Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, September 16th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

A CROWDED HOUSE.

Angry Voice (from a backseat). "Ears off in Front there, please!"

THE STRIKER'S VADE MECUM.

Question. You think it is a good thing to strike?

Answer. Yes, when there is no other remedy.

Q. Is there ever any other remedy?

A. Never. At least, so say the secretaries.

Q. Then you stand by the opinions of the officials?

A. Why, of course; because they are paid to give them.

Q. But have not the employers any interests?

A. Lots, but they are not worthy the working-man's consideration.

Q. But are not their interests yours?

A. Yes, and that is the way we guard over them.

Q. But surely it is the case of cutting off the nose to spite the mouth?

A. And why not, if the mouth is too well fed.

Q. But are not arguments better than bludgeons?

A. No, and bludgeons are less effective than revolvers.

Q. But may not the use of revolvers produce the military?

A. Yes, but they can do nothing without a magistrate reading the Riot Act.

Q. But, the Riot Act read, does not the work become serious?

A. Probably. But at any rate the work is lawful, because unremunerative.

Q. But how are the wives and children of strikers to live if their husbands and fathers earn no wages?

A. On strike money.

Q. But does all the strike money go to the maintenance of the hearth and the home?

A. Of course not, for a good share of it is wanted for the baccy-shop and the public-house.

Q. But if strikes continue will not trade suffer?

A. Very likely, but trade represents the masters.

Q. And if trade is driven away from the country will it come back?

A. Most likely not, but that is a matter for the future.

Q. But is not the future of equal importance to the present?

A. Not at all, for a day's thought is quite enough for a day's work.

Q. Then a strike represents either nothing or idleness?

A. Yes, bludgeons or beer.

Q. And what is the value of reason?

A. Why, something less than smoke.

A NOVEL SHOW.

["A popular place of entertainment is arranging a Burglars' Exhibition."—Daily Telegraph.]

Oh, gladly will the public pay

Its shillings for admission,

To study in a careful way

This most original display,

The Burglars' Exhibition.

Professor Sikes will here explain,

With practical instruction,

How best to break a window-pane,

Through which his classic form may gain

Judicious introduction.

The jemmies, and revolvers, too,

Will doubtless prove enthralling,

And all the implements we'll view

With which these scientists pursue

Their fascinating calling;

The most efficient type of gag

To silence all intrusion,

The latest kind of carpet-bag

Wherein to bear the bulky "swag"

To some remote seclusion.

Then, by this exhibition's aid,

The art will spread to others,

And those who ply this busy trade

Will, in a year or two, be made

A noble band of brothers.

The thief of olden time we'll see

As seldom as the dodo;

The burglar's future aim will be

To join the fortiter in re

And suaviter in modo!

The Most Unpardonable "Misuse of Words."—Making after-dinner speeches.

CONVERSION À LA MODE.

Scene—A Government Office. A Government Official discovered.

To him enter a Petitioner.

Petitioner. I really think, Sir, that the time has arrived for a grant.

Official. Impossible, my dear Sir, impossible. I can assure you the reports are greatly exaggerated.

Pet. But do you know that the ports cannot properly be guarded without further financial assistance?

Off. Very likely; at least, that may be the general opinion.

Pet. And Science could be far more certain did the funds permit—you are aware of that?

Off. Faddists never consider the cost of anything.

Pet. And I suppose you are aware that it is marching towards the metropolis?

Off. When it gets there it will be time to consider the situation.

Pet. Then you have not heard of the recent affair in Westminster?

Off. In Westminster! Why that is close to the Houses of Parliament!

Pet. And if I tell you that it has been traced to the Lobby of the Commons.

Off. Don't say another word, my dear Sir, not another word. What, appeared in the House of Commons! Why, several millions shall be granted at once!

[Scene closes in upon preparations of the most active character.

Announcement.—The Heavenly Twins has had a success. It will be followed by a treatise on gout by Mrs. Sarah Gamp, M.D., to be entitled The Uneavenly Twinge.

