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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 104.

February 18, 1893.

PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!

Picturing the Various Modes of Melodramatic Murder. (By Our "Off-his"-Head Poet.)

No. IV.—The "Over-the-Cliff" Murder.

It may be this—that the Villain base

Has insulted the hero's girl;

It may be this—that he's brought disgrace

On a wretchedly-acted Earl.

I care not which it may chance to be,

Only this do I chance to know—

A cliff looks down at a canvas sea

And some property rocks below!

You say, perhaps, it is only there

From a love of the picturesque—

You hint, maybe, that it takes no share

In the plot of this weird burlesque;

But cliffs that tremble at every touch,

And that flap in the dreadful draught,

Have something better to do—ah, much!

Than to criticise Nature's craft!

The cliff is there, and the ocean too,

And the property rocks below.

(These last, as yet, don't appear to you,

But they're somewhere behind, I know.)

The cliff is there, and the sea besides

(As I fancy I've said before),

And yonder alone the Villain hides

Who is thirsting for someone's gore!

And now there comes to the Villain bold

The unfortunate Villain Two.

He's here to ask for the promised gold

For the deeds he has had to do.

But words run high, and a struggle strong

Sends the cliff rocking to and fro,

And Villain Two topples off ere long

To the property rocks below!

The scene is changed. The revolving cliff

Now exhibits its other side.

The corpse is there, looking very stiff—

Even more than before it died!

The crime is traced to the hero Jack,

Notwithstanding the stupids know

Deceased was thrown by the Villain black

To the property rocks below!

RHYMES FOR READERS OF REMINISCENCES.

If the day's (as usual) pitchy,

Take up Anne Thackeray Ritchie!

If you're feeling "quisby-snitchy,"

Seek the fire—and read your Ritchie!

If your nerves are slack or twitchy,

Quiet them with soothing Ritchie.

If you're dull as water ditchy,

You'll be cheered by roseate Ritchie.

Be you achey, sore, chill, itchy,

Rest you'll find in Mrs. Ritchie!

May her light ne'er shine with slacker ray,

Gentle daughter of great Thackeray!

"Words! Words! Words!"—The decision in "the Missing Words (and money) Competition" is, in effect, "No more words about it, but hand over the £23,628 to the National Debt Commissioners." Advice this of Stirling value.

You Fall, Eiffel!

Are the Panama sentences rather hard?

So Monsieur Eiffel pro tem. disappears.

To walk round about a prison yard

Is the Tour d'Eiffel for a couple of years.

Evident.—The little song for Mr. Harry Lawson to sing on reading Mr. Charles Darling's letter in the Times of Thursday last—"Charley is my Darling!"

A Real "Opening" for a Smart Young (Political) Man.—The settling, on rational grounds, of the great and much-muddled up "Sunday-Opening" Question.

Cue for the Critics (if the New Coinage does not seem an improvement upon the Jubilee failures).—Pepper Mint!

Important Financial Question for Italians.—Are the Banks of the Tiber secure?

ICHABOD!

["Mr. Henry Blackburn, lecturing at the London Institution, Finsbury Circus, said English people were not an artistic nation, and instead of getting better, they appeared to be rapidly getting worse. The author of the present day was losing the sincerity and the individuality which ought to characterise him.—Daily Paper.">[

Oh, gaily did we hasten to the London Institution,

Expecting some amusement in our inartistic way,

And little did we reckon on the awful retribution

Which Mr. Henry Blackburn had in store for us that day.

We'd fondly looked towards him for an eulogistic blessing,

But got instead a general and comprehensive curse,

We are, as he informed us, with an emphasis distressing,

By nature inartistic, and are daily getting worse.

Thereafter he directed magisterial attention

Upon the hapless authors who a fleeting fame had got;

He drew no nice distinctions, nor selected some for mention,

But, with superb simplicity, he just condemned the lot.

Every man of them is sinning with an ignorance persistent,

Poet, novelist and critic, or whatever be their sphere,

Their "individuality" is almost non-existent,

And only on occasions, if at all, are they "sincere."

Well, what, then, is the remedy? Will Mr. Blackburn fix it?

Must all our fiction travel from the cultured Continent?

Or dares we snap our fingers at this haughty ipse dixit,

And read our inartistic books in very great content?

