PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 101.

August 8, 1891.

LARKS FOR LONDONERS.

Sir,—Certainly throw open all our Town Halls for gratuitous concerts and dances! But that's not half enough. Some of us don't care for dancing, and abhor music. What I propose is that Free Billiard-tables should be established in each parish. Billiards is much better exercise than sitting still on a chair listening to singing. Then there ought to be places where one could get municipal tobacco without paying for it. Tobacco is just as much a necessary of life as education—more so, in fact, in my opinion. On winter evenings it would also be nice to be able to step over to one's Town Hall and have a glass or two of free ale, or "wine from the wood"—also from the rates. I don't pay rates myself, as I happen to live in a flat, but I am sure the ratepayers will immediately recognise the justice of my demands.

UNBIASSED.

Sir,—By all means let us try to give more pleasure to the people. The pleasure, however, should be of a distinctly elevating kind. I would advocate throwing open the South Kensington Natural History Museum in the evening. This would be most useful, especially to people living at the East End, and the amusement thus afforded, though perhaps not rollicking, would at all events be solid. To keep out undesirable characters, it would be as well to admit nobody who could not produce his baptismal certificate, and a recommendation from the clergyman of his parish, countersigned by a resident J.P. I am sure that people would jump at a chance of an evening among the Coleoptera.

Yours, NATURALIST.

Sir,—I cannot understand why people should ask for more amusement than they get at present. Have not they the Parks to walk about in? In wet weather they can take shelter under trees. In winter they ought to stay at home in the evenings, and enjoy reading aloud to their families. I would even go so far as to allow an occasional game at draughts. Chess is too exciting, and of course backgammon is out of the question, because of the deadly dice-box. For the frivolously inclined, "Puss in the Corner" is a harmless indoor game. I throw out these observations for what they may be worth, and trusting that they will not be regarded as dangerously subversive of morality, I remain,

Yours grimly, HOME, SWEET HOME!

Sir,—The movement for turning our Town Halls into places of amusement is an excellent one. What I would like to suggest is, that the Vestrymen should themselves take part in the entertainments. Why not have weekly theatrical performances, with parts found for all local Authorities? I feel convinced that Hamlet, played by our Vestry, would be worth going miles to see. The Dust Contractor could play the Ghost, while minor characters could be sustained by the Medical Officer of Health, the Chaplain of the Workhouse, and others; the Chairman, of course, would figure in the title rôle. A topical comic song, by the Board of Guardians, with breakdown, might serve as a pleasing interlude; breakdowns in local matters are, I believe, not unknown already. The idea is worth considering. I think the Vestrymen owe something to the ratepayers in return for the votes we give them.

Yours, MERRY ANDREW.

BRUISERS AND BOLUSES.—A "Champion" pugilist is even more presumptuous than a popular Pill. He claims to be "Worth a Thousand Guineas a 'Box.'"

AFTER THE SEASON.

A Proposal Fin de Siècle.

Farewell! since the Season is over,

Ah me, but its moments were sweet!

You are oft', viâ Folkestone or Dover,

To some Continental retreat.

On Frenchman and German you'll lavish

The smiles that can madden me still;

While I, with the gillie McTavish,

Am breasting the heather-clad hill.

Oh, do you remember the dances,

The dearest were those we sat out,

How I frowned when detecting your glances

On others, which caused you to pout?

You are changeful and coy and capricious,

A weathercock easily blown;

But when shall I hear the delicious

One word that proclaims you my own?

They say that an eloquent passion

Has long become quite out of date,

That true love is never the fashion,

And marriage a wearisome state.

They conjure up many a bogie,

To guard a man's bachelor life,

And keep him a selfish old fogey,

And stop him from taking a wife.

They vow that a wife needs a carriage,

And opera-boxes and stalls,

That money's the one thing in marriage,

And cheques are as common as calls.

They say women shy (like some horses)

At vows made to love and obey;

They tell you drear tales of divorces,

And scandals, the talk of the day.

But hang all those cynical railings,

Just write me one exquisite line

To say you'll look over my failings,

And promise me you will be mine.

