The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 101,
October 31, 1891, by Various
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Title: Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 101, October 31, 1891
Author: Various
Editor: Francis Burnand
Release Date: March 23, 2005 [EBook #15442]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***
Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 101.
October 31, 1891.
YOUNG GRANDOLPH'S BARTY.
(_Afrikander Version of the great Breitmann Ballad, penned, "more
in sorrow than in anger," by a "Deutscher" resident in the distant
regions where the Correspondent of the "Daily Graphic" is, like der
Herr Breitmann himself, "drafellin' apout like eferydings._")
[Illustration: (Y)]
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty--
Vhere is dat Barty now?
He fell'd in luf mit der African goldt;
Mit SOLLY he'd hat a row;
He dinks dat his secession
Would make der resht look plue,
But, before he drafel vast and var,
His Barty sphlit in two.
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty--
Dere vash B-LF-R, W-LFF, and G-RST,
Dey haf vorgot deir "Leater,"
Und dat ish not deir vorst.
B-LF-R vill "boss" der Commons,
Vhile GRANDOLPH--sore disgraced--
Ish "oop a tree," like der Bumble Bee,
Und W-LFF and G-RST are "placed."
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty--
Vhen he dat Barty led,
B-LF-R vash but a "Bummer,"
A loafing lollop-head.
Young Tories schvore by GRANDOLPH,
(Dey schvear _at_ GRANDOLPH now,)
Now at de feet of der "lank æsthete"
Der _Times_ itshelf doth bow!
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
Dere all vash "Souse und Brouse."[1]
Now he hets not dat prave gompany
All in der Commons House,
To see _him_ skywgle GL-DST-NE,
Und schlog him on der kop.
Young Tory bloods no longer shout
Till der SCHPEAKER bids dem shtop.
Und, like dat Rhine Mermaiden
"Vot hadn't got nodings on,"
Dey "don't dink mooch of beoplesh
Vat goes mit demselfs alone!"
Young GRANDOLPH _hat_ a Barty--
Where ish dat Barty now?
Where ish dat oder ARTHUR's song
Vot darkened der Champerlain's prow?
Where ish de himmelstrahlende stern,
De shtar of der Tory fight?
All gon'd afay, as on Woodcock's wing,
Afay in de ewigkeit!
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty;
He hunt der lions now,
All in der lone Mashonaland,
But he does not "score"--somehow.
One Grand Old Lion he dared to peard,
Und he "potted" Earls and Dukes,
But eight or nine real lions at once,
He thinks are "_trop de luxe_"
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
But he scooted 'cross der sea,
Und he tidn't say to dem, "Come, my poys,
Und drafel along mit me!"
[Footnote 1: _Saus und Braus_--Ger., Riot and Bustle.]
* * * * *
"CORRECT CARD, GENTS!"--"Wanted a Map of London" was the heading of
a letter in the _Times_ last Thursday. No, Sir! that's not what is
wanted. There are hundreds of 'em, specially seductive pocket ones,
with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short cuts
to great centres carefully omitted. What _is_ wanted is a _correct_
map of London, divided into pocketable sections, portable, foldable,
durable, on canvas,--but if imperfect, as so many of these small
pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly
brought up to date '91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase
one is a waste of time, temper and money. We could mention an
attractive-looking little map--which, but no-- Publishers and public
are hereby cautioned! N.B.--Test well your pocket map through a
magnifying glass before buying. _Experto crede!_
* * * * *
OYSTERLESS.
(_BY AN IMPECUNIOUS GOURMET_.)
[Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season
advances, to be still higher in price.]
[Illustration]
Oh, Oyster mine! Oh, Oyster mine!
You're still as exquisitely nice;
With perfect pearly tints you shine,
But you are such an awful price.
The lemon and the fresh cayenne,
Brown bread and butter and the stout
Are here, and just the same, but then
What if I have to leave you out?
What wonder that my spirits droop,
That life can bring me no delight,
When I must give up oyster soup,
So softly delicately white.
The curry powder stands anear,
The scallop shells, but what care I--
You're so abominably dear,
O Oyster! that I cannot buy.
With sad imaginative flights,
I think upon the days of yore;
Like TICKLER, on Ambrosian nights,
I have consumed them by the score.
And still, whenever you appeared,
My pride it was to use you well;
I let the juice play round your beard,
And always on the hollow shell.
I placed you in the fair lark-pie.
With steak and kidneys too, of course;
Your ancestors were glad to die,
So well I made the oyster sauce.
I had you stewed and featly fried,
And dipped in batter--think of that;
And, as a pleasant change, I've tried
You, skewered in rows, with bacon-fat.
"Where art thou, ALICE?" cried the bard.
"Where art thou, Oyster?" I exclaim.
It really is extremely hard,
To know thee nothing but a name.
For this is surely torment worse
Than DANTE heaped upon his dead;--
To find thee quite beyond my purse,
And so go oysterless to bed.
* * * * *
_À PROPOS_ OF THE SECRETARY FOR WAR'S ROSEATE AFTER--DINNER
SPEECH (_on the entirely satisfactory state of the Army
generally_).--(STAN-)"HOPE told a flattering tale."
* * * * *
UNIVERSITY MEM.--The Dean of Christ Church will keep his seat till
Christmas, and just a LIDDELL longer.
* * * * *
THE RAVEN.
(_Very Latest War-Office Version. See Mr. Stanhope's After-Dinner
Speech at the Holborn Restaurant (Oct. 17), and Letter in "Times"
(Oct. 21) on "Pangloss at the War Office."_)
[Illustration]
_Secretarial Pangloss sings:_--
Late, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired but cheery,
Over many an optimistic record of War Office lore;
Whilst I worked, assorting, mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone rudely rapping, rapping at my Office-door.
"Some late messenger," I muttered, "tapping at my Office-door--
Only this, but it's a bore."
I remember--being sober--it was in the chill October,
Light from the electric globe or horseshoe lighted wall and floor;
Also that it was the morrow of the Holborn Banquet; sorrow
From the Blue Books croakers borrow--sorrow for the days of yore,
For the days when "_Rule Britannia_" sounded far o'er sea and shore.
