PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, April 13, 1895
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
"I'LL SING THEE SONGS OF ARABY!"
IN PRAISE OF THE TRIANGLE.
In Praise of Try Angle.
Ye countless stars, both great and small,
The poetic sky who spangle,
Not one of you, that I recall,
Has hymned the sweet triangle!
With lyre and lute too long, too much,
Ye've thrid love's mazy tangle,
Yet unresponsive to your touch
Have left the sweet triangle.
And so the Muse commissions me
A lay to newly fangle—
I play the instrument, you see—
In praise of my triangle.
No tambourine, no minstrel bones
Give forth what Hilda Wangel
Would call such "frightfully thrilling" tones
As those of my triangle.
No self-respecting band may try
To play—'twould simply mangle—
Good music, unassisted by
The silver-tongued triangle.
In vain does Strephon with a lute
Round Phyllis always dangle;
She'd have him, if he urged his suit
With passionate triangle.
Full brave may bray the loud trombone,
Full sweet the cymbals jangle,
The bagpipes till they burst may drone,
So I have my triangle.
The stately cold piano may
All depth of feeling strangle;
To rouse deep feeling I essay,
Nor fail, on my triangle!
O'er rival claims of violin
And 'cello some may wrangle—
For pure expression nothing's in
The hunt with my triangle.
The diamond bracelet must exceed
In worth the silver bangle—
No instrument, string, wind, or reed,
Compares with my triangle!
TO THE GRIFFIN.
(By Calverlerius Rusticanus.)
Griffin, who benignly beamest
(So to speak) upon the Strand,
To the rustic eye thou seemest
Quite superlatively grand.
Griffin, grim and grimy Griffin,
Few, Joe tells me, will agree
With my artless numbers, if in
Undiluted praise of thee.
Critics, so he says, by dozens
Swear thou couldst not well be worse,
Yet from one poor country cousin's
Pen accept a tribute verse.
Some of London's statues now are
Fêted richly once a year;
Some—it seems a shame, I vow—are
Fated to oblivion there.
Once a year a primrose bower
Draws the folks around for miles,
Dizzy blossoms into flower,
Almost into "wreathèd smiles."
Once a year by all the town o'er-
-whelmed in bays is Gordon seen,
Countless wreaths recording "Brown (or
Jones) thus keeps thy memory green."
Once a year King Charles's statue
Paragraphs jocose invites,
Wreathed with flowers by infatu-
-ated modern Jacobites.
Thus their substance people waste on
This queer decorative fit—
Wreaths are sometimes even placed on
Mere nonentities like Pitt.
But—I cannot think what Joe meant—!
No one—so he said to me—
In his most expansive moment
E'er has twined a wreath for thee!
So I cast—in no derision—
From my 'bus-top garden-seat
These few violets, with precision,
At what I must call thy feet.
'Tis not that thy mien is stately,
'Tis not that thy grace is rare,
'Tis not that I care so greatly
For thy quaint heraldic air;
But contemptuous men neglect thee,
Load thee with invective strange,
So with violets I have decked thee,
And with verses, as a change.
The New Discovery.—"Argon" is described as "a gaseous constituent." In most constituencies can be found plenty of "Argons."
HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF; OR, THE MODERN ORACLE OF AMMON.
"The people (the Libyans) deeming themselves not Egyptians, and being discontented with the institutions, sent to the Oracle of Ammon, saying that they had no relation to the Egyptians. The god, however, said, 'that all the country which the Nile irrigated was Egypt.'"—Herodotus, II., 15. B.C. 452.
"I stated that, in consequence of these claims of ours and the claims of Egypt in the Nile Valley, the British sphere of influence covered the whole of the Nile waterway."—Sir E. Grey in House of Commons, A.D. 1895.
John Bull. "You see, Nilus, the Father of History and I are of the same way of thinking. So you're all right, my Boy, while I'm here!"
HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF;
Or, The Modern Oracle of Ammon.
Nilus (referring to Parisian Press).
But—won't it make our French friends furious?
Mr. Bull. Gammon!
Nilus. Are you, then, the new Oracle of Ammon?
Mr. Bull. Well, Alexander claimed the god his sire.
So why not I?
Nilus. I own I rather tire
Of all these squabbles. Peace is what I want.
Oh why did your intrusive Speke and Grant[*]
Disturb my forty centuries of quiet?
Since then it's been all rumpus, and red riot.
