PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

January 9, 1892.

ON A NEW YEARLING.

(Second Week.)

My fire was low; my bills were high;

My sip of punch was in its ladle;

The clarion chimes were in the sky;

The nascent year was in its cradle.

In sober prose to tell my tale,

'Twas New Year's E'en, when, blind to danger,

All older-fashioned nurses hail

With joy "another little stranger."

The glass was in my hand—but, wait,

Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting

With pæans too precipitate

A baby scarce an outline boasting:

One week at least of life must flit

For me to match it with its brothers—

I'll wager, like most infants, it

Is wholly different from others.

He frolics, latest of the lot,

A family prolific reckoned;

He occupies his tiny cot,

The eighteen-hundred-ninety-second!

The pretty darling, gently nursed

Of course, he lies, and fondly petted!

The eighteen-hundred-ninety-first

Is not, I fancy, much regretted.

You call him "fine"—he's great in size,

And "promising"—there issue from his

Tough larynx quite stentorian cries;

Such notes are haply notes of promise.

Look out for squalls, I tell you; soft

And dove-like atoms more engage us;

Your fin-de-siècle child is oft

Loud, brazen, grasping, and rampageous.

You bid me next his eyes adore;

So "deep and wideawake," they beckon;

We've suffered lately on the score

Of "deep and wideawake," I reckon.

You term me an "unfeeling brute,"

A "monster Herod-like," and so on—

You may be right; I'll not dispute;

I'll cease a brat's good name to blow on.

Who'll read the bantling's dawning days?—

Precocious shall he prove, and harass

The world with inconvenient ways

And lisped conundrums that embarrass?

(Such as Impressionists delight

To offer each æsthetic gaper,

And faddists hyper-Ibsenite

Rejoice to perpetrate on paper?)

Or, one of those young scamps perhaps

Who love to rig their bogus bogies,

And set their artful booby-traps

For over-unsuspicious fogies?

Or haply, only commonplace—

A plodding sort of good apprentice,

Who does his master's will with grace,

And hurries meekly where he sent is?

And, when he grows apace, what blend

Of genius, chivalry and daring,

What virtues might our little friend

Display to brighten souls despairing?

What quiet charities unknown,

What modest, openhanded kindness,

What tolerance in touch and tone

For braggart human nature's blindness?

Or what—the worser part to view—

Of wanton waste and reckless gambling,

What darker paths shall he pursue

With sacrilegious step and shambling?

What coarse defiance, haply, hurl

At lights beyond his comprehension—

An attitudinising churl

Who struts with ludicrous pretension.

I know not—only this I know,

They're getting overstrained, my ditties,

This kind of poem ought to flow

Less like a solemn "Nunc Dimittis."

'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre,

And jaunty seems this yearling baby;

But, as both year and song expire

They're sadder, each, and wiser, maybe.

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

"Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I'm All Right" is heard, "all over the place," as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are too well aware. Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus? As thus:—

No. V.—I-TWADDLEY-HIGH-DRY-HIGH-TONED-I! OK, I'M ALL RIGHT!

Air—"Hi-Tiddley-Hi-Ti!"

I'm a young writer grimly gay,

My volumes sell, and sometimes pay.

First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour,

Who had faced the Sphinx called Life,

With amusing misery rife,

So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I'd have a lark.

With pessimistic pick I pottered round

Pottered round,

A new "funny" trick I quickly found,

Smart and sound,

Life's cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned,

You be bound!

The cynic lay

I found would pay,

In a young Man of Mark!

Chorus.

All of you come along with me!

I'm for a rare new fine new spree!

Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted,

All of you come my books to try!

I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I,

Ego for ever! Buy! Buy! Buy!

And I'm all right!

Down with the West I go; my pen

Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten,

With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling.

Smart little scribes from near and far

Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!"

DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry,

But his pessimistic air, rich and rare,

Subtle, fair,

Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare,

And to blare;

Whilst true Critics débonnaire, who are rare,

With a flaire,

For true humour,

Swell of rumour

The gregarious cry.

Chorus.

All of you come along with me!

You'll have a rare new fair new spree!

Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted.

Humour's new cuvée, extra-dry.

I-twaddley—high-dry-high-toned I!

Come and worship the pessimist "I"

For that's all right!

After I've taken the toffish Town,

A second edition, at Half-a-crown,

Seeks the suffrages—(and money, for on Swelldom you'll go "stoney")—

Of the much derided Mob.

Yes, the Proletariat "Bob"

(With the Guinea of the Nob) must aid the Sons of Light.

Gath and Askelon, you see, can give Me,

L.S.D.

All true Egoists love those pregnant letters

Mystic Three!

Flout Philistia with great glee, fair and free,

But agree

To take its "tin,"

Though with a grin

Of pessimistic spite.

Chorus.

All of you come along with me!

'ARRY, who loves a fair old spree!

"Mugwump" with fine morgue delighted, Cynic at "yearnestness" sore frighted!

All of you come my "tap" to try!

I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I!

Come along, boys, Buy! Buy! Buy!

And I'm all right!

THE HOME AND THE OPEN SPACE.

