Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 105, July 29th 1893
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
MUSCULAR EDUCATION.
Mr. Punch has much pleasure in recommending the following Prospectus to the notice of parents desirous of finding a thoroughly practical school where boys are educated according to the real requirements of modern life.
CLOANTHUS HOUSE, MARKET DREPANUM, OXON.
Mr. J. Pen-Rullox, M.A. Cambs., and the Rev. Wilfrid Bails, B.A. Oxon, receive pupils to prepare for the great public schools and universities.
The well-known qualifications of Mr. Pen-Rullox, who rowed stroke in his university boat in the celebrated race at Amwell in 1878, and of the Rev. Mr. Bails, who played for Oxford in the famous university match in the Common Fields in 1882, will be sufficient guarantee that the boys will be thoroughly well instructed.
Besides Rowing, Cricket, and Football; Swimming, Racquets, Boxing, and Hockey, are specially attended to by competent Assistant-Masters, under the personal supervision of the Principals.
Billiards, Lawn-tennis, Poker, Nurr and Spell, and some other minor games, now too frequently neglected in the education of youth, will find their due place in the curriculum of Cloanthus House.
It is in contemplation, should a sufficient number of boys show a marked inclination for such studies, to engage a Board-school Master, of approved competence, to direct literary and scientific work.
Terms, inclusive, £250 per annum, payable in advance: the only extras at present being Reading, Writing, Polo, and Arithmetic.
Reference is kindly permitted to the following:—The Right Rev. the Bishop of Isthmia; the Editor of the Sporting Life; the Rev. R. E. D. Horgan, M.A., Jesurum Col., Cambs; the Sports Editor of the Field; the Warden of Mortlake College, Putney; Dr. S. A. Grace, LL.D.; the Hon. and Rev. Hurlingham Peel.
THE BITTER CRY OF THE BROKEN-VOICED CHORISTER.
(A long way after Tennyson.)
Break, break, break,
O voice on that clear top C!
And I would that my throat could utter
High notes as they used to be.
O well for old Bundlecoop's boy
That he still shouts his full round A!
O well for that tow-headed lad
That he sings in his old clear way.
And the anthems still go on
With boy-trebles sharp and shrill;
But O for my "compass," so high and grand,
And the voice that I used to trill!
Break, break, break,
Like a creaky old gate, top C!
But the high treble notes of a voice that is cracked,
Will never come back to me!
QUEER QUERIES.
The White Currency Question.—Can nothing be done to prevent the Indian Viceroy from carrying out his monstrous proposal about the Rupee? I was just off to Bombay (having recently completed a period of enforced seclusion in Devonshire, occasioned by a too successful competition with a monopolist Mint) on the strength of a newspaper paragraph that "Free Coining of Silver" was permitted in that happy land. Free Coining! In my opinion it beats "Free Education" hollow, and is just what I have always wanted. I felt that my fortune was made, when suddenly the news comes that the free coinage business is stopped. What an injustice! In the name of the down-trodden Hindoo, to whom my specially manufactured nickel-and-tin Rupee would have been quite a new revelation, I protest against this interference with the immemorial customs of our Oriental fellow-subjects.—Jeremiah D'Iddla.
Contributed by Our Own Welsh-Harper's Magazine.—With the Ap Morgans, Ap Rhys, Ap Jones, and many others, Wales is the ideal "'Appy Land."
SEASONABLE.
(By a future Lord Chancellor.)
The close of the season, the close of the season,
It leaves a man rifled of rhino and reason;
And now, with hot rain and a westerly breeze on,
I don't opine racketing London agrees on
The whole with Society. "Kyrie Eleison"
I'll chaunt when I stand with my wife and my wee son
Some windy "Parade" or exuberant "Lees" on,
In the splash of the salt and the flash of the free sun,
And am garbed in a fashion that, sure, would be treason
To Bond Street; and ruminate, sprawling at ease on
The sands with their bands and extempore sprees on.—
"Table d'Hôte-ards," repair to your Homburgs or freeze on
Cosmopolitan Alps, and eat kickshaws to tease one;
But me let the niggers marine and the sea's un-
Translateable sing-song, and bathers with d——s on,
Delight, and bare children, their noses and knees on,
Till quite I forget Messrs. Welby and Meeson
(Those despots of law) and my failures, and fees un-
Liquidated as yet, and myself—and the season!
