The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103,
September 10, 1892, by Various
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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 10, 1892
Author: Various
Release Date: February 28, 2005 [EBook #15196]
Language: English
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 103.
September 10, 1892.
WHY I DON'T WRITE PLAYS.
(_FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A NOVELIST._)
Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on
the Stage.
Because Publishers are far more amiable to deal with than
Actor-Managers.
Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place--except in
Novels.
Because why waste three weeks on writing a Play, when it takes only
three years to compose a Novel?
Because Critics who send articles to Magazines inviting one to
contribute to the Stage, have no right to dictate to us.
Because a fairly successful Novel means five hundred pounds, and a
fairly successful Play yields as many thousands--why be influenced by
mercenary motives?
Because all Novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have
no time left for outside labour.
And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a Play? Because
I _have_ tried to write _one_, and find I can't quite manage it!
* * * * *
According to recent accounts, the attitude of the Salvation Army in
Canada may be fairly described as "Revolting."
* * * * *
[Illustration: EQUIVOCAL.
_Rising Young Physician_ (_who cured so many Patients in last year's
Epidemic_). "NOT MUCH CHANCE OF MORE INFLUENZA IN ENGLAND _THIS_
WINTER, I FANCY!"
_His Wife._ "LET US HOPE FOR THE BEST, DEAREST!"]
* * * * *
A DIARY OF THE DEAD SEASON.
(_SUGGESTED BY THE CONTENTS BILLS._)
_Monday._--First appearance of "the Epidemic." Good bold line with
reference to Russia. Not of sufficient importance to head the Bill,
but still distinctly taking.
_Tuesday._--Quite a feature. Centre of the Bill with sub-lines of
"Horrible Disclosures," and "Painful Scenes." Becoming a boom. To be
further developed to-morrow.
_Wednesday._--Bill all "Epidemic." Even Cricket sacrificed to make
room for it. "News from Abroad." "Horrors at Hamburg." No idea it
would turn out so well. A perfect treasure-trove at this quiet season
of the year!
_Thursday._--Nothing but "Epidemic"--"Arrival in
England"--"Precautions Everywhere." Let the boom go! It feeds itself!
Nearly as good as a foreign war!
_Friday._--Still "the Epidemic," but requires strengthening.
"Spreading in the Provinces," but still, not like it was. Falling
flat.
_Saturday._--A good sensational Murder! The very thing for the
Contents Bills. Exit "the Epidemic," until again wanted.
* * * * *
SONGS OF SOCIETY;
I.--INTRODUCTORY. TO MY LYRE.
["Smoothly written _vers de Société_, where a _boudoir_
decorum is, or ought always to be, preserved; where sentiment
never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows
into boisterous merriment."--_Frederick Locker's Preface to
"Lyra Elegantiarum."_]
[Illustration]
Dear Lyre, your duty now you know!
If one would sing with grace and glow
Songs of Society,
One must not dream of fire, or length,
Or vivid touch, or virile strength,
Or great variety.
Among the Muses of Mayfair
A Bacchanal with unbound hair,
And loosened girdle,
Would be as purely out of place
As Atalanta in a race
O'er hedge or hurdle:
Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim,
Must not indulge in vagrant whim,
Of voice or vesture.
Boudoir decorum will allow
No gleaming eye, no glowing brow,
No ardent gesture.
Society, which is our theme,
Is like a well-conducted stream
Which calmly ripples.
We sing the World where no one feels
Too pungently, or hates, or steals,
Or loves, or tipples.
And should you hint that down below
The subtle siren all men know
Is hiding _her_ face,
Our answer is: "That may be true,
But boudoir bards have nought to do
Save with the surface."
And therefore, though Society feel
The Proletariat's heavy heel
Its kibe approaching,
Some luxuries yet are left to sing,
The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring,
And Golf, and Coaching.
Not e'en the Socialistic scare
The dandyish and the debonair
Has quite demolished;
Whilst Privilege hath still a purse,
There's yet a chance for flowing verse,
And periods polished.
If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE,
Raise not the boudoir critic's gorge
Beyond all bearing,
Light lyrics may she not endure,
On social ills above her cure,
Below her caring?
Muse, with Society we may toy
Without impassioned grief or joy,
Or boisterous merriment;
May sing of Sorrow with a smile;
At least, it may be worth our while
To try the experiment.
* * * * *
QUITE THE TREBLE GLOUCESTER CHEESE!--The Three Quires' Festival this
week. Do the Three Quires appear in the Cathedral? If so, as each
quire means twenty-four sheets, there'll he quite a "Surplice Stock."
* * * * *
CONTRIBUTION BY OUR OWN "MULEY HASSAN."--_Puzzle_--To find "three
Single Gentlemen rolled into one?" _Answer_--Sir EUAN SMITH.
_Explanation_--Sir, You, an' SMITH. [_Exit_ MULEY HASSAN _going to
Bray._
* * * * *
Why ought a Quack's attendance on a patient to be gratis?--Because he
is No-Fee-sician.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "LA-BOUCHE-RE(-NARD) ET LES RAISINS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A MERE PREJUDICE.
_Tourist._ "I SEE YOU EMPLOY A GOOD MANY WOMEN ABOUT HERE, FARMER."
_Farmer._ "HAVE TO DO, HARVEST-TIME, SIR; BUT FOR MYSELF I MUCH PREFER
MANUAL LABOUR!"]
* * * * *
MORE REASONS FOR STOPPING IN TOWN.
_Commodore Buncombe._ Because I know those infernal Tentonners, and
---- Chartreuse jaune only makes me worse.