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

No. 1.—DOWN OUR COURT.

(In which Jim Juniper, better known as "Ginger Jimmy," discourses of Homes and Open Spaces, &c., and, puts a practical problem to the new "Public Health, and Housing Committee of the London County Council.")

My name is GINGER JIMMY, and I live, when I'm to hum,

In Rats Rents, the kind o' nay'brood wot the Swells now calls a Slum.

I'm a bit thick in the clear, like, and don't quite know wot they mean,

But I guess it isn't mansions, and I'm sure it isn't clean.

They are always on the job now about Slums, and they do say

They are going to clear our Court out on the suddent some fine day.

Whether it's roads, or railways, or hotels, blowed if I know;

Only 'ope they'll give us notice, and some place where we can go.

'One is 'ome, if but a dungheap; if you're pitchforked out of that,

And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat,

With yer bits o' sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck,

I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.

Heviction? When you're stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout,

And you've nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you must turn hout;

'Cos without them "rights o' proputty" no country couldn't jog;

But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!

I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave,

And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave";

But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake.

I am fly to most all capers, but don't tumble to their fake.

Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do.

They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue,

But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot;

Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke

What does the "All a-blowin'!" with a barrer and a moke;

And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain't so jolly sure

As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me. Reglar nubbly one is NOCK,

With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher's block.

He'd a made a spiffing Club Swell if he'd ony 'ad the chink,

With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

And I ain't no softy, neither, bet your buttons. That don't pay,

For you're 'bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o' day;

But I've got a mash on flowers; they are better than four 'arf,

Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY 'ave his larf!

NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin' hout our place

For to make a bit o' garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space,

O I know the sort o' fakement, gravel walks, a patch o' grass,

And a sprinkle of young lime-trees of yer Thames Embankment class.

Some bloke spots the place as likely, and praps buys it on the cheap,

(Spekylators keeps their lids hup though the parish nobs may sleep,)

Pooty soon the pot's a-bilin' about Hopen Spaces. Yus!

And the chap as bought the bit o' ground is fust to raise the fuss.

Recreation for the People, Hopen Playgrounds for the Young!

That's the patter of the platformers; and don't they jest give tongue!

Well, it's opened with a flourish, and there's everyone content;

Pertiklerly the landlords round as nobbles better rent.

But I don't object to gardings, not a'mossel—t'other quite;

As I've said, a bit of green stuff and a flower is my delight;

I wish London wos more hopen, and more greener, and more gay;

Only people down our Court has got to live as well as play.

If they clears out the arf acre where we huddles orful close,

We must all turn out, that's certain; where we'll turn to, goodness knows;

And it won't be werry spashus, the new "Park" won't, arter all,

With the graveyard railinks one side, and on t'other a blank wall.

Wot we want is decent 'ouses, at a rent as doesn't take

'Arf a cove's poor screw to pay it. That 'a the present landlord's fake!

If they only knowed 'ow 'ard it is to meet "Saint Monday" square,

When yer ealth is werry middlin', and the jobs is werry rare!

P'raps them Dooks, and Earls, and Marquiges, and Kernels, wot they states

Has just clubbed theirselves together to keep down the bloomin' Rates,

And to smash the Kounty Kouncil, as they've bunnicked the Skool Board,

Jest a few of their hodd moments to our naybrood might afford.

They must 'ave a feelink 'art towards the poor, and no mistake,

Or they wouldn't take sech trouble for the poor Ratepayers' sake,

NOCKY SPRIGGENS sez it 'minds 'im of a League of Loving Cats

To purtect from traps and pizen the poor mice and starvin' rats.

Jest like NOCKY's narsty way that is! But if them Dooks would try

To assist the Kounty Kouncil in their new Committee—wy,

They might 'elp our Health and Housing in a style as none could mock,

Give the proud "Pergressives" what-for, and fair put the shut on NOCK.

Arter all yer Public Garding's little better than a chouse,

While the landlord rents yer heart out for a wretched Privit 'Ouse.

And yer Hopen Space's pootiness ain't much good to our sort,

Who are shut up in the dismal dens called 'Omes, gents, down our Court.

Oh, Philanterpists, and Sanitrys, and Dooks, I do not mean

To be rucking upon Charity, or rounding on wot's clean;

But if yer wants to 'elp us as has lived so long in muck,

The only thing wot's wanted ain't to give us the clean—chuck!

TAKING HIM RATHER TOO LITERALLY.

Sir Biggan Burleigh (who doesn't see why he shouldn't have a turn in his own house, to very young Lady). "MISS VIOLET,—ROUND OR SQUARE?"

Miss Violet (her first ball, very bashful). "WELL—REALLY—SIR BURLEIGH—IF YOU INSIST—I SHOULD SAY"—(hesitating)—"DECIDEDLY ROUND!"

'Arry Examined.

Q. What is meant by "Higher Education?"

'Arry. Getting a Tutor at so much a week. That's the way I should 'ire education—if I wanted it.

A DEFINITION.—"A pun on a word is a new sense."—Dr. JOHNSON, Junior.