AT COVENT GARDEN LAST THURSDAY.
Production of new Opera, Amy Robsart, arranged (and very well arranged, too) from Sir Walter Scott's novel, by Sir Augustus Harris and Paul Milliet, the English adaptation by Frederic Weatherly, and music by Isidore de Lara. Calvé in the title rôle, splendid; going through everything—three rather lengthy Acts, two impassioned love-duets, and the trap-door in the bridge—with unflagging spirit and charm.
In the Second Act, Kenilworth shown illuminated for the reception of Elizabeth—Leicester having evidently borrowed one of the band kiosks from Earl's Court. Elizabeth, according to stage directions, should have entered "seated upon a magnificent white horse," but preferred to walk in. Possibly her steed detained by business engagements. As represented by Madame Armand, an easy-going, sunny-tempered sovereign, with an amiable dislike of any "unpleasantness" among her courtiers. The Earl of Sussex the most impressive mute (next to his contemporary the Earl of Burleigh in The Critic) on the boards,—nothing to do but look haughty, and at last, at the Queen's command, consent to become reconciled to Leicester,—but the subtle suggestion in his "shake-hands" that he did so on compulsion, and reserved himself the right of punching Leicester's head at the first convenient opportunity, very artistically conveyed. Part most carefully thought out. The Revels cut short by the inconsiderate appearance of Amy Robsart when they were just beginning, which must have been annoying for the Lady of the Lake, who had just arrived to pay homage to the Queen, and found herself obliged to get upon her floating island again, and go home in the most ignominious manner, without waiting even for the "shower of stars," which were to have fallen over the water. Elizabeth, however, seemed quite unruffled by the interruption, perhaps thinking that anything was a relief which put an end to the revels. Finale to this Act dramatic, and well worked up. Third Act in two short tableaux, concluding with a duel and explanation (in two lines) between Leicester and Tressilian, after which the opera ends abruptly with Varney's highly ungentlemanly practical joke upon poor Amy Robsart, and Leicester's request to Tressilian to take his sword and run him through—which, however, he had no time to grant, as the curtain fell at that moment. After that, well-deserved floral tributes to Madame Calvé, and enthusiastic calls for singers, composer, manager, and carriages.
"FOLLOW ON!"
(A Cricketer's "Catch." Air—"Come Follow!")
First Voice. Come follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow on!
Second Voice. Why then should I follow, follow, follow, why then must I follow, follow on?
Third Voice. When you're Eighty runs or more behind our score you follow on!
ACCOMMODATING.
G. O. M. (to Radical Member). My dear Sir, will you vote for this clause?
Rad. Mem. I will, Sir. What is it?
"TOO KIND BY HALF."
John Bull, A.B. "The Man who lays his hand upon a Woman——"
Jacques Bonhomme. "Pardon, mon ami! 'Save in the way of Kindness——'"
A NEW LANGUAGE.
Mamma (severely). "Don't Squint, Effie, my dear!"
Effie. "I wasn't Squinting, Mamma. I was only making 'Dinner Eyes' at Major Stuffam. I hear he gives such charming Dinner Parties, and I should so much like to be asked!"
TOO KIND BY HALF.
["The independence and integrity of Siam ... is a subject of great importance to the British, and more especially to the British Indian Empire."—Lord Rosebery. "We have in no way any intention of threatening the independence of Siam."—M. Develle.]
British Tar sings, someway after Mr. Rudyard Kipling's "Tommy."
Air—"Mandalay."
"By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a settin'," an' she takes 'er time from me.
