PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, May 4th, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

MAY DAY.

(Strictly according to Precedent.)

Open the windows, salute the day;

Welcome, welcome the First of May.

Everything's changed, or ought to be,

Buds are bursting on hedge and tree.

Sweet winds breathe from the West or South

Soft as a kiss from a maiden's mouth.

Everything speaks of warmth and love,

Bright is the sun in the blue above.

Out in the woods, I know. I know,

Fur and feather are all aglow.

Downy rabbits with jewel eyes

Dart about in a wild surprise.

Yellow-billed blackbird, speckled thrush,

Pour their notes in a tuneful gush.

And all the neat little boys and girls,

With clean fresh faces and hair in curls,

Sing in a chorus, "Hurray, hurray!

April's gone, it's the First of May!"

* * * *

That's how I dreamt my May-day dream;

But things are not what they ought to seem.

For the wind—why, bless me, the wind is East,

And the birds don't warble or chirp the least.

The whole of the sky is wrapped in gloom.

And fires are lighting in every room.

And I shiver and sneeze and spend my day

In a winter-suit on the First of May.

Auk'd About.—The skin of a Great Auk was put up for sale last week, but the reserved price was not reached. Evidently it was of bad omen that it should have been put up at an "Auk-shun."

THE NEW BOY!

"Look, Father, this is your new Overcoat."

"By George, it fits you capitally!"

"Yes, doesn't it! You will now be able to wear my Old Clothes!"

DRAMATIC FAMILY LIKENESS.

For the plot of The Passport, recently produced with a fair amount of success at Terry's Theatre, the authors admit their indebtedness to Colonel Savage's novel, My Official Wife. Oddly enough, this plot bears a considerable resemblance to that of The Orient Express, a piece "made in Germany," of which the English adaptation was produced here, at Daly's, during his season. In this piece, i.e., The Orient Express, a gentleman has tourist tickets for himself and wife; but his wife, after disposing of her ticket to a professional cicérone, returns to England alone, while her husband, travelling on business, continues his journey. The cicérone has sold the ticket cheap to a lady, who is therefore compelled to travel under the name inscribed on the ticket, and finds herself in the same carriage with the gentleman who has the corresponding ticket, and the ticket-collector, seeing the same names, hands back both tickets to the gentleman, and tries to keep the carriage strictly reserved for them all the way, in which attempt he fails, and hence arise, on their return to England, complications analogous to those of The Passport. Was the novel of My Official Wife written before the German farcical play, or is it only a family likeness?

"Il ira loin."—Dr. Farrar, now Chaplain to the Speaker, has been made Dean of Canterbury. From the Deanery to a Bishopric is but a step. He has gone Far, will go Farrar and fare better ... and then ... Farrar-well to all his greatness!

STRIKES À LA MODE DE PARIS.

(From the Diary of a Pleasure-seeker of the Future.)

Rose early, intending to have a real good time of it, in spite of the recent disturbances. As a precautionary measure, wore my bullet-proof coat and shell-defying boots. Carried also my armour-plated umbrella, which can be used (on emergencies) as a shield to quick-firing guns. Looked out of window, and found the weather splendid. Firing, too (which I had heard every now and again during the night), seemingly all but ceased.

On reaching the street, representative of the Civil Power cautioned me to be careful. Thanked the representative for his courtesy, and asked why a squadron of hussars were trotting past with drawn sabres. Was told that the soldiers were engaged in the protection of a sweep journeying to his work in a donkey-cart.

Started for a stroll, but had to seek shelter in a doorway from a volley of bullets fired in the direction of the early milkman. From this demonstration I gathered that the food supply would be still further restricted owing to the action of the men on strike. After the purveyor had beaten a hasty retreat, advanced upon a strongly-fortified position, which turned out to be, as I expected it would, a doubly-entrenched cab-stand.

Only one vehicle on the rank. Engaged the cabman. Although I was unaccompanied by a relative or friend, found the space at my disposal distinctly limited. The top of the four-wheeler was, of course, occupied by the customary rocket party. The box had its usual sentry, carrying a couple of revolvers and a search-light. Three of the seats inside were occupied by sharpshooters, and I retained the fourth.

