PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

February 6, 1892.

"A GOOD STAYER."

RECEIPT AGAINST INFLUENZA.

DEAR SIR,—I send you this gratis. It is for everybody's benefit,

Yours.
GEORGE GUZZLETON, X.M.D.

P.S.—I give "Coenæ prescriptionem" only, as the "Prescrip: prandialis" can be taken out of this with variations.

Fiat haust: sec: vel test: quâque horâ: extra horâ coenæ: regulariter sumendum.

Si opus sit: Misce: aq: sodæ .. ʒ1/14.

Misce: ot: grog: h.s.s. Si opus sit aut non.

LITERARY GARDENING.—A Correspondent, signing himself "STULTUS IN HORTU OR HORT-U-NOT?" writes, "Please, Sir, if my boy JOHN plant 'a slip of a pen,' what will it come up?" Answer paid—A Jonquill.

TO THE QUEEN.

(From the Nation.)

Queenly as womanly, those words that start

From sorrow's lip strike home to sorrow's heart.

Madam, our griefs are one;

But yours, from kinship close and your high place,

The keener, mourning him in youth's glad grace

Who loved you as a son.

We mourn him too. Our wreaths of votive flowers

Speak, mutely, for us. The deep gloom that lowers

To-day across the land

Is no mere pall of ceremonial grief.

'Tis hard in truth, though reverent belief

Bows to the chastening hand.

Hard—for his parents, that young bride, and you,

Bearer of much bereavement, woman true,

And patriotic QUEEN!

We hear the courage striking through the pain,

As always in your long, illustrious reign,

Which shrinking ne'er hath seen,—

Shrinking from high-strung duty, the brave way

Of an imperial spirit. So to-day

Your People bow—in pride.

The sympathy of millions is your own.

May Glory long be guardian of your Throne,

Love ever at its side!

ENTIRELY UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIAL.—Dartmoor.—Gentlemen,—Two years ago I wrote somebody else's name with one of your pens. Since then I have used no other.

Yours faithfully, A.F. ORGER.
"To Messrs. STEAL, KNIBBS & CO."

"LA GRIPPE."

("I'm a devil! I'm a devil!" croaked Barnaby Rudge's Raven 'Grip': And this is a raven-mad sort of Edgar-Allan-Poem by Un qui est Grippé.)

Once upon a midnight dreary

Coming home I felt so weary,

Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious,

Which I'd never felt before.

Then to bed,—no chance of napping,

Blankets, rugs about me wrapping,

Feverish burning pains galore.

"Oh! I've got it! oh!" I muttered,

"Influenza!! what a bore!!"

Only this!!—Oh!!—Nothing more!!

Oh! my head and legs are aching!

Now I'm freezing! Now I'm baking!

Clockwork in my cerebellum!

Oh! all over me I'm sore!

In my bed I'm writhing, tossing,

Yet I'm in a steamer, crossing.

While KIRALFY's Venice bossing,

I'm "against" and RUSSELL "for"

In a case about the Echo,

Somewhere out at Singapore!

It's delirium!!! Nothing more.

Then a Doctor comes in tapping

Me all over, tapping, rapping.

And with ear so close and curious

Pressed to stethoscope, "Once more,"

Says he, "sing out ninety-ninely,

Now again! You do it finely!

Yes! Not bigger than a wine lee,

There's the mischief, there's the corps

Of the insect that will kill us,

Hiding there is the Bacillus;

Only that, and nothing more!"

"Why's he here with fear to fill us?

Will he leave me, this Bacillus?

Not one bone do I feel whole in,

And of strength I've lost my store."

Thus I to the Doctor talking,

Ask "When shall I go out walking"?

He, my earnest queries baulking,

Says, "When all this trouble's o'er,"

"Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? Thursday

Friday? Saturday? Sunday? or

In a week?" "Um!—not before."

"Doctor!" cried I, "catch this evil

Fiend! Bacillus!! Microbe!! devil!!

Second syllable in Tem-pest!

Send him to Plutonian Shore.

Send him back to where he came from,

To the place he gets his fame from,

To the place he takes his name from;

Kick him out of my front door!"

