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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

Volume 104, April 15th 1893

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand

PERILOUS POSITION OF A GALLANT OFFICER OF VOLUNTEERS.

On a recent March, who (ever thoughtful for the comfort of his hired Charger) chooses the cooling waters of the Ford in preference to the Bridge.

"Here! Hi! Help, Somebody! Hold on! I mean Halt! He won't come out, and he wants to Lie Down, and I believe he's going to Rear!"

POLITICAL MEETINGS.

A Crowded, gas-lit, stuffy hall,

A prosy speaker, such a duffer,

A mob that loves to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation—how I suffer!

What is he saying? "Mr. G.

Attacks the British Constitution,

It therefore—er—er—falls to me

To move the first—er—resolution:

"That—er—the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Primrose Habitations

Pronounce ('Hear, hear!') these Bills to be

Iniquitous (cheers) innovations."

I'll bear this heat and noise no more;

My constitution would be weaker.

I hurry out, and find, next door,

Another meeting and its speaker;

Another crowded, stuffy hall,

A frantic shouter, greater duffer,

A mob more prone to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation still I suffer.

What is he saying? "Mr. G.,

Despite drink's cursed coalition,

Dooms publicans (groans), as should be,

On earth, as elsewhere, to perdition!

"I move, the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Bands of Hope, with pleasure,

Pronounce the Veto Bill to be

A great (cheers), good (shouts), just (roars) measure."

Enough! O frantic fools who rave

And call it "Temperance"! This body

Would drive me to an early grave;

I'll hurry home and get some toddy.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG PARTY SCRIBE.

You may, an it please you, be dull,

(For Britons deem dulness "respectable");

Stale flowers of speech you may cull,

With meanings now scarcely detectable;

You may wallow in saturnine spite,

You may flounder in flatulent flummery;

Be sombre as poet Young's "Night,"

And dry as a Newspaper "Summary";

As rude as a yowling Yahoo,

As chill as a volume of Chitty;

But oh, Sir, whatever you do,

You must not be witty!

Plod on through the sand-wastes of Fact,

Long level of gritty aridity;

With pompous conceit make a pact,

Be bondsman to bald insipidity;

Be slab as a black Irish bog,

Slow, somnolent, stupid, and stodgy;

Plunge into sophistical fog,

And the realms of the dumpishly dodgy.

With trump elephantine and slow,

Tread on through word-swamps, dank and darkling;

But no, most decidedly no,

You must not be sparkling!

Be just as unjust as you like,

A conscienceless, 'cute special-pleader;

As spiteful as Squeers was to Smike,

(You may often trace Squeers in a "leader.")

Impute all the vileness you can,

Poison truth with snake-venom of fable,

Be fair—as is woman to man,

And kindly—as Cain was to Abel.

Suggest what is false in a sneer,

Suppress what is true by confusing;

Be sour, stale, and flat as small-beer,

But don't be amusing!

Party zealots will pardon your spite,

If against their opponents it sputters,

The way a (word) foeman to fight,

Is to misrepresent all he utters.

That does not need wisdom or wit,

(Ye poor party-scribes, what a blessing!)

No clean knightly sword, but a spit

Is the weapon for mangling and messing;

Wield that, like a cudgel-armed rough

Blent with ruthless bravo,—such are numerous!—

Lie, slander, spout pitiful stuff,

But—beware of the humorous!

For if you should fall into fun,

You might lapse into manly good-nature,

And then—well your course would be run!

No,—study up spleen's nomenclature;

Learn all the mad logic of hate,

And then, though your style be like skilly,

Your sense frothy Styx in full spate.

And your maxims portentously silly;

You will find party scope for your pen,

Coin meanness and malice to money;

But sour dulness must keep to his den,

And never be funny.

THE FOX AND THE GUINEA-PIGS.

THE FOX AND THE GUINEA-PIGS.

(A Financial Fable.)

["There are dozens of Companies now existing with the Duke of Puffball, Sir Bonus Bare-acres, Bart., Major Guinea Pig, M.P., and the like, figuring upon the Board of Directors. A short, but drastic Act, making all such figureheads directly responsible, would go far to prevent similar occurrences, and to abolish a delusive, if not a fraudulent system."—Herbert T. Reid's Letter to the Times.]

Smart Mr. Fox, whose brain no conscience troubles,

Floated a Company—for blowing bubbles!

"Bubbles?" the duller creatures cried in chorus,

"Are you not coming nursery nonsense o'er us?