_William Sikes._ Because of the gross incompetence of my Counsel,
and the ridiculous adverse prepossessions of the Jury at my recent
appearance in public at the C.C.C.
_McStinger._ Because there's bonny braw air on the braes of Hampstead,
and it costs but a bawbee to get intil it.
_Fitz-Fluke._ Because, since that awkward affair at the Roulette Club,
my country invitations haven't come in.
_Capel Courtney._ Because those beastly bucket-shops have collared all
our business.
_Bumpshus, M.P._ Because the Lords of the Treasury (shabby crew
of place-hunters) declined to adopt my suggestion, and to place a
trooper, thoroughly well found, victualled, and overhauled, at the
disposal of any Members of the Lower House whose profound sense of
duty, and of the importance of the Imperial Federation idea, impelled
them to take a six-months' trip round the world at the nation's
expense.
_Theodore John Hook Straight._ Because of the old trouble--"got a
complaint in the chest."
* * * * *
[Illustration: PHILLIPOPOLIS.
_Toper Major_ (_over their third bottle of a Grand Vin_). I shay,
ol' f'ler, neksh year thinksh'll go see ex'bishun at Ph-Phipp--at
Philup-popple--
_Toper Minor._ I know, ol'f'ler. You mean Philipoppoppo--poppo--
_Toper Major._ Thatsh it--shame place. Have 'nother bo'l!
[_They drink._]
* * * * *
"THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS."--Professor R.L. GARNER, who is a great
hand at "getting his Monkey up" (he was naturally a bit annoyed at
being, quite recently, accidentally prevented from giving his Monkey
lecture), is about to commence operations by adapting the old song
of "_Let us be Happy Together_" to Monkey Language, when it will
re-appear as "_Let us be Apey Together_." It will be first given at
Monkey Island on Thames.
* * * * *
CRICKETERS WHO OUGHT TO BE GOOD HANDS AT PLAYING A TIE.--"The Eleven
of Notts."
* * * * *
UN-BROCKEN VOWS.
Walpurgis Brocken Night at Crystal Palace last Thursday--Grand!
Jupiter Pluvius suspended buckets, and celestial water-works rested
awhile to make way for Terrestrial Fire-works. "Todgers's can do it
when it likes," as all Martin-Chuzzlewiters know, and BROCK can do it
too when _he_ likes. _À propos_ of DICKENS' quotation above, it is
on record that _Mr. Pickwick_ was once addressed as "Old Fireworks."
Where? When? and How? _Mr. Pickwick_, we are led to infer by the
commentary thereon, somewhat objected to the term, unless our
Pickwickian memory fail us--which is not improbable--but Mr. BROCK
would appropriate it to himself with pleasure, and be "'proud o' the
title' as the Living Skeleton said." Despite wind and weather, and
_contretemps_ generally, BROCK has never brocken faith with the
public. "_Facta non verba_" is his motto: and "_Facta_" means (here)
Fire-works.
* * * * *
"GREAT BRITAIN AND THE GILBERT ISLANDS."--Captain DAVIS of H.M. Screw
Cruiser _Royalist_, on May 27, formally annexed "The Gilbert Islands."
Where was SULLIVAN? Or is it that Sir ARTHUR, having been annexed as a
Knight, was unable to interfere? Will D'OYLY CARTE explain?
* * * * *
THE MENAGERIE RACE.
SCENE--_The terrace in front of Hauberk Hall, which the_
LARKSPURS _have taken for the Summer_. TIME--_An August
afternoon. Miss STELLA LARKSPUR--a young lady with great
energy and a talent for organisation--has insisted upon all
the Guests taking part in a Menagerie Race._
_The Rev. Ninian Headnote, the Local Curate_ (_to Mr. PLUMLEY
DUFF--after uneasily regarding Miss STELLA, as she shakes up some
pieces of folded paper in a hat_). Can you give me any idea of the
precise nature of this amusement--er--nothing resembling a gambling
transaction, I suppose?--or I really--
_Mr. Plumley Duff_. Well, I'm given to understand that we shall each
be expected to take an animal of some sort, and drive it along with a
string tied to its leg. Sounds childish--to _me_.
_The Curate_ (_relieved_). Oh, exactly, I see. Most entertaining,
I'm sure! (_He coos._) What wonderful ingenuity one sees in devising
ever-fresh pastimes, do we not? Indeed, yes!
_Miss Stella_. There, I've shuffled all the animals now. (_Presenting
the hat_.) Mr. HEADNOTE, will you draw first?
_The Curate_. Oh, really. Am I to take one of these? Charmed! (_He
draws._) Now I wonder what my fate--(_Opening the paper_.) The Monkey!
(_His face falls._) _Is_ there a Monkey here? _Dear_ me, how _very_
interesting!
_Dick Gatling_ (_of H.M. Gunboat "Weasel"_). Brought him over my
last cruise from Colombo. No end of a jolly little beast--bites like
the--like _blazes_, you know!
_Miss Stella_ (_to her Cousin_). Now, DICK, I won't have you taking
away poor Jacko's character like that. He's only bitten BINNS--and,
well, there _was_ the gardener's boy--but I'm sure he _teased_ him.
_You_ won't tease him, will you, Mr. HEADNOTE?
_The Curate_. I--I shouldn't dream of it, Miss STELLA,--on the
contrary, I--(_To himself._) Was it quite discreet to let myself
be drawn into this? Shall I not risk lowering my office by publicly
associating myself with a--a Monkey? I feel certain the Vicar would
disapprove strongly.