So the Doctor feels my pulse, and,

As I drop upon the floor,

Quoth the Doctor, "Some days more."

"OUT IN THE COLD!"

"I AM LIKE A TRAVELLER LOST IN THE SNOW, WHO BEGINS TO GET STIFF WHILE THE SNOWFLAKES COVER HIM."

Speech of Prince Von Bismarck at Friedrichsruhe.]

"OUT IN THE COLD!"

["I am like a traveller lost in the snow, who begins to get stiff and to sink down while the snowflakes cover him. In fact, I am gradually losing interest in politics, but the feeling, like that of the traveller sinking under the snow, is a pleasant one."—Prince Bismarck to the Deputation of Leipsic Students.]

AIR—"Excelsior!"

The century was waning fast,

As through a wintry waste there passed

A man, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

Excel no more!

His brows were blanched; his eye beneath

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

Red fields had heard his armour clang.

But now he smiled and softly sang,

Excel no more!

In barracks huge he saw the might

Of mailed hosts arrayed for fight;

Afar the fierce Frank bayonets shone,

And from his lips escaped a moan,

Excel no more!

"Think of the Past!" the young men said,

"Like SAUL you towered by the head

Midst those three Titans, Prussia's pride!"

Softly that once stern voice replied,

"Excel no more!"

"Oh, stay," the young men cried, "and mix

Once more in Teuton Politics!"

"Nay," said the Titan, "I grow old,

And, like poor TOM, I am a-cold!

Excel no more!"

"Beware the snow-encumbered branch!

Beware the whelming avalanche!"

"Thanks!" he replied. "I know, I know.

But—well, I rather like the snow!

Excel no more!"

"Lost in the snow! An easy death!

Gentle surcease of mortal breath!

I sink, I stiffen, I'm foredone!

The feeling though's a pleasant one;

Excel no more!"

The traveller by his faithful hound

Half-buried in the snow was found,

Still muttering from a mouth of ice

That banner's late and strange device,

Excel no more!

There in the snow-drift cold and grey,

Silent, but stalwart, still he lay,

Great "Blood-and-Iron," brave and bold,

But—for the nonce—"Out in the Cold!"

Excel no more?

PARLIAMENT IN SPORT;

Or, A Meeting in Earnest.

["Perhaps the popularity of the competition in national sport between the different parts of the Empire is worthy of the serious attention of statesmen ... Mr. ASTLEY COOPER proposes rowing, running and cricket ... There is something fascinating in the idea of such a Pan-Britannic gathering."—Daily Paper.]

The SPEAKER, having taken his seat in the Pavilion, the Minister for Cricket rose to move the third reading of The Six-balls-to-an-over Bill.

The Right Hon. Gentleman said that the amount of time wasted in changing sides, although the field did their best to minimise the loss by assuming a couple of positions alternately, was very serious—especially in a first-class match.

The Member for Melbourne begged to ask what was a first-class match?

The Member for Sydney replied, certainly not a match between Canada and Victoria. (Laughter.) Now everyone was aware that New South Wales—("Question! Order! Order!") He begged pardon, he was in order.

The SPEAKER. I really must request silence. The Minister for Cricket is introducing a most important measure, and the least we can do is to receive his statement with adequate attention. (General cheering.)

The Minister for Cricket continued, and said that the measure he had the honour to commend to their careful consideration would not only lengthen the over, but also allow Cricket to be played all the year round.

The Minister for Football begged to remind his Right Hon. friend that he had promised to consider that matter in Committee. What would become of Football were Cricket to be played continuously? ("Hear, hear!")

The Member for Bombay thought that a matter of no moment. In India Polo was of infinitely more importance than Football, and he could not help remarking that, in the Imperial Parliament, representing so many sports, and so many Colonies, where every great interest was represented, and well represented, Polo was absolutely ignored. (Cheers.)

The Minister for Aquatic Sports agreed with the Hon. Member. Polo was entirely of sufficient interest to warrant the creation of a special department for its guardianship. But at present he was responsible for it. He hoped soon to be able to welcome a colleague who would make its interests his continual study. ("Hear, hear!")

