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Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, November 11th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

POLICE PROTECTION FOR PIANISTS!!

Made necessary by the antics of the Padded-roomski Devotees at St. James's hall, who rush at, try to embrace, and deck with Roses, a certain Master whenever he appears.

A QUESTION OF TINT.

["Who will paint London?"—Daily News.]

What a question to ask! If the colour be blue,

A batch of our London Minervas will do:

For each one will dye—the allusion is shocking—

Our town and its streets with the tint of her stocking.

Our pessimist frauds and the Ibsensite pack

Will groan as they thickly bedaub it in black.

Asiatic Sir Edwin, the Poet of Light,

He will wipe out their work, and arrange it in white.

Then the Company-gulls will arrive on the scene,

And, presto, the colour of London is green.

And a rare crew of "Johnnies" will stay out of bed

Till the daylight appears, while they paint the town red.

In fact—and you'll thank me for giving the hint—

Painting London is merely a question of tint.

Mrs. R. cannot call to mind where the original picture of "The Waterloo Blanket" is to be seen.

THE NOBLE ORGAN-GRINDER.

["Lord Brassey never goes on a cruise, however short, without taking with him a very costly barrel-organ. He plays on it regularly for some time every evening, as he finds it a congenial form of exercise and amusement."—The World.]

Grinder, when serenely grinding

On your yacht the Hundredth Psalm,

Tell me, are you truly finding

In this work congenial charm?

"Music hath" (an old quotation)

"Charms to soothe the savage breast,"

Think how you might lull some nation

Into dilettante rest.

Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder,

Try the savage who has spurned

Culture, for he might grow kinder,

Soothed by barrel deftly turned.

Matabele Lobengula

(Accent on penultimate)

Might be made by music, you'll a-

gree, a model potentate.

Orpheus like, you might so charm him

That a mere Mashona child's

Hand could easily disarm him

In those equatorial wilds.

He would cease to wear his skimpy

Kilts that leave his legs half bare,

He would soon disband his impi;

Culture then would be his care.

Suits of dittos clothe this whopper;

Patent leather boots be got;

You might lead him—"smash, my topper!"—

Even to a chimney-pot.

He would have a daily paper,

Standard authors sold in parts,

Shops of tailor, hatter, draper,

An Academy of Arts.

He would teach, by plays, the loyal

Folk on marsh or fertile plain,

Opening a Theatre Royal,

Where they've only Reeds and Grain.

And, till death made him a Morgue 'un,

Wagner, Brahms and Greig no doubt

He would doat on—then your organ

Might be ruthlessly chucked out.

THE CENTRAL HALL OF THE LAW COURTS.

O barristers' wigs from far and wide

You gather anew!

The Strand, like meadow with daisies pied,

Is dotted with you.

You crowd the courts, so stuffy, so small,

So awkwardly placed;

You don't go into the Central Hall—

Magnificent waste!

That thing of beauty was meant to be

For ever a joy,

Just built to accommodate, as we see,

One messenger boy.

Proud emblem he of the empire's might,

That thus, for a whim,

Spent pounds in thousands with such delight

Just to shelter him.

The courts are draughty, the courts are dark,

The passages small,

And witness, client, solicitor, clerk,

Are squeezed in them all.

Those lancet windows on winding stairs

Don't help one to see;

A falling Commissioner even swears

Without any fee.

Still though we stumble and though we're squeezed,

We all recollect

That deserted Hall, and we're truly pleased

With it's fine effect.

The vacant acre of paving there

Should never annoy,

It has one occupant, we 're aware—

That messenger boy.

SONG OF THE AUTUMN SESSION.

(By a Reluctantly Returned M.P.)

Air—"O! that will be joyful!"

Here we suffer grief and pain,

Here we part to meet again:

No field, no copse, no moor!

O! it will be jawful,

Jawful, jawful, jawful!

O! isn't it awful?

Autumn Meet's an awful bore!

All who hate the "Lords," you know,

Swear this misery below,

We owe to peers above!

O! that, &c.

