PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, April 20, 1895
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

IMPROVING THE SHINING HOUR.

The New Governess. "What are the Comparative and Superlative of Bad, Berty?"

Berty (the Doctor's son). "Bad—Worse—Dead!"

A CHINO-JAPANESE CALENDAR.

(For the next Ten Years.)

• 1895. Treaty of peace signed between China and Japan, on the basis of the opening up of Chinese territory and introduction of machinery into the Celestial Empire. The Japanese prophesy that the compact will ultimately prove to be for the benefit of the Chinese.
• 1896. Japan floods China with home-made merchants, who obtain an enormous trade.
• 1897. England, America and France follow suit, and, after a pause, the remainder of the civilized world adopt the prevailing fashion.
• 1898. Japanese China becomes over-populated, thanks to the foreign invasion, and there is much discontent amongst the original inhabitants.
• 1899. The foreigners, having secured all the possible trade that could be obtained, commence the erection of manufactories.
• 1900. Japanese China challenges Birmingham, Glasgow, Lyons, and Marseilles on their own ground, and holds its own. It claims to be one of the most productive places on the face of the universe.
• 1901. The introduction of machinery having thrown the teeming millions of Japanese China out of work, there is great discontent amongst them.
• 1902. An enterprising citizen of the United States of America projects an emigration scheme for supplying the outer world with the superfluous population of Japanese China.
• 1903. The scheme of the citizen of the U. S. A. proves a great success, and sixty millions of Chino-Japanese are conveyed to the two worlds, the old and the new.
• 1904. The original inhabitants of Europe and America, undersold by the Chino-Japanese, are ousted from their positions and left without work. Consequently, great prosperity of the Chino-Japanese.
• 1905. Fulfilment of the prophecy, that the treaty of peace between China and Japan signed in 1895 was "really for the benefit of the Chinese."

WON'T WASH!

Or, The British Laundress's Lament.

[There is talk of a company for taking our laundry-work over to Holland, washing it there, and returning it to the owners at a less cost than it can be done for at home.]

In matters of laundry the fault of them Dutch,

Is charging too little, and grabbing too much!

They'd collar our collars, cut off with our shirts!

The heart of a true washerwoman it hurts

To think of Frows taking our time-honoured tub.

What, travel to Holland to get rub and scrub,

While soap and strong arms may in Britain be found?

It's worse than them Stores! Furrineers may be found

To do dirty work on the cheap, I've no doubt;

But can old John Bull know just what he's about

In sending our work from his shores in this way?

I'm sure it won't wash, and I 'ope it won't pay!

Shall we to Mynheer and his frowsy Frow truckle,

While one English woman has arm, wrist, and knuckle?

Forbid it, my sisters! My patriot 'eart

Is up in my mouth at this ojus new start.

There is an old proverb, and what do it say?

It is the true laundress's motter, I say.

But what in the world to John Bull can 'ave come

If he can't wash his own dirty linen at 'ome?

A MISMANAGED ACCIDENT.

Have just discovered that the pretty girl I met at the dance the other night is a lady nurse at Charing Cross Hospital. Such a nice girl! What a charming nurse she must be! Almost wish I was laid up at the hospital. In fact, quite wish it. But I can't be. Another outrage on the miserable, downtrodden, middle class. If I were one of the fortunate, pampered masses, a Working Man, I should be nursed by her, if I were ill, and by others, perhaps, like her. Stay! There is a chance. If I could be damaged in an accident—not too much damaged—and carried to the hospital, they must look after me, and nurse me. They couldn't help themselves. Northumberland Avenue—the very place! Never cross it without being nearly run over.

Go straight there and look eagerly for the usual rushing hansoms. Here's one. Stroll in front of it. Driver pulls aside, shouts and swears at me, and goes on. Reflect that some caution is necessary. If the wheel went over my neck, even her ministrations would be useless. Must be run over judiciously. Better only be knocked down. Stroll across road again. Here comes one. Shouts from driver. A large splash of mud in my eye. And that's all. These cabmen drive so absurdly well. They pull up, or pull aside, or pull somewhere instantly. Wipe my eye, and then see something better. Old lady's brougham, from the suburbs, driven by the sort of coachman who also works in the garden. He won't be able to pull aside quickly. Stroll in front of horse. Shouts from gardening coachman. Horse nearly on me. Suddenly pulled back by fussy policeman, who says I had a narrow escape. Hang the fellow, of course I did! Am obliged to give him ten shillings for his prompt action. Begin to despair of this accident. Stroll on nearly to Embankment. Immense van coming along at a trot. Much too heavy. I should be smashed flat. And this driver seems to want to run over me. Escape with difficulty by jumping aside. At that moment something hits my legs, I am thrown down, and a wheel passes over my foot. It is a costermonger's donkey-cart which was racing the van. How ignominious! To be knocked down by a donkey and run over by a truck! Very painful too. Feel as if I should faint. Picked up by sympathetic people who rush to me. Say feebly to them, "Take me to the hospital." Then faint.

