PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 104.

JANUARY 14th, 1893.

THE SCHOOL FOR PATRIOTISM.

[A Fund has been raised to supply the School Board with Union-Jacks, with a view to increasing the loyalty of the pupils.—Daily Paper.]

Scene—A Room of the School Board, decorated with flags and trophies of arms. Teacher discovered instructing his pupils in English History.

Teacher. And now we come to the Battle of Trafalgar, which was won by Nelson in the early part of the present century. As it is my object to increase your patriotism, I may tell you that "Britannia rules the waves, and Britons never, never, never will be slaves!" Repeat that in chorus.

Pupils. "Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves; Britons never, never, never will be slaves!"

Teacher. Thank you very much; and to show how the esprit de corps in Her Majesty's Ships-of-War is preserved, I will now dance the Sailor's Hornpipe.

[Does so.

First Pupil. Please, Sir, do Englishmen always win?

Teacher. Invariably. If they retire, they do not retreat. Can you tell me what a retirement of troops in the face of the enemy is called?

Second Pupil. Bolting, Sir.

Teacher. Nothing of the sort. Go to the bottom of the class, Sirrah! Bolting, indeed! Next boy!

Third Pupil. It is called "a strategic movement to the rear," Sir.

Teacher. Quite right; and now we come to the Battle of Waterloo, which you will remember was won on the 18th of June, 1815. But perhaps this may be a convenient time for the introduction of the Union-Jack War Dance, which, as you all know, has been recently ordered to be part of our studies by the Committee of the School Board. Now then, please, take your places.

[The Pupils seize the flags hanging to the walls, and dance merrily. At the conclusion of the exercise they replace the flags, and resume their customary places.

First Pupil. If you please, can you tell us anything about the Union-Jack?

Teacher. As I have explained on many occasions, when you have been good and obliging enough to put the same question to me, I am delighted to have the opportunity. You must know that the Union-Jack represents the greatest nation in the world. This nation is our own beloved country, and it is gratifying to know that there are no people so blessed as our own. The Union-Jack flies in every quarter of the globe, and where it is seen, slavery becomes impossible, and tyranny a thing of the past. To be an Englishman is to be the noblest creature on the earth. One Englishman is worth twenty specimens of other nationalities; he is more conscientious, more clever, more beautiful than any other living man, and it is a good thing for the world that he exists. (Looking at watch.) And now, as we have rather exceeded our usual time for study, we will depart after the customary ceremony.

[The Pupils then sing the National Anthem, and the School dismisses itself with three cheers for Her Majesty. Curtain.

"ON NE 'PATINE' PAS AVEC L'AMOUR."

BUTTERS BUTTERED.

Sir,—I have been deeply thrilled by the suggestion for curing the Agricultural depression which Messrs. Macdougall, of Mark Lane, have made. I am not myself an Agriculturist; still, in—or rather near—the suburban villa in which I reside, I have an old cow, and a donkey on which my children ride. Directly I heard that the way to keep animals warm and comfortable in Winter was to smear them all over with oil, thus saving much of the cost of feeding them, I tried the plan on the aged cow. Perhaps the oil I used was not sufficiently pure. At all events the animal, which had never been known before to do more than proceed at a leisurely walk, rushed at frantic speed into the garden, and tossed my wife's mother into a cucumber-frame. She has now gone home. Undeterred by the comparative failure of this attempt, I smeared our donkey with a pint of the best castor-oil, just before setting out on its daily amble, with the children (in panniers) on its back. It did not appear to relish the treatment, as it instantly broke loose, and was found, five miles off, in a village pound, while the children were landed in a neighbouring ditch. I am writing to Messrs. Macdougall, to ask for particulars of how the oil is to be applied. I am sure it is an excellent idea, if the animals could be brought to see it in the same light.

Yours, experimentally,

Darwin Edison Gubbins.

My Dear Mr. Punch,—Smith Minor, who is staying at our house for part of the holidays, said what good fun it would be to try the Macdougall plan on my Uncle from India. He is always cold and shivering. We waited till he was having a nap after dinner in the arm-chair, and we coated him over with butter that Smith Minor got from Cook. (Cook never will give me butter.) When we got to his hair he unfortunately woke up, so that is probably why the plan did not succeed. We thought he would be pleased to feel warmer, but he wasn't. Uncles are often ungrateful, Smith Minor says. And it did succeed in one way, because he seemed awfully hot and red in the face when he found what we had been doing. Perhaps we ought not to have tried smearing him on his clothes, but how could we get his clothes off without waking him? Smith Minor says it's a pity we didn't drug him. N.B.—I have been stopped going to the Pantomime for this, and Smith Minor is to be sent home!