We'll be lammed by Labouchere,

Who the Afric strife will swear

Is due to Rhodes's rule.

O! won't he be jawful, &c.

Ashmead, too, will strive to prove

Freedom, prestige, all we love

We'll lose to gain no more,

Through Gladstone the jawful, &c.

O! how weary we shall be,

Ere the two Big Bills, or three,

Are passed and Peer-wards gone!

O! Weg will be jawful, &c.

Then the Rads will shout with joy,

And the short Recess employ,

In larrupping the Lords!

O! won't they be jawful?—

Awful, awful, awful!

It shouldn't be lawful

Autumn Meets to summon more!

The Whirligig of Time.—Wat Tyler is avenged—upon wicked Walworth, and unfair history. A namesake of his is to be Lord Mayor of London! All we want now is, that the Right Hon. Mr. John Cade (of Birmingham?) should be made Prime Minister.

DR. DULCAMARA UP TO DATE; OR, WANTED A QUACK-QUELCHER.

["The jury, in giving their verdict, strongly censured the gross ignorance of the accused, and regretted that there was no law to prevent them from practising surgery.">[

Mr. Punch sings, sotto voce:—

Begone, Dulcamara,

I prythee begone from me!

Begone, Dulcamara,

Thou and I will never agree!

Agree? By all good powers, no! no more than oil and water!

For to the conscious humbug honest wrath should give no quarter;

And if Punch's ready bâton lays its thwacks on any backs

With special zest, it is on those of charlatans and quacks.

Quack! Quack! Quack! Oh the pestilential pack!

If there is a loathsome chorus, it is Quack! Quack! Quack!

But the Quacks are having high old times in these peculiar days,

And gulls mistake their horrid din, 'twould seem, for pleasant lays.

We are quacked into distraction by unchastened power of Jaw,

Assisted by Advertisement and unrestrained by Law.

Dulcamara up to date is no longer poor or petty,

The pompous, brainless charlatan pictured by Donizetti,

He outshines, out-talks, out-thumps, out-cheats, out-swaggers, and out-dresses,

With his nauseous, noxious nostrums, and his nasty, mucky messes.

Quack! Quack! Quack! He may quack the donkeys dead,

Their coin out of their purses and their eyes out of their head,

Their brains into sheer softening, their bodies to the grave,

But he flourishes unpunished. Is there nothing then to save

The noodles from his ignorance and knavery and bounce?

No law to lay him by the heels, no hangman's whip to trounce,

No pillory to gibbet the false fortune-piling pack

Who poison, maim, and madden with their Quack! Quack! Quack?

Dulcamara stands defiant, while his drum the live air fills

With praise of his appliances, his potions, and his pills.

With sham science for his shield, venal literature and art

For his touts and advertisers, he can bravely play his part.

The comic man will clown for him, if adequately paid,

And the poet and the painter puff his wares and push his trade.

He's proudly testimonialised; folly or purchased cunning

Crack up his nastiest nostrums, keep his worst deceptions running.

He will bleed you and blackmail you, if you're weak as well as wealthy,

Impoverish and drench you, aye, do aught—save leave you healthy.

For 'tis quack, quack, quack! and 'tis drum, drum, drum!

And Dulcamara—when not worse—is safe to prove a hum!

Quack! Quack! Quack! It is time that cry to quelch

By Law—or else to treat the quacks like sorry rogues who "welsh";

And if Dulcamara's really safe, until the Law they alter,

Why honest men must see to it, nor in their purpose falter

Till rascals of "gross ignorance," in foul gregarious pack,

Can no longer safely victimise with quack, quack, quack!

THE LION AT HOME.

The Hope and Pride of the Family (just home from the Grand Tour). "Oh, really, you know, the Men one meets in some of those places out West! I said to myself every night, 'Well, thank heaven I haven't Shot anybody!'"

Fond and Nervous Mother. "You mean, thank Heaven nobody Shot you, don't you, dear?"

A WORD TO THE WISE WHEELMAN.

