Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, September 9th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

A BROWN STUDY IN AUTUMN TINTS.

(Being a Fragment from a Matter-of-fact Romance.)

And he walked along the deserted streets and could see no one. Here and there would be a pile of stones and wooden blocks, telling of an impeded thoroughfare, but the place itself was empty. There were seemingly no inhabitants in this deserted city. They had vanished into thin, or, rather, murky air.

Then he looked at what appeared to be a playhouse. The doors were closed, and the bill-boards were pasted over with blue paper. Evidently the portals of the theatre had not been open for weeks, perchance for months.

And it was the same in the parks. Only the leaves moved, and then only when the wind agitated them. There were a few sparrows in the trees, but they seemed to be ashamed of themselves, and chirruped (so to speak) with bated breath. Oh it was indeed a scene of desolation.

And the shops, too! Many of them were closed, and those which were open seemed to be tenantless. There were no customers; no counter attendants. Trade seemed to be as dead as the proverbial door-nail.

And the hoardings too! Even they had suffered. Old posters, manifestly out of date, fluttered in tatters; it had been no one's business to restore the rotting paper, and it had gone the way of other grass. The placards were worse than useless; they could not be deciphered.

And yet again he marched on. There were exhibitions, and no one to see them; museums, and no visitors to inspect them; and churches, and no one to fill them. At length he came upon a guardian of the public peace who was lazily gazing into the sluggish river over the parapet of an embankment.

"Good sir," said he, "can you tell me if this dreadful, lonely, deserted place is the City of the Dead?"

"Go along with you!" cried the policeman, good-humouredly; "it's only London in September!"

And then he felt that he had been deceived by appearances!

History Repeats Itself Again.

["The alleged unemployed who assemble on Tower Hill are becoming worse even than mountebanks. One of the speakers declared yesterday that 'The secret societies of London are going to-night to wait on Mr. Gladstone, to ask what he is going to do. If the Prime Minister does not give a definite reply, they will take him on their backs and throw him into the Thames.'"—The Daily Telegraph, Sept. 1.]

The genius loci haunts

Historic Tower Hill,

For, judging by their vaunts,

Men lose their heads there still.

THE MINOR ILLS OF LIFE.

Portrait of a Gentleman attempting to regain his Tent after the Morning Bath.

JABEZWOCKY.

["In the House of Lords a Bill strengthening the power of making Directors liable in respect of misconduct or neglect in the winding-up of Companies passed its second reading."—Daily Paper.]

'Twas Ruin! And the Small Invest-

-Ors gyred and gimbled in despair;

Common as dirt were Shareholders,

But assets very rare!

"Beware the Jabezwock, my Lord!

The jaws that bite, the claws that dig;

Beware the Hobbs-hobbs bird, and shun

The saintly Guinea-pig!"

The Peer set out, his Bill in hand;

He had to be extremely leary

In tackling such an artful foe,

Whose weapon was Suppressio Veri!

And as he mused o'er blighted lives,

The Jabezwock, as yet unfloored,

Came snuffling piously to join

A meeting of its Board.

One, two! One, two! And through and through

All stages passed the Bill like winking;

And this is what the Peers just then

Most probably were thinking:—

"And have we scotched the Jabezwock,

And spoiled him of his false Prospectus!

O frabjous day! What Rad will say

That from this House he'd now eject us?"

'Twas Ruin ruined! And the dupes

Quite chortled such a sight to see;

The smug Director brought to book

Near to the Dividend Tree!

NEW NURSERY RHYME.

(By a Sporting M.P.)

["Official opinion will be, and indeed has been, brought to bear upon Mr. Hanbury and his small knot of obstructionists to avert an unreasonable discussion of the Estimates."—Daily Chronicle.]

Autumn Session? Of course!

Isn't Hanbury cross

To see the Grand Old Man

So ride the high horse?

But why should we linger

Afar from the grouse,

To help the obstructives

Discredit the House?

BARNETT OF BRISTOL CITY.

A Song of St. Jude's.

