The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109,
16th November, 1895, by Various
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, 16th November, 1895
Author: Various
Editor: Sir Francis Burnand
Release Date: April 19, 2014 [EBook #45439]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, VOL. 109, 16TH NOVEMBER, 1895 ***
Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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MESSRS. BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., _beg to announce that the finely
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highly humorous Drawings by_ E. T. REED, _is now issued.
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[8, 9, 10, BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, LONDON, E.C.
[Illustration:
PUNCH
N^{o.} 2836.
VOLUME CIX.
NOVEMBER 16, 1895.
PUNCH OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,
LONDON.
]
CHOCOLAT MENIER
_For
Breakfast_
[R pointing hand] PICTURES FROM "PUNCH."
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PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY.
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[R pointing hand] NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions,
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will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped
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* * * * *
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* * * * *
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* * * * *
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[Illustration: FLOWERS OF THE EAST.
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PUBLISHED BY THE PROPRIETORS,
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Printed by William Stuart Smith, of No. 30, Loraine Road,
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Whitefriars, in the City of London, and published by him at
No. 85, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, City of
London.--SATURDAY, November 16, 1895.
* * * * *
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 109, 16th November, 1895
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
PEACE AND PLENTY.
NOTES FROM THE MENU CARD OF TOBY, M.P.
_Hôtel Métropole, Wednesday Night._--Dinner in Whitehall Rooms to
celebrate completion of railway communication between Natal and South
Africa. Occasion important; list of guests comprehensive; all the
Colonies represented, whilst DON JOSÉ, home from historic Spain,
happily typified the paternal British Lion glad to see its cubs around
it. WALTER PEACE, Agent-General for Natal, is the Amphitryon--_le
véritable Amphitryon où l'on dîne_. As SARK says, "With PEACE in the
Chair and Plenty on the table, what more can one desire?"
[Illustration: Joe Chamberlion encouraging the Colonial Cubs.]
An excellent dinner, marked by an innovation against which protest
cannot be made too early. Between the _entrée_ and the joint
cigarettes served. Worse still, they were lit and smoked; timidly at
first, but weak-minded men seeing others start also made themselves
uncomfortable. Room soon filled with poisonous smoke of tobacco and
paper. I like a cigar at dinner, or even two--in proper place. This
spoiling of the palate midway through a meal was wanton flying in the
face of Providence who had next provided excellent saddle of Welsh
mutton. Custom of interpolating cigarette has not even colonial origin
to recommend it. "KICKY" likes it, 'tis true. But the British public
scornfully asks, "Who's KICKY?" and will be no wiser if I tell them
he's a capitalist.
After dinner, speeches. For a man whose breast is blazoned with
Victoria Cross, never saw anyone in such a funk as REDVERS BULLER
when he rose to reply to toast to the Army. Knees shook; manly cheek
blenched; evidently moment when he contemplated turning his back on
foe and bolting. But pluck of British soldier prevailed, and he pulled
through. If alternative were open to him, would rather have gone
through the Ashantee Campaign again, or worked his way once more
through the sad Soudan.
Nothing of this feeling apparent in demeanour of old friend MARTIN F.
TUPPER. General impression is that, like SHAKSPEARE, he is dead. All
a mistake; only changed his estate; dropped his earlier initials;
assumed name of CHARLES, with a baronetcy, the G.C.M.G., the C.B.,
and the High Commissionership of Canada. Talks prose now instead of
poetry. But the old style indelible, ineradicable. His speech
to-night marked by all the prosy, kindly, commonplace verbosity of the
Proverbial Philosophy of his earlier state.
DON JOSÉ, rising to respond to toast of his health, met with hearty
reception. Misguided man at end of room proposed to greet him as "a
jolly good fellow." Effort well meant; had the songster managed, at
outset, to strike right note, the thing might have been done. As
it was inappropriateness of this particular hymnal, combined with a
certain flatness in the opening notes of the songster, chilled the
choir. As SARK says, "jollity not precisely the quality one associates
with JOE." So the melody, after feebly fizzling round the tables, was
drowned in burst of laughter.
Occasion was, as DON JOSÉ remarked, first time he had publicly
appeared in capacity of Minister for the Colonies. In every way a
happy one. A gathering representing the uttermost corners of the
Empire, each vying with the other in loyalty to Crown. New Secretary,
with easy grace, rose to height of situation. Struck lofty note in his
picture of our fellow-subjects throughout the world recognising the
great inheritance that has befallen them by mere virtue of their
citizenship. "They must feel," he said, in ringing voice that found
echo in the crowded room, "that no separate existence, however
splendid, could compare with that they enjoy equally with ourselves as
joint heirs of all the traditions of the past, joint partakers of all
the influence, resources, and power of the British Empire."
A speech not too long, splendidly pitched, admirably phrased, full of
the old Palmerstonian ring, and yet, if closely examined, signifying
nothing likely to embarrass a Minister in future relations either
with Colonies or foreign powers. Just the thing for the hour, and
the place. Full of promise for fresh triumphs for DON JOSÉ on the new
pathway he surprised some people by selecting as his own.
After the Colonial Secretary, the Lord High Admiral. DON CURRIE, also,
though in quite a different way, in his best form. Could not look upon
him as with clasped hands, and eyes upraised to a perturbed firmament,
he protested against continued absence of imperial subvention of mail
packets to the Cape, without thinking what a tragedian is here lost to
the stage!