_Dick_ (_to Colonel KEMPTON_). Drawn _your_ animal yet, Sir?
_The Colonel_ (_heatedly_). Yes, I have--and I wish I'd kept out of
this infernal tomfoolery. Why the mischief don't they leave a man in
peace and quietness on a hot afternoon like this? Here am I, routed
out of a comfortable seat to go and drive a confounded White Rabbit,
Sir! Idiotic, _I_ call it!
_The Curate_. Pardon me, Colonel KEMPTON; but if you object to the
Rabbit, I would not at all mind undertaking it myself--and you could
take my Monkey--
_The Colonel_. Thanks--but I won't deprive you. A Rabbit is quite
responsibility enough for me!
_The Curate_ (_to himself, disappointed_). He's afraid of a poor
harmless Monkey--and he an Army man, too! But I _don't_ see why _I_--
_Miss Gussie Grissell_. Oh, Mr. HEADNOTE, _isn't_ it ridiculous!
They've given me a Kitten! It makes me feel too absurdly young!
_The Curate_ (_eagerly_). If you would prefer a--a more appropriate
animal, there's a Monkey, which I am sure--(_To himself, as Miss
G. turns away indignantly_). This Monkey doesn't seem very
popular--there must be _someone_ here who--I'll try the American
Lady--they are generally eccentric. (_To Mrs. HEBER K. BANGS._) I hope
Fortune has been kind to you, Mrs. BANGS?
_Mrs. Bangs_. Well, I don't know; there _are_ quadrupeds that can trot
faster over the measured mile than a Tortoise, and that's _my_ animal.
_The Curate_ (_with sympathy_). Dear me! That is a trial, indeed, for
you! But if you would prefer something rather more exciting, I should
be most happy, I'm sure, to exchange my Monkey--
_Dick Gatling_ (_bustling up_). Hallo, what's that? No, no, Mrs.
BANGS--be true to your Tortoise. I tell you he's going to romp
in--Æsop's tip, don't you know? I've backed you to win or a place. I
say, what do you think _I_'ve drawn--the Mutton! Just my luck!
_The Curate_. DICK, just come this way a moment--I've a proposition
to make; it's occurred to me that the Monkey would feel more--more at
home with you, and, in short, I--
_Mr. Plumley Duff_ (_plaintively, to Miss CYNTHIA CHAFFERS_). I
shouldn't have minded any other animal--but to be paired off with a
Goose!
_Miss Chaffers_ (_consolingly_). You're better off than _I_ am, at all
events--I've got a Puppy!
_Mr. Duff_. Have you? (_After a pause--sentimentally_.) Happy Puppy!
_Miss C._ He'll be anything but a happy Puppy if he doesn't win.
_Mr. Duff_. Oh, but he's sure to. I know I would, if _I_ was your
Puppy!
_Miss C._ I'm not so sure of that. Don't they lodge objections, or
something, for boring?
_Mr. Fanshawe_. Can anybody inform me whether I'm expected to go and
catch my Peacock? Because I'll be hanged if--
_The Curate_. Oh, Miss STELLA, it's all right--Mr. GATLING thinks
that it would be better if he undertook the Monkey himself; so we've
arranged to--
_Miss Stella_. Oh, nonsense, DICK! I can't have you taking advantage
of Mr. HEADNOTE's good-nature like that. What's the use of drawing
lots at all if you don't keep to them? Of _course_ Mr. HEADNOTE will
keep the Monkey.
[_The unfortunate Curate accepts his lot with Christian
resignation_.
_Dick_. Well, _that's_ settled--but I say, STELLA, where's my Mutton's
moorings--and what's to be the course?
_Stella_. The course is straight up the Avenue from the Lodge to the
House, and I've told them to get all the beasts down there ready for
us; so we'd better go at once.
THE START.
_The Competitors_. STELLA, my dear, _mustn't_ Miss GRISSELL tell her
kitten not to claw my Tortoise's head every time he pokes his poor
nose out? It isn't fair, and it's damping all his enthusiasm!... Now,
Colonel KEMPTON, it isn't the Puppy's fault--you _know_ your Rabbit
began it!... Hi, STELLA, hold on a bit, my Mutton wants to lie down.
Mayn't I kick it up!... DUFF, old chap, your Goose is dragging her
anchor again, back her engines a bit, or there'll be a foul.... Miss
STELLA, I--I really _don't_ think this Monkey is quite well--his teeth
are chattering in such a _very_.... All right, _padre_, only his nasty
temper--jerk the beggar's chain. More than _that_!
_Chorus of Spectators at Lodge Gates_. My word, I wonder what next the
gentry'll be up to, I dew. Ain't Miss STELLA orderin' of 'en about!
Now she's started 'en. They ain't not allowed to go 'ittin of 'en--got
to go just wheeriver the animiles want. Lor, the guse is takin _his_
genlm'n in among the treeses! Well, if iver I did! That theer tartus
gits along, don't he? Passon don't seem com'fable along o' that
monkey. I'll back the young sailor gent--keeps that sheep wunnerful
stiddy, he do. There's the hold peacock puttin' on a bust now. Well,
well, these be fine doin's for 'Auberk 'All, and no mistake. Make old
Sir HALBERD stare if he was 'ere, &c., &c.
_The Colonel_ (_wrathfully to his Rabbit, which will do nothing but
run round and round him_). Stop that, will you, you little fool. Do
you want to trip me up! Of all the dashed nonsense I ever--!
_Mrs. Bangs_. My! Colonel, you do seem to have got hold of a pretty
insubordinate kind of a Rabbit, too!
