PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
August 20, 1892.
AD PUELLAM.
["Detective cameras have become favourite playthings with ladies of fashion."—Ladies' Paper.]
You used to prate of plates and prints
And "quick developers" before,
In spite of not unfrequent hints
That these in time become a bore;
But then this photographic craze
Seemed little but a foolish fad,
While now its very latest phase
Appears to me distinctly bad.
Since even your devoted friends
At sight of you were wont to fly,
You manage still to gain your ends,
And photograph them on the sly;
The muff, the cloak with ample folds,
The parcel, and the biscuit-tin,
I know that each discreetly holds
Detective lenses hid within.
Should CROESUS greet you with a smile,
A "bromide" will record the fact;
Should STREPHON help you o'er a stile,
The film will take him in the act.
Yet this renown, if truth be said,
Is fame they'd rather be without;
Nor, I assure you, will they wed
A lady photographic tout.
ANTIQUITY OF GOLF.
That Golf was a game probably known to and played by pre-Adamite Man (whoever he may have been; name and address not given) is evidenced by the learned Canon TRISTRAM's observation in the Biology Section of the British Association Meeting last week, to the effect that "he (the Canon) had never seen a better collection of these Links connecting the present with the past world." This must be most interesting to all Golf-players.
NOT MEMBERS OF "BRITISH ASSOCIATION."
First Passenger (reading Morning Paper). "'PSYCHICAL CHARACTER OF HYSTERICAL AMBLYOPIA'!! DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT 'PSYCHICAL' MEANS! WHAT DOES IT MEAN, OLD MAN?"
Fellow Passenger. "DON'T KNOW, I'M SURE, DEAR BOY! SOMETHING TO DO WITH BRAINS, I B'LIEVE. NOT AT ALL IN MY LINE!"
'ARRIET.
A Realistic Rhapsody.
(With Apologies to Mr. Henry Kendatt, Author of "Astarte," in the "Bookman.")
Across the wind-blown bridges,
O look, lugubrious Night!
She comes, the red-haired beauty
Illumined by gaslight!
By London's dim gaslight!
So hush, ye cads, your roar!
Behind her plumes are waving
Her oil'd fringe flaps before.
O 'ARRIET, Cockney sister,
Your face is writhed with jeers;
How awful is the angle
Of those protuberant ears!
Those red, protuberant ears!
And your splay feet—O lor!!!
My loud, my Cockney sister,
Where oil'd fringe flops before!
Ah, 'ARRIET! gracious 'eavens,
How your greased locks do glow!
I swoon! The "hodoration"
(I heard you call it so)
Sickens my senses so;
'Tis "Citronel"—no more,
That scents, like a cheap barber's,
That oil'd fringe hung before.
'ARRIET, my knowing darling,
Your eyes a cross-watch keep,
You're togged in shop-girl's fashion,
Your cloak is bugled deep,
Black-bugled broad and deep,
With buttons dappled o'er,
Good gr-racious! how it's grown, too—
That oil'd fringe flopped before!
That "bang" is awfully trying,
That odour maddens me.
By Jingo! you've been dyeing
Those rufous locks, I see,
Those sandy locks, I see,
They're darker than of yore.
Avaunt! I'd be forgetting
That oil'd fringe flopped before.
RATHER APPROPRIATE.
Under the heading "Military Education," there appears in The Tablet, an advertisement concerning preparation for examinations at Woolwich and Sandhurst by "the Rev. E. VON ORSBACH, F.R.G.S., F.R.Hist.S., late Tutor to their Highnesses the Princes of THURN-AND-TAXIS." What a suggestive name for a tutor preparing young men for a Cavalry Regiment is "VON ORSBACH!" Not only would pupils surmount all difficulties of EUCLID's propositions, but being brought up by VON ORSBACH, they would dare all "riders!" Then as to the Princes, his pupils, cannot we conceive of the first Prince THURN how he has been turned out a perfect 'orseman by VON ORSBACH, and how it would tax all an Examiner's ingenuity to pluck TAXIS. Pity that when one Prince was called TAXIS the other wasn't named RATES. But evidently this was an oversight. A neat couplet might head this advertisement, and add to its attractiveness, as for instance:—
Every question, whatever they ax is,
Will in its THURN be answered by TAXIS.
TAXIS and THURN, for a win you'll of course back,
The pick of the stable, the trainer VON ORSBACH.