Threw quite a fresh light on the Spanish Armada. "Why," he exclaimed,
"the Spanish Armada, with the assistance of Portugal and Mexico, did
not include as many ships as are under my management in the Castle
fleet!"
"Let us be grateful," said SARK, as the man in the hat and cloak
department handed him through the pigeon-hole someone else's overcoat,
"that DON CURRIE was not born before his time or out of his place.
Had he been a subject of PHILIP THE SECOND, he would certainly have
commanded the Armada. In which case the whole course of history would
have been changed, and to-day Great Britain would have been even as
Cuba."
* * * * *
THE NEW WOMAN IN SOMERSET.
(_Told by the Old Woman at the Farm._)
'Twere market day, and JOHN were late,
I thart o' steppin' out up t' hill,
When there in t' road, 'gin barton gate,
I see a body, sim faint and ill.
'Twere one o' these yer cyclist folk,
Us ha'n't sin much on 'em Quantock way,
But ROBERT to Lunnon, he've often spoke
O' women in breeks--more shame, I say.
Well, there! 'twere one on 'em, sure as sure;
Look fair a-doneded--her must ha' bin--
So, breeks or no, when her knock on t' door,
"Wark in," I says to her. "Plase to wark in."
Her'd a summat to eat and drink, and then
Her do tark so fast as a chatter-pie
'Bout 't rights o' women, and tyrant men,
I tellee, her fair a-flummoxed I.
Such a power o' words, sim Latin and Greek,
As you couldn't tell up not one in ten,
And her said as us art for to vote and speak,
And be in t' Parliament, same as men.
And a tarr'ble plenty o' nonsense more--
The things some folk do get putt'n about
Afore JOHN come home, us opened t' door.
And "Wark out, wull ee?" I says, "Wark out!"
* * * * *
WHAT'S IN A NAME?--The Hampshire County Council is dubious whether
it should surrender the title of "County of Southampton" to the great
borough, which Sir CHARLES SCOTTER has so greatly benefited. Why not
call the county Cockhamptonshire, a cognomen which would _en-hants_
its supremacy over the district with a similar, but northern
appellation? Those sensible county magnates the Messrs. PORTAL are
always open to a practical suggestion.
* * * * *
Song for the Shipbuilding Trade.
(_On the Clyde._)
[What is called a "sympathetic" lock-out has been carried out
by the employers on the Clyde, in consequence of a strike on
the Larne at Belfast].
_Labour (after a celebrated model), loquitur_:--
I sits with my hands in my lap,
And if any one axes me why,
I points out Belfast to the chap;
"It is 'sympathy' makes me," says I.
* * * * *
"SPEED THE PARTING, WELCOME THE COMING GUEST," OR "THE 'OUTS AND INS'
OF IT."--Lord ROSEBERY left Sandringham, and Mr. CHAMBERLAIN arrived.
* * * * *
"O REFORM IT ALTOGETHER!"--The LORD MAYOR'S Show is a thing of the
past. It was better done last Saturday than it has been on any recent
occasion. But it would be "better done"--away with.
* * * * *
TO MR. CHAMBERLAIN AS COLONIAL MINISTER.--Many Happy Returns of his
"Natal" Day.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE EYE OF THE LAW."
(_Suggested by certain recent Cases in our Police Courts._)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AU PIED DE LA LETTRE."
_Customer_ (_to famous Modiste_). "I'M PARTING WITH MY MAID, MADAME
ALDEGONDE, AND I SHOULD LIKE TO GET HER INTO YOUR ESTABLISHMENT."
_Madame A._ "WHAT CAN SHE DO?"
_Customer._ "SHE'S ALREADY A VERY DECENT DRESSMAKER."
_Madame A._ "I'M AFRAID, MADAM, THAT SHE WOULD NOT DO FOR MOST OF _MY_
CUSTOMERS!"]
* * * * *
ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
In this depressing weather it is always well to have something to be
thankful for. My own special subject for gratitude is the cessation
and final end of the Marlborough-Vanderbilt wedding. All these columns
of matrimonial gush which have been arriving by mail and cable
from America have been sufficient to make even a good man curse his
fellow-man, and retire to some other planet. Perhaps the young Duke
himself ought not to be blamed. I know nothing against him except that
he was arrested in New York for "coasting" on a bicycle, and that he
has made one speech in the House of Lords. These are grave matters, no
doubt, but they must not be allowed to blast a young man's career at
its very outset.
* * * * *
Nor possibly are the VANDERBILTS altogether in fault. They possess
many millions, and it is perhaps natural that they should desire to
celebrate the marriage of their daughter by spending some of their
dollars on diamonds, rubies, gold, silver, and exotic flowers. But
what is offensive about the business is the morbid excitement of
the American public. The American public may declare that it was not
excited; but, in that case, it is difficult to understand why
its newspaper proprietors should have flooded their columns with
descriptive gush in which not even the bride's underclothing is spared
from publicity.
* * * * *
Moreover, this marriage was rehearsed. I don't think I am putting the
matter too strongly when I say that this constitutes an outrage not
only on good taste, but on all proper religious feeling. I imagine the
happy pair bowing and kneeling with their bridesmaids and attendants,
and the weeping maiden aunts who are never absent from such a
ceremony, going solemnly through the intricate maze of responses,
while a mock clergyman reads a mock service and all the spectators
indulge in a mockery of emotion and congratulation. For myself I would
as soon re-marry a hearse, as rehearse a marriage.