_The Colonel_ (_looking round_). Well, you aren't getting much pace
out of your Tortoise either, if it comes to that!
_Mrs. Bangs_. He puts in most of his time in stoppages for rest
and refreshment. I'm beginning to believe that old fable's a fraud.
Anyway, it's my opinion this Tortoise isn't going to beat any
hare--unless it's a jugged one.
_Dick Gatling_ (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in
a leisurely manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in
supplies. We're going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now
she's tacking!
_The Curate_ (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there,
quietly now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that?
(_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--
_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no
use--_I_ can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!
_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I _know_ it
will peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found
out there's sugar-candy in the varnish.
_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I _say_, you know--that's all very
well, but it's not making him _race_, is it? Now I _am_ getting some
running out of my Goose.
_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress
from the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate
again!
_The Curate_ (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! _do_ help me! Miss
STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back, and
it's pulling my hair--'ow!
[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to
the rescue._
_Dick Gatling_ (_coming up later_). Why on earth did you all jack
up like that? You've missed a splendid finish! My Mutton was forging
ahead like fun, when FANSHAWE's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew
alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck than
the Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here, let's have
it all over again!
[_But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having
surreptitiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken,
and the Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly
declined to come out again, sport is abandoned for the
afternoon, to the scarcely disguised relief of the Curate,
who is prevented from remaining to tea by the pressure of
parish-work._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE ONLY MAN IN ROTTEN ROW.
SCENE FROM THE RAKE'S PROGRESS.]
* * * * *
LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Once more I am back in my London "_pied-à-terre_"--(but how it can he
a _pied-à-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the
fourth floor!--_ridiculous_ language French is to be sure!)--and
very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few
weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the
latitude of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any
latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists,
_Char-à-bancs_, and Pirates--the latter disguised as Lodging-letters!
While there we suffered severely from Regattas; which swarm in the
Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with the
deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta Bacteria,
and very painful it was. My friend, Baron VON HODGEMANN, owner of the
_Anglesey_, persuaded me to go on board for a race, and we travelled
the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and
singing the war-cry of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club!--
To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,[1]
When the north wind snores its dismal dirge!
In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge,
The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge,
And weathers the Warner Light!
This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged in another
flight of daring which required all the _aplomb_ of a leader of
Fashion to carry out successfully; and, though few of the "smart"
Ladies of my set habitually indulge in the habit. I am happy to think
I am encouraging them in a healthy and amusing pastime, which, in the
Summer, may in time even rival Lawn Tennis! However--not to beat about
the bush any longer--an utterly absurd expression this is!--as if it
could hurt the bush to beat it!--to say nothing of the difficulty of
keeping a bush always handy to beat!)--it is time I told you what this
great achievement of mine was--_I went paddling!_ There!--the secret
is out!--the Fashion is set!--the new Summer Amusement discovered!
The Rules of the Game are being written, and will shortly be published
under the title, "_Routledge's Etiquette of Paddling, for Ladies of
Good Standing_." I need hardly tell you that the first thing necessary
is to find a secluded bay, and it is also advisable to collect a few
children to take with you--(there are usually plenty left about on the
beach from which you can make a selection)--as a sort of excuse;--no
other implements are required for the game, in fact, superfluities
are a nuisance and only get wet--thus equipped--the game can be played
with freedom--(_not_ from pebbles)--combined of course with propriety,
and will be found amusing and invigorating--(quotation from the
preface to the Book of Rules written by the eminent German Doctor,
HERR SPLASHENWASSER--inventor of the Water-Cure.
The next Race meeting requiring attention takes place at Doncaster
this week, and the most important race, I take it--at least, _I_
don't take it--but the _winner_ will--another senseless expression--is
naturally the St. Leger, for which I make a poetic selection, which
has cost me weeks of anxious thought, no "leger" task!--(French
joke)--owing to the number of horses engaged, so few of which will
run!
Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.
ST. LEGER SELECTION.
The best of the classic events of the year
We are told by the students of "form,"
Is a foregone conclusion, 'tis perfectly clear,
For the noble possessor of _Orme_.
[Footnote 1: This should really be Burg_ee_, but then it wouldn't
rhyme, and a Poet may drop a _syllable_, if he or she mayn't drop an
H!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WOMAN THAT WAS!
_Monsieur le Maréchal_ (_who, during the Forties, was a dashing young
Military Attaché at, the French Embassy in London_). "AH, DUCHESS,
AND DO YOU REMEMBER ZE SO BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY MARY GWENDOLEN VERE DE
VERE, ZAT EVERYBODY VENT MAD ABOUT VEN I VAS IN ENGLAND? VEN I TINK OF
'ER, MY 'EARRT BEAT EVEN NOW!"
_The Duchess_ (_née Mary Gwendolen Vere de Vere_). "OH YES, MONSIEUR
LE MARÉCHAL, I REMEMBER HER ONLY TOO WELL!"
_M. le Maréchal._ "VAT 'AS BECAME OF 'ER, MADAME LA DUCHESSE?"
_Her Grace_ (_with a sigh_). "_ELLE N'EST PLUS!_"]
* * * * *
STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
NO. V.
It may be objected that _Mr. Punch's_ fifth example does not strictly
conform to the canons laid down by him in his prefatory remarks to No.