But this Siam puss looks pooty, and I'm sorter bound to say
"You stand back, you sailor Frenchy! that's a game as two can play!"
'Twas my game at Mandalay,
And you seem on the same lay:
You can twig my Jack a-flaunting from the Nile to Mandalay;
But this I've got to say,
If your 'and on 'er you lay,
I shall ask you to take a 'and in a game as men can play!
'Er petticoat is yaller, and 'er little cap is green,
And—I shouldn't half object to interjuce 'er to my Queen!
I don't want to see 'er suckin' of a Paris cigarette,
And a-wastin' purchased kisses on French Bullyvards—you bet!
No, I wouldn't shed no blood,
But by Mekon's yaller mud,
I 'ave always felt it "bizness" to take care no rival stud
On my road to "far Cathay."
Wot? She's fired upon your gunboats? Well, I'd like to know, yer see,
If them gunboats wos cavortin' where they didn't ought to be.
Your clutch upon 'er wrist, eh? Well, that's like your bloomin' cheek!
She shrinks from you, my Frenchy. No, yer know if she should squeak—
Give a reglar woman's squeak,
Though she looks carved out o' teak—
I should think o' my own womankind, my friend, and I should—speak
In the British sailor's way!
You'll "respect 'er Independence and Integrity," you say?
Well, a man who on a woman 'is 'and would dare to lay—
Hay? Save in the way o' kyindness! Why, you've capped me there, I own,
Which I didn't think that sentiment to Frenchies was beknown.
It's a bit o' good old Vic.!
But you've nicked it quick and slick.
Well, I 'ope you'll square it fairly, and not lay it on too thick,
In the brave old Bismarck way!
The idea o' wasting ivory, silk, and peacocks' tails, and such,
Upon merchants who're a trifle too much like George Canning's "Dutch."[*]
When a fair and square Free Trader, like—well, not unlike myself,
Could stand by for to purtect 'er, and 'elp 'er—and 'im—pile pelf,
Well—I can quite understand
She may find your 'eavy 'and
Too kyind by half, my Frenchy, and prefer the British land,
And the British Tar's old way.
Yes; our Rosebery and your Develle do agree—in words, no doubt,
But, yer see, the Ten Commandments, in Bangkok, git turned about!
"Independence and Integrity" for pooty dear Miss Siam,
Is wot you're "interested in" my Frenchy,—and so I am!
Only—in the game we play,
Cards do turn up in a way
That would stagger sly Ah Sin himself. If you git in my way
On my road to "Old Cathay,"
Or my aid this gyurl should pray,
I might p'raps come down like thunder,—as I did in Mandalay!
[*] "In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch
Is giving too little and asking too much."
Canning's "A Political Despatch."
The Battle of the Sexes.—Middlesex v. Sussex.
AT THE WORLD'S WATER SHOW.
The performance has begun. Captain Boyton has just descended the Chute in a boat, with a bevy of lightly-clad young ladies waving flags with shrill enthusiasm. Canadians, Indians, and Negroes row various craft containing Beauties of the Ballet about the Lake. An elderly Negress stands on an island, and waves a towel encouragingly at things in general. Two Clowns, accompanied by a futile individual disguised as a Frog, start to run round the margin of the Lake with a gallant determination to be funny, but abandon the attempt after making a quarter of the distance, and complete the circuit with a subdued and chastened demeanour.
Mr. Bravo (to Mr. Blazzey, enthusiastically). Capital show this—wonderfully well arranged!
Mr. Blazzey (screwing up his eyes). Y—yes. Better if they'd had water running down the incline, though, and sent all the boats in that way.
Mr. Bravo. Don't see how they could pump up water enough for that, myself; and if they did, it would all run through at the sides!
Mr. Blazz. (ignoring any hydraulic difficulties). Oh, they could have dodged that if they chose; anyway, that's how it ought to have been managed!
Miss Frivell (to Mr. Hoplight). I can hardly believe this is the same place where Buffalo Bill gave his performance only last year, can you? It all looks so different!