Ah! it _must_ have been a bore!
But on that let's draw the curtain. I am simply cock-sure--certain
That "our splendid little Army" never was so fine before.
It will take a lot of beating! Such remarks I keep repeating;
They come handy--after eating, and are always sure to score--
Dash that rapping chap entreating entrance at my Office-door!
It is an infernal bore!
Presently I grew more placid (Optimists should not be acid.)
"Come in!" I exclaimed--"con_found_ you! Pray stand drumming there
no more."
But the donkey still kept tapping. "Dolt!" I muttered, sharply
snapping,
"Why the deuce do you come rapping, rapping at my Office-door?
Yet not 'enter' when you're told to?"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Open next I flung the shutter, when, with a prodigious flutter,
In there stepped a bumptious Raven, black as any blackamoor.
Not the least obeisance made he, not a moment stopped or stayed he,
But with scornful look, though shady, perched above my Office-door,
Perched upon BRITANNIA's bust that stood above my Office-door--
Perched, and sat, and seemed to snore.
"Well," I said, sardonic smiling, "this is really rather riling;
"It comports not with decorum such as the War Office bore
In old days stiff and clean-shaven. Dub me a Gladstonian craven
If I ever saw a Raven at the W.O. before.
Tell me what your blessed name is. '_Rule Britannia_' held of yore,"
Quoth the bird, "'Tis so no more!"
Much I marvelled this sophistic fowl to utter pessimistic
Fustian, which so little meaning--little relevancy bore
To the rule of me and SOLLY; but, although it may sound folly,
This strange fowl a strange resemblance to "Our Only General" wore,
To the W-LS-L-Y whose pretensions to sound military lore
Are becoming quite a bore.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that much-peeled bust, spake only
Of our Army as a makeshift, small, ill-manned, and precious poor.
Drat the pessimistic bird!--he grumbled of "the hurdy-gurdy
Marching-past side of a soldier's life in peace." "We've fought
before,
Winning battles with boy-troops," I cried, "We'll do as we before--"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
"Nonsense!" said I. "After dinner at the Holborn, as a winner
Spake I in the _Pangloss_ spirit to the taxpayers, (_Don't_ snore!)
Told them our recruits--who'll master e'en unmerciful disaster,
Come in fast and come in faster, quite as good as those of yore,"--
"Flattering tales of (Stan) Hope!" cried the bird, whose dismal
dirges bore,
One dark burden--"Nevermore!"
"Hang it, Raven, this _is_ riling!" cried I. "Stop your rude
reviling!"
Then I wheeled my office-chair in front of bird and bust and door;
And upon its cushion sinking, "I," I said, "will smash like winking
This impeachment you are bringing, O you ominous bird of yore,
O you grim, ungainly, ghastly, grumbling, gruesome feathered bore!"
Croaked the Raven, "You I'll floor."
Then methought the bird looked denser, and his cheek became
immenser.
And he twaddled of VON MOLTKE, and his German Army Corps;
"Flattering the tax-payers' vanity," and much similar insanity,
In a style that lacked urbanity, till the thing became a bore.
"Oh, get out of it!" I cried; "our little Army yet will score."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "of all evil, that we're 'going to the devil'
Has been the old croaker's gospel for a century, and more.
Red-gilled Colonels this have chaunted in BRITTANIA's ears
undaunted,
By their ghosts you must he haunted. Take a Blue-pill, I implore!
When our Army meets the foe it's bound to lick him as of yore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!
"Prophet!" said I, "that's uncivil. You may go to--well, the devil!
That Establishments are 'short,' and 'standards' lowered o'er and
o'er.
That mere 'weeds,' with chests of maiden, cannot march with
knapsack laden;
That the heat of sultry Aden, or the cold of Labrador,
Such can't stand, _may_ be the truth; but keep it dark, bird, I
implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
"Then excuse me, we'll be parting, doleful fowl," I cried,
upstarting;
"Get thee back to--the Red River, or the Nile's sand-cumbered shore!
Leave no 'Magazine' as token of the twaddle you have spoken.
What? BRITANNIA stoney-broken? Quit her bust above my door.
Take thy hook from the War Office; take thy beak from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
And the Raven still is sitting, croaking statements most unfitting,
On BRITANNIA's much-peeled bust that's placed above my Office-door,
And if _Pangloss_, e'en in seeming, lent an ear to his dark
dreaming,
Useless were official scheming, grants of millions by the score,
For my soul were like the shadow that he casts upon the floor,
Dark and dismal evermore!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.
_Aunt Jane_. "THAT MAKES THREE WEDDINGS IN OUR FAMILY WITHIN A
TWELVEMONTH! IT WILL BE _YOUR_ TURN NEXT, MATILDA!"
_Matilda_. "OH, NO!"
_Aunt Jane_. "WELL, THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY THINGS HAPPEN SOMETIMES,
YOU KNOW!"]
* * * * *
TUPPER'S PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY UP TO DATE.
["The range of our inquiry was intended to include the whole
migratory range for seals.... Our movements were kept most
secret."--_Sir George Baden-Powell on the Work of the Behring
Sea Commission_.]
We came, we saw, we--held our tongues (myself--BADEN-POWELL--and
Mr. DAWSON.)
We popped on each seal-island "unbeknownst," and what we
discovered we held our jaws on.
We'd five hundred interviews within three months, which I think
"cuts the record" in interviewing,
Corresponded with 'Frisco, Japan, and Russia; so I hope you'll
allow we've been "up and doing."
(Not up and _saying_, be't well understood). As TUPPER (the
Honourable C.H., Minister
Of Fisheries) said, in the style of his namesake, "The fool
imagines all Silence is sinister,
"But the wise man knows that it's often dexterous." Be sure no
inquisitive shyness or bounce'll
Make us "too previous" with our Report, which goes first to the
QUEEN and the Privy Council.
Some bigwig's motto is, "Say and Seal," but as TUPPER remarked a
forefinger laying
To the dexter side of a fine proboscis, "Our motto at present is,
Seal _without_ saying!"