Mr. Bull. How about Rameses, old cockalorum?
Nilus. Oh! better all the Pharoahs in full quorum
Than Condominiums. The Control called Dual——
Mr. Bull. Oh, don't you bother! That has got its gruel.
Nilus. But these Exploring Expeditions?
Mr. Bull. Bogey!
Young Grey should reassure you, my old fogey.
His words don't speak scuttle or shilly-shally
"My 'sphere of influence' covers the Nile Valley."
Isn't that plain enough? God Ammon's nod
Was hardly more decisive. It is odd
How very like the Oracle's straight tip
Was to Sir Edward's. A stiff upper lip
Saves lots of talk. "Explorers" will prove skittish
But the whole Nile's Egyptian (and thus British).
Just as Herodotus tells us Ammon said.
Sir Edward, my dear Nile, has an old head
Upon young shoulders; courteous as a Granville,
He comes down like a hammer on an anvil—
Or Ammon on the Libyans—when 'tis needful.
Of rumoured expeditions he is heedful
But not afraid. Effective occupation?
Why that's a ticklish point—for many a nation.
But why define it? Edward has a shorter way;
He claims for me the whole of your long waterway,
And plainly says intrusion would be viewed
As—well, "unfriendly." Should the Frank intrude——
Nilus. Ah! by the way, friend John, whose head is yonder
Protruding through the reeds?
Mr. Bull (loudly). Humph! Let him ponder
What he, perchance, has overheard. No mystery!
I simply hold with the great Sire of History.
The Times and old Herodotus quite agree.
And both speak for the Oracle—J. B.,
Or Jupiter Ammon. The Débats may differ
(At the French Press, at best, I am no sniffer),
But don't you be alarmed by spleenful splutter,
Or what mere bouncing boulevardiers utter.
From all intruders you'll be safe, if you
But trust to the Old Oracle—and the New!
Far cry, old boy, from Pharoah to the Guelph.
Funny how History does repeat itself!
[*] See Cartoon "Britannia Discovering the Source of the Nile," p. 233, Vol. XLIV., June 6, 1863.
A STUDY IN "BIMETALLISM."
Quotation from the Right Hon. Arth-r B-lf-r's Speech on this subject last week.— "A general fall in Prices was said to be good for the Consumer."
Does it look like it in this instance? [ *** So far the Court is with Mr. A. B-lf-r.]
To Corinna, angry.
The fault was mine. With piercing pang
My trespass I deplore;
But, when 'tis I you ought to bang,
Why do you bang the door?
Q. E. D.—There is said to be a good deal of illness and absence from lessons of the schoolboy population of London at present. Can there be any connection between this phenomenon and a paragraph which is going the round of the papers, headed, "An objection to Euclid"? What is sport to us may be death to them!
The Long and Short of It.
Ars longa est! All know what once that meant;
But cranks corrupt so sickeningly have shindied
About their Art of late, 'tis evident
The rendering now must be, "Art is long-winded!"
For Vita brevis,—all true men must hope,
Brief life for such base Art—and a short rope!
Motto—slightly modified from Gray's "Elegy"—for Stoddart's Eleven.—"Still in those 'ashes' live their wonted fire."
SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE EDGWARE ROAD.
For over half a mile the pavement on the East side of the road is thronged with promenaders, and the curbstone lined with stalls and barrows, and hawkers of various wares. Marketing housewives with covered baskets oscillate undecidedly from stalls to shops, and put off purchasing to the last possible moment. Maids-of-all-work perambulate arm in arm, exchanging airy badinage with youths of their acquaintance, though the latter seem to prefer the society of their own sex. A man with a switchback skittle-board plays gloomy games by himself to an unspeculative group of small boys. The tradesmen stand outside their shops and conduct their business with a happy blend of the methods of a travelling showman and a clown.
Burlesque Butcher. Now then all o' you there! Buy, buy, buy! Jest give yer minds to spendin' yer money! (In a tone of artless wonder.) Where does the Butcher git this luverly meat? What can I do fur you now, Marm? (Triumphantly, after selling the scrag-end of a neck of mutton.) Now we're busy!
Farcical Fishmonger (with two Comic Assistants). Ahar! (To crowd.) Come 'ere, you silly young snorkers! I've the qualitee! I've the qualitay! Keep takin' money!