"SOCIAL TEST-WORDS."

[An American writer in The Critic has an article on this subject.]

Two "social questions" soon, we may expect.

Will, in two continents, raise a social storm:—

"Is it correct to say a thing's 'correct'"?

"Is it good form to use the phrase 'good form'"?

Or will both go, with those who finely feel,

The way of "gentlemanly," and "genteel"?

Shall Punch attempt to settle it? No, thankee!

He rather thinks he'll leave it to the Yankee.

What matters it about our played-out tongue?

(In which some good things have been said and sung.)

Let those the war of "Saxon versus Slang" wage,

Who have the charge of "the American Language."

That has a future (Howell's law, and Fate's!)

"The language of the Great United States"

(Unless through cant and coarseness it goes rotten)

The world will speak when "English" is forgotten.

The Coming Fall.

The Autumn comes. We welcome it—

A change from Summer heat appalling.

The birds once more begin to flit

To warmer climes, the leaves are falling.

But portent clear as clear can be,

We know that Autumn comes by reasoning

"Look all the papers that we see

Are daily stuffed with silly seasoning."

"A QUIET PIPE."

"One touch of nature" kins To-day

With classical Arcadia.

This faun-like "nipper,"

Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on,

Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone,

And wild "Kazoos" are played upon

By the cheap tripper.

Half imp, half animal, behold

The 'Arry of the Age of Gold

In this young satyr!

Lover of pleasure and of "lush"

(Silenus at the slang might blush),

Of haunted Nature's holy hush

Irreverent hater.

Mischief and music, mockery,

Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee,

And nimble finger;

Sardonic lips that slide with speed

Athwart the rangéd pastoral reed;

Upon these things will fancy feed,

And memory linger.

Imp-urchin of the budding horn,

Native to Nature's nascent morn,

The same quaint pranks

You played 'midst the Arcadian shade,

By satyrs of to-day are played;

Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed

Not shaggy shanks.

Not cheap tan kids and Kino's best

Can hide the frolic faun confest,

Or coarse Silenus;

Like Spenser's satyrs, they attack us,

With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,

Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,

And vulgar Venus.

'Arry's mouth-organ is, indeed,

Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,

Pan-fathered piper;

While his tin-whistle!—a wood-god,

Whose tympanum that sound should prod,

Would start, and shriek, as though he trod

Upon a viper.

Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend,

Better Arcadia than Southend

On a Bank-Holiday!

You and your Pan-pipe might appear,

And tootle, yet not rend my ear.

Or with a novel Panic fear

Upset a jolly day.

Aperch upon your branch, you carry

A certain likeness to our 'Arry,

Yet 'tis but slight.

He could not sit, the noisy brute!

And natural music mildly flute,

Till the assembled nymphs were mute

With sheer delight.

He'd want the banjo and the bones,

And rowdy words, and raucous tones,

And roaring chorus.

Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!

No echoes of Arcadian song

Sound in the screech the holiday throng

Rattle and roar us.

To your shrill flutings I could listen

When on the grass-blades dewdrops glisten,

And morn is ripe.

Could sit and hear your pastoral reed,

In peace, and do myself, indeed

(Fair laden with "the fragrant weed"),

"A Quiet Pipe!"

THE HIGHLAND "CADDIE."

[There has been a strike among the Golf Caddies.]

Air—"The Blue Bells of Scotland."

Oh! where, and oh! where is your Highland "Caddie" gone?

He's gone to join the Strike, and now "Caddie" I have none;

And it's oh! in my heart that I wish the Strike were done!

Oh! what, and oh! what does your Highland "Caddie" claim?

He wants sixpence for a round of nine holes. It is a shame,

And it's oh! in my heart that I fear 'twill spoil the game.

And what, tell me what, are your Highland Caddie's tricks?

He has "picketed the links" just to keep out all "knobsticks,"

And it's oh! in my heart, that I feel I'm in a fix!

Suppose, oh! suppose that all Highland Caddies strike!