* * * * *
The whole business is, in fact, an illustration of that passion for
tawdry display and vulgar ostentation in which the great American
Republic seems to have gone not one but about a million better (or
worse) than the parent stock. I sincerely hope that the supply of
marriageable peers and American heiresses is now exhausted, and that
we may hear no more of these international engagements.
* * * * *
I spoke last week of the undergraduate in relation to his dog. This
week I should like to say a few words of the undergraduate in
relation to his clothes. It seems to be generally imagined that the
undergraduate is addicted to dressing himself out in the smartest
possible clothes for his daily stroll along King's Parade or the High.
Nothing can be further from the fact. The error is probably due to
those splendidly inaccurate descriptions of university life with which
novel readers have been of late perplexed. From these it might be
supposed that the undergraduate was in the habit of changing his
clothes some six times a day merely for purposes of display, and of
reserving his very smartest suit for the daily visit that he pays to
the gorgeous gambling-hells which are, as we all know, to be found by
the score in the suburban districts of Oxford and Cambridge.
* * * * *
As a matter of fact, the average undergraduate is, in matters of
dress, the simplest of mankind. His great ideal is comfort, and as old
clothes are naturally more comfortable than new, it is quite a common
sight to see great Blues, presidents of clubs, shining lights of
the river, the field, or the schools arrayed in Norfolk jackets, in
trousers on which at least two winters have laid their defacing hand,
and in shirts which, though of an immaculate cleanness, show evident
signs of wear and tear in the cuff department.
* * * * *
It must be remembered that the ordinary undergraduate only wears the
clothes of civilisation for about half of every day. During the rest
of the time he is to be found in the garb most appropriate to his
athletic pursuits. In the case of a rowing man, these extend only
to within six inches of his knees, and spectators have been heard
to wonder how such large and heavy frames can be supported on so
melancholy a deficiency of calves. I don't know how it is, but it is
a fact that if a rowing man stands more than seventy-two inches in
height, the girth of his calves will not exceed some ten inches.
* * * * *
If in writing thus of undergraduate dress I have destroyed a cherished
illusion, I can only express my regret; but I have a strong feeling
that the truth should be at last made to prevail, even against the
inexactitudes of university novelists.
* * * * *
THE MARVELLOUS FEAT OF TREE-ILBY SVENGALIVANISED!
"_Trilby's_ tootsies! _Trilby's_ feet!
There's no mistake,
They take the cake,
Do _Trilby's_ model feet!"
_Chorus of Popular Nigger Song, adapted._
[Illustration: _Mr. Tree Svengalivanting._ "You must learn to love
me!"]
The state of those who have read the novel before seeing the play,
is gracious; the state of those who have seen the play without having
previously read the novel, is the more gracious. _Svengali_, the weird
unwashed Hebrew, the fantastical, musical magician, so dominates the
story, that the author of his being will be remembered as GEORGE _JEW_
MAURIER. And _Svengali_ the Satanical, marvellously impersonated by
Mr. BEERBOHM TREE, stands out as the central figure of the strange
unconventional drama at the Haymarket. It isn't _Trilby_, the
hypnotised subject, but _Svengali_, the fearful "object," the dirty
demoniac hypnotiser, on whom all eyes are fixed, and in whom the
interest is centred. He is Shylock and Fagin, Mephistophelesized; he
is as loathsome as Hyde without Jekyl; he is the Spirit of Evil in the
story of the Devil's Violin; he is the haunting, cringing fiend in the
Shadowless Man; he is, in fact, the very Deuce himself.
"O don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," is the "old song" which,
at first, _Miss Trilby O'Ferrall_ "cannot sing," but which, when
hypnotised by Satanical _Svengali_, she does sing; and, with this,
and with one or two other ancient ditties in her rather limited
_répertoire_, she makes _Svengali's_ fortune. The _Diva_ is beaten and
kicked by the savage _Svengali_ (not in the presence of the audience)
as if she were his slave, and he the brutal slave-driver. But, _why
this treatment, if he has only to hypnotise her in order to render
her obedient to his slightest wish_? It is, I suppose, considered
necessary he should do so, in order to excite our compassion for his
victim, the unfortunate _Miss Trilby_, and so to bring down upon
him the just chastisement which is the immediate cause of his death.
Otherwise, as _Svengali_ has told her he loves her, and as
she (hypnotised of course) becomes his wife, why this horrible
ill-treatment? This seems to me to be the only weak point in the plot
of Mr. PAUL POTTER'S undeniably clever end most effective play. But
surely _Svengali's_ diabolically jealous hatred of "_Little Billee_,"
his successful rival in the affections of _Trilby_ (when unhypnotised)
would be sufficient, motive for the brutal insult he inflicts on _Miss
O'Ferrall's_ faithful, but insignificant, little lover, and for which,
at the hands of the strong man, _Taffy_, the fiend-like _Svengali_ has
to pay with his life.
"PAUL POTTER," a name hitherto historically associated with the
celebrated "Bull," not Papal but pictorial, now about two centuries
old, has hit the bull's-eye this time, and will realise a good round
sum from JOHN "of that ilk." Thoroughly does PAUL deserve it for
his audacious ingenuity and his daring disregard of dramatic
conventionality. His third act, in which there is hardly any action
until the second entrance of _Svengali_, is so contrived that a few
persons narrating in dialogue what they are supposed to see happening
off the stage, work up the excitement of the audience to such a pitch
that they instinctively cry "hush!" in order that they too may join
with the characters on the scene in listening to the voice of an
invisible _Trilby_ singing the hackney'd ditty "_Ben Bolt_"! This is a
triumph due to the dramatist, to Messrs. LIONEL BROUGH (_The Laird_),
Mr. EDMUND MAURICE (_Taffy_), and Mr. PATRICK EVANS (_Little Billee_),
with MRS. FILIPPI as _Madame Vinard_.