Mr. Perks, M.P., has undertaken to bring in a Bill for "the Abolition of Registrars at Nonconformist Marriages." If successful, the Ministers will lose their "Perks."

LUSUS NATURÆ.

In the Field's Dog-for-sale column, there recently appeared, wedged in between descriptions of vendible Beagles and Bloodhound Pups, the following remarkable advertisement:—

BLOODHOUND, 40-Tonner, for SALE; built by Fife of Fairlie; has all lead ballast, and very complete inventory.—For price, which is moderate, and particulars, apply, &c.

Most interesting canine specimen this. The Managers of the Zoological Gardens should at once apply, if by this time they have not already done so, and secured the "Forty-tonner Bloodhound," with complete inventory, "built by Fife of Fairlie."

Nursery-Rhyme for the Neo-Crinolinists.

Girls and Matrons, who wins the day,

Now Winter and Jeune have had their say?

Come with a hoop to concert or ball,

Come with balloon-skirts, or come not at all!

A Candid Friend.

Scene—Brown's Study—the well-known "Brown's Study," of course. Brown is reading the fortieth chapter of his three-volume Autobiography to Jones.

Brown (pausing in his gigantic work). Well, tell me, honestly, have you any fault to find with it?

Jones. Well—hum!—it wants finish.

[Looks at his watch, rises hurriedly, and exits quickly.

Why, on an Illustrated Paper, should the position of the reproducer of Artists' black-and-white work be a higher one than that of the Artists themselves? Because he undertakes "Graver" responsibilities.

BURIDAN'S ASS.

(Modern Agricultural Version.)

[Buridan is said to have been the inventor of the dilemma of the ass between two absolutely equal bundles of hay, he maintaining that the ass's choice must be so equally balanced that he would starve, there being no motive for preference.]

Long-patient Issachar, o'erladen muncher

Of heaps of "vacant chaff well-meant for grain,"

If, like the pious spouse of Jerry Cruncher,

You "flop," and, camel-wise, won't rise again

To bear big burdens that strength staggers under,

On fodder most inadequate, what wonder?

To wallop a poor "donkey wot won't go,"

The good old song suggests is cruel folly.

Give him some fragrant hay, then cry "Gee-woa!"

The lyrist hints, in diction quaintly jolly.

From starving moke you'll get no progress steady;

The well-fed ass responds to "Gee-up, Neddy!"

Poor brute, between two piles of sapless chaff,

While such big burdens weigh your weary shoulders,

Your choice is difficult! Cynics may laugh,

But pity for your plight moves kind beholders.

Cockneys cry, "Kim hup, Neddy!" or "Woa, Emma!"

But Punch compassionates your hard dilemma.

What choice between the chaff of arid Rad

And that of equally dry-and-dusty Tory?

Chaplin would feed you on preposterous fad,

And Gardner on—postponement! The old story!

While the grass grows the horse may starve. Poor ass!

Party would bring you to a similar pass!

"A certain Mister Jesse Collings" poses

As your particular friend and patron. Quite so!

Joseph and he cock their pugnacious noses

At their old Chief, venting their zeal (and spite) so.

Codlin—no, Collings—is the friend. "Lard bless 'ee,

Turn Willyum oop, and try Joseph and Jesse!"

"Willyum"—who wields a very pretty flail—

Drubs them delightfully, 'midst general laughter.

But oh, poor ass, aching from head to tail,

Pray, what the better is your state thereafter?

Buridan's Ass was surely your twin brother.

There's such small difference 'twixt one and t'other!

POLITICS IN PLAY.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I notice that that eminent author, Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, has written a play called The Bauble Shop, in which he has introduced the room of the Prime Minister in the House of Commons as one of his most striking tableaux. I have not yet had the advantage of seeing what I feel sure must be an admirable comedy, but in justice to myself I must ask you to publish a portion of a piece of my own, which seems to me to bear some resemblance to what I suppose I must call (as it has enjoyed priority of production) the Criterion original. I call my drama The Walking Gentleman, or the Young Premier, and I beg to submit to you the last Scene (a very short one) of the last Act. Here it is in extenso:—

Scene.—Angelina's Boudoir. Angelina discovered waiting for Edwin.

Angelina (anxiously). And, will he never come! Ah! that House—that House! With its blazing beacon from the Clock Tower; it——(With a cry of joy.) Ah, he is here!