After a short time open my eyes. Am being carried in somewhere. At last! I shall forget the pain. I am in the hospital. She will nurse me! She—oh, heavens! Though I have planned it all, suppose I ought to murmur, "Where am I?" Do so. "In St. Thomas's Hospital," says somebody.

A fortnight later.—And I am in it still.

According to a paragraph last week in the Westminster Gazette, quoting from the Australian Review of Reviews, it appears that the Earl of Yarmouth has been making a sensation in the Colonies as a "Skirt-dancer." Queer fish this nobleman! belongs to the Bloater Aristocracy.

A Noble Plunger.—One day last week in the Times appeared an article headed "Lord Rayleigh on Waves." Rather early for sea-bathing, eh? Evidently so, such prominence having been given to the fact by the leading journal.

"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.

Mr. Punch (welcoming Miss Spring-time). 'Glad to see you, my dear! Began to think you were never coming!'"

"ANIMAL SPIRITS."

No. XI.—After Bank Holiday.

"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER."

Mr. Punch to Miss Spring:—

Well, here you are at last, dear! Are the biting blizzards past, dear?

And will you guarantee us from subjection to the plumber?

Will no casual icy splinter from the serried spears of Winter

Put a chill upon your smile, and spoil the promise of the Summer?

We've been waiting worn and weary, till e'en cuckoo-songs sound cheery,

And belated almond-blossoms show like roses of Cashmere:

And the cockney chaunt now flowing, "All-a-blowing and a-growing!"

Falls far sweeter than Mascagni upon London's longing ear.

Where on earth have you been hiding? We are in no mood for chiding,

But mid-April's rather late, dear, for what should have come in March!

What malignant hocus-pocus has kept back the plucky crocus,

Whose gold is scarce yet bursting from the beds the winds still parch?

After that six weeks cold snap, dear, of fast frozen pipe and tap, dear,

When back to barbarism and to bathlessness fate drove us,

And we sicklier grew, and surlier, if you'd come a leetle earlier,—

Well, let bygones now be bygones! But O Spring sweet! an you love us,

Come—at last, dear—à la Herrick, with such influence atmospheric

As will slay the Influenza; with such fragrance from your flowers,

As will knock Malaria silly; let your dear daffydown-dilly

From our bodies drive bacilli, and the blight from out our bowers.

Slay our Microbes, Spring, and bless us! Like a clinging Shirt of Nessus

Morbid sickliness surrounds us in our lives, our books, our art.

Oh, if sunshine and your breezes might but slay our soul-diseases,

Oust the pestilent miasma that pervades the home, the mart;

Neutralise the nauseous virus whose developments so tire us;

Disinfect the New Parnassus, purge the New Pierian Spring,

Bring us honesty and health, dear, why for all our wit and wealth, dear,

We might love like Nature's lovers, and like Nature's poets sing.

Ah! we need Spring's prophylactic!—But I'm getting too didactic

For a sunny April morning, and a sweet young thing like you.

My dear, the London Season, wrapped and furred out of all reason,

Has been waiting, decked like Winter, with a nose-tip nearly blue;

Waiting, waiting for your coming. Sweet as bees in clover humming

Is the first sound of your footfall. Most spontaneous of passions

Is the love for you, you darling. You will bring the thrush and starling,

And the young leaves and the young lambs, and, what's better—

the Spring Fashions!!!

So no wonder that she greets you with effusion when she meets you.

Ah, Spring! 'tis not your lilacs, and your daffodils and stocks,

Or the tender leaves the trees on, that most moves Miss London Season,

'Tis the hope of "rippin'" frolics and the thought of "trotty" frocks.

But an old man's heart, my treasure, beats to quite another measure,

Still my sympathies, dear Spring, are with the youngsters and with you.

They are looking for love's playtime, and the merry, merry May-time,

And the popular R.A. time, and the whole tohu-bohu!

