PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 104, April 8th 1893
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
SPORTING ANSWERS.
ANGLING.
Fleacatcher.—Yes, the trout in the river Itching (this is the only correct spelling) are red, and, before they are boiled, raw. The best method of catching them is to tickle them. When you have hooked an Itching trout, you first scratch him, and then cook him.
Novice.—We only knew one man who could make a decent rod, and he died twenty years ago. Remember the old adage so dear to Izaak, Qui parcit virgæ spoliat puerum. For instructions as to use of implement, and translation of Latin, apply to any head-master. Failure in the latter will inevitably lead to application of the former. Then pause for reflection, but don't sit down.
Spook.—What on earth is the use of applying to us about a phantom? We never keep one on the premises. Try personal interview with W. T. Stead, who has a fine selection, Julia being specially effective. Why do you ask if we generally spin? Not having been born a top, we prefer walking.
Contemplative.—(1) It's absolutely useless offering us these paltry inducements to betray the secrets of our skill. We are—we hope we may say it without undue pride—an All-Round Angler, and we are not going to be squared by a bait of that kind. (2) We have never pretended we were a salmon. If Andrew Lang says we have, we challenge him to repeat it to our face before witnesses. (3) Whitebait are no longer kept in the Round Pond at Kensington. We knew as many as four there ten years ago.
Calipee.—You are quite right. When a ship turns turtle the fact is instantly communicated to the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of London. They proceed to the spot in the Maria Wood, and the one who secures the interesting saurian is allowed to eat all the green fat. With you we hope devoutly that the time is far distant when the desecrating hand of a Socialistic Government will be allowed to lay a finger on these ancient civic customs. No. The Fishmongers' Company do not sell fish. Their motto is, Edo, non vendo.
Acton Est.—The Cornhill Magazine for this month has an interesting article on "Actors and Actresses in Westminster Abbey," not seen there much when alive, but there for good after their decease. It is stated of Mrs. Barry that she was not interred in the Abbey, as has been, it appears, generally supposed, but found her resting-place at Acton. Odd, that when she had ceased to act, she should be sent to Act-on!
"TAKE CARE OF THE PENCE, AND THE POUNDS," &c.
Muriel. "Mamma, what have you got the Carriage out for so late? Where are you going?"
Mrs. Goldie. "Now, Muriel, you know how your Father keeps worrying about Extravagance, and of course I must set an Example. So I'm going to the Public Library to see the Evening Paper!"
THE CRY OF THE CUE-IST.
(To the Champion, by a Discouraged Competitor.)
Break, break, break,
On the smooth green board, O John!
And I would civil words could utter
My thoughts, as the game goes on!
O well for the three-figure runs
You have made since we opened play!
O ill for my nine thousand start,
Which you're lessening day by day!
And the marvellous shots go on
To your score, which is mounting still!
But O for a touch of that wondrous hand,
And a slice of that startling skill!
Break, break, break!
There's a shot! Great Scott! O, see!
What tender grace! And if once ahead
You will never "come back" to me!
"Epsom Spring Meeting."—In former times this used to be a fashionable rendezvous for invalids who went there to drink the beneficial waters of the Epsom Spring. Now there is not much water taken at these Spring Meetings; and what water is taken is not "an unmixed good."
A Lesson in "Book-keeping."—Never lend one.
AFTER THE VOLUNTEER REVIEW.
Scene—An Office. Brown and Jones discovered talking over the incidents of the recent holiday.
Brown. Yes; I was up at six on the Monday.
Jones. Well, you were in luck; for I had to be ready by four. The battalion had to be drawn up at the station by 4·45.
Brown. To be sure. You went down before we did.
Jones. Yes. I wish we had got some coffee before starting.
Brown. But you had your breakfast on your arrival, didn't you?
Jones. Yes, to be sure; but as we were a bit late, it was rather a scramble.
Brown. Well, of course one has to get on to parade as soon as possible. We cut it rather fine too. But that's the case with all of us.
Jones. To be sure; and if you lose time at one end, you must make up for it at the other—that stands to reason. And how did you get on?
Brown. First rate. We were on the march from nine to five.
Jones. So were we; and didn't have time scarcely to get to our havresacks.
Brown. Just our fortune. Always on the move. I wore out my leathers in fine style.
Jones. So did I. And then we had to go back to the train before we could get any dinner.
Brown. My fate too. And, when I got home, the slavey had forgotten to lay supper!