Edwin (entering hurriedly and taking Angelina in his arms). My own one! Yes, I say it advisedly, my own one! Mine—Mine—for ever!

Ang. Nay, Edwin; you forget the claims the Government—the country—have upon your time!

Edw. No, darling, I do not. The Division has been taken; it is all over. At the last moment I rose in my place in the House, and made purposely one of the most injudicious orations ever heard within those respected walls. I disgusted friends, alienated adherents, and in every possible manner strengthened the hands of the Opposition; and, darling we are beaten—yes, beaten—by a thumping majority.

Ang. (in tears). Oh, Edwin, Edwin! I am so sorry!

Edw. Nay, do not weep. For thy dear sake I accepted the sacrifice. I am no longer leader of the House, I am no longer head of the Administration, and now I shall have ample leisure. Yes, darling, smile once more. Now I shall have time to be married. Now I can speak with hope of a honeymoon!

(Curtain.)

There, Mr. Punch! If that would not overwhelm the Stalls and Boxes with painful emotion, and bring down the Pit and Gallery with thunders of applause, I am a Dutchman!

Yours obediently,
Garrick Shakspeare Snooks.

ON THE FREE LIST.

MARY-ANNER ON THE COMING MODE.

["That there is much to be said for crinoline on hygienic grounds, and on those of cleanliness, must be obvious to its most prejudiced opponents."—Lady Jeune "In Defence of Crinoline.">[

Dear Polly,—This comes hooping—I mean hoping, as you're heard,

As the Queen and the Princess o' Wales declines to be absurd,

And put their foot in it—dear me!—I mean to put it down

Upon the coming Crinerline! A-arsting of the Crown

To hinterfere with hus, dear,—wich I means the female sect,—

In our Fashions, is fair himperence. But, wot can yer expect

From parties—wich they may be litterary, or may not—

As carn't see any beauty in balloon-skirts? Reglar rot!

I'm a-pinin' for it, Polly, wich in course, my dear, I mean

That convenient, cleanly cover-all, wot's called the Crinerline!

It hides so much, my Polly; wich I'm sure, my dear, you'll twig!

As dear Lady June informs hus, the too-little or too-big,

The scraggy and the crummy ones, the lanky 'uns and the lumps,

Will be grateful for a fashion as is kind to bones and 'umps.

Eel-skin skirts may suit the swells, dear, and the straight, and slim, and tall,

And—well, them whose wardrobe's plentiful; they don't suit me at all;

Wich I'm four-foot-ten and stoutish, as to you is well beknown;

I'm a bit short in the legs like, my limbs do not run to bone.

Now my purse won't run to petticuts and cetrer hevery week,

As a pound a month won't do it. Ho! it's like their blessed cheek,

Missis John Strange Winter's Ammyzons as Lady June remarks—

To swear Crinerline is "ojus," dear, and 'idjous. 'Twill be larks

To see them a wearin 'ooped-skirts, as in course they're bound to do,

When they fair become the fashion. Yus, for all their bubbaroo.

The seving thousand Leaguers, and their Leader will cave in,

And wear wot now they swear is jest a shame, dear, and a sin.

I do not care a snap wot the opinion of the men is,

Nor yet for the hesthetecks, nor the toffs as play at Tennis;

I sez 'Ooped Skirts for hever! This Strange Winter's out o' tune,

I prefers the Summer, Polly, wich I mean dear Lady June.

Anti-Crinerline be jiggered! I've got one dear mother wore,

Though the steels is a bit twisted, and the stuff a trifle tore,

I can fake it up, when Fashion gives the watch-word, I've no doubt,

And I ony wish 'twould come, dear, with my first fine Sunday hout.

Drat these sniffy snapping Leaguers! Ho! they fancy they're high-tone,

But I'll give 'em the straight griffin. Leave our petticuts alone!

They may take it from me, Polly, they'll soon drop their bloomin' banner,

If all women show the sperrit of,

Yours trooly,

Mary-Anner.

Cue for Kennington (especially after the smart seconding of the Address in the Lower House).—"Mark—Beaufoy!"

An Example of a "Suspensory Bill" would be a small account from your haberdasher's for a pair of braces.

THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.

A Story in Scenes.

Scene VI.—The Dining-room, as before. Lord Strathsporran is still endeavouring to grasp the situation.

