PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

July 14, 1894.

THE DIURNAL FEMININE.

Let others read the "latest news"

Our daily papers offer,

Take pleasure in the smart reviews

And chuckle with the scoffer,

Enjoy the leaders, or appraise

The newest "Labour Crisis,"

Or smile to learn, that Brighton A's

Maintain their recent prices.

I only find such trifles vex,

I do not seek instruction

Upon the blemishes which X.

Perceives in Y.'s production,

And stocks may fall like anything,

They'll not affect my fate, or

Compel less cheerfully to sing

This vacuus viator.

The reason why I daily make

My sacrifice of pennies,

Is merely for a column's sake

Which scarce, perhaps, for men is,

And yet it elevates, refines,

It stirs the noblest passions,

That article whose moving lines

Are headed "Latest Fashions."

What joy to ascertain in print

The latest mode in dresses,

To learn the new artistic tint

Adopted by Princesses,

To roam the galleries with her

Whose eulogies and strictures

To hats and dress alone refer,

And never deal with pictures!

Let troubles still oppress the State

With all their usual rigour,

Let politicians still debate

With undiminished vigour,

Of such the common person reads,

But give to me the papers

That chronicle at length the deeds

Of milliners and drapers!

STATE AID FOR MATRIMONY.

(By a University Extensionist.)

Dear Mr. Punch,—What a charming little theatre that is at Burlington House! I missed you at the matinées there a few days ago. Of course you know the Travelling Provincial Company of the Universities' Guild for the Extension of High-Class Comedy? Well, they visited the Metropolis for their coming-of-age, and gave the new extravaganza of Hodge, B. Sc., or The Vision of Peers and the Plowman. This had nothing to do with Jupiter, LL. D., though no fewer than three noble Chancellors took a leading part at the different performance. After all it was nothing but a dished-up version of the old play of Gentleman Geordie, or The Cultured Collier; only the pitman business is a little played out, and the victim of Agricultural Enlightment is just now the vogue, thanks to the County Councils.

But what interest, you will say, can this weary work have for "the young person" (is not that the phrase?). Why should Ethel and I and the other country cousins, who are up to have a good time, waste our precious moments on University Extension, when they might have been given to the galleries, or, better still, to the shops? Dear Mr. Punch, you will not betray my confidence and print my real name, will you, if I tell you the reason? I do so in the hope that you will use your great and good influence to support our claim for State aid in a matter deeply interesting us girls in the provinces.

I have always thought that the most important object of University Extension has been overlooked. It certainly was the other day. I mean this. In the present unparalleled depression of the matrimonial market, what we want is a constant supply of nice, eligible young men from the University "brought home to our very doors," as they say about culture and the people. We cannot all live in garrison towns, and what are two or three curates among so many? Already, as I have seen in one of the magazines for young ladies, the cleric cloth is being supplanted in romantic fiction by the lay lecturer's velveteen. But we must have State said, and, if necesary, create a fresh Government Department, for the increase and support of this class of men. The profession would be very popular; those who joined it would keep marrying and moving on (I hope I express myself intelligently), and there would soon be enough to go round.

Ethel's papa, who is not very rich, and has a large family, told her that people in Rome who married, and had three children, got a sort of degree for it, and were let off taxes. It seems to me that the scheme for State aid which I suggest is a much more modest one.

A man that played the title-rôle in Hodge, B. Sc., gave vent to what I considered a very stupid sentiment. "Give us," he said, "some really useful and sensible instruction, not silly lectures about Love and Marriage, just to make people laugh!" This only shows how dreadfully void of finer feeling is your man of Agricultural Enlightenment. Why, we once had a delightful course on almost the very subjects at which he was ignorantly pleased to scoff! It was given by an interesting-looking young graduate from St. Valentine's, and was called "Byron and Shelley, with dissolving views." I remember well the questions set by him for one of the weekly papers. Shall I repeat them? He had just been lecturing on Don Juan.

1. Give in alphabetical order the chief attractions of the Hero of our poem.

2. Cite parallels to Don Juan among the gentleman friends of your acquaintance other than Extension Lecturers.

3. Contrast the character (if any) of Haidee with that of (a) The Maid of Athens, (b) Queen Mab.

I took a lot of pains over this paper, and I sent the lecturer an anonymous button-hole, with a request (in the same handwriting as on the answer-paper) that he would wear my floral tribute at lecture. He did so, and expressed himself as greatly pleased with my work. On my exercise (which I have kept) he wrote the following observation:—"Excellent; most appreciative and womanly; I thank you; should like to discuss a small question with you after class."

Now we want more of this spirit among Extension Lecturers. True, the one of whom I spoke turned out afterwards to have been married all the time, and I do think he should have mentioned it on the cover of his syllabus; but the principle holds good just the same.

So, dear Mr. Punch, on this question of State aid, at which I have (as I hope with delicacy) hinted above, you will help us, won't you?

Your devoted, Madge.

P.S.—Couldn't you lecture to us on something nice, and help to raise a fund for our scheme?

MR. PUNCH'S ILLUSTRATED LAW REPORTS.

No. 1.—"Alleged Contempt of Court by an Infant."