The Minister for Cricket concluded by thanking the House for the attention the Hon. Members had given to the subject, and sat down amidst loud applause.

A division being taken, the Bill was carried by 127 to 96. The majority were composed of Australians and Canadians, and the minority were Africans, Indians, and miscellaneous Colonists. The House then adjourned.

TRUTHFUL BUT NOT CONSCIENTIOUS.

Elderly Dowager. "Now, PERKINS, I REQUIRE YOUR HONEST OPINION. DON'T YOU THINK THIS DRESS SUITS ME?"

Perkins (who has been cautioned always to speak the truth, on pain of losing her place, warily). "OH YES, MY LADY, IT SUITS YOUR LADYSHIP QUITE—AS ONE MAY SAY—QUITE 'DOWN TO THE GROUND!'"

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XXV.

SCENE—Near Torcello. CULCHARD and PODBURY are seated side by side in the gondola, which is threading its way between low banks, bright with clumps of Michaelmas daisies and pomegranate-trees laden with red fruit. Both CULCHARD and PODBURY are secretly nervous and anxious for encouragement.

Podbury (humming "In Old Madrid" with sentiment). La-doodle-um-La-doodle-oo: La-doodle-um-te-dumpty-loodle-oo! I think she rather seemed to like me—those first days at Brussels, don't you?

Culchard (absently). Did she? I daresay. (Whistling "The Wedding March" softly.) Few-fee; di-fee-fee-few-few; few-fiddledy-fee-fiddledy-few-few-few-fee. I fancy I'm right in my theory, eh?

Podb. Oh, I should say so—yes. What theory?

Culch. (annoyed). What theory? Why, the one I've been explaining to you for the last ten minutes!—that all this harshness of hers lately is really, when you come to analyse it, a decidedly encouraging symptom.

Podb. But I shouldn't nave said Miss TROTTER was exactly harsh to me—lately, at all events.

Culch. (with impatience). Miss TROTTER! You! What an egotist you are, my dear fellow! I was referring to myself and Miss PRENDERGAST. And you can't deny that, both at Nuremberg and Constance, she—

Podb. (with careless optimism). Oh, she'll come round all right, never fear. I only wish I was half as safe with Miss TROTTER!

Culch. (mollified). Don't be too downhearted, my dear PODBURY. I happen to know that she likes you—she told me as much last night. Did Miss PRENDERGAST—er—say anything to that effect about me?

Podb. Well,—not exactly, old chap—not to me, at least. But I say, Miss TROTTER didn't tell you that? Not really? Hooray! Then it's all right—she may have me, after all!

Culch. (chillingly). I should advise you not to be over confident. (A silence follows, which endures until they reach the landing-steps at Torcello.) They are here, you see—those are evidently their gondolas, I recognise those two cloaks. Now the best thing we can do is to separate.

Podb. (springing out). Right you are! (To himself.) I'll draw the church first, and see if she's there. (Approaches the door of Santa Maria: a Voice within, apparently reading aloud: "Six balls, or rather almonds, of purple marble veined with white are set around the edge of the pulpit, and form its only decoration") HYPATIA, by Jove! Narrow shave that! [He goes round to back.

Culch. (comes up to the door). I know I shall find her here. Lucky I know that Torcello chapter in "The Stones" very nearly by heart! (Reaches threshold. A Voice within. "Well, I guess I'm going to climb up and sit in that old amphitheatre there, and see how it feels!") Good heavens,—MAUD! and I was as nearly as possible—I think I'll go up to the top of the Campanile and see if I can't discover where HYPATIA is.

[He ascends the tower.

In the Belfry.

Podb. (arriving breathless, and finding CULCHARD craning eagerly forward). Oh, so you came up too? Well, can you see her?

Culch. Ssh! She's just turned the corner! (Vexed.) She's with Miss TROTTER!... They're sitting down on the grass below!

Podb. Together? That's a nuisance! Now we shall have to wait till they separate—sure to squabble, sooner or later.

Miss T.'s Voice (which is perfectly audible above). I guess we'll give RUSKIN a rest now, HYPATIA. I'm dying for a talk. I'm just as enchanted as I can be to hear you've dismissed Mr. PODBURY. And I expect you can guess why.