* * * * *
LEGAL QUERY.--The oldest of the thirteen Judges on the Scotch Bench is
YOUNG. Any chance for a Junior after this?
* * * * *
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
NO. XII.
SCENE--_In front of the Hôtel Bodenhaus at Splügen. The
Diligence for Bellinzona is having its team attached. An
elderly Englishwoman is sitting on her trunk, trying to run
through the last hundred pages of a novel from the Hotel
Library before her departure. PODBURY is in the Hotel,
negotiating for sandwiches. CULCHARD is practising his
Italian upon a very dingy gentleman in smoked spectacles, with
a shawl round his throat._
_The Dingy Italian_ (_suddenly discovering CULCHARD's nationality_).
Ecco, siete Inglese! Lat us spika Ingelis, I onnerstan' 'im to ze
bottom-side. (_Laboriously, to CULCHARD, who tries to conceal his
chagrin._) 'Ow menni time you employ to go since Coire at here? (C.
_nods with vague encouragement_.) Vich manners of vezzer you vere
possess troo your travels--mosh ommerella? (C.'s _eyes grow vacant_.)
Ha, I _tink_ it vood! Zis day ze vicket root sall 'ave plenti 'orse
to pull, &c., &c. (_Here PODBURY comes up, and puts some rugs the_
coupé _of the diligence._) You sit at ze beginning-end, hey? better,
you tink, zan ze mizzle? I too, zen, sall ride at ze front--we vill
spika Ingelis, altro!
_Podb._ (_overhearing this, with horror_). One minute, CULCHARD. (_He
draws him aside._) I say, for goodness' sake, don't let's have that
old organ-grinding Johnny in the _coupé_ with _us_!
_Culch._ Organ-grinder! you are so _very_ insular! For anything you
can tell, he may be a decayed nobleman.
_Pod._ (_coarsely_). Well, let him decay somewhere else, that's all!
Just tell the Conductor to shove him in the _intérieur_, do, while I
nip in the _coupé_ and keep our places.
[Illustration: "An elderly Englishwoman is sitting on her trunk."]
[_CULCHARD, on reflection, adopts this suggestion, and the
Italian Gentleman, after fluttering feebly about the_ coupé
_door, is unceremoniously bundled by the Conductor into the
hinder part of the diligence._
_IN THE BERNARDINO PASS, DURING THE ASCENT._
_Culch._ Glorious view one gets at each fresh turn of the road,
PODBURY! Look at Hinter-rhein, far down below there, like a toy
village, and that vast desolate valley, with the grey river rushing
through it, and the green glacier at the end, and these awful
snow-covered peaks all round--_look_, man!
_Podb._ I'm looking, old chap. It's all there, right enough!
_Culch._ (_vexed_). It doesn't seem to be making any particular
impression on you, I must say!
_Podb._ It's making me deuced peckish, I know that--how about lunch,
eh!
_Culch._ (_pained_). We are going through scenery like this, and all
you think of is--lunch! (_PODBURY opens a basket._) You may give me
one of those sandwiches. What made you get _veal_? and the bread's
all crust, too! Thanks, I'll take some claret.... (_They lunch; the
vehicle meanwhile toils up to the head of the Pass._) Dear me, we're
at the top already! These rocks shut out the valley altogether--much
colder at this height, eh? Don't you find this keen air most
exhilarating?
_Podb._ (_shivering_). Oh very, do you mind putting your window up?
Thanks. You seem uncommon chirpy to-day. Beginning to get _over_ it,
eh?
_Culch._ We shan't get over it for some hours yet.
_Podb._ I didn't mean the Pass, I meant--(_hesitating_)--well, your
little affair with Miss PRENDERGAST, you know.
_Culch._ My little affair? Get over? (_He suddenly understands._) Oh,
ah, to be sure. Yes, thank you, my dear fellow, it is not making me
_particularly_ unhappy. [_He goes into a fit of silent laughter._
_Podb._ Glad to hear it. (_To himself_.) 'Jove, if he only knew what
_I_ know! [_He chuckles._
_Culch._ You don't appear to be exactly heartbroken?
_Podb._ I? why _should_ I be--about _what_?
_Culch._ (_with an affectation of reserve_). Exactly, I was
forgetting. (_To himself_.) It's really rather humorous. (_He laughs
again._) Ha, we're beginning to go down now. Hey for Italy--la bella
Italia! (_The diligence takes the first curve._) Good Heavens, what a
turn! We're going at rather a sharp pace for downhill, eh? I suppose
these Swiss drivers know what they're about, though.
_Podb._ Oh, yes, generally--when they're not drunk. I can only see
this fellow's boots--but they look to me a trifle squiffy.
_Culch._ (_inspecting them, anxiously_). He does seem to drive
very recklessly. _Look_ at those leaders--heading right for the
precipice.... Ah, just saved it! How we do lurch in swinging round!
_Podb._ Topheavy--I expect, too much luggage on board--have another
sandwich?
_Culch._ Not for me, thanks. I say, I wonder if it's safe, having no
parapet, only these stone posts, eh?
_Pod._ Safe enough--unless the wheel catches one--it was as near as a
toucher just then--aren't you going to smoke? No? _I_ am. By the way,
what were you so amused about just now, eh?
_Culch._ _Was_ I amused? (_The vehicle gives another tremendous
lurch._) Really, this is _too_ horrible!
_Podb._ (_with secret enjoyment_). We're right enough, if the horses
don't happen to stumble. That off-leader isn't over sure-footed--did
you see _that_? (_Culch. shudders._) But what's the joke about Miss
PRENDERGAST?
_Culch._ (_irritably_). Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't bother about that
_now_. I've something else to think about. My goodness, we were nearly
over that time! What are you looking at?
_Podb._ (_who has been leaning forward_). Only one of the
traces--they've done it up with a penny ball of string, but I daresay
it will stand the strain. You aren't _half_ enjoying the view, old
fellow.
_Culch._ Yes, I am. Magnificent!--glorious!--isn't it?
_Podb._ Find you see it better with your eyes shut? But I say, I wish
you'd explain what you were sniggering at.