We wish him a continuance of the successes which from his list this Equestrian Military Tutor—he can't he a "coach" as he is an ORSBACH—has already obtained. It's a German name, but it sounds more like 'Orsetrian (!)
CUI BONO?—"It is a mistake," quoth The World last week, "to suppose that Mr. GLADSTONE complacently regards Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT as his 'Alter Ego.'" Mr. G. being the "Ego" it is not very likely that Sir WILLIAM V. HARCOURT is likely to "alter" any of his Leader's plans. Still an "Alter Ego" is very useful whenever Mr. GLADSTONE may want to "wink The Other I."
1492 V. 1892.
ELECTION AGONIES.
(By a Re-elected M.P.)
Yes, there I stood beside my wife,
And called it—whilst the mob cheered wildly—
"The proudest moment of my life,"
Which it was not, to put it mildly.
Heavens, how they cheered! Up went their caps,
To see their Member safely seated;
Who in his inmost soul, perhaps,
Had almost wished himself defeated.
The girls are pleased. And Mrs. T.,
Has fairy visions of a handle
To grace the name she shares with me;
But is the game quite worth the candle?
Six years of unremitting work,
Of flower-shows, bazaars, and speeches,
Of sturdy mendicants who lurk
In wait to act as sturdy leeches.
The faddists—Anti-This-and-That—
Blue-spectacled "One Vote, One Person"—
Extract a promise, prompt and pat,
The while their heads you hurl a curse on.
And in return? The dull debate,
The dreary unimportant question,
The pressure of affairs of State,
A muddled brain, a lost digestion.
Six years of it. I cannot stand
At any cost another bout of it;
But, given away on every hand,
I don't quite see how to get out of it.
Ah, happy thought! My seat is safe,
And so 'mid general adulation,
I'll rescue some poor party waif
By Chiltern Hundreds resignation.
The world will quickly roar applause,
Of martyrs I shall be the latest;
But I'm the party and the cause
To whom the service will be greatest!
SONG OF GRATITUDE (by a Nervous Equestrian on the exceptional absence of 'Arry-cyclists or "Wheelmen" from the road to Wimbledon).—
"Oh, Wheelie, have we missed you?
Oh no, no, No!"
A MATTER OF "COURSE."
Eminent German Specialist. "VAT VATERS 'AVE YOU BEEN IN ZE 'ABIT OF TAKING?"
English Gouty Patient. "WATER! HAVEN'T TOUCHED A DROP, EXCEPT WITH MY TEA, FOR THE LAST THIRTY YEARS!"
[Upon which a mild course of Homburg, Kissengen, Marienbad, and Karlsbad is at once prescribed.
HOW INSULTAN'!
British Envoy, Timbuctoo, to Foreign Minister, London.
No end of a row! Grand Vizier, Lord Chamberlain, Keeper of Privy Purse, and other high Officials, assembled outside my house, and smashed windows, aided by furious crowd. Certain that Sultan is at bottom of it. Mayn't I say something vigorous to him?
Foreign Minister, London, to British Envoy, Timbuctoo.
Awkward, as General Election going on. Temporise. Appear not to notice stone-throwing. Very difficult to get to Timbuctoo with British Force. If hit with stones, try arnica. Rather think Timbuctoo was discovered by an Irishman, and called after him, TIM BUCKTOO. Eh?
British Envoy to Foreign Minister.
Please don't jest; especially not in Irish. Glad to say aspect of affairs completely changed. Sultan frightened about the stone-throwing. Beheaded Grand Vizier, and sent Lord Chamberlain, heavily ironed, to be imprisoned in cellar under my own apartment. Gratifying. Treaty on point of being signed.
Foreign Minister to British Envoy.
Your action quite approved of. Get Treaty signed quick! France, not unnaturally, seems rather galled. See joke? Play on word "Gaul."
British Envoy to Foreign Minister.
Quite see joke. Saw it years ago. Please don't send any more of 'em. Treaty settled! Gives absurdly generous bounty to all British subjects trading with Timbuctoo. Abolishes all Tariffs. Draft, with Sultan's signature, returned to him to be properly copied out. Mere formality. Packing up, and off to Coast to-night.
Same to Same.
Arrived at coast. Treaty in carpet-bag. Regret to say, that on examining it, find that Sultan has slipped in the little word "not" in every clause. Makes hash of whole thing. What shall I do?
Foreign Minister, London, to British Envoy.