I. _Mr. Punch_ neither admits nor denies the charge. He is convinced,
however, that those who do him the honour to read these Studies, might
justly complain if he failed to include in them an example of the
work of a Poet who has shown our generation how rusticity and rhymes,
cattle and Conservative convictions, peasants and patriotism, may be
combined in verse. It is scarcely necessary to add that the author of
the following magnificent piece is Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N. Like others who
might be named, he has not the honour to be an agricultural labourer;
but no living man has sung at greater length of rural life, and its
simple joys. Many of his admirers have asserted that Britain ought to
have more than one Laureate, and that Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N ought to be
among the number. Others are not prepared to go quite so far. They
have been heard to complain that cows and trees, and woodmen and
farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and turnips, do not necessarily
suggest the highest happiness, and that it is not always dignified for
an aspiring Poet to be led about helpless through the byeways of sense
by those wilful, wanton playfellows, his rhymes. The two factions may
be left to fight out their quarrel over the present example, which,
by the way, is _not_ taken from the collected edition of the Poet's
works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING?
(_BY A-FR-D A-ST-N._)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic man,
Where in the meadows green the oxen munch.
Is it not true that since our land began
The hornéd ox hath given us steaks for lunch?
Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin,
Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse.
Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin,
And though the food be often tough and coarse,
We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins
Bold British hearts drive bubbling British blood.
No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
To eat the patient chewers of the cud.
Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep
(So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy flocks;
There happy shepherds tend their grazing sheep
(Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox).
Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint
To watch the blithe lambs caper o'er the lea,
And, watching them, refrain from thoughts of mint,
Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.
Is Lunch worth lunching? The September sun
Makes answer "Yes;" no longer must thou lag.
Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun,
And add the juicy partridge to thy bag.
Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo;
They fill their crops, and then away they fly.
Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew,
And always quite delicious in a pie.
Or pluck red-currants on some summer day,
Then take of raspberries an equal part,
Add cream and sugar--can mere words convey
The luscious joys of this delightful tart?
Is Lunch worth lunching? If such cates should fail,
Go out of country bread a solid hunch,
Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ale,
And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch.
Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork,
The pic-nic lunch, spread out upon the earth,
Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork,
All, all, without exception all, are worth!
* * * * *
NINETY-NINE OUT OF A HUNDRED CANDIDATES MUST BE "PILLED."--The Living
of "Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth £600 per annum," is
vacant. Is it in the gift of the celebrated Dr. COCKLE? or of Dr.
CARTER, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame?
* * * * *
[Illustration: "BACK!"]
* * * * *
PLAYFUL HEIFERVESCENCE AT HAWARDEN.
[Mr. GLADSTONE met with an extraordinary adventure in Hawarden
Park one day last week. A heifer, which had got loose, made
for Mr. GLADSTONE as he was crossing the park, and knocked
him down. Mr. GLADSTONE took refuge behind a tree. The heifer
scampered off, and was subsequently shot.]
[Illustration]
G.O.M. _sings_:--
How happy could I be with heifer,
If sure it were only her play.
Is't LABBY? or Labour? Together
In one? I'll get out of the way.
_Singing_ (_to myself_)--With my tol de rol de rol LABBY, &c.
She comes! On her horns she is playing
A tune with a nourish or two!
No cow-herd am I but my staying
To play second fiddle won't do.
_Singing_ (_to myself_)--With my tol de rol tol-e-rate LABBY, &c.
Don't chivey her! I would allot her
"Three acres," and lots of sweet hay.
Alas! while I'm talking, they've shot her!
Well! heifers, like dogs, have their day!
_Singing_ (_to myself, as before_)--With my tol lol de rol-licking
LABBY, &c.
_Latest._--After dinner, Mr. GLADSTONE fell asleep in his chair! He
was seen to smile, although his repose seemed somewhat disturbed.
Presently he was heard to murmur melodiously the words of the old
song, slightly adapted to the most recent event,--"_Heifer of thee
I'm fondly dreaming_!" Then a shudder ran through his frame as he
pronounced softly a Latin sentence; it was "_Labor omnia vincit_!"
Then he awoke.
* * * * *
SONGS OUT OF SEASON.
NO. II.--KEW-RIOUS!
It's a pleasure worth the danger,
Deems your gorgeous DE LA PLUCHE,
To become the main arranger
Of a drive in your barouche;
And your Coachman, honest JOE too,
When approached thereon by JEAMES,
Doesn't say exactly "no," to
Such inviting little schemes.
JEAMES has doffed them "'orrid knee-things;"
Plush gives way to tweed and socks;
And a hamper with the tea-things,
Fills his place upon the box;
With MARIA, JANE, and HEMMA,
He is playing archest games,
And they're in the sweet dilemma,
Who shall make the most of JAMES.
Mr. COACHMAN smokes his pipe on
His accustomed throne of pride,
And, through driving, keeps an eye 'pon
All the revellers inside.
Mrs. COACHMAN there is seated;
Children twain are on her lapped,
Who alternately are treated,
And alternately are slapped.
While the painters haunt your mansion,
And you're "_H_up" "The _H_alps" or "Rhind,"
Your domestics find expansion
In diversions of the kind;
And on such a day as this is,
They will drink the health at Kew,
Of "The Master and the Missis,
And their bloomin' kerridge too!"
* * * * *
THE PALLIUM AND ARCHIEPISCOPAL OATH CONTROVERSY IN THE "TIMES."--No
wonder this is a very dry subject, when they've got such a strong
THURST-ON among them. Our advice, by way of moistening it, is, "Drop
it!"
* * * * *
"CLERGY FEES" (_see "Times" Correspondence_).--_Growl of the
Archiepiscopal Ogre & Co._:--
"_Fee_, fi, fo, fum!
I smell the coin of a Clergyman!