I might have to turn up golf, and to tennis take, or "bike,"

But it's oh! in my heart that I do not think 'tis like!

"Name! Name!"—In a recent report from the East occurs the delightfully-suggestive name of "Seyd Bin Abed." Of course he is a relative to "Seyd im Gotup Agen." Or perhaps he has changed his name from "Seyd uad Bin Abed" to "Seyd Imon Sopha." If "Seyd" be not pronounced as "Seed" but as "Said," the above titles can be altered to match. True or not, yet "so it is Seyd." The news in which this name occurs appears to have reached the correspondent through a person called "Rumaliza." Can anything coming from a female styled "Rum Eliza" be credible?

Out of Court.—A sharp young lady listening to a conversation about witnesses being sworn in Court, interrupted with "I don't know much about kissing the book, but if I didn't like him, I'd soon bring the kisser to book."

AT THE SHAFTESBURY.

The few theatres now open seem to be doing uncommonly good business. The Shaftesbury, with Morocco Bound, was as nearly full as it could be in the first week of September, when the cry is not yet "They are coming back," but they are remaining away. Another week will make all the difference. Morocco Bound is not a piece at all, but a sort of variety show, just held together by the thinnest thread of what, for want of a better word, may be temporarily dignified as "plot." Mr. Charles Danby is decidedly funny in it. Mr. Templar Saxe is a pretty singer. Mr. George Grossmith well sustains the eccentric reputation of his family name; and, if any opposition manager could induce the present representative of Spoofah Bey to appear at another house, it would be "all up" with Morocco Bound, as such a transfer would entirely take "the Shine" out of this piece. Miss Jennie McNulty does nothing in particular admirably; and Miss Letty Lind, charming in her entr'acte of skirt-dancing, is still better in her really capital dance with the agile Charles Danby. This entertainment has reached its hundred and fiftieth night (!!!), and all those who are prevented from going North to stalk the wily grouse may do worse than spend a night among the Moors in Morocco Bound. Oddly enough, but quite appropriately, the acting-manager in front, who looks after the fortunes of Morocco and its Moors, is Mr. A. Blackmore. Out of compliment he might have let in an "a" after the "k," dropped the final "e," and given himself a second "o." Still, in keeping with the fitness of things, he has done well in being there.

ANCIENT SAWS RESET.

"All work and no pay makes Jack a striking boy."

"All pay and no work makes Jack's employer go without a shirt."

During the recent tropical weather, Mrs. R. observed that it was the only time in her life when she would have given anything "just to have got a little cold."

ON HIS HONEYMOON TOO!

Man with Sand Ponies. "Now then, Mister, you an' the Young Lady, a Pony apiece? 'Ere y'are!"

Snobley (loftily). "Aw—I'm not accustomed to that Class of Animal."

Man (readily). "Ain't yer, Sir? Ne' mind." (To Boy.) "'Ere, Bill, look sharp! Gent'll have a Donkey!"

"THE BOOK THAT FAILED."

[A publisher writes to The Author to say that, for the first time in his experience, the writer of a book which was not a success has sent him an unsolicited cheque to compensate him for the loss he has sustained by producing it.]

As Things are To-day.

Publisher (nastily). I tell you that it's no earthly use your asking about profits, because there are none.

Author (amazed). No profits! And you really mean to tell me that the public has not thought fit to purchase my shilling work of genius—The Maiming of Mendoza? By our agreement only a paltry six thousand copies of the work had to be bought before my royalty of a penny a volume began.

Publisher. I am quite aware of it. The sale of the six thousand copies would just about have repaid us for cost of production. As a matter of fact, only three thousand have been sold. We've lost heavily, and very much regret we were ever induced to accept the work.

Author. And you really ask me to believe that after such a sale as that a loss on your part is possible? Why, if you take price of printing at——

[Goes elaborately into cost of production.

Publisher. Yes, but you see the price of everything has gone up in our trade. Binding is now ten per cent. dearer, composing is——

[Also goes into precise and prolonged details.

