The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 8, 1890, by Various, Edited by F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98.

February 8, 1890.

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

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

Le Diable Boiteux.

XIX.

"A Late Symposium! Yet they're not engaged

In compotations. Argument hath raged

Four hours by the dial;

But zealotry of party, creed, or clique

Marks not the clock, whilst of polemic pique

There's one unvoided vial."

So smiled the Shade. Dusk coat and gleaming head,

Viewed from above, before my gaze outspread

Like a black sea bespotted

With bare pink peaks of coral isles; all eyes

Were fixed on one who reeled out rhapsodies

In diction double-shotted.

A long and lofty room, with pillars cold,

And spacious walls of chocolate and gold;

The solid sombre glory

Of tint oppressive and of tasteless shine,

Dear to the modern British Philistine,

Saint, sceptic, Whig, or Tory.

"No Samson-strength of intellect or taste

Shall bow the pillars of this temple chaste

Of ugliness and unction.

What is't they argue lengthily and late?

The flame of patriot passion for the State

Fires this polemic function.

"A caitiff Government has done a thing

To make its guardian-angel droop her wing

In sickened indignation:

That is, has striven to strengthen its redoubts,

Perfidious 'Ins,' to foil the eager 'Outs.'

Hence endless execration.

"Hence all Wire-pullerdom is up in arms;

With clarion-toned excursions and alarms

The rival camp is ringing.

Hence perky commoners and pompous peers,

'Midst vehement applause and volleying cheers,

Stale platitudes are stringing.

"The British Public—some five hundred strong—

Is here to 'strangle a Gigantic Wrong,'—

So Marabout is saying.

Watch his wide waistcoat and his wandering eyes,

His stamping boots of Brobdingnagian size,

Clenched hands, and shoulders swaying.

"A great Machine-man, Marabout! He dotes

On programmes hectographed and Party votes.

For all his pasty pallor

And shifty glance, he has the mob's regard,

And he is deemed by council, club, and ward

A mighty man of valour.

"A purchased henchman to a Star of State?

Perhaps. But here he'll pose and perorate,

A Brutus vain and voluble.

And who, like Marabout, with vocal flux

Of formulas, can settle every crux

That wisdom finds insoluble?

"'Hear! hear!' That shibboleth of shallow souls

Around his ears in clamorous cadence rolls;

He swells, he glows, he twinkles;

The sapient Chairman wags his snowy pate,

Whilst cynic triumph, cautious yet elate,

Lurks laughing in his wrinkles.

"And there sits honest zeal, absorbed, intent,

And cheerfully credulous. Marabout has bent

To the Commercial Dagon

He publicly derides; but many here

Will toast 'his genuine grit, his manly cheer,'

Over a friendly flagon.

"Look on him later! There he snugly sits

With his rich patron. Were it war of wits

That wakes their crackling chuckles,

They scarce were heartier. It would strangely shock

Marabout's worshippers to hear him mock

The 'mob' to which he truckles.

"Truckles in platform speech. In club-room chat

With Wagstaff, shrewd wire-puller, flushed and fat,

Or Dodd, the rich dry-salter,

You'd hear how supply he can shift and twist,

How Brutus with 'the base Monopolist'

Can calmly plot and palter,"

"Whilst Marabouts abound, O Shade," I cried,

"What wonder men are 'Mugwumps?'" Then my guide

Laughed low. "The æsthetic villa

Finds Shopdom's zeal on its fine senses jar;

Yet the Mugwumps Charybdis stands not far

From the Machine-man's Scylla.

"Culture derides the Caucus for its heat,

Its hate—its absence of the Light and Sweet,

So jays might flout the vulture.

Partisan bitterness and purblind haste?

Come, view the haunts of dilettante Taste,

The coteries of Culture!

"Here Savants wrangle o'er a fossil bone,

Champer, with curling lip and caustic tone,

At Ruddiman is railing.

Champer knows everything, from Plato's text

To Protoplasm; yet his soul is vext,

His cheeks with spite are paling.

"Why? Because Ruddiman, the rude, robust,

Has pierced with logic's vigorous vulgar thrust

The shield of icy polish.

Champer, in print, is hot on party-hate,

Here his one aim is in the rough debate

His rival to demolish.