The Speaker, at Warwick, said that "the bicyclists of the day are debilitating and degenerating the human race by the way in which they stoop over their work." The wheelmen would probably retort that, like Goldsmith's sprightly heroine, they "stoop to conquer." And we are not yet all wheelmen. Still, the Speaker has hit a blot in the contemporary Cyclomania. Few things are more unlovely than the "Bicyclist's Bend." Record-cutting would be purchased dearly at the cost of making men look like camels; and if success on the cinderpath or the road involved giving humanity at large "the hump," one would stigmatise the Cycle Race as the Inhuman Race. Let us hope the Speaker's sharp words will make our stooping cyclists "sit up"—in other than the slangy sense of the phrase.

Birds of Pray.

We're told a cormorant sits, and doth not tire,

For a whole month, perched upon Newark spire!

Vinny Bourne's jackdaw's beaten, it is clear.

Yet there are cormorants who, year after year,

Perch in the Church. But these omnivorous people

Favour the pulpit mostly, not the steeple.

Thrivers upon fat livings find, no doubt,

Cormorant within is cosier than without.

Cream of the Cream.—"London Society proper"—we are informed by Lady Charles Beresford—consists of no more than thirty or forty families! And how about London Society improper? Is that equally sparse and exclusive? And—terrible thought!—crucial question!—is it possible that the two orders overlap at all? That there are any "noble swells" who belong to both?

The Government's Public Policy in South Africa (according To Mr. Sydney Buxton).—Not "Carrington's Entire"!

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes).

Scene XIII.—"Behind" at the Eldorado. Time—about 10 P.M.; the Stage at the back of the Scene-cloth is in partial darkness; in the centre, a pile of lumber and properties. Bare whitewashed brick walls; at one side, two canvas cabins for the Lady-Artistes to change their costumes; near them a deal table, with a jug and glasses. At one of the wings, behind the proscenium, a shelf and small mirror, at which the Comedians can arrange their make-up, and a frame, in which a placard, with each Artiste's number, is inserted before his or her entrance. A "turn" has just been concluded, and the Stage is clear.

The Stage-Manager (bustling up to Footman, in crimson plush breeches). Now then, look alive, there, can't you, they're getting impatient in front. Why don't you change the number?

Footman (with aggrieved dignity). Because, Sir, Mr. Alf Redbeak ought to come on, by rights, and, not 'aving chosen to appear yet, I think you'll see yourself, on reflection, as it would be totally——

Stage-M. Well, don't argue about it; here's Miss Lushboy ready to go on, put her number up!

Footm. I always understood it was the regulation 'ere that no number was to be put up until the band-parts were passed into the orchestra; which Miss Lushboy's music most certainly has not been handed in yet, and, that bein' so——

Stage-M. You can spare a good yard off that tongue of yours, you can; put Miss Lushboy's number up, and——Ah, here comes Mr. Redbeak; never mind.

Enter Mr. Redbeak, breathless.

Mr. Redbeak. Phew! I've had a job to get 'ere in time, I can tell you. (The Orchestra strikes up.) 'Ullo, that ain't mine. (To Footman.) What are you about? Put up my number—sharp, now!

Miss Lushboy (to Footman). Here, let me go on; I've been messing about long enough. What are you taking my number out for?

Footm. Now, look 'ere, Miss, I can't please everybody! (Indicating Stage-Manager.) You are as well aware as what I am that it's for him to give the word 'ere, not me. I'm on'y actin' under what——

Mr. Redb. It's crule, you know, that's what it is—crule. I've got to go right across London for my next turn, and——

The Stage-M. (returning). What the blazes are we waiting for now? Alf, dear boy, you should come up to time. (To Footman.) Why don't you do as you're told? You're getting too big for your boots, it strikes me! (To Miss Lushboy.) There, go on, my dear, go on.

[Miss L. bounds on to the stage, and begins her song.

Mr. Redb. (to Footman). I've got a bone to pick with you, old feller. Don't you go wool-gatherin' to-night, as you did last. I've told you till I'm tired that when you see me chuck this property piecrust into the wings you've got to throw down these fire-irons—it's a safe laugh every time it comes off, and you know 'ow important it is, and yet you forget it nine times out of ten! What's the good of me thinkin' out my business when you go and crab it for me?