[The Rev. S. A. Barnett, late Vicar of St. Jude's, Whitechapel, has been promoted to the Canonry of Bristol.]

Air—"Nancy of Bristol City."

Barnett is Canon of Bristol City!

Pass the news around, my boys!

To leave Whitechapel seems half a pity;

Sorrow will go round, my boys!

St. Jude's, and thy great Hall, Toynbee,

Some right good Christians doubtless see;

But they're all small shakes along o' he!

Pass his health around, my boys!

Barnett! Barnett!

Well did he "arn" it—

That Bristol Canonree!

And when he gets to Bristol City,

Pass the cheers around, my boys!

He'll draw the wise, the kind, the pretty;

They must gather round, my boys.

The slum he sweetened in London's east,

With Charity's boon, and Fine Arts' feast,

Will miss this good, sage, gentle priest;

Pass his health around, my boys!

Barnett! Barnett!

Your loss we'll larn it,

You were the Man for we!

Your health, where'er you be!

NOUS AND NERVES.

[It is said by some of his friends that Dr. Charcot, lately dead, who spent a considerable part of his life in the study of neurosis, found this disease everywhere at last, especially in the naturalistic school of French writers.]

If this Neurosis,

As some suppose, is

The causa causans of Naturalism,

The spring ubiquitous

Of aught iniquitous

That puts 'twixt genius and sense a schism;

Then must we pray

For the dawn of a day

When the Glorious Gift that the world so serves

May cut chlorosis,

And shun neurosis;

In fact, that Genius may have no "nerves."

"READY, AYE READY!"

(A Sailor Song Up to Date.)

Master John Bull. "Just you wait Two or Three Years, till I make her Swim,—then I'll show you!">[

[Sir Edward Reed said that with the armoured citadel intact, and an unarmoured end destroyed, the ship is in imminent danger of upsetting. The Victoria was bound to capsize with the injury she received. There were other ships that were equally bound to capsize, when they were injured in the same manner; the reason being that instead of the armed citadel being the major part of the structure, and the unarmoured ends the minor portion, we had chosen to make the unarmoured ends the major part, measuring more than half the entire length of the ship. The ships likely to capsize in a similar manner, if they received like injury in peace or in action, were the Agamemnon, Ajax, Anson, Benbow, Camperdown, Collingwood, Colossus, Edinburgh, Howe, Inflexible, Rodney, and Sans Pareil.]

Air—"Hearts of Oak."

Come, cheer up, my lads! 'tis to Davy we steer!

(We add to his Locker 'bout one ship per year.)

To capsizing we call you in cheeriest staves,

For what is so certain as death 'neath the waves?

Iron coffins our ships,

Death-doomed tars are our men.

Our ships are unsteady!

Ready, aye ready!

We'll sink or turn turtle again and again!

We ne'er see our ships (for which millions they pay),

The Ajax, the Anson, and such, but we say,

"Will they ram, or capsize, or but run slap ashore?

When we go to the bottom John Bull must—build more!"

Iron coffins our ships, &c.

Our Camperdowns, Collingwoods, Rodneys, Benbows,

Reed says are all "dangerous"—not to our foes!

If struck in their unarmoured ends they turn o'er,

And go to the bottom! How Davy must roar!

Iron coffins our ships, &c.

The Frenchy and Rooshian must laugh as they look,

And see John Bull trying, by hook or by crook,

To get his tin-kettles to keep right side up,

Agin touch of a ram, agin tap of a Krupp!

Iron coffins our ships, &c.

"Just wait two or three years," grumbles John, "and I'll show,

If my ships will but swim, I can still whop the foe.

Stop a bit—whilst my big-wigs build, blunder, debate!"

Ah! that's all mighty fine, but, my John, will they wait?

Iron coffins our ships, &c.

Britannia triumphant we all wish to see,

Quite equal to two foreign fleets, perhaps three;

So cheer up, my hearties, and banish your fears!

They will build us a ship as will float—in three years!

(Meanwhile, my lads, "chorus as before," if you please, until further orders from our Naval Oracles!)