What is the use of bubbles—save to boys?"

"Hush!" cried 'cute Reynard. "Do not make a noise!

Bubbles—if bright—are cunning's best decoys.

Bubbles are only wind plus soap and water;

But well-stirred suds, and well-blown flatulence,

In this fool world, have influence immense,

And draw unthinking dupes from every quarter.

Eloquence is but Wind, yet flowery trope

Is Humbug's favourite lure;

And what is Diplomatic Skill but soap?

Trust me! Success is sure!

Bubbles are bright, bewitch the mob, float far,

And cost the blower little.

The watery sphere looks like a world, a star,

And when it bursts, being exceeding brittle,

Where it explodes (as at the rainbow's foot)

There's hidden treasure—for the clever brute

Who knows that gulls are the great wealth-bestowers,

Bubbles mean solid bullion—for the blowers!"

The shrewder animals applauded. Lupus

Cried, "We are with you, so you do not dupe us!"

Ursus and Taurus also, Bull and Bear,

Were eager in the game to take a share.

Said Vulpus to the assembled quadrupeds,

"Company Boards, like ships, need figureheads,

Wooden but ornamental! Eh? You twig?

Sweet are the uses of—the Guinea Pig!

Dull, but respectable and decorative,

That tribe, to whom credulity is native.

They'll sit around our Board in solemn row,

And never, never 'want to know, you know,'

Beyond convenient limits. Their proud presence

Will fill our flock with faith; their acquiescence,

So readily secured by liberal fees,

Will make the mob accept our schemes with ease.

Behold them! They will give us little trouble

By wanting—well, to analyse the Bubble;

So they get something for themselves more solid,

They'll sit serene and stolid

In titled sloth and coronetted slumber.

I can secure them, friends, in any number;

For Guinea Pigs are numerous and prolific

And as decoys their influence is mirific.

So whilst we work our Bubble-blowing rigs,

Hurrah, for Guinea Pigs!

They'll take our fees, assent to our suggestions,

And ask no awkward questions."

Moral.

The rank's the guinea's stamp, says Scotland's Rob,

But if you want to bubble, juggle, job,

You'll find, with Vulpus, the Promoter big,

Rank is the stamp of the true Guinea Pig!

THE NEW CHIMNEY.

Mike. "Faith, Tim, ye haven't got ut Straight at all! It lanes over to the Roight!"

Tim. "Oh, ye're wrong. It's Plumb ex-hact! It's myself that Plumbed ut mosht careful. Indade, if ut has a fault, it lanes over an Inch or tew to the Left, when ye look at ut from Behoind!!"

THE POOR MAN AND HIS BEER.

[Mr. Chamberlain, at Birmingham, said, "We know that the Government propose to deprive the working classes of their beer." ("Shame!" and a Voice, "They don't!")

"Rob the poor Workman of his glass of beer!!!"

And can that clap-trap, then, still raise a cheer?

The British Workman has a thirsty throat,

The British Workman also has a Vote,

One will protect the other—if it cares to.

But if he'd close, by vote, the shops such snares to

His tipple-tempted and intemperate throttle

He robs himself of access to the bottle,—

If robbery it's called—'tis not another,

(Who is a swell, with cellars) his poor brother

Deprives of that long-hackneyed, much-mouthed "glass."

The British Workman is not quite an ass,

And where he wants to whet (with beer) his throat,

Where are you like to get your two-thirds Vote?

Whether there's wisdom in this vaunted Veto,

Is quite another question sense must see to.

And general justice judge. But those who cheer

The stale old fudge about the Poor Man's Beer,

Should learn it is a dodge of vested pelf,

And, rich or poor, a man can't rob himself.

It is the poor who suffer from temptation,

And drink's detestable adulteration,

That crying ill which no one dares to tackle!

Whilst Witlers howl, and Water-zealots cackle.

The poor are poisoned, not by honest drink,

But lethal stuff that might scour out a sink.

The Poor Man's Beer, quotha! Who'll keep it pure?

Not rich monopolists, nor prigs demure,

Those shriek for freedom, these for prohibition,

"Vend the drugged stuff sans scrutiny or condition!"

Cries Vested Interest. "Close, by law or Vote,

The Witler's tavern and the Workman's throat!"

Shouts the fanatic. Which, then, fad or pelf,

Cares really, solely, for the Poor Man's self?

Nay; the Monopolist fights for his money,

The Monomaniac for his craze. How funny

To hear one shout for freedom, t'other cheer

The poisoner's cant about the Poor Man's Beer!

