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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 104.

February 11, 1893.

THE LAST WOMAN.

(A contemporary Pendant to "The Last Man.")

[It is stated that the dreaded Crinoline has actually made its appearance in one or two quarters.]

All modish shapes must melt in gloom,

Great Worth himself must die,

Before the Sex again assume

Eve's sweet simplicity!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

Which made me bow my head and weep

As one aghast, accurst!

Was it a spook before me past?

Of women I beheld the last,

As Adam saw the first.

Regent Street seemed "No Thoroughfare,"

Bond Street looked weird, inhuman;

The spectres of past fashions were

Around that lonely Woman.

Some were the work of native hands,

Some had arrived from foreign lands,

Nondescript jumbles some!

Pall-Mall had now nor sound nor tread,

Park Lane was silent as the dead,

Belgravia was dumb.

Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,

Or whisked her skirts around,

Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,

And strews with leaves the ground.

Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun

Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.

Solitude is too slow!

True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes

(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),

But—now the thing lacks go.

"What though the grumbler Man put forth

His pompous power and skill!

He could not make Woman and Worth

The vassals of his will;—

Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway,

Thou dim discrownéd Queen! To play

To empty box and stall;

To dress—when not another She

Exists to quicken rivalry—

No, it won't pay at all!

"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the works of men!

Nothing they did that's worth recall,

With sword, or spade, or pen.

Their bumptious bunglings bring not back!

Man always was a noisy quack

Who thought himself a god;

But when he fancied he had scored

Prodigiously, the Sex he bored

Subdued him with a nod.

"Now I am weary. No one tries

The fit of new attire!

Doom, that the joys of Dress denies,

Bids Woman's bliss expire.

But shall La Mode know final death?

Forbid it Woman's latest breath!

Death—who is male—shan't boast

The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall

Shall not like Darkness cover all—

Till I give up the ghost!

"What would most vex and worry him,

Dull, modeless Man, whose spark

Long (beside Woman's) burning dim,

Has now gone down in dark?

Ha! He'd kick up the greatest shine

(If he could kick) at—CRINOLINE.

Were he recalled to breath,

I'll have one last man-mocking spree

By donning hooped skirts. Victory!

This takes all sting from Death!

"Go, Sun, while Fashion holds me up,

Swollen skirt and skimpy waist

Shall fill—male—sorrow's bitter cup,

And mortify—male—taste!

Go, tell the spheres that sweep through space,

Thou saw'st the last of Eve's fair race,

In high ecstatic passion;

The darkening universe defy,

To quench her taste for Toggery,

Or shake her faith in Fashion!"

"THE GOVERNESS WHO, MA' SAID, WOULDN'T DO."

A PLAINT FROM PARNASSUS.

(By an "Unrecommended" Resident.)

[Mr. Gladstone (replying to Mr. Johnston, of Ballykilbeg) announced that no recommendation had been submitted to Her Majesty upon the subject of the succession to the office of Poet Laureate, and that there was no immediate intention of submitting one.]

Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard!

Fancy John Bull without Official Bard!

His plight is sad as that of the great men

Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen,

Before great Agamemnon. Ah, my Horace,

Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race!

As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily,

'Twill serve him right if thine "illacrimabile"

Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet?

England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it.

Void of a Sacer Vates to enshrine

In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line,

Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour?

Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor.

When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses,

When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes,

And stand in need of verbal calcitration;

When—let's say Ashmead-Bartlett—saves the nation

In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo;

When Bull gives toko or delivers stingo.

To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages;

When our great guns commit most gallant ravages

Among the huts of some unhappy village,

Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage;

When Someone condescends to be high-born,

Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn,

Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine,

For Fame and—say, about a pound per line?

I must submit. I have not been "submitted,"

But poetless John Bull is to be pitied.

Of course self-praise is no "recommendation,"

(In Gladstone's sense) or else, unhappy nation,

I, even I, could spare you natural worry at,

Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!

In a Pickwickian Sense.—When "a nate Irishman" (as the song has it) "meets with a friend," he incontinently "for love knocks him down," whether with a "sprig of shillelagh" or a "flower of speech," depends upon circumstances. In either case he "means no harm," or at any rate far less harm than the phlegmatic and matter-of-fact Saxon is apt to fancy. Probably, therefore, an "Irish Phrase Book," giving the real "meaning" of Hibernian rhetorical epithets, would prove a great peacemaker, in Parliament and out. Colonel Saunderson, when he had recovered his temper, and with it his wit, "toned down" the provocative "murderous ruffian," into the inoffensive "excited politician." But what a pity it is that "excited politicians" so often string themselves up to (verbal) "ruffianism."