Iron, coffins our ships,

Davy's wictims our men;

In wessels unsteady,

We're ready, aye ready,

To sink or turn turtle again and again!

PART II. THE LOWER CREATION—SEEKING FOR A JOB.

SONNET.

(By a Failure.)

Why

Long,

Strong

Sigh?

I

Wrong

Song

Try!

Ne'er

Muse

Dare

Use

Worse

Verse!!

From Colchester.—The oysters are trembling in their beds. On October 6th the Duke of Cambridge is expected to attack the natives at Colchester in full force. Last year, when Sir D. Evans was in the chair at the banquet, 20,000 oysters were consumed! Good Evans!!

A Very Annoying Stream.—The River Tees.

LETTERS FOR THE SILLY SEASON.

(Apparently intended for some of our Contemporaries.)

Sir,—Of course I do not wish to be frivolous, but do you not think that "lovely," "too sweet," "quite too darling," and other expressions in italics are miss-used words? At any rate, they are constantly in the mouths of my daughters and nieces.

Yours truly, Paterfamilias.

Sir,—I give a list of misused words that have occurred to me during a month on the Continent. I put the words I consider inappropriately applied in italics. Paris is inexpensive, Boulogne is beautiful, Cologne is inodorous, German cookery is good, 'Arry on his travels is pleasant, garlic is agreeable, hotel charges in Italy are moderate, railway travelling in Belgium is expeditious, washing-basins in Swiss hotels are large, a rough passage across the Channel is delightful, and the Continent is like home.

I could extend the list indefinitely, but have written enough to show how imperfect the English language really is to convey accurately one's most ordinary ideas. I may add that when I have used and not misused words, I have been told that I have no right to swear—so what can I do?

Yours truly, Common Sense.

Sir,—I am glad to see that there is a correspondence upon misused words. However, I can say that such words as "excellent," "admirable," "wonderful," "splendid," and "glorious," are not misused when applied to ——.* Thanking you in advance,

I remain, yours truly, Puff Puff.

* Editorially suppressed. Applications for insertion of advertisements should be addressed to another quarter.

AN OLD DOGGEREL COUPLET RE-DRESSED.

[M. Zola is understood to have accepted an invitation to the Institute of Journalists' Conference in London.]

Fairer subject never rose our graphic pens to task all,

Than the presence (and paper) amidst the Children of Letters, the

new Grub Street geniuses, the Poets and Press-men and penny-

a-liners, the Sages and "all the rages," the Naturalistic Novelists

and New Humourists, the literary "Strong Men" and Anti-

Sentimentalists, the Impressionists and Symbolists, and Stylists,

and Superior Sniffers, and "Manly" Muse-hunters, and Man-

despising Mugwumps, and Minor Minstrels and Minor-Minstrel-

flouters, and would-be Laureates, and would-be-laureate-exter-

minators, and Mummer-Idolators and Mummer-Iconoclasts, and

Up-to-date Oracles, and Fin-de-siècle obscurantists, of the

pyramidal author of Dr. Pascal!

Motto of our Military Authorities.—"Put up your Dukes!"

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene I.—A decorously-furnished Drawing-room, at Hornbeam Lodge, Clapham, the residence of Theophilus Toovey, Esq. It is Sunday evening. Mr. Toovey, an elderly Gentleman with a high forehead, a rabbit mouth, and a long but somewhat wispy beard, is discovered sitting alone with a suitable book, upon which he is endeavouring to fix his thoughts, apparently without success.

"How shall I ever tell Cornelia?"