In this scene Mr. TREE'S _Svengali_ is no longer the squalid _Fagin_,
but is like the old pictures of PAGANINI, the famous violinist, decked
with the jewellery of the once celebrated "Mons. JULLIEN." Now comes
the exhibition of _Svengali's_ venomous hatred for _Little Billee_, in
whose face he spits; a horrible and revolting thing to see done on
the stage, even though we know he is "only purtendin'." For this
disgusting exhibition of temper, he is half strangled by the Welsh
giant _Taffy_.
_Trilby_, no longer under the hypnotic influence of _Svengali_, sings
horribly out of tune; the audience are supposed to rise in their wrath
and threaten to wreck the house (rather a strong order this, but, as I
have hinted, what no other dramatist dares POTTER dares); and then the
miserable _Svengali_, after writhing and twisting in his last agony,
and "doing a back-fall" across a table with his head downwards towards
the foot-lights, his breath shaken out of his body, his hair out of
curl, his eyes staring horribly, dies,--a terrible topsy-turvy death
never before seen on any stage.
In the last Act poor ill-used _Miss O'Ferrall_ also dies. The
dramatist has prevented this scene from being an anti-climax, wherein
lay the danger, by preparing the audience with a weird story told
by _Zouzou_ (Mr. HERBERT ROSS) of his having seen the ghost
of _Svengali_, who, soon afterwards, appears as a portrait
of himself--not "a speaking likeness," as he does not utter a
syllable,--done in "luminous paint," within a picture-frame which has
been forwarded as a nice little wedding present to _Miss O'Ferrall_ on
the eve of her marriage with _Little Billee_, accompanied by a letter
in _Svengali's_ handwriting, sent probably through the infernal agency
of the Dead Letter Office authorities. Thus the Satanical _Svengali_,
taking a hint from the Commendatore's statue in _Don Giovanni_,
dominates the play till the final descent of the curtain.
[Illustration: "A Baird in the Haymarket is worth two in the Book."
(_Signed_) P-L P-TT-R.]
Miss DOROTHEA BAIRD, with naked tootsies exposed to the naked eye--she
is henceforth "Miss DOLLY BAIRD-feet"--cannot be improved on as the
pretty, gay, sad, much-suffering hypnotised _Trilby_. Of all possible
_Trilbys_, "BAIRD'S the Best." The play could not be better acted all
round. The French _Duc_, formerly _Zouzou_ the Zouave, is first-rate.
Mr. CHARLES ALLAN, as a respectable English Archdeacon, finding
himself in Bohemian Paris, is excellent. The success of _Trilby_, with
her nude tootsies, may give new life to the ancient slang inquiry,
"How's your poor feet?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: "KISMET!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MODERN EDUCATION.
_She_ (_to athletic cousin_). "DO YOU WORK MUCH AT CAMBRIDGE?"
_He._ "YES; WHEN I'VE TIME!"]
* * * * *
CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.
(_By "Hansom Jack."_)
No. XI.--CABBY'S NOTES ON NOVEMBER--FOG ON THE FIFTH--A
PYROTECHNIC FARE--ASTRAY IN THE SUBURBS--FIREWORKS IN FOGLAND.
"Remember, remember, the fifth o' November"? You bet if there's
any one does, 'tis a Cabby.
November's the month when all London's smudged out, and the
Cockneyist driver runs wild as a babby.
Eugh! I could tell you some chump-chilling tales about life on the
box in a London peasouper.
Which 'im who would stand, after twenty or so, must be 'ard as
tin-tacks, and as tough as a trooper.
"Jimminy-whiz!" as YANK MUSHGRUBBER puts it, our sububs in frost,
_with_ a fog, is tremenjous.
And arter a few 'ours cold crawl up to 'Ampstead, we long for a
something to mend us _or_ hend us,
We don't care much which, till the rum 'ot 'as warmed us. Ah! life
is a matter of cumfable feeling,
And if it's wuth living or not is a question of temperytoor; that
there ain't no concealing.
Wy, a chap warm, and one chilled to the marrer, is no more alike
than hegg-flip and a hicicle.
Lose me about Peckham Rye in a fog, and I'd kick a stray dog, or
knock over a bicycle.
Darkness as lets you drive _into_ a lamp-post, and makes your
shirt feel just like moist paper-mashy,
Would make a harkangel a porkypine; speshul if you've a lamp
broke, and the branches are splashy.
You just take a saint or a syrup, and git 'im to drive a cross
fare, in a fog, up to Streatham,
And find 'isself lost, running into a churchyard or up a blind
halley, and if 'e don't let 'em
Fly frequent and free, words beginning in d, and a few more loud
letters, as bring conserlation
In trials and tantrums to cabbies _and_ gents, you can make 'im
archbishop without consecration!
I'm nuts upon good old November--sometimes--though, when fog isn't
on, and there ain't _too_ much drizzle,
A spin through the sububs about ten o'clock, on the fifth, when
the place seems aflare and a fizzle
With bonfires and fireworks, and up through the tree-tops the
rockets go whizzing and busting like winking;
Wy, somehow it makes me feel just like a boy again; not a bad
feeling, at least to my thinking.