Your dejected

Tommy.

Sir,—I want to bring an action against Messrs. Macdougall, of Mark Lane. I tried their smearing plan on a horse in my stable that had a huge appetite, and was always getting cold if left out in the wet. I used paraffin, and at first the animal seemed really grateful. In the night I was called up by a fearful noise, and found that the horse's appetite had not got at all less owing to the oil; on the contrary, it seemed to have eaten up most of the woodwork of the stable, and was plunging about madly. The paraffin caught light, and the stable was burned, and the horse too. In future I shall feed my horse in the usual way, not on the outside.

Yours,

Titus Oats.

THE THIN BROWN LINE.

["Decidedly the most gratifying feature in the accounts of these engagements which have reached us, is the proof which they contain of the remarkable progress in all soldierly qualities made by the fellaheen forces, under the guidance and instruction of their British Officers."—The Times.]

Tommy Atkins, loquitur:—

"We've fought with many men acrost the seas,

And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not."

(So Mister Kipling says. His 'ealth, boys, please!

'E doesn't give us Tommies Tommy-rot.)

We didn't think you over-full of pluck,

When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses;

But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck!

Wich you're proving an addition to our forces.

So 'ere's to you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran;

You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man;

You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz,

And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz!

You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit,

From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-dive;

Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit,

And I almost wonder you are left alive.

But we've got you out of a good deal of that,

Sir Evelyn and the rest of us. You foller;

And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat

One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller.

Then 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid!

When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid,

You'll just make a Tommy Atkins of a quiet Coptic sort;

And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport.

Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say you?

We don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes;

But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we do,

We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;

With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,

With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;

But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?

That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,

Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,

We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,

We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square.

You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet,

But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line."

May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet!

All good fighters may shake fists, you know—'ere's mine!

You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab!

I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree

Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab,

Tommy Atkins drinks your 'ealth with three times three!

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan,

And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man:

An' 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair

May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!

REFLECTION BY A READER OF "REMINISCENCES."

Yes, life is hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;

We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;

But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,

Than front posterity through a Life and Letters.

That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,

We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!

Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,—

Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.

Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,

So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,

Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,

From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!

"How London Theatres are Warmed."—By having first-rate pieces. This prevents any chance of a "frost."

Song for the Liberator Society, and Others.—"Oh, where, and oh where, is our J. S. B-lf-r gone?"

When the P. M. Gazette by a Tory was book'd,

The Editor "Cust," and its readers were Cooke'd.

"And whom did you take into Supper, Mike?" "Maud Willoughby."

"You lucky Boy! Why she's a Darling!"

"Yes—but there was another Fellow on her other Side!"

ON AN OLD QUARTETTE.

[Pantaloon, Clown, Harlequin, and Columbine are the characters of an old sixteenth-century drama, acted in dumb-show. "Pantaleone" is a Venetian type; Columbine means a "little dove.">[

While Fairyland and Fairy tales

'Neath flaunting pageants fall,

And over Pantomime prevails

The Muse of Music Hall.

Still echoes, wafted through the din,

A lilt of one old tune—

Of Columbine and Harlequin,

Of Clown and Pantaloon.

Their faded frolics, tarnished show

Are shadows faint and rude

Of mimes who centuries ago

Joked, caramboled and wooed,

Of masques Venetian, Florentine,

Of moyen-age renown—

Of Harlequin and Columbine,

Of Pantaloon and Clown.

Not horseplay rough, the Saraband

They danced in vanished years,

But Love and Satire hand-in-hand,

And laughter linked with tears,

And Youth equipped his dove to win,

And Age, who grudged the boon;—

Sweet Columbine, bold Harlequin,

Cross Clown and Pantaloon.

Our Children-Critics now who deign

To greet this honoured jest,

Acclaiming, "Here we are again!"

With patronising zest,

They mark no soft Italian moon

Which once was wont to shine

On Harlequin and Pantaloon,

And Clown and Columbine!