"Sweet Reasonableness? Another host

Of sages see! The habits of the Ghost,

The Astral Body's action,

Absorb them, eager. Does more furious fire

The councils of the Caucusites inspire,

Or light the feuds of faction?

"And there? They argue out with toil intense

A 'cosmic' poet's esoteric sense,

Of which a world, unwitting,

Recks nothing. Yet how terribly they'd trounce

Parliament's pettifogging, and denounce

'Political hair-splitting'!"

"O Shade, the difference is but small, one dreads.

Betwixt logomachists at loggerheads,

Whether their theme be bonnets

Or British interests. Zealot ardour burns

Scarce fiercer o'er Electoral Returns

Than over Shakspeare's Sonnets.

"At Marabout the Mugwump sniffs and sneers;

Gregarious 'votes of thanks' and sheepish 'cheers'

Stir him to satire scornful.

But when sleek Culture apes, irate and loud,

The follies of the Caucus and the Crowd,

The spectacle is mournful."

"True!" smiled the Shade. "Yon supercilious sage,

With patent prejudice and petty rage,

Penning a tart jobation

On practised Statesmen, must as much amuse

As Statesmen-sciolists venting vapid views

On rocks and revelation."

(To be continued.)

THE SOUTH-EASTERN ALPHABET.

A was the Anger evinced far and wide;

B was the Boat-train delayed by the tide;

C was the Chairman who found nothing wrong;

D was the Driver who sang the same song;

E was the Engine that stuck on the way;

F stood for Folkestone, reached late every day;

G was the Grumble to which this gave rise;

H was the Hubbub Directors despise;

I was the Ink over vain letters used;

J were the Junctions which some one abused;

K was the Kick "Protest" got for its crimes;

L were the Letters it wrote to the Times;

M was the Meeting that probed the affair;

N was the Nothing that came of the scare;

O was the Overdue train on its way;

P was the Patience that bore the delay;

Q was the Question which struck everyone;

R the Reply which could satisfy none;

S was the Station where passengers wait;

T was the Time that they're bound to be late;

U was the Up-train an hour overdue;

V was the Vagueness its movements pursue;

W stood for time's general Waste;

X for Ex-press that could never make haste;

Y for the Wherefore and Why of this wrong;

And Z for the Zanies who stand it so long!

Startling for Gourmets.—"Bisques disallowed." But it only refers to a new rule of the Lawn Tennis Association; so "Bisque d'écrevisses" will still be preserved to us among the embarras de richesse—(i.e. the trouble caused subsequently by the richness,—free trans.)—of a thoroughgoing French dinner.

THE NEW TUNE.

Le Brav' Général tootles:—

Heroes bold owe much to bold songs.

What's that? "Cannot sing the old songs"?

Pooh! 'Tis a Britannic ditty.

Truth, though, in it,—more's the pity!

"En revenant de la Revue."

People tire of that—too true!

I must give them something new.

Played out, Frenchmen? Pas de danger!

Whilst you've still your Brav' Boulanger!

Do they think Boulanger "mizzles,"

After all his recent "fizzles"?

(Most expressive slang, the Yankee!)

Pas si bête, my friends. No thank ye!

Came a cropper? Very true!

But I remount—my hobby's new,

So's my trumpet. Rooey-too!

France go softly? Pas de danger!

Whilst she has her Brav' Boulanger!

Cannot say her looks quite flatter.

Rather scornful. What's the matter?

Have you lost your recent fancy

For me and my charger prancy?

Turn those eyes this way, now do!

Mark my hobby,—not a screw!

Listen to my chanson new!

Bismarck flout you? Pas de danger!

He's afraid of Brav' Boulanger.

Of your smile be not so chary!

The sixteenth of February

Probably will prove my care is

The especial charge of Paris.

Then you'll know that I am true.

"En revenant de la Revue;"

Stick to me, I'll stick to you.

Part with you, sweet? Pas de danger!

Not the game of Brav' Boulanger!

THE CAPTAIN OF THE "PARIS."

Captain Sharp, of the Newhaven steamer, Paris, you're no craven;

Grim and growling was the gale that you from your dead reckoning bore;

And, but for your brave behaving, she might never have made haven,

But have foundered in mid-Channel, or been wrecked on a lee-shore.

With your paddle-floats unfeathered, wonder was it that you weathered

Such a storm as that of Sunday, which upset our nerves on land,

Though in fire-side comfort tethered. How it blew, and blared, and blethered!