"I find no difficulty in recognising it, myself."
Mr. Hopl. (after ponderous consideration.) I find no difficulty in recognising it, myself. The difference you observe is due to the fact that the arena which was originally constructed for—er—displays of horsemanship requires to undergo some considerable—er—structural alterations before being equally well adapted to a performance in which—er—boating and swimming form the—er—principal features.
Miss Friv. (with exemplary gravity). I see. You mean there must be water?
Mr. Hopl. Water is undoubtedly an—er—indispensable element in such an exhibition.
Miss Friv. How clever of you to know that! But perhaps someone told you?
Mr. Hopl. (modestly). I arrived at it by the—er—light of my own unassisted intelligence.
Miss Friv. Did you? Not really! "How far that little candle throws his beams!" (To herself.) I didn't mean to be so rude as that! But he's no business to be such a bore!
Mr. Bravo (after the Sculling-race between Ross and Bubear). That was a good race, eh? They're the champion scullers, you know.
Mr. Blazz. Don't see the point of setting 'em to race here, though. Rather like running the Derby in a riding-school!
A Sympathetic Lady (during the Swimming-race). How well those girls do swim! I suppose they go under first, and then come up again. But how damp they must get, to be sure, doing that twice a day! I daresay they never get their hair properly dry from one week's end to another. I should think that must be so uncomfortable for them, you know. However, they seem to be having plenty of fun among themselves. I wish we could hear what they are saying; but there's so much to look at, that one misses most of it!
[A Pontoon is moved out into the centre of the Lake, and three "Rocky Mountain Wonders" give an entertainment on board. The first Wonder constructs the letter A with himself and two high ladders, up which the other two run nimbly. They meet at the top with mutual surprise, and a touch of resentment, as if each had expected at least to find solitude there. The Second Wonder lies down on his back resignedly, and the Third, meanly availing himself of the opportunity, stands on his friend's stomach, and strikes an attitude. Both descend and bow, in recognition of applause, and then each starts up his ladder again—only to meet once more at the top, more surprised and annoyed than ever. The Third Wonder refuses to be appeased unless he is allowed to hold the Second head downwards by the ankles. After further amenities of this kind they come down, apparently reconciled, and are towed back to the shore.
Miss Friv. Is that supposed to be an illustration of life on the Rocky Mountains?
Mr. Hopl. (bringing the full powers of his mind to bear on the subject). I should be inclined to doubt myself whether it afforded any accurate idea of either the industry or the—er—relaxations peculiar to that region, which can hardly be favourable to such pursuits.
Miss Friv. They might find it useful for escaping from a grizzly, mightn't they?
Mr. Hopl. Hardly, if, as I have always been given to understand, the grizzly bear is an equally expert climber. I imagine their title of "Rocky Mountain Wonders" is merely indicative of their—er—origin, and that their performances would indeed excite more wonder in their native country than anywhere else. One should always guard against taking these things in too literal a spirit.
[Miss F. assents demurely, and is suddenly moved to mirth, as she is careful to explain, by the sight of a Nigger, which, Mr. H. very justly remarks, is scarcely a subject for so much amusement.
Mr. Bravo (after the Corps de Ballet have performed various evolutions on a large raft). I call that uncommonly pretty, all those girls dancing there in the sunlight, eh?
Mr. Blazz. Pretty enough—in its proper place.
Mr. Bravo (losing his patience at last). Why, hang it all, you wouldn't have the Ballet danced under water, would you?
Mr. Blazz. Well, it would be more of a novelty, at any rate.
[Mr. Bravo decides that "it was a mistake to come out with a chap like Blazzey."
In the Shilling Seats.