THE LAST LIGHT.

It scarce can be thou art the last

To fade before my watchful gaze;

So short the part that each one plays,

A flickering flame, and life is past.

And thou wert clothed in robe of snow,

A crimson veil around thy head,

And now thou liest, charred and dead,

Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.

I held thee in a fond embrace

To guard thee from the whistling wind;

And not another can I find

To comfort me and take thy place.

And though I lay aside my weeds,

Yet like a widow I bemoan;

Nor all the wealth the Indies own,

Could satisfy my present needs.

Thy spark has vanished from my sight,

Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe;

Of perfect misery the type,

A man without another light.

Employment for the Unemployed.—On Tuesday, in last week, the Unemployed had their hands full, when at Temple Avenue they unsuccessfully attempted to overcome the effective resistance of the Police. The Unemployed might have been better employed.

THE STAR OF HOPE.

(A New Naval Ode.)

[The Royal Commission on Telegraphic Communication between Lighthouses and Lightships and the Shore, have issued their first report recommending immediate action in the more urgent cases. Dealing with the same subject, on November 28, 1891, Mr. Punch said:—

"Punch pictures with prophetic pen, a brighter, cheerier page,

Which must be turned, and speedily."—See "The Sweet Little Cherub that Sits up Aloft," (Modern Version as it Must Be) Vol. ci., p. 254.

Mr. Punch is mightily pleased that his injunction has been obeyed, and that his prophecy is in process of fulfilment.]

I.

Ye Mariners of England,

Shipwrecked in our home seas,

How this will calm your wives' wild fears,

And give your stout hearts ease!

Hope's blue eyes gleam above the main,

Her lifted light will glow,

And sweep o'er the deep,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the tempest rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

II.

The spirit comfort gathers,

From schemes designed to save

Brave fellows, who have dared the deep,

Near home to find a grave.

See how o'er rock and quicksand fell,

The Electric ray doth glow,

And sweep o'er the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the tempest rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow!

III.

Britannia needs as bulwarks

Light-towers along the steep,

To save her gallant sons from graves

Near home, though on the deep.

With levin as from Jovian hand

She'll light the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the tempest rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The Mariners of England

Glad eyes shall shoreward turn

In danger's night. Behold, brave hearts,

Where the Star of Hope doth burn!

Science, tired by Humanity,

Their grateful song shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the storm is o'er, and they're safe ashore,

Thanks to Hope's beacon-glow!

Q. Are there any Lighthouses away from the Coast?—A. Certainly. Q. Where?—A. In London. Q. Name them.—A. The Comedy, Toole's, the Opéra Comique, and Strand. All Light-and-leading Houses.

A SNUB.

"Fifty Guineas for a Boa and a Muff! That's rather dear, isn't it?"

"We don't keep Catskin, Madam!"

A METROPOLITAN MAYOR'S NEST.

["The Common Council is stated to have appointed a 'Fighting Committee' to oppose the Unification of London, and to take steps for the formation of separate Municipalities in different parts of the Metropolis."—Daily Paper.]

Lord Mayor's Day.—Ah, if only we had not got Parliament to sanction the plan of splitting London up into distinct Municipalities, what a proud day this would be for me! As it is, must try and remember that I am not Lord Mayor of London at all, but only Mayor of the new Corporate Borough of Cripplegate Without, one of the half-dozen boroughs into which the old City has been divided.

The Show.—Well, thank goodness, we do keep that up! All the 674 Mayors of all the different districts of London take part in it. That reminds me that I must put on my Civic robes, edged with imitation ermine, and my aluminium chain of office, and prepare to start. A little hitch to begin with. Mayors all assembled outside Guildhall. Mayor of South-South-West Hammersmith tries to join us. Nobody seems to know him. Very suspicious, especially as, on referring to official records, we find that there is no such borough as South-South-West Hammersmith! We tell him so. He replies, sulkily, that it was created last night by a Special Vote of the South-West Hammersmith Town Council, who found the work getting too much for them, and that, anyhow, "he intends to take part in the procession." Awkward—but we have to yield.

In the Streets.—The 675 Mayors don't inspire as much respect as I should like. Perhaps it is due to the fact that a regular scramble took place for seats in the old Lord Mayor's Coach, in the course of which the Mayor of Tottenham Court Road was badly pommeled by the Mayor of Battersea Rise, and the coach itself had one side knocked out of it. Also that we other Mayors have to follow on foot, and are repeatedly asked if we are a procession of the Unemployed!

