PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 105, August 12th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE CLOSURE AT HOME.

Paterfamilias entered the drawing-room at ten minutes to six o'clock, and found the family still undecided. There was a pause in the conversation when he made his appearance.

"Where are we to go?" he asked, taking out his watch. "You have been quarrelling for the last week, and I have given you till this hour. So get through your amendments as fast as you can."

"I prefer Paris," said Materfamilias, "and I am supported by all the girls. We are decidedly in a majority."

"Paris is simply awful at the end of July!" cried the eldest son. "Give you my word, mother, the place is impossible."

"Venice would certainly be better," said his younger brother. "Charming place, and you get a very decent table d'hôte at Danieli's."

"Oh, Venice is too dreadful just now!" exclaimed Aunt Matilda. "If we are to go with you, we certainly can't travel there. Besides, there's the cholera all over the Continent. Now Oban would be nice."

"Are you speaking seriously?" asked Cousin Jane. "Scotland never agrees with me, but Cairo would be perfect."

"Do you think so, my dear girl?" put in Uncle John. "I fancy you are making a mistake. Egypt is very well in the winter, but it is fearfully hot in August. Now they tell me Killarney is simply delightful at this season."

"Ireland! No, thank you!" exclaimed Reginald. "We have had enough of Home Rule on this side of the Channel to go across to find it on the other. No; give me Spain, or even Russia."

The hands of the clock were close upon the hour, but still there was a minute or so to spare.

"Russia indeed!" snapped out Priscilla. "Who ever would go to Russia? But people do tell me that Chicago is well worth seeing, and——"

At this moment the clock struck six.

"Time's up," cried Paterfamilias. "We will all go to Herne Bay."

And they did.

THE TEST OF TRUE GENIUS.

Pictor Ignotus Number One. "Yes; I rather flatter myself there are precious few of my Contemporaries who care about my Work!"

Pictor Ignotus Number Two (not to be beaten). "By Jove! I rather flatter myself I've got the Pull of you there, Old Man! Why, There's Nobody cares about Mine!"

The New Atomic Theory.

(According to the New Journalism).

Mankind are debtors to two mighty creditors,

Omniscient Science, and infallible Editors.

Nature is summed in principles and particles;

The moral world in Laws and Leading Articles!

CRICKET ACROSS THE CHANNEL.

We believe that our lively neighbours, the French, having seen that there is a chance of some alteration being made in the rules of cricket in England, have determined to suggest some changes on their own account. We give the first list of proposals:—

1. The ball in future is to be made of india-rubber.

2. Armour to be allowed to the striker, so as to prevent accidents from the ball.

3. The umpires to be henceforth experienced surgeons, so that their medical services may be available for the wounded.

4. Camp-stools to be permitted to the long-stop, and other hard-worked members of the field.

5. Fielders expected to run after a rapidly-driven ball, to be allowed to follow the object on bicycles.

6. The wicket-keeper to have a small portable fortress in front of him to keep him out of danger.

7. The bats to be made of the same materials as those used in lawn-tennis.

8. The game to commence with the "luncheon interval," to be employed in discussing a déjeuner à la fourchette.

9. The uniform of the cricketer in future to consist of a horn, a hunting-knife, jockey-cap and fishing-boots, in fact the costume of the earliest French exponent of the game.

10. The outside to have the right to declare the game closed when fatigued.

11. A band of music to be engaged to play a popular programme. A flourish of trumpets to announce the triumph of the striker when he succeeds in hitting the ball.

12. Those who take part in the great game to be decorated with a medal. All future matches to be commemorated with clasps, to denote the player's bravery.

Should these reforms be adopted by the M. C. C., there seems little doubt that the national game of England will receive a fresh lease of popularity in the land that faces Albion.

THE LATEST CRISIS.

[Mr. Bartley protested in the House of Commons against Mr. W. O'Brien's conduct in dining in the House with strangers at a table reserved for Members. Mr. O'Brien explained that Mr. Austen Chamberlain had taken a table which he (Mr. O'Brien) had previously reserved. The question is under the consideration of the Kitchen Committee.]