_Culch._ Take my advice, and don't press me, my dear fellow; you may
regret it if you do!
_Podb._ I'll risk it. It must be a devilish funny joke to tickle you
like that. Come, out with it!
_Culch._ Well, if you must know, I was laughing.... Oh, he'll _never_
get those horses round in.... I was--er--rather amused by your evident
assumption that I must have been _rejected_ by Miss PRENDERGAST.
_Podb._ Oh, was _that_ it? And you're nothing of the kind, eh? [_He
chuckles again._
_Culch._ (_with dignity_). No doubt you will find it very singular;
but, as a matter of fact, she--well, she most certainly did not
_discourage_ my pretensions.
_Podb._ The deuce she didn't! Did she tell you RUSKIN's ideas about
courtship being a probation, and ask you if you were ready to be under
vow for her, by any chance?
_Culch._ This is too bad, PODBURY; you must have been there, or you
couldn't possibly know!
_Podb._ Much obliged, I'm sure. I don't listen behind doors, as a
general thing. I suppose, now, she set you a trial of some kind, to
prove your mettle, eh? [_With another chuckle._
_Culch._ (_furiously_). Take care--or I may tell you more than you
bargain for!
_Podb._ Go on--never mind _me_. Bless you, _I'm_ under vow for her,
too, my dear boy. Fact!
_Culch._ That's impossible, and I can prove it. The service she
demanded was, that I should leave Constance at once--with you. Do you
understand--with _you_, PODBURY!
_Podb._ (_with a prolonged whistle_). My aunt!
_Culch._ (_severely_). You may invoke every female relative you
possess in the world, but it won't alter the fact, and that alone
ought to convince you--
_Podb._ Hold on a bit. Wait till you've heard _my_ penance. She told
me to cart _you_ off, _Now_, then!
_Culch._ (_faintly_). If I thought she'd been trifling with us both
like that, I'd never--
_Podb._ She's no end of a clever girl, you know. And, after all, she
may only have wanted time to make up her mind.
_Culch._ (_violently_). I tell you _what_ she is--she's a cold-blooded
pedantic prig, and a systematic flirt! I loathe and detest a prig, but
a flirt I despise--yes, _despise_, PODBURY!
_Podb._ (_with only apparent irrelevance_). The same to you, and many
of 'em, old chap! Hullo, we're going to stop at this inn. Let's get
out and stretch our legs and have some coffee.
[_They do; on returning, they find the Italian Gentleman
smiling blandly at them from inside the_ coupé.
_The It. G._ Goodaby, dear frens, a riverderla! I success at your
chairs. I vish you a pleasure's delay!
_Podb._ But I say, look here, Sir, we're going on, and you've got our
place!
_The It. G._ Sank you verri moch. I 'ope so. [_He blows_ PODBURY _a
kiss._
_Podb._ (_with intense disgust_). How on earth are we going to get
that beggar out? Set the Conductor at him, CULCHARD, do--you can talk
the lingo best!
_Culch._ (_who has had enough of_ PODBURY _for the present_). Talk to
him yourself, my dear fellow, _I_'m not going to make a row. [_He gets
in._
_Podb._ (_to Conductor_). Hi! sprechen sie Französisch, oder was?
_il-y-a quelque chose dans mon siège, dites-lui de_--what the deuce is
the French for "clear out"?
_Cond._ _Montez, Monsieur, nous bartons, montez vîte alors!_
[_He thrusts PODBURY, protesting vainly, into the intérieur,
with two peasants, a priest and the elderly Englishwoman. The
diligence starts again._
* * * * *
AT THE ITALIAN OPERA.
[Illustration: Two (Covent Garden) Gentlemen of Verona!!]
[Illustration: Exit Romeo by the Rope Ladder,--a shrewd guess at what
really happens.]
_Tuesday, October 20th_.--Opening night. _Roméo et Juliette; débuts_
of Mlle. SIMMONET, of the Opera Comique, and M. COSSIRA, as the
lovers. _Lady Capulet's_ Small Dance, quite the smartest of the
season, as the Veronese nobility present were evidently remarking,
with abundance of easy gesture, to one another, as they led the way to
the lemonade. The _Juliette_ of the evening charming, and soon singing
herself into the good graces of a large audience; ditto, M. COSSIRA,
"than which," as the Prophet NICHOLAS would say, "a more competent
_Roméo_--though perhaps a trifle full in the waist for balcony-scaling
by moonlight." If he had really trusted himself to that gossamer
ladder in the Fourth Act, he would never have got away to Mantua,
especially as _Juliette_, with the thoughtlessness of her age and sex,
omitted to secure it in any way. Fortunately it was not a long drop,
and the descent was accomplished without accident, as will be seen
from the accompanying sketch.
* * * * *
CHANGE FOR A TENOR.--Mr. SEYMOUR HADEN, the opponent of the Cremation
gospel according to THOMPSON (Sir HENRY of that ilk), should come to
an arrangement with the English Light Opera tenor, and tack COFFIN on
to his name.
* * * * *
ONLY FANCY!
(_FROM MR. PUNCH'S OWN RUMOURISTS._)
It may be interesting at this time of the year to mention the fact
that Lord SALISBURY always uses a poker in cracking walnuts. He says
it saves the silver. The other day, whilst wielding the poker across
the walnuts and the wine, Mr. GLADSTONE chanced to look in. The
Premier, with his well-known hospitality, immediately furnished
the Right Hon. Gentleman with another poker (brought in from the
drawing-room), and ordered up a fresh supply of nuts.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Mr. GLADSTONE, recurring in private conversation to a recent visit
paid by him to Lord SALISBURY in Arlington Street, questioned the
convenience of a poker as an instrument for shattering the shell of
the walnut. For himself, he says, he has always found a pair of tongs
more convenient.
* * * * *
The Marquis of HARTINGTON, to whom this remark was reported,
observed that as a dissentient Liberal he naturally differed from Mr.