Bring the girls delights as dowry, may their social paths be flowery,

And your silver drops the only tears they need to look upon.

So they're wholesome, may they flourish; and may all Spring influence nourish

True manhood and pure womanhood, and—there, my preaching's done!

We need a true Spring Clean, sweet. Give us parks and gardens green, sweet.

And laughter, like your bird-songs pure, un-satyr-like, though clever,

Bless our boys, our girls, our babies, yes—and bring us back our Jabez,

And we'll pardon your delay, and say 'tis better late than never!

Opportunity lost by Mr. Justice Hawkins during a recent Case when His Lordship might have put it to the Jury.—"Gentlemen, what is the difference, or, as there has been no quarrel, let us say what is the distinction between a costumier and a butcher anxious to arrange his shop-front to the best advantage? Gentlemen, I will not detain you, it is this: The costumier meets out the dresses; the butcher 'dresses out' the meats. Gentlemen, you are discharged."

To Charitable Chess-Players.—A good move at Easter time is—"cheque to his Bishop."

BLIND ALLEY-GORIES.

By Dunno Währiar.

(Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own Hyperborean Enthusiast.)

Introductory Note.

IT affords me no ordinary gratification to be the humble instrument in rendering these exquisitely obscure prose-poems—reeking as they are with the self-consciousness of so magnificently triumphant an Ego—into the English tongue, though I am fully aware of the difficulty of preserving all the mystical unintelligibility of the original.

Dunno Währiar is perhaps the most remarkable personality that his native Lapland has yet produced. He first saw the light on April 1, 1879, at Kandalax, so that he may still be called comparatively young. His impressionable, sensitive soul broke out in early revolt against the train-oil and tallow which formed the traditionary nutriment of his family circle, and in 1883 we find him casting off the shackles of conventionality and escaping to Sweden in his sledge-perambulator. There he has lived ever since, and has already secured a foremost place among the greatest physiological psychologists of Scandinavia. As a morbid pathologist, he surpasses Strindberg; while in neurotic sensitivism, he has hustled Hansson into a back seat; easily beaten Björnson in diagnosis of the elusive emotions; and taken the indigestible cake of slack-baked symbolism from the master hand of Ibsen himself! Small wonder, then, that the commonest penwiper containing issues from his pen is eagerly sought after by admirers of such effusions.

He belongs ('tis true) to the Literary Upper Crust, and is for the few rather than the many; while so absolute has been his fidelity to the principles of his art, that he has published every one of his works at a considerable pecuniary loss.

Need I say more to ensure for him that respectful admiration which the public is ever ready to lavish upon anything they fail to understand?

Let me rather efface myself and leave Dunno Währiar—or "Young Garnaway," as is his self-adopted pseudonym—to unfold the rhythmic charm of his own inimitable incomprehensibility.

BLIND ALLEY-GORY THE FIRST.

THE LOST BACKBONE.

One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloud-shadows glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that have found no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered into my back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping in the moonshine on one of my celery-beds.

He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head resting on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of Cassiopeia's Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the Milky Way. And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, and he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark—and there was no sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable silence which was rumbling round the corner.

Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more.

"What are you seeking for so late?" asked he; "your face looks so long and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have you been having anything indigestible for supper?"

"I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I loathe and despise them individually, collectively I love them dearly."

"What's the matter with Humanity?" asked the God, as he squatted amid the celery.

"They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young Garnaway, the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how utterly they have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the backbone of real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance the backbone was hidden under one of the flower-pots."

The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered in darkling infinitude round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to me, when he returned, that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw him pull himself together, and frown.

And from afar a gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and above the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot hats, with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding their sides with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles turned into the booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy horseplay, which rolled nearer and nearer.

I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard.

Then I heard someone chuckling quite close to me, chuckling softly, but unmistakably. And the booing hushed, and the gloom lightened, and the garden-roller glimmered faintly in the moonlit summer night, and inside the lawn-mower lay the God of the Period crying with uncontrollable laughter.

"When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of Paraded Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then I will conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and then it will be time for all Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas—just as you did awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of humour, and will decline to take them seriously. But you had much better leave off bothering your head about that lost backbone, for you won't be happy when they get it!"

And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the bed in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals what it was all about.

