PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98

FEBRUARY 15, 1890.

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

Le Diable Boiteux.

XX.

Sweet odours, radiant colours, glittering light!

How swift a change from the dusk sodden night

Of London in mid-winter!

Titania here might revel as at home;

Fair forms are floating soft as Paphian foam,

Bright as an iceberg-splinter.

Dianas doubtless, yet their frost holds fire;

The snowiest bosom covers soft desire,

And these are snowy, verily.

As blanched—and bare—as Himalaya's peaks,

Light-vestured as a troop of dancing Greeks.

Waltz-measures ripple merrily.

Merrily? Yes; the music throbs with mirth,

Feet trip in time to it; yet what strange dearth

Of glee midst all these graces!

The quickening fire of spirit, passion, will,

Seems scarce to move these dancing forms or thrill

These irresponsive faces.

The Shadow smiled. "True, yet not true," he said.

"Good Form demands that men should look half dead,

And women semi-frozen.

Yet Nature lives beneath these modish masks

Somewhere, sometimes, with energy that tasks

Caste's rigid rule to cozen.

"Pygmalion's prayer breathed life into the stone,

But see yon graceful girl, with straitened zone

And statuesque still bearing.

You'd say in her the marble must invade

The flesh, in so much loveliness arrayed,

Such radiant raiment wearing.

"Whirled in the waltz's formal maze by one

Who might be a broad-cloth'd automaton,

For any show of pleasure,

She moves with drooping lids, and lips apart,

And scarce a flush to show that a young heart

Throbs to the pulsing measure."

"Men meet to moon, and women whirl to wed,

The cynic says. Is joy in life quite dead,

Gladness in concourse banished

From the parades of fashionable youth?

Have maiden tenderness and manly truth

From Vanity Fair quite vanished?"

"Soft!" sneered the Shadow. "Questionings like these

Sound gauche and gushing. Better far to freeze

To the right social zero,

Than stoop to zeal and frank display of zest,

Notes of the vulgar glories that invest

The housemaid-novel's hero.

"Nothing more useful than the surface-ice

Of stiff stolidity. Vigour, aye, and vice,

Therein find ready covert.

Wickedness here may lurk, or even wit.

Not to name happiness; but naught of it

Is obvious and overt.

"How bored they look, the slim stiff-collared boys!

Energy that is eager and enjoys

They may anon make show of

In some less honest haunt; here as in pain

They creak and crawl, devoid of that sans gêne

That virtue seems sworn foe of.

"Languidly circumvolving, lounging lank,

In scuffling circle or in mural rank,

Of misery mechanic

They look the wooden symbols; nought to show

That even well-starched linen's sheeny snow

Veils impulses volcanic.

"That straight-limb'd son of Anak circling there

Much like a whirling semaphore, strange care

His boyish forehead wrinkling?

The season's catch! His sire, is great in Soap,

His partner's mother yonder sits; with hope

Her watchful eyes are twinkling.

"The twirling twain are silent. Silence sits

Lord of the revel, incubus of wits

Arch palsier of prattle

Yet many a girl here mute's a chatterer sweet,

And many a youth in circles less discrete

Is an 'agreeable rattle.'

"Respectability's austere restraint

Rules them relentlessly; smiles forced and faint

And joyless facial spasms

Their meetings and their mutterings attend.

Jerky approximations quickly end

In void unvocal chasms.

"Yet still they circle, and yet still they loll.

A marionette wooing a wooden doll

Would look more animated

Than yonder pair, revolving interlaced,

Exchanging commonplaces leaden-paced,

Or repartees belated."

"Mammon by day and maundering at night

Oh, Shade!" I cried, "can furnish scant delight,

The Race for Wealth is rapid.

How can the feverish rush find true relief

In heartless intercourse, as bald as brief,

Amusement vain as vapid?"

"Amusement? Intercourse? They scarce exist."

The Shadow answered. "Some Bœotian mist

Society blinds and muddles.

True recreation in this joyless round?

The sea's bright changefulness as soon were found

In Pedlington's rain-puddles.

"The cliques and coteries know not how to mix.

A barrier more impassable than Styx

Is Philistine stupidity.

Were mutual amusement meeting's aim,

Mind must move maidenhood inert and tame,

Melt masculine rigidity.