Do nothing! Former Foreign Minister no longer in Office. General Election has taken place. Whole subject will be reconsidered, with quite new lights, before long. Off for a holiday just now, and can't attend to it. You'll hear from me again in about six months. Meanwhile, your motto must be—"Fez-tina lente!" Last joke. Brilliant. Just going to let it off at dinner-party. P.S.—Great success.
REEF-LECTION.—Delivering judgment in the case of Osborne v. Aaron's Reef, Limited, Mr. Justice CHITTY, in the interests of the public, was justly severe on both plaintiff and defendants, declining "to give any costs in this action to such a Company." Everyone is familiar with the nautical expression of "taking in a reef," which seems to have been a slightly difficult operation for anyone to perform with AARON's Reef, which, after the manner of AARON's Rod, when it was transformed into a serpent, appears to possess the faculty of swallowing to a very considerable extent. Knowing brokers, if consulted, would not have sung to unwary clients the popular ditty "Keep your Aarons," but would have recommended them, being in, to be out again in double-quick time, if there were any chance of an immediate though small ready-money profit to be made, before one could have said "Scissors!"
MARGATE BY MOONLIGHT.
It is about nine P.M.; in the West, a faint saffron flush is lingering above the green and opal sea, while the upper part of the church tower still keeps the warm glow of sunset. The stars are beginning to appear, and a mellow half moon is rising in a deep violet sky. Lamps are twinkling above the dusky cliffs, and along the curve of the shore.
The Reader will kindly imagine himself on a seat at the end of the Pier, where the Sand is playing, and scraps of conversation from his neighbours and passing promenaders, reach his ear involuntarily.
Fair Promenader (roused to enthusiasm by the surroundings). Oh, don't it look lovely at night? (Impulsively.) I can't 'elp sayin' so.
Her Companion (whose emotions are less easily stirred). Why?
The Fair P. (apologetically). Oh, I don't know exactly—these sort o' scenes always do take my fancy.
Her Comp. (making a concession to her weakness). Well, I must say it's picturesque enough—what with the gas outside the 'All by the Sea, and the lamps on the whilk stalls.
First Girl (on seat—to Second). Here comes that young SPIFFING. I do hope he won't come bothering us! (Mr. S. gratifies her desire by promenading past in bland unconsciousness.) Well, I do call that cool! He must have seen us. Too grand to be seen talking to us here, I suppose!
Second Girl. I'm sure I wouldn't be seen talking to him, that's all! Why, he's on'y— [They pick him to pieces relentlessly.
First Girl. Take care—he's coming round again. Now we shall see. Mind you don't begin laughing, or else you'll set me off!
[As a natural consequence, Mr. S.'s approach excites them both to paroxysms of maidenly mirth.
Mr. S. (halting in front of them). You two seem 'ighly amused at something. What's the joke?
Second Girl (as the first is compelled to bury her face behind her friend's back). Don't you be too curious. I'll tell you this much—at your expense!
Mr. S. Oh, is it? Then you might let Me 'ave a a'porth!
First Girl. BELLA, if you tell him, I'll never speak to you again.
[As there is nothing particular to tell, Miss BELLA preserves the secret.
Mr. S. (reconnoitring his rear suspiciously). There's nothing pinned on to my coat-tails, is there? (Renewed mirth from the couple.) Well, I see you're occupied—so, good evenin'.
[Walks on, with offended dignity.
Second Girl. There! I knew how it would be—he's gone off in a huff now!
First Girl. Let him! He ought to know better than take offence at nothing. And such a ridic'lous little object as he's looking, too! What else can he expect, I'd like to know!... Don't you feel it chilly, sitting still?
Second Girl (rising with alacrity). I was just thinking. Suppose we take a turn—the other way round, or he might think—
First Girl. We'll show him others have their pride as well as him. [They disappear in the crowd.
Mr. Spiffing (repassing a few minutes later, with one of the young Ladies on each arm). Well, there, say no more about it—so long as it wasn't at Me, I don't mind! [They pass on.
A Wheezy Matron (in a shawl). She was a prettier byby in the fice than any o' the others—sech a lydylike byby she was—we never 'ad no bother with her! and never, as long as I live, shall I forgit her Grandpa's words when he saw her settin' up in her 'igh cheer at tea, with her little cheeks a marsk o' marmalade. "LOUISER JYNE," he sez, "you mark my words—she's the on'y reelly nice byby you ever 'ad, or will ave!"
