Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, August 8, 1891 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, August 8, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 101.
August 8, 1891.
LARKS FOR LONDONERS.
Sir,--Certainly throw open all our Town Halls for gratuitous concerts
and dances! But that's not half enough. Some of us don't care for
dancing, and abhor music. What I propose is that Free Billiard-tables
should be established in each parish. Billiards is much better
exercise than sitting still on a chair listening to singing. Then
there ought to be places where one could get municipal tobacco
without paying for it. Tobacco is just as much a necessary of life
as education--more so, in fact, in my opinion. On winter evenings it
would also be nice to be able to step over to one's Town Hall and have
a glass or two of free ale, or "wine from the wood"--also from the
rates. I don't pay rates myself, as I happen to live in a flat, but
I am sure the ratepayers will immediately recognise the justice of my
demands.
UNBIASSED.
Sir,--By all means let us try to give more pleasure to the people. The
pleasure, however, should be of a distinctly elevating kind. I would
advocate throwing open the South Kensington Natural History Museum in
the evening. This would be most useful, especially to people living
at the East End, and the amusement thus afforded, though perhaps not
rollicking, would at all events be solid. To keep out undesirable
characters, it would be as well to admit nobody who could not produce
his baptismal certificate, and a recommendation from the clergyman
of his parish, countersigned by a resident J.P. I am sure that people
would jump at a chance of an evening among the _Coleoptera_.
Yours, NATURALIST.
Sir,--I cannot understand why people should ask for more amusement
than they get at present. Have not they the Parks to walk about in? In
wet weather they can take shelter under trees. In winter they ought
to stay at home in the evenings, and enjoy reading aloud to their
families. I would even go so far as to allow an occasional game at
draughts. Chess is too exciting, and of course backgammon is out of
the question, because of the deadly dice-box. For the frivolously
inclined, "Puss in the Corner" is a harmless indoor game. I throw out
these observations for what they may be worth, and trusting that they
will not be regarded as dangerously subversive of morality, I remain,
Yours grimly, HOME, SWEET HOME!
Sir,--The movement for turning our Town Halls into places of amusement
is an excellent one. What I would like to suggest is, that the
Vestrymen should themselves take part in the entertainments. Why not
have weekly theatrical performances, with parts found for all local
Authorities? I feel convinced that _Hamlet_, played by our Vestry,
would be worth going miles to see. The Dust Contractor could play
the _Ghost_, while minor characters could be sustained by the Medical
Officer of Health, the Chaplain of the Workhouse, and others; the
Chairman, of course, would figure in the title _role_. A topical comic
song, by the Board of Guardians, with breakdown, might serve as a
pleasing interlude; breakdowns in local matters are, I believe, not
unknown already. The idea is worth considering. I think the Vestrymen
owe something to the ratepayers in return for the votes we give them.
Yours, MERRY ANDREW.
* * * * *
BRUISERS AND BOLUSES.--A "Champion" pugilist is even more presumptuous
than a popular Pill. He claims to be "Worth a Thousand Guineas a
'Box.'"
* * * * *
AFTER THE SEASON.
_A PROPOSAL FIN DE SIECLE._
[Illustration]
Farewell! since the Season is over,
Ah me, but its moments were sweet!
You are oft', _via_ Folkestone or Dover,
To some Continental retreat.
On Frenchman and German you'll lavish
The smiles that can madden me still;
While I, with the gillie McTavish,
Am breasting the heather-clad hill.
Oh, do you remember the dances,
The dearest were those we sat out,
How I frowned when detecting your glances
On others, which caused you to pout?
You are changeful and coy and capricious,
A weathercock easily blown;
But when shall I hear the delicious
One word that proclaims you my own?
They say that an eloquent passion
Has long become quite out of date,
That true love is never the fashion,
And marriage a wearisome state.
They conjure up many a bogie,
To guard a man's bachelor life,
And keep him a selfish old fogey,
And stop him from taking a wife.