"Concourse, not intercourse, is what you see:

To mix, and sympathise, and to be free,

Is the true sociality.

These meet, like marbles mingled in a bag,

And the net outcome, friend, is friction, fag,

Boredom, and sheer banality.

"The strongest symptom of quick life crops out

In watchful mutual mockery. Gibe and flout

In low asides flow freely.

Oh, bland elysium for the brave and fair,

Whose pleasures are the snigger and the stare,

Chill snub, and eye-glance steely!

"Prigdom's Philistia, though a polished State,

Has not yet learned quite how to recreate.

Gath in the ball-room gathers,

Askelon haunts 'At homes,' but little joy

Bring they to man or matron, girl or boy,

To swells or City-fathers."

(To be continued.)

AU REVOIR!

Mr. Punch and Mr. J. L. Toole discovered smoking a last cigar.

Mr. P. And so, my dear Johnnie, you are leaving us at once?

Mr. J. L. T. Yes, Sir, but I hope soon to be back again. I am looking forward to the voyage as an excellent digestive to all the luncheons, dinners, and suppers I have been taking for the last five or six weeks.

Mr. P. I have no doubt they have been a little trying—eh, Johnnie?

Mr. J. L. T. And yet, as I have observed in the Upper Crust, "they were very welcome." But, Sir, how did I get through my oratory? Did you notice my speeches at the Garrick and the Savage? Which did you prefer?

Mr. P. I heard the first, and read a report of the second, and can conscientiously declare they were equally good.

Mr. J. L. T. I am glad to hear you say so, Sir. I confess I didn't think there was much to choose between them. And now (with deep emotion), will you excuse my glove?

Mr. P. No; I won't say good-bye; for wherever you may roam, my dear Johnnie, you will have this consolation—you will find me there before you!

"There is now a strong impression that the Money Market has at last tided over the period of tightness."—Daily News, Feb. 4.

THE IMPERIAL SOCIALIST.

A Song of a Strange Development.

Will you walk into my Congress? says the Emperor unto Labour;

Tis the nicest little Congress; I'm inviting many a neighbour.

The way into my Congress by this Rescript I prepare,

And we shall have some curious things to show you—when you're there.

Then won't you, won't you, little International Working-Man?

We've already done a little to improve poor Labour's lot,

Shorten its hours, insure its life, and help to fill its pot.

But the poorer and the weaker yet fall short of the reality

Of "conformity to the principles of Chris-ti-an morality."

Then won't you, &c.

'Tis one of the State's duties, friends, to regulate the time,

The duration and the nature of your work,—a task sublime;

And you'll find we'll do it better, if you only won't resist,

Than that most obnoxious personage, the shouting Socialist.

Then won't you, &c.

I'm an Emperor by profession, but I have my little plan

For improving the position of the German Working-man.

But the International Question stands a little in the way,

So I've asked the Nations to convene—I only hope they may.

Then won't you, &c.

And when they get together they will do—well, we shall see;

But the Socialists shan't have all their own way with Industry.

I recognise the justice of the Workmen's aspirations,

And upon their wants and wishes I would start "negotiations."

Then won't you, &c.

Oh, I know my plan will bring up all the fogies in full blast,

And Coercion and Protection I see looking on aghast.

But I'm game to turn deaf ear to them, if you will only list,

To that latest, strangest birth of time, the Imperial Socialist!

Then won't you, &c.

HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF IT.

Hints from the Chancellor of the Exchequer's correspondence.

Sir,—If you wish to immortalise yourself as Chancellor of the Exchequer, now is your opportunity. You have a surplus, I believe, of eight or nine millions? This is about the figure required to provide the Members of the London County Council with a moderate-sized palace, not perhaps entirely suited to their exalted dignity, but, at least, sufficient to house them in something like proper and fitting style. A site should be secured on the Embankment, by clearing away Somerset House, and the intervening buildings, including the blocks of the Inner and Middle Temple, which could all be carted away and re-erected further down, say, at Millbank, and on the space thus secured a white marble structure could be reared with an adequately imposing façade facing the river, that would in some slight degree represent the majesty of the illustrious body destined to occupy it. I don't say that nine millions would be enough thoroughly to carry out the design I have in view, but your surplus might serve as a central fund to begin upon, to which Parliament, no doubt, would cheerfully add another five or six millions if required. Such an obvious use for your money, I feel, needs no further argument from yours encouragingly and suggestively,

A Full Blown London County Councillor.