GLADSTONE, and was not to the fullest extent able to agree with his
noble friend, the Marquis of SALISBURY. For his own part, he found
the most convenient way of cracking a walnut was deftly to place the
article in the interstice of the dining-room door, and gently close
it. He found this plan combined with its original purpose a gentle
exercise on the part of the guests highly conducive to digestion.
* * * * *
Two hours later, the Leader of the Opposition was seen walking up
Arlington Street, and on reaching Piccadilly, he hailed an omnibus,
observing the precaution before entering of requiring the conductor to
produce the scale of charges. "No pirate busses for _me_," the Right
Hon. Member remarked, as (omitting the oath) he took his seat.
* * * * *
It is no secret in official circles that before the vacancy in the
office of Postmaster-General was filled, it was placed at the disposal
of the BARON BE BOOK-WORMS. Upon Sir JAMES FERGUSSON stepping in, the
PRIME MINISTER was urgently desirous to have the collaboration of
the noble BARON at the Foreign Office. But, somehow, the post of
Under-Secretary vacated by Sir JAMES was assigned to Mr. WILLIAM JAMES
LOWTHER.
* * * * *
We are authorised to state that His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of
GERMANY, feeling the need of a little change, has resolved to stay at
home for a fortnight.
* * * * *
We are in a position to state that just prior to the General Election
of 1880, Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was observed standing before a cheval glass,
alternatively fixing his eyeglass in the right eye and in the left.
Asked why he should thus quaintly occupy his leisure moments, he
replied: "It is in view of the General Election. If on the platform
any person in the crowd poses you with an awkward question, should you
be able rapidly to transfer your eyeglass from your right eye to your
left, and fix the obtruder with a stony stare, he is so much engaged
in wondering whether you can keep the glass in position, that he
forgets what he asked you, and you can pass on to less dangerous
topics."
* * * * *
When Mr. SCHOMBERG McDONNELL informed his chief that Lord RANDOLPH
CHURCHILL had "come upon eight lions," Lord SALISBURY sighed and
remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he said, "How different
had the eight lions come upon him!"
* * * * *
Mr. GLADSTONE has backed himself to walk a mile, talk a mile, write a
mile, review a mile, disestablish a mile, chop a mile and hop a mile
in one hour. Sporting circles are much interested in the veteran
statesman's undertaking, and little else is talked about at the chief
West End resorts. The general opinion of those who ought to know seems
to be in favour of the scythe-bearer, but not a few have invested a
pound or two on the Mid-Lothian Marvel.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRUE LITERARY EXCLUSIVENESS.
"_WHAT_, MY DEAR REGINALD! YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY YOU DON'T ADMIRE
BYRON AS A POET?"
"CERTAINLY NOT. INDEED I HAVE A QUITE SPECIAL LOATHING AND CONTEMPT
FOR HIM IN THAT PARTICULAR CHARACTAH!"
"DEAR ME! WHY, WHAT PARTICULAR POEMS OF HIS DO YOU OBJECT TO SO
STRONGLY?"
"MY DEAH GRANDMOTHAH, I NEVAH READ A LINE OF BYRON IN MY LIFE,--AND I
CERTAINLY NEVAH MEAN TO!"]
* * * * *
TRYING IT ON.
["The natural result of a _rapprochement_ between Russia and
Italy, even if avowedly platonic in its character, would be
to weaken the prestige and moral force of the Triple
Alliance."--_The Times_.]
_Mr. Bruin loquitur_:--
_Pst!_ Hang it, quite _au mieux!_ Now what am I to do?
I must draw her attention, if I'm going to have a chance.
She seems so satisfied with those gallants at her side
That just now in my direction she will hardly deign a glance.
_Pst!_ Darling, just a word!
No! Deaf as any post! It is perfectly absurd!
_Pst!_ Heeds me not the least, just as though I were the Beast,
And she the sovereign Beauty that she deems she is, no doubt.
Since she won those burly _beaux_, it appears to be no go,
But Bruin's an old Masher, and he knows what he's about.
_Pst!_ Darling, look this way!
In your pretty little ear I've a word or two to say!
The coy Gallic girl I've won. It is really awful fun,
For _her_ prejudice was strong as was that of Lady ANNE
To the ugly crookback, DICK. But my wooing there was quick.
Platonic? Oh! of course. That is always Bruin's plan.
A flirtation means no harm,
When you wish not to corrupt or betray, but simply charm.
Fancy Italian girl won by the swagger twirl
Of an Austrian moustache! It is monstrous, nothing less.
What _would_ GARIBALDI say? Well, he doesn't live to-day,
Or he'd tear her from the arm of her ancient foe, I guess.
And that stalwart Teuton too!
Do you really think, my girl, he can really care for _you_?
Ah! you always were a flirt, Miss ITALIA. You have hurt
France's feelings very much. Why, she stood your faithful friend
When the hated Austrian yoke bowed your neck. Did you invoke
The pompous Prussian then your captivity to end?
_Pst!_ Just a moment, dear.
I've a word or two to say it were worth your while to hear.
Ah! A hasty glance she throws o'er her shoulder. But for those
Big, blonde, burly bullies twain, I could win her, I am sure;
For my manners all girls praise, and I have such winning ways,
And my lips, for kisses made, are for love a lasting lure.
_Pst!_ How those two stride on,
Without a glance at me! Do they think the game is won?
Hrumph! The Bear, although polite, is as pertinacious, quite,
As the tactless Teuton pig. I'll yet spoil their little game.
Triple Alliance? Fudge! If that girl is a good judge,
She will make a third with Me and my latest Gallic "flame."
_Pst!_ Come along with me,
My dark Italian _belle_! We shall make a lovely Three!
[_Left making signs._
* * * * *
ACCI-DENTAL QUERY.--Let me ask the _Patres Conscripti_ of our Academy
Royal, why Dentists are not admitted A.R.A. _ex officio_. We have all
for ever so long, since the memory of the oldest JOE MILLER, which
runneth not to the contrary, known that Dentists drew teeth. But they
nowadays add to their accomplishments by painting gums. The other day
a friend of ours had a gum beautifully painted by a Dentist-artist
in a certain Welbeck Street studio. It was a wonderful gathering; our
friend in the chair.