For Outward Application.—"'A man may change his skies,' as the Roman poet puts it," quoth the Daily Telegraph, "but he does not so easily change his habits." The Academy is about to open. The pictures will soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with last chance for alteration. Then comes in Latin poetic proverb, "A man may change his skies, but, do what he will, he cannot alter that peculiar style that marks the work as his, and nobody else's."

New Proverb.—All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a dull joy.

SHOCKING HEATHENISM.

Rector. "So you go up to Town next month, Miss Mary. How I envy you! And of course you'll attend the May Meetings."

Miss Mary. "May Meetings? Oh dear no! Though I adore Horses, I quite disapprove of Racing, don't you know!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Fridoline."

The Baron heartily welcomes the appearance of Happy Thoughts in French, under the very attractive style and title of Fridoline. No fear now of the entente cordiale between England and France being disturbed; and that is indeed une "pensée" la plus "heureuse" ou "ingénieuse." The dialogue with the patient angler who remains in the middle of the stream day after day, and, probably, night after night, is quite a little lesson in French.

"'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.' 'Pas mordu du tout?' 'Une fois, je crois.' Le pêcheur n'a pas perdu son calme, mais son air n'a rien de triomphant."

And the world goes on and the mouvement continues, and ever and anon the Happy Thoughter, returning to the river, finds the same man in the same boat in almost the same position. Then, before retiring for the night, the H. T. takes one turn on the lawn, "pour m'assurer," he says, "que je ne laisse rien derrière moi. Ah si! je laisse l'homme au bachot, toujours sa ligne en main. Il avait, paraît-il, un pen redescendu le courant. 'Bonne pêche?' 'Non.' 'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.'" Those who read "entre les lignes" may see in this figure of unrewarded patience and perseverance more than meets the eye. M. Aurelien de Courson has done his work excellently well, "avec l'autorisation de l'auteur."

I found a book on my table lying among a number of others put aside to be read at "a more convenient season." The title attracted me—Clove Pink. Its leaves are of last autumn, but the story they tell is for ever. It is admirably written; its word-painting is the work of a true artist: but beginning brightly and gladly, as do the lives of the young hero and heroine, it ends sadly but sweetly. If you are not averse to a simple, well-told tale, with stirring incidents of modern warfare, graphically narrated, that stand out in startling contrast to the scenes of quiet English rural life, a story whose pathos and simple truth will touch you deeply, read Clove Pink, says

The Baron de Book-Worms.

VERY CATCHING.

"To-morrow will be Fry day,

So we'll catch our fish to-day."

Somebody's Song.

In the Times of Monday, April 8, appeared an advertisement headed "Lent, Lent—Fish, Fish." This meant, of course, that the season was Lent, not that the fishmonger was a lender of fish. And for the season it was Holy Week, i.e. last week of Lent. Then it goes on "Have you ordered your Good Friday's Dinner? If not, do so at once." Excellent and most timely advice, seeing it was given on the Monday preceding Good Friday. So far so good; but then comes "a reason why" which apparently quite upsets the kettle of fish. Here is the extract:—

"Having made contracts with a number of the leading trawl and line fishermen to take the whole of their prime fish caught during Easter week," &c., &c.

What on earth is the good of fish caught in Easter Week to the persons who have ordered it for the previous Friday? That's where the trouble is. The fishmonger is at sea as well as his good fishermen. If the advertisement had been headed "Lent and Easter," then it would have been evident that two different subjects were being dealt with, and "both caught with one fish," as Mrs. R. might say, adapting a proverb.

TEMPERATE TO INTEMPERATE.

Fanatic sophistries, I think,

To logic's limits will have shrunk,

When zealot's recognize that "drink"

Is not identical with "drunk."

Difference may be as great you see,

'Twixt U and I as You and Me!

Wordsworth for Witlers.—"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"

SOCIAL AGONIES.

Anxious Musician (in a whisper, to Mrs. Lyon Hunter's butler). "Where's my 'Cello?"

Butler (in stentorian tones, to the room). "Signor Weresmicello!"

THE NEW ENGLISH ART CLUB.

