The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 23, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 102.
April 23, 1892.
TOWN THOUGHTS FROM THE COUNTRY.
(With the usual apologies.)
Oh, to be in London now that April's there,
And whoever walks in London sees, some morning, in the Square,
That the upper thousands have come to Town,
To the plane-trees droll in their new bark gown,
While the sparrows chirp, and the cats miaow
In London—now!
And after April, when May follows
And the black-coats come and go like swallows!
Mark, where yon fairy blossom in the Row
Leans to the rails, and canters on in clover,
Blushing and drooping, with her head bent low!
That's the wise child: she makes him ask twice over,
Lest he should think she views with too much rapture
Her first fine wealthy capture!
But,—though her path looks smooth, and though, alack,
All will he gay, till Time has painted black
The Marigold, her Mother's chosen flower,—
Far brighter is my Heartsease, Love's own dower.
A WANT.—"There is only one thing," a visitor writes to us, "that I missed at Venice, S.W. I've never been to the real place, which is the Bride, or Pride, of the Sea, I forget which, but, as I was saying, there's only one thing I miss, and that is the heather. Who has not heard of 'the moor of Venice'? And I daresay good shooting there too, with black game and such like. I only saw pigeons flying, who some one informed me are the pigeons of SAM MARK. Next time I go, I shall inquire at the Restaurant for fresh Pigeon Pie. However, if Mr. KIRALFY will take a hint, he will, in August provide a moor. It will add to the gaiety of the show. 'The moor the merrier,' eh?"
Neo-Dramatic Nursery Rhyme.
MRS. GRUNDY, good woman, scarce knew what to think
About the relation 'twixt Drama and Drink.
Well, give Hall—and Theatre—good wholesome diet,
And all who attend will be sober and quiet!
SPRING'S DELIGHTS IN LONDON.—"VIA MALODORA"—clearly a lady, "DORA" for short—wrote to the Times complaining that the result of the splendid weather for the first ten days of the month was the reproduction of "summer effluvium rank and offensive" in Piccadilly. Poor Piccadilly! Oh, its "offence is rank," and Miss DORA might add, quoting to her father from another scene in Hamlet, "And smells so. Pa'!" West-Enders, in a dry summer, must he prepared to have "a high old time of it."
SANCTA SIMPLICITAS.
Orthodox Old Maid. "BUT, REBECCA, IS YOUR PLACE OF WORSHIP CONSECRATED?"
Domestic (lately received into the Plymouth Brotherhood). "OH NO, MISS—IT'S GALVANISED IRON!"
MY SOAP.
I'm the maker of a Soap, which I confidently hope
In the advertising tournament will win,
And remain the fit survival, having vanquished every rival
Which is very detrimental to the skin.
I will now proceed to show, what the public ought to know,
Unless they would be blindly taken in.
How in every soap but mine certain qualities combine
To make it detrimental to the skin.
But surely at this date it is needless I should state
That the cheaper soaps are barely worth a pin,
For they all contain a mixture, either free or as a fixture,
Which is very detrimental to the skin.
And every cake you buy is so charged with alkali,
To soda more than soap it is akin;
It is really dear at last, for it wastes away so fast.
And is very detrimental to the skin.
The public I must warn of the colours that adorn
The soaps ambitious foreigners bring in;
They are often very pretty, but to use them is a pity,
For they're very detrimental to the skin.
There are soaps which you can see through. I ask, What can it be through?
Is it resin, or some other form of sin?
There are soaps which smell too strong, and of course that must be wrong,
And extremely detrimental to the skin.
And too much fat's injurious, and so are soaps sulphureous,
Though they say they keep the hair from growing thin;
They may keep a person's hair on, like the precious oil of AARON,
And yet be detrimental to his skin.
In short, the only soap which is fit for Prince or Pope
(I have sent some to the KAISER at Berlin)
Is the article I sell you. Don't believe the firms who tell you
It is very detrimental to the skin.