Mr. Toovey (reading). "With what a mixture of indescribable emotions did I find myself actually standing upon the very brink——" (To himself, as he puts the volume down) It's no use, I can't concentrate my mind on Palestine to-night, I can't forget this horrible "Eldorado." Ever since I got that official warrant, or demand, or whatever it was, yesterday, I've been haunted by the name. It seems to meet me everywhere; even on the very hoardings! Why, why didn't I invest Aunt Eliza's legacy in consols, as Cornelia told me, instead of putting it into a gold-mine? I think Larkins said it was a gold-mine. If only I had never met him that day last year—but he seemed to think he was doing me such a favour in letting me have some of his shares at all; he'd been allotted more than he wanted, he told me, and he was so confident the Company was going to be a success that I—and now, after hearing nothing all this time, I'm suddenly called upon to pay a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and that's only for one half year, as far as I can make out.... How can I draw a cheque for all that without Cornelia finding out? I never dared tell her, and she overlooks all my accounts. Why did I, who have never been a follower after Mammon, fall so easily into that accursed mine? I am no business man. All the time I was a partner in that floorcloth factory, I never interfered in the conduct of it, beyond signing my name occasionally—which was all they allowed me to do—and they took the earliest opportunity of buying me out. And yet I must needs go and speculate with Aunt Eliza's five hundred pounds, and—what is worse—lose every penny, and more! I, a Churchwarden, looked up to by every member of an Evangelical congregation, the head of a household like this!... How shall I ever tell Cornelia? And yet I must—I never had a secret from her in my life. I shall know no peace till I have confessed all. I will confess—this very night—when we are alone. If I could speak to Charles first, or to that young Mr. Curphew—they will both be here to supper—and Charles is in a Solicitor's office. But my nephew is too young, and Mr. Curphew, though he is a journalist, is wise and serious beyond his years—and if, as Cornelia thinks, he is beginning to feel a tenderness for Althea, why, it might cause him to reconsider his—— No, I can't tell anyone but my wife. (Sounds are heard in the hall.) There they are!—they are back from Church—already! (He catches up his book.) I must try to be calm. She must not notice anything at present!

Mrs. T. (outside). I've left my things downstairs, Phœbe; you can take them up to my room. (Entering.) Well, Pa, I hope you feel less poorly than you did, after your quiet evening at home?

Mr. T. (flurried). Yes, my love, yes. I—I've had a peaceful time with Peregrinations in Palestine. A—a most absorbing book, my love.

Mrs. T. You would find it more absorbing, Pa, if you held it the right way up. You've been asleep!

Mr. T. No, indeed, I only wish I—that is—I may have dropped off for a moment.

Charles (who has followed his Aunt). You wouldn't have had much chance of doing that if you'd been at Church, Uncle!

Mrs. T. No, indeed. Mr. Powles preached a most awakening discourse, which I am glad to find Charles appreciated.

Charles. I meant the cushion in your pew, Uncle; you ought to have it restuffed. It's like sitting on a bag of mixed biscuits!

Mrs. T. We do not go to Church to be comfortable, Charles. Pa, Mr. Powles alluded very powerfully, from the pulpit, to the recent commercial disasters, and the sinfulness of speculation in professing Christians. I wish you could have heard him.

Mr. T. (squirming). A—a deprivation indeed, my love. But I was better at home—better at home.

Mrs. T. You will have other opportunities; he announces a course of weekday addresses, at the Mission Rooms, on "The Thin End of the Wedge of Achan." Charles, I gave you one of the circulars to carry for me. Where is it?

Charles. In my overcoat, I think, Aunt. Shall I go and get it?

[Althea enters.

Mrs. T. Not now; I haven't my spectacles by me. Thea, did you tell Phœbe to pack your trunk the first thing to-morrow?

Althea. Yes, Mamma; but there is plenty of time. Cecilia doesn't expect me till the afternoon.

Charles. So Thea's going up to town for a few days' spree, eh, Aunt Cornelia?

Mrs. T. (severely). Your cousin is going on a visit to a married schoolfellow, who is her senior by two or three years, and who, I understand, was the most exemplary pupil Miss Pruins ever had. I have no doubt Mrs. Merridew will take Althea to such entertainments as are fit and proper for her—picture-galleries, museums, concerts, possibly a lecture—but I should not describe that myself as a "spree."

Charles. No more should I, Aunt, not by any means.

Mrs. T. I never met this Mrs. Merridew, but I was favourably impressed by the way she wrote. A very sensible letter.

Alth. (to herself). Except the postscript. But I didn't like to show Mamma that!

