Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, December 2, 1893.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

TO A LADY.

(Whose "Fringe" has fallen off at a Ball.)

Alas! those waving curls,

That parting on your brow,

Had been some other girl's!

"Vhere ish dot barting now?"

Like Breitmann's barty gone

Avay in ewigkeit,

Those curls which you put on

To grace the ball to-night.

Too feeble were the pins,

Too frisky were your hops;

Derisive are the grins,

Departing parting drops.

A parting, this, that shocks

Beholders evermore;

You dare not claim those locks

Now lying on the floor.

I used to think them fair,

I find them false instead;

If thus you lose your hair,

I shall not lose my head.

Nor certainly my heart—

With that I should not care

So readily to part

As you with purchased hair.

We kick those curls aside.

Your looks and locks have fled,

Then hasten home to hide

Your much diminished head.

Don Pedro d'Alcantara le Comte d'Eu is eighteen. He is pursuing his studies at a Military Academy, speaks German fairly well, and in his leisure hours is, we are informed, "studying Polish." The latter being acquired, he will become a most polish'd Prince. He is so very well off that he will not have to go to Brazil for a crown.

DOMESTIC THRIFT.

Scene—Entrance-hall at the Browns, after one of their Parties.

Jones (the last to depart, as usual). "What a delicious Drink, Waiter! What is it!"

Waiter. "The Leavings, Sir!"

PRINCE ALEXANDER OF BATTENBERG.

Europe's Prince Charming, lion-like, born to dare,

Betrayed by the black treacherous Northern Bear!

Soldier successful vainly, patriot foiled,

Wooer discomfited, and hero spoiled!

Triumphant champion of Slivnitza's field,

To sordid treachery yet doomed to yield;

Of gallant heart and high-enduring strain,

Valiant resultlessly, victor in vain!

Motley career of mingled shine and shame,

Material fashioned for romantic fame!

An age more chivalrous you should have seen,

When brutal brokers, and when bagmen keen,

Shamed not the sword and blunted not the lance.

Then had you been true Hero of Romance.

Now, when to Mammon Mars must bow his crest,

King-errantry seems a Quixotic quest,

And "unfulfilled renown" finds only—early rest!

A VALETUDINARIAN'S VISDOM.

Evening red and morning grey

Makes me by the fireside stay.

Evening grey and morning red

Finds me tucked up all day in bed!

Curious but True.—So particular are the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers to have everything in order, that they have this year elected as Prime Warden a fine Salmon (Robert H.).

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"With the New Year," says a Baronite, "there is a great desire to turn over a new leaf." Such intentions are easily satisfied by the Back-Loop Pocket Diaries, where leaves for this purpose are plentifully supplied by John Walker & Co. Likewise De La Rue & Co. offer Diaries and Memorandum Books in every size and form, and this year they have a patent clip to keep the leaf down. Ought to be advertised as "clipping!"

The Baron's Baronites look into a box of Christmas books and find, first—Westward with Columbus. By Gordon Stables, M.D.C.M. Graphic account. "Stables must have been in excellent form when writing this," observes a Baronite; "evidently he was not Livery Stables."—Wreck of the Golden Fleece. By Robert Leighton. A capital sea story, plenty of rocks and wrecks, hardships and plague-ships, and all sorts of wonderful adventures.—The White Conquerors of Mexico, by Kirk Munroe, tells how Cortes and his Spaniards, being white, did Montezuma and his Aztic natives brown.—With the Sea Kings. F. H. Winder. The youthful amateur salt will find everything here to satisfy all his cravings and See-kings. "Winder has taken great panes with this," says Baronitess.