* * * * *
THE OLD JOE AND THE NEW.
To the humorous mind of a cynical cast,
Party change many matters for mirth affords;
But of all the big jokes, we've the biggest at last,
In CHAMBERLAIN's backing the House of Lords!
They toil not, nor spin? That's a very old jeer!
_Won't_ the Lilies take back seats when JOE is a Peer?
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRYING IT ON!
RUSSIA. "SS--S--T! (_Whispers._) I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU, MY DEAR!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "LISTEN TO MY TALE OF WOA!"
(_Not much Gaiety about it._)]
* * * * *
TO MY LORD ADDINGTON.
[Lord ADDINGTON, speaking recently at a Harvest Festival,
said, "If he were a labourer, and saw a rabbit nibbling his
cabbages, he would go for that rabbit with the first thing at
hand." (_Enthusiastic cheers._)--_Daily News_.]
[Illustration]
Lord ADDINGTON, most wonderful
Of people-pleasing peers,
You certainly contrived to raise
"Enthusiastic cheers."
The villagers come flocking in
From all the country through,
To hear Your Lordship speak his mind
And tell them what to do.
You did it well, you told them how
You'd have them understand
A lucky chance has made you own
A quantity of land.
Though very fond of shooting, yet
Your love of shooting stops
At letting rabbits have their way
At decimating crops.
And so, if you a labourer were,
(The which of course you're not),
And saw a rabbit in your ground
A-nibbling--on the spot
You'd go for him with spade or fork,
At which, so it appears,
There rang throughout the crowded room
"Enthusiastic cheers."
A Peer's advice is always good,
So doubtless they will grab it,--
_But_ no one will be happier than
The cabbage-nibbling rabbit!
* * * * *
A LITTLE STRANGER.
["At the meeting of the Bermondsey Vestry, the Medical Officer
reported that water drawn from the service-pipe of a house
in the Jamaica Road, had been submitted to him. The water was
clear, but it contained a live horse-leech."--_Daily Paper_.]
Oh, into our domestic pipes
They crawl and creep by stealth,
The gruesome creatures known unto
An Officer of Health!
Harken to him of Bermondsey,
Think what his murmurings teach,
"The water seemed quite limpid, _but_--
It did contain a Leech!"
The service-pipe was sound and good
In the Jamaica Road;
The cistern there had harboured ne'er
Microbe, or newt, or toad;
No clearer water softly laved
A coral island beach;
So thought the householder, until--
He found that awful Leech!
Perchance he was a temperance foe
To alcoholic drink,
And from all dalliance with Bung
Did scrupulously shrink.
Yet now to forms of fluid sin
He'll cotton, all and each;
He does not like such liquors, _but_--
Prefers them to a Leech!
Our pipes will not be pipes of peace
If such things hap, I trow;
And as for Water Trusts, 'tis hard
To trust in water now.
Oh, Co. of Southwark and Vauxhall,
We ratepayers beseech,
Double your filtering charges, _but_--
Remove the loathly Leech!
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
There is a judicial review of GEORGE MEREDITH's work in the
_Quarterly_ for October--masterly, too, quoth the Baron, as striking
a balance between effect and defect, and finding so much to be duly
said in high praise of the diffuse and picturesquely-circumnavigating
Novelist through whose labyrinthine pages the simple Baron finds it
hard to thread his way, and yet keep the clue. When the unskippingly
conscientious peruser of GEORGE M.'s novels is most desirous that the
author shall go ahead, GEORGE, like an Irish cardriver, will stop to
"discoorse us," and at such length, and so diffusely, and with such a
wealth of eccentric word-coming and grammar-dodging, that at last the
Baron gasps, choked by the rolling billows of sonorously booming or
boomingly sonorous words, battles with the waves, ducks, and comes
up again breathlessly, wondering where he may be, and what it was
all about. "Story! God bless you, I haven't much to tell, Sir!" says
the luxuriantly fanciful novel-grinder. And he hasn't much, it must
be owned, for essenced it would go into half a volume, or less, and
all over and above is pot-fuls of rich colour, spilt about almost at
haphazard, permutations and combinations, giving the effect of genius.
Which--genius it is; but a little of it goes a great way, in fact, a
very great way, wandering and straying until at length the Baron calls
for his _Richard Feverel_, and says, "This is the best that GEORGE
MEREDITH has written, as sure as my name is
"THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."
* * * * *
BARD V. BARD.
There was a poor Poet named CLOUGH,
Poet SWINBURNE declares he wrote stuff.
Ah, well, _he_ is dead!
'Tis the living are fed,
By log-rollers, on butter and puff.
* * * * *
A SUGGESTION.--In a new poetical play at the Opera Comique there is a
good deal of hide-and-seek. It might have had a second title, and been
appropriately called _The Queen's Room; or, Secret Passages in the
Life of Mary Stuart_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: STREET IMPROVEMENTS.
["If we really used the Thames Embankment sensibly and liberally,
it would abound with handsome shops and cheerful cafés a
and volksgartens, with newspaper kiosks and long lines of
bookstalls."--_Daily Telegraph_, Oct. 21.]]
* * * * *
BLENDIMUS!
"Water, water everywhere" in the _Times_ recently, except when Messrs.
GILBEY wrote their annual, and this time hopeful, account of the
Claret vintage, and when subsequently Messrs. "P. and G."--(who on
earth are "P. and G."?)--with a few modest lines at the foot of a
page, last Wednesday, enlivened our drooping spirits with a brief but
satisfactory account of Champagne Prospects. If the vintages of '86
and '87 are good, and those of '90 and '91 poor, why not make a blend?
and why not sell it as such? Let "P. and G."--[confound it! who on
earth can P. and G. be? "P. and J." would be "Punch and Judy"--and,
by the way, in the choice _Lingua Tuscana_, "P. and G." would stand
for "_Poncio è Giulia_." But, on the other hand, who, unauthorised,
would dare to use this signature? No matter--where were we?--ah!--to
resume.] Let "P. and G.," whoe'er they be--which is rhyme, though not
so intended--(but why this masquerade in initials?)--let them exploit
a "Blend of '90-cum-'86 and '91-cum-'87," sell it as such--viz., The
"P. and G. Blend," or "The Punchius and Giulia Blend"--at a reasonable
figure, and thus the Not-quite-up-to-the-mark vintages will be saved.
