PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

March 26, 1892.

YE MODERATES OF LONDON!

Ye Moderates of London

Who sat at home at ease,

Ah! little did you think upon

The dangerous C.C.'s!

While comfort did surround you,

You did not care to go

To remote

Spots to vote

When the stormy winds did blow.

The voter should have courage

No danger he should shun;

In every kind of weather

All sorts of risks should run.

Not he! So bold Progressives

Will tax him, and he'll know

He must pay

In their way,

Which is neither sure nor slow.

But when the Thames Embankment,

The finest road in town,

Is riotous with tramcars,

Will that make rates come down?

Will all these free arrangements,

Free water, gas, do so?

Oh, they may!

Who can say?

And the Companies may go.

When LIDGETT and McDOUGALL

Are censors of the play,

We can patronise the Drama

In a strictly proper way;

When PARKINSON's Inspector

Of Ballets, we shall know

He will stop

Any hop

If he sees a dancer's toe.

Such grandmaternal rulers

Will settle life for us,

And Moderates, escaping

All canvassing and fuss,

Can still, from cosy firesides,

Through three long years or so,

Watch whereat

Jumps the cat,

And which way the wind does blow.

LOCKWOOD THE LECTURER.

["Last Tuesday Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., delivered a lecture entitled 'The Law and Lawyers of Pickwick,' to a large gathering of the citizens of York, which place he represents in Parliament."—Daily Telegraph.]

AIR—"Simon the Cellarer."

Oh, LOCKWOOD the Lecturer hath a rare store

Of jo-vi-a-li-tee

Of quips, and of cranks, with good stories galore,

For a cheery Q.C. is he!

A cheery Q.C. and M.P.

With pen and with pencil he never doth fail,

And every day he hath got a fresh tale.

"A Big-vig on Pig-vig," he quaintly did say,

When giving his lecture at York t'other day.

For Ho! ho! ho!

FRANK LOCKWOOD can show

How well he his DICKENS

Doth know, know, know!

Chorus.—For Ho! ho! ho! &c.

HOSPITALITY À LA MODE.

["Programmes and introductions are going out of fashion at balls."—Weekly Paper.]

SCENE—Interior of a Drawing-room during a dance. Sprightly Damsel disengaged looking out for a partner. She addresses cheerful-looking Middle-aged Gentleman, who is standing near her.

She. I am not quite sure whether I gave you this waltz?

He. Nor I. But I hope you did. I am afraid it is nearly over, but we shall still have time for a turn. [They join the dancers.

She. Too many people here to-night to make waltzing pleasant.

He. Yes, it is rather crowded. Shall we sit out?

She (thankfully, as he has not quite her step.) If you like. And see, the band is bringing things to a conclusion. Don't you hate a cornet in so small a room as this? So dreadfully loud, you know.

He. Quite. Yes, I think it would have been better to have kept to the piano and the strings.

She. But the place is prettily decorated. It must have cost them a lot, getting all these flowers.

He. I daresay. No doubt they managed it by contract. And lots of things come from Algeria nowadays. You can get early vegetables in winter for next to nothing.

She. Yes, isn't it lovely? All these palms, I suppose, came from the Stores.

He. No doubt. By the way, do you know the people of the house at all?

She. Not much. Fact was, I was brought. Couldn't find either the host or hostess. Such a crowd on the staircase, you know.

He. Yes. Rather silly asking double the number of people the rooms will hold, isn't it?

She. Awfully. However, I suppose it pleases some folks. I presume they consider it the swagger thing to do?

He. I suppose they do. Do you know many people here?

She. Not a soul, or—

He. You would not have spoken to me?

She. Well, no—not exactly that. But—

He. You have no better excuse ready. Quite.

She. How rude you are! You know I didn't quite mean that.

He. No, not quite. Quite.

She. By the way, do you know what time it is?

He. Well, from the rooms getting less crowded, I fancy it must be the supper hour. May I not take you down?

She. You are most kind! But do you know the way?

He. I think so. You see, I have learned the geography of the place fairly well.

She. How fortunate! But if I accept your kindness, I think I should have the honour of knowing your name.

He. Certainly; my name is SMITH.

She. Any relation of the people who are giving the dance?

He. Well, yes. I am giving the dance myself—or rather, my wife is.

She. Oh, this is quite too delightful! For now you can tell me what to avoid.

He. Certainly; and I have the pleasure of speaking to—?

She. You must ask my chaperon for my name. You know, introductions are not the fashion.

He. And your chaperon is—?

She. Somewhere or other. In the meanwhile, if you will allow me?

He (offering his arm). Quite!

[Exeunt to supper.

MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY FOR CHILDREN.

No. 1.—"LITTLE MISS MUFFIT."

Little Miss MUFFIT

Reposed on a tuffet,

Consuming her curds and whey—

She had dozens of dolls,

And some cash in Consols

Put by for a rainy day.

But though calm and content

While she drew Three per Cent.,

The Conversion unsettled her mien,

And she said, "Though they've thrown us

This Five-Shilling Bonus,

I cannot brook Two pounds fifteen!"