At the Law Courts.—In the good old days Lord Chief Justice used to deliver a flowery harangue congratulating the Chief Magistrate on his elevation. But who is the Chief Magistrate now? To-day a free fight among the Mayors to get first into the Court. In consequence, Chief Justice angrily orders Court to be cleared, and threatens to commit us for contempt! Yet surely in former days a Judge would have been imprisoned in the deepest dungeons of the Mansion House for much less.

Evening.—The hospitable custom of the Ministerial banquet still retained. Prime Minister adopts tactics of the Music Hall "Lion Comique," and, after addressing a few genial words to the guests assembled at the table of the Mayor of West Ham, jumps into brougham, and appears a few minutes later at Mayor of Shadwell's banquet, and so on to Poplar and Whitechapel, and as many as he can crowd in. Other Ministers do the same. Still, not enough Cabinet Councillors to go round, and to-night I am horrified to find that the assistant Under-Secretary to the deputy Labour Commissioner had been chosen to reply to the toast of the health of the Ministry at my banquet! Ichabod, indeed! [By the way, what a good name for a new Lord Mayor, "Ichabod," say, if knighted, "Sir Thomas Ichabod." Air to be played by band on his entering Guildhall, "Ichabody meet a body." But alas! these are dreams! Ichabod!] Yet, as the only building in which the Mayor of Cripplegate Without can entertain his guest is the fourth floor of an unused warehouse, perhaps we really don't deserve a higher official. Still, one can't help regretting that the City, in its natural dread of the so-called "Unification of London," persuaded the Government to agree to this sort of "Punification of London."

Toast for the next "Queensland Meat" Banquet.—"The Army, the Gravy, and the Preserved Forces!"

THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.

A Story in Scenes.

Scene V.—The Dining-room; walls distempered chocolate; gaselier with opal-tinted globes; two cast-iron Cavaliers holding gas-lamps on the mantel-piece. Oil-portrait, enlarged from photograph, of Mrs. Tidmarsh, over side-board; on other walls, engravings—"Belshazzar's Feast," "The Wall of Wailing at Jerusalem," and Doré's "Christian Martyrs." The guests have just sat down; Lord Strathsporran is placed between Miss Seaton and his hostess, and opposite Mr. Gilwattle.

Lord Strath. (to himself). Deuced quaint-looking people—wish they wouldn't all eat their soup at me! Why can't somebody say something? Wonder who's the Lady in black, all over big silver tears—like a foreign funeral. Don't feel equal to talking to Marjory again till I've had some Sherry. (After sipping it.) Wormwood, by Jove! Champagne will probably be syrup—touch old Gilwattle up if he isn't careful—ah, he jibs at the Sherry!

Uncle Gab. Where the dickens did Monty get this stuff, Maria? Most 'strordinary bitter taste!

Mrs. Tid. (to herself, in an agony). I knew that bottle of Gwennie's Quinine Wine had got down into the cellar somehow! (Aloud.) Don't drink it, Uncle, please, if it isn't quite what you like!

Uncle Gab. I'll take his Lordship's opinion. What do you think of this Sherry, my Lord? Don't you find it rather—eh?

Lord Strath. (observing his hostess frown at him imperiously). Oh, excellent, Sir—very—er—mellow and agreeable!

Uncle Gab. Ha—yes—now your Lordship mentions it, there's a sort of nuttiness about it.

[He empties his glass.

Lord Strath. (to himself). There is—a rotten-nuttiness! I'm hanged if he hasn't bolted it! Wonderful old Johnny!

Mrs. Tid. (to him, in an under-tone). You said quite the right thing!

Lord Strath. (ambiguously). Oh, not at all!

[Turbot and lobster-sauce are taken round, and conversation becomes general.

Conversational Scraps. Assure you if I touch the smallest particle of lobster it instantly flies to my.... Yes, alive. A dear friend of mine positively had to leave her lodgings at the seaside—she was so disturbed by the screams of the lobsters being boiled in the back-kitchen.... I was reading only the other day that oysters' hearts continue to beat down to the very moment they are being assimilated.... What they must suffer, poor dears! Couldn't there be a law that they should only be eaten under chloroform, or something?... I never get tired of turbot—cod, now, I don't care for, and salmon I like—but I can't digest—why, is more than I can tell you.—(&c.)