Sir,—I have several near relatives in the Colonies, with whom I have, owing to the present exorbitant rates for postage, not communicated for many years. This fact has suggested to me that the golden opportunity now offers itself to you of re-uniting family ties, re-opening closed correspondence, restoring natural affection in otherwise hardened breasts, and, in a word, consolidating the Empire, it may be, for countless ages yet unborn. Spend your surplus, Sir, in providing this country and all her dependencies with a farthing postage—mind, not a penny, but a Farthing Postage! I read somewhere that the actual cost to the Government for the transport of letters was at the rate of ten for a penny. Thus your four millions sunk in the enterprise ought to produce you an immediate profit, at least so I make it, of six millions a year. But, profit or no profit, think of the boon to thousands of Englishmen like myself, who could then stand a penny-worth of correspondence in the year, with children with whom now they are unable to communicate, owing to the cruel and crushing charge of fivepence for a single letter. Picture one who, though not close over money matters, and full of love for his offspring, must yet sign himself

A Circumspect and Cautious Parent.

Sir,—Have you read Lord Wolseley's article in this month's Harper? He advises a higher rate of pay for the rank and file of the British Army? Verbum sap. You understand. It is clear what you must do with your surplus. Ensure Tommy Atkins six-and-six-pence a day, and you will have every Regiment in the Service thronged with real live Gentlemen. This is what is wanted (so I gather from Lord W.'s article) to make the British Army, if not the most costly, at least the most respectable in the world. Come, Sir, do not make it necessary that you should be reminded a second time of your plain and obvious duty by

A Sanguine and Expectant Private.

Sir,—There can be no doubt in regard to the proper destination of those surplus millions, the fitting disposition of which, I am informed, is involving you in no little perplexity. They seem in a special manner to furnish the legitimate answer to the almost universal cry, now going forth, for "Free Education." Here then is your opportunity. And it is a magnificent one. Your surplus will enable a wise and paternal Government to give not merely education, free of cost, to every child in the three kingdoms, but will supply it with ample means to infuse the very highest culture attainable into the very dregs of the population. Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, French, Chinese, together with riding, dancing, painting in oil colours, hydrostatics, and the elements of Court etiquette, will, henceforth, comprise the curriculum of the veriest gutter-child.

Can you, Sir, contemplate such a brilliant, such a soul-stirring prospect unmoved? That you cannot, and will at once hand over your useful millions for the purpose of carrying into effect the above modest but magnificent scheme, is the firm belief of yours suggestively,

The Latest Teacher of the Young Idea.

A DIAGNOSIS.

"It says 'ere, as your old Boss, Colonel M'Whuskey, has been took ill."—"Ah! so I 'erd!"—"Russian Epidemic?"—"No,—Scotch."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Book Markers.

"Bring me my Scotch Dictionary!" cried the Baron. "Alas, my Lord!" was the answer of the faithful servitor, "there is none such here." "I'fakins!" quoth the Baron, "then will I buckle to and read A Window in Thrums without it, even though I break all my teeth and nigh choke myself, as indeed, I have well-nigh done in my gallant attempt to master the first two chapters." So I, the Baron, being convalescent and having a few hours to spare, lay me down and read, and read, and read, and stumbled over the Scotch words and phrases, until I hit on the plan of reading it aloud to two or three other convalescents; just to see how they would like it. And as I read aloud, this book,—which on account of its apparent difficulty, and by reason of my education having been neglected, "lang syne," in respect to the Scotch language, an intimate knowledge of which I have not yet acquired "the noo,"—it gained my affection gradually, steadily, and increasingly. Though I could not have translated individual words and phrases, yet I instinctively understood them, and was delighted with the homely simplicity of the style, the keen observation, the shrewd wit, and the gentle pathos of A Window in Thrums. The Baron de Book-Worms is grateful to Mr. J. M. Barrie; and when an opportunity is offered him, he is seriously thinking of re-reading some of the Scotchiest of Sir Walter Scott's Novels, and having a "Nicht or twa wi' Robbie Burns."