"We had better make for the river," said the officer in command, and we fell in with the suggestion.

Our progress was comparatively uneventful. Certainly at the corners of streets we had to run the gauntlet of a shower of projectiles of various dimensions; still, the armour-plated sides of the cab turned aside the flood of iron, and the custodians, by lying flat as occasion required, escaped without injury. Leaving the steel-protected cab, I embarked on board an armoured penny steamboat, and made my way down the river. Fortunately, the helmsman was able to avoid the submarine mines which had been laid by the Chairman of the Strike Committee. Our voyage was also rendered exciting by the torpedoes.

Having reached the last pier, I returned to land, and was sufficiently fortunate to catch an omnibus about to start on its exciting campaign. The route, which ran chiefly through main thoroughfares, extended to the length of four miles. Thanks to the exertions of all arms of the service, the distance was traversed in about three hours. Every inch of the ground was hotly contested, but the omnibus at length won the day. The losses on our side consisted of a colonel killed, and seventy-four rank-and-file wounded. The casualties on the side of the strikers were infinitely more numerous.

On reaching my destination, I made for home in a balloon, thus escaping any further molestation.

PRESENTED AT COURT.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I notice that "an original dramatic caricature" is being played at the Court Theatre, under the title of Vanity Fair. To prevent mistakes, I write to say at once that I am on the eve of constructing a three-volume novel, called Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; a poem, called Box and Cox; and a satire, called Macaulay's History of England. I merely mention this fact to protect my copyright in the names I have chosen for my new works. I have also in contemplation the writing of a book to be entitled Adam Bede, a novelette, to be known as King Solomon's Mines, and a story to be y'clept Treasure Island. May I add that I have also some pantomimes and eccentric ballets nearly ready that will be christened, when completed,—Esmond, The Virginians, The Newcomes, Philip, and last, but not least, Pendennis.

Yours truly, Nothing if not Original.

P.S.—I am thinking of adopting as a nom de plume the signature of "William Makepeace Thackeray."

HIS FAVOURITE SUBJECT.

Imperial Artist. "Wish I could have got it done in time for the Royal Academy. Sure to have been accepted."

[ *_** The Emperor of Germany has recently painted a sea-piece.]

HIS FAVOURITE SUBJECT.

Distinguished Amateur soliloquiseth:—

There!!! Egotistic ways are my abhorrence;

But if this masterpiece were only hung

In the Uffizi Gallery at Florence,

Where Leighton, like a god, ambrosial, young,

And Millais, in immortal manhood, stand,

Self-limned, for admiration of posterity,

I fancy that this work of my right hand

Would quite eclipse mere Genius, whose temerity

In challenging comparison with Birth

Is really getting something unendurable.

Aha! It moves me to sardonic mirth!

To dream of my position as securable

By mere Bismarckian brain!!! Now, as the god,

I come out admirably. Form and stature,

The threatening eye, and the earth-shaking nod,

All, all to me are simply second nature.

Globe-trampling foot, and hand that grips the bolt,—

Aye, and the lyre when I would play Apollo—

Are mine! Will low-born Genius dare revolt,

Or where I lead Greatness decline to follow?

Absurd! I hardly know in what great guise

To paint my greatness! I have sung of Ægir,

But he was but a sea-god, and his size

And strength compared with mine were small and meagre.

I am a Joint-stock Deity, as 'twere,

Olympus in a nutshell, Neptune, Mars,

The Cloud-Compeller and the Sungod fair.

Here I'm pure Jove. And yet somehow it jars

Upon my spirit to be so restricted

To one immortal guise, however grand.

Hah! Gods by their own pencils thus depicted

Would make a New Valhalla e'en my hand

Need not disdain to add to. If Narcissus

Had been a painter, now! There is no stream,

Though clear as my own Rhine or the Ilissus,

Could do me justice. I must paint my dream

Of my Supernal Self. A mere reflection

From Nature's mirror would but mar my beauty.

No; I must limn myself for the inspection

Of men and gods; it is a simple duty.

This does not satisfy me. And it is

Too late, I fear, for Grandmamma's R.A.