First Comic Assistant. Ahye! Foppence a pound nice plaice! Kippers two fur three 'apence. We're the Perfeshnal Curers! What are yer all goin' to do? Sort 'em out cheap!
Second C. A. I don't mind. What care I? (Bursting into song.) "'Ow, she rowled me 'ed, and rumbled in the 'ay!" On me word, she did, ladies!
[He executes a double shuffle, and knocks over several boxes of bloaters in the gaiety of his heart.
A Hawker of Penny Memorandum Books (to an audience of small boys). Those among you 'oo are not mechanics, decidedly you 'ave mechanical hideers!
[He enlarges upon the convenience of having a note-book in which to jot down any inspirations of this kind; but his hearers do not appear to agree with him.
A Lugubrious Vendor. One penny for six comic pypers. Hevery one different!
A Rude Boy. You ain't bin readin' o' any on 'em, 'ave yer, guv'nor?
'You ain't bin a readin' o' any on 'em, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"
A Crockery Merchant (as he unpacks a variety of vases of appalling hideousness). I don't care—it's self-sacrifice to give away! Understand, you ain't buyin' common things, you're buyin' suthin' good! It 'appens to be my buthday to-night, so I'm goin' to let you people 'ave the benefit of the doubt. Come on 'ere. I don't ask you to b'lieve me—ony to jedge fur yerselves. I'm not 'ere to tell you no fairy tales; and the reason why I'm in a position to orfer up these vawses—all richly gilt, and decorated in three colours, the most expensive ever made—the reason I'm able to sell them so cheap as I'm doin' is this—(he lowers his voice mysteriously)—arf the stuff I 'ave 'ere we git in very funny ways!
[This ingeniously suggestive hint enhances the natural charm of his ware to such a degree that the vases are bought up briskly, as calculated to brighten the humblest home.
A Sanctimonious Young Man (with a tongue too large for his mouth, who has just succeeded in collecting a circle round him). I am only 'ere to-night, my friends, as a paid servant—for the purpose of deciding a wager. Some o' you may have noticed an advertisement lately in the Daily Telegrawf, asking for men to stand on Southwark Bridge and orfer arf-suverings for a penny apiece. You are equally well aware that it is illegal to orfer the Queen's coinage for money: and that is not my intention this evening. But I 'ave 'ere several pieces of gold, guaranteed to be of the exact weight of arf a suvering, and 'all-marked, which, in order to decide the wager I 'ave spoken of, I shall now perceed to charge you the sum of one penny for, and no more. I am not allowed to sell more than one to each person——
[Here a constable comes up, and the decision of the wager is postponed until a more favourable opportunity.
First "General" (looking into a draper's window). Look at them coloured felt 'ats—all shades, and on'y sixpence three-fardens!
Second "G." They are reasonable; but I've 'eard as felt 'ats is gone out o' fashion now.
First "G." Don't you believe it, Sarah. Why, my married sister bought one on'y last week!
Coster (to an old lady who has repudiated a bunch of onions after a prolonged scrutiny). Frorsty? So would you be if your onion 'ad bin layin' out in the fields all night as long as these 'ave!
First Itinerant Physician (as he screws up fragments of candy in pieces of newspaper). That is Frog in your Froat what I'm doin' up now. I arsk you to try it. It's given to me to give away, and I'm goin' to give it away—you understand?—that's all. And now I'm goin' to tork to you about suthink else. You see this small bottle what I 'old up. I tell you there's 'undreds layin' in bed at this present moment as 'ud give a shillin' fur one of these—and I offer it to you at one penny! It corrects all nerve-pains connected with the 'ed, cures earache, toothache, neuralgy, noomonia, 'art-complaint, fits, an' syhatica. Each bottle is charged with helectricity, forming a complete galvanic-battery. Hall you 'ave to do is to place the bottle to one o' your nawstrils, first closing the other with your finger. You will find it compels you to sniff. The moment you tyke that sniff, you'll find the worter comin' into your heyes—and that's the helectricity. You'll say, "I always 'eard helectricity was a fluid." (With withering scorn.) Very likely! You 'ave! An' why? Be-cawse o' the hignirant notions prevailin' about scientific affairs! Hevery one o' these bottles contains a battery, and to heach purchaser I myke 'im a present—a present, mind yer—of Frog in 'is Froat!
Susan Jane (to Lizerann, before a stall where "Novelettes, three a penny," are to be procured by the literary). Shall we 'ave a penn'orth, an' you go 'alves along o' me?