"My clients," quoth the Baron, "will do well to read Baring-Gould's cheap Jack Zita." Fascinating book by reason of its picturesque effects and its description of life in the Fens at the commencement of the present century. "I wonder," muses the Baron, "whether any of my readers, being Cantabs, will call to mind how some thirty-five years ago the names of those eminent amateur pugilists J-ck Sh-ff-ld, F-rg-ss-n D-v-e, L-nn-x C-nn-ngh-m, and others were associated with life in the Fens as it existed at that time, and how these pupils of Nat Langham's now and again disputed the championship of a certain Fen Tavern, won it, and for a time held it? Some undergraduates were hand and glove with the Fenners—not the cricket-ground, so styled, but the dwellers in Fen-land; and on occasion they were hand to hand without the 'glove.'" Why this question? "Because," says the Baron, "one of the scenes so graphically described in the chapter, headed 'Burnt Hats,' might have been witnessed at the time I have referred to by any undergraduate sufficiently venturesome to accompany those fisticuffers." As for the plot, well, 'tis a good plot, and has always been a good plot, and "twill serve, 'twill serve." But it is the Baring-Gould flavouring that makes the dish acceptable to the jaded palate of oldest novel-devourer.

Baron de B.-W.

GOOD LUCK TO IT!

(To Mr. Caine and his Bill prohibiting advertisements in rural places.)

Oh, Mr. Caine, for this relief much thanks.

As most benignant benefactor ranks

The man who saves our own sweet countryside—

At once our chiefest glory and our pride—

From all the many nauseating ills

Which come out of advertisements of pills!

Pills there must be, but when we chance to pass

Through meadows and would rest our eyes on grass,

Or pleasantly meander by the river,

We would forget we've even got a liver.

So here's success to you, Sir, in your Bill

To make it wrong to advertise a pill

In rural spots in which we fondly now

Associate "three acres and a cow!"

And when success this rural venture yields,

Do for the beaches what's done for the fields!

"Invisible Trouser Stretchers."—Legs.

THE BABES ON THE TREASURY BENCH.

(With Mr. Punch's Thanks to Mr. Courtney for the Suggestion. Vide Times, Parliamentary Report, Wednesday, November 22.)

"TRANSMITTED."

Ignorant Bachelor Visitor. "Hullo, Throgmorton; what the deuce are your Twins up to with that Contrivance?"

Proud Father (of Throgmorton, Threadneedle & Co.; Telephone 123456-1/4). "Ha! There you are, my Boy—marvellous example of inherited business instinct! They're trying to Telephone to each other!"

THE BABES ON THE TREASURY BENCH.

["The leader of the Opposition had treated them to good logic, but why administer such strong meat to the babes on the Treasury bench?"—Mr. Courtney on the Parish Councils Bill.]

We have heard of the Babes in the Wood,

And the ruffians greedy and cruel,

Who (as Ingoldsby said in gay mood)

Conspired for to "give them their gruel";

But pitiful bosoms will blench

At this vision of Balfour the sinister,

To Babes on the Treasury Bench

Presuming his dose to administer!

They find Doctor Balfour, one fears,

Worse than poor Davy Copperfield's Creakle;

As awful as grim Mrs. Squeers

With her jorum of brimstone and treacle.

Ah, Courtney, how could you conceive

A picture so Mephistophelian?

Your buzzum is stone, I believe,

And your heart must be truly a steely 'un!

Sweet Babes! They seem likely to choke!

Poor Gladdy! Poor Johnnie! Poor Willy!

Arthur's "logic" is tougher than "toke,"

And much more insipid than "skilly."

Strong meat? How your irony you barb,

Your humour's as grim as the gallows.

Your dose is as drastic as rhubarb,

And almost as bitter as aloes.

Logic? For Babes? On that Bench?

You're as hard as the Poles' "whiskered pandour."

You might as well set out to drench

Your own Opposition with—candour!

The Treasury Babes may object

To prescriptions from Mill or from Whewell,

And logical draughts, I expect,

Would very soon give you your gruel.

If Courtney could physic himself,

Or Balfour and he dose each other,

How soon both would lay on the shelf

This prescription, and try quite another!

No; Reason, as party-strife goes,

As food is attractive to no men:

And Logic's a nauseous dose,

To be given—as physic—to foemen!