All your passengers, my Captain, say your pluck and skill were grand.

Much to men like you is owing, when wild storms around are blowing,

As they seem to have been doing since the opening of the year:

Howling, hailing, sleeting, snowing; but for captains calm and knowing,

Passage of our angry Channel were indeed a task of fear.

Well, you brought them safely through it, when not every man could do it,

And your passengers, my Captain, are inspired with gratitude.

Therefore, Mr. Punch thus thanks you, and right readily enranks you,

As a hero on the record of our briny island brood.

Verily the choice of "Paris" in this case proved right; and rare is

Fitness between name and nature such as that you illustrate.

Captain Sharp! A proper nomen, and it proved a prosperous omen

To your passengers, whom Punch must on their luck congratulate.

On Board the Channel Steamer "Paris"
(Night of Saturday, January 25, 1890).—"Sharp's the word!"

NOTHING LIKE A CHANGE!

Dr. Cockshure. "My good Sir, what you want is thorough alteration of Climate. The only thing to Cure you is a long Sea Voyage!"

Patient. "That's rather inconvenient. You see I'm only just Home from a Sea Voyage round the World!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The title of the second chapter of The Days of the Dandies, in Blackwood, is calculated to excite curiosity,—it is, "Some Great Beauties, and some Social Celebrities." After reading the article, I think it would have been styled more correctly, "A Few Great Beauties." However, it is discursively amusing and interesting. There is much truth in the paper on Modern Mannish Maidens. I hold that no number of a Magazine is perfect without a tale of mystery and wonder, or a ghost-story of some sort. I hope I have not overlooked one of these in any Magazine for this month that I have seen. Last month there was a good one in Macmillan, and another in Belgravia. I forget their titles, unfortunately, and have mislaid the Magazines. But After-thoughts, in this month's Macmillan, is well worth perusal.

My faithful "Co." has been looking through the works of reference. He complains that Dod's Peerage, Baronetage, and Knighthood for 1890 is carelessly edited. He notes, as a sample, that Sir Henry Leland Harrison, who is said to have been born in 1857, is declared to have entered the Indian Civil Service in 1860, when he was only three years old—a manifest absurdity. As Mr. Punch himself pointed out this bêtise in Dod's &c., &c., for 1889, it should have been corrected in the new edition. "If this sort of thing continues," says the faithful "Co.," "Dod will be known as Dodder, or even Dodderer!" Sir Bernard Burke's Genealogical and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage is, in every sense, a noble volume, and seems to have been compiled with the greatest care and accuracy. Kelly's Post Office Directory, of course, is a necessity to every man of letters. Whitaker's Almanack for 1890 seems larger than usual, and better than ever. Webster's Royal Red Book, and Gardiner's Royal Blue Book, it goes without saying, are both written by men of address. The Century Atlas and Gazetteer is a book amongst a hundred. Finally, the Era Almanack for 1890, conducted by Edward Ledger, is, as usual, full of information concerning things theatrical—some of it gay, some of it sad. "Replies to Questions by Actors and Actresses" is the liveliest contribution in the little volume. The Obituary contains the name of "Edward Litt Leman Blanchard," dramatist, novellist, and journalist, who died on the 4th of September, 1889. It is hard to realise the Era Almanack without the excellent contributions of poor "E. L. B.!"

"Co." furnishes some other notes in a livelier strain:—

Matthew Prior. (Kegan Paul.) If you are asked to go out in this abominable weather, shelter yourself under the wing of Mr. Austin Dobson, and plead a prior engagement. (Ha! Ha!) You will find the engagement both prior and profitable. Mr. Dobson's introductory essay is not only exhaustive, but in the highest degree interesting, and his selection from the poems has been made with great taste and rare discretion.

In the Garden of Dreams. The lack of poets of the softer sex has been recently a subject of remark. Lady-novelists we have in super-abundance, of lady-dramatists we have more than enough, of lady-journalists we have legions—but lady-poets we have but few. Possibly, they flourish more on the other side of the Atlantic. At any rate we have a good example of the American Muse in the latest volume by Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton. This little book is full of grace, its versification is melodious, and has the genuine poetic ring about it, which is as rare as it is acceptable. It can scarcely fail to find favour with English readers.