WHY is it evident that Mr. Arthur Balfour didn't know much of Ireland until last Monday week, April 3? Because 'twas then he went to Larne.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Statesmen, Historians, and such, may think that, between the years 1871 and 1876, "the Egyptian Question" turned upon the extravagance of Ismail Pasha, and the financial complications that followed thereupon. Readers of the Recollections of an Egyptian Princess (Blackwood) will know better. The real Egyptian Question of that epoch was, whether the English Governess of the Khedive's daughter should get her mistress's carriage at the very hour she wanted it; whether she should have the best rooms in any palace or hotel she might chance to be located in; and whether she should have her meals served at the time and in the fashion she had been accustomed to in the family mansion at Clapton or Camberwell. Many stirring passages in the book deal with these and cognate matters. None delights my Baronite more than one in which a driver named Hassan figures. Hassan, ordered for eight o'clock, sometimes came at nine. Occasionally at six. "He asked for 'backseesh,' which" Miss Chennells writes, "I did not consider myself bound to give, as he never did anything for me." On two occasions, her heart warming, she coyly pressed a florin into his hand, with dire results. "He was," she records, "much worse after it" (the florin, which he seems to have taken neat), "and would, when driving, stoop down, and look through the front window of the brougham, shouting 'Backseesh!'" However, Miss Chennells got even with Hassan. She followed her usual course when things went ill. She complained to her pupil, the Princess. Next morning, when the unsuspecting Hassan drove into the court-yard, "he was told by the Eunuchs to descend from the box, was conducted to an inner receptacle, and," Miss Chennells grimly adds, "then and there bastinadoed." Incidentally, in connection with the English Governess's struggle for supremacy in the City of the Pharaohs, we get pictures of life in the Harem, and glimpses of the lavish magnificence of the Khedieval Court, with its French embroidery on Eastern robes. It was with the object of describing these scenes, viewed from a rare vantage point, that the story was written. But not the least interesting character is that, unconsciously drawn, of the prim, practical, precise English Governess, pushing her way through the crowd of courtiers and Ethiopian slaves, peering through gold-rimmed eyeglasses into the recesses of the Harem, and glaring angrily at the hapless Eunuchs, who, going their morning rounds, visit her bedroom, regardless of the twine with which, before entering on her virgin slumbers, she had sedulously fastened the lockless door. Altogether a delightful book, says Passim Pasha, the accredited representative of the Baron De Book-worms.

Those who like "Just a tale by twilight, When the lights are low, And the glittering shadows Softly come and go," will do well to expend the comparatively small sum of one shilling, which, in certain ready-money quarters, is reduced to tenpence, or even ninepence, on Grim Tales, written by E. Nesbit, of which "The Ebony Frame" (which should have been called "The Speaking Likeness,") "The Mystery of the Semi-Detached," "Life-size, in Marble," and "A Mass for the Dead," are the best, the last-mentioned being the only one that ends, as all otherwise purposeless tales should end, happily. The Stories are grim enough, in all conscience, but they are told in a hearty sort of fashion, which, while relieving them of some of their weirdness, is calculated to impress the reader with an idea of the honesty and bona fides of the narrator. Thus far,

The Baron de Book-worms.

THE PENALTY OF FAME.

Small Boy (with shrill voice).

"'Fightin'—with—the Sev'nth—Royal Fusiliers—the

Famous Fusiliers—the

Fightin' Fusiliers,'" &c., &c.

Irritable War-Office Clerk. "Con-found the Seventh Royal Fusiliers! I'm sick of 'em! Blest if I don't pack 'em off to the Channel Islands!" [Does so.]

Mem. For the Next Epsom Meeting,—Why is the Winner of the Derby always like a Table d' hôte?—Because he's so much ahead.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS FOR A CRIMINAL COLLEGE.

(Suitable for Use at the Prison University, Elmira.)

Question. What is a crime?

Answer. A discovered breach of the law.

Q. And a virtue?

A. Its antithesis—the same thing unsuspected.

Q. What should be the chief occupation of a criminal?

A. A serious study of the law, with a view to its successful evasion.

Q. Is there a law for the rich and a law for the poor?

A. Certainly not; but a well-feed Q.C. is more than a match for a briefless Counsel whose professional sustenance is "soup."

Q. What is now generally considered to be the highest line of crime?

A. The malpractice that is frequently inseparable from holding of important positions on the Boards of bogus public Companies.