"What author was it," inquired Mrs. R. of a literary friend, "who wrote the line describing going to bed as 'that last infirmity of noble minds'?"

"HARK! I HEAR THE SOUND OF COACHES."

["There are still five of the road-coaches running out of London."—Daily News, Nov. 18.]

If drooping with toil, or aught else, I or

You may spring up with "Excelsior!"

As up to the box-seat one climbs,

"How pleasant," one murmurs, "'Old Times!'"

Times equally good, we'll engage,

Have others who go with "The Age."

Though outlooks to-morrow be livid,

Hold tight now a joy that is "Vivid."

"Post equitem?" Ah! his reliance,

At least, wasn't placed on "Defiance."

Rather Familiar!—It was announced in the Times that "Canon G. F. Browne will lecture at St. Paul's, in January," on "The Christian Church before the coming of Augustus." The Canon ought to have said "Sir Augustus." Of course there is only one "Augustus," i.e. our "Druriolanus."

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene XVII.—The Drawing-room at Hornbeam Lodge. Curphew and Althea are standing at some distance from one another, in evident constraint.

Curphew (sadly). It's only what I expected, and yet—tell me this—is it entirely because of—of what you saw at the Eldorado last Saturday?

Althea. Ah, you know, then! but what does it matter now? I was mistaken—isn't that enough?

Curph. Don't judge me by what you saw of Walter Wildfire. I can do better things than that. I can make you forget him—forget that he ever existed, if only you will trust me!

Alth. (indignantly). Do you really suppose that he—that I—oh, it's too insulting! And you will do no good by disparaging him. The man who could write those songs, and sing them like that——

Curph. (wincing). Don't! I know how they must have struck you. I would have prepared you, if I could. I did try—that afternoon at the station, but I was interrupted. And now it's too late, and the harm's done. But at least you will never see Walter Wildfire again!

Alth. (exasperated). Have I ever said that I wanted to? Why will you persist in talking as if——? Once for all, I can't care for you; whatever I may have thought once, I know now that I can have no sympathy with the sort of life you lead; the pleasures you are content with would not satisfy me; I should want more than you could ever give me. We should have nothing in common—nothing——There, now do you understand?

Curph. Yes, I think I do. I suppose it's natural, and yet—don't think too hardly of me if you can help it. I might have chosen a higher walk than I did, but at least I've kept out of the mire, and now at last I see my way to——But that wouldn't interest you. There, I had better say good-bye: you won't refuse to give me your hand at parting, will you?

[As he takes her hand, Mrs. Toovey enters with Charles, and stands transfixed.

Mrs. Toovey. Althea, don't tell me I'm too late! You have not accepted that man?

Curph. (releasing Althea's hand). On the contrary, I have just had my dismissal, Mrs. Toovey; we were merely saying good-bye.

Mrs. Toov. Thank Heaven! But I knew I could trust my daughter to detect instinctively the designing serpent in wolf's clothing—(correcting herself angrily)—the sheep in dove's plumage, I should say.

Charles (sotto voce). Similes are cheap to-day!

Mrs. Toov. (more angrily still). Well, I know what I mean, and so does he! (Mr. Toovey enters.) And how a person with Mr. Curphew's antecedents could ever have the face to thrust himself into such a household as this——

Mr. Toov. (coming forward). Cornelia, my love! Such language to our dear young friend! Surely, surely, there must be some sad mistake!

Mrs. Toov. There has been indeed, Pa, and so you will say when you hear who and what he really is!

Curph. Mr. Toovey has been quite aware of it for the last week, and was kind enough to say he saw no insuperable objection.

Mrs. Toov. Pa, is this true? You knew who Mr. Curphew was and never told me!

Mr Toov. My dear, I've no more notion who he is, if he's not Mr. Curphew, than a babe un——

Curph. But surely, Sir, you forget our conversation at Clapham Junction this day week? You certainly knew everything then. I thought your nephew had probably——

Charles. I'd no idea of it myself till last Saturday, so it couldn't have been me!