A Small Sharp Boy (with an admiring Father, Mother, and Grandmother). Father, why ha' them Injuns all got feathers stuck round their 'eds like shuttlecocks, eh? Is it to show as they're in the terbaccer line, eh, Father? Is the gentleman on the bicycle a real demon, eh, Father? Ain't he like what a real demon is? Why ain't you never seen one, Father? Think you'll ever see one, eh? Why's that man going right up atop of that pole for? Why is he goin' to jump off? Will he git drownded, eh, Father? Don't he ever git drownded? Could you dive off from as 'igh as that with your legs tied? Could Uncle Bill? Could Gran'ma, with 'er legs tied?
[&c., &c.
During the Walrus Hunt.
Shilling and Sixpenny Spectators. That's the police station on that boat where the two Bobbies are.... 'Ere's a rummy couple coming along in this boat! See the bloke with the bald 'ed, and the ole girl in a pink bonnet?... There, they've run slap into them others, and the ole bloke's got his 'eels in the air. Oh, dear, oh, dear!... Look at the bobbies tryin' to run 'em in. Lor, they're all pourin' water on to each other's 'eds as 'ard as they can go! 'Ere's the ole walrus swimmin' up now, d'ye see? And the ole Clown a fishin' for 'im. 'E's bin an' dragged 'im 'in 'ed foremost! Look at the walrus a duckin' o' the ole woman. Hor, hor, if ever I see the like o' that! Is that like 'ow they 'unt walruses, Father, eh? Blest if the ole walrus ain't got into the station 'ouse after 'em. Look at 'em all gittin' out on the roof—in they jump! And the ole girl goin' in backards, hor, hor! And the other bloke any'ow. See the 'ole admiral in the cocked 'at a takin' sights through 'is spy-glorss! Now they're gittin' the 'arpoon ready. There, they've copped 'im—it's all over! Well, that was a good lark, and no mistake!
At the Landing-Place—after Shooting the Chutes.
Oh, it was perfectly splendid! We put the rugs right over our heads, and didn't get wet a bit!... I don't know if you're aware of it, my dear, but you've got black streaks all down your face. Gracious! it's the dye from my veil. Do I look very dreadful, dear? Well, it shows, of course—but I wouldn't touch it, or you'll make it worse.... This lot got a ducking, and no mistake—look at 'em—ho, ho!... I say, dear old chap, you ought to have come too—it was ripping! Splashed? No, nothing to speak of. Eh? "My hat?" What's wrong with it? Oh, confound it all! I only took a front seat to oblige those two girls. Yes, I can see they're giggling at me as well as you can. Look here, old fellow, do you know if there's a place here where I can get my hat ironed, and buy a collar and tie? Because I've got to meet the Chaffingtons here, and dine with 'em and that. "So have you?" Then that's why you backed out of going down the Chute! Why the deuce didn't you say so? Oh, if you're going to stand there laughing like a fool, I'm off! I may just have time to—— Hang it; there are the Chaffington girls! Is my collar too beastly limp? you might tell a fellow!
TO A DROSHKY-DRIVER.
(By a Quondam Fare.)
Here's a health to you, Gospodin Ivánoff—
Or whatever your name may chance to be—
Of vodka I'll toss you a full stakán off
(A tumbler, I mean, of eau de vie);
And I'll sing you fortissimo con furore
Your national hymn, in a cheerful key,
('Twill colour with local tone my story,
To start with your "Bozhe Tsaryá khrani").
'Twas a lively morning, my hirsute Jehu,
In Petersburg once we together spent;
And now in my sketch-book I still can see you
(The annexed for your portrait's humbly meant).
Your costume resembled in part a butcher's—
A dull blue gown of a vast extent,
With top-boots, like each of the other kutschers
And shocking bad hat, all "bashed" and bent.
Ere long you called me your "little brother,"
Or else—your knowledge of Court to show—
(What one Russian "High Excellence" styles another)
"Vuisókoprevoskhodítelstvo."
You wanted to learn how to greet an acquaintance
In English; I said, to be comme il faut,
That "God save the Queen" was the proper sentence—
I own that my hoax was a trifle low.
A large percentage, my gay izvostchik,
I failed of your jokes to understand;
But I safely say you displayed the most cheek
Of any I've met by sea or land.