YET ANOTHER MEMOIR OF NAPOLEON.

Dear Mr. Punch,—There are so many lives of the great Napoleon being published nowadays that one might fancy the former ruler of France must have been as many-careered as a cat. Still, it may be interesting to your readers if I give a few particulars of the great man that have not yet appeared in print, if I except the pages of your own immortal volumes.

I had the pleasure of meeting the great Napoleon some forty or fifty years ago; he was then in his prime.

In personal appearance he was not unlike the portraits so familiar to the public. In spite of his enthusiastic devotion for France, he invariably addressed his troops in the English language. This is a characteristic that seemingly has escaped the attention of all his biographers.

The numbers and quality of his army have been much exaggerated. Although in his speeches he was accustomed to boast of the strength of his troops, as a matter of fact they could be more easily counted by tens than hundreds. His artillery was almost a myth, and the ammunition was chiefly composed of crackers. As for his cavalry, the horses were showy but unreliable, many of them had white spots, and not a few were extremely intelligent. His favourite charger had been known on occasion (when engaged in circus duty) to drink a glass of sherry with the clown.

But there is one point I particularly wish to set right. Although known by the public as Napoleon Buonaparte, my hero in private life was invariably called by his intimates "poor old Gomersal."

Yours respectfully,

The Amphitheatre Boswell Redivivus.

Within Site of Astley's.

P.S.—I saw the latest actor's edition of Napoleon the other night at the Gaiety. He wasn't "in it" with "Gomersal,"—but then Gomersal was occasionally on horseback; still, there was the uniform and the snuff-box.

FANCY PORTRAIT.

Lord Chief Justice . . . Lord Russell of Killowen.

King Henry the Fifth . . Mr Punch.

"You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;

Therefore still bear the Balance, and the Sword:

And I do wish your Honours may increase!"

Second Part of King Henry the Fourth, Act., V Sc. 2.

FANCY PORTRAIT.

(A Shakspearian "Living Picture" up to date.)

Lord Chief Justice. . . Lord Russell of Killowen.

King Henry the Fifth. . Mr. Punch.

King. You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;

Therefore still bear the balance, and the sword:

And I do wish your honours may increase!

For which I do commit into your hand

The unstained sword Coleridge was used to bear;

With this remembrance,—That you use the same

With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit

As you have shown before. There is my hand!

Second Part of King Henry the Fourth,

Act V. Sc. 2 (slightly altered).

As Harry unto Gascoigne gave,

So Punch to Russell gladly gives

That Sword which frights but rogue and slave,

By which our ordered freedom lives;

And gives therewith his hand in token

Of pleasure more than may be spoken.

Nought have you "done that misbecame

Your place, your person," or your power.

'Tis a right crown of crescent fame,

Of fitness full befitting dower,

That you, my Lord, "have foremost hand"

In dealing justice round the land.

If set in quaint Shakspearian guise,

Not less the motley-wearing Sage

Gaily presents to serious eyes

A Living Picture for the Age.

So "take it—earnest wed with sport," [1]

From one who, stooping not to court,

Loves e'en to praise in merry sort!

[ [1] Tennyson's The Day Dream.

THE HARDY ANNUAL AT HENLEY

Or, Lunch among the Rowers.

Air—"Love among the Ruins."

When the early cat erotically smiles

On the tiles,

I arise and rather accurately fling

Any thing

That is handy and adapted to my sense

Of offence;

Then I reconstruct my well-avengèd head

On the bed;

But the hope of sleep deferred is deadly dull,

So I cull

Memoranda from the great and golden time

Of my prime.

Twenty years ago at Henley-on-the-Thames,

While the gems

Of the season simply sparkled into cheers,

(Little dears!)

I endeavoured to secure the Ladies' Plate;

Though of late

I have been the painful object of remark

In a barque;

But the circuit of my waist was not as yet

Fifty, nett;

And I fancy I was feeling pretty fit;

That was it.

Then I fed on oaten fare and milky slops,

Steaks and chops;

Never, never looked a lobster in the face,

And the race

Saw me down to just eleven at the scales,

Hard as nails;

Now I very much prefer to view the hunt

From a punt,

Or a houseboat, or an ark, or any sort

Of support,

While I minimise the necessary strain

With champagne.

At the yearly celebration it's the rule,

Hot or cool,

For a girl with yellow eyes and eager hair

To be there,

By a mass of mayonnaise and pigeon-pie;

So am I!

Oh the glory of the battle past recall!

After all,

What with hearts that freely wobble, stitch that stabs,

And the crabs,

And the quicken up to forty round the chest—

Lunch is best!

MODESTY

Housewife. "Well, if I give you some Breakfast, you'll have to earn it by Chopping some Wood for me."

Tramp. "I'd like ter 'blige yer, Lady. But, bleshyer 'art, 'tain't fer the likes o' me ter foller in the Footsteps o' Mr. Gladstone!"

Specially-arranged Motto for the Victoria Steamboat Association's New Vessel "The Palm."—"Palma, quæ meruit, ferat,"—(i.e., Let The Palm carry as many as she was constructed to carry, and not more).