Besides, those English journalists might quiz

Even Imperial Art. They've their own way

Too much by far in that ill-ordered isle,

Those cheeky critic-fellows. Let me catch

A Teuton quill-driver who'll dare to smile

Upon a masterpiece he cannot match!!!

[Left touching it up.

Literary.

A book is announced entitled Irish Humour through English Glasses. It will be followed, we hope, by a companion volume, entitled English (ill) Humour through Irish (Whisky) Glasses.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Messrs. Blackwood are issuing a standard edition of the works of George Eliot. Adam Bede, of course, comes first, admirably printed in dainty volumes of blue and gold. Glancing over the work brings back to the memory of my Baronite a certain schoolboy who, instead of going home to dinner, used to spend the interval in the reading-room of a free library, literally dining off Adam Bede, then just out. It will be interesting to observe how far the public of to-day, more especially the young men and maidens who read novels, will take to George Eliot. In this new standard edition opportunity, alike in respect of charm and cheapness, is made alluring.

The Curse of Intellect is an unattractive title, suggestive rather of a series of essays on the melancholy lives of certain geniuses than of the weird tale—for such it is—of a Man-Monkey. This story, published by Messrs. Blackwood, and written by Machiavelli Colin Clout, is a modern version of Frankenstein, the distinction being that, whereas Frankenstein constructed his own monster, the hero of this romance, one Reuben Power, finds a monster ready to hand in a kind of "Mr. Gorilla," whom he educates to speak a strange language, also to read, write, and think in excellent English. This Converted Ape kills his maker, and then considerately puts an end to his own miserable existence; he does not, however, possess a soul (Frankenstein's Monster was also deficient in this respect). "For O it is such a 'norrible tale;" and, except to those who occasionally enjoy "a 'norrible tale," this cannot be recommended by

The Baron de B.-W.

BLIND ALLEY-GORIES.

By Dunno Währiar.

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

No. III.—A Socratic Experiment.

The other day I went out for a walk. My thoughts circled round my head like bees in a bonnet, and detached themselves slowly from the loose white honeycomb of my brain to mirror themselves in my soul, as is usual with me on such occasions. And, somewhere round the corner, a voice lurked calling out remarks—what I knew not, only that they were of a highly personal character. The people I met stared at me, and I stared at them, for I had a presentiment that they were talking about me, but I took no notice of them—beyond informing them that they were cowards and blowflies, and requesting to be informed why they enclosed their dirty interiors in glass. For I am Young Garnaway, and when I take a walk, I generally exchange amenities of this kind with any persons I happen to meet.

At the Market Place, my friend the Tallow-chandler sat inside his shop, dozing under a pale canopy of farthing dips.

"Answer me a question," I begged of him. "Why does one yearn for the top brick off the chimney when one is a child, and yet feel dissatisfied when, as a man, one receives it on the top of one's Sunday tile? Why does the sea bird fly inland in winter to get food from the towns—only to turn up its beak when presented with a ticket for soup? Why do we——?"

"A clear and practical illustration."

My friend the Tallow-chandler answered never a word, but chuckled foolishly to himself and retired behind a barrier of mottled soap.

When I had gone a piece further I reached a back street, where I found my friend the Bird-stuffer sitting on his doorstep, playing the mouth-organ.

"Answer me a question," I besought him. "Suppose you found out that those who hold the reins of government in our town were educating large blue-bottle flies to make apricot jam out of your and your neighbours' pig-wash, would you write to the local paper about it, even if you knew that the editor would decline to insert your letter?"

My friend answered never a word; he only giggled in embarrassment, struck up a mazurka on his mouth-organ, and began to dance sheepishly.

But, down in Mud Alley, my friend the Dustcart-man sat at his open window—a family idyll, wife and six small children, all eating onions and fried fish.

"Answer me a question," I prayed him. "If a person came to you and said rudely, 'Better anything else than sitting here with your head in the domestic halter among the potsherds and puffballs of the old ideals; rather a jolly good row that ends in a fortnight's "hard" than fat-headed, elephant-footed dulness here with your buzzing brood around you!' If a person came to you and said that, what reply would you give him?"