A crisis! A crisis! The man is a fool

Who desires at this moment to talk of Home Rule.

Though we know that in Egypt a something is rotten,

The intrigues of young Abbas are straightway forgotten;

And we think just as much of the woes of Siam

As we care for that coin of small value—a dam.

For a crisis has come, and the House is unable

To detach its attention from questions of table.

Their tongues and their brains all the Members exhaust in

Discussing the rights of O'Brien and Austen.

They debate in an access of anger and gloom

As to who took from which what was kept, and for whom.

The letters they wrote, the retorts they made tartly

Are detailed—gracious Powers preserve us—by Bartley,

Who can bend—only statesmen are formed for such feats—

His mind, which is massive, to questions of seats,

And discuss with a zest which is equal to Tanner's,

The absorbing details of a matter of manners.

Mr. Bartley you like to be heard than to hear

Far more, but, forgive me, a word in your ear.

Though we greatly rejoice when all records are cut

By your steam-hammer mind in thus smashing a nut,

Yet we think it were well if the Kitchen could settle

In private this question of pot versus kettle.

And in future, when dog-like men fight for a bone,

Take a hint, Mr. Bartley, and leave them alone.

Latest from the National Boxing Saloon (with the kind regards of the Speaker).—"The nose has it, and so have the eyes!"

SAINT IZAAK AND HIS VOTARIES.

Mr. Punch's Tercentenary Tribute to the Author of "The Compleat Angler."

[August 9th this year is the 300th anniversary of the birth, in the ancient house at Stafford, of Izaak Walton.]

Good Izaak of the diction quaint,

The calendar holds many a fellow

Less worthy to be dubbed a saint

(For gentle heart and wisdom mellow)

Than thou, the Angler's genial guide

By wandering brook and river wide.

"I care not, I, to fish in seas,"

So chirped Will Basse, thy favourite singer,

"Fresh rivers best my mind do please."

Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer

Of England's pastoral scenes and songs,

All England's praise to thee belongs.

Thy Book bewitches more than those

Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle."

Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose,

All trailing flowers that intertangle

In England's hedgerows, seem to fill

Its pages and our pulses thrill.

We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil,"

Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning;

We hear Viator praise the skill

That he was first inclined to scorning;

We mark the Master's friendly proffer

Change him to votary from scoffer.

Those "many grave and serious men,"

He chid as "men of sowr complexions,"

If they resist his graphic pen,

His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections,

Must have indeed mere souls of earth,

To beauty blind, untuned to mirth.

The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so

All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity.

His song's queer "trollie lollie loe,"

Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty,

To men in populous city pent,

Who know the Angler's calm content.

And even those who know it not,

Nor care—poor innocents!—to know it,

Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot

Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet,

May love to turn the leaves, and halt on

The quaint conceits of honest Walton.

The man whose only "quill" 's a pen,

Who keeps no rod and tackle handy,

May hear thy "merry river" when

"It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy."

May sit beneath thy beech, and wish

To catch thy voice, if not thy fish:

May love to sit or stroll with thee,

Amidst the grassy water-meadows;

The culverkeys and cowslips see,

Dancing in summer's lights and shadows;

And watch yon youngster gathering stocks

Of lilies and of lady-smocks:

To hear thy milkmaid, Maudlin, troll

Choice morsels from Kit Marlow sweetly;

And Maudlin's mother,—honest soul,

Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!—

Respond with Raleigh's answering rhyme

Of wisdom past its active prime:

To take a draught of sound old ale—

What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?—

At the old ale-house in the vale,

With Corydon and brother Peter;

And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout,

As they at supper shared the trout.

Then to that cleanly room and sweet—

After a gay good night to all—

Lavender scent about the sheet,

And "ballads stuck about the wall,"

And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow,

With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow.

What wonder Walton's work has charmed

Three centuries? That his bait has captured

The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed,

The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured,

Gay girl—are fish her only spoil?—

And grave Thames-haunting son of toil!

Thy votaries, good Saint Izaak, are

"All who love quietnesse, and vertue."

Is there on whom such praises jar?

Well, join for once—it scarce can hurt you—

In Punch's Tribute; fortune wishing

To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!"