Baron de Book-Worms & Co.

Epidemiological.

Dear Mr. Punch,—The Camel is reported to be greatly instrumental in the spread of cholera. This is evidently the Bacterian Camel, whose humps—or is it hump?—have long been such a terror to those who really don't care a bit how many humps an animal has.

Yours faithfully,

Humphry Campbell.

To Those who get their Living by Dyeing.—"Sweet Auburn!" exclaimed a ruddy, aureate-haired lady of uncertain age,—anything, in fact, after fifty,—"'Sweet Auburn!'" she repeated, musingly, "What does 'Sweet Auburn' come from?" "Well," replied her husband, regarding her coiffure with an air of uncertainty, "I'm not quite sure, but I think 'Sweet Auburn' should be Gray."

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. V.—BRUNETTE AND BLANCHIDINE.

A Melodramatic Didactic Vaudeville, suggested by "The Wooden Doll and the Wax Doll." By the Misses Jane and Ann Taylor.

Dramatis Personæ.

Blanchidine, } By the celebrated Sisters Stilton, the
Brunette. } Champion Duettists and Clog-dancers.
Fanny Furbelow. By Miss Sylvia Sealskin (by kind permission of the Gaiety Management).
Frank Manly. By Mr. Henry Neville.

Scene—A Sunny Glade in Kensington Gardens, between the Serpentine and Round Pond.

Enter Blanchidine and Brunette, with their arms thrown affectionately around one another. Blanchidine is carrying a large and expressionless wooden doll.

Duet and Step-dance.

Bl. Oh, I do adore Brunette! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, tappity-tippity, tippity-tappity, tip-tap!
Br. Blanchidine's the sweetest pet! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.

Together.

[Combination step-dance, during which both watch their feet with an air of detached and slightly amused interest, as if they belonged to some other persons.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity, clickity, clickity-clack; clackity-clickity, clickity-clackity, clackity-clickity-clack!

[Repeat ad. lib.

Bl. (apologetically to Audience). Her taste in dress is rather plain! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.

Br. (in pitying aside). It is a pity she's so vain! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.

Bl.

Br.

[Step-dance as before.

[N.B.—In consideration of the well-known difficulty that most popular variety-artists experience in the metrical delivery of decasyllabic couplets, the lines which follow have been written as they will most probably be spoken.

Bl. (looking off with alarm). Why, here comes Fanny Furbelow, a new frock from Paris in!
She'll find me with Brunette—it's too embarrassing!

[Aside.

To Brunette. Brunette, my love, I know such a pretty game we'll play at—
Poor Timburina's ill, and the seaside she ought to stay at.
(The Serpentine's the seaside, let's pretend,)
And you shall take her there—(hypocritically)—you're such a friend!
Br. (with simplicity). Oh, yes, that will be splendid, Blanchidine,
And then we can go and have a dip in a bathing-machine!

[Blan. resigns the wooden doll to Brun., who skips off with it, L., as Fanny Furbelow enters, R., carrying a magnificent wax doll.

Fanny (languidly). Ah, howdy do—isn't this heat too frightful?
And so you're quite alone?
Bl. (nervously). Oh, quite—oh yes, I always am alone, when there's nobody with me.

[This is a little specimen of the Lady's humorous "gag," at which she is justly considered a proficient.

Fanny (drawling). Delightful!
When I was wondering, only a little while ago,
If I should meet a creature that I know;
Allow me—my new doll, the Lady Minnie!

[Introducing doll.

Bl. (rapturously). Oh, what a perfect love!
Fanny. She ought to be—for a guinea!
Here, you may nurse her for a little while.
Be careful, for her frock's the latest style.

[Gives Blan. the wax doll.

She's the best wax, and has three changes of clothing—
For those cheap wooden dolls I've quite a loathing.
Bl. (hastily). Oh, so have I—they're not to be endured!

Re-enter Brunette with the wooden doll, which she tries to press upon Blanchidine, much to the latter's confusion.

Br. I've brought poor Timburina back, completely cured!
Why, aren't you pleased? Your face is looking so cloudy!
F. (haughtily). Is she a friend of yours—this little dowdy?

[Slow music.

Bl. (after an internal struggle). Oh, no, what an idea! Why, I don't even know her by name!
Some vulgar child ...