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XXII.

SCENE—The Campo S.S. Giovanni e Paolo. Afternoon. CULCHARD is leaning against the pedestal of the Colleoni Statue.

Podbury (who has just come out of S. Giovanni, recognising CULCHARD). Hullo! alone, eh? Thought you were with Miss TROTTER?

Culchard. So I am. That is, she is going over a metal-worker's show-room close by, and I—er—preferred the open air. But didn't you say you were going out with the—er—PRENDERGASTS again?

Podb. So I am. She's in the Church with BOB, so I said I'd come out and keep an eye on the gondola. Nothing much to see in there, you know!

Culch. (with a weary irony). Only the mausoleums of the Doges—RUSKIN's "Street of the Tombs"—and a few trifles of that sort!

Podb. That's all. And I'm feeling a bit done, you know. Been doing the Correr Museum all the morning, and not lunched yet! So Miss TROTTER's looking at ornamental metal-work? Rather fun that, eh?

Culch. For those who enjoy it. She has only been in there an hour, so she is not likely to come back just yet. What do you say to coming into S.S. Giovanni e Paolo again, with me? Those tombs form a really remarkable illustration, as RUSKIN points out, of the gradual decay of—

Miss Trotter (suddenly flutters up, followed by an attendant carrying a studded halberd, an antique gondola-hook, and two copper water-buckets—all of which are consigned to the disgusted CULCHARD). Just hold these a spell till I come back. Thanks ever so much.... Well, Mr. PODBURY! Aren't you going to admire my purchases? They're real antique—or if they aren't, they'll wear all the better.... There, I believe I'll just have to run back a minute—don't you put those things in the gondola yet, Mr. CULCHARD, or they'll get stolen.

[She flutters off.

Culch. (helplessly, as he holds the halberd, &c.). I suppose I shall have to stay here now. You're not going?

Podb. (consulting his watch). Must. Promised old BOB I'd relieve guard in ten minutes. Ta-ta!

[He goes; presently BOB PRENDERGAST lounges out of the church.

Culch. If I could only make a friend of him! (To BOB.) Ah, PRENDERGAST! lovely afternoon, isn't it? Delicious breeze!

Bob. (shortly). Can't say. Not had much of it, at present.

Culch. You find these old churches rather oppressive, I daresay. Er—will you have a cigarette? [Tenders case.

Bob. Thanks; got a pipe. (He lights it.) Where's Miss TROTTER?

Culch. She will be here presently. By the way, my dear PRENDERGAST, this—er—misunderstanding between your sister and her is very unfortunate.

Bob. I know that well enough. It's none of my doing! And you've no reason to complain, at all events!

Culch. Quite so. Only, you see, we used to be good friends at Constance, and—er—until recently—

Bob. Used we? Of course, if you say so, it's all right. But what are you driving at exactly?

Culch. All I am driving at is this: Couldn't we two—er—agree to effect a reconciliation between the two ladies? So much pleasanter for—er—all parties!

Bob. I daresay. But how are you going to set about it? I can't begin.

Culch. Couldn't you induce your sister to lay aside her—er—prejudice against me? Then I could easily—

Bob. Very likely—but I couldn't. I never interfere in my sister's affairs, and, to tell you the honest truth, I don't feel particularly inclined to make a beginning on your account. [Strolls away.

Culch. (to himself). What a surly boor it is! But I don't care—I'll do him a good turn, in spite of himself! (Miss T. returns.) Do you know, I've just been having a chat with poor young PRENDERGAST. He seems quite cut up at being forced to side with his sister. I undertook to—er—intercede for him. Now is it quite fair, or like your—er—usual good-nature, to visit his sister's offences—whatever they are—on him? I—I only put it to you.

Miss T. Well, to think now! I guess you're about the most unselfish Saint on two legs! Now some folks would have felt jealous.

Culch. Possibly—but I cannot accuse myself of such a failing as that.

Miss T. I'd just like to hear you accuse yourself of any failing! I don't see however you manage to act so magnanimous and live. I told you I wanted to study your character, and I believe it isn't going to take me vurry much longer to make up my mind about you. You don't suppose I'll have any time for Mr. PRENDERGAST after getting such a glimpse into your nature? There, help me into the gondola, and don't talk any more about it. Tell him to go to Salviati's right away.

Culch. (dejectedly, to himself). I've bungled it! I might have known I should only make matters worse!

On the Piazzetta; it is moonlight, the Campanile and dome of San Giorgio Maggiore are silhouetted sharp and black against the steel-blue sky across a sea of silver ripples. PODBURY and CULCHARD are pacing slowly arm-in-arm between the two columns.

Culch. And so you went on to S. Giovanni in Bragora, eh? then over the Arsenal, and rowed across the lagoons to see the Armenian convent? A delightful day, my dear PODBURY! I hope you—er—appreciate the inestimable privileges of—of seeing Venice so thoroughly?

Podb. Oh, of course it's very jolly. Find I get a trifle mixed afterwards, though. And, between ourselves, I wouldn't mind—now and then, you know—just dawdling about among the shops and people, as you and the TROTTERS do!