Some years agone, on a damp, misty Guy-night, a jolly-faced gent,
with one eye, and a bundle
As looked like a parcel o' props, came towards me a-trottin' as
brisk as 'is short legs could trundle;
"Take me to Tooting?" 'e garsps. "_At_ a price, Sir," I arnsers
'im sharp. "Right!" sez 'e; "put a name to it!"
"Fog's thickenin' up, Sir," I sez. "If you're game to
say--so-much--I'm on." And the old gent _was_ game to it.
Fust we'd a liquor, and then 'e sez "Fireworks!" a-bossing 'is
bundle with one heye a-glitter.
"Don't blow us up, Sir. I ain't got no licence to carry
hexplosives," I sez with a titter.
"Young 'uns a-waiting at Tooting," 'e sez; "so drive sharp, and I
won't be too tight on the pocket;
I do like a good firework frolic, with boys, though I blew this
heye out--_as_ a boy--with a rocket."
"Plucky old cock, and most pleasant!" thinks I, tooling off at
full trot with old BROCK. "Here's a barney!"
But I was a mossel too previous this time, as I jolly well found
when arf way through my journey.
Just this side o' Balham the fog grew--well black! There ain't no
other word for it. Black as Thames banks are,
And thick as their mud. It you arsk _where_ we got, you carn't
know what a London Pertikler's queer pranks are.
We got _everywhere_ save to Tooting, I fancy. Slap on to a common,
bang into a river,
Or something dashed like it; I stuck to the box till my fingers
were ice and my spine all a-shiver;
Then took out my lamp, and led _Molly_ a mile or so. 'Twasn't no
good. We pulled up in a medder,
Aside of a ditch wich I bloomin' near plumped in. "Hillo!" sez old
BROCK. "That was nearly a header!"
_Tarblow Vivong!_ Not so very much _vivong_, though, seeing the
lot was 'arf dead with the chatters.
"Well," sez old One-heye, "where _are_ we, I wonder? Two
guys--_without bonfires!_ As mad as two 'atters
To try it so fur. 'Ave a nip! Ah! that's better. Don't grizzle!
Neat brandy, like love and like ire, works
In warming one up. If we _could_ draw attention. By Jove! 'Appy
thought!! _We will let off some fireworks!!!_"
So said, and so done! Talk of pantermines! Scott! If you'd seen
hus two shivering, wropt-up, grey ghostes.
Like two steaming bundles, a tumbling around, fixing rockets and
catherine-wheels to damp postes,
And striking of splutt'ring fusees, you'd 'a' thought we was
demons a doin' of Guy Fox's duties.
At last--_whizz!_ Away went a couple of rockets a-rending the fog,
reg'lar red-and-green beauties.
Don't talk of Der Fryshoots! We looked like a party of spooks
celebrating the fifth in old bogland;
Wy even poor _Molly_ pricked up 'er froze ears at this
"Whistler-like picter of Fireworks in Fogland."
As old One-heye called it, wotever 'e meant. But it 'ad its effect
though, for torches come flaring,
And voices come 'owling across the damp flats, to inquire wot it
was that still neighbourhood scaring.
"Wy _Huncle!!!_" a sharp little nipper voice squeaks as the party
drew nigh. Cries old BROCK, "Wot, young TEDDY!"
We wasn't a bow-shot away from the 'ouse where old One-heye was
due, and the Guy-games all ready,
Though boshed by the fog! Talk of larfter and liquor! I don't
think I ever felt dryer, _or_ wetter,
But of both them taps, larf and lap, _I_ don't care if on no Guy
Fox night I don't get more, _or_ better!
* * * * *
A TALE OF THE TOLL'D.
Present Etonians ought to hail with delight the prospect of the
approaching abolition of the Windsor Bridge Toll. A decade ago it
caused--and, doubtless, does so still--many a precocious _D_ to escape
the lips of infuriated _Oppidans_ going to town on Saturday-to-Monday
"leave." Thus:--
SCENE--_"My dame's" house in Keat's Lane; wall-eyed,
knock-knee'd, sleeping Rosinante attached to prehistoric
Windsor "fly," with oldest inhabitant--also asleep--on box,
waiting outside_.
TIME--_Winter: immediately after "early school." Enter
hurriedly three_ Etonians _who take "fly."_
_First Etonian._ Just six minutes for the train! (_Shouting at
driver._) To the station--and drive like blazes!
_Second E._ Drive like Jehu!
_Third E._ (_a wag_). "Drive" like W. G--hu! (Third E. _promptly sat
upon by his companions_.)
[_Rosinante and_ Driver _wake up and succeed in making
astonishing pace up High Street, but pull up half-way across
Windsor Bridge_.
_First E._ (_having forgotten the "toll"_). What in thunder are you
pulling up for?
_Driver._ Toll, Sir.
_Second E._ Can't wait for the toll. Drive on!
[_But_ HORATIUS _too good a "keeper," and exacts tax.
Unwonted opulence of_ Etonians, _who have nothing "less than a
ten-shilling piece": consequent delay--nearly two minutes--for
change. Chorus from Cab----_!!
[_They arrive in station to find train just steamed out.
Chorus ("in which the_ Driver _also joins")_----!!!
RESULT--_Next train not starting for an hour-and-a-half, that
period is spent, with much consumption of consolatory cherry
brandy, at_ LAYTON'S.
So that the Windsor Bridge toll was altogether a demoralising
institution.