My friend answered never a word; he was out of the window before I had time to walk away; and in a very few moments I received a clear and practical illustration of the sort of reply he would give to such a question.

As for me, I limped home as well as I could, and, when evening fell, and I was done up in brown paper and vinegar, both my eyes gleamed in the evening sun with the iridescent glitter of peacocks' tails.

"FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCH THANKS!"

["Fort Chitral, April 20.—Colonel Kelly's force from Gilghit arrived to-day.... Much sickness from bad food, excessive work, and exposure. Conduct of troops admirable.... The discipline, devotion, and fortitude displayed by all ranks under circumstances which required all those qualities are beyond all praise."—Dr. Robertson's Summary of the Siege of Chitral.]

"Small time, but, in that small, most greatly liv'd

This star of England."

Chorus: King Henry the Fifth, Act V., Scene 2.

Only one more "little war,"—of course,

Precipitate pluck, and inadequate force—

Such wars as our England wages

At terrible cost in British lives,

And orphan children and widowed wives,

Whereat, though greatly our glory thrives,

Our conscience sometimes rages.

But such little wars may need great hearts,

And the wandering heroes who play their parts

For England, the wide world over;

Fight as well though they fight—and fall—

In a leagured hut, by a shattered wall,

As though the purple of Wellington's pall

Each death-cold breast should cover.

Devotion, fortitude, discipline? Yes!

They always shine in the perilous press,

Where British soldiers rally.

Shine as bright in the hopeless dark

Of the mad mêlée, though there's none to mark

The scattered wreckage ruddy and stark

Of the last brave stand or sally.

We rejoice to hear, though we knew we should,

Chitral's defenders again made good

The glorious old tradition

Of loyalty to the flying flag.

Cynics may dub it the torn red rag,

But our tongues shall laud, whilst those tongues can wag,

That splendid "superstition."

The men who stood, and the men who came

O'er ice-bound ridges with hearts aflame,

To relieve their leagured brothers,

Have all done well; and the tawny skin

Of those who helped us to war and win,—

Well, your little Englander's less akin

To England than those others!

"For this relief, much thanks!" And thanks

To dead, and living, and of all ranks.

Forget their service? Never!

"Small time," indeed, but as brightly shone

"This star of England," as it had done

On that stricken field when the lurid sun

Of the Corsican sank for ever.

A FIRST STEP
TOWARDS HISTRIONICS.

(Under the guidance of Herr Goethemann.)

• Question. Have you witnessed the performance of the Actor-manager?
• Answer. No, but I have perused the tragedy of the Author-publisher.
• Q. Is it a curtain-raiser?
• A. No, but it is a hair-lifter, in three acts.
• Q. How many are the persons of the drama?
• A. Four.
• Q. Of these, how many are objectionable?
• A. Five.
• Q. Kindly resolve this paradox.
• A. All are objectionable that come on the stage, and one that doesn't.
• Q. You speak of the stage; where has the play been given?
• A. Nowhere. It has not received a license.
• Q. Is it the close season?
• A. No, but so much private license was taken by the Author-publisher that the public censor did not see his way to adding to the amount.
• Q. Then we shall not see it interpreted by intelligent actors?
• A. No, for even if license were granted, the Author-publisher would take all the parts himself.
• Q. I do not follow this scheme of plurality.
• A. I quote from his own printed advertisement, "The right of performing in public this play (sic) is reserved by the author."
• Q. Did you state that it is a tragedy?
• A. Yes, but inclining to farce.
• Q. Does it move the reader to pity and terror?
• A. Yes, both. Pity for himself, and terror of the next thing of the kind that he may have to read.
• Q. Has it any other of the high qualities of the Greek Tragedy?
• A. It says it has the unities.
• Q. A severe attack?
• A. No, the Norwegian kind; a form of Teutonic measles, painful but transitory.
• Q. Is it heroic?
• A. No, but it is suburban.
• Q. Is the conclusion worthy of a great tragedy? Does it end in a lurid light of whole-souled passion and death?
• A. It ends about 4 A.M. the next day, with a cock crowing. The protagonist has come home intoxicated, and remains so. I regret to add that he pushes the heroine, she having displaced his beverage by breaking the glass. She slaps him upon the face, and eventually loses animation. I do not know how the other two end, because they were not home in time for the curtain. As it was, the Author-publisher nearly spoilt one of the unities through waiting for them.
• Q. All must be well that ends so well. Is there a problem or enigma?
• A. There is always the insoluble riddle—why did he write it?
• Q. Is it full of situations?
• A. Not inconveniently so; but there is a dramatic moment.
• Q. Which?
• A. I do not know.
• Q. Then why do you say there is one?
• A. Because the Author-publisher says so.
• Q. But is it not wasteful to have three acts, and only one dramatic moment?
• A. I should have thought so; but the Author-publisher says he has shown economy.
• Q. Could you give me an idea of the manner? Select a striking incident or a passage where there is subtle characterisation.
• A. One situation impressed me very much. I think it must have been the dramatic moment. I reserve it for my next.