Podb. (in a whisper). I say, CULCHARD, they're going to talk about us. Ought we to listen, eh? Better let them know we're here?

Culch. I really don't see any necessity—however—(Whistles feebly.) Feedy-feedy-feedle!

Podb. What is the use of fustling like that? (Yödels.) Lul-li-ety!

Miss P.'s V. Well, my dear MAUD, I confess that I—

Culch. It's quite impossible to make them hear down there, and it's no fault of ours if their voices reach us occasionally. And it does seem to me, PODBURY, that, in a matter which may be of vital importance to me—to us both—it would be absurd to be over-scrupulous. But of course you will please yourself. I intend to remain where I am.

[PODBURY makes a faint-hearted attempt to go, but ends by resigning himself to the situation.

Miss T.'s V. Now, HYPATIA PRENDERGAST, don't tell me you're not interested in him! And he's more real suited to you than ever Mr. PODBURY was. Now, isn't that so?

Culch. (withdrawing his head). Did you hear, PODBURY? She's actually pleading for me! Isn't she an angel? Be quiet, now. I must hear the answer!

Miss P.'s V. I—I don't know, really. But, MAUD, I want to speak to you about—Somebody. You can't think how he adores you, poor fellow! I have noticed it for a long time.

Podb. (beaming). CULCHARD! You heard? She's putting in a word for me. What a brick that girl is!

Miss T.'s V. I guess he's pretty good at concealing his feelings, then. He's been keeping far enough away!

Miss P.'s V. That was my fault. I kept him by me. You see, I believed you had quite decided to accept Mr. CULCHARD.

Miss T.'s V. Well, it does strike me that, considering he was adoring me all this time, he let himself be managed tolerable easy.

[PODBURY shakes his head in protestation.

Miss P.'s V. Ah, but let me explain. I could only keep him quiet by threatening to go home by myself, and dear BOB is such a devoted brother that—

Podb. Brother! I say. CULCHARD, she can't be meaning BOB all this time! She can't! Can she now?

Culch. How on earth can I tell? If it is so, you must be a philosopher, my dear fellow, and bear it—that's all.

Miss P.'s V. That does alter the case, doesn't it? And I may tell him there's some hope for him? You mustn't judge him by what he is with his friend, Mr. PODBURY. BOB has such a much stronger and finer character!

Miss T.'s V. Oh well, if he couldn't stand up more on his edge than Mr. PODBURY! Not that I mind Mr. PODBURY any, there's no harm in him, but he's too real frivolous to amount to much.

Podb. (collapsing). Frivolous! From her too! Oh, hang it all!

[He buries his head in his hands with a groan.

Miss T.'s V. Well, see here, HYPATIA. I'll take your brother on trial for a spell, to oblige you—there. I cann't say more at present. And now—about the other. I want to know just how you feel about him.

Culch. The other!—that's Me! I wish to goodness you wouldn't make all that noise, PODBURY, just when it's getting interesting!

Miss P.'s V. (very low). What is the good? Nothing will bring him back—now!

Culch. Nothing? How little she knows me!

Miss T.'s V. I hope you don't consider me nothing. And a word from me would bring him along pretty smart. The only question is, whether I'm to say it or not?

Miss P.'s V. (muffled). Dar-ling!

Culch. I really think I might almost venture to go down, now, eh, PODBURY? (No answer.) Selfish brute! [Indignantly.

Miss T.'s V. But mind this—if he comes, you've got to care for him the whole length of your boa—you won't persuade him to run in couples with anybody else. That's why he broke away the first time—and you were ever so mad with me because you thought I was at the bottom of it. But it was all his pride. He's too real independent to share chances with anybody alive.

Culch. How thoroughly she understands me!

Miss T.'s V. And I guess CHARLEY will grow out of the great Amurrcan Novel in time—it's not going ever to grow out of him, anyway!

Culch. (bewildered). CHARLEY? I don't see why she should mention VAN BOODELER now!