When you pitched me clean out on the Nevski pavement,
With syllable brief I loudly banned;
But as dam in your lingo "I'll give" (you knave!) meant,
You grinned, and for "tea-money" held your hand.
I shall never forget that awful jolting
I got as you whirled me round about
In your backless car; for your bumping, bolting,
You really, my Vanka, deserved the knout.
Well, I won't say "Good-bye," but "Do svidanya"—
Though whether we'll meet again I doubt;
If you ever should wander to far Britannia,
I fear you will probably find me "Out."
Motto for Professors of Palmistry.— "Palmam qui meruit ferat." i.e., "Who has paid his money may bare his palm."
It is proposed to establish a fire-station, "with fifty men, on the Thames Embankment." For what purpose? In case of anybody setting the Thames on Fire?
Mrs. R. says she never has toast for breakfast, but always "fresh-airated bread."
THE MOAN OF A THEATRE-MANAGER.
Who gets, by hook or crook, from me
Admittance free, though well knows he
That myriads turned away will be?
The Deadhead.
Who, while he for his programme pays
The smallest silver coin, inveighs
Against such fraud with eyes ablaze?
The Deadhead.
Who to his neighbour spins harangues,
On how he views with grievous pangs
The dust that on our hangings hangs?
The Deadhead.
Who, in a voice which rings afar,
Declares, while standing at the bar,
Our drinks most deleterious are?
The Deadhead.
Who aye withholds the claps and cheers
That others give? Who jeers and sneers
At all he sees and all he hears?
The Deadhead.
Who loudly, as the drama's plot
Unfolds, declares the tale a lot
Of balderdash and tommy-rot?
The Deadhead.
Who dubs the actors boorish hinds?
Who fault with all the scenery finds?
Who with disgust his molars grinds?
The Deadhead.
Who spreads dissatisfaction wide
'Mongst those who else with all they spied
Had been extremely satisfied?
The Deadhead.
Who runs us down for many a day,
And keeps no end of folks away
That else would for admittance pay?
The Deadhead.
Who keeps his reputation still,
For recompensing good with ill
With more than Pandemonium's skill?
The Deadhead.
Who makes the bankrupt's doleful doom
In all its blackness o'er me loom?
Who'll bring my grey head to the tomb?
The Deadhead.
"THE WAY THEY HAVE IN THE NAVY."
(Adapted to the Requirements of the Army.)
"There was no doubt about it," queried the Quartermaster to the Adjutant, "the Chief certainly desired me to execute him?"
"That is unquestionably my impression," replied the Adjutant.
"Yes, and it never does to question his orders," continued the Quartermaster; "it makes him so wild if he fancies that you are disobeying his commands."
"Quite so," admitted the Adjutant; "and so the best thing is to carry them out. As you know, obedience is 'the first law of a soldier.'"
"Still, to shoot a man for nothing, does seem a little hard."
"How do we know it's for nothing? You may be sure the Chief has his own reasons for everything."
And so the two warriors walked to the barrack square and sent for the unfortunate Private Thomas Atkins. As the order was conveyed to the quarters of the rank and file, men lounged out of the mess-room, and discussed the Colonel's orders. It seemed "a bit strange," but it was not for them to dispute the chief's command. And, as they spoke, Private Thomas Atkins was produced. He had a clean defaulter's sheet.
"On my word, I really trust that there may be some mistake," said a Brigade-Surgeon-Lieutenant-Colonel M.D. "But, as I am not now attached to the battalion, I have no right to interfere."
Private Thomas Atkins was marched to a wall, ordered to right-about turn, and then (under the command of the Quartermaster) shot.
Then the civil power, in the person of a police-constable, thought it time to interfere, and arrested the officer immediately in command.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Colonel, subsequently; "how exceedingly absurd! I wanted the Quartermaster to give him a new suit, and he thought I asked him to shoot him! You fellows really ought to be more careful!"