Jones. So had mine. But still it was a glorious holiday—now, wasn't it?
Brown. I should say it was! A glorious holiday!
[They return to their ledgers.
QUEER QUERIES.
Abscondrelism.—I belong to a Building Society. At present the concern is exceptionally prosperous, and I have no reason to suppose that the Directors and Manager are not scrupulously honest. Still, it is as well to be prepared for all eventualities, and, as a couple of years seems to be about the time required by the authorities before they can make up their minds to prosecute anybody, I should like to know if I could apply for a warrant against the officials of my Society at once, so as to have everything ready in case any of them should develop fraudulent tendencies a few years hence? Would there be any objection to this? Perhaps some legal reader would reply. Also, is it a fact that Messrs. Balbert and Hurlfour have started a model Colony, on entirely new and philanthropic lines, in Mexico, and are inviting English settlers (unconnected with the "Liberator" Society) to join them there, the prospectus of the scheme being headed:—"By kind permission of the Public Prosecutor"?—Prophylactic.
HER "DAY OF REST."
(The Song of the Shop-Girl.)
"As one poor shop-girl said:—'After the fatigue and worry of the week, I am so thoroughly worn out, that my only thought is to rest on a Sunday; but it goes too quickly, and the other days drag on so slowly!'"—Quoted by Sir John Lubbock in the recent Debate on Early Closing for Shops.
Eight o'clock strikes!
The short day's sped,—
My Day of Rest! That beating in my head
Hammers on still, like coffin-taps. He likes,
Our lynx-eyed chief, to see us brisk and trim
On Monday mornings; and though brains may swim,
And breasts sink sickeningly with nameless pain,
He cannot feel the faintness and the strain,
And what are they to him?
This morning's sun peeped in
Invitingly, as though to win
My footsteps fieldwards, just one day in seven!
The thought of hedgerows was like opening heaven,
And the stray sunray's gleam,
Threading the dingy blind,
Seemed part of a sweet dream,
For in our sleep the Fates are sometimes kind.
"Come out!" it said, "but not with weary tread,
And feet of lead,
The long, mud-cumbered, cold, accustomed way,
For the great Shop is shuttered close to-day,
And you awhile are free!"
Free? With a chain of iron upon my heart,
That drags me down, and makes the salt tears start!
Oh, that inexorable weariness
That through the enfeebled flesh lays crushing stress
On the young spirit! Young? There is no youth
For such as I. It dies, in very truth,
At the first touch of the taskmaster's hand.
A doctrine hard for you to understand,
Gay sisters of the primrose path,
Whose only chain is as a flowery band.
The toil that outstays nature hath
A palsying power, a chilling force
Which freezes youth at its fresh source.
Only the Comus wand
Of an unhallowed Pleasure offers such
Freedom, and with pollution in its touch.
The languid lift
Of head from pillow tells us the good gift
Of Sabbath rest is more than half in vain.
Tired! Tired! In flesh, bone, brain,
Heart, fancy, pulse, and nerve!
Such is our doom who stand and serve
The unrewarding public, thoughtless they
Of slaves whose souls they slay!
Oh, that long standing—standing—standing yet!
With the flesh sick, the inmost soul a-fret,
Pale, pulseless patiences, our very sex,
That should be a protection, one more load
To lade, and chafe, and vex.
No tired ox urged to tramping by the goad
Feels a more mutely-maddening weariness
Than we white, black-garbed spectral girls who stand
Stonily smiling on while ladies grand,
Easily seated, idly turn and toss
The samples; and our Watcher, 'neath the gloss
Of courtly smugness glaring menace, stalks
About us, creaking cruelty as he walks.
Stand! Stand! Still stand!
Clenched teeth and clutching hand,
Swift blanching cheek, and twitching muscle, tell
To those who know, what we know all too well,
Ignored by Fashion, coldly mocked by Trade.
Are we not for the sacrifice arrayed
In dainty vesture? Pretty, too, they say
Male babblers, whom our sufferings and poor pay
Might shock, could they but guess
Trim figure and smart dress
Cover and hide, from all but doctor-ken,
Disease and threatening death. Oh! men, men, men!
You bow, smile, flatter—aught but understand!
Long hours lay lethal hand
Upon our very vitals. Seats might save
From an untimely grave,
Hundreds of harried, inly anguished girls;
You see—their snow-girt throats and neatly-ordered curls!