But, spangled pair of lovers true,

And, whitened schemers twain,

The scholar hears in each of you

A note of that quatrain;

The dim Renaissance seems to spin

Around your satin shoon,

Fair Columbine, feat Harlequin,

Sly Clown and Pantaloon!

Everyone sincerely hopes that Sir West Ridgway will make a good bag during his visit to the Moors. "Ridgway's Food" is something that can be swallowed easily, and is so palatable as to be quite a More-ish sort of dish. Good luck to the experienced and widely-travelled Sir East-and-West Ridgway. Our English Rosebery couldn't have made a better choice.

To a Brewer (by Our Christmas Clown).—"Wish you a Hoppy New Year!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

VI.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A SOUL.

Lincoln B. Swezey was a high-toned and inquiring American citizen, who came over to study our Institootions. He carried letters to almost everybody; Dukes, Radicals, Authors, eminent British Prize-fighters, Music-hall buffoons, and he prosecuted his examination steadily. He did not say much, and he never was seen to laugh, but he kept a note-book, and he seemed to contemplate in his own mind, The Ideal American, and to try to live up to that standard. When he did speak, it was in the interrogative, and he pastured his intellect on our high-class Magazines.

Lincoln B. discovered many things, and noted them down for his work on Social Dry Rot in Europe, but one matter puzzled him. He read in papers or reviews, and he vaguely heard talk of a secret institution, the Society of Souls. They were going to run a newspaper; they were not going to run a newspaper. There was a poem in connection with them, which mystified Lincoln B. Swezey not a little; he "allowed it was darned personal," but further than that his light did not penetrate. He went to a little Club, of which he was a temporary member; it was not fashionable, and did not seem to want to be, and Swezey thought it flippant. There he asked, "What are the Souls, anyhow?" "Societas omnium animarum," somebody answered, and Swezey exclaimed "Say!" "They are a congregation of ladies. Their statutes decree that they are to be bene natæ, bene vestitæ, and mediocriter,—I don't remember what."

Swezey perceived that he was being trifled with, and turned the conversation to the superior culture and scholarship of American politicians, with some thoughts on canvas-backed ducks.

He next applied to a lady, whom he regarded as at once fashionable and well-informed, and asked her, "Who the Souls were, anyhow?"

"Oh, a horrid, stuck-up set of people," said this Pythoness. "They have passwords, and wear a silver gridiron."

"Why on earth do they do that?" asked Swezey.

"No doubt for some improper, or blasphemous reason. Don't be a Soul—you had better be a Skate. I am a Skate. We wear a silver skate, don't you see" (and she showed him a model of an Acme Skate in silver), "with the motto, Celer et Audax—'Fast and Forward.'"

Swezey expressed his pride at being admitted to these mysteries—but still pursued his inquiries.

"What do the Souls do?"

"All sorts of horrid things. They have a rule that no Soul is ever to speak to anybody who is not a Soul, in society, you know. And they have a rule that no Soul is ever to marry a Soul."

"Exogamy!" said Swezey, and began to puzzle out the probable results and causes of this curious prohibition.

"I don't know what you mean," said the lady, "and I don't know why you are so curious about them. They all read the same books at the same time, and they sacrifice wild asses at the altar of the Hyperborean Apollo, Ibsen, you know."

These particulars were calculated to excite Swezey in the highest degree. He wrote a letter on the subject to the Chanticleer, a newspaper in Troy, Ill., of which he was a correspondent, and it was copied, with zinco-type illustrations, into all the journals of the habitable globe, and came back to England like the fabled boomerang. Meanwhile Swezey was cruising about, in town and country, looking out for persons wearing silver gridirons. He never found any, and the more he inquired, the more puzzled he became. He was informed that a treatise on the subject existed, but neither at the British Museum, nor at any of the newspaper offices, could he obtain an example of this rare work, which people asserted that they had seen and read.

Finally Swezey made the acquaintance of a lady who was rumoured darkly to be learned in the matter. To her he poured forth expressions of his consuming desire to be initiated, and to sacrifice at the shrine.

"There is not any shrine," said his acquaintance.

"Well, I guess I want bad to be a Soul—an honorary one, of course—a temporary member."

"There are conditions," said the Priestess.

"If there's a subscription"——Swezey began.

"There is not any subscription."

"If there's an oath"——

"There is not any oath."