Q. What is necessary to secure a livelihood out of burglary?

A. A clear head, a knowledge of chemistry and kindred subjects, and a fair amount of capital.

Q. Why is ready money necessary?

A. Because the calling of a burglar nowadays is attended by various compulsory expenses. A successful burglar should be able to purchase skeleton-keys and "jemmies" of the most exquisite and delicate quality. Moreover, he should be able to entertain largely, and to keep a yacht.

Q. Is swindling ever known to be legal?

A. Scarcely; still it can often be practised with impunity on the Stock Exchange and the Turf.

Q. Is petty larceny lawful?

A. Only when practised on the belongings of your wife, and even in this case it is well to keep her in ignorance of the provisions of the Married Woman's Property Act.

Q. What are the advantages of a sojourn in the newly organised Elmira establishment?

A. An inmate is taught a trade, or even a profession.

Q. And now, in conclusion, considering that a breach of the law is necessary to secure admission to the University, what would you consider the most appropriate motto for the Institution?

A. "Honesty is not (at first) the best policy."

"Back us Up!"—It is stated that, on the new School Board for the Henley-in-Arden district, a Mr. H. Bacchus has been elected. May Bacchus (and the classic "fat venison") never be absent from this Board! Probably, nowadays, Bacchus is a strong supporter of the Temperance Movement, if not himself a Total Abstainer.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. XVIII.—TO FAILURE.

Sir,—Hitherto, I seem to have been submitting to you examples that cannot properly be described as failures. This was not my purpose. I wished rather to describe one or two characters whose ruin, to a greater or smaller degree, you have compassed by your influence. But some sprite seemed to take possession of my pen; my efforts were unsuccessful, and I was led away from my original purpose. Perhaps that is one of the penalties of addressing you. We shall see! In any case let me proceed with my task as best I may.

It happened to me once—the date is immaterial—that after a considerable absence, I returned to London. You know, perhaps, how it fares with those who, for any length of time, become exiles from their native land. All the institutions, the small no less than the great, that go to make up our varied social life at home, become glorified as it were, and loom larger through the mist of absence. They become part and parcel of a traveller's patriotism, even if in his home-life he took no part in them. I was due to return at the end of May, in time for the Derby-day. I am not a racing-man. I had never seen the Derby run, chiefly, I fancy, because I had never had any desire to see it. But I remember that amongst my brother-exiles, I was being eternally congratulated on the good luck that took me home in time for this great national event. "What, you are going to be back by the end of May," one of them would say; "why you'll be able to go to the Derby?" So that in time, I came to accept this possibility as a specially enviable feature of my home-coming. From that, to making up my mind to go to the Derby was but a step, I took it, and on the great day I made one of the mighty crowd on Epsom Downs. I don't remember much about the race. I met many friends who asked me, as is common in such cases, if I was back already; a question to which it seems difficult to find a suitable reply, if one's bodily presence is not to be accepted as a sufficient evidence of the fact. Many others volunteered to put me on to various absolute certainties, and one man chilled my newly-born racing-patriotism by observing, that he would as soon have thought of seeing Fred Archer at a meeting of the British Association.

I don't mean to describe the scene on the Downs. One crowd is much like another; and, when you have said something of the proverbial good-nature of a British crowd, you have done all that can be justly required of you, after seeing a hunted wretch all but torn in pieces by a mob of blackguards worse than himself. However, I think I enjoyed myself well enough. Others enjoyed themselves more, and amongst these was a party of roystering, jovial fellows, who ate a hearty luncheon, and drank much champagne, on the top of a hired drag. One of them particularly attracted my attention. Somewhere, I knew, I had seen that curious, clean-shaved, bull-frog face before. It was perfectly familiar to me, but, for the life of me, I couldn't recall the circumstances in which I had previously set eyes on it. He appeared to be the leader of the revels, and kept his companions in fits of laughter at his sallies. I beat my brains to remember him, but all in vain. All that I could arrive at was a sense of incongruity, an impression of the unexpected in the spectacle I had witnessed.