Lord Strath. (to himself). Don't want to make a fuss, but I suppose I ought to do something. Good little chap, my host—didn't like to tell me I'd made a mistake; but his wife's a downright vixen. Better make it right with her. (To Mrs. Tid.). I—I'm afraid I ought to have found out long before this what an intruder you must consider me; but your husband——.

Mrs. Tid. Pray say no more. Mr. Tidmarsh chose to act on his own responsibility, and of course I must put up with the consequences.

Lord Strath. (to himself). It's hard lines to have to leave Marjory like this; but this is more than I can——(Aloud.) After that, of course I can only offer to relieve you of my presence as soon as——

Mrs. Tid. (horrified). Not for worlds! I can't have my party broken up now. I insist on your staying. I—I have no complaint to make of your conduct—so far!

Lord Strath. Very kind of you to say so. (To himself.) Pleasant woman this! But I don't care—I will stay and see this out; it's too late to go in to the Cartouches now, and I won't leave Marjory till——(Aloud.) Miss Seaton—Marjory—I'm in a most awfully difficult position—do let me tell you about it!

Miss Seaton (penitently). Oh, Douglas, I—I know—I heard.... I'm so sorry—I mean, I'm so glad! Please forgive me for treating you as I did!

Lord Strath. You did let me have it pretty straight, didn't you, Marjory? But, of course, you thought me am impudent cad for calmly coming in to dinner uninvited like this—and no wonder!

Miss Seaton (to herself). He doesn't know the worst—and he shan't, if I can help it! (Aloud.) It doesn't matter what I thought—I—I don't think it now. And—and—do tell me all you can about yourself!

[They converse with recovered confidence.

Uncle Gab. (to himself). For all the notice that stuck-up young swell takes of me, I might be a block of wood! I'll make him listen to me. (Aloud.) Ahem! My Lord, I've just been telling my niece here the latest scandal in high-life. I daresay your Lordship has heard of that titled but brainless young profligate, the Marquis of Manx?

Lord Strath. Manx? Oh, yes—know him well—sort of relation of mine. Never heard a word against him, though!

Uncle Gab. (in confusion). Oh, I—I beg your Lordship's pardon—I wasn't aware. No doubt I got the name wrong.

"Let me advise you to be very careful."

Lord Strath. Ah—or the facts. Great mistake to repeat these things—don't you think? Generally lies.

[He resumes his conversation with Miss S.

Uncle Gab. (nettled). It's all very well for you to stand up for your order, my Lord; but it's right I should tell you that the Country doesn't mean to tolerate that den of thieves and land-grabbers—I need hardly say I refer to the House of Lords—much longer! We're determined to sweep them from the face of the earth. I say so, as the—ah—mouthpiece of a large and influential majority of earnest and enlightened Englishmen!

Lord Strath. (to himself). Fancy the mouthpiece has had quite enough champagne! (Aloud.) My dear Sir, you can begin sweeping to-morrow, so far as I am concerned. I'm no politician.

Uncle Gab. (warming). No politician! And yet you sit in the Upper House as one of our hereditary legislators, obstructing the will of the People! Do you mean to tell me there's no incongruity in that!

[Consternation among the company.

Lord Strath. A good deal, I daresay, if I sat there—only I don't—haven't had the honour of being elected at present.

Mrs. Tid. (hastily). He means he—he has other things to do, Uncle—don't excite yourself so! (To Lord S. in a whisper.) You're only exposing yourself by talking of what you know nothing about. Surely you know that Peers aren't elected!

Lord Strath. I was under the impression they were—in Scotland; but it's not worth arguing about.

Uncle Gab. You're evading the point, my Lord. I'm trying to put plain sense——

Lord Strath. (wearily). I know—but—er—why try? Wouldn't plain nonsense be rather more amusing—at dinner, don't you know?

Uncle Gab. (stormily). Don't think you're going to ride roughshod over me, my Lord! If you think yourself above your company——

Lord Strath. I assure you I've no idea what I've said or done to offend you, Sir. It was perfectly unintentional on my part.

Uncle Gab. (relaxing). In that case, my Lord, no further apology is needed. I—ah—accept the olive-branch!

Lord Strath. By all means—if I may trouble you for the olives.