"Well what are the conditions, anyhow?"

"Are you extremely beautiful?"

Among the faults of Swezey, personal vanity was not reckoned. He shook his head sadly, at the same time intimating that he guessed no one would turn round in Broadway to look at the prettiest Englishwoman alive.

Afterwards, he reflected that this was hardly the right thing to have said.

"Are you extremely diverting?"

Swezey admitted that gaiety was not his forte. Still, he pined for information.

"What does the Society do?" he asked.

"There is not any Society."

"Then why do they call themselves Souls?"

"But they don't call themselves anything whatever."

"Then why are they called Souls?"

"Because they——but no! That is the Mystery which cannot be divulged to the profane."

"Then what in the universe is it all about?" asked Swezey; but this was a problem to which no answer was vouchsafed.

Swezey is still going around, and still asking questions. But he has moments of despondency, in which he is inclined to allow that the poor islanders possess, after all, something akin to that boasted inheritance of his native land, the Great American Joke. "Guess they've played it on me," is the burden of his most secret meditations.

THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.

(Revised to date by Mr. Punch.)

Question. What is an Infant?

Answer. A guileless child who has not yet reached twenty-one years of age.

Q. What is a year?

A. An unknown quantity to a lady after forty. And this reply is distinctly smart.

Q. What is "smartness"?

A. The art of appearing to belong to a good set.

Q. What is a good set?—A. A clique that prefers modes to morality, chic to comfort, and frivolity to family ties.

Q. What is chic?—A. An indefinable something, implying "go," "fast and loose style," "slap-dash."

Q. What is a dinner-party?

A. A large subject, that cannot be disposed of in a paragraph.

Q. What is a subject?—A. Something distinct from Royalty.

Q. Can one be distinct after dinner?—A. Yes,—with difficulty.

Q. What is a difficulty?

A. When of a pecuniary character—the time following the using up of the pecuniary resources of your friends.

Q. What is a friend?

A. A man who dines with you—a past enemy or a future foe.

Q. What is bad champagne?—A. A fruity effervescing beverage costing about thirty shillings the dozen.

Q. What is good?—A. Cannot reply until I have received samples.

Q. How can an inexperienced diner discover that he has taken bad champagne?

A. By the condition of his head on the following morning.

Q. What is a head?—A. A necessary alternative to money.

Q. What is money?

A. The only satisfactory representative of credit.

Q. What are representatives?

A. The mouthpieces of voters mustered in the House of Commons.

Q. What is mustard?

A. The chief ingredient of breakfast, after a night of it with your friends, when your appetite requires coaxing.

Q. What is the future?—A. To-morrow, and the coming centuries.

Q. And the past?—A. Two minutes ago, and all that went before.

Q. And the present?—A. The right time for bringing the current instalment of the Infant's Guide to a prompt conclusion.

"ENCORE, ALADDIN!"

Aladdin at the Alhambra is a genuine "Ballet Extravaganza," the story being told in pantomimic action, illustrated by M. Jacobi's sympathetic music. Aladdin was an excellent subject for Mr. John Hollingshead to take, though I venture to think that our old friend Blue Beard would be a still better one. The only fault I find with Aladdin is that it is too soon over. It certainly will take rank among the most superb and the most dramatic spectacles ever placed on the Alhambra stage. Aladdin ought to have been made much more of, as a sort of L'Enfant Prodigue. What a chance there would have been for him in games with the street-boys! Mlle. Legnani—so called, of course, from the graceful facility with which she remains for several seconds at a time on one leg—is both a pretty and nimble representative of the Dancing Princess. The Slave of the Ring does not appear in this story, as far as I could gather, only the Spirit of the Lamp, Signorina Pollini, puts in an appearance, and a very splendid appearance it is too! Mr. John Hollingshead is to be congratulated on having struck out a new line—though how he or the Lord Chamberlain could "strike out a new line" where there is no dialogue, will ever remain a mystery, even to M. Jacobi who knows most things well, and music better than anything. Mlle. Marie is a sprightly Aladdin, her pantomimic action being remarkably good. How many Aladdins have I seen! Whatever may become of other fairy tales—though all the best fairy tales are immortal—this of Aladdin will serve the stage for ever. At least, so thinks Private Box.

CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY.

Probable Development of the new "London Chamber of Arbitration," for the economical Settlement of Disputes without recourse to Litigation.