Hath he fat glebe, be he ill-fee'd, ill-fed,
I'll grab his fees to butter my bread!"
* * * * *
A NIGHTLY CHEVALIER.
Music-Hall Artists are not by any means "Fixed Stars." During the
evening they manage to accomplish the somewhat paradoxical-sounding
feat of shining in the same parts, yet in different places and at
different times, appearing everywhere with undiminished brilliancy.
The Student of the Music-Hall Planetary system, has only by
observation to ascertain the exact time and place of the appearance of
his favourite bright particular Star, and then to pay his money, take
his choice between sitting and standing, and like a true astronomer,
he will--glass in hand, a strong glass too,--await the great event of
the evening, calmly and contentedly.
If the Wirtuous Westender wandering down the Strand, after having
on some previous nights exhausted the Pavilion and the elaborately
gorgeous Variety Shows given at the Empire and Alhambra, seeks for
awhile a resting-place wherein to enjoy his postprandial cigar, and be
amused, if such an one will drop into the classic Tivoli, he will find
excellent entertainment, that is as long as their present programme
holds the field. The Holborn and the Oxford may delight him on other
nights, for it seems that much the same Stars shine all around; but
for the present, taking Tivoli as synonymous with Tibur, he may, with
Horation humour, say to himself ("himself" being not a bad audience as
a rule):--
"Holborn Tibur amem ventosus, Tivoli Holborn,"
and he can then enter the Tivoli, now under the benign rule of that
old Music Hall Hand, CAROLUS MORTONIUS, M.A., Magister Agens, while
the experienced Mr. VERNON DOWSETT--"_Experientia Dowsett_"--manages
the stage. Good as is the entire show, and especially good as is
the performance of Mr. CHARLES GODFREY as an old Chelsea Pensioner
recounting to several little Peterkins a touching and heart-stirring
tale of the Crimean War, yet for me, the Costermonger Songs of
Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER are the great attraction. His now well-known
"_Coster's Serenade_," and his "_Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road_,"
are supplemented by a song and dialogue about a Coster's son, a
precocious little chap, about three years old, and "only that 'igh,
you know," in whom his father takes so great a pride that it works
his own temporary reformation. It is so natural as to be just on
the borderland between farce and pathos, and recalls time past, when
ROBSON played _The Porter's Knot_, and such-like pieces. Now what more
do Music Halls want than what Mr. CHEVALIER gives them? This is the
very essence of a dramatic sketch of character, given in just the
time it takes to sing the song,--that is, about ten minutes, if as
much. The compact orchestra, under the directorship of Mr. ASHER,
discourses excellent accompaniments, and the music of the CHEVALIER's
songs--composed, I believe, by himself--is not the least among the
attractions. The CHEVALIER, who, as he takes more than one turn every
evening, may be termed a Knight Errant, is certainly the Coster's
Laureate and accepted Representative in the West; the mine, which is
his own, is inexhaustible. He is a magician in his own peculiar line,
and may write himself ALBERTUS MAGNUS.
* * * * *
"AL FRESCO," the Lightning Artist, whose full name is "ALFRED FRESCO,"
writes to suggest that the Alhambra under Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD's
management should start a Rotten Row Galop and Kensington Gardens
Quadrille to follow as in a series the highly successful _Serpentine
Dance_.
* * * * *
NOVEL QUARTETTE.--At the next Hereford Festival there will be
performed a concerted piece by four Short Horns.
* * * * *
[Illustration: STARTLING DISCOVERY ON THE YORKSHIRE COAST.
_Young Tripper_ (_on his first visit to the Sea, becoming suddenly
conscious of the ebbing Tide_). "HI! BILL! JACK! T'WATTER BE A RUNNIN'
OFF! BY GUM, LADS, BUT AI BET SHE'S BRUSSEN SOMEWHERES!"]
* * * * *
THE POOR VIOLINIST.--AN EPISODE, IN THE STYLE OF STERNE.
"_Le Luthier de Crémone_," observed EUGENIUS, "is a pathetic story."
"Indeed, EUGENIUS," replied YORICK, "it is extremely touching. I
protest I never read, or hear it, without emotion."
"The violin," pursued EUGENIUS, "most sensitive, and, as it were,
soulful of human instruments, lends itself, with particular aptness,
to the purposes of literary pathos."
"Dear Sensibility!" said I, "source inexhausted of all that is
precious in our (poetical) joys, or costly in our (dramatic) sorrows!"
"It were well," continued YORICK, drily, "if it were also the source
inexhausted of more that is quick in our sympathy, and practical in
our beneficence. It is scarcely in the columns of the daily news-sheet
that Sensibility usually seeks its much-sought stimulus. And yet but
lately, in the corner of my paper, I encountered a piteous story that
'dear Sensibility' (had it been more romantically environed) might
deliciously have luxuriated in. I protest 'twas as pathetic as
those of MARIA LE FEVRE, or LA FLEUR. It was headed, "Sad Death of a
Well-known Violinist."
"Prithee, dear YORICK, let me hear it," cried EUGENIUS.
"'Twas but the prosaic report of a Coroner's Inquest," pursued YORICK.
"Sensibility would probably have 'skipped' the sordid circumstance.