They vow that a wife needs a carriage,
And opera-boxes and stalls,
That money's the one thing in marriage,
And cheques are as common as calls.
They say women shy (like some horses)
At vows made to love and obey;
They tell you drear tales of divorces,
And scandals, the talk of the day.
But hang all those cynical railings,
Just write me one exquisite line
To say you'll look over my failings,
And promise me you will be mine.
And though I'm aware it's the merest
Small matter of detail, to clear
The ground, I may mention, my dearest,
I've full thirty thousand a year.
* * * * *
BACON AND A MOUTHFUL.--Last Friday His Honour Judge BACON had to
decide a case which was headed in the papers "Cagliostromantheon."
What a mouthful! Mrs. CHURCHILL-JODRELL, who was a fair defendant, won
the case; and His Honour--this appeal having been made to His Honour
by Mr. B. PLAYFAIR, an excellent name for any gentleman, on or off the
stage, but especially for one described as "an actor,"--decided that
His Honour was satisfied. Peace with His Honour!
* * * * *
NEW TORY NURSERY RHYME.
(_BY "A CAMBRIDGE PARSON_.")
["The last reliance of the Tories in extremity is the policy
of 'Dishing.'"--_Sir W. Harcourt_.]
Hey diddle diddle,
The voters we'd fiddle
With Free Education--that "boon."
But Wisbech birds laugh
At such plain party "chaff,"
And the "Dish"--at the polls--proves a "Spoon."
* * * * *
FROM GRANDOLPH THE EXPLORER.
Oh, for one hour of the Amphytrion! I can't even send you a digest
of the news generally, for my power to digest is already becoming
seriously impaired. Here, indeed, as say the Witches in _Macbeth_ (I
think it's the Witches, but haven't my _Shakspeare_ handy, I mean
my _Handy Shakspeare_, with me--wish I had), "Fowl is Fare." Send my
Pilgrim's Scrip next week. Till then, Yours ever, GRANDOLPH.
* * * * *
IN THE NAME OF CHARLES DIBDIN!
_A LAY FOR THE LIFEBOAT SERVICE._
[An urgent appeal is made on behalf of the Royal National
Lifeboat Institution, which is declared to be "in dire
financial straits," the deficit for last year being L33,000.
Subscriptions and donations will be thankfully received
by CHARLES DIBDIN, Esq., Secretary, R.N.L.I., 14, St. John
Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.]
True "tuneful CHARLEY is no more,"
As DIBDIN's Monument informs us;
But memory of the man who bore
That honoured name still stirs and warms us.
And here's another of his name,
Who still the British Sailor's serving;
Then who could see without sore shame
JOHN BULL from _his_ plain duty swerving?
Thirty-three Thousand to the bad,
Our Lifeboat Service, once our glory?
Nay, JOHN, that will _not_ do, my lad;
Next year must tell a different story.
Think, what would "tuneful CHARLEY" say
To such a thing? In racy lingo,
Upon our backs his lash he'd lay,
And give the slothful Britons "stingo."
Thirty-five thousand lives they've saved,
Our Life-boat rescuers, already.
The seas around our shores they've braved,
With valour prompt and patience steady.
Shall they be floored for _L.S.D._,
Because JOHN BULL his pockets buttons?
Then the old keepers of the Sea
Must be, in pluck, as dead as muttons.
True, lads, on such a text as this
"We sadly miss old CHARLEY's line;"
But were we mute, Neptune would hiss
His sons degenerate off the brine.
Old "CHARLEY" spins his yarns no more!
He's dead, as _Scrooge_ declared old _Marley_.
What then? Wake up, from shore to shore,
And--send your guineas to _Young_ CHARLEY!
* * * * *
"GREAT SCOT!"
[Extorted, by circumstances beyond his control, from a stolid
but unsuccessful Saxon Shootist at Bisley and Wimbledon, after
the match at the latter place between picked twenties of the
London Scottish and the London Rifle Brigade, won easily by
the former team.]