And though I'm aware it's the merest

Small matter of detail, to clear

The ground, I may mention, my dearest,

I've full thirty thousand a year.

BACON AND A MOUTHFUL.—Last Friday His Honour Judge BACON had to decide a case which was headed in the papers "Cagliostromantheon." What a mouthful! Mrs. CHURCHILL-JODRELL, who was a fair defendant, won the case; and His Honour—this appeal having been made to His Honour by Mr. B. PLAYFAIR, an excellent name for any gentleman, on or off the stage, but especially for one described as "an actor,"—decided that His Honour was satisfied. Peace with His Honour!

NEW TORY NURSERY RHYME.

(By "A Cambridge Parson.")

["The last reliance of the Tories in extremity is the policy of 'Dishing.'"—Sir W. Harcourt.]

Hey diddle diddle,

The voters we'd fiddle

With Free Education—that "boon."

But Wisbech birds laugh

At such plain party "chaff,"

And the "Dish"—at the polls—proves a "Spoon."

FROM GRANDOLPH THE EXPLORER.

Oh, for one hour of the Amphytrion! I can't even send you a digest of the news generally, for my power to digest is already becoming seriously impaired. Here, indeed, as say the Witches in Macbeth (I think it's the Witches, but haven't my Shakspeare handy, I mean my Handy Shakspeare, with me—wish I had), "Fowl is Fare." Send my Pilgrim's Scrip next week. Till then, Yours ever, GRANDOLPH.

IN THE NAME OF CHARLES DIBDIN!

A Lay for the Lifeboat Service.

[An urgent appeal is made on behalf of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, which is declared to be "in dire financial straits," the deficit for last year being £33,000. Subscriptions and donations will be thankfully received by CHARLES DIBDIN, Esq., Secretary, R.N.L.I., 14, St. John Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.]

True "tuneful CHARLEY is no more,"

As DIBDIN's Monument informs us;

But memory of the man who bore

That honoured name still stirs and warms us.

And here's another of his name,

Who still the British Sailor's serving;

Then who could see without sore shame

JOHN BULL from his plain duty swerving?

Thirty-three Thousand to the bad,

Our Lifeboat Service, once our glory?

Nay, JOHN, that will not do, my lad;

Next year must tell a different story.

Think, what would "tuneful CHARLEY" say

To such a thing? In racy lingo,

Upon our backs his lash he'd lay,

And give the slothful Britons "stingo."

Thirty-five thousand lives they've saved,

Our Life-boat rescuers, already.

The seas around our shores they've braved,

With valour prompt and patience steady.

Shall they be floored for L.S.D.,

Because JOHN BULL his pockets buttons?

Then the old keepers of the Sea

Must be, in pluck, as dead as muttons.

True, lads, on such a text as this

"We sadly miss old CHARLEY's line;"

But were we mute, Neptune would hiss

His sons degenerate off the brine.

Old "CHARLEY" spins his yarns no more!

He's dead, as Scrooge declared old Marley.

What then? Wake up, from shore to shore,

And—send your guineas to Young CHARLEY!

"Great Scot!"

[Extorted, by circumstances beyond his control, from a stolid but unsuccessful Saxon Shootist at Bisley and Wimbledon, after the match at the latter place between picked twenties of the London Scottish and the London Rifle Brigade, won easily by the former team.]

Oh! the Scot lot are all cracks at a shot,

And extremely successful at Hunting the Pot.

This particular "Saxon" the hump has got,

Being licked by a team which is Picked and Scot.

SETTING THEIR CAPS AT HIM; OR, AN AUTOCRAT IN ODD COMPANY.

["Never," said the CZAR, at the Imperial dinner to which the Officers of the French Fleet were invited, "could I have believed that Republican Sailors, that Republican Soldiers, could have such a bearing."—Times.

"The CZAR has, at the instance of the United States, ordered a temporary relaxation of the measures for the expulsion of the Jews from Russia."—Times.]

"How happy could I be with either?"

Humph! N-n-o-o, I can hardly say that!