Out to the green fields? Nay,
This all too fleeting day
To rest is dedicate. But not the rest
Of brightened spirit, and of lightened breast.
The dull, dead, half-inanimate leaden crouch
Of sheer exhaustion on this shabby couch
Is all my week's repose.
Read? But the tired eyes close,
The book from nerveless fingers drops;
Almost the slow heart stops.
But the clock halts not on its restless round.
Weariness shudders at the whirring sound,
As the sharp strike declares
Swift to its closing wears
One more of those brief interludes from toil
Which leave us still the labour-despot's spoil,
Slaves of long hours and unrelaxing strain,
Unstrengthened and unsolaced, soon again
To tread the round, and lift the lengthening chain;
Stand—till hysteria lays its hideous clutch
On our girl-hearts, or epilepsy's touch
Thrills through tired nerves and palsied brain.
Again—again—again!
How long? Till Death, upon its kindly quest,
Gives a true Day of Rest!
EASTER MANŒUVRES.
BACCHUS ON A BICYCLE!
(A "Safety" too!!)
This incident repeated itself to infinity from the East End to Hammersmith and back!!
Royal Rewards to Good Players.—"As a sequel to the performance of Becket at Windsor, Mr. Irving"—as we were informed by the Daily News—"was presented by the Queen with a stud." What will he do with the stud? Will he take to the turf, go racing, and keep the stud at some Newmarket training-stables? Perhaps "the stud" consisted of fifty "ponies"—but this is a purse-an'-all matter, into which we are not at liberty to inquire. Miss Ellen Terry received a brooch from Her Majesty, on which are the letters "V.R.I." Our 'Arry says these initials signify "Ve Are 'Ighly pleased." Or, taking the two presents together, as speaking, V.R.I, might mean, says 'Arry, "Ve R-Ived safely."
LION AND LAMB.
["I think that when we consider an Opposition, in which Lord Salisbury and Mr. Chamberlain pacifically sit down—or lie down, together, we need not, ourselves, feel very sensitive on the subject of homogeneity."—Mr. Gladstone at the F. O. Liberal Meeting.]
Solly had a little Lamb,
From Brummagem you know!
And wheresoever Solly went
That Lamb was bound to go.
The Lion and the Lamb in fact!
And what could be more jolly?
Yet some do whisper that—sometimes—
The Lamb seems leading Solly.
"What Ho, Apothecary!"—Last week the Earl of Bessborough was announced as having arrived at Bessborough, Pilltown, Ireland. What an appropriate spot for erecting an Irish Apothecaries' Hall! What is Lord Bessborough's family name? Is it The O'Cockle?
THE AUTHOR.
It lay on the book-stall for sale,
But no one to purchase seemed willing,
The ticket was "Humorous Tale,
Two-and-sixpence—reduced to a shilling."
But the humour was lost upon me.
And the jest fell uncommonly flat.
Could the jokes I had written then be
So fallen in value as that?
The First Duty of an Opposition (As it now seems to be understood).—"To lie in cool Obstruction, and talk rot."—(Shakspeare—slightly adapted.)
Modern Translation by our Youngest Sporting Etonian.—"In formâ pauperis"—i.e., "in rather poor form."
AT AN AFTERNOON ENTERTAINMENT.
Scene—Prince's Hall, Piccadilly. Among the Audience are—A London Aunt, and her Eldest Daughter, with a Cousin from the Country, who is just a little difficult to amuse; a Serious-minded Lady from Brixton, with a more frivolous Friend; a pair of Fiancés; and an Unsophisticated Father, with an Up-to-date little Daughter. An exhibition of "Pure Sleight-of-Hand" has just been given on the Stage.
The Serious Lady. Clever? Yes, my dear, it is clever enough, if that's all; but I never can quite reconcile my conscience to encouraging a fellow-creature to make a living by deliberate deception!
Her Friend. Oh, I don't see any harm in conjuring, myself.
The S. L. I can't forget that Pharaoh had his Sorcerers and Magicians, and how they acted!
Her Friend. Ah, I never saw them.
The London Aunt (to her Niece). Enjoying it, Sophy? Such a treat for you, to see really good conjuring!
Sophy. Yes, Aunt, thank you. But our new Curate did that trick with two rabbits at the last Penny Readings we had!
[A calico screen is brought forward on which the Entertainer throws various shadows with his hands.
