ wear," &c., as if everything had been
done to prevent them from so arraying themselves, "but, in spite of all
efforts, they _will_ wear dresses of very pale blue!" So obstinate of them!
Such nice little ladies, too!
* * * * *
"The Liberal-Unionists have resolved to abstain from pairing during the
present Session." So _The Times_. "Birds in their little nests agree,"
quoth the eminent Dr. WATTS; but these Parliamentary Birds will belie their
name of "Unionists" if they refuse to "pair."
* * * * *
TELEGRAM FROM HAWAIANS TO AMERICAN PRESIDENT.--"WE would be U.S."
* * * * *
THE ANTI----?
Your aid let me ask in a difficult task, _Mr. Punch_, with the greatest
submission;
To win for my name a well-merited fame was always my ardent ambition,
And clearly to-day the least difficult way is to send an appeal to the
papers,
To form an intrigue for creating a league against fashion-designers and
drapers.
Thereby shall I reap an advertisement cheap, and writers, with much
perseverance,
Will furnish as news their apocryphal views on my appetite, age, and
appearance;
They all will revere my conviction sincere, and loudly re-echo my
praises,
But the thing which, as yet, I'm unable to get, is a novel departure in
crazes
The idea shall we float that a swallow-tail coat is only adapted for
Vandals?
Write pamphlets, designed to enlighten mankind on the duty of taking to
sandals?
Would a hatred of hats, or crusade on cravats, secure us a sympathy
louder?
Or shall we assert it is time to revert to patches, knee-breeches, and
powder?
Meanwhile, your applause we invite for our Cause--you notice the capital
letter--
Subscriptions and fees you may send when you please to the writer, the
sooner the better.
But as to the theme of this notable scheme, I wait for a timely
suggestion;
Its worth's beyond doubt, but what it's about remains, for the present, a
question!
* * * * *
The Bishop of CHESTER trembles. He is marked with the brand of "CAINE"!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A STIFF JOB."
W. E. G. (_to himself_). "SHALL HAVE TO KEEP HIM _UP TO THE COLLAR_!"
(_Aloud._) "GEE UP!!"]
* * * * *
CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.
HOSTS.
"Dear Punch," writes a valued Correspondent, "I wish you'd tip me the wink
how I'm to talk to my hosts. I'm a poor man, but not a poor shot. So I get
asked about a good deal to different places, and as I'm not the sort that
turns on the talking-tap very easily, I often get stuck up. Just as I've
got fairly into the swim with one of them I leave him, and have to think of
talk for quite a different kind of chap, and so on all through the season.
For instance, last December I did three shoots in as many weeks. The first
was with old CALLABY, the rich manufacturer, who's turned sportsman late in
life. I thought he'd like a talk about bimetallism, so I sweated it up a
bit, and started off with a burst as soon as I got a look in. All no go.
Nothing would please him but to talk of birds, and rabbits, and hares, and
farming, and crops, and who was going to be High Sheriff, and all that. So
I got a little left at the first go off.
[Illustration]
"Next week I shot with BLOSSOM, another new friend, who's come into money
lately, after knocking about all over America the greater part of his life.
I tried him with the Chicago Exposition, and ranching as a business for
younger sons; did it delicately, of course, and with any amount of
deference, but he only looked at me blankly, and began talking about the
Bank-rate. After that, I settled with myself I wouldn't talk to any more of
them about things that they might be expected to feel an interest in.
"In the following week I was due at WHICHELLO'S. He's been a perfect
lunatic all his life for music. He got up an orchestra in his nursery,
which came to smash because his younger brother filled all the wind
instruments with soap-suds. Later on he was always scraping, or blowing, or
thumping, scooting about from one concert to another, making expeditions to
the shrine of WAGNER as he called it, composing songs, and symphonies, and
operas, and Heaven only knows what besides. He came into the old place in
Essex when his brother died, about a year ago, and this was his first
pheasant-shoot. I thought to myself, 'If you're anything like these other
Johnnies, it's no good pulling out the music-stop with you.' On the first
morning he seemed a shade anxious at breakfast, and said he was going to
try a new plan of beating his coverts, which it had given him a lot of
trouble to arrange as he wanted. Off we went after breakfast. We had about
half a mile to walk before we got to the first wood, and I kept puzzling my
brains the whole way about this blessed new dodge of beating.
"'Where are the beaters?' I said to WHICHELLO, when we got there, for devil
a bit of one did I see.
"'You'll find them out directly,' says WHICHELLO, looking sly and
triumphant; 'just you stand here, and wait. You'll get some shooting, I
warrant you;' and, with that, he posted the other guns at the far end of
the covert, told me and another chap we were to walk outside, in line with
the beaters, and walked off. Suddenly he gave a whistle. Then what do you
think happened? I'll give you a hundred guesses, and you won't be on it.