Oh! the Scot lot are all cracks at a shot,
And extremely successful at Hunting the Pot.
This particular "Saxon" the hump has got,
Being licked by a team which is Picked _and_ Scot.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SETTING THEIR CAPS AT HIM; OR, AN AUTOCRAT IN ODD
COMPANY.
["Never," said the CZAR, at the Imperial dinner to which
the Officers of the French Fleet were invited, "could I have
believed that Republican Sailors, that Republican Soldiers,
could have such a bearing."--_Times_.
"The CZAR has, at the instance of the United States, ordered a
temporary relaxation of the measures for the expulsion of the
Jews from Russia."--_Times_.]
_Autocrat_ (_aside_). "HUMPH! CHARMING CREATURES, BOTH; BUT CAN'T SAY
I LIKE THEIR COSTUMES!"]
"How happy could I be with either?"
Humph! N-n-o-o, I can hardly say _that_!
Yet here we are, tripping together,
Republics and proud Autocrat!
Two cats and a Boreal Bruin!--
So satire will say, I've no doubt.
And some will declare it must ruin
The Russdom once ruled by the knout.
I wonder--I very much wonder--
What NICK to this sight would have said--
I fear he'd have looked black as thunder,
And savage as RURIC the Red.
For this did we lose the Crimea?
For this did we larrup the Jews?
I really had not an idea
Republics could rule--and amuse.
Miss FRANCE looks extremely coquettish.
How well Miss COLUMBIA can coax!
The Teuton, no doubt, will look pettish,
The Briton will grumble "a hoax."
Aha! I can snub a Lord Mayor,
And give shouting Emperors a hint;
I back _La Belle France_. Her betrayer
My meaning must see, plain as print.
My reply to the great Guildhall grumble
Had less of politeness than pith,
But--well I've no wish so to humble
My friend Mr. EMORY SMITH,
Or CRAWFORD, the Consul. No thank ye,
_Persona gratissima_, he;
And therefore I yield to the Yankee
The boon I refused to J.B.
But yet, all the same, it _is_ funny
To see Three like us in One Boat.
COLUMBIA looks dulcet as honey,
Miss F.'s every glance is a gloat.
I never imagined Republics
Could have such a "bearing" as these.
Enjoyingly as a bear cub licks
The comb sweetly filled by the bees,
I list to their flattering-chatter;
Their voices are pleasant--in praise;
But--well, though it seems a small matter,
I _don't_ like that dashed "_Marseillaise_."
And "_Israel in Egypt_" sounds pointed
I'd Pharaoh the miscreants--but stay,
My soliloquy's getting disjointed,
I've promised! COLUMBIA looks gay,
_La Belle France_ displays a _grande passion_;
My arms they unitedly press.
One thing though; the Phrygian fashion
Is not _my_ ideal of dress.
They swear that they both love me dearly,
Their "best of old Autocrat Chaps!"
They are setting their Caps at me, clearly,
But,--well, _I don't quite like the Caps!_
* * * * *
THE CAPLESS MAID.
["The plaintiff gave evidence that she was engaged as a sort
of house and parlour-maid ... and was discharged after she
had been there nine days, because she refused to wear a
cap ... His Honour: I do not think she was bound to wear a
cap."--_Daily Paper_.]
What shall we do with our Maid?
How shall we treat her best?
Shall the gems that are rare be strewed in her hair?
And shall she in silks be drest?
Shall we make her a gift of gold?
Shall we make her our queen? Perhaps.
But whatever we make her, wherever we take her,
We never must make her wear caps.
Imperious, capless, supreme,
Do just as you please evermore;
And wear what you will, for we shall be
And never complain as before.
We may put all our money in mines,
We may put all our cheese into traps,
But we put, it is clear, our foot in it, dear,
When we try to put you into caps.
* * * * *
THE DIFFERENCE.