Yet here we are, tripping together,

Republics and proud Autocrat!

Two cats and a Boreal Bruin!—

So satire will say, I've no doubt.

And some will declare it must ruin

The Russdom once ruled by the knout.

I wonder—I very much wonder—

What NICK to this sight would have said—

I fear he'd have looked black as thunder,

And savage as RURIC the Red.

For this did we lose the Crimea?

For this did we larrup the Jews?

I really had not an idea

Republics could rule—and amuse.

Miss FRANCE looks extremely coquettish.

How well Miss COLUMBIA can coax!

The Teuton, no doubt, will look pettish,

The Briton will grumble "a hoax."

Aha! I can snub a Lord Mayor,

And give shouting Emperors a hint;

I back La Belle France. Her betrayer

My meaning must see, plain as print.

My reply to the great Guildhall grumble

Had less of politeness than pith,

But—well I've no wish so to humble

My friend Mr. EMORY SMITH,

Or CRAWFORD, the Consul. No thank ye,

Persona gratissima, he;

And therefore I yield to the Yankee

The boon I refused to J.B.

But yet, all the same, it is funny

To see Three like us in One Boat.

COLUMBIA looks dulcet as honey,

Miss F.'s every glance is a gloat.

I never imagined Republics

Could have such a "bearing" as these.

Enjoyingly as a bear cub licks

The comb sweetly filled by the bees,

I list to their flattering-chatter;

Their voices are pleasant—in praise;

But—well, though it seems a small matter,

I don't like that dashed "Marseillaise."

And "Israel in Egypt" sounds pointed

I'd Pharaoh the miscreants—but stay,

My soliloquy's getting disjointed,

I've promised! COLUMBIA looks gay,

La Belle France displays a grande passion;

My arms they unitedly press.

One thing though; the Phrygian fashion

Is not my ideal of dress.

They swear that they both love me dearly,

Their "best of old Autocrat Chaps!"

They are setting their Caps at me, clearly,

But,—well, I don't quite like the Caps!

THE CAPLESS MAID.

["The plaintiff gave evidence that she was engaged as a sort of house and parlour-maid ... and was discharged after she had been there nine days, because she refused to wear a cap ... His Honour: I do not think she was bound to wear a cap."—Daily Paper.]

What shall we do with our Maid?

How shall we treat her best?

Shall the gems that are rare be strewed in her hair?

And shall she in silks be drest?

Shall we make her a gift of gold?

Shall we make her our queen? Perhaps.

But whatever we make her, wherever we take her,

We never must make her wear caps.

Imperious, capless, supreme,

Do just as you please evermore;

And wear what you will, for we shall be

And never complain as before.

We may put all our money in mines,

We may put all our cheese into traps,

But we put, it is clear, our foot in it, dear,

When we try to put you into caps.

THE DIFFERENCE.

["It needs no argument to show that in the summer of 1893 Mr. GLADSTONE is less likely to take an active part in any electoral contest than he can be in the spring or autumn of 1892."—Mr. Edward Dicey, on "The Next Parliament."]

"Time's on our side," said GLADSTONE. DICEY, too,

Takes Edax Rerum as his friend most true.

GLADSTONE Time's "Hour Glass" trusts; but DICEY's blithe

Because his hopes are centred on Time's scythe.

Faith lives in Life, but Fear's most vigorous breath

Lives "in the sure and certain hope"—of Death!

Resignation.

"Fire! Fire!"

"Where? where?'

SHAW's resigned.

Then find

Another one!

Many gone?

Fire! Where?

Here's a scare!!

A NEW WAY OF PAYING CHURCH DEBTS.

UPON A GLOVE.

(After the fashion—more or less—of Herrick.)

Oh, limp and leathery type of Social Sham,

And Legislative Flam!

Which cunning CUNNINGHAME and MATTHEWS cool

(Both prompt to play the fool,

In free-lance fashion or official form)

Prattled of, 'midst a storm

Of crackling laughter, and ironic cheers,

And sniggering, "Hear, hears!"—

Thou summest well the humbug of our lives.