Out of a little planting, about fifty yards off the piece we were to shoot,
came marching a troop of rustics, dressed as rustic beaters usually are,
but each of them carrying, in place of the ordinary beater's stick, a
musical instrument of some sort. They were headed by the keeper, who waved
a kind of _bâton_. When they got to our covert, they arranged themselves in
line, and then, on a signal from WHICHELLO, crash, bang! they struck up the
_Tannhäuser March_, and disappeared into the wood.
"'Line up, Trombone!' shouted the keeper--I heard his stentorian roar above
the din--'Come, hurry along with the Bombardon; Ophicleide, you're too far
in front. Keep it going, Clarinets. Now then, all together! What are you up
to, Cymbals? Let 'em have it!' And thus they came banging and booming and
blowing through the covert. The bassoon tripped into a thorn-bush, the
big-drum rolled over the trunk of a tree and smashed his instrument, the
hautboy threw his at an escaping rabbit, while the flute-man walked
straight into a pool of water, and had to be pulled out by the triangle.
But the rest of them got through somehow with that infernal idiot of a
conducting keeper, still backing and twisting and waving like mad in the
front. That was WHICHELLO'S idea of beating his coverts. 'Combining
æsthetic pleasure with sporting pursuits,' he called it. Somehow we had
managed to bring down a brace of pheasants, which, with three rabbits, made
up our total, out of a covert which ought to have yielded ten times as
many.
"I daresay you won't believe this story, but it's true all the same. If you
don't believe it, write to WHICHELLO himself. I never saw anyone half so
pleased as that fool was. He had given up all his time to teaching his
rustics music, with a view to this performance, and had shoved in, as one
of his keepers, a sporting third violin from the Drury Lane orchestra. They
said it was glorious, and congratulated one another all round, with as much
enthusiasm as if they'd repelled a foreign invasion. On the next beat they
played the _March in Scipio_, and after that came a _Pot-Pourri of Popular
Melodies_, arranged by the keeper. They played a selection from _The
Pirates of Penzance_ while we lunched, and took the big wood to the tunes
of '_Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay_' and '_Up-rouse ye then, my merry, merry Men!_'
'_Rule Britannia_' and '_Home, Sweet Home_,' played us back to the house. I
never heard such a confounded Babel of brass and wood in all my life. A
German band in a country town couldn't come near it. Curiously enough, we
most of us got urgent letters by next morning's post, summoning us home at
once to attend to business, or to be present at the death-beds of
relatives. I thought you'd like to hear this story, old cock. If you like,
you're very welcome to shove it in your shooting series. I've seen a lot of
rum goes in my life, but this was the rummest of the lot. And don't forget
to let me have a word or two about talking to one's host. I know what I
thought of that maniac WHICHELLO, but I shouldn't have liked to say that to
him.
"Yours to a turn,
A SPORTSMAN."
For the present I must leave this striking letter to the judgment of my
readers. Space fails me to deal with it adequately. On another occasion I
may be able to set down some ideas on the difficult subject suggested by my
polite Correspondent.
* * * * *
THE APPRECIATION OF GOLD.--"Why all this fuss?" writes a Correspondent. "Is
there a difficulty in finding persons who properly appreciate gold? If so,
I, Sir, am not of that number. I will be happy to receive from the Bank any
quantity of sovereigns; and, further, I will undertake to show and honestly
express my appreciation of this generosity on the part of the Bank. Ah! I
should like to possess any number of those 'promises of May.'
"Yours,
A MUNNIE GRUBBER."
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
_House of Commons, Tuesday, Jan. 31st._--"Members desiring to take their
seats will please come to the Table."
'Twas the voice of the SPEAKER; one could hear him declaim just as Big Ben
tolled four o'clock this afternoon. House crowded in every part, throbbing
with excitement; crowds everywhere. In Centre Hall some vainly hoping for
impossible places; others content to see the men go by whose names they
read in the papers. Outside Palace Yard multitude standing patiently for
hours, happy if only they saw the tip of Mr. G.'s hat as he drove in at the
gate, or imagined the buttons on the Squire of MALWOOD'S gaiters. Never, in
recent times, such a rush on opening days.
And Colonel SAUNDERSON, comfortably seated on Front Bench below Gangway, in
choice companionship with Dr. TANNER, actually yawning!
[Illustration: HISTORICAL SUBJECT.--S-nd-rs-n "finding the body
of"--T-nn-r.]