In the evening I went to the "Frivolity," to see the latest rays of the lamp of burlesque. That scene, at any rate, was familiar. There, in all their spotless panoply of expressionless face, and irreproachable shirt-front, sat the golden lads of the Metropolis in their rows, images of bored stupidity, stiffly cased in black and white. There too, were to be seen the snowy shoulders and the sparkling jewels of the ladies both of the smart and of the higher half world, with here and there an extensive dowager to add weight and decorum to the throng. The curtain drew up on one of the usual scenes of rejoicing. Shapely ladies, in tights, chorused their delight at the approaching nuptials of a great lord's daughter. Then the contented peasantry of the surrounding district stepped forward to swell the joyful strains, and to be regaled with draughts of sparkling emptiness from the inexhaustible beaker wielded by the landlord of the neighbouring inn. And there, under the broad hat of one of these rejoicing peasants, I recognised the bull-frog face that had puzzled me that day at Epsom. In a flash I remembered him and all the scenes in which he had played a humble part. Far back from the dimness of some of my earliest theatrical experiences, up to the present moment, I followed him on his career, simulating joint merriment, bearing one of many banners, carrying a pike or a halberd in an army similarly armed, conspiring in a mantle, draining a brimming goblet, but never—at least within my recollection—taking a part of any individuality, or one that gave him a chance of singing or speaking a single line by himself. He had been one of the ruck when I had first seen him, and now, after at least twenty years, the ruck still claimed him for its own. I remember I had woven a sort of romance about him. There, I had thought to myself, is a man who, no doubt, began his stage career with high aspirations, and noble ambitions. It cannot have been his aim to figure for ever merely as one of a crowd. And I had pictured him gradually losing hope, and wearing his heart out in the bitterness of deferred ambition as he walked gloomily through life, with the stamp of failure on his brow. The picture was a pathetic one, you must admit, worthy to take its place on the line with the well-known fancy sketch of the Clown who, after making the masses split their sides, goes home to a private life of penury and despair.

Well, that day I had seen a piece of my friend's private life at Epsom. Nothing could have been farther removed from misery. A light-hearted gaiety reigned in his face and ruled his every gesture. His companions seemed to bow to him, as to their leading humorist and mirth-maker. I was stimulated by the collapse of my elaborate illusion to make inquiries about him. I found that he had been born almost on the stage, and had taken part in stage-life from his earliest years. He never had any ambition: so long as he could be on the stage, and take part in its life, his desires were satisfied. He lived an absolutely contented life, smoked infamous tobacco out of clay-pipes, and was in high repute amongst his intimates as a singer of jovial songs, and a teller of brisk theatrical anecdotes. There was not a spark of envy in his nature. He honoured the great actors, and was always ready to do all he could to smooth the path of any nervous youngster with excellent advice and cheerful help. He is still acting. Anybody who wishes can see him on any night, helping to troll forth the chorus of a song of Mexican warriors in the great spectacular drama of Montezuma. There is no more perfectly-satisfied being in existence. On that I am prepared to stake my life. Let this tale then be a warning to those who are over-hasty to construct romances of pathetic contrast on an insufficient foundation. One hugs such stories to one's heart, and it is something of a wrench to have to give them up in the light of a fuller knowledge.

And here I am, having all but reached the limits of my appointed space, without apparently having gone one step nearer to the fulfilment of the task on which I set out. I can only ask you to take the will for the deed in the meantime. And after all, if this unambitious actor had only been what I imagined him to be, I could not have produced an apter example. But he had the impertinence to live his life in his own way, and that did not happen to accord with the theories I had been led to form about it. Shall I never be able to come to the point? I have not yet given up all hope?

Yours as usual,

D. R.

THE UNIVERSAL VENT.

(For Vacuity, Vanity, Verbosity, Virulence, and Venom.)

IF you've been burning the midnight taper,

And of new policies deem yourself shaper;

If at the world you're a green-gosling gaper,

Or of old "Junius," juvenile aper;

Bumptious Scotch Duke, or irate Irish Draper,

Crammed with conceit, which must publicly caper;

Angry old woman, or frivolous japer;

Thraso or termagant, Tadpole or Taper,

To blow off your steam, or your gas, or your vapour,

There's one fool-loved fashion—'tis write to the paper!

"I AM in a state of suspense," said a Clergyman. "I am sorry to hear it," replied his friend. "Why are you suspended?"

PROPER PRIDE.

He. "Wasn't that the Countess of Mohair that just went by? I thought you told me she was a friend of yours!"

She. "Oh, we meet occasionally, and all that,—but I've really been obliged to drop Lady Mohair, I'm sorry to say!"

He. "Dear me,—really! What for?"

She. "Oh, well,—she always deliberately turns her Back on me when I try to speak to her, and looks another way when I bow, or else coolly stares me in the Face and takes no notice whatever,—so now I make a point of Cutting her Dead!"