A LIQUOR QUESTION.—Why does a toper—especially when "before the beak"—always say that he was "in drink," when he evidently means that the drink was in him? The only soaker on record who could rightly be said to be "in drink" was,
"Maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt."
He was "in liquor" with a vengeance. But less lucky wine-bibbers need not be illogical as well as inebriate.
MR. GOSCHEN'S BUDGET.—"From a fiscal point of view, the Tobacco receipts are extremely good." So unlike JOKIM. Of course, as he never loses a chance of a jeu de mot, what he must have said was, that "the Tobacco 'returns' are extremely good." "A birthday Budget,—many happy 'returns,'" he observed jocosely to PRINCE ARTHUR, "quite japing times!" And off he went for his holiday; and, weather permitting, as he reclines in his funny among the weeds, he will gently murmur, "Dulce est desipere in smoko."
THE NEWEST NARCISSUS;
OR, THE HERO OF OUR DAYS.
["—The curious tendency towards imitation which is observed whenever some specially sensational crime is brought into the light of publicity."—Morning Post.']
NARCISSUS? He, that foul ill-favoured brute,
A fevered age's most repulsive fruit,
The murderous coxcomb, the assassin sleek?
Stranger comparison could fancy seek?
Truly 'tis not the self-admiring boy
Nymph Echo longed so vainly to enjoy;
Yet the old classic fable hath a phase
Which seems to fit the opprobrium of our days.
Criminal-worship seems our latest cult,
And this strange figure is its last result.
Self-conscious, self-admiring, Crime parades
Its loathly features, not in slumdom's shades,
Or in Alsatian sanctuaries vile.
No; peacock-posing and complacent smile
Pervade the common air, and take the town.
The glory of a scandalous renown
Lures the vain villain more than wrath or gain,
And cancels all the shame that should restrain:
Makes murder half-heroic in his sight,
And gilds the gallows with factitious light.
And whose the fault? Sensation it is thine!
The garrulous paragraph, the graphic line,
Poster and portrait, telegram and tale,
Make shopboy eager and domestics pale.
Over the morbid details workmen pore,
Toil's favourite pabulum and chosen lore,
Penny-a-liners pile the horrors up,
On which the cockney gobe-mouche loves to sup,
And paragraph and picture feed the clown
With the foul garbage that has gorged the town.
"Vice is a monster of such hideous mien
As to be hated needs but to be seen."
So sang the waspish satirist long ago.
Now Vice is sketched and Crime is made a show.
A hundred eager scribes are at their heel
To tell the public how they look and feel,
How eat and drink, how sleep and smoke and play.
Murder's itinerary for a day,
Set forth in graphic phrase by skilful pens,
With pictures of its face, its favourite dens,
Its knife or bludgeon, pistol, paramour,
Will swell the swift editions hour by hour,
More than high news of war or of debate,
The death of heroes or the throes of state.
From club-room to street-corner runs the cry
After the newest fact, or latest lie:
The hurrying throng unfolded broad-sheets grasp,
And read with goggled eyes and lips a-gasp,
Blood! Blood! More Blood! It makes hot lips go pale,
But gives the sweetest zest to the unholy tale.
What wonder if the Horror, homaged thus
By frenzied eagerness and foolish fuss,
Swells to a hideous self-importance, struts
In conscious dignity, and gladly gluts
With vanity's fantastic tricks the herd
Whose pulses first by murderous crime it stirred.
Narcissus-like, the slayer bends to trace
Within Sensation's flowing stream its face,
And, self-enamoured, smiles a loathsome smile
Of fatuous conceit and gloating guile;
Laughs at the shadow of the lifted knife,
And thinks of all things save its victim's life.
The "Noisy Nymph," the Echo of our times,
The gossip, with an eager ear for crimes,
Lurks, half-admiring, all-recording there,
Watching Narcissus with persistent stare,
And ready note-book. Nothing but a Voice?