The other day I went to this exhibition of sublime masterpieces. I was about to write a few comments, full of strange epithets and gushing praise, when a small girl came in with a lady. The child spoke so freely that I paused to listen. This was her criticism. "Oh, mother, what's that meant for? I can't see anything. Look at that lady! She's got no face at all. Oh, look at that other! She's funnier. What is she? A Spanish dancer? Do all Spanish dancers have knobbly faces like you might make out of a potato? What are those people skating on? Is it cotton wool? Oh, mother, look there! What an ugly lady! Why's she put all that red on her cheeks? What's all that other red there? Is it another lady? A church in Venice? What Olympia where you took me two years ago? Oh, mother, it can't be a church! Unless it's upside down. Or perhaps all the paints have run into one another like mine do. Oh, look! There's a picture of a washstand. Is it an advertisement of a furniture shop? Or is it meant for what father calls a slight wash in his water-colour drawings? What are those ladies dancing in sheets for? Is it sheets they've got on? Oh what a red face that gentleman's got! I don't think they paint very pretty ladies or gentlemen here. Oh, mother, look at that! Why it's the funniest of all! Who are the two ladies? Why are their clothes slipping down? Why are their faces all crooked, and their eyes sideways? Are they meant to be pretty? I don't think they are. What do you say it is? Meant to be painted on the wall of a room? Is that why they look so funny? Why they look like Aunt Kitty, when she's going to have a sea bath, and when——" Here the little maiden was suddenly dragged out of the room, and her shrill voice was heard no more. But her winged words are not forgotten by

A Crushed Critic.

AN EASTER 'OLIDAY.

(A Siesta Song, from the Burlesque Opera "Little Liberal Majority," performed at the Theatre Royal, St. Stephen's.)

Air—"Lazily, Drowsily."

When gaily dances the Easter sun,

And shelved is each bothersome Bill,

Then work and talk for a time are done,

And the lobbies are hushed and still.

Lazily, lazily,

Drowsily, drowsily,

Home goes every one;

Lazily, lazily,

Drowsily, drowsily,

Under the April sun.

Old St. Stephen's closes;

Parliament reposes,

Lazily, lazily,

Drowsily, drowsily,

Forty winks, or fun!

When the sunlight falls on the Heath's green breast,

And blue are the skies above,

Each seeks the rest that he loves the best,

Or the sport he doth chiefly love.

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Donkey riding's fun!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Dawdling under the sun!

Harcourt's eyelid closes,

Balfour blandly dozes;

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Under the Easter sun!

Joggle and jolt! These mokes won't bolt!

Each flops like an empty sack

On the broad back, shaggy as Shetland colt.

No donkey boy on their track!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Carelessly jogging on!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Under an Easter sun!

Lotos-Land discloses

No more bland reposes.

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Dawdle they under the sun!

"That Labby was often a bore!" sighs Will,

Groans Arty, "And so was Joe!

To drive these donkeys demands small skill!

Would Westminster mokes were so!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!

Riding like this is fun!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!

Bless us! Who wants to run?

'Appy 'Ampstead dozes!

Mokes are beds of roses!

Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,

Jog we—till holiday's done!"

"The Objection to Euclid" of which we have heard so much recently is of very ancient standing, and is shared by nearly every schoolboy.

Parliamentary Proverb.—There's many a slip 'twixt the M.P. and the "Whip"!

AN EASTER 'OLIDAY.

Duet ('Arcourt and Harthur sing while being jolted).

"LA-A-ZI-LY LA-A-ZI-LY! DROW-OW-OW-SILY! DROW-OW-OW-SILY!" &c.

MR. PUNCH AT A PICTURE SHOW.

(The Collection of Sir John Tenniel's Drawings at the Fine Art Society's Gallery.)

Air.—"My Old Friend John."

'Tis forty years, my dear Sir John,

Since you and I first met.

Lord, how the fleeting hours have flown!

But we foregather yet,

I gaze on this brave show with pride—

Fine art, still in full feather!

By Jove, it seems but yesterday

Since we were "boys" together.

Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,

At our old Board together!

There's gladness in remembrance, John;

Your pencil-strokes struck true;

Through all the shifts of party life,

No pause that pencil knew.

We've missed old comrades one by one;

Our friendship moults no feather;

Can forty years and more have run

Since we were "boys" together?

Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,

At our old Board together!

I gaze and proudly ponder, John;

I've seen them all before—

Gladstone, Bright, Dizzy, Bull!—Well done!!!

Fresh as in days of yore

The Big Cuts gleam. By sea and stream,

Moor, mountain, ice-field, heather.

Force, grace, fair fun mark all you've done,

Since we were "boys" together.

Chorus all "Round the Mahogany Tree."

Since we were boys, merry, merry boys!

So meet we, in full feather,

For many sunny years, Sir John,

Still boys—at heart—together!

FANCY PORTRAIT.

SIR G-RGE L-W-S.