Lizerann. Not me. I ain't got no time to go improvin' o' my mind, whatever you 'ave!
A Vendor of "'Ore'ound Tablets" (he is a voluble young man, with considerable lung-power, and a tendency to regard his cough-lozenges as not only physical but moral specifics). I'm on'y a young feller, as you see, and yet 'ere I am, with my four burnin' lamps, and a lassoo-soot as belonged to my Uncle Bill, doin' wunnerful well. Why, I've took over two pound in coppers a'ready! Mind you, I don't deceive you; you may all on you do as well as me; on'y you'll 'ave to git two good ref'rences fust, and belong to a temp'rance society, like I do. This is the badge as I've got on me at this minnit. I ain't always bin like I am now. I started business four year ago, and was doin' wunnerful well, too, till I got among 'orse-copers an' dealers and went on the booze, and lost the lot. Then I turned up the drink and got a berth sellin' these 'ere Wangoo Tablets—and now I've got a neat little missus, and a nice 'ome, goin' on wunnerful comfortable. Never a week passes but what I buy myself something. Last week it was a pair o' noo socks. Soon as the sun peeps out and the doo dries up, I'm orf to Yarmouth. And what's the reason? I've enjoyed myself there. My Uncle Bill, as lives at Lowestoft, and keeps six fine 'orses and a light waggon, he's doin' wunnerful well, and he'd take me into partnership to-morrow, he would. But no—I'm 'appier as I am. What's the reason I kin go on torkin' to you like this night after night, without injury to my voice? Shall I tell yer? Because, every night o' my life, afore I go to bed, I take four o' these Wangoo Tablets—compounded o' the purest 'erbs. You take them to the nearest doctor's and arsk 'im to analyse an' test them as he will, and you 'ear what he says of them! Take one o' them tablets—after your pipe; after your cigaw; after your cigarette. You won't want no more drink, you'll find they make you come 'ome reglar every evening, and be able to buy a noo 'at every week. You've ony to persevere for a bit with these 'ere lawzengers to be like I am myself, doin' wunnerful well! You see this young feller 'ere? (Indicating a sheepish head in a pot-hat which is visible over the back of his stall.) Born and bred in Kenada, 'e was. And quite right! Bin over 'ere six year, so o' course 'e speaks the lengwidge. And quite right. Now I'm no Amerikin myself, but they're a wunnerful clever people, the Amerikins are, allays inventin' or suthink o' that there. And you're at liberty to go and arsk 'im for yourselves whether this is a real Amerikin invention or not—as he'll tell yer it is—and quite right, too! An' it stands to reason as he orter to know, seein' he interdooced it 'imself and doin' wunnerful well with it ever since. I ain't come 'ere to rob yer. Lady come and give me a two-shillin' piece just now. I give it her back. She didn't know—thort it was a penny, till I told her. Well, that just shows yer what these 'ere Wangoo 'Ore'ound Tablets are!
[After this practical illustration of their efficacy, he pauses for oratorical effect, and a hard-worked-looking matron purchases three packets, in the apparent hope that a similar halo of the best horehound will shortly irradiate the head of her household.
Lizerann (to Susan Jane, as they walk homewards). On'y fancy—the other evenin', as I was walkin' along this very pavement, a cab-'orse come up beyind me, unbeknown like, and put 'is 'ed over my shoulder and breathed right in my ear!
Susan Jane (awestruck). You must ha' bin a bad gell!
[Lizerann is clearly disquieted by so mystical an interpretation, even while she denies having done anything deserving of a supernatural rebuke.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
General Adye has added to our national war story Recollections of a Military Life (Smith, Elder & Co.). Sir John has not been in a hurry. He began fighting more than forty years ago, and has since filled up opportunity as it presented itself. These particular recollections are chiefly occupied with the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny, though the old soldier has something to say about the Afghan War of 1878-9, and the Egyptian War of 1882. My Baronite finds most interesting the chapters about the Crimean War, certain incidents and episodes of which are narrated with soldierlike directness and simplicity. The story of the Balaclava Charge has been told in verse and prose innumerable times. General Adye did not actually see it, "a ridge of intervening hills intercepting the view" as he rode back to the camp from Balaclava. But he manages in a sentence or two vividly to impress the scene on the mind of the reader. Among many good stories is one about General Harry Jones. Pelissier, with a Frenchman's scorn of any language but his own, got as near as he could to ordinary pronunciation when he called him "General Hairy-Joze." He did better when the gallant General was knighted, and was alluded to respectfully by the French Commander-in-Chief as "Sairey-Joze" (Sir Harry Jones).