No, but its babblings travel, and rejoice
A myriad prurient ears with noisome news,
Fit only for the shambles and the stews.
These hear, admire, and sometimes imitate!—
Narcissus is a danger to the State,
And Echo hardly less. Vain-glorious crime;
That pestilent portent of a morbid time,
Would flourish less could sense or law avail
To strangle coarse Sensation's clamorous tale,
Silence the "Noisy Nymph," for half crime's ill
Would end were babbling Echo's voice but still.
"THE MISSING CIPHER."
"OH, PAPA, ONLY FIFTY POUNDS FROM SIR GORGIUS MIDAS! SUCH A MILLIONAIRE—WHY HE OUGHT TO HAVE SENT FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS AT LEAST!"
"AH, I'M AFRAID HE FORGOT THE OUGHT, MY DEAR!"
THE NEWEST NARCISSUS; OR, THE HERO OF OUR DAYS.
FETTERED.—In reply to the Unemployed Deputation which found employment in paying a visit to the L.C.C. at Spring Gardens, Messrs. BURNS and BEN TILLETT (Alderman) intimated that as Mr. POWER, the U.D.'s spokesman, was not a member of the L.C.C., that body was Power-less to assist them in their trouble. A nasty time of it had the Labour Candidates on this occasion. Nothing like putting men of Radical revolutionary tendencies into responsible positions.
A SHADY VALET.—One DONALD CROSS was a Valet in the service of an absent master, whose best clothes and jewellery DONALD wore, while he kept his flat well aired by giving little supper-parties to young ladies who took him at his own valuation,—for a very superior swell. Alas! he was but a valet de sham! "Cross purposes," but Magistrate "disposes"; and the once happy Valet is in the shade for the next six months.
IN FANCY DRESS.
A Sketch At Covent Garden Theatre.
Before Supper the proceedings are rather decorous than lively; the dancers in fancy dress forming a very decided minority, and appearing uncomfortably conscious of their costume. A Masker got up as a highly realistic Hatstand, hobbles painfully towards a friend who is disguised as a huge Cannon.
The Hatstand (huskily, through a fox's mask in the centre of his case, to the Cannon). Just a trifle slow up to the present, eh?
The Cannon (shifting the carriage and wheels to a less uncomfortable position.) Yes, it don't seem to me as lively as usual—drags, don't you know.
The Hatstand (heroically). Well, we must wake 'em up, that's all—put a little go into the thing!
[They endeavour to promote gaiety by crawling through the crowd, which regards them with compassionate wonder.
A Black Domino (to a Clown, who is tapping the barometer on the Hatstand's back). Here, mind how you damage the furniture, SAMMY, it may be here on the hire system.
[The Hatstand executes a cumbrous caper by way of repartee, and stumbles on.
A Folly (to a highly respectable Bedouin in a burnous and gold spectacles). Well, all I can say is, you don't seem to me to behave much like an Arab!
The Bedouin (uneasily, as he waltzes with conscientious regularity). Don't I? How ought I to behave then?
The Folly. I should have thought you'd jump about and howl, the way Bedouins do howl. You know!
The Bed. (dubiously). Um—well, you see, my dear, I—I don't feel up to that sort of thing—before supper.
The Folly (losing all respect for him). No—nor yet after it. I expect you've told some old four-wheel caravan to come and fetch you home early, and you'll turn into your little tent at the usual time—that's the sort of wild Bedouin you are! Don't let me keep you. [She leaves him.
The Bed. (alone). If she only knew the absolute horror I have of making myself conspicuous, she wouldn't expect it!
Mephistopheles (to a Picador). This was the only thing I could get to go in. How do you think it suits me?
The Picador (with candour). Well, I must say, old fellow, you do look a beast!
[Mephisto appears wounded.