Alth. (impatiently). No idea of what? Who is Mr. Curphew, Papa?

Curph. (to her, in astonishment). But you know! surely you know? What else have we been talking about?

Mr. Toov. (helplessly). I think we might try to be a little more clear, all of us. I do indeed. I'm in a perfect fog myself.

Mrs. Toov. Then, Pa, let me inform you that you have been encouraging the acquaintance of a person who gains his living by singing ribald songs at music-halls under the name of Walter Wildfire!

Alth. (to herself). Walter Wildfire! Then it was——Oh, if I had known!

Mr. Toov. A—a music-hall singer! He! Oh, dear, dear me; how one may be deceived in people!

Curph. Really, Sir, this can hardly be news to you, when you allowed me to send you a box for the Eldorado for the express purpose of——

Mrs. Toov. Don't deny you were sent the box, Pa, because I know better. The question is—what you wanted one at all for?

Mr. Toov. (to himself). There's no occasion to say anything about those shares now! (Aloud.) To be sure. I was sent a ticket, my love; I could not help that, but (drawing himself up) it was not likely that I should compromise myself by visiting such a place, even from the best of motives, and I did not use the ticket myself, though I believe some other person did.

Mrs. Toov. (in some distress). Well, well, never mind that now, Pa. What you have to do is to ask this Mr. Wildfire to oblige us all by walking out of this house—for ever.

Curph. I should not have stayed so long as this, only I hoped that Mr. Toovey at least would have done me the justice—— However, I've nothing to keep me here any longer now.

[He moves towards the door.

Alth. (coming forward and intercepting him). Yes, you have—you've me. Oh, do you think I'll let you go like this—now I know? Can't you understand what a difference it makes?

[She clings to his arm.

"Can't you understand what a difference it makes?"

Charles. Bravo, Thea! I always knew you were a sensible girl!

Curph. (utterly bewildered). Then you weren't—you don't——? I wonder if I can be awake!

Mrs. Toov. Althea, if you had the remotest conception of what a music-hall singer is, you would never——

Alth. I know what Mr. Curphew is, Mamma. He is a great artist, a genius; he can hold a mixed crowd of careless people spell-bound while he sings, make them laugh, cry, shudder, just as he chooses, and whatever he does is all so natural and human and real, and—oh, I can't put it into proper words, but one goes away thinking better of the whole world after it—and to hear him treated as if he were some outcast—oh, I can't bear it!

[She breaks down.

Curph. (to himself). I don't care what happens now. They can't take this away!

Mrs. Toov. Upon my word! And pray where did you learn all this about Mr. Wildfire's performances?

Alth. (boldly). Where, Mamma? Why, at the Eldorado, last Saturday evening.

[Sudden collapse of Mrs. Toovey.

Mr. Toov. (electrified). A daughter of mine at the Eldorado! Thea, my child, you can't know what you are talking about; look at the effect on your poor mother!

Alth. (desperately). But indeed, Papa, there was no harm in it, I went with the Merridews. And—and I may be mistaken, of course, but I—I thought I saw Mamma there too!

[Sensation.

Charles. Oh, I say, Thea; aren't you coming it rather strong? Aunt at the Eldorado! Why, Aunt thought Uncle was there!

Mr. Toov. Cornelia, my love, don't pay any attention to her; the child must be stark staring mad to say such things. It's bad enough that she should have gone; but to think of you in such a scene! (To Althea.) Why, it was that very Saturday evening that your dear mother went to the Zenana Meeting at Mrs. Cumberbatch's—yes, to be sure. (To Mrs. T.) You remember, my dear, how you came home so late, in a cab the driver had been smoking in, and how the moment you entered the room I——

Mrs. Toov. (hastily). My dear Theophilus, I remember the circumstances perfectly, but I should not condescend to answer so preposterous a charge; especially when it is my own daughter who brings it!