Basqueing in a New Language.—Much interest has been excited by the report that Mr. Gladstone, during his stay at Biarritz, used up his spare moments by studying the Basque tongue. Autolycus hears that, contrary to his usual habit, the Right Hon. Gentleman has in this matter an ulterior purpose. Occasionally, in the heat of debate in the House of Commons, Mr. Abraham drops into his native tongue, and addresses the Speaker in Welsh. Mr. Gladstone, desiring to add a fresh interest to Parliamentary proceedings, will, in such circumstances, immediately follow the Hon. Member for the Rhondda Vally, and continue the debate in Basque.

Evident, "When you come to think of it."—At what most patriotic moment of a most patriotic French exile must his feelings be most bitter?—When his love turns to Gaul.

"TO BE CONTINUED."

How eagerly those tales I read

While still of tender years,

Of murder strange, of Haunted Grange,

And gory Buccaneers!

But, at the most exciting point,

Abruptly ceased the text,—

What rage was mine to meet the line,

"Continued in our next"!

Sometimes, indeed, misfortune sharp

The Journal would attend—

The funds would fail, and so the tale

Remains without an end.

Now, when I take a serial up,

I cry, in accents vexed,—

"I've read enough—why is the stuff

'Continued in our next'?"

Ah well, the things we valued once

Enliven us no more!

(Remarks like these, if morals please,

I've furnished by the score.)

And should these verses but result

In making you perplexed,

You'll learn with glee they will not be

"Continued in our next"!

"Oh, these Christmas Bills!" cried Paterfamilias. "That's what I do," rejoined Impey Qunious. "My sentiments and practice precisely—'Owe these Christmas Bills'—and many others."

BUILDING THE SNOW MAN.

Billy and Johnnie were two little boys,

Who wearied of lessons, and tired of their toys.

Says Billy, "I've hit on an excellent plan;

Let's go out in the cold, John, and build a Snow Man!"

Johnnie (blowing his fingers). Oh, I say, Billy, isn't it cold, either?

Billy (stamping). Is it, Johnnie? I haven't noticed it myself.

Johnnie. Oh, you're as hard as nails, you are. My fingers are quite numb.

Billy. Then work away briskly. That'll warm 'em! Snow's a bit less binding than I expected to find it. Result of the severe frost, I suppose. But peg away, and we shall podge it into shape yet, Johnnie.

Johnnie. Ye-e-e-s! (Shivers). But what—er—er—what pattern, or plan, or model, have we—that—is—er—have you—er—decided on, Billy?

Billy (winking). Well, that's as it happens, Johnnie! Remember the one we built in '86—eh?

Johnnie (shuddering). I should think I did. Don't mean to say we're to go on those lines again, Billy?

Billy. I mean to say nothing of the kind. Many things have happened since then, Johnnie. For one thing, we've had heaps of advice.

Johnnie. Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof and criticising our work—in advance. Where's that bold, blusterous, bumptious Behemoth, Bill Stead? Knew all about building Snow Men, he did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other things, Bill had. And now he's licking creation into shape for six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance. Little cocksure Labby, too! Oh, he's a nice boy! If Bill takes all Knowledge for his province, Henry considers himself sole proprietor of Truth, and he lets us have Truth—his Truth—every week at least—in hard chunks—that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness, too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there, with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as we've licked him into it—if ever we do. Teddy Reed, too, he's turned nasty, though he does come from "gallant little Wales;" and now here's Wallace, the Scotch boy—though he was all right anyhow!—cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, Billy! And where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land us a nasty one now and then—just to encourage us!

Billy (patting and punching away vigorously). Loyal? Grateful? Ah, Johnnie, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on your liver. You're a brave boy, Johnnie, but just a bit bilious. Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them bicker, Johnnie, and listen to what they say! It may all come in handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all round, from Arty Balfour and Joey Chamberlain, as well as Henry, and Teddy, and Tim and John E., and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst we build, Johnnie. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most damage I hardly know—yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But, Johnnie, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some plan! I only hope (entre nous, Johnnie) that a thaw won't set in, and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!

[Left hard at it.

A DISTINCTION AND A DIFFERENCE.

Mr. Wilkins. "Beg pardon, Sir Pompey, but could you tell me who that Young Gen'l'man is you just took off yer 'At to?"