Author (turning desperate at last). Oh, let us end this chatter! You really say that no cheque whatever is due to me for all my labours?

Publisher. Not a single penny. It's the other way about.

Author (leaving). And you call this "the beneficial system of royalties," do you? Good day! And if I don't set the Society of Authors at you before I am a day older, then my name's not Bulwer Makepeace Defoe Smith!

[Exit tempestuously.

As They may be To-morrow.

Utterly Unknown Novelist. Then I am afraid that my last three-volumed work of fiction, in spite of the cordial way in which it was reviewed by my brother-in-law in the Weekly Dotard, my maternal uncle in the Literary Spy, and a few other relatives on the daily press, has not upon the whole been a decided success?

Publisher. Well, it's useless to conceal the fact, that from a mere base material point of view, the publication of The Boiling of Benjamin has not quite answered our expectations. In fact, we have lost a couple of thousand pounds over it. But (more cheerfully) what of that? It is a pleasure to lose money over introducing good work to the public; a positive privilege to be sacrificed on such an altar as The Boiling of Benjamin. So say no more on that head!

U. U. Novelist (enthusiastically). Good and generous man! But I will say more! You recollect that the terms you made with me were a thousand pounds down, and a hundred pounds a month for life or until the copyright expired?

Publisher (groaning slightly). Oh, yes! I remember it very well.

U. U. Novelist. And that I have already received cheques for one thousand and five hundred pounds, without your mentioning a word about the loss you have been nobly and silently enduring?

Publisher. An agreement's an agreement, and you are only experiencing one result of the beneficial system of royalties.

U. U. Novelist. Quite so! But if there is to be division of profits, there should be division of losses as well. So (taking out chequebook, and hurriedly writing in it) there! Not a word of thanks! It's merely repaying you the fifteen hundred I've received, with another thousand to compensate you for the loss on production.

Publisher (melted into tears). Oh, thanks, thanks! You have averted ruin from my starving little ones! And if you should wish to bring out any other work of ——. He is gone, to escape my gratitude! (Takes up cheque.) By far the best thing he ever wrote!

(Curtain.)

Political Parallel.—Mr. Chamberlain declared the other day the Government were in a hole. Was it in reference to this that the Duke of Argyll spoke in the Lords of Lord Rosebery's "Pitt"?

A Glass too Much (for Outsiders last Wednesday).—Isinglass.

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene II.—Same as preceding. Mr. Toovey is slowly recovering from the mental collapse produced by the mention of the word "Eldorado."

Mrs. Toovey. Althea is out of the room, Pa, so there is no reason why you should not speak out plainly.

Mr. Toovey (to himself). No reason—oh! But I must say something. If only I knew whether it was my Eldorado—but, no, it's a mere coincidence! (Aloud—shakily.) Charles, my boy, you—you've shocked me very much indeed, as you can see. But, about the name of this establishment, now—isn't it a curious one for—for a music-hall, Charles? M—mightn't it be confused with—well—say a mine, now?

Mrs. T. Theophilus, this is scarcely the tone——. I expected you to give this misguided boy a solemn warning of the ruin he may incur by having anything to do with such a haunt.

Mr. T. (to himself). Ah, I'm afraid I'm only too well qualified to do that. (Aloud.) I do, Charles, I do—though at the same time, I can quite understand how one may, unwittingly—I mean, you might not be aware of——

Mrs. T. You, Pa, of all people in the world, trying to find excuses for his depravity! The very name of the place is enough to indicate its nature!

Mr. T. (hastily). No, my love, surely not. There I think you go too far—too far altogether!

Mrs. T. I appeal to Mr. Curphew to say whether such a place is a proper resort for any young man.

Curphew (to himself). Wish I was well out of this! (Aloud.) I—I really don't feel qualified to give an opinion, Mrs. Toovey. Many young men do go to them, I believe.