The Baron de Book-Worms.
A Quip.
Mr. Arthur Toller has been appointed to the Recordership of Leicester. He is an able man. "Argal," as the Shakspearian Clown would say, "the appointment is just Toller-able."
MAGNIFYING HIS CALLING.
Peter. "Na, Laddie, this is ane o' thae things a Body can never Learn. There's no nae use in a Man takin' tae this job unless he has a naiteral born Aptitude for 'd!"
THREE MODES OF SPENDING A BANK HOLIDAY.
(By a Confirmed Pessimist.)
Plan the First.—Take to Volunteering. Be up at daybreak. Leave your home after snatching a hasty breakfast of lukewarm tea and stale bread-and-butter. Crowd into a railway-carriage, and travel a hundred miles or so in the greatest discomfort. Fall in with your company. March, counter-march, and stand at ease for ten hours or so in sunshine, rain, fog, or snow. Stave off starvation with a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. Dead beat, enter crowded train a second time, and again travel a hundred miles or so in the greatest discomfort. More dead than alive, stagger home, and wearily roll into bed.
Plan the Second.—Try a trip to the sea-side. Share a first-class compartment with a dozen third-class passengers. Travel to Shrimpington with the accompaniment of rank tobacco-smoke, comic songs, and solos on the concertina. Get to your destination with a splitting headache. Find that all the shops are shut, and all the taverns open. Learn that Shrimpington, as represented by its respectable inhabitants, goes away en masse on a bank holiday. Discover that there is but one hotel in the place. Ascertain that at the solitary hostelry the rooms are filled with noisy excursionists, greedily devouring "the shilling tea." Search for nourishment, and fail in your search. Fall back upon stale buns at a third-rate sweet-stuff shop. Catch your train back, and endure the torture of the morning. Travel amongst the same company, under the like conditions. Reach home hours later than you proposed on starting, and consider whether the holiday has been a triumphant success or a dismal failure.
Plan the Third (highly recommended).—Although desiring change, remain at home, choosing the lesser of two evils.
Mr. Gully.—"William Court Gully, M.P."—certainly "Caught Gully" at last. Now the question is, "Will Gully" be acceptable to all parties "E-gully"?
GENTLE IRONY.
'Bus Driver (to ill-favoured Policeman, who has stopped him at a crossing). "When are yer goin' to let me 'ave that Photo?"
NOT DONE YET.
A Song of St. Stephen's School.
(To the Air of the Harrow Song, "Fairies.")
When in the Springtime cold and bleak,
In spite of wind and weather,
The Blues and Buffs, the strong and weak
Throng out of school together;
Off to their homes alert and gay
From long sederunts risen,
Majors and minors rush to play,
Live lags let loose from prison.
There you behold "Big Bill," the bold!
Hear how his heart rejoices—
"Ho ho! ha ha! Tra-la-la-la!"—
Booms his most bass of voices.
He cocks a snook at slate and book.
He's had his work this term, boys,
But has contrived, by hook or crook,
To keep his footing firm, boys.
He's had to fight, like Dibdin's tar,
'Gainst many a would-be boarder.
It needed wit as well as war
To keep the school in order.
But he has shown both wit and grit,
And patience linked about it.
"Ho ho! ha ha! Tra-la-la-la!"—
Young Arty hears him shout it.
Arty had hoped he could have coped
With Bill, and licked him hollow;
That Jack had kicked, and Sandy moped,
And Pat refused to follow.
But Bill has proved a dodgy one,
As well as a hard hitter;
And that has somewhat marred the fun,
And disappointment's bitter.
What wonder then Bill's Tra-la-la
Sets Arty shouting shrilly,
"Boohoo and pah! Yah-boo-yah-bah!
You wait a bit, Big Billy!
"With spur and rein, whip-stroke and strain,
Jehu plus artful jockey,
You've kept your team in tow again,
And you look blessed cocky.
Wait till the way shows sludge and clay,
And you the pace would quicken!
Over you'll roll long ere the goal,
And then the fun will thicken!"—
Bill cocks his chins, and skips and grins
Like any Jumping-Jingle.
His loud Ha, ha! Tra-la-la-la!
Sets Arty's blood a-tingle.