Footm. (pathetically). Mr. Redbeak, Sir, you'll excuse me, but I'm on'y one man 'ere, I ain't a 'undred. Don't thank 'eaven for it, Sir, it's 'ard when a man as tries to do his best, and with all my responsibilities on him——

Mr. Redb. (impatiently). Oh, cheese it; you're not on a stool in 'Ide Park, are you? I'm only tellin' you.

Miss L. (on stage, singing chorus).

Say, boys, say, if you'd like to come. Who's for a merry old "Tiddley-um?"

Fall in behind, and we'll all get "blind," before they close the pub!

You're not jays, so you won't refuse. Join our band, for we're on the booze,

And you'll see some larks with the rollicking sparks of the Rowdy Razzle Club!

(Here she capers off, brandishing a gibus, and has a difficulty in opening the practicable door in the wing. To Footman.) There you are again! How often am I to tell you to keep that wood open for my dance off? I break my fingers over it every blessed night, and lose my encore as well!

Footm. I'm exceedingly sorry, miss, but the fact of the matter is my attention was took off at the time owing to——

Miss L. Oh, hold your jaw, do.

Footm. (to himself). I'm to hold my jaw! Oh, these hartistes, they lead me a dorg's life among 'em!

Mr. Redb. (touching Miss L.'s coat as she passes). What's that badge you're wearing? Salvation Army, Temperance, Primrose League, or what?

Miss L. No, only the colours of the Balls Pond Football Team; they presented them to me the other day. I told them I didn't play football.

Mr. Redb. You're pretty fair at the 'igh kick though, ain't you? There, there. 'Alf time. Goin' on again?

Miss L. With a cold like mine? Not likely. Just look at my tongue! (She protrudes the tip of an indigo-coloured tongue for his inspection.)

Mr. Redb. (concerned). Why, it's like one o' those Chow-chow dogs, I'm blest if it isn't! You are off colour to-night, no mistake!

Miss L. Oh, that's the remedy, not the disease—liquorice, you know.

Stage-M. Now, Alf, if you're in such a hurry, go on. Cut it as short as you like—no extra turns to-night.

Mr. Redb. No fear. Oh dear, oh dear, such a rush as it is!

[He goes on grumbling.

A Small Boy (who has been sitting patiently on a chair by the wing—to Stage-Manager). If you please, Sir, will Mr. Wildfire want me to-night?

Miss L. Want you, indeed, you silly kid! What would Mr. Wildfire want a shrimp like you for?

The Boy. If he's going to do the Sandwich Man 'ere to-night, he'll want me, I know. Why, it all depends on me, that song does. (To Stage-M.) Is he going to do the Sandwich Man to-night, Sir?

Stage-M. Oh, don't bother me; wait till he comes and you'll find out. (To Miss L.) I suppose you've heard he's talking of not renewing his engagement after to-night—giving up the halls altogether!

Miss L. And no great loss either! I don't see anything particular about his songs myself. As for all that gas about his raising the tone of the halls, it's sickening. Anyone would suppose we lowered it!

Miss Cissie Cinders (coming out of a dressing-cabin, in a battered old velvet hat and broken feathers, with her face smudged). Who's that you're talking about? Wildfire? Ah, my dear, this 'Igh Art and Littery rot'll be the ruin of the 'alls—him and his articles in the swell magazines, praising us all up—he can keep his praises to himself—I don't want 'em! I've never set up to refine the public myself, or else I could fake it easy enough!

[She passes on to stage.

Mr. Gus. Tadman (Variety Vocalist). We could all do it, come to that. But there, he won't last, you'll see. Why, look at the 'it I made with my "Rorty Naughty Nell"! That was a good song if you like, and well-written, mind yer. But lor, it's clean forgotten now. I 'ear Wildfire's bringing out a play to-night at the Hilarity, it'll serve him right if it gets the bird, going back on his own profession like that! (To Miss Cinders, who has just sung.) House cold to-night?