I await the Reminiscences of Mr. Montagu Williams, Q.C. and P.M., with considerable interest.

Mr. Keith Fleming's romance, Can such Things be? or, the Weird of the Beresfords,—no relation to Lord Charles of that ilk,—starts, and will make the reader start too, with a very creepy idea. The story would have been a genuine weird and eerie one but for the continual twaddling interruptions about "spookikal" research and metaphysical problems, which, however, the experienced skipper, who knows the chart, can easily avoid after the first two or three bumps, and even the inexperienced reader will be able, after an hour or two, to hop from point to point like a robin from twig to twig. But skipping and hopping is wearying, and the story is too long, and so we become familiar with the ghost, and we all know what the fatal consequence of familiarity is. The repetitions of the Spook's appearance are monotonous. Had The Weird been condensed like milk in tins, or essenced like Liebig, and been presented to the public as a story in two numbers of Blackwood (always such an appropriate title for a Magazine full of mysterious stories,—Black Wood so like Black Forest) or Macmillan, or Cornhill (where, somehow, a ghost-story always reads uncommonly well), this romance would have created a great sensation. As it is, it doesn't, at least not much. Baron de Book-worms.

MR PUNCHS MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS

Our present Drama (No. VI.) represents an attempt to illustrate upon the Music-hall Stage the eternal truth that race will tell in the long run, despite—but, on second thoughts, it does not quite prove that, though it certainly shows the unerring accuracy of parental—at least, that is not exactly its tendency, either; and the fact is that Mr. Punch is more than a little mixed himself as to the precise theory which it is designed to enforce. He hopes, however, that, as a realistic study of Patrician life and manners, it will possess charms for a democratic audience.

COMING OF AGE

A Grand Social Psychological Comedy-Drama, in One Act.

Dramatis Personæ.

The Earl of Burntalmond.
The Countess of Burntalmond (his wife).
Robert Henry Viscount Bullsaye (their son and heir).
The Lady Rose Caramel (niece to the Earl).
Horehound. } (Travelling as "The Celebrated Combination
Mrs. Horehound. } Korffdropp Troupe," in their refined and
Coltsfoot Horehound. } elegant Drawing-room Entertainment.)
Tenantry.

Scene—The Great Quadrangle of Hardbake Castle; banners, mottoes, decorations, &c. On the steps, R., the Earl, supported by his wife, son, and niece, is discovered in the act of concluding a speech to six tenantry, who display all the enthusiasm that is reasonably to be expected at ninepence a night.

The Earl (patting Lord Bullsaye's shoulder). I might say more, Gentlemen, in praise of my dear son, Lord Bullsaye, here—I might dwell on his extreme sweetness, his strongly marked character, the variety of his tastes, and the singular attraction he has for children of all ages—but I forbear. I will merely announce that on this day—the day he has selected for attaining his majority—he has gratified us all by plighting troth to his cousin, the Lady Rose Caramel, with whose dulcet and clinging disposition he has always possessed the greatest natural affinity.

[Cheers.

Lord Bullsaye (aside to Lady R.). Ah, Rose, would such happiness could last! But my heart misgives me strangely—why, I know not.

Lady R. Say not so, dear Bullsaye—have you not just rendered me the happiest little Patrician in the whole peerage?

Lord B. 'Tis true—and yet, and yet—pooh, let me snatch the present hour!

[Snatches it.

The Earl. And now, let the Revels commence.

Enter the Korffdropp Troupe, who give their marvellous Entertainment, entitled, "The Three Surprise Packets;" after which—

Horehound. This will conclude the first portion of our Entertainment, Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen; and, while my wife and pardner retires to change her costoom for the Second Part, I should be glad of the hoppertoonity of a short pussonal hexplanation with the noble Herl on my right.

[Exit Mrs. Horehound.

The Earl (graciously). I will hear you, fellow! (Aside.) Strange how familiar his features seem to me!

Horeh. The fact is, your Lordship's celebrating the coming of hage of the wrong heir. (Sensation—i.e., the six tenantry shift from one leg to the other, and murmur feebly.) Oh, I can prove it. Twenty-one years ago—(slow music)—I was in your Lordship's service as gamekeeper, 'ead whip, and hextry waiter. My son and yours was born the selfsame day, and my hold woman was selected to hact as foster-mother to the youthful lord. Well—(tells a long, and not entirely original, story; marvellous resemblance between infants, only distinguishable by green and magenta bows, &c., &c.) Soon after, your Lordship discharged me at a moment's notice——

The Earl (haughtily). I did, upon discovering that you were in the habit of surreptitiously carrying off kitchen-stuff, concealed within your umbrella. But proceed with your narration.