A Masker (with his face painted brown, and in a costume of coloured paper decorated with small boxes and packets, to a Blue Domino). You see what I am, don't you? The Parcels Post! Had a lot of trouble thinking it out. Look at my face, for instance, I made that up, with string—marks and all, to look like a brown-paper parcel.
The Blue Domino. Pity you haven't got something inside it, isn't it?
The Parcels Post (feebly). Don't you be too sharp. And it really is a first-rate idea. All these parcels now—I suppose there must be fifty of 'em at least—
The Blue Domino. Are there? Well, I wish you'd go and get sorted somewhere else. I haven't time for it myself.
Sardonic Spectator (pityingly—to a Masker in a violent perspiration, who represents Sindbad carrying the Old Man of the Sea). 'Ow you are worrying yourself to be sure!
A Polite Stranger (accosting an Individual who is personifying the London County Council by the aid of a hat surmounted by a sky-sign, a cork bridge and a tin tramcar, a toy Clown and a butterfly on his chest, a portrait of Mlle. Zoeo on his back, a miniature fireman under an extinguisher, and a model crane, which he winds up and down with evident enjoyment). Excuse me, Sir, but would you mind showing us round you—or is there a catalogue to your little collection?
[The L.C.C. maintains a dignified silence.
Pierrot (critically to Cleopatra). Very nice indeed, my dear girl,—except that they ought to have given you a serpent to carry, you know'
Cleopatra. Oh, they did—only I left it in the Cloak-room.
A Man with a False Nose (to a Friend who is wearing his natural organ). Why, I thought you said you were coming in a nose?
His Friend. So I did (he produces an enormous nose and cheeks from his tail-pocket). But it's no mortal use; the minute I put it on I'm recognised (plaintively). And I gave one-and-ninepence for the beastly thing, too!
Young Man of the Period (meeting a female acquaintance attired in ferns, rock-work, and coloured shells, illuminated by portable electric light). Hul-lo! You are a swell! And what are you supposed to be?
The Lady in Rock-work. Can't you see? I'm a Fairy Grotto. Good idea, isn't it?
He. Rippin'! But what the mischief have you got on your shoulder?
She. Oh, that's an aquarium—real goldfish. See!
[Exhibiting them with pride.
He. Ain't you lettin' 'em sit up rather late? They will be chippy to-morrow—off colour, don't you know.
She. Will they? What ought I to do for them, then?
He. Do? Oh, just put a brandy-and-soda in their tank.
Later; Supper is going on in the Boxes and Supper-room, and the festivity has been further increased by the arrival of a party of Low Comedians and Music-Hall Stars. The Lancers have been danced with more abandonment, and several entirely new and original figures.
The Chevalier Bayard (at the Refreshment Bar—to a Watteau Shepherdess). I say, you come along and dance with me, will you?—and look here, if you dance well, I'll give you a drink when it's over. If you don t dance to please me, you'll get nothing. See?
The Watteau Shepherdess (with delicate disdain). 'Ere, you go along, you silly ass!
[Hits him with her crook.
A Gentleman who has obviously supped (catching hold of a passing Acquaintance, whose hand he wrings affectionately). Dear ole HUGHIE! don't go away just yet. Shtop an' talk with me. Got lotsh er things say to you, dear ole boy—mosh 'portant things! Shure you, you're the on'y man in the wide world I ever kicked a care—cared a kick about. Don't you leave me, HUGHIE!
Hughie (who is looking for his partner). Not now, old man—can't stop. See you later!
[He makes his escape.
The Affect. G. (confidentially—to a Policeman). Thash a very dear ole pal o' mine, plishman, a very dear ole pal. Worsht of him ish—shimply imposhble get a lit' rational conversation with him. No sheriousness in his character!
[Exit unsteadily towards Bar, in blissful unconsciousness that somebody has attached a large false nose and spectacles to the buttons of his coat-tails.
A Troubadour (jealously—to an Arleguina). No—but look here, you might just as well say right put which costume you like best—mine or—(indicating a Cavalier on her other side)—his.