The S. L. Is that a little house at the corner? Oh, he doesn't do that with his hands—then I see no merit in it. Who's that? (A small male shadow, cast by the performer's right hand, crosses the screen, and knocks timidly at the door, which is opened by the left hand, in the character of a little Lady. The couple embrace effusively, and retire inside.) Ah, that's the husband coming home!
[Another male shadow enters and knocks furiously, while the little Lady reconnoitres cautiously from the window above.
Her Friend. I expect that must be the husband.
The S. L. What?—and the wife behaving like that in his absence! If I thought that was the—— (The first male shadow comes out, and fights the second, who retreats, worsted.) I never saw anything so scandalous. How you can call yourself consistent, and sit there and laugh at such things——!
Her Friend (apologetically). I can't help laughing—and, after all, perhaps they're only rival lovers, or he's her father, or something.
The S. L. And she inviting one to come into the house in that bold way—a nice example for young persons! Look there, he's come back with a flageolet, and she's actually poured a jug of water on his head out of the window! "Only a pair of hands," did you say? So it may be—but we all know who it is that "Finds some mischief still For idle hands to do"—and there we have an illustration of it, my dear.
[She shakes herself down in her sealskins with virtuous disapproval.
The Unsophisticated Father (who has been roaring with laughter). Capital! It is amazingly clever, 'pon my word! Can't imagine how they do these things—can you, Vivvie? [To Up-to-Date Child.
Miss Vivien. Oh, well I've seen so much conjuring at parties, you know, Father, that I don't notice it particularly,—but it's nice to see you so amused!
The U. F. I'm young, you see, Vivvie; but I hope you're not bored?
Miss V. No, I'm not bored—only I thought there'd be some Serpentine dancing, and more of the Music Hall about it.
The U. F. Music Hall! Why, what do you know about Music Halls, eh?
Miss V. (with calm superiority). Several of their songs—if you call that anything.
The U. F. I should be inclined to call it a good deal too much!
Miss V. (compassionately). Would you? Poor dear Father! But you never were very modern, were you?
[A Blind-folded Lady on the Stage has been reading and adding up figures on a black board, and now offers to tell the day of the week of any person's birth in the audience.
Her Colleague. Will some gentleman kindly oblige me with the date of his birth?
The Fiancée. Now, Jack, tell yours. I want you to.
Jack (in an unnaturally gruff voice). Fourteenth of February, eighteen-sixty-nine!
The Blindfolded Lady (with the air of the Delphic Pythia). Yes—that fell upon a Monday. [Applause.
Her Coll. Is that correct, Sir?
Jack. Don't know.
[He reddens, and tries to look unconscious.
Her Coll. Now I will ask the Lady if she can mention some event of importance that took place on the same date.
The Bl. L. Let me think. Yes. (Solemnly.) On the same date, in the year seventeen-hundred-and-thirty-seven, goloshes were first invented! [Loud applause.
Miss V. (as the pair retire). Well, thank goodness, we've seen the last of that beastly black-board. I didn't come here to add up sums. What is it next? Oh, a "Farmyard Imitator." I expect that will be rather rot, Father, don't you?
[Enter a Gentleman in evening dress who gives realistic imitations of various live-stock.
The Country Cousin. That's exactly the way our little Berkshire pig grunts, and "Sweetlips" calls her calf just like that—and, oh, Katie, I wonder if he could have heard our Dorkings clucking at home—I think he must have—he does it so exactly the same!
Katie. Then you do think that's clever, Sophy?
Sophy. Oh, well—for an imitation, you know!
[A "Sensational Cage Mystery" is introduced; a pretty child is shut up in a cage, which is opened a moment after, and found to contain a Negro who capers out, grinning.
The London Aunt. Sophy, do you see that?—there's a black man there now, instead!
Sophy (without enthusiasm). Yes, Aunt, I see, thank you.
Katie. Don't you like it, Sophy?
Sophy. I don't see why it need have been a Nigger!
The S. L. (after a "Humorous Musical Sketch" by a clever and, charming young Lady). Like that, my dear?—a Young Woman giving a description of how she actually went on the Stage, and imitating men in that way! It was as much as I could do to sit still in my seat!
Her Friend. I must say I thought it was very amusing.
The S. L. Amusing? I daresay. But, to my mind, young girls have no business to be amusing, and take off other people. I've no opinion of such ways myself. I don't know what my dear Mother would have done if I'd ever been amusing—she would have broken her heart, I do believe!