The fistic "bunch of fives"

Is not like JULIA's jewelled "palm of milk"

Shrouded in kid or silk,

But JULIA was a sensuous little "sell,"

And SMITH and PRITCHARD—well,

One would not like a clump upon the head

From the teak-noddled "TED,"

Or e'en a straight sockdollager from "JEM;"

But somehow "bhoys" like them,

Who mill three rounds to an uproarious "house,"

And only nap "a mouse,"

Though one before the end of the third bout

Is clean "knocked out,"—

Such burly, brawny buffetters for hire,

Who in ten minutes tire,

And clutch the ropes, and turn a Titan back

To shun the impending thwack,—

Such "Champions" smack as much of trick and pelf

As venal JULIA's self.

GRAHAM may be a "specialist," no doubt,

And "What is a knock-out?"

May mystify ingenuous MATTHEWS much;

But Truth's Ithuriel touch

Applied to pulpy "JEM" and steely "TED,"

(Of "slightly swollen" head)

As well as unsophisticated COBB,

(If Truth were "on the job,")

Might find False Show and Pharisaic "Stodge,"

And Law-evading dodge,

Dissimulating "Innocence," sham bravery,

Blind Justice, lynx-eyed knavery,

All the material the Satirist loves,

In those same "four-ounce gloves"!

OMITTED FROM PORTRAIT GALLERY

AT THE ROYAL NAVAL EXHIBITION.

Portrait of William Hatley, Black-Eye'd Susan, and Captain Crosstree, R.N.

Portrait of Tom Bowline. Also a picture of Davy Jones, to be presented by Mr. Frederick Locker.

A Horse Marine, A.D. 1815.

Portrait of William Taylor, as a gay young fellow. Also his affianced bride, as "William Carr," after she had "dabbled her lily-white hands in the nasty pitch and tar."

Picture of somebody, name unknown, inquiring of Benjamin Bolt whether or no he happened to remember "Sweet Alice, sweet Alice with hair so brown, who wept with delight when you (B.B.) gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at your (B.B.'s) frown?" The portrait also of the aforesaid Alice, evidently rather a weak-minded young person.

Also pictures of "Pol" and "Partner Joe;" and a likeness of "Black Brandon," very rare, in "penny plain" form, or "twopence coloured."

WITH THE B.M.A. AT BOURNEMOUTH.

In order to satisfy myself as to truth in conflicting reports about Bournemouth as a summer resort, I take express 12·30 from Waterloo, and go straight away to my terminus, stopping, if I remember rightly, only twice on the road. First-rate run, through lovely scenery, with the London and South-Western Pack; found at Waterloo, and, with the exception of a slight check of only three minutes at Southampton Water—scent generally lost where water is, I believe—and another of a few seconds at Brockenhurst, ran into our quarry at Bournemouth Station West, in just two hours and a half. [Happy Thought.—Lunch en route, between 12·30 and 3. Pullman cars attached to some trains, not all. Certainly recommend Pullman, where possible; all comforts at hand for eating and drinking: likewise smoking-room, &c., &c.]

"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have your company."—Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to Un-illustrious Visitor.

Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice, or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo, and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a delightfully mean temperature,—if I may be allowed to use the word "mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.

Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present moment. Odd!

"Not at all," explains flyman; "British Medical Association here. All sorts of festivities. Hotels all crowded. Lodgings too."

If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a bathing-machine. Not bad: if fine. Can be called early; then sea-bath; also man to bring hot water and towels. While speculating on this probability, we arrive at

Royal Bath Hotel.—Flag flying, showing that British Medical Association Family are at home. Other flags elsewhere express same idea. B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course. Array of servants in brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive visitors. Pleasant and courteous Manager—evidently Manager—with foreign accent receives me smilingly. "Any difficulty about rooms?" I ask, nervously. "None whatever in your case," returns courteous Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive pronoun. In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies, chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting my lightest bow and heaviest baggage. I am "to be shown up." (Absit omen!) However, I am shown up. Charming room: sea-view, nearly all the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The Warm Bath Hotel.