* * * * *
LAST WORDS.--Said the then LORD MAYOR (as reported in the _Standard_),
now EX-LORD MAYOR, at the BARNATO Banquet given by his Ex-Lordship,
then Lordship, at the Munching House: "Whatever mistakes I might have
made during the past twelve months, I am sure that I have made no
mistake this night. (_Applause._)" Odd! Why, Ex-Lord Mayor RENALS
never made a greater mistake in thinking he hadn't made any mistakes,
and no mistake!
* * * * *
NICE FOR COLD WEATHER.--"A Wrap o' the Knuckles" (suggested by _A
Chili Widow_).
* * * * *
[Illustration: FROM ERIN.
_Restaurant Waiter._ "BILL, SORR? YES, SORR. IT'S FOIVE-AND-SIX-PENCE
INCLUDING THE CIGYAR, AND THAT MAKES SIX SHILLINGS SORR!"]
* * * * *
JOSEPH'S DREAM.
(_A New Song to an Old Setting._)
[Mr. CHAMBERLAIN has apparently satisfied himself that
Imperial Federation is not a mere dream, as many among us and
in the Colonies still regard it. Such dreams, he remarked,
have a way of being realised. "It is a dream that appeals to
the highest sentiments of patriotism, and even of our material
interests. It is a dream calculated to stimulate and improve
every one who cares for the future of the Anglo-Saxon
race."--_Leeds Mercury._]
AIR--"_Let me Dream Again._" _New Colonial Minister carolleth:_--
Our sun's _not_ setting, as fools said of late,
Nor shall it, whilst _I_ stand at England's gate!
The cheers are ringing at the words I say,
As I point the Kingdom to the Federal way.
I say it appeals to our patriot sentiment,
And the Colonies are gathering round in calm content:
Is this a dream? Then waking would be pain.
Oh, do not wake me! Let me dream again!
The thought is striking, one to make man tower,
Of the Federation of Old England's power.
Our children grow up as time onward glides,
But though youth may pass away, home-love abides.
The Little-Englanders were wrong, somehow.
They said we must part; ah! but dare they say so now?
Is this a dream? Then waking would be pain.
Oh, do not wake me! Let me dream again!
* * * * *
Golf is becoming quite the rage in the United States. A game which
has been described as "hitting a ball in the morning and spending the
afternoon in search of it" might have been thought too slow for Cousin
JONATHAN. Not a bit of it. The lynx-eyed American eagle has developed
a keen eye for the links, and the best green is said to be in the
neighbourhood of Bunker's Hill.
* * * * *
GROSS INGRATITUDE TOWARDS TWO OLD PUBLIC FAVOURITES.--At Portsmouth
municipal elections Messrs. COX and BOX were at the bottom of the poll
in their respective wards.
* * * * *
THE IMPERIAL FEDERALIST'S VADE MECUM.
_Question._ Is not the idea of the Federation of the British Empire
merely a dream?
_Answer._ Scarcely, since the matter has attracted the attention of
Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, who is hardly a visionary.
_Q._ Has public opinion anent the question seen any change of late?
_A._ Distinctly. The idea is at this moment popular. Ten years ago,
what may now be called a dream was regarded as a nightmare.
_Q._ What is the chief difficulty in the way of Imperial Federation?
_A._ The varieties of race. A Canadian is scarcely an Australian, and
there is little in common between a Hindoo and a native of the Cape.
_Q._ But cannot much be done in the direction of merging the
cosmopolitan elements of the British Empire into one huge family by
establishing under the shadow of the Union Jack the penny post?
_A._ Such is the opinion of Mr. HENNIKER-HEATON, M.P.
_Q._ And could not free trade for the colonies, as distinguished from
protection applied to foreign countries, be successfully employed?
_A._ Such is the opinion of several Members of the Government.
_Q._ Has any other plan occurred to the patriotic statesman?
_A._ Yes; it has been believed that a general tax for the National
Defence would be a bond of union between the colonies and the mother
country.
_Q._ Does there not already exist a stronger tie than taxation?
_A._ Certainly. The Empire has a common friend, adviser, amuser, and
instructor, beloved of all the world.
_Q._ Does, then, the profound respect felt for this popular personage
keep the Empire in accord?
_A._ Unquestionably. The popular personage represents not only Britons
at home, but Britons beyond the sea.
_Q._ And where is this popular personage found?
_A._ In every part of the colonies, in India, in China, in fact,
everywhere.
_Q._ But has not this popular personage headquarters in London?
_A._ He has, at 85, Fleet Street.
* * * * *
WANTED IMMEDIATELY.--A key for the dead-lock in the shipbuilding
trade.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE COVER SIDE.
"LITTLE MR. TIMMINS EVIDENTLY THINKS THAT HAT SUITS HIM DOWN TO THE
GROUND!"
"SO IT WOULD, IF HIS EARS DIDN'T STOP IT!"]
* * * * *
CYCLING IN RUSSIA.
[The only lady-cyclist in St. Petersburg has lately met with
an accident, and is now in hospital. The police will issue no
more permits to women.]
Fair _Bárinya_, why did you go and tumble off your wheel?
Your sad mishap has roused VON WAHL'S and all his minions' zeal--
He vows that ladies now no more shall ride their horse of steel!
What was it that upset you? Was it, pray, the great _Prospékt_,
With those six-sided wooden blocks that here and there project,
Or else its three-mile tram-line, where your giddy "_sveeft_" was
wrecked?