"All very well for you, TOBY, dear boy," he said, responsive to my polite
stare. "You come down here leisurely in afternoon, and take your seat. I've
been on war-path since before daybreak. Knew the wild Irishmen meant to
open proceedings of Session by appropriating our seats. Have not served in
Royal Irish Fusiliers for nothing. Session opened by Royal Commission at
two o'clock this afternoon. Thought if I arrived on spot at seven in
morning would be in moderately good time. Here before seven: place in utter
darkness; found friendly policeman with bull's-eye light; tightened my
belt; cocked my pistol; requisitioned Bobby and his lantern. You should
have seen us groping our way into House; Bobby first, with bull's-eye
lantern professionally flashing to right and left, under seats, into dark
corners. Made straight for my old corner-seat below Gangway; something
white gleaming on front bench; with supple turn of wrist Bobby brought
flambeau to bear upon it; found it was TANNER--TANNER, hatless, coatless,
without even a waistcoat on! You might have knocked me down with much less
than bayonet-prod. 'Morning, Colonel,' says he. 'Been here all night?' I
gasped. 'Oh, no,' says he; 'had cup of coffee at stall by Westminster
Bridge, bought a few hats in the New Cut, and, you see, I've planted them
out.' So he had, by Gad! Every corner-seat taken, and he prone in JEMMY
LOWTHER'S. 'Weren't enough o' them,' TANNER said, with his sixpenny
snigger; 'couldn't leave put our revered leaders, TIM HEALY and O'BRIEN,
you know. So just took off my coat, flopped it down for TIM, hung the
waist-coast on a knob, and there's WILLIAM O'BRIEN'S place secured for the
night. Now, if you'd like a seat, you'll find one above the Gangway; or if
you want to come and sit by me, here you are. I've got a necktie, a collar,
and a pair of braces to spare; if you've any particular friends in your
mind, why, we'll get seats for them.' No knowing what a fellow like TANNER
would do in these circumstances. Even his trowsers not sacred. So made best
of bad job, and here I am. At least, better off than JEMMY LOWTHER, evicted
without compensation for disturbance."
Conversation interrupted by loud cheer. Mr. G. marching with head erect,
and swinging stride, to take the Oath and his seat. Necessary by Standing
Orders that two Members shall accompany new Member on these occasions to
certify identity and prevent guilty impersonation. It's a wise child that
knows his own father, but HERBERT, walking on one side of Premier, with
MARJORIBANKS on other, ready to testify. Clerk at table, thus assured all
was right, administered Oath and then conducted Premier up to SPEAKER,
presenting the new Member.
"Mr. GLADSTONE, I presume," said SPEAKER, making a motion towards extending
his hand.
"Yes, Sir," said the new Member, nervously.
"Dear me!" said the SPEAKER, now shaking hands. "I've often heard of you. I
daresay you'll soon get accustomed to the place, and will, I hope, be
comfortable." Mr. G. bowed, and retired to his seat. SPEAKER suffered
succession of shocks as in same way were brought up and introduced to him,
SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, JOHN MORLEY, CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, the Count MUNDELLANI,
GEORGE TREVELYAN, The Boy ASQUITH, and quite a host of new acquaintances.
_Business done._--New Members took their seats. Address moved.
_Thursday Night._--Something like flash of old times to-night. Of course,
it came from Irish quarter, and it was SAUNDERSON who kindled the torch.
Colonel presented himself early in sitting on corner bench below Gangway.
This apparently reverted to possession of JEMMY LOWTHER. He lent it to
Colonel for an hour, sitting on other side of him. How they secured the
place is a mystery, darkened by temporary disappearance of TANNER. "Where
is TANNER?" Members ask, looking, not without suspicion, on placid face and
generally respectable appearance of JEMMY LOWTHER. Last seen, not
exactly in company of JEMMY and the Colonel, rather in conflict for the
corner-seat. LOWTHER has the seat; lends it to SAUNDERSON. But where is
TANNER?
"Oh, _he_'s all right," said LOWTHER, with forced smile, when JUSTIN
MCCARTHY, with ill-feigned indifference, inquired after the lamb missing
from his fold. "Bad sixpence, you know; always turns up," JEMMY added. But
his merriment forced, and SAUNDERSON abruptly changed subject.
Evidently a case for SHERLOCK HOLMES; must place it in his hands.
Doubtless it was with object of diverting attention from a ghastly subject
that SAUNDERSON led up to row alluded to. In course of remarks on release
of Gweedore prisoners, he alluded to Father MCFADDEN as "a ruffian." Irish
Members not used to language of that kind. Howled in pained indignation;
the Colonel, astonished at his own moderation, varied the phrase by calling
the respected P.P. "a murderous ruffian." Shouts of horror from compatriots
closely massed behind. TIM HEALY, in particular, boiling with indignation
at use of language of this character addressed to gentlemen from whom one
had difference of opinion on public matters. Nothing would content them
short of absolute and immediate withdrawal. Colonel declined to withdraw.