"It's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices!"

Miss Cinders (in a temper). Cold, it's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices! I used to have the choruses all sung for me when I brought out that song first; and now they've let me go off without a 'and! We shall see whether they'll rise to Wildfire to-night. Ah, here he is. Actually coming up to speak to us; there's an honour!

Miss Betsy Beno (to Wildfire, as he passes the table where she is sitting waiting for her turn). 'Ere, Watty, old man, stop and 'ave a drop along of me. Do—there's plenty 'ere! (as Wildfire excuses himself laughingly). Well, I'm sure—refusing to drink when a lady goes out of her way to ask him—he hasn't the manners of a pig! And I draw my sixty quid a week the same as he does!

Mr. Tadman. Well, dear boy, how's the play getting on? Not a frost, I hope?

Wildfire. No; I just looked in on my way from the Val. here, and they seemed to think it was all right; but I couldn't stay till the finish. They're going to send round and let me know. (To the Small Boy, who has approached anxiously.) Oh, there you are, youngster! Yes, I shall want you—for the last time, you know.

The Boy. Why, you—you ain't going to take the part away from me, Sir, when I created it, too!

Wildf. (patting his shoulder kindly). I'm giving up singing altogether—that's why. Never mind; I'll see it makes no difference to you, so don't you distress yourself. We'll find you something or other to do.

The Boy (with a gulp). If I ain't going to be with you any more, I—I don't care what 'appens, Sir. I'd as soon throw up the perfession myself, I would!

[He turns away into a dark corner.

Wildf. (to himself, as he goes to the wing). Nice boy that; didn't think he'd care so much; must keep an eye on him. Flattery must be over now. I wish I could have stayed to see it out; it was going magnificently; but there were some rather risky scenes ahead. Still, I believe it's a success; and, if it is, I shall have done with all this for ever after to-night. I can go to Althea and tell her, without—— By Jove! wasn't it to-night that Old Toovey was to be in front? I wonder what he'll think of it. (He looks at himself in the mirror.) He'll have some difficulty in recognising me in this get up. Well, I shall know on Monday. (He goes on, and sings; then rushes back to the wing to change his costume, with the assistance of his dresser.) Yes, the coat, now, dresser, please. (To himself, as he paints some lines on his face.) I couldn't see anyone at all like old Toovey. Very odd! They must have sent him the box, I suppose. Well, it doesn't matter; if he didn't think it necessary to come, so much the better. (Aloud.) Wigpaste, please. Now the boards. All right—I'm ready. (To the Boy.) Now, youngster, look out for your cue.

[He goes on.

The Limelight Man (up in the flies—to himself). What's wrong with Mr. Wildfire? He as nearly broke down just now as——and I can't keep the limelight on him nohow to-night! He can't have been drinking—he ain't that sort. But he do look bad—it's as much as ever he can do to go through with it; somethink's given him a turn.

Wildfire (to himself, as he goes back to the wing, unsteadily). She's here—and, what's worse, she's recognised me! She must have, or she would never have looked like that. If I could only have told her first; but, to discover it like this,—she'll think I meant to—— (He pitches away his boards in a fury.) Well, I've done for myself—it's all over! (To his dresser.) A note, eh?

[He opens it, and reads the contents mechanically; Mr. Tadman and one or two other artistes come up with curiosity on seeing his expression.

Tadm. Why, Wildfire, old man, what's this? Play gone wrong? Never mind, dear boy, we can't have everything. But what's the report, eh?

Wildf. (impatiently). Oh, I don't know. What does it matter now? (He lets the note fall.) There, you can read it if you want to know.

[He walks away.

Tadm. (with complacency). Poor chap, he's hard hit! But I could have told him it wasn't to be expected that—— (He picks up the note, and reads it with a falling jaw.) Hullo! What's the meaning of this? It says the piece is a tremendous go—safe for a long run—had to raise the rag again and again. Why, he'll make his fortune over this alone; and yet, look at him! (Pointing to Wildfire, who has seated himself on the pile of lumber, in utter dejection.) And all those fools in front clapping and stamping for him to come on again. What more does the feller want, I wonder!