Or were you racing,'gainst the rules, along the English Quay,
And trying to inaugurate a Russian Battersea,
Or threading the Milliónaya with over-rapid glee?
Perhaps 'twas on Yelagin Isle you were careering round,
And ran into the flower-beds or the ponds that there abound,
Or bumped against a drunk _muzhík_, that brought you to the ground.
Whate'er it was, the fact remains, your fatal lack of skill
In "Peter" future lady-bikes has stopped for good or ill--
Come over, then, to London, and enjoy your daily spill!
* * * * *
POKER CHIPS FROM THE GOLD COAST.--By rejecting Great Britain's
_ultimatum_, the King of COOMASSIE has paid his "ante." The next move
will--in all probability--be the surrender of his Ash-antee.
* * * * *
APPROPRIATE.--By what law are water rates settled? By Torren(t)s' Act.
* * * * *
A NEW TERROR IN THE LONDON STREETS.--The Policeman.
* * * * *
NAME! NAME!
The example of Mr. 'ENRY HAUTHOR JONES, in dropping the JONES and
sticking to the 'ENRY HAUTHOR, will probably be followed by Sir EDWARD
BURNE-JONES, who will henceforth figure as Sir EDWARD BURN. Pity this
idea never occurred to the renowned architect, INIGO JONES. How much
nobler to remain in the annals of your country simply as "INIGO."
Isn't "JONES" a Welsh name? Will Cambria disown JONES? Oh, let the
dramatist pause before it be too late. 'Tis true that "a JONES by any
other name will write as well," but he _has_ written well enough as
our own "'ENRY HAUTHOR," and we beseech him to spare his family tree,
not to lop off a single bough, and to remain JONES till the last
act is over, and the curtain descends to general applause. We can
understand an author of the name of "DAM" changing his name, or
altering it to "GRANDAM," but that JONES, successful, jubilant JONES,
should do this thing! Nay, by our halidom! Let us give H. A. J. our
own immortal advice, which applies as well to a person about to change
his name as to a person about to marry--"_Don't!_"
* * * * *
Minor Critic on Minor Poet.
This Minor Poet is an ass,
As is the common way of them.
They're "fleshly," and "all flesh is grass";
And--that's why we "make hay of them"!
* * * * *
ON LORD SALISBURY'S MEMORABLE SPEECH AT THE LORD MAYOR'S BANQUET,
NOVEMBER 9.--"Hope told a flattering tale."--_Old Song._
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE IN THE CITY (ADAPTED BY EX-LORD MAYOR RENALS).--"Let us
hear BARNATO speak of this."--_Hamlet_, Act I., Sc. 1.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Mr. PUNCH is obviously not the most fitting person to review his own
history. It has been enough for him during the last fifty-four years
to make it. But a word must be said in these columns of _The History
of Punch_, just issued in a handsome volume by Messrs. CASSELL &
CO. Through four years Mr. SPIELMANN has been engaged upon what he
indicates on every page has proved a labour of love. There was danger
that enthusiastic admiration for the subject might induce in the
author a fulsome tone that would have been fatal to the historical and
literary value of the book. Mr. SPIELMANN happily avoids that pitfall.
He is, upon occasion, sternly and, my Baronite adds, justly critical.
But it is the personal traits in his story that will most attract. In
his pages there live once more for the world, seen in the borrowed
but skilfully managed light of intimate personal acquaintance, figures
whose memories are ever enshrined in the hearts of those who still
from week to week gather round the old "Mahogany Tree." MARK LEMON,
SHIRLEY BROOKS, TOM TAYLOR, LEECH, KEENE, DOUGLAS JERROLD, The
PROFESSOR, TOM HOOD, THACKERAY, DICKY DOYLE, WILLIAM BRADBURY, G. A.
À BECKETT and, a generation later, his gifted son GIL--all, all
are gone, the once familiar faces. They are met with again in Mr.
SPIELMANN'S book, the pen and pencil sketches illustrated by admirably
reproduced contemporary portraits. The inner history of _Punch_ is
a subject that has ever had a fascination for the British public.
Attempts, more or less futile, to gratify the desired acquaintance
have been made at various times through the last thirty years. Mr.
SPIELMANN has not only brought singular aptitude to the task assigned
to himself, but has had the advantage of the cordial assistance
of divers men having personal knowledge of events they record
and personages of whom they speak. _Mr. Punch_ desires to add his
testimony to the general approval the _History_ has received by the
voice of the Press. The work, full of difficulty and not without
delicacy, is thoroughly well done. Looking at himself in the mirror
held up by Mr. SPIELMANN, _Mr. Punch_ finds no flaw in the glass.
My Baronite would not advise those about to travel to take passage
by any ship, whithersoever bound, of the start whereof CLARK RUSSELL
knows anything. His cruisers mostly set out in fine weather, with
swelling breeze, in the full sunshine of circumstance. Then comes a
hitch, and there follow the most blood-curdling adventures that ever
happened since men first began to go down to do business in the great
waters. The marvel of it is that Mr. RUSSELL'S imagination never
flags, nor is he ever at loss for those minute details which,
skilfully and artistically piled up, go to make a living picture.
_Heart of Oak_, his last work, just published by CHATTO AND WINDUS, is
worthy to take its place in the matchless roll of his sea stories.
Of living writers Mr. RUSSELL, alike in style and method, most nearly
approaches the classic standard of DEFOE. In his last work he has
captured the stormy seas south of Cape Horn, brings home their
turmoil, their snow squalls, their icebergs, and a general sense of
their desolation to the gentleman of England who sits at home at ease.