Have we not seen in City partnerships how a strong house saves a
failing one, and then the Blends go on successfully? Let "P. and G."
give us a first-rate Champagne, call it, say, The "G.B.," or "Golden
Blend," at a reasonable price, and, to drop once again into poetry, No
matter what their name may be, We'll ever bless our P. and G.![2]
[Footnote 2: "P. and G." might stand for "Pay-for-it and Get-it," or
"Pour-it and Guzzle-it." A Correspondent has suggested that solution
of the initial problem might possibly be found in the names of Pommery
and Gre'--No! So common-place a suggestion is evidently, and on the
face of it, absurd. Not in this spirit did the Pickwick Club treat the
celebrated inscription on the stone that so puzzled the antiquarians.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SPORT!
_Cockney Sportsman_ (_eager, but disappointed_). "I SAY, MY BOY, SEEN
ANY BIRDS THIS WAY?"
'_Cute Rustic (likewise anxious to make a bag)._ "OH, A RARE LOT,
GUV'NOR--A RARE LOT--JUST FLEW OVER THIS 'ERE 'EDGE, AND SETTLED IN
THAT 'ERE FIELD, CLOSE TO SQUIRE BLANK'S RICKS."
[_Grateful Cockney Sportsman tips boy a shilling, and goes hopefully
after ... a flock of Starlings!_]
* * * * *
CAUGHT BY THE CLASSICS.
(_THE RECORD OF A RUINED LIFE._)
AUGUSTUS SPARKLER was an exceptionally brilliant man. At school he
had done marvellously well, and if he did not distinguish himself at
either of the Universities, it was less his fault than his misfortune.
When he entered the world, after casting off parental control, he
took up Medicine. He was a great success. He rose by leaps and bounds,
until at length it was thought highly probable that he would be
elected President of the Royal College of Physicians. He was sounded
upon the subject, and a question was put to him.
"No," he replied, sorrowfully, and then the courteous Secretary
informed him, with tears in his voice, that he feared he was
disqualified.
"Well, I will enter the Navy."
He did. He passed through the _Britannia_, and rose by leaps and
bounds, until it was considered desirable to revive the post of Lord
High Admiral for his acceptance. But before this was done, he was
sounded upon the subject, and asked a question.
"No," he again answered, regretfully.
"I am afraid then, that the scheme must be abandoned," returned the
First Civil Lord (he had been chosen as more polite than his sea
colleagues), and he was almost moved to tears in his sadness.
"I will enter the Army," cried AUGUSTUS, with determination.
And he did. He rose from the ranks in less than no time to become a
Field Marshal. It was then that a certain Illustrious Personage asked
him if he would like to become Commander-in-Chief.
"It is not impossible I might resign in your favour," said the I.P.
And then he asked him the necessary question.
"No, Sir," returned AUGUSTUS, bowing down his head in shame. Again he
found that his career was interrupted.
"I will try the Bar," he shouted.
And he did. He entered at Gray's Inn, and in a very short time became
a Q.C., a Judge, and a Lord Justice. Then the entire Ministry begged
him, as a personal favour, to accept the post of Lord Chancellor.
"With pleasure," was his modest rejoinder. Then he remembered that he
had been asked a certain question on previous occasions, and explained
matters.
"I am afraid you won't do," cried the entire Ministry, mournfully.
"Well, then, I will try the Church."
And he tried the Church. He became an eminent divine. Every one spoke
well of him; and when, in due course, the Primacy of all England was
vacant, he was asked to accept it. Again he explained matters.
"No!" shouted all the Deans and Chapters.
"You can't mean it!" cried the entire body of Archdeacons.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed every other ecclesiastical authority.
But it could not be, and the disappointment was too much for poor
AUGUSTUS, and he died of grief.
And so they put on the tombstone, that he would have been
President of the Royal College of Physicians, Lord High Admiral,
Commander-in-Chief, Lord Chancellor, and Archbishop of Canterbury,
if--_he had only learned Greek!_
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. V.--TO GUSH.
MY DEAREST DARLING PERSON,
How sweet and amiable of you to allow a humble being like myself to
write to you. Dropping your own special style (which, to be perfectly
frank with you, I could no more continue through the whole of this
letter than I could dine off treacle and butter-scotch), I beg to say
that I am heartily glad to have this opportunity of telling you a few
things which have been on my mind for a long time. In what corner of
the great realm of abstractions do you make your home? I imagine you
whiling away the hours on some soft couch of imitation down, with a
little army of sweet but irrelevant smiles ready at all times to do
your bidding. You are refined, I am sure. You cultivate sympathy as
some men cultivate orchids, until it blooms and luxuriates in the
strangest and gaudiest shapes. Your real face is known of no other
abstraction; indeed, you never see it yourself, so well-fitted and so
constant is the mask through which you waft the endearments which have
caused you to be avoided everywhere. This, I admit, is imagination;
but is it very far from the truth? Perhaps I ask in vain, for truth
is the very last thing that may be expected of you and of those who
do your bidding upon earth. I will not, therefore, press the question,
but proceed at once to business.
[Illustration]
About a month ago I met your friend, ALGERNON JESSAMY. What is there
about ALGERNON that inspires such distrust? He is very presentable;
some people have gone so far as to call him absolutely good-looking.
He is tall, his figure is good, his clothes fit him admirably, and are
always speckless; his features are regular, his complexion fresh, and
his fair hair, carefully parted in the middle, lies like a smooth and
shining lid upon his head. I pass over all his remaining advantages,
whether of dress or of nature. It is enough to say that, thus
equipped, and with the additional merits of wealth and a good
position, ALGERNON ought to have found no difficulty in being one of
the most popular men in town. Perhaps he would have been if he had
not tried with such a persistent energy to make himself "so deuced
agreeable." The phrase is not mine, but that of SAMMY MIGGS, who has
a contempt for ALGERNON and his methods, which he never attempts to
conceal.