The Friend (to herself). She wouldn't have split her sides, that's very certain!
[A Lady Physiognomist appears in cap and gown, and invites a subject to step upon the stage, and have his or her character revealed.
"He blinks and smiles in feeble confusion."
Jack (to his Fiancée). No, I say—but look here, Flossie, really I'd rather not—with all these people looking!
Flossie. Then I shall think you've something to conceal, Jack—you wouldn't like me to feel that already, would you?
[Jack, resignedly, mounts the platform, and occupies a chair, in which he blinks and smiles in feeble confusion, while the Professor studies his features dispassionately.
The Lady Phys. The first thing to notice is the disposition of the ears. Now here we have a Gentleman whose ears stick out in a very remarkable manner. [Delight of Audience.
Flossie (to herself). They do—awfully! I never noticed it before. But it really rather suits him; at least—— [She meditates.
The L. Ph. This denotes an original and inquiring mind; this gentleman takes nothing on trust—likes to see everything for himself; he observes a good deal more than he ever says anything about. His nose is wide at the tip, showing a trustful and confiding disposition; it has a bump in the centre, denoting a moderate amount of combativeness. The nostrils indicate a keen sense of humour. (Here Jack giggles bashfully.) There is a twist in the upper lip, which indicates—well, I won't say that he would actually tell an untruth—but if he had the opportunity for doing so, he has the capacity for taking advantage of it. I think that is all I have to say about this Gentleman.
Flossie (to Jack, after he has returned to her side). Jack, if you can't leave off having an original and inquiring mind, you must at least promise me one thing—it's very little to ask!
Jack. You know I'd do any blessed thing in the world for you Flossie,—what is it?
Flossie. Only to wear an elastic round your ears at night, Jack!
The Unsophisticated Father (at the conclusion of the exhibition, as the Missing Lady disappears with a bang, in full view of the Audience). There, Vivvie; she's vanished clean away. What do you say to that, eh?
Vivien (composedly). Well, I think we may as well vanish too Father. It's all over!
The S. L. (going out). I don't wish to judge others—far from it—but, speaking for myself, Eliza, I cannot feel this has been a profitable method of employing precious moments which can never be recalled.
Her Friend. Oh, it's quite early. You'll have plenty of time to get a cup of tea, and do some shopping before it's dark.
The S. L. (severely). That was not precisely what I meant, Eliza!
[But it is precisely what she does.
ADVERTISEMENT'S ADVERSARIES.
["A Society has been formed to deliver us from hideous advertisements."
The Saturday Review.]
O newly-formed Society, we note with admiration
The truly novel purpose which you seem to have at heart,
And with no little eagerness await its consummation,
When popular advertisements will shine as works of art.
Then picturesque localities no longer will be crowded
With puffs of panaceas for our universal ills,
No longer will the atmosphere be permanently clouded
By sky-signs built to promulgate a patent soap or pills.
No more in train or omnibus will every inch of boarding
Be covered with advertisements of variegated hue;
No more in every thoroughfare will each obtrusive hoarding
Blaze, hideously chromatic, with its yellow, red, and blue.
One thing, perhaps, you'll tell us,—you will pardon the suggestion—
We doubt not your ability your purposes to win,
But yet our curiosity would fain propound the question,—
How, excellent Society, and when, will you begin?
"The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring" may now be seen in all their glory at the Crystal Palace Show. The excellent arrangements there made for their exhibition prove that they have been designed and carried out by a clever "Head"-Gardener.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Seeing that A Wild Wooing (published by F. V. White & Co.) is by Florence Warden, authoress of The House on the Marsh, the Baron anticipated a real treat. But he was somewhat disappointed. The novel is in one volume, which is an attraction, and that volume is of a portable size, which is another note in its favour; also it is not illustrated, which is an undisguised blessing. The story is interesting up to a certain point, which, however, does not take you very far into the book, and, after this point, the murmurings behind walls, the moving and dragging of heavy bodies under the floors, the insecure rope-ladders, the trap-doors, cellars, underground passages, smugglers, murderers, victims, and all sorts of mixed mysteries, become tiresome. There is yet another fault, which is, that the story is not told in so convincing a style as to make the reader feel quite sure that the authoress is not "getting at him" all the time, and just trying to see what quantity of old melodramatic stuff he will patiently stand.