Uproar rose in ungovernable fury. Every time Colonel opened his mouth to
continue his remarks, an Irish Member (so to speak) jumped down his throat.
Considerable proportion of Ministerial majority had disappeared in this
fashion, when happy thought occurred to JOHN DILLON. Hotly moved that
SAUNDERSON "be no longer heard." Considering he had not been heard for
fully five minutes, this joke excellent. SPEAKER, however, wouldn't see it.
COLONEL trumped the card by moving Adjournment of Debate. Mr. G.
interposed, adjured SAUNDERSON to put end to scene by withdrawing
expression objected to.
Colonel, hitherto obdurate, found irresistible the stately appeal from
Premier. "Certainly," said he, ever ready to oblige; "I will withdraw the
words 'murderous ruffian,' and substitute the expression, excited
politician." This accepted as perfectly satisfactory. Terms apparently
synonymous; but the latter, on the whole, less irritating to susceptible
nerves. Irish members round about fell on Colonel's neck; embraced him with
tears; gently disengaging himself, he proceeded uninterrupted to the end of
his address.
"Capital title that," said GEORGE NEWNES, who always has eye to business.
"Shall start a new Weekly; lead off with serial Novel by Colonel
SAUNDERSON, entitled _The Murderous Ruffian; or, the Excited Politician_.
Sure to take."
All very well, this cleverly conceived diversion. But where is Dr. TANNER?
_Business done._--Debate on Address.
_Friday Night._--Still harping on Ireland. Began with row round issue of
Writ for South Meath. ESMONDE, one of innumerable Whips present House
possesses, says the business was his. "Then why didn't you do it?" asked
NOLAN. "As you didn't seem disposed to move, I do." Nationalists want to
get North Meath Election finished first; Parnellites don't. So ESMONDE is
in no hurry to move Writ, and Colonel NOLAN is. Pretty, in these
circumstances to hear NOLAN with his indignant inquiry, "Is the moving of
Writs to be taken as an Election dodge?"
After Ireland, Uganda. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE talked for hour and half.
Later, rose to blandly explain that this was only half his speech; rest
will be delivered when he brings question up again on Supplementary Vote.
As Mr. G. says, this is fair notice, and every Member may determine for
himself whether he will forego a portion of the promised treat. _Business
done._--Talking.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY BILL MARKET, ST. STEPHENS.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Everyone knows Mr. AUSTIN DOBSON'S dainty verse. In _Eighteenth Century
Vignettes_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) everyone has an opportunity, which he will
do well to seize, to enjoy his equally charming prose. Mr. DOBSON is one of
those enviable men who have time to read. He spends an appreciable portion
of his days and nights not only with ADDISON, but with STEELE, PRIOR,
JOHNSON, GOLDSMITH, and others, whom a generation that read newspapers and
subscribe to MUDIE'S, know only by name. Mr. DOBSON is so omnivorous, that
he has read right through JONAS HANWAY'S _Journal of Eight Days' Journey
from Portsmouth to Kingston-upon-Thames_, the book which drew from JOHNSON
the genial remark that HANWAY "had acquired some reputation by travelling
abroad, but lost it all by travelling at home." A man that would read that,
would read anything. Mr. DOBSON, happily, survived it, living to write a
paper in which, within the limit of a few pages, we become thoroughly
acquainted with JONAS, his travels in Persia, his discreet flirtations, his
umbrella (the first under which man ever walked in the streets of London),
his suit of rich dark brown, lined with ermine, his _chapeau bras_ with
gold button, his gold-hilted sword, and his three pairs of stockings. JONAS
always thought there was safety in numbers, whether odd or even. When he
travelled, his "Partie" consisted of Mrs. D. and Mrs. O. When he dedicated
a book (which Mr. DOBSON found, more than a hundred years later, in a
second-hand book-shop in Holborn), he inscribed it to the "Twin Sisters,
Miss ELIZABETH & Miss CAROLINE GRIGG." When he took his walks abroad, he
wore three pairs of stockings. JONAS HANWAY, under Mr. DOBSON'S care, is
unexpectedly delightful. With the same magic touch he brings upon the stage
STEELE, FIELDING, GOLDSMITH, GRAY, HOGARTH'S SIGISMUNDA, and Dr. JOHNSON,
who lives for us again in his garret in Gough Square. These _Vignettes_
should be framed in the private room of every man and woman who loves
books.