End of Scene XIII.

Union is (Logical) Weakness.—The Congregational Union lays it down as a law, "that the rights of humanity must take precedence of those of property." We fear this admirable maxim (like equally admirable Charity) might be made to cover a multitude of sins, from petty larceny to anarchism. Would it be consonant with the "rights of humanity," for, say, a Congregational Unionist to object to a poor tramp stealing his best umbrella on a wet day?

ROBERT ON THE COMING SHO.

Well, here we are just about gitting to the bend of our Citty Year, when we changes our raining Sovverain, altho he is but twelve munse old, and takes on a new one, for better or wuss as the case may be, and in this case I most suttenly thinks that it would be werry differcult indeed to change for a better, for it tisn't not only me and all my tribe, as Shylock calls us, but all the many hundreds, if not thowsends, as has had a share of the Rite Honnerabel the Lord Mare's noble ospitality, must all agree that a more liberaller, or hospitaler, or hopen artider Gent never entered the honored Manshun House than him who to ewerybody's regret is a going next week for to leave it!

Why, I ardly expecs to be beleeved when I says as we have sumtimes had as many as three or fore grand Bankwets in one week, and the Lord Mare woud get up as usual the nex morning as if he thort nothink of it! No more he did, no not ewen when the King of Denmark himself came and dined with him at Gildall, and explained to him all about the unfortnet death of Prince Hamlet!

I do hear as we are to have such a Lord Mare's Sho as we ain't offen had, including, above all things that nobody coudn't have emagined, nothink less than a reel copy of the grand New Tower Bridge, and if that won't be a site for the estonished Multitood praps somebody will kindly tell me what woud be.

There was a tork of asking all the Roossian Sailors, who has been a having sitch a jolly time of it in France, to run over and jine the Sho first and the Bankwet arterwards, but it was werry doutful whether ewen all the Haldermen, much less all the Common Counselmen, coud have chatted away with them in their own native tung, so the idear was given up in favour of Fire engines and Fire men.

I've seen a goodish many Lord Mare's Shos in my time, and hopes to see a few more, in spite of the gellous growls of another body of gents as shall be nameless, but it woud suttenly be a grand joke to see the gellous body elluded to coming out in a London County show of their own, amid the skoffs and jiers and larfter of the emused Metrolopus!

Robert.

THE "OBERLAND" ROUTE.

["A scheme for making a waterway between Switerland and the Adriatic is to be submitted to the Federal Government at no very distant date."—Westminster Gazette.]

British Minister, Bern, to Lord Rosebery, London.—A Mr. Jones, who says he's a British subject, went up Pilatus to get view. Didn't get it. Also complains of overcharge for candles at his hotel. Have demanded immediate satisfaction from Swiss Government. Please send Mediterranean Squadron to Locarno.

Lord Rosebery, London, to British Minister, Bern.—Can't spare the Squadron. Won't a gunboat do? You may speak strongly to Swiss Government. Tell them insult to Jones is insult to England. Meanwhile, wire best route for fleet to get up to Bern, if necessary. Don't see it on map.

Brit. Min., B., to Lord R.—Owing to Mediterranean Squadron not having appeared at Locarno, Swiss Government very aggressive. Passenger steamers on Lakes of Geneva, Thun, and Lucerne being converted into a fleet. Special new corps d'armée formed from Chamounix guides and patriotic hotel waiters. Man (whose name was Robinson) mistaken for Jones, and mobbed in streets last night. Some kind of Naval Demonstration absolutely necessary. Put ships on rail at Locarno, send 'em through Gothard Tunnel, and there you are!

Lord R. to Brit. Min., B.—British Government recognises gravity of the Jones incident. What do you advise? Aren't the Alps in the way?

Brit. Min., B., to Lord R.—Didn't like to suggest details. Send ironclads. Ram something. Why not bombard Alps. Gunboat moored at Devil's Bridge might shell Andermatt. Leave it to you.