"Don't make a fuss—you can take one glass, as he wishes it."

Miss Seaton. (to herself.) To see Douglas here a—a paid parasite—and actually seeming to enjoy his food—it's like some dreadful nightmare—I can't believe it! But I'm glad he hasn't the face to speak to me!

Lord Strath. (to Seakale offering Hock.) If you please. (To himself, after tasting.) Why, it's quite decent! I begin to feel up to having this out with Marjory. (Aloud.) Miss Seaton, isn't it rather ridiculous for two such old friends as we are to sit through dinner in deadly silence? Can't you bring yourself to talk to me? we shan't be overheard. You might tell me why you think me such a ruffian—it would start us, at any rate!

Miss Seaton. I don't want to be started—and if you really don't know why I hate your coming here in this way, Lord Strathsporran, it's useless to explain!

Lord Strath. Oh, we got as far as that upstairs, didn't we? And I may be very dense, but for the life of me I can't see yet why I shouldn't have come! Of course, I didn't know I was in for this exactly, but, to tell you the truth, I'm by way of being here on business, and I didn't care much whether they were cheery or not, so long as I got what I came for, don't you know!

Miss Seaton. Of course, that is the main thing in your eyes—but I didn't think you would confess it!

Lord Strath. Why, you know how keen I used to be about my Egyptian work—you remember the book on Hieroglyphs I always meant to write? I'm getting on with it, though of course my time's a good deal taken up just now. And, whether I get anything out of these people or not, I've met you again, Marjory—I don't mind anything else!

Miss Seaton. Don't remind me of—of what you used to be, and—and you are not to call me Marjory any more. We have met—and I only hope and pray we may never meet again. Please don't talk any more!

Lord Strath. (to himself.) That's a facer! I wonder if Marjory's quite—is this the effect of that infernal influenza?

Mrs. Tid. (to him in an under-tone). You and Miss Seaton appear to be on very familiar terms. I really feel it my duty to ask you when and how you made the acquaintance of my daughter's governess.

Lord Strath. (to himself). The governess! That explains a lot. Poor little Marjory! (Aloud.) Really? I congratulate you. I had the honour of knowing Miss Seaton in Scotland a year or two ago, and this is the first time we have met since.

Mrs. Tid. Indeed? That is so far satisfactory. I hope you will understand that, so long as Miss Seaton is in my employment, I cannot allow her to—er—continue your acquaintanceship—it is not as if you were in a position——

Lord Strath. (with suppressed wrath.) Forgive me—but, as Miss Seaton shows no desire whatever to renew my acquaintance, I don't see that we need discuss my position, or hers either. And I must decline to do so.

Mrs. Tid. (crimsoning.) Oh, very well. I am not accustomed to be told what subjects I am to discuss at my own table, but (scathingly) no doubt your position here gives you the right to be independent—ahoo!

Lord Strath. I venture to think so. (To himself.) Can't make this woman out—is she trying to be rude, or what?

Uncle Gab. Hullo, your Lordship's got no Champagne! How's that? It's all right—"Fizzler, '84," my Lord!

Lord Strath. I daresay—but the fact is, I am strictly forbidden to touch it.

Uncle Gab. Pooh!—if your Lordship will excuse the remark—this won't do you any harm—comes out of my own cellar, so I ought to know. (To Seakale.) Here, you, fill his Lordship's glass, d'ye hear?

Mrs. Tid. (in a rapid whisper.) Don't make a fuss—you can take one glass as he wishes it!

Lord Strath. (to himself.) Can I though? If she imagines I'm going to poison myself to please her uncle! (Seakale gives him half a glass, after receiving a signal from Mrs. T.) I suppose I must just——(After tasting.) Why it's dry! Then why the deuce was I cautioned not to——?

Uncle Gab. That's a fine wine, isn't it, my Lord? Not much of that in the market nowadays, I can tell you!

Lord Strath. (to himself.) Precious little here. (Aloud.) So I should imagine, Sir.

Uncle Gab. Your Lordship mustn't pass this entrée. My niece's cook knows her business, I will say that for her.

Lord Strath. (as he helps himself.) I have already discovered that she is an artist.

Mrs. Tid. (in displeased surprise.) Then you know my cook too? An artist? and she seems such a respectable person! Pray what sort of pictures does she paint?

Lord Strath. Pictures? Oh, really I don't know—potboilers probably.