(_Signed_), "_Non obstat_,"
BARON DE B.-W.
* * * * *
Discovered in Drury Lane
_Near the new Baker Street Lodging House established by the County
Council._
I 'old it true wote'er befall;
I feel it when things go most cross;
Better to do a fi'penny doss,
Than never do a doss at all!
* * * * *
"WAITE FOR THE END."--On Friday last, at another Unemployed Meeting, a
certain person, whose name is never mentioned in ears polite, "found
mischief still," as wrote the immortal Dr. WATTS, "for idle hands to do,"
and set one WAITE, whether a light or heavy weight is not stated, and one
SULLIVAN, by the ears. It was a hand-to-hand fight, and WAITE was
subsequently captured and brought before the Magistrate. _Mem._ for WAITE,
in the words of a recently popular song, "_Never hit a Man of the name of
Sullivan._"
* * * * *
FALLEN FORTUNES.--Quoth _The Observer_ of a certain celebrity, "The family
to which he belongs can trace an uninterrupted descent for a period of six
centuries." What an awful "come-down"! _Quelle dégringolade!_
* * * * *
BETWEEN TWO GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS.--"What do you think of
CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN'S choice of an assistant private secretary? Odd? eh?"
"Not odd! _Strange._"
* * * * *
PROVERB FOR MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT WHO WISH TO SECURE SEATS.--"Two Hats are
better than one."
* * * * *
[Illustration: SELF-PRESERVATION IS THE FIRST LAW OF NATURE;
OR, GETTING THE START OF CRINOLINE.]
* * * * *
THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.
CONCERNING CASH.
_Question._ What is cash?
_Answer._ Cash may be described as comfort in the concrete.
_Q._ Is it not sometimes called "the root of all evil"?
_A._ Yes, by those who do not possess it.
_Q._ Is it possible to live without cash?
_A._ Certainly--upon credit.
_Q._ Can you tell me what is credit?
_A._ Credit is the motive power which induces persons who have cash, to
part with some of it to those who have it not.
_Q._ Can you give me an instance of credit?
_A._ Certainly. A young man who is able to live at the rate of a thousand
a-year, with an income not exceeding nothing a month, is a case of credit.
_Q._ Would it be right to describe such a transaction "as much to his
credit"?
_A._ It would be more precise to say, "much by his credit;" although the
former phrase would be accepted by a large class of the community as
absolutely accurate.
_Q._ What is bimetallism?
_A._ Bimetallism is a subject that is frequently discussed by amateur
financiers, after a good dinner, on the near approach of the coffee.
_Q._ Can you give me your impression of the theory of bimetallism?
_A._ My impression of bimetallism is the advisability of obtaining silver,
if you cannot get gold.
_Q._ What is the best way of securing gold?
_A._ The safest way is to borrow it.
_Q._ Can money be obtained in any other way?
_A._ In the olden time it was gathered on Hounslow Heath and other deserted
spots, by mounted horsemen wearing masks and carrying pistols.
_Q._ What is the modern way of securing funds, on the same principles, but
with smaller risk?
_A._ By promoting Companies and other expedients known to the members of
the Stock Exchange.
* * * * *
QUEER QUERIES.
FOREIGN CLERKS.--I should be grateful for any information as to where I
could acquire a knowledge of French, German, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, and
Russian, without leaving the neighbourhood of Camberwell New Road, and at a
merely nominal cost. I find that, unless I know those languages, I have no
chance of competing with German Clerks; whereas, if I did know them, I
should be nearly sure of obtaining a berth in a London Firm at not less
than fifteen shillings a week, rising, by half centuries, to fifteen and
sixpence, and even to sixteen shillings. Also, what is the least amount of
porridge (without milk or sugar), haricot beans, or lentil soup, that will
preserve a person from starvation, if he takes nothing else, and works
fourteen hours a day? I intend imitating my Teutonic rivals in frugality,
as well as in languages; any dietetic hints (especially from Scotchmen),
would therefore be welcomed by NO POLYGLOT.
* * * * *
A DELICATE REQUEST.--On Wednesday--that day in every week which is kept as
a whole holiday in honour of _Mr. Punch_--the 8th Feb., there is to be "a
meeting of Old Paulines" at Anderton's Hotel, when "_the attendance of all
Old Paulines is requested_." Ahem! The aged representatives of the heroine
of the _Lady of Lyons_ will not be attracted by the wording of this rather
un-paulite announcement. Why was not the invitation extended to the old
_Claude Melnottes_ as well? There must be a lot of them about.
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed
Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be
returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL.
104, FEBRUARY 11, 1893***
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