'FREDERICK MARTIN, aged seventy-two, a well-known Violinist, and
Professor of Music, formerly a member of the orchestra of the Italian
Opera at Her Majesty's and Covent Garden Theatres,' found life too
hard for him. That is all. 'The deceased, a bachelor.'--Heaven help
him!--'had of late been afflicted with deafness, which hindered his
pursuit of his profession, and' (the witness an old friend feared)
'he was recently in straitened circumstances, but he was too proud and
independent to ask or accept assistance.' The old friend, Mr. LEWIS
CHAPUY, Comedian, had 'frequently offered him hospitalities, which
he never accepted.' Offered him hospitalities! Worthy comedian! In
faith, EUGENIUS, 'tis delicately worded. True 'Sensibility' here,
supplemented by practical sympathy. Both, alas! unavailing. Somewhat
of the doggedly independent spirit of the boot-rejecting Dr. JOHNSON
in this poor deaf violinist apparently. Verily, EUGENIUS, the story
requires but the 'decorative art' of the literary sentimentalist
to make it moving, even to the modish. The ingeniously emotional
historian of LA FLEUR would have made much of it."
"My gentle heart already bleeds with it," said I. "But the upshot,
YORICK; the sequel, my friend?"
"'Tis short and simple," responded YORICK. "'The afflicted Violinist'
occupied a room at 34, Compton Street, Brunswick Square, in which he
lived alone. He suffered from lumbago, as well as from a proud spirit
and a broken heart. He had a dread of 'coming to the Workhouse.'
Spectral fear which haunts ever the sensitive and poverty-stricken!
Unreasonable? Perhaps. But not the less agonising. What comfort may
Political Economy and an admirable Poor Law yield to proud-spirited
victims of poverty?"
"But surely," said I, "the compassion of the stranger would gladly
have poured oil and wine into the wounds of his spirit--or into poor
afflicted MARIA's--had he only known."
"Doubtless," said YORICK. "But 'the great Sensorium of the World,'
as--in 'mere pomp of words'--thou dost designate 'Dear Sensibility,'
did _not_ 'vibrate' to the case of this 'well-known Violinist'--until
'twas too late to vibrate to any useful purpose. He was 'found lying
dead in his bed, fully dressed, with the exception of his hat and
boots,' mute as the untouched strings of his own violin. 'He had died
suddenly from syncope, or heart-failure.' Heart-failure, EUGENIUS.
Doth not thy gentle heart fail at the thought? 'Dr. COLLEY found the
body in an advanced stage of decomposition, and life had probably been
extinct since the preceding Thursday night.' Prithee, Sir, is 'MARIA,
sitting pensive under her poplar, more pathetic than this poor broken
musician, dying alone, in his poverty and pride?"
"Indeed, no!" I responded, musingly.
"Those," continued YORICK, "who go, like the 'Knight of the Rueful
Countenance,' in quest of melancholy adventures, need not to make
deliberately 'Sentimental Journeys' through France, or Italy, or
by forest or mountain, picturesque hamlet, or romantic stream. The
purlieus of great cities amongst the poverty-stricken members of
what it is usual to call the 'lower middle-classes,' will furnish
multitudinous subjects for pensive thought, and--what were a whole
world better--for practical benevolence. 'Tis too late, alas! to do
aught for this dead Violinist, but were eyes and pen more sedulously
and sympathetically employed about real, if sordid-seeming, in place
of imaginary, if picturesque, woes, why verily, EUGENIUS, something
more, perchance, might be done in such pitiful cases as that I
have described to thee in non-journalistic language, than what was
formally done by the Coroner's Jury, who--as they were bound to
do, indeed--'_returned a verdict in accordance with the medical
testimony_.'"
* * * * *
[Illustration: PUNCH'S PIC-NIC. THE PARLIAMENTARY MIRAGE.]
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XIII.--TO IRRITATION.
I have just come home from my Club in a state bordering upon
distraction. No great misfortune has happened to me, my dearest
friend has not been black-balled, the Club bore has not had me in his
unrelenting clutches. The waiters have been, as indeed they always
are, civil and obliging, the excellent _chef_ catered with his
usual skill to my simple mid-day wants, my table companions were
good-humoured, cheerful, and pleasantly cynical. What then, you may
ask, has happened to shatter my nerves and impair my temper for the
day? It is a simple matter, and I am almost ashamed to confess it
openly. But I am encouraged by the fact that two eminently solid and,
so far as I could see, perfectly unemotional gentlemen were as deeply
pricked and worried by what happened as I was myself. To begin with,
I do not admit that my nerves vibrate more easily than those of my
fellow-men. I have never killed an organ-grinder, I am guiltless of
the blood of a German band, I have even gone so far as to spare guards
who asked for my railway-ticket after I had carefully wrapped myself
up for a journey, and no touting vendor of subscription books or works
of art can truthfully say that I have kicked him. On the whole I think
I am reasonably even-tempered and of higher than average amiability.
Others may judge me differently. I don't wish to quarrel with them. I
simply reiterate my opinion. Why then am I to-day in a seething state
of exception to my rule? Here is the cause:
[Illustration]
After I had done with my luncheon, and had puffed a friendly cigar,
I proceeded to that room in the Club which is specially dedicated to
literature and silence. What a feast of multitudinous periodicals is
there spread out, how brightly the variegated array of books from
the circulating library attracts the leisurely, how dignified and
awe-inspiring are the far-stretching ranks of accumulated volumes upon
the shelves. And the carpet, how soft, and the chairs how comfortably
easy. Into one of these chairs I sank with a religious novel (I merely
mention the fact, whether for praise or blame I care not), and began
to think deeply about various life-problems that have much distressed
me. Why must men wear themselves out prematurely with labour? Why
must we suffer? And why, granting the necessity for pain, should I
occasionally sink under a toothache, while HARRISON, a blatant fellow
with a red face and a loud voice, continues in a condition of robust
and oppressive health? These speculations were not so painful and
disturbing as might be supposed. Indeed, they had a soothing effect.