Miss T.'s V. I like CHARLEY ever so much, and I'm not going to have him cavort around along with a circus of suitors under vows. So, if I thought there was any chance of—well, say Mr. CULCHARD—

Miss P.'s V. (indignant). MAUD! how can you? That odious hypocritical creature! If you knew how I despised and—!

Miss T.'s V. Well, my dear, he's pretty paltry—but we'll let him go at that—I guess his shares have gone down considerable all round.

Culch. PODBURY, I—I—this conversation is evidently not intended for—for other—ears. I don't know whether you have heard enough, I shall go down!

Podb. (with a ghastly chuckle). Like your shares, eh, old chap? And mine too, for that matter. Well, I'm ready enough to go. Only, for goodness' sake, let's get away without being seen!

[They slip softly down the series of inclined planes, and out to the steps, where they re-embark. As their gondola pushes off, Mr. TROTTER and BOB PRENDERGAST appear from the Museum.

Mr. T. Why, land sakes! ain't that Mr. PODBURY and Mr. CULCHARD? Hi! You ain't ever going away? There's my darter and Miss HYPATIA around somewhere.—They'll be dreadful disappointed to have missed you!

Podb. (with an heroic attempt at cheeriness). We—we're awfully disappointed to have missed them, Mr. TROTTER. Afraid we can't stop now! Goodbye!

[CULCHARD pulls his hat-brim over his eyes and makes a sign to the gondoliers to get on quickly; Mr. TROTTER comments with audible astonishment on their departure to BOB, who preserves a discreet silence.

A PALMY DAY AT ST. RAPHAEL.

Villa Magali.—Delicious climate! STUART-RENDEL says it "reminds him of Devonshire, without the damp." Mention of Devonshire reminds me of the DUKE. Try to point out to my friends that the Rossendale Election shows conclusively—Curious! Friends all get up and go out! Seems that ANDREW CLARKE specially told them I was to "avoid all excitement, over-exertion, and talk about politics!" Wish CLARKE would not be so unreasonable. Must talk about Rossendale to somebody.

Off to Hyères—to see CHILDERS. Find CHILDERS tolerably chatty. Doesn't seem to care so much about Rossendale result as I should have expected. STUART-RENDEL comes to fetch me. Ahem! Off.

At Monte Carlo.—Feel so well, have looked in here. Meet WELLS, the "Champion Plunger." Asks me if I've got a system; he's "been losing heavily, and would be glad of any hint." Suggest his putting on the numbers of Rossendale Majority. WELLS seems pleased at idea. Does so at once, and loses 10,000 francs straight off. Meet him in grounds afterwards, and try to explain real significance of Rossendale election. WELLS disappears. Curious! Can ANDREW CLARKE have got at WELLS?

Golfe San Juan.—French war-ships in Bay. Admiral might like to know my views on Rossendale and politics generally. Taken on board. Admiral much interested in MADEN's victory. Admiral asks if it was the "Grand Prix" that MADEN won? Find he thinks MADEN is a horse. Disappointing. [Query—ANDREW CLARKE again?] Sent on shore in boat, amid cheers from sailors. Gratifying.

Back to St. Raphael.—Tired, but on the whole gratified with my day. Friends pained to hear what I've done, and threaten to telegraph for Sir ANDREW! Shall pack up and return. Letter from MORLEY begging me to stay where I am. Odd! Can Sir ANDREW have got at JOHN MORLEY? Bed, and think it over.

BROTHER BRUSH, A.R.A.—Stan' up, STANHOPE FORBES! and receive our congratulations on your election. STAN-HOPE deferred maketh the painter's 'art sick of waiting, and now A FORBES, not The FORBES (which his name is JAMES STAATS, C.L.C. & D.R., &c., &c.), but the STANHOPE A-foresaid, has obtained his first grade. With what pleasure will the Art-loving Chairman see his STANHOPE "on the line!" In Burlington House, of course we mean, as elsewhere, the situation would be one of no slight danger.

"PLEASED AS PUNCH."—A paragraph in the D.T. informed Mr. P. and the public generally, that "Dr. ROBSON ROOSE and Mr. ALLINGHAM are contented with Mr. EDWARD LAWSON's progress." "If Box"—"And Cox"—"are satisfied," then of all Mr. E.L.'s friends in front none will be more delighted to hear of his complete recovery than his neighbour, Mr. Punch, of 85, Fleet Street.