Horeh. I swore to be avenged, and so—(common form again; the shifted bows)—consequently, as a moment's reflection will convince you, the young man on the steps, in the button-'ole and tall 'at, is my lawful son, while the real Viscount is—(presenting Coltsfoot, who advances modestly on his hands)—'ere!

[Renewed sensation.

The Earl. This is indeed a startling piece of intelligence. (To Lord B.) And so, Sir, it appears that your whole life has been one consistent imposition—a gilded lie?

Lord B. Let my youth and inexperience at the time, Sir, plead as my best excuse!

The E. Nothing can excuse the fact that you—you, a low-born son of the people, have monopolised the training, the tenderness and education, which were the due of your Patrician foster-brother. (To Coltsfoot.) Approach, my injured, long-lost boy, and tell me how I may atone for these years of injustice and neglect!

Coltsf. Well, Guv'nor, if you could send out for a pot o' four arf, it 'ud be a beginning, like.

The E. You shall have every luxury that befits your rank, but first remove that incongruous garb.

Colts, (to Lord B.). These 'ere togs belong to you now, young feller, and I reckon exchange ain't no robbery.

Lord B. (with emotion, to Countess). Mother, can you endure to behold your son in tights and spangles on the very day of his majority?

Countess (coldly). On the contrary, it is my wish to see him attired as soon as possible, in a more appropriate costume.

Lord B. (to Lady R.). Rose, you, at least, have not changed? Tell me you will love me still—even on the precarious summit of an acrobat's pole!

Lady Rose (scornfully). Really the presumptuous familiarity of the lower orders is perfectly appalling!

The Earl (to Countess, as Lord B. and Coltsfoot retire to exchange costumes). At last, Pauline, I understand why I could never feel towards Bullsaye the affection of a parent. Often have I reproached myself for a coldness I could not overcome.

Countess. And I too! Nature was too strong for us. But, oh, the joy of recovering our son—of finding him so strong, so supple, so agile. Never yet has our line boasted an heir who can feed himself from a fork strapped on to his dexter heel!

The E. (with emotion). Our beloved, boneless boy!

[Re-enter Coltsfoot in modern dress, and Lord B. in tights.

Colts. Don't I look slap-up—O.K. and no mistake? Oh, I am 'aving a beano!

All. What easy gaiety, and unforced animation!

The E. My dear boy, let me present you to your fiancée. Rose, my love, this is your legitimate lover.

Colts. Oh, all right, I've no objections—on'y there'll be ructions with the young woman in the tight-rope line as I've been keepin' comp'ny with—that's all!

The E. Your foster-brother will act as your substitute there. (Proudly.) My son must make no mésalliance!

Rose (timidly). And, if it would give you any pleasure, I'm sure I could soon learn the tight-rope!

Colts. Not at your time o' life. Miss, and besides, 'ang it, now I'm a lord, I can't have my wife doin' nothing low!

The E. Spoken like a true Burntalmond! And now let the revels re-commence.

[Re-enter Mrs. Horehound.

Horeh. (to Lord B.). Now then, stoopid, tumble, can't you—what are you 'ere for?

Lord B. (to the Earl). Since it is your command, I obey, though it is ill tumbling with a heavy heart!

[Turns head over heels laboriously.

Colts. Call that a somersault? 'Ere, 'old my 'at (giving tall hat to Lady R.) I'll show yer 'ow to do a turn.

[Throws a triple somersault.

All. What condescension! How his aristocratic superiority is betrayed, even in competition with those to the manner born!

Mrs. Horeh. (still in ignorance of the transformation) Halt! I have kept silence till now—even from my husband, but the time has come when I must speak. Think you that if he were indeed a lord, he could turn such somersaults as those? No—no. I will reveal all. (Tells same old story—except that she herself from ambitious motives transposed the infants' bows.) Now, do with me what you will!

Horeh. Confusion, so my ill-judged action did but redress the wrong I designed to effect!