Charles. But you'll go to a theatre or two, or a dance, or something, while you're with her, won't you?

[Althea tries to signal to him to be silent.

Mrs. T. Charles, you forget where you are. A daughter of ours set foot in a playhouse! Surely you know your Uncle's objection to anything in the nature of a theatrical entertainment? Did he not write and threaten to resign the Vice-Presidency of the Lower Clapham Athenæum at the mere hint of a performance of scenes from some play by that dissolute writer Sheridan—even without costumes and scenery? His protest was most admirably worded. I remember I drafted it myself.

Mr. T. (with some complacency). Yes, yes, I've always been extremely firm on that subject, and also on the dangers of dancing—indeed, I have almost succeeded in putting an entire stop to the children dancing to piano-organs in the streets of this neighbourhood—a most reprehensible custom!

Mrs. T. Yes, Theophilius, and you might have stopped it long before you did, if you had taken my suggestion earlier. I hope I am not to infer, from your manner, that you are yourself addicted to these so-called pleasures, Charles?

Charles. Dancing in the street to a piano-organ, Aunt? Never did such a thing in my life!

Mrs. T. That was not my meaning, Charles, as you very well know. I hope you employ your evenings in improving your knowledge of your profession. I should be sorry to think you frequented theatres.

Charles (demurely). Theatres? rather not, Aunt, never go near 'em. (To himself.) Catch me going where I can't smoke! (Aloud.) You see, when a fellow has lodgings in a nice cheerful street in Bloomsbury, it isn't likely he'd want to turn out of an evening after sticking hard at the office all day!

Mrs. T. I am glad to hear you say so, Charles. It is quite a mistake for a young man to think he cannot do without amusement. Your Uncle never thought of amusing himself when he was young—or our married life would not be what it is. And look at Mr. Curphew, who is coming in to supper to-night, see how hard he works—up to town every afternoon, and not back till long after midnight.

[The bell rings.

Charles. Rather queer hours to work, Aunt. Are you sure he doesn't go up just to read the paper?

Althea (with a slight flush). He goes up to write it, Charles. Mr. Curphew is on the press, and has taken rooms here for the air of the Common. And—and he is very clever, and works very hard indeed; you can see that from his looks.

Phœbe (announcing). Mr. Curphew.

[A tall slim young man enters, with a pale, smooth-shaven face, and rather melancholy eyes, which light up as he greets Althea.

Mrs. T. How do you do, Mr. Curphew? You are a little late—but some services last longer than others. Oh, Phœbe, now I think of it, just bring me a paper you will find in one of the pockets of Mr. Collimore's overcoat; it's hanging up in the hall—the drab one with grey velvet on the collar. (Phœbe goes.) It's a circular, Mr. Curphew, which was given out in our Church this evening, and may interest you to see.

Phœbe (returning). If you please, m'm, this is the only paper I could find.

Mrs. T. (taking it from the salver, without looking at it). Quite right, Phœbe—we shall be ready for supper when I ring. (When Phœbe has gone.) I can't see anything without my——Althea, just go and see if I have left my spectacle-case in my room, my dear. It's astonishing how they're always getting mislaid, and I'm so helpless without them. (Althea goes.) Mr. Curphew, perhaps you will read this aloud for me; I want my husband to hear.

Curphew (suppressing a slight start). May I ask if they distribute papers of this sort at your Church—and—and why you think it is likely to interest me in particular? (To himself.) Wonder if this can be a trap!

Mrs. T. (taking back the document, and holding it close to her nose). Gracious goodness! this isn't the—— Charles, perhaps you will explain how you come to have a paper in your pocket covered with pictures of females in shamelessly short skirts?

Charles (to himself). In for a pie-jaw this time! What an owl that girl is! (Aloud.) It's only a programme, Aunt; thing they give you at a music-hall, you know.

Mrs. T. (in an awful voice). Only a programme! Pa, tell this unhappy boy your opinion of his conduct!