Her Comp. An' he wasn't given to compliments in a general way, neither, was he?
Anxious Mother. I can't make him out. Sometimes I think he means something, and yet,—Every morning we've been here, he's come up to her on the Pier, and brought her a carnation inside of his 'at.
Her Confidante. Then depend upon it, my dear, he has intentions. I should say so, certingly!
The Mother. Ah, but CARRIE tells me she's dropped her glove, accidental-like, over and over again, and he's always picked it up,—and handed it back to her. I reelly don't know what to think!
The Confidante. Well, I wouldn't lose heart—with the moon drawin' on to the full, as it is!
A Seaside Siren (conscious of a dazzling complexion—to a suburban Ulysses). I wish I could get brown—I think it's so awfully becoming—but I never can!
Ulysses. Some people are like that. On'y turn red, you know, specially the nose—catches 'em there, y'know!
The Siren. I'm obliged to you, I'm sure! Is that meant to be personal?
Ulysses. Oh, I wasn't thinking of you when I said that.
The Siren. You're very complimentary. But do tell me—am I like that? (She presents her face for his inspection.) Candidly, now.
Ulysses (conscientiously). Well, I don't notice anything particular—but, you see, colours don't show up by moonlight.
[The Siren coldly intimates that her Mother will be waiting supper for them.
An Habitué. Some people will tell yer, now, that Margit's vulgar. They must be precious 'ard to please, that's all! I'm as partickler as what most are, and I can assure yer if there was anythink o' that sort about, I shouldn't come down 'ere reglar, season after season, like I do!
His Companion. In course not—and no more shouldn't I, neither!
Along the Esplanade.
Female Voice (from the recesses of a glazed shelter). But if you're on the sands all day, how is it I never see you?
Male Voice (mysteriously). Would you like to know? Really? You shall. (With pride.) I'm one of the Niggers!
Fem. V. (deeply impressed). Not "GUSSIE," or "Uncle ERNIE!"
Male V. (with proud superiority). Not exactly. I conduct, I do—on the 'armonium.
Fern. V. (rapturously). Oh! I 'ad a sort o' feeling, from the very first, that you must be Somebody!
A Lodging-House Keeper. Yes, nice people they was—I don't know when I've 'ad such nice people. I'll tell you what they did ... They come on a Thursday—yes, Thursday it was—and took the rooms from the Saturday followin' to the next Saturday—and then they stopped on to the Saturday after that. I do call that nice—don't you?
A Mystic Plaint (from a Bench). Many and many a time I've borrered the kittles for them when the School Inspector was comin'—and now for them to turn round on me like this! It's a shame, it is.
A Lady of Economical Principles (at a Bow-window, addressing her Husband at the railings). Why, my dear feller, why ever did you go and do that—when there was a bed empty 'ere for him?
The Husband (sulkily). No one ever said a word to me about there being a bed. And I've taken one for him now at the Paragon, anyway—so that's settled!
The Economical Lady. I call it downright foolishness to go paying 'alf-a-crown a night for a bed, when there's one all ready 'ere for him! And you don't know how long he may mean to stop, either!
The Self-invited Visitor (suddenly emerging from the shadow).—You'll be 'appy to know, Mum, that your 'ospitality will not exceed the 'alf-crown. Good evenin'. [Retires to the Paragon.
The Econ. L. (regretfully). And a lobster ordered in for supper a-purpose for him, too!
A Street Musician (with a portable piano). I will next attempt a love-song. I feel full of love to-night. Oh, Ladies and Gentlemen—(earnestly)—take advantage of a salubrious night like this! Anyone who has not yet contributed will kindly embrace this opportunity of placing his offering upon the instrument; after which I shall endeavour to sing you "In Old Madrid." Oh, what a difficult ditty it is, to be sure, dear Ladies and Gentlemen—especially as it makes the twenty-seventh I've sung since tea-time—however, I will do my best. (He sings it.) That will conclude my al-fresco Concert for this evening. And now, thanking you all for your generous patronage of my humble efforts, and again reminding those who have not yet expressed their appreciation in a pecuniary form, that I am now about to circulate with the hat for the last time, I wish you all farewell, and balmy slumbers!