GUESSES AT TRUTH.

Mr. Laidislaw. "Handsome woman our Hostess—don't you think? By the bye, what do you suppose her Age is?"

Miss St. Cyr. "Well, I should fancy, what the Illustrated Biographies call 'Present Day!'"

"HERE'S TO THE CLIENT."

Here's to the client who makes his own will,

And here's to his friends who dispute it;

Here's to the case which is drawn up with skill,

And the time that it takes to refute it.

Here's to the felon whose crimes are a score,

And here's to the wretch with but one, Sirs;

Fraudulent trustees, directors galore,

And the various things that they've done, Sirs.

Here's to the costs which will mount up apace,

When the action comes on for a hearing,

"Retainers," "refreshers," and all of their race,

Which they lavish on us for appearing.

Here's to the Law, with its hand just and strong,

Which has grown from the earliest ages;

And here's to this lay, which we hope's not too long

For Punch to put into his pages.

New Version of an Old Saying (adapted for exclusive swells who cannot enjoy even a Sport when it becomes "so common, don't-cha!").—What is Everybody's pleasure is Nobody's pleasure!

TO A SWISS BAROMETER.

Oh, optimistic instrument,

No other ever seeks

To raise one's hopes—benevolent

You always show Beau fixe!

Though meteorologic swells

Predict wet days for weeks,

Your well-intentioned pointer tells

Of nothing but Beau fixe.

How sweet, when in the dewy morn—

So dewy!—up the peaks

We start through drizzle all forlorn,

To read again Beau fixe.

It makes us think of sunny lands,

Where weather has no freaks,

To see, they're always so, your hands

Both point to that Beau fixe.

And though we're sodden to the skin,

Through coat and vest and breeks,

You did not mean to take us in

In spite of your Beau fixe.

We tramp, expecting soon to see

In that grey sky some streaks;

Ah no, it's fixed as fixed can be,

As fixed as your Beau fixe.

No matter, we get used to rain,

And mop our streaming cheeks,

Quite sure, when we get home again,

You cannot say Beau fixe.

At last, all soaked, we stagger in—

One's clothing simply leaks—

And still you say, through thick and thin,

Unchangeably Beau fixe.

We change, although you don't; no thread

Is dry on us; small creeks

Form where we stand, all drenched from head

To foot. Blow your Beau fixe!

This beastly weather might have riled

The philosophic Greeks;

It makes us simple Britons wild,

Combined with your Beau fixe.

We tell the landlord we must go—

Poor man, he rather piques

Himself upon the weather, so

Incessantly Beau fixe.

"Ah, non, ça va changer ce soir!"

Thus hopefully he speaks,

"Si Monsieur voulait bien voir

Le baromètre—Beau fixe!"

AN AUTHORITY ON THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE "BUFFER STATE"!!

Adapted.

(To the Unionist Needs of the Moment.)

Other men have many faults,

Mr. Gladstone has but two;

There's nothing wise that he can say,

and nothing right that he can do.

In a recent case, Mr. Lane, the magistrate, is reported to have informed an inquiring husband, "If your wife turns you out she is not bound to find you a home; but if you turn your wife out you are bound to find her a home." This suggests a new Charity, "The Home for Turned-out Wives." These ladies would be seen driving out in well-appointed traps, and gain a new status in Society as being "uncommonly well-turned-out" wives.

ANOTHER SCENE AT THE PLAY.

(That never should be tolerated.)

Scene—Auditorium of a Fashionable Theatre. Vast majority of the audience deeply interested in the action and dialogue of an excellent piece. Enter a party of Lady Emptyheads into a Private Box.

First Emptyhead (taking off her wraps). I told you there was no necessity to hurry away from dinner. You see they are getting on very well without us.

Second Empt. (seating herself in front of the box). Yes. And it's so much pleasanter to chat than to listen. This piece, they tell me, is full of clever dialogue—so satisfactory to people who like that sort of thing.

Third Empt. (looking round the house with an opera-glass). Why scarcely a soul in the place we know. Well, I suppose everybody is leaving town. Stay, is that Mrs. Evergreen Toffy?