Mr. T. (rising magisterially). Charles, am I to understand that a nephew of mine allows himself to be seen in a disreputable resort such as——

Charles. Oh come, Uncle, you can't know much about the Eldorado, if——

Mr. T. (with a bound). The Eldorado. How dare you bring that name up here, Sir? What do you mean by it?

Charles (surprised). Why, you must have heard of it—it's one of the leading music-halls.

Mr. T. (gasping). A music-hall? the Eldorado! (To himself.) If it should turn out to be—but no, my nerves are upset, it can't be—and yet—what am I to say to him?

[He falls back into his chair with a groan.

Mrs. T. Charles, if you can stand there and feel no shame when you see how disturbed and disgusted even Mr. Curphew looks, and the agitated state to which you have reduced your poor Uncle, you must indeed be hardened!

[Curphew has considerately walked to the window; Mr. Toovey endeavours to collect his faculties; Charles looks from one to the other in bewilderment.

End of Scene I.

SOMETHING WRONG SOMEWHERE.

September 1. Partridge Shooting.

Old Twentystun (reviewing his symptoms). "Dear me! Mos' 'straordinary, this shortness o' breath. Le' me see—'Good plain food and best quality o' drink,' Doctor said. Tha 's all right—never stinted myself for either. 'Never overdo yourself,' says he. Haven't. Never walked a step if I could help it since last Season. 'Go to bed early.' So I have, and never hurried up either. Mos' 'straordinary! Mos' 'straordinary!"

[Goes home to consult Doctor again.

YORKSHIRE VICTOR.

Farewell to eminence attained of yore,

Great Surrey heads the County list no more!

For though you give a Richardson or Hayward,

Dame Fortune still will be a trifle wayward;

Though one was sorely missed, and surely no man

Can tell where they'd have been if they'd had Lohmann.

Surrey has had (like every dog) its day,

In 1893, perforce, makes way

For sturdy Yorkshire. Mr. Punch admires

This famous county of the Northern Shires.

For many a season past the worst of luck

Has dogged their steps, though not decreased their pluck;

And though each cricketer may have his likes,

There's not a man who'll not say—Well-played, Tykes!

COPHETUA, L.C.C.

Mr. Grant Allen charges London with being "a squalid village." Sir Lepel Griffin suggests that the "Postprandial Philosopher" must have been dining badly. He—Sir Lepel—contends that "Like the beggar-maid in Mr. Burne-Jones's picture, London is a beautiful woman, fair of face and noble of form, and only needs the transforming hand of some future King Cophetua to strip her of her sordid rags, and clothe her in the lustrous raiment which befits her." This is what 'Arry would call "the straight Griffin"! By all means make Cophetua Chairman of the London County Council—as soon as you find him! Sir Lepel, instead of joining in the parrot-chorus of disparagement, actually says, "The best hope of the regeneration of London is in the County Council"!!! He thinks "it is a mistake" to distrust them, and would hand over to them (says the Daily Chronicle) most of the machinery and material of our municipal life. Quite so. And as the Gryphon (which is much the same thing as Griffin) said to the Mock Turtle (suggestive this of the Civic Corporation), in Alice in Wonderland, Punch would say to Sir Lepel or his problematic Cophetua, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!"

When Alice ventured to say she had never heard of "Uglification," the Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?"—"Yes," said Alice, doubtfully; "it means—to—make—anything—prettier."—"Well, then," the Gryphon (who must have been a Postprandial Philosopher, surely) went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you must be a simpleton."

By the way, why should not Sir Lepel himself essay the rôle of King Cophetua, L.C.C., and help to beautify the modern Babylonian beggar-maid? He says that "the general administration of London is infinitely mean and inefficient," adding that "vested interests are chiefly to blame for the national disgrace." Very well. Let Sir Lepel help to give those same Vested Interests "vun in the veskit," squelch the Jerry Builder, and arrest the march of "Uglification," and then—why then London will, as in duty bound, erect his statue in place, and on the site of, that other, and very different "Griffin," which is the very incarnation of Uglification, and material embodiment of Bœotian Bumbledom!

Not the Girl for Hot Weather.—One who "makes sunshine in a shady place."