Alth. (in distress). But indeed I don't Mamma. I only fancied it might have been you, and of course, if you were at the Cumberbatches——

Mrs. Toov. (to herself). I must put a stop to this once and for all. (Aloud.) If I was at the Cumberbatches! When your father has just told you I was there—really, Althea! Did I hear wheels outside? Just look, Pa. I haven't seen my spectacles since Saturday.

Mr. Toov. (at the window). Why, really, my love, it does seem to be a carriage, indeed. I wonder who can be calling at such a——Now, it's quite a coincidence, truly—it's dear Mrs. Cumberbatch! I hope she'll come in, because I really think it's a duty to warn her against employing that particular cabman again. A driver who permits himself to smoke inside his own vehicle to that extent——

[Mrs. Toovey makes ineffectual efforts to speak.

Alth. (in a whisper, to Curphew). Do look at Mamma! You don't think she could really——?

Curph. I don't know what to think yet; but we shall all know in a very few seconds now.

[The hall-door is heard to open; Mrs. Toovey attempts to rise, but has to remain in her seat, dumb and paralysed.

End of Scene XVII.

LOBENGULA'S LETTER-BAG.

(Post-mark, Regent's Park.) Shall be glad to engage you for the Gardens. You will be expected to look after the elephants and to make yourself generally useful with the lions and tigers. As the Christmas holidays are approaching, perhaps you might invent a little comic scene with the crocodiles. A similar feature was supplied years ago by the French sailor in charge of the seals with much effect. Of course we shall be glad if your knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of the ourang-outang enables you to suggest anything that could be worked up into a comic interlude. Please bear in mind that the Gardens want waking up, and you have a big opportunity. You would have Sunday off every other week. The Gardens would reserve to themselves the right of regulating your costume. Your boots and straw-hat may be ample in Africa, but in the Regent's Park would be considered inappropriate. We think we can clothe you in the very thing, if we can find a size large enough for you. It is called "the boy's home-for-the-holidays lounging suit," and is largely advertised. Shall expect you by next boat.

(Post-mark, Westminster). Glad to engage you for a month certain, with power to increase the time to six weeks or longer. Could you bring with you a pugilistic hippopotamus? It must be a young one, as there is not much room for any side-shows. If you can jump, and don't mind water, so much the better. If you would leap from the organ-loft into a tank on to the stage, carrying on your back the boxing-kangaroo, the feat might be accepted, and prove a feature. Think this over on the journey to England. Perhaps something may occur to you. If so, mind that we are deeply respected, and are highly popular with the L. C. C. So please let your suggestions be as refined as possible.

(Post-mark, Paternoster Row). Shall be glad to arrange with you for the immediate production of your Recollections. Would be glad if they were written in a bright, chatty style. You might give an account of your connection with literary celebrities, torturers, scientific expeditions, executions, sport in the far East, native war, and other topics of interest that may have come under your personal observation. If you could write up to some electros we have of a comic German Christmas party so much the better. As the success of the book is doubtful, we do not wish to incur unnecessary expense, and therefore would be glad if you could see your way to introducing the following blocks, of which we hold the copyright:—Covent Garden by Moonlight, A Spanish Bull Fight, An Execution in front of the Old Bailey, A Students' Ball in the Quartier Latin, H.R.H. opening a Newly-erected Board-School, Snipe Shooting on the Norfolk Broads, Christmas in a Storm at Sea, Hampstead Heath on Bank Holiday, Portrait of John Wesley, A Lecture on Chemistry at the Royal Polytechnic Institution, Exterior of the new Police Court at Bow Street, An Incident in the Lord Mayor's Show, "Oxford wins," Van Tromp sailing up the Thames, Paris Fashions for February, Christmas Eve—the Last Omnibus, Hop Pickers on the March, The new Uniform of the Grenadier Guards, and the late Fire at the Borough Brewery. We shall be glad if you will put the book in hand at once, as it is scarcely necessary to say that the sale of a work of reminiscences depends to a large extent upon the popularity of its author at the moment of publication. Terms, after the sale of 5000 copies, one penny a volume royalty.