"ALGY, my boy," I have heard him say, while the unfortunate JESSAMY
smiled uneasily, and shifted on his seat, "ALGY, my boy, I've known
you too long to give in to any of your nonsense. All that butter of
yours is wasted here, so you'd better keep it for someone who likes
it. Try it on QUISBY," he continued, indicating the celebrated actor,
who was at that moment frowning furiously over a notice of his latest
performance; "he loves it in firkins, and I'll undertake to say you'll
never get to the bottom of his swallowing capacity. You'll have to
exhaust even your stock, ALGY, my boy; and that's saying a lot."
So thoroughly uncomfortable did the suave and gentle ALGERNON look,
that I afterwards ventured to remonstrate mildly with the gadfly
MIGGS.
"What?" he said, "made him uncomfortable, did I? And a jolly good job
too. Bless you, I know the beggar through and through. I wasn't at
Oxford with him for nothing. Wish I had been. He's the sort of chap
who loses no end of I.O.U.'s at cards one night, and when he wins
piles of ready the next never offers to redeem them. You let me
alone about ALGY. I tell you I know him. There's no bigger humbug in
Christendom with all his soft sawder and gas about everybody being the
dearest and cleverest fellow he's ever met. Bah!"
And therewith SAMMY left me, evidently smarting under some ancient
sore inflicted by the apparently angelic ALGERNON.
However, this little incident was not the one I intended to narrate.
I met ALGY, as I said, about a month ago. It was in Piccadilly. At
first, as I approached, I thought he did not see me, but suddenly
he seemed to become aware of my presence. An electric thrill of joy
ran through him, a smile of heavenly welcome irradiated his face, he
darted towards me with both hands stretched out and almost fell round
my neck before all the astonished cabmen.
"My dear, dear fellow," he gasped, apparently struggling hard with an
overpowering emotion, "this is almost too much. To think that I should
meet the one man of all others whom I have been literally longing to
see. Now you simply must walk with me for a bit. I can't afford to let
you go without having a good talk with you. It always refreshes me so
to hear your opinions of men and things."
Ignoring my assurance that I had an important appointment to keep,
he linked his arm closely in mine and dragged me with him in the
direction from which I had come. How he pattered and chattered
and flattered. He daubed me over with flattery as I have seen
bill-stickers brush a hoarding over with paste. Never in my life had
I felt so small, so mean and such a perfect fool, for though I own
I have no objection to an occasional lollipop of praise, I must say
I loathe it in lumps the size of a jelly-fish. Yet such is the fare
on which JESSAMY compels me to subsist. And the annoying part of
it was that every lump which he crammed down my throat contained
an inferential compliment to himself, which I was forced either
to accept, or in declining it to appear a churl. I was never more
churlish, never less satisfied with myself. Amongst other things we
spoke of the affairs of "The Dustheap," a little Club of which we were
both members. JESSAMY opined it was going to the dogs. "Just look,"
he said, "at the men they've got on the Committee; mere nobodies. I've
always wondered why you are not on it. Men like you and me wouldn't
make the ridiculous mistakes the present lot are constantly making.
Fancy their electing MUMPLEY, a regular outsider, without enough
manners for a school-boy. I really don't care about being in the
same room with him." At this very moment, by one of those curious
coincidences which invariably happen, the abused MUMPLEY himself, a
wealthy but otherwise inoffensive stockbroker, hove in sight. "There
comes the brute himself," said JESSAMY; and in another moment his arms
were round MUMPLEY's neck, and he was protesting, with all the fervour
of a heartfelt conviction, that MUMPLEY was the one man of all others
for whom his heart had been yearning. That being so, I left them
together, and departed to my business.
Now does JESSAMY imagine that that kind of thing makes him a
favourite? It must be admitted that he is not very artistic in his
methods; and I fancy he must sometimes perceive, if I may use a
homely phrase, that he doesn't go down. But the poor beggar can't
help himself. He is driven by a force which he finds it impossible
to resist into the cruel snares that are spread for the over-amiable.
You, my dear GUSH, are that force, and to you, therefore, the sugary
JESSAMY owes his failure to win the appreciation which he courts so
ardently.
And now I think I have relieved my mind of a sufficient load for the
time being. If I can remember anything else that might interest you,
you may count upon me to address you again. Permit me in the meantime
to subscribe myself with all proper curtness,
Yours. &c. DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
"THE PRODIGY SON."
[Illustration: Much put out.]
Sir,--I have not seen _Pamela's Prodigy_, but I have just read the
criticism in the _Times_, which says of it, "It must be regarded
either as a boyish effusion or a sorry joke." The criticism
then points out how it lacks "wit, humour, literary skill," and
apparently is wanting in everything that goes to make a successful
play,--everything that is, except the actors. Mrs. JOHN WOOD was in
it: she is a host in herself: not only a host, but the Manageress of
the theatre who, with her partner in the business, is responsible for
the selection of pieces. Now granting the critic to be right--and,
on referring to others, I find a _consensus_ of opinion backing him
up--at whose door lies the responsibility of having deliberately
selected a failure? Under what compulsion could so clever and
experienced an autocrat, sharp as a needle and with the "heye of an
'awk" in theatrical matters, as Mrs. JOHN WOOD, have made so fatal a
mistake--that is, if the critics are right, and if it be a mistake?
"_To err, is human_"--and, including even Mrs. JOHN WOOD, and the
critics, we are all human,--"_To forgive, divine_"--the critics
not being divine could not forgive; the public apparently, did
forgive--and, will, of course, forget. 'Tis all very well to fall
foul of the unhappy author--whom we will not name--_after_ the event;
but why was the piece ever chosen, and why was not the discovery of
its unfitness made during rehearsal? No! "as long as the world goes
round" these things will happen in the best regulated theatres, and
experience is apparently no sort of guide in such matters.--Yours
faithfully,
"NOT THERE, NOT THERE, MY CHILD!"
* * * * *
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 of Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume
101, October 31, 1891, by Various
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