Fourth Empt. (also using her glasses). Why, yes. I wish we could make her see us.

First Empt. Haven't you noticed that you never can attract attention when you want to? Isn't it provoking?

Second Empt. Oh, terribly; and there is Captain Dashalong. Why, I thought he was at Aldershot.

Third Empt. Oh, they always give them leave about this time of the year.

Rest of Audience (sternly). Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

Fourth Empt. I wonder what's the piece about.

Third Empt. Oh, it doesn't in the least matter. Sure to be sparkling. Do you like that woman's hair?

Fourth Empt. Scarcely. It's the wrong shade. How can people make such frights of themselves!

First Empt. I wonder if this is the Second Act, or the First!

Third Empt. What does it matter! I never worry about a piece, for I know I shall see all about it afterwards in the papers.

Rest of Audience (with increased sternness). Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

Second Empt. I always come to this theatre because the chairs are comfortable. What is the good of going to the play unless you can enjoy yourself?

Third Empt. Quite so. And it's much better fun without one's husband, isn't it?

First Empt. Of course. I never bring mine, because he always goes to sleep! So disrespectful to the actresses and actors!

Second Empt. Yes. Of course, one ought to listen to what's going on, even if you don't care what it's all about.

Fourth Empt. Quite so. Not that it isn't pleasant to look round the house.

Rest of Audience (angrier than ever). Hush! S-s-s-h-s-h!

Third Empt. Yes, I often think that this side of the curtain is quite as amusing as the other.

Fourth Empt. I wonder what they are doing on the stage? Oh, I see that the Act is nearly over! Well, I daresay it has been very amusing.

Rest of Audience (furious). Hush! Hush! Hush!

First Empt. There descends the curtain! By the way, what a noise those people in the pit have been making! I wonder what it was all about?

Second Empt. I haven't the faintest notion. However, when the play begins again, I hope they won't make any more noise. It is so disrespectful to the Audience.

First Empt. And the Company. Why can't people behave themselves in a theatre?

Second, Third, and Fourth Empt. (in chorus). Ah yes! Why can't they?

[Scene closes in upon a renewal of chatter upon the raising of the Curtain on another Act.

"Give a Day a Bad Name and——."—It is stated that the day of the disgraceful Donnybrook in the House of Commons has been nicknamed "Collar Day," because Mr. Hayes Fisher seized Mr. Logan by the collar, and Mr. Chamberlain "collared" Mr. O'Brien's table in the dining-room. This is all very well in its way, but would not "Choler Day" be more appropriate and intelligible?

A DREAM-BOOK

For Would-be Travellers.

If you dream of—

• Antwerp. Remember the Reubens and forget the passage over.
• Boulogne. Remember the Casino and forget the Port.
• Calais. Remember the Restaurant at the station and forget the dull surroundings.
• Dieppe. Remember the Plage and forget the occasional gales.
• Etretat. Remember the sands and forget the prices.
• Florence. Remember the pictures and forget the heat.
• Geneva. Remember the lake and forget the city.
• Heidelberg. Remember the castle and forget the climbing.
• Interlachen. Remember the Jung Frau and forget the tourists.
• Japan. Remember the interesting associations and forget the length of the journey.
• Lisburn. Remember that it is little known and forget that it is not worth seeing.
• Madrid. Remember that you can get there in two days and forget that you will regret the time you spend upon the trip.
• Naples. Remember that you should see the Bay and forget that you are expected to die immediately afterwards.
• Paris. Remember that it is always pleasant and forget that the exception is during August.
• Quebec. Remember it's in Canada and forget that it's the least pleasing place in America.
• Rome. Remember its objects of interest and forget its fever.
• Strasbourg. Remember that it has a Cathedral and forget that the clock is a fraud.
• Turin. Remember that it might be quite worth the journey and forget that it isn't.
• Venice. Remember its canals and forget its odours.
• Vichy. Remember that there is a good hotel and forget that you have been there a dozen times before.
• Wiesbaden. Remember the glories of its past and forget the sadness of its present.
• Zurich. Remember that it is completely abroad and forget that there's no place like home.