Comes a Broker outsider—

Who chanced to have spied her,

And "Options" and "Pools" he extols—

When he pictures the profit

(Commission small off it),

She cheerfully sells her Consols.

Then she starts operations

With fierce speculations

In Stocks of all manner and shape;

But whatever she chooses

Her "cover" she loses,

And sees it run off on the tape.

So alas! for Miss MUFFIT—

She now has to rough it,

And never gets jam with her tea;

While the Bucket-shop Dealer

Employs a four-wheeler,

Regardless of L. S. and D.

"The Frogs" at Oxford.

SCENE—Parlour of Private House, Oxford. TIME—Quite recently. Cook wishes to speak to her Mistress.

Cook. Please, 'm, I should like to go out this evening, 'm, which it's to see them Frogs at the New Theayter.

Mistress. But it's all Greek, and you won't understand it.

Cook. O yes, 'm. I once saw the Performin' Fleas, and they was French, I believe, leastways a Frenchman were showin' of 'em, and I unnerstood all as was necessary.

[After this, of course she obtains permission.

Mrs. Ram's Uncle (on the maternal side) has recently joined the religious sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. This has greatly distressed the good Lady. "If it had been anything else," she says, "a Moravian Missionary, or a Christian Brother-in-law, I wouldn't have minded. But to think that an Uncle of mine should have become a Yarmouth Bloater is a little hard on a poor woman no longer in her idolescence."

WILFUL WILHELM.

Young WILHELM was a wilful lad,

And lots of "cheek" young WILHELM had.

He deemed the world should hail with joy

A smart and self-sufficient boy,

And do as it by him was told;

He was so wise, he was so bold.

If anyone dared stop his play,

He screamed out—"Take the wretch away!

Oh, take my enemy away!

I won't have any foes to-day!"

His old adviser WILHELM swore

Was a pig-headed senile bore.

He meant to try another tack,

So his Old Pilot got the sack.

Nay more, one day, in a fierce squall,

He smashed his picture on the wall;

Tore up the papers when they said

He was a little "off his head."

He yelled, in his despotic way,

"Not any Press for me," I say!

"Oh, take that nasty Punch away

I won't have any Punch to-day!"

He deemed himself, and this was odd,

A sort of new Olympian god;

And when the wise, who watched his whim,

Sighed, "Have the gods demented him?

Quem deus vult, et cetera" he

Was just as mad as mad could be;

And, just like other angry boys,

Kicked over tables, smashed his toys,

And cried out, "Take the things away!

I'll have nought but new toys to-day!"

"Prudence?" he yelled; "what do I care?"

And here he kicked the old pet Bear

His sire and grandsire had so cherished,

Till the old policy had perished

With Wilful WILHELM, who preferred

The Eagles. With a pole he stirred

Big Bruin up. "Oh, I'll surprise him!

And, if he growls, I'll 'pulverise' him."

Some thought that picking rows with Bruin

Meant folly, if it did not ruin;

But when they whispered words of warning,

Then Wilful WILHELM, counsel scorning,

Shrieked, "Take the nasty brute away!

I won't have any Bears to-day!"

Now, WILHELM, do not be absurd,

But listen to a friendly word!

You are a clever boy, no doubt,

And very smart, and very stout,

Like young AUGUSTUS, dainty eater,

Whose story is in Struwwelpeter.

Did'st ever read those truthful stories,

Good Dr. HEINRICH HOFFMANN's glories,

Which round the world have travelled gaily,

By Nursery pets consulted daily?

If not, just get "Shock-headed PETER";

Read of AUGUSTUS, the soup-eater,

And stuck-up "JOHNNY Head-in-Air,"

Who came down "bump" all unaware.

And "Fidgety PHILIP." You'll confess them

Pointed,—and don't try to suppress them,

Like Princes, party-men and papers

Which can't admire all your mad capers!

My Wilful WILHELM, you'll not win

By dint of mere despotic din;

By kicking everybody over

In whom a critic you discover,

Or shouting in your furious way,

"Oh, take the nasty Punch away!

I won't have any Punch to-day!"

WHAT THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, MR. PUNCH, SAYS TO THE ARTISTS' CORPS.—"Gentlemen, you would no doubt like a brush with the enemy, to whom you will always show a full face. Any colourable pretence for a skirmish won't suit your palette. You march with the colours, and, like the oils, you will never run.' You all look perfect pictures, and everybody must admire your well-knit frames. Gentlemen, I do not know whether you will take my concluding observation as a compliment or not, but I need hardly say that it is meant to be both truthful and complimentary, and it is this, that though you are all Artists, you look perfect models,"

CONSCIENTIOUS.

Mr. Boozle (soliloquises). "MY MEDICAL MAN TOLD ME NEVER ON ANY ACCOUNT TO MIX MY WINES. SO I'LL FINISH THE CHAMPAGNE FIRST, AND THEN TACKLE THE CLARET!"

"BUTCHER'D TO MAKE—."