(To be continued.)

FILIA PULCHRA, MATER PULCHRIOR.

I loved a girl, divinely sweet,

An unsophisticated creature;

I did not scruple to repeat

She was divine, you could not meet

More charms displayed in form and feature.

I loved her youthful grace, her slight

And dainty form, an angel's seeming.

Crowned by sweet hair, as dark as night,

Her face would charm an artist's sight,

A poet's thoughts, a lover's dreaming.

I loved her dark and lustrous eyes,

Which love might light with glowing passion,

Her lips, her neck—you will surmise

I wrote her rhymes, all tears and sighs

In lovesick versifier's fashion.

I loved her like a childish pet,

I felt I could not love another,

Until the day when first I met

Her widowed mother, charming yet,

And now, instead, I love her mother.

I love the woman, for the rose,

Full blown, excels the rosebud's beauty,

Nor think of girlish charms since those

No more inspire my Muse, which shows

My Muse is fit for any duty.

I love her, stately as a queen

Whom Veronese might have painted,

Blue-eyed, with hair of golden sheen—

That's just the one thing which has been

A trouble since we've been acquainted.

I love not charms I loved before,

Dark as the night, or, say a hearse is.

Now auburn beauty pleases more,

My wasted hours I deplore—

I've had to alter all those verses.

Epping and Overstepping.—At a meeting of forest borderers, Wanstead, it was asserted that since the Corporation had had control of the forest, upwards of 100,000 trees had been felled. If true, the members of the Corporation-Epping-Forest-Committee will henceforth be known as "those fellers!"

"ANIMAL SPIRITS."

No. XII.—Outside Exeter Hall.

TO CIRCE.

"If doughty deeds my lady please,"

Though somewhat old and gouty,

The first occasion I will seize

Of doing something "doughty";

"If gay attire delights your eye,

I'll dight me in array"

Which every casual passer-by

Will think extremely gay.

"If sweetest sounds can win your ear,"

I'll cheerfully begin

(Though somewhat late in life, I fear),

To learn the violin;

In fact, whatever task you set,

You'll speedily discover

That in the writer you have met

A most submissive lover.

I could exemplify the fact

Through several extra verses,

How I would please, by every act,

My kindliest of Circe's;

And yet by destiny malign

You've happened just to choose

The single task which, though divine

The bidder, I refuse.

The single task—and pardon, pray,

If, not without compunction,

Reluctantly I disobey

Your positive injunction:

Ask what you will, I'll undertake

The deed, however big,

But do not——blind my eyes and make

Me try to draw a pig!

TO A PICTURE.

You pretty face, upon my wall,

Enshrined in glass and oak and gold,

Most charming deaf-mute—and withal

My confidante—whate'er befall,

My trust in you will rest untold,

You pretty face!

What do they call you? Is it "Spring"?

Or "Blossoms"? or "The Coming Race"?—

It matters not in any case,

Your name may be just anything

For all I care, you pretty face.

You bring me back old scenes anew,

You've something of my lady's grace,

Of her sweet features just a trace,

And so I have re-christened you—

I won't say what—you pretty face!

I have no portrait to recall