Arleguina (cautiously—not desiring to offend either). Well, I'd rather be him—not as a man, I wouldn't—but, as myself, I'd like to be this one.
[Both appear equally satisfied and soothed by this diplomatic, but slightly mystic response.
A Vivandière (to a Martyr, who is shuffling along inside a property-trunk, covered with twigs, and supposed to represent a Bird in the Hand). Well, that's one way of coming out to enjoy yourself, I suppose!
A Middle-aged Man (wandering behind the Orchestra). It's beastly dull, that's what it is—none of the give-and-take humour and practical fun you get in Paris or Vienna!... That's a nice, simple-looking little thing in the seat over there. (The simple-looking little thing peeps at him, with one eye over her fan, in arch invitation.) Gad, I'll go up and talk to her—it will be something to do, at any rate—she looks as if she wouldn't mind. (He goes up.) Think I know your face—haven't we met before?
The Simple Little Thing (after an elaborate wink aside at a Fireman). Shouldn't wonder. Don't you run away yet. Sit down and talk to me—do now. No, not that side—try the arm-chair, it's more comfortable.
The M.M. (throwing himself gracefully into a well-padded chintz chair). Well, really—(The chair suddenly digs him in the ribs with one of its elbows). Eh, look here now—'pon my—(He attempts to rise, and finds himself tightly pinioned by the arms of the chair.) There's some confounded fool inside this chair!
The Simple Little Thing (tickling him under the chin with her fan). Shouldn't call yourself names! I'm going—don't get up on my account. [She goes off, laughing; a crowd collects and heartily enjoys his situation.
The M.M. (later—very red after his release). If I could have found a policeman, I'd have given that chair in custody! It's scandalous to call that coming in Fancy Dress! [Exit indignantly.
THE BROWN-JONES INCIDENT.
(Adapted from the French.)
SCENE—A Street. Enter BROWN and JONES. They meet, and regard one another for a moment, fixedly. Then they salute one another respectfully.
Brown. I have been looking for you everywhere.
Jones. Then I am delighted to have met you.
Brown. I have said of you that you are a trickster, a scoundrel, a fool, and an idiot!
Jones. Yes—and I have regretted the saying, because it shows to me that you have misunderstood the great literary movement of the present day, in its vast and varied effort.
Brown. Of that I know nothing, for I confess I have never read your books.
Jones (reproachfully). Yes—and yet you accuse me of being a trickster, a scoundrel, and a fool, without knowing my works?
Brown. It was my duty. But still I had no wish to be guilty of an outrage.
Jones. An outrage—how an outrage?
Brown. Had I known you had been present to hear me I would not have caused you the pain of listening to me.
Jones (with admiration). But it was the act of a brave man! Did it not occur to you that had I been within reach of you that you too would have suffered pain?
Brown. It did not, I was unconscious of your presence. I would have preferred to have spoken behind your back. It is brutal to speak before any face. It might lead to an unpleasantness.
Jones. No, it is your duty to do what you think is right. It is also my duty to do what I think is right. We are now face to face. Have you anything further to say to me?
Brown (hurriedly). You have immense gifts—gifts which are those of genius.
Jones. I thought you would understand me better when we met. My dear friend, I am delighted at this reconciliation. Give me your hand.
Brown (clasping palms). With all the pleasure in the world. But still I owe you reparation. How can I—
Jones (interrupting). Not another word, my dear friend. That is a matter we can leave in the hands of our Solicitors.
[Scene closes in upon the suggestion.
A SOLILOQUY.