That historic person's opportunity of making acquaintance with those
interesting parts is decidedly more agreeable and, under Mr. CLARK
RUSSELL'S guidance, is scarcely less informing than a voyage in the
_Lady Emma_, a vessel of six hundred tons, which was the sad fate of
the principal characters in this thrilling story.
The Baron feels it incumbent upon him to correct a statement in Mr. T.
H. S. ESCOTT'S most readable and interesting work, entitled _Platform,
Press, Politics, and Play_, which, if allowed to go uncontradicted,
would thereby allow a great error to creep into University and
Dramatic History. Mr. ESCOTT says that the late Mr. ALFRED THOMPSON
"had, together with several others, been one of the A. D. C.'s
founders at Cambridge." This is not so; Mr. ALFRED THOMPSON had taken
his degree, and "gone down," some four years before the A. D. C. was
founded; _vide_ preface to _Personal Reminiscences of the A. D. C._,
first paragraph, and also p. xi. of the same. Mr. ESCOTT is a most
entertaining companion, as is also Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, whose profession
was for years "entertaining," and who wrote such songs as the world
will not willingly let die. "_Woodman Spare that Tree_" is one of
them. The RUSSELL Reminiscences (published by MACQUEEN, in one volume,
entitled "_Cheer, Boys, Cheer!_") the Baron must take leave to correct
on one point. HENRY RUSSELL alludes to "that distinguished _Punch_
trio, DOUGLAS JERROLD, MARK LEMON, and GEORGE CRUIKSHANK." The last
mentioned was never "on _Punch_." He was a great friend of MARK
LEMON'S, but never drew for _Mr. Punch_.
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
P.S.--_Phil May's Winter Annual_ is in brilliant bloom. Though coming
out in the cold, bleak season, the touch of May is in every picture.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WHAT! AN ACTRESS WITHOUT SHOES OR STOCKINGS! I NEVER
HEARD OF SUCH A THING! I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT PEOPLE WOULD SAY IF
_I_ WERE TO GO FLAUNTING ABOUT ON THE STAGE WITH BARE FEET!"]
* * * * *
ANTI-BICYCLIST MOTTO.--Rather a year of Europe than a cycle of to-day.
* * * * *
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
PRESS-GANG, TO THE REAR!--A delicious "exchange of views" took place
at the election of Dungarvan Commissioners. Mr. RYAN is a gentleman
who deprecates publicity. He observed:--
My heart is full of gratitude to you, and we will work hand
in hand. Scribblers must take a back seat. (_Laughter._)
No "terrible scenes" will take place here. I saw Dungarvan
placarded in London, "terrible scenes at Dungarvan," and all
the disgrace is brought on the town by one man, who, for a few
shillings--and if it cost me my life I will put it down.
Woe to the man who will continue to do it here. I saw him a
pot-boy at the Monks' school, and I say----
_Mr. O'Shea._ If you refer to me, Mr. RYAN, the people of
Dungarvan know me better and respect me better than they do
you. I am better off than you. You have only a few shillings a
week for minding the shop.
_Mr. Ryan._ You are lying, Sir.
The Board broke up in disorder.
* * * * *
"Our 'scenes' to publish far and wide
Denotes a lack of local pride;
These scribblers I can _not_ abide"--
Said RYAN of Dungarvan.
"Discord I hate--so I declare
My friend and colleague on that chair
Once did the alehouse tankards bear"--
Sneered RYAN of Dungarvan.
"Mild language, too, I greatly prize;
If any one this fact denies
I must remark he foully lies"--
Roared RYAN of Dungarvan.
* * * * *
O MORES!--Farewell to the adjective _gallant_ as a prefix to "little
Wales," for no longer can it justly be used in such conjunction! The
_British Lady Football Club_ gave an exhibition game in Cardiff, and
the inhabitants, says the _South Wales Daily News_, gathered in
their thousands to witness the display, in which they were intensely
interested. But--_horribile dictu_--whenever a fair _footeress_ "came
a cropper, the crowd, _of course, shouted with glee"!_ _Of course!_
When a recreant male sustains a fall, what expressions of tender
solicitude burst from the sympathetic lady-spectator's lips! And this
her reward! If any of our Gallic neighbours had been present at the
match to hear those rude, derisive "_shouts of glee_," their comment,
most probably, would have been--
"Gallois--mais pas galant!"
* * * * *
INJURED INNOCENCE.--A Bristol paper lately suggested that possibly
some local butcher might have bought some of the thousands of sheep
brought from Montreal in the _Memphis_ steamship. The very idea of
such a thing has scandalised the local trade, and a butcher wrote to
repel the vile aspersion. The paper says:--
It is refreshing to hear from this subscriber in the trade
that, after trying it once some years ago, he has never had a
bit of foreign meat in his shop since. We are afraid we must
not give his name, though he is one of the best known butchers
in Bristol.
This is excellent. Why should not local bodies everywhere give prizes
to butchers who sell no foreign meat? It would be protection, somebody
objects? Yes, it would be rank protection to the meat-consumer, and as
such it is never likely to be adopted.
* * * * *
MANSION HOUSE MEM.--If the late Lord Mayor's example of entertaining
as shown in the BARNATO Banquet is to be followed, the guests on such
occasions will be known as "The latest copy of 'RENALS' Miscellany.'"
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note
^ represents a superscript.
= = represents bold script
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
109, 16th November, 1895, by Various
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