From the rhythmical breathing and the closed eyes of two other
occupants of arm-chairs, I judged that they were similarly occupied
in philosophic reflection. I was just composing myself to a bout of
specially hard thinking, when, lo, the door opened, and in stepped Dr.
FUSSELL!
Everybody, I take it, knows Dr. FUSSELL. He is a member of countless
learned Societies. Over many of them he presides, to some he acts
as secretary. He reads papers on abstruse questions connected with
sanitation, he dashes with a kind of wild war-whoop into impassioned
newspaper controversies on the component elements of a dust particle,
or the civilisation of the Syro-Phoenicians. He is acute, dialectical,
scornful and furious. He denounces those who oppose him as the meanest
of mankind, he extols his supporters as the most illustrious and
reasonable of all who have benefited the human race. In the Club he
is always engaged in some investigation which keeps him continuously
skipping from bookshelf to bookshelf, climbing up ladders to reach
the highest shelves, rushing up and down-stairs with sheaves of paper
bulging in his coat-pockets, or stowed under his arms. He lays his
top-hat on the table, and makes it a receptacle for reams of notes and
volumes of projected essays. In a word, he is a human storm.
Well, in he came with his grey hair streaming over his forehead, and
his eyes aflame. I knew in a moment that repose in his presence was
out of the question, though I still sat on, hoping against hope.
First, the Doctor bounded to the fire-place, seized the poker, and
began to rummage the fire. It was a good fire, and had done nothing
to deserve this punishment. I shifted on my seat; the two other
philosophers opened their eyes and frowned, and still Dr. FUSSELL
continued to rummage. Now I knew, not only that that fire was being
poked on an entirely wrong principle, but that I alone knew how it
ought to be poked. My fingers itched, my whole body tingled with
excitement. At last Dr. FUSSELL ceased. In a moment I was out of my
seat and making a bee-line for the poker. I just managed to beat the
other two by a short head, seized the poker, and relieved my soul
by stirring the fire on strictly scientific principles. The others
watched me hungrily. When I had finished, each of them took a short
turn with the poker, and then we all returned, more or less appeased,
to our seats.
But we had not done with the ineffable FUSSELL. By this time he was on
the top of a step-ladder. Slowly he selected six tomes, and began his
perilous descent. Our eyes were riveted upon him. Crash, bang! His
arms were empty, and the unconscionable books fluttered and clattered
to the floor. Slowly and ruefully did FUSSELL descend into the cloud
of dust and gather his bruised treasures from the carpet. At last he
heaped them on his table, and began to write. We hoped for peace,
but it was not to be. A sudden thought struck him. He would sew his
scattered leaves of MS. together. With dreadful deliberation he took
needle and cotton from a little pocket housewife that he carried with
him; and then began one of the most maddening performances I have
ever watched. Carefully he held the needle to the light, carefully he
wetted and trimmed his cotton to a point. And for ten stricken minutes
we saw him miss the eye of the needle, sometimes by an inch, sometimes
by a hair's breadth. It was a thrilling contest between obstinacy and
evasiveness. I was fascinated by it. Every time, as the cotton neared
the eye, my heart slowly ascended into my mouth, only to drop with a
fatal swiftness into my boots as the triumphant needle scored another
victory. I began to imitate FUSSELL's every movement. I threaded
invisible needles by the gross with imperceptible cotton. I felt in
my own breast all the ardour of the chase, all the bitter sorrow of
repeated failures. My two companions in misfortune were similarly
affected, and there we sat, three sane and ordinary men, feverishly
going through all these itching movements with FUSSELL as our
detested, but unconscious fugleman. The strain became too great. I
sprang from my chair, "Sir," I said to the astonished FUSSELL, "permit
me; I learnt the art of threading needles as a boy from an East End
seamstress," and before he had time to protest, I had seized the
offending instruments, and by a stroke of inspiration had passed the
cotton through. Then without waiting to hear what FUSSELL might have
to say, I fled from the room. And here consequently I sit with my
nerves shattered, and an untasted crumpet cooling on the tea-tray.
Am I singular? I think not. There are others whose mannerisms plague
me too. For instance, TRUBERRY, whom I meet occasionally, has a wild
and venomous habit of relating to me his infinitesimal jokelets. That
I could pardon. But when, having related one, he bursts, as he always
does, into a helpless suffocation of purple laughter, the savage
within me awakes and I murder TRUBERRY in fancy to an accompaniment
of refined and protracted tortures. Once, as I helped him on with his
overcoat, he joked and exploded. My fingers were horribly near his
throat. But I mastered the impulse, and TRUBERRY will never know how
near he was to destruction. And to make matters worse, he is one
of the kindest and most considerately helpful of human beings. Oh,
IRRITATION, IRRITATION, you have much to answer for. The fly in the
ointment of the apothecary was a baby to you. Avaunt, avaunt!
DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
THE VERY LATEST.--Mrs. RAM had a paragraph read to her from the
_D.T.'s_ "London Day by Day," recounting how the Archbishop of
CANTERBURY when staying at Haddo House, had attended service in the
parish Kirk, which conduct might have provoked High Churchmen to
assail him for "bowing the knee in the House of Rimmon." Thinking
it over afterwards, when she had muddled up the name in her usual
fashion, our old friend Mrs. R. observed, with some humour, that she
thought "the Archbishop had shown his good scents by going to the
House of RIMMEL."
* * * * *
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, Vol.
103, September 10, 1892, by Various
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