[On Monday the 14th a "lion-tamer" was torn to pieces in a show at Hednesford.]

Shame to the callous French, who goad

The horse that pulls a heavy load!

Shame to the Spanish bull-fight! Shame

To those who make of death a game!

We English are a better race:

We love the long and solemn face;

We fly from any cheerful place,—

On Sunday.

But, other days, we like a show.

There may be danger, as we know;

We put the thought of that aside,

For noble sport is England's pride:

We'd advertise a railway trip,

To see a wretched tamer slip

And die beneath the lion's grip,—

On Monday!

A REALLY EXCEPTIONALLY REMARKABLE AND NOTEWORTHY FACT.—To-day, Thursday, March 17.—Fine Spring weather. Have sat for over half-an-hour at a window looking on to the street, between 3·30 and 4·15 P.M., and have not once heard either the whole or any portion of the now strangely popular "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" ... As I write this ... ha!... The grocer's book!... "Boom-de-ay" without the "Ta-ra." The spell is broken! N.B.—As this delightful song has now a certain number of Music-"hall-marks," the places where it is sung can be spotted and remembered as "Ta-ra's Halls."

TO THE YOUNG CITY-MEN.

TO MAKE MUCH OF (LUNCHEON) TIME; OR, A COUNSEL TO CLERKS. (AFTER HERRICK.)

Gather ye fish-bones while ye may,

The luncheon hour is flying,

And this same cod, that's boiled to-day,

To-morrow may be frying.

The handsome clock of ormolu

A quarter past is showing,

And soon 'twill be a quarter to,

When you must think of going.

That man eats best who eats the first,

When fish and plates are warmer,

But being cold, the worse and worst

Fare still succeeds the former.

Then be not coy, but use your lungs,

And while ye may, cry "Waiter!"

For having held just now your tongues,

You may repent it later.

FANCY PORTRAIT.

THE HUMBUG-HUNTING FERRET. (VIVERRA LABOUCHERIENSIS.)

The Times (loq.). "AH! WONDERFUL INSTINCT, AND OCCASIONALLY USEFUL. BUT I'M NOT PARTICULARLY PARTIAL TO HIM!"

PONSCH, PRINCE OF OLLENDORF.

(M. Maeterlinck's very last Masterpiece.)

The Belgian Master has tried, as he has already informed the world, "to write SHAKSPEARE for a company of Marionnettes." Encouraged by his extraordinary success, he has soared higher yet, and adapted our greatest national drama for the purposes of the (Independent) itinerant Stage. We are enabled by the courtesy of his publishers to give a few specimen scenes from this magnum opus, which, as will be seen, requires somewhat more elaborate mounting and mechanical effects than are at present afforded by the ordinary Punch Show. In M. MAETERLINCK's version, Ponsch becomes the Prince of Half-seas-over-Holland; he is the victim of hereditary homicidal mania, complicated by neurotic hysteria. Inflamed by the insinuations of Mynheer Olenikke—a kind of Dutch Mephistopheles and Iago combined—he is secretly jealous of his consort the Princess Jödi's preference for the society of Djoë, the Court Jester and Society Clown. Here is our first sample:—

A Chamber in the Castle. Princess JÖDI discovered at a window with DJOË.

Jödi. Lo! lo! a shower of stars is falling upon the fowl-house!

Djoë. Oh! oh! a shower of stars upon the fowl-house? (A water pipe in the back-garden bursts suddenly and splashes them.) Ah! ah! I am wet all over! Have you a pocket handkerchief?

Jödi. Oh, look! a comet—an enormous one—has descended into the water-butt! The sky is blood-red, and the moon has turned the colour of green cheese. This bodes some disaster!

Djoë. It is unsettled—rainy—unpleasant weather. Can you lend me an umbrella?

Jödi. I cannot lend you an umbrella, because I have lent mine to the gardener's wife. Owls are roosting on the chimney-pots, and a stickleback has jumped out of the pond. Hush, my Lord the Prince approaches!

[Prince PONSCH enters, bearing a stout staff, which he nurses gloomily, like an infant; a hurricane is heard in the middle distance; the waterpipe sobs strangely and then expires; a blackbeetle comes out of a cupboard and runs uneasily about, until a flash of lightning enters down the chimney and kills it. PONSCH stands glaring at DJOË and the Princess.

Djoë (hastily). There is going to be a storm. Do not forget what I have uttered. Good evening!

[He goes; the wind whistles a popular air through the keyhole.

Jödi (nervously). What an appalling evening! I have never seen the like of such a sky.

Ponsch. There is something about you this evening—how beautiful you are looking! Bring BEBBI-PONSCH.

Jödi (fetching the Infant Prince). Here he is. Why do you look so strangely at him?

Bebbi-Ponsch (a small, but important part). Is Pa-a-par poo-oorly? Won't he p'ay wiz me no mo-ore?

Ponsch. The soul of a little stage-child looms from under his green eyes! OLENIKKE was right, and I— No matter. I will open the window.

[Opens it, and throws BEBBI-P. out. Sound of water-splash audible.