[Mrs. Tid. glares at him suspiciously.

Conversational Scraps. And when I got into the hall and saw them all sitting in a row with their faces blacked, I said "I'm sure they can't be the Young Men's Christian Association!"... Hysteria? my poor dear wife is a dreadful sufferer from it—I've known her unable to sleep at all except with one foot curled round her neck!... (&c. &c.)

Lord Strath. (to himself.) There's no doubt about it—this woman is trying to snub me—hardly brings herself to talk at all—and then she's beastly rude! What did she ask me here for if she can't be civil! If she wasn't my hostess—I'll try her once more, she may know something about antiquities—(Aloud.) I suppose Mr. Cartouche keeps his collection in a separate room? I was told he has some hunting scarabs of the Amenhoteps that I am very curious to see.

Mrs. Tid. (stiffly). Mr. Cartouche may keep all sorts of disagreeable pets, for anything I know to the contrary.

Lord Strath. (to himself, in amazement). Pets! I'm hanged if I let myself be snubbed like this! (Aloud.) I'm afraid you have very little sympathy with his tastes?

Mrs. Tid. Sympathy, indeed! I don't even know if he has any tastes. I am not in the habit of troubling myself about my next-door neighbour's affairs.

Lord Strath. (with a gasp). Your next-door——! (He pulls himself together.) To be sure—of course not—stupid of me to ask! (To himself.) Good Heavens!—these aren't the Cartouches! I'm at the wrong dinner-party—and this awful woman thinks I've done it on purpose! No wonder she's so confoundedly uncivil!... And Marjory knows it, too, and won't speak to me! Perhaps they all know it.... What on earth am I to do?... I feel such a fool!

Miss Seaton (to herself). How perfectly ghastly Douglas is looking! Didn't he really know the Cartouches lived next door?... Then—oh, what an idiot I've been! It's a mistake—he doesn't come from Blankley's at all! I must speak to him—I must tell him how——no, I can't—I forgot how horrid I've been to him! I should have to tell him I believed that—and I'd rather die! No, it's too late—it's too late now!

[Miss Seaton and Lord Strathsporran sit regarding the tablecloth with downcast eyes, and expressions of the deepest gloom and confusion.

(End of Scene V.)

Rhyme by a Rad.

[The question where the Liberal-Unionists shall sit has excited some discussion.]

They have stolen the old Tory togs bit by bit,

And we wish they would openly don them.

However, it matters not much where they sit,

For wherever it be we'll sit on them!

"Railway Rates."—Whatever question there may be on this subject, there can be none whatever as to the rates at which "The Bournemouth Express," "The Granville L. C. & D.," and "The Flying Dutchman," severally travel. Such rates are first rate.

Con. for the Consolation of the many Sufferers from a current Catch-word.—Q. What is the only thing that is really "up-to-date"?—A. A palm-tree.

Mem. for Mr. Vivian and the Royalists.—The Last of the Stuarts,—Stuart Knill. There can be none after Nil.

DRAMATIC WITHOUT BEING STAGEY.

The plan, successfully inaugurated, and, within the last fortnight, still more successfully carried out by Sir Druriolanus Operaticus Balmascus Pantomimicus, of giving what may be called "unstagey representations" of popular Operas—that is, popular Operas sung and acted without the aid of scenes or properties (though "substitutes" may be permitted, as, for example, a chair with four legs complete would represent a horse, and a round table a tower); the singers, however, being in costume, may work an extensive "Transformation" Scene (which is quite in Sir Drurio's line) in the Dramatic and Operatic world, and may effect such a change as will save thousands to a Manager. Why not go a step further? Why have "costumes," or even "hand-properties"? Why not leave everything, except the perfection of the singing and the dramatic action, to the imagination of the audience? The prices of admission would be proportionately lowered, and the numbers admitted, in all probability, would be trebled, on which hypothesis a calculation may be based. What an exercise it would be for the imagination of the audience, were the Statue Scene from Don Giovanni to be given with the Basso Profondo in evening dress, who represents the Stony Commendatore, seated astride a plank resting on tressels placed on a table which would have been substituted for the stone pedestal, while the Don or Leporello (it doesn't much matter which) sings his asides to the audience! Here is novelty, and a great attraction! It is returning to Elizabethan days, when Managers called a spade a spade, and then so labelled it to prevent mistakes.

Song from "As You Like It" (for the Member for East Galway, arranged by Colonel Saunderson, M.P.).—"What shall he have who shot the Deer?"