[He collects the final coins, and wheels away the piano. The crowd disperses; the listeners in the lodging-house balconies retire; and the Crescent is silent and deserted.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
One of the Baron's "Merry Men All" has been reading and enjoying Mr. BARRY PAIN's Stories and Interludes. The book has a wondrously weird and heavily-lined picture in front, which is just a little too like a "Prophetic Hieroglyphic" in Zadkiel's Almanack. An emaciated and broken-winged devil is apparently carrying an engine-hose through a churchyard, whilst a bat flits against a curious sky, which looks like a young grainer's first attempt at imitating "birds'-eye maple." Upon a second glance it seems possible that the "hose" is a snake, the tail of which the devil is gnawing. The gruesome design illustrates a yet more gruesome Interlude, entitled, "The Bat and the Devil." But it gives no fair idea of the contents of the volume, some of which are charming.
Read White Nights, stories within a story, told by a tragical "Fool," of the breed of HUGO's Rigoletto, and POE's Hopfrog—with a difference. They are told with force and grace, and with unstrained, but moving pathos. Read "The Dog That Got Found," a brief sketch indeed, but abundantly suggestive. Poor Fido—the "dog that got to be utterly sick of conventionality," and came to such bitter grief in his search for "life poignant and intense!" He might read a lesson to many a two-legged prig, were the bipedal nincompoop capable of learning it.
The Glass of Supreme Moments is, perhaps, needlessly enigmatical, and Rural Simplicity, Concealed Art, and Two Poets, strike one as superfluously "unpleasant." Mr. PAIN seems slightly touched with the current literary fad for making bricks with the smallest possible quantity of straw. One halfpennyworth of the bread of incident to an intolerable deal of the sack of strained style and pessimist commentary, make poorish imaginative pabulum, though there seems an increasing appetite for it amongst those who, unlike Lucas Morne in The Glass of Supreme Moments, plume themselves upon possession of "the finer perceptions." The Magic Morning is a "scrap" elaborately sauced and garnished; the fleeting flavour may possess a certain sub-acid piquancy, but such small dishes of broken meats are hardly nourishing or wholesome.
Mr. PAIN has a delicate fancy and a graceful style, a bitter-sweet humour, and a plentiful endowment of "the finer perceptions." He has done some good work here, and will do better—when he finds his subject, and loses his affectations. Read White Nights, again says the Baron's "retainer."
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.
COMING BARONETCY TO BE MUSICALLY NOTED.—Song for a "Lullaby" or a "Good Knight" from Don Giovanni, and dedicated by nobody's permission to Sir ARTHUR SEYMOUR SULLIVAN, would be "Barty! Barty!" Will Sir EDWARD SOLOMON be in it? Probably this is "another night."
LAYS OF MODERN HOME.
No. V.—Butlerless.
Oh! bring my Butler back to me;
I stray and lapse alone!
If this be freedom, to be free
Were something best unknown.
He used to look so grand and grave—
So sad when I was slack;
'Twas difficult to misbehave—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
In him was nothing flash nor green—
A Seneschal confessed;
Most people deemed his reverend mien
Some family bequest.
And yet but three short, happy years
Had seen him on our tack,
And made us verge on VERE DE VERES—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
A Pedigree in swallow-tails,
He gave our household "tone."
My soul plebeian trips and fails
(See stanza first) alone.
I fall on low Bohemian ways,
I doff my evening black;
I dine in blazer all ablaze—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
I breakfast now and smoke in bed;
I wrench the bell for coals;
No master-hand and master-head
The day's routine controls.
No stately form in homage curved,
Our commissariat's lack,
Veneers with, "Dinner, Sir, is served"—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
A few old friends drop in at times,
But ah! their zest is gone;
No organ voice with awe sublimes
BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON.
They sound to me quite commonplace,
Who seemed a ducal pack:
'Twas he who lent them rank and race—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
And they must think me very queer,
Each unennobled guest:
I munch my chop, I quaff my beer
At meal-times unrepressed,
I laugh a laughter rude and loud;
My little jokes I crack;
The parlour-maid with mirth is bowed—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
Yes! bring that paragon to me—
'Tis true he drank my wine;
But, as I found it disagree,
I don't so much repine:
'Tis true we missed a little plate
When he gave us the sack.
But "all things come to them that wait"—
Oh, bring my Butler back!
That gorgeous grace, that smile severe,
That look of Lords and Barts,
These are the charms that most endear
His image to our hearts.
The standard of my broken life
With him has gone to rack,
And, if it were not for my wife,
I'd bring my Butler back!