SOMETHING NEW IN SOAP.—The Soap Trade is still booming. Almost every week appears a fresh candidate for public favour, its claim based upon some alluring speciality. We hear of a newcomer likely to take the cake (of soap). On all the walls, and in most of the advertisement columns, will presently blaze forth its proud legend:—"The Satisfactory Soap—Won't Wash Anything."

LEGAL IMPROVEMENTS.

IN ORDER TO HUSBAND OUR JUDICIAL STAFF, IN FUTURE A JUDGE WILL BE EXPECTED TO HEAR TWO CASES AT THE SAME TIME.

PORTRAIT OF A JUDGE TRYING A THEATRICAL "CAUSE CÉLÈBRE," AND A NICE QUESTION AS TO A "REMAINDER-MAN" AND A "TENANT IN TAIL MALE."

HIGH (BEERBOHM) TREESON!

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I see that Mr. BEERBOHM TREE in his recent production of Hamlet has introduced a novelty into the tragedy by inventing fresh business. Unauthorised by the text, he has included Ophelia amongst the Court "attendants," and, finding her on the stage, has indulged in a dignified flirtation (in dumb show), worthy of the hero of L'Enfant Prodigue himself. Now I think this a great improvement, and were the masterpiece to be "written up" throughout on the same lines, I am sure the representation would be received with enthusiasm. It might be that the performance would be a little longer, but think of the enormous gain in interest. To show you what I mean, I take the first five lines of the opening Act:—

SHAKSPEARE'S VERSION.

SCENE I.—Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. FRANCISCO on his post. Enter to him BERNARDO.

Bernardo. Who's there?

Francisco. Nay answer me: stand and unfold yourself!

This passage, furnished with proper business, might be rendered the means of showing the sort of life led by Laertes, justifying the advice subsequently given to him by Polonius more appropriate to the conditions of the case as now (for the first time) fully divulged, Thus—I give my view of the matter:—

AMENDED VERSION.

SCENE I.—Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. As the Curtain rises, shouts and laughs are heard without. A Village Maiden rushes in, as if pursued. She hides herself behind the sentry-box, and then escapes. FRANCISCO, who is on his post, looks about, and is surrounded by Danish Gallants, who have come in pursuit of the Maiden. He threatens them with his arms, and only one remains, who seems overcome by wine. The intoxicated Gallant is masked, and evidently very much the worse for liquor. He clumsily draws his sword. FRANCISCO is about to despatch him, when the mask falls, and in the dissipated reveller the Sentry recognises the bloated features of LAERTES. He immediately presents arms, as LAERTES is his superior officer. LAERTES, half-sobered by this suggestion of discipline, wishes to retire unseen, and gives largesse to FRANCISCO. The Sentry is greatly gratified, when to them enters BERNARDO.

Ber. Who's there?

Fran. (sheltering LAERTES, who stealthily retires by a rope-ladder which falls from the battlements to the moat below). Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!

By my version I really introduce a most interesting underplot, which, in my opinion, is equally pleasing and quite as defensible as Mr. BEERBOHM TREE's business with Ophelia.

Yours,
A STICKLER.

HUMAN NATURE.

THE ATTACK ON THE "CAPITAL."

A Lay of Modern London.

[Arrangements have been made for great political meetings in the Metropolis, at which the Liberal Leaders will be the principal speakers.]

HARCURTIUS of the triple chin, by the Nine Points he swore

The Capital should suffer from Tory sway no more;

By the Nine Points he swore it, and named a trysting day,

And bade his messengers ride forth east and west, and south and north,

To summon his array.

East and west, and south and north the messengers ride fast;

From Kennington to Poplar they've heard the trumpet's blast.

Shame on the false Caucusian who loiters in his Club

When triple-chin'd HARCURTIUS prepares the foe to drub!

Too long the Capital hath borne the stubborn Tory yoke,

Too long the Liberals have failed to strike a swashing stroke.

Betrayed to Tory clutches by traitors shrewd and strong,