Old Loves for New.

(New Version of an Old Song.)

If 'tis good to be merry and wise,

If 'tis good to be honest and true,

Then 'tis good to keep on with the old "Woman,"

And carefully keep off the New:

For of honesty, truthfulness, wisdom, and mirth,

The "New Woman" shows a most plentiful dearth.

The German Derby (61,000 marks) was won at Hamburg by Baron Münchausen's Spider. The Baron has done many wonderful things in his lifetime (vide the history of his adventures), and it was a foregone conclusion that if he ran a horse at the Derby he was bound not only to win, but to make something more than his mark.

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART II.—SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET.

Scene II.—The Morning Room at Wyvern. Lady Rhoda Cokayne, Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris, and Miss Vivien Spelwane are comfortably established near the fireplace. The Hon. Bertie Pilliner, Captain Thicknesse, and Archie Bearpark have just drifted in.

Miss Spelwane. Why, you don't mean to say you've torn yourselves away from your beloved billiards already? Quite wonderful!

Bertie Pilliner. It's too horrid of you to leave us to play all by ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be petted!

[He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat pair of silk socks and pumps.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Do hate to see a fellow come down in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!

Archie Bearpark (to Bertie Pilliner). You speak for yourself, Pilliner. I didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady Rhoda wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. Do! It's clinkin' sport!

Capt. Thick. (to himself). If there's one thing I can't stand it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like Archie!

Lady Rhoda. Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray twice—it's just a bit too clinkin', don't you know!

Archie (disappointed). Why, there 's a mat at the bottom of the stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. Bertie and I will choose sides. Pilliner, I'll toss you for first pick up—come out of that, do.

Bertie (lazily). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am. And I don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch.

Archie. Well, you are slack. And there's a good hour still before lunch. Thicknesse, you suggest something, there's a dear old chap.

Capt. Thick. (after a mental effort). Suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees—eh, what?

Bertie. I beg to oppose. Do let's show some respect for the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack me on the back. I should hate it!

Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris. I love them—dear things! But still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too—perhaps Lady Rhoda——

[Lady Rhoda flatly declines to stir before lunch.

"I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet Blast.'"

Capt. Thick. (resentfully). Only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (To himself.) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (He saunters up to Miss Spelwane and absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee.) Poo' little fellow, then!

Miss Spelw. Poor little fellow? On My lap!!!

Capt. Thick. Oh, it—ah—didn't occur to me that he was on your lap. He don't seem to mind that.

Miss Spelw. No? How forbearing of him! Would you mind not standing quite so much in my light, I can't see my work.

Capt. Thick. (to himself, retreating). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise that time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon.

[He wanders aimlessly about the room; Archie Bearpark looks out of window with undisguised boredom.

Lady Rhoda. I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.

Bertie. Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to let me stay. I'll be so good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I can—quite prettily. What shall it be? you don't care? no more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by.) How too delightful! Poetry—which I know you all adore.

[He turns over the leaves.

Lady Rhoda. If you ask me, I simply loathe it.

Bertie. Ah, but then you never heard me read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.

[He reads.

"My Love has sicklied unto Loath,

And foul seems all that fair I fancied—

The lily's sheen a leprous growth,

The very buttercups are rancid!"

Archie. Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!

Bertie. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."

[He reads.

"With matted head a-dabble in the dust,

And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,

I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—

Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."

Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so very decadent!

Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.

Bertie (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."

[He reads.

"The lark soars up in the air; The

toad sits tight in his hole;

And I would I were certain which of

the pair Were the truer type of my soul!"

Archie. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.

Miss Spelw. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?

Bertie. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads). "To My Lady."

"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,

Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,

Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,

Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"

Miss Spelw. (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?

Bertie. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.

[He reads.

"Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,

Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;

Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,

Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."

And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!

[He reads.

"Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for you, dear Archie!)

Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!)

Behold the Sun—

—Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,

Demos dawning, and the Darkness—done!"

[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.

Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?

Miss Spelw. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin—the most ridiculous poetry—made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other poems. By Clarion Blair.

Lady Culv. (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know, but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law——

All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea!

Lady Culv. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening——

Miss Spelw. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.

Lady Culv. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.

[She passes on.

Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?

Miss Spelw. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.

[She retires with it to her room.

Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.

Capt. Thick. (to himself). She's coming—this very evening! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!

Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse!

Capt. Thick. I—I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often some time ago; don't know if she'll remember it, though.

Lady Rhoda. She'll love meetin' this writin' man—she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealised by a great poet—sort of—what's their names—Petrarch and Laura business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off—won't it?

Capt. Thick. (choking). I—ah—no affair of mine, really. (To himself.) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!

[The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction.

TO THE OXFORD CRICKET CAPTAIN.

"100, Not Out." Monday, July 2, 1894.

Congratulations, Mr. C. B. Fry,

You neatly wiped the Cantab Light Blue eye,

And well deserved the fashionable shout

Which hailed you for your century, not out.

For your exploits, what language is too tall?

At cricket good alike with bat and ball,

Full back at football (that's Association),

At jumping lengthways—well, you lick creation.

In Schools no idler when stern duty calls,