Uncle Gab. (effusively). With all the pleasure in life, my Lord. And, without withdrawing in any sort or kind from any of my general opinions, I think I express the sentiment of all present when I say how deeply we feel the honour——

Lord Strath. (to himself). Good Lord—he's going to make a speech now! (Little Gwendolen enters demurely and draws up a chair between his and her mother's.) Saved, by Jove! Child to the rescue? (To her.) So you're going to sit next to me, eh? That's right! Now what shall I get you—some of those grapes?

Gwen. No, a baby orange with silver paper round it, please. What is it, Miss Seaton? [She rises and goes to Miss S.

Miss Seaton (whispering). Now, darling, be careful—you know what I told you—you mustn't tell tales or repeat things!

Gwen. Not even if I'm asked, Miss Seaton?... No?... Would you be displeased? Then I won't. (Returning to her seat and addressing Lord S. confidentially.) Do you know why I've come to sit next to you? Because I want to see how you behave. You aren't just like one of our regular dinner-party guests, are you, you know?

Lord Strath. (humbly). I'm afraid not, my dear; but you'll be kind to me for all that, won't you?

Gwen. (primly). Miss Seaton says we should never be unkind to anybody, whatever their position is. And I think you're rather nice. I wish Papa would have you to dine with us often, but perhaps you're expensive?

Lord Strath. (laughing). I don't know, Miss Gwennie, I've been feeling uncommonly cheap all the evening!

Gwen. (reflectively). Mamma always says everything's much cheaper at Blankley's.

Mrs. Tid. (to Uncle Gab.). Growing such a big girl, isn't she? and getting on wonderfully with her lessons. I must get her to recite one of her little pieces for you, Uncle, dear—she does it so prettily!

Uncle Gab. Hey, Gwen—I'll bet you one of these sugar-biscuits you don't know who it is you're chatting away so freely to!

Gwen. Oh yes, I do, Uncle; but I'm being very kind to him, so that he mayn't feel any different, you know!

Uncle Gab. Upon my word—what will you get into that little noddle of yours next, I wonder!

Gwen. (after deliberation). Preserved ginger, I think—I like ginger better than biscuits. (To Lord S.) You can reach it for me.

Uncle Gab. Come, come, young lady, where are your manners? That's not the way to speak to that Gentleman. You should say—"Will your Lordship be so very kind as to pass the preserved ginger?"

Lord Strath. (impatiently). Please don't, Gwennie! I like your own style much the best! [He helps her to the preserve.

Uncle Gab. You mustn't allow the child to take liberties, my Lord. Now, Gwen, suppose you tell me and his Lordship here something you've been learning lately—don't be shy, now!

Mrs. Tid. Yes, Gwennie—tell Uncle a little tale—repeat something to him, come, darling!

Gwen. No, I shan't, Mamma!

[She pegs away stolidly at the preserved ginger.

Uncle Gab. Hullo? 'Shan't' to your Mother? This how you bring the child up, Maria?

Mrs. Tid. Not when Mother asks you to, Gwen? And Uncle wanting to hear it so! No? Why won't you?

Gwen. Because Miss Seaton told me not to—and I won't, either.

Uncle Gab. Hah—Miss Seaton seems the supreme authority here, evidently—better get her permission, Maria!

Miss Seaton (distressed). Indeed. I—I never meant—Gwennie didn't understand me quite—that is all!

Gwen. Oh, Miss Seaton! when you said I wasn't to tell tales or repeat things—you did say so!

Miss Seaton. Yes, yes, but that was a different kind of tale altogether, Gwennie,—you may tell a fairy tale!

Gwen. (obstinately). If I mayn't tell any kind of story I like, I shan't tell any at all—so there!

Uncle Gab. Pretty behaviour, upon my word! Children didn't behave like that in my young days, Maria! I should no more have dared to refuse to tell my elders anything they—but it strikes me you leave her too much with her governess—who, by the bye, has been going on with his Lordship in a manner that well, really I shouldn't have thought——!

Mrs. Tid. (mortified and angry). I am not at all satisfied with Miss Seaton in many ways, Uncle—you can safely leave her to me!

[She gives the signal; Lord Strath. opens the door.

Lord Strath. (to Miss Seaton, as she passes, last but one). I—I suppose I shall get a word with you upstairs?

Mrs. Tid. (overhearing—to herself). I'll take good care he doesn't! (To Lord S., waspishly.) Let me advise you to be very careful!

[Lord Strath. closes the door after her, with relief and amazement.