I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall. "Let me see," I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; "where's my waterproof with two capes? I've missed—er—" I hesitate, being still uncertain.

A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room. He pauses in his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat, "Missed—er—" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir, I'll tell him," and vanishes.

"Tell him?" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out, "Wrapper—with two capes—probably in the hall—don't see it here." To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible, finishing with, "up there."

I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached, white-vested, and generally "in full fig."—(Mem.—Write to Notes and Queries, Unde derivatur—"Full fig?") who advances briskly but quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on my part, or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you; my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure, Sir, I am more than delighted to see you!" and he proffers his hand, which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs to Mr. CAPES,—Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c. This amiable gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself. I also am delighted. "Very kind of him to take this trouble," I say.

"Not at all," he won't hear of there being any special kindness on his part. And as to trouble!—well, he scouts that idea with an energetic wave of his hand. Now, he wants to know, what will I do, where will I go, what will I take? Section A. of the Medical Association is meeting in the Town Hall, but I shall be late for that; or "perhaps," suggests the considerate Proprietor, "you would like to rest a bit before dinner at seven. Then there's the Concert afterwards. I have tickets for you, and no doubt on your return you'll have a cigar in the smoking-room with your friends, and be glad to get to bed."

I thank him: most kind. I say, smilingly, that "No doubt, shall meet some friends;" a remark which seems to tickle him immensely. As a matter of fact, however, I confide to him that I should prefer keeping myself quiet this evening, as I have so much to do to-morrow morning.

"Of course you have," assents the Proprietor most sympathetically. "And you'd like to rest as much as possible to-night after your journey. You'd like a table to yourself a little later. No—no—no thanks, I'm only too delighted."

And, so saying, the kind Proprietor leaves me to see to the hundred-and-one things he has to do to-day, only stopping the Boots, who now arrives with the double-caped waterproof I had sent him for, to point me out to him, and to tell him to order a private table for me in the salle à manger "at—at?"—he queries—and I reply by inquiring if I may fix it for 7·45, as the room will be quieter then. "Certainly," says Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, without making the slightest difficulty about it. Then, turning to Boots, he says, "7·45," whereupon Boots repeats the mystic formula. And thus 'tis arranged.

Delightful gardens of Hotel. Stroll out on to cliff. Beautiful air, not the least enervating. On the contrary, refreshing. Returning later on to dress, I see the salle à manger full to overflowing. The Medicals are all feeding well and wisely, as Medicals ought to do. A pleasant company. Only a few of the younger and idler spirits remain when I sit down to my dinner about eight. Excellent cuisine. Couldn't be better. Salmon-trout from Christchurch, Poole pickles, beef from Boscombe, Hampshire ham with Bournemouth beans. For wine, Peter Pommery '80; and the whole to finish with Corfe Castle Korffee, a Lyndhurst liqueur, and cigar in the sea-garden, or garden o'erlooking the sea.

Lovely night. Then, after a stroll, "to bed," as Lady Macbeth observes. Sensible person, Lady Mac.

On second thoughts will look at papers in smoking-room. Am alone at first, but in a few minutes room crowded. Medical Association has returned in force. I catch occasional bits in conversation:—

"Pity MCSIMMUM (or some name very like this) couldn't come. Great pity; missed him immensely." (Here several stories about MCSIMMUM, all evidently more or less good, and all interesting. I myself begin to wish that MCSIMMUM had arrived. He would have been an acquisition.) More medical men of various ages and with variety of spectacles. All enjoying themselves thoroughly,—quite medical boys out for a holiday,—but every one of them, individually and collectively, intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.

Mr. CAPES is energetically explaining and protesting to everybody. Amid the hum and buzz of voices, I catch what he is saying. It is, "My dear Sir, Dr. MCSIMMUM is here. I've seen him. He dined alone. He said he preferred it, as he had so much to do to-morrow." Then several exclaim, "But where is he now?"

"I don't know," replies the Proprietor. "Most likely, being tired, he has gone to bed. I myself showed him to his room, No. 142, on his arrival."