Charles (to himself). Is this chap a prig, or a humbug? I'll draw him. (Aloud.) I suppose, from that, you never think of going yourself?

Mrs. T. Mr. Curphew's tastes are rather different from yours, Charles. I am very sure that he is never to be seen among the audience at any music-hall, are you, Mr. Curphew?

Curph. (to himself). Could I break it to her gently, I wonder. (Aloud.) Never—my professional duties make that impossible.

Charles (to himself). I knew he was a muff! (Aloud.) I should have thought you could easily get a pass to any place you wanted to go—in your profession.

Curph. (to himself). He suspects something. (Aloud.) Should you? Why?

Charles. Oh, as you're on a newspaper, you know. Don't they always have a free pass for everywhere?

Curph. If they have, I have never had occasion to make use of it.

Charles. Well, of course you may turn up your nose at music-halls, and say they're not intellectual enough for you.

Curph. Pardon me, I never said I turned up my nose at them, though you'll admit they don't profess to make a strong appeal to the intellect.

Charles. If they did, you wouldn't catch me there. But I can tell you, it's not so bad as you seem to think; every now and then they get hold of a really good thing. You might do worse than drop into the El. or the Val., the Valhalla, you know, some evening—just to hear Walter Wildfire.

Curph. Much obliged; but I can't imagine myself going there for such a purpose.

Mrs. T. Charles, if you suppose Mr. Curphew would allow himself to be corrupted by a boy like you——

Charles. But look here, Aunt. Walter Wildfire's all right—he is really; he was a gentleman, and all that, before he took to this sort of thing, and he writes all his own songs—and ripping they are, too! His line is the Broken-down Plunger, you know. (Mrs. T. repudiates any knowledge of this type.) He's got one song about a Hansom Cabby who has to drive the girl he was engaged to before he was broke, and she's married some other fellow since, and has got her little daughter with her, and the child gives him his fare, and—well, somehow it makes you feel choky when he sings it. Even Mr. Curphew couldn't find anything to complain of in Walter Wildfire!

Althea (who has entered during this speech). Mamma, I can't find your spectacles anywhere. Mr. Curphew, who is this Walter Wildfire Charles is so enthusiastic about?

Mrs. T. (hastily). No one that Mr. Curphew knows anything of—and certainly not a fit person to be mentioned in your hearing, my dear, so let us say no more about it. Supper must be on the table by this time; we had better go in, and try to find a more befitting topic for conversation. Charles, have the goodness to put this—this disgraceful paper in your pocket, and let me see no more of it. I shall get your Uncle to speak to you seriously after supper.

Mr. T. (aloud, with alacrity). Yes, my love, I shall certainly speak to Charles after supper—very seriously. (To himself.) And end this awful uncertainty!

Curph. (to himself, as he follows to the Dining-room). "Not a fit person to be mentioned in her hearing!" I wonder. Would she say the same if she knew? When shall I be able to tell her? It would be madness as yet.

Scene III.—The Study. Mr. Toovey and Charles are alone together. Mr. Toovey has found it impossible to come to the point.

Charles (looking at his watch). I say, Uncle, I'm afraid I must trouble you for that wigging at once, if I'm going to catch my train back. You've only seven-and-a-half minutes left to exhort me in, so make the most of it.

Mr. T. (with embarrassment). Yes, Charles, but—I don't wish to be hard on you, my boy—we are all liable to err, and—and, in point of fact, the reason I was a little upset at the mention of the Eldorado is, that a very dear old friend of mine, Charles, has lately lost a considerable sum through investing in a Company of the same name—and, just for the moment, it struck me that it might have been the music-hall—which of course is absurd, eh?

Charles. Rather! He couldn't possibly have lost it in the music-hall, Uncle; it's ridiculous!

Mr. T. (relieved). Just what I thought. A man in his—ah—responsible position—oh no. But he's lost it in this other Company. And they've demanded a hundred and seventy-five pounds over and above the five hundred he paid on his shares. Now you know the law. Can they do that, Charles? Is he legally liable to pay?