(Post-mark, Drury Lane.) Engage you at once for ten years. Probably shall not require you for more than three or four months, but shall retain you for the rest of the time. May come in useful later on. Place waiting for you in the Pantomime. Minute and a half in English History in twenty minutes. Also comic scene with the Clown. The engagement must have clause allowing transference. Can find places for your wives (if they are really nice ones) in the Transformation Scene. If you can imitate the cries &c., of wild beasts, &c., think I can get you a turn at the Palace. Writing a first-rate part for you in Autumn drama. A sort of gentlemanly demon, who appears in the West End during the first and third Acts, and in the last scene, appears in national costume with a real army and the whole bag of tricks. Bring as many of your army with you as you can. Can find something for them to do until the production of the Autumn drama. Collect a good lot of assegais and other useful props. May see way to working you into the Opera season. If you can sing, can give you a show at a concert. Might do for German series. Terms as per usual. Special arrangement if wanted at Windsor. Come over at once. On second thoughts, remain where you are. Will run over to have a chat. Third, and last thought, come over yourself. Find myself, with my engagements, just now a little pressed for time. Au revoir!

A NOVELTY.

Mr. Cylinder (who always uses his Host's cartridges). "What Powder are these loaded with, my Boy?"

Beater. "Ar doan't rightly know; but ar think they calls it Serdlitz Pooder!"

Coal and Wood.

["That a Board of Conciliation be constituted forthwith, to last for one year at least, consisting of an equal number of coalowners and miners' representatives, fourteen of each."—Terms of the Collieries Strike Conference.]

Hooray for happy harmony so readily restored!

Thanks chiefly to young Rosebery, that shrewd and genial lord.

And Mr. Punch is thankful, for such strikes we can't afford,

That in the Labour platform the newest plank's a Board!

AN ORNITHOLOGICAL OUTBURST.

["A specimen of the rare white-tailed eagle has just been shot at Bude Haven, Cornwall."—Daily Paper, Nov. 24.]

Ah! shades of Yarrell, Morris, Bewick, Wood,

Swoop down from Nephelococcygian eyrie

With legions of bird-phantoms,

Roc-ghosts and spectral bantams,

And venge the Vandal sporting-man's vagary,

Wrought on your race in Cornwall's bay of Bude!

A Haliaëtus he's done to death!

Haunt him and harry, ossifrage and osprey!

Hoot, owl! Croak havoc, raven!

He of that wave-beat haven

Should—like the Ancient, of the Albatross—pray

For tardy pardon till his latest breath!

Soon will the Sea-earn join the vanished band

Of Garefowl, Æpyornis, Dodo, Moa!

And e'en the merry mavis

Will rank as rara avis—

The sparrow, sole of all that sailed with Noah,

Will learn the casual pot-shot to withstand!

Why surely, when rare birds are rarer made

By 'Arry, or by 'Arriet's hat-adorner,

These gentry should be tethered

To posts, and tarred and feathered!

To see the balance thus redressed a mourner

Would not be he who has these lines essayed!

A DISCUSSION ON WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

"A—I've no doubt you're quite right in Theory, Lady Hypatia. But I'm afraid that in Practice the World at large won't agree with you." "Won't it? Then it oughtn't to be at large!"

A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO.

(Latest Parliamentary Version.)

Mr. H. Fowler sings. (Air—"Daisy Bell.")

There's mazy misgiving upon my part,

Hazy, hazy,

Women, by Walter M'Laren's art,

Muddle my "Mazy Bill."

Whether I love it or love it not,

Down I must gulp this pill.

She-suffrage complicates the plot,

Much, of my "Mazy Bill"!

Chorus—

Mazy! Mazy!

She-Voter, sit up, do!

I'm half crazy,

All with the weight of you!