The E. (annoyed). This is a serious matter, reflecting as it does upon the legitimacy of my lately recovered son. What proof have you, woman, of your preposterous allegation?

Mrs. H. None, my lord,—but these—

[Exhibits two faded bunches of ribbon.

The E. I cannot resist such overwhelming evidence, fight against it as I may.

Lord B. (triumphantly). And so—oh, Father, Mother, Rose—dear, dear Rose—I am no acrobat after all!

The E. (sternly). Would you were anything half so serviceable to the community, Sir! I have no superstitious reverence for rank, and am, I trust, sufficiently enlightened to discern worth and merit—even beneath the spangled vest of the humblest acrobat. Your foster-brother, brief as our acquaintance has been, has already endeared himself to all hearts, while you have borne a trifling reverse of fortune with sullen discontent and conspicuous incapacity. He has perfected himself in a lofty and distinguished profession during years spent by you, Sir, in idly cumbering the earth of Eton and Oxford. Shall I allow him to suffer by a purely accidental coincidence? Never! I owe him reparation, and it shall be paid to the uttermost penny. From this day, I adopt him as my eldest son, and the heir to my earldom, and all other real and personal effects. See, Robert Henry, that you treat your foster-brother as your senior in future!

Coltsf. (to Lord B). Way-oh, ole matey, I don't bear no malice, I don't! Give us your dooks.

[Offering hand.

The C. Ah, Bullsaye, try to be worthy of such generosity!

[Lord B. grasps Coltsfoot's hand in silence.

Lady Rose. And pray, understand that, whether Mr. Coltsfoot be viscount or acrobat, it can make no difference whatever to the disinterested affection with which I have lately learnt to regard him.

[Gives her hand to Coltsfoot, who squeezes it with ardour.

Coltsf. (pleasantly). Well, Father, Mother, your noble Herlship and Lady, foster-brother Bullsaye, and my pretty little sweetart 'ere, what do you all say to goin' inside and shunting a little garbage, and shifting a drop or so of lotion, eh?

The E. A most sensible suggestion, my boy. Let us make these ancient walls the scene of the blithest—ahem!—beano they have ever yet beheld!

[Cheers from Tenantry, as the Earl leads the way into the Castle with Mrs. Horehound, followed by Horehound with the Countess and Coltsfoot with Lady Rose, Lord Bullsaye, discomfited and abashed, entering last as Curtain falls.]

KICKED!

(By the Foot of Clara Groomley.)

Chapter IV. and Last.

In the little sitting-room above his shop sat Mr. Assid Ropes. It was the afternoon before Christmas Day. He had generously allowed all his assistants to leave. "If anybody wants their hair cut, or their hat ironed," he said, "I'll do it myself, and then they'll wish they hadn't."

Yet, when a customer rapped on the floor below, Mr. Ropes felt exceedingly angry.

"What do you want?" he called down the stairs.

"I want my hat ironed," said a clear, manly voice.

"Go away! Your hat doesn't want ironing. Go to bed!"

"I will not go away," said the clear, firm voice, "until you have attended to my hat—hat once, if you please."

Mr. Ropes came grumbling down the stairs. For one moment he gazed at the man in the shop, and then flung his arms round him and wept tears of joy.

"My dear old friend, Cyril Mush!" he exclaimed.

They had been boys together at Eton, and rowed in the Trinity boat together at Cambridge. Fate had separated them.

In less than a minute they were talking over old times together in the little sitting-room over the shop. Cyril Mush was delighted. "You can't charge an old friend anything for just ironing his hat," he said, with his peculiarly winning smile.

Before Mr. Ropes could correct this impression, another voice was heard in the shop below.

"Can you come down for a minute—to oblige a lady?"

Mr. Ropes descended once more. In a minute he returned.

"Awfully sorry, Mush, but I must go. I've got to shave a dead poodle, and the men are coming to stuff it at nine o'clock to-night. It's for a lady—noblesse oblige, you know. I'll finish your hat when I come back."

In a second he was gone. Cyril Mush replaced the lining in his hat, and placed it on his head. He went out into the streets. He was wondering what poodle it was which Mr. Assid Ropes had gone to shave. Could it be the same? No, most certainly not. So of course it was the same.