Youthful Mercury. "WHAT'S THIS 'ERE ON THE PLYTE? 'KNOCK AND RING'! BLOWED IF THEY WON'T BE HARSKING YER TO 'WALK HINSIDE,' NEXT!!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
It is curious to find a coincidence in style and in idea between an earnest, witty and pious English author of the Sixteenth Century, and an American author of our own day. Yet so it is, and here is the parallel to be found between the quaint American tales about the old negro, Uncle Remus, by JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, in this year of Grace, 1892, and the fables writ by Sir THOMAS MORE in 1520, or thereabouts, which he represents as if told him by an old wife and nurse, one Mother MAUD. Here are "The Wolf,"—"Brer Wolf"—and the simple-minded Jackass, both are going to confession to Father Fox—"Brer Fox." Æsop is, of course, the common origin of all such tales. The extracts which I have come across, are to be found in a small book compiled by the Rev. THOMAS BRIDGETT, entitled, The Wit and Wisdom of Sir Thomas More. The Baron wishes that with it had been issued a glossary of old English words and expressions, as, to an ordinary modern reader, much of Sir THOMAS MORE's writing is well-nigh unintelligible; nay, in some instances, the Baron can only approximately arrive at the meaning, as though it were a writ in a foreign language with which his acquaintance was of no great profundity. Certes, the learned and reverend compiler hath a keen relish for this quaintness, but not so will fifteen out of his twenty readers, who, pardie! shall regret the absence of a key without which some of the treasure must, to them at least, remain inaccessible. With this reservation, but with no sort of equivocation, doth the Baron heartily recommend The Reverend BRIDGETT's compilation of Sir THOMAS MORE's "English as she is writ" in the Sixteenth Century, to all lovers of good books in this "so-called (O, immortal phrase!) Nineteenth Century." The Rev. THOMAS hath well and ably done his work, and therefore doth the Baron advise his readers to go to their booksellers, and, being there, to imitate the example of DICKENS's oft-quoted Oliver, and "ask for MORE."
Quoth the Baron, "Much liketh me the Macmillanite series of English Men of Action, and in a very special manner do I laud the latest that, to my knowledge, hath appeared 'yclept Montrose, by Master MOWBRAY MORRIS—a good many 'M's' in these names—who hath executed his Montrose with as loving a heart and as tender a touch as ever did use old IZAAK towards the gentle that he, and the simple fish, did love so well. Did not the very hangman burst into tears as he thrust the unfortunate nobleman off the step? and did not a universal sob of pity break from the vast crowd assembled to see the last of the noble cavalier, victim to an unfortunate tradition of loyalty? What wonder then if we sympathise with this luckless hero of romance? The weak-knee'd villain of this historical drama was 'Charles (his friend),' in which character, be it allowed, this sad dog of a Merry Monarch not infrequently appeared. Thank you much, Mr. MOWBRAY MONTROSE MORRIS," quoth
THE BENEFICENT BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
SYMPATHY.
Mamma (to Cook)—"AND MRS. STUBBS, THE CREAM WITH THE APPLE-TART YESTERDAY OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WHIPPED."
Ethel (who has a grateful remembrance of the dish in question). "OH, MUMMY DEAR! 'OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WHIPPED!' I THOUGHT IT WAS PARTICULARLY GOOD!"
APRIL SHOWERS;
OR, A SPOILED EASTER HOLIDAY.
(A Vacation Cantata.)
Master George (stretching forth his fingers to feel if the shower is abating) sings:—
Rain! Rain!
Go away!
Come again
Another day!
Master Arthur (gloomily). Pooh! Rain won't go away, not in these times,
By being sung at to old nursery rhymes:
Especially in such a voice as yours!
Master George. Needn't be nasty, ARTHUR!
Master Robert.7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;How it pours!
Thought we were going to have a real jolly day,
And now it's set in wet, to spoil our holiday.
Master George. Always the way at Easter. Shall we trudge it?
Master Arthur. Not yet. What have you got, GEORGE, in your Budget?
Master George. Not very much, I fear!
Master Arthur.7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;Ah, that's vexatious!
It might have cheered us up a bit.
Master George (indignantly). Good gracious!
You're always down on me, with no good reasons.
You know I'm not the ruler of the Seasons.
Now if I'd been in your place—but no matter!