["It needs no argument to show that in the summer of 1893
Mr. GLADSTONE is less likely to take an active part in any
electoral contest than he can be in the spring or autumn of
1892."--_Mr. Edward Dicey, on "The Next Parliament."_]
"Time's on our side," said GLADSTONE. DICEY, too,
Takes Edax Rerum as his friend most true.
GLADSTONE Time's "Hour Glass" trusts; but DICEY's blithe
Because _his_ hopes are centred on Time's _scythe_.
Faith lives in Life, but Fear's most vigorous breath
Lives "in the sure and certain hope"--of Death!
* * * * *
RESIGNATION.
"Fire! Fire!"
"Where? where?'
SHAW's resigned.
Then find
Another one!
Many gone?
Fire! Where?
Here's a scare!!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A NEW WAY OF PAYING CHURCH DEBTS.
(_Vide "Liverpool Daily Post," July 23 1891._)]
* * * * *
UPON A GLOVE.
(_AFTER THE FASHION--MORE OR LESS--OF HERRICK._)
Oh, limp and leathery type of Social Sham,
And Legislative Flam!
Which cunning CUNNINGHAME and MATTHEWS cool
(Both prompt to play the fool,
In free-lance fashion or official form)
Prattled of, 'midst a storm
Of crackling laughter, and ironic cheers,
And sniggering, "Hear, hears!"--
Thou summest well the humbug of our lives.
The fistic "bunch of fives"
Is not like JULIA's jewelled "palm of milk"
Shrouded in kid or silk,
But JULIA was a sensuous little "sell,"
And SMITH and PRITCHARD--well,
One would not like a clump upon the head
From the teak-noddled "TED,"
Or e'en a straight sockdollager from "JEM;"
But somehow "bhoys" like them,
Who mill three rounds to an uproarious "house,"
And only nap "a mouse,"
Though one before the end of the third bout
Is clean "knocked out,"--
Such burly, brawny buffetters for hire,
Who in ten minutes tire,
And clutch the ropes, and turn a Titan back
To shun the impending thwack,--
Such "Champions" smack as much of trick and pelf
As venal JULIA's self.
GRAHAM may be a "specialist," no doubt,
And "What _is_ a knock-out?"
_May_ mystify ingenuous MATTHEWS much;
But Truth's Ithuriel touch
Applied to pulpy "JEM" and steely "TED,"
(Of "slightly swollen" head)
As well as unsophisticated COBB,
(If Truth were "on the job,")
Might find False Show and Pharisaic "Stodge,"
And Law-evading dodge,
Dissimulating "Innocence," sham bravery,
Blind Justice, lynx-eyed knavery,
All the material the Satirist loves,
In those same "four-ounce gloves"!
* * * * *
OMITTED FROM PORTRAIT GALLERY
AT THE ROYAL NAVAL EXHIBITION.
Portrait of William Hatley, Black-Eye'd Susan, and Captain Crosstree,
R.N.
Portrait of Tom Bowline. Also a picture of Davy Jones, to be presented
by Mr. Frederick Locker.
A Horse Marine, A.D. 1815.
Portrait of William Taylor, as a gay young fellow. Also his affianced
bride, as "William Carr," after she had "dabbled her lily-white hands
in the nasty pitch and tar."
Picture of somebody, name unknown, inquiring of Benjamin Bolt whether
or no he happened to remember "Sweet Alice, sweet Alice with hair so
brown, who wept with delight when you (B.B.) gave her a smile, and
trembled with fear at your (B.B.'s) frown?" The portrait also of the
aforesaid Alice, evidently rather a weak-minded young person.
Also pictures of "Pol" and "Partner Joe;" and a likeness of "Black
Brandon," very rare, in "penny plain" form, or "twopence coloured."
* * * * *
WITH THE B.M.A. AT BOURNEMOUTH.
In order to satisfy myself as to truth in conflicting reports about
Bournemouth as a summer resort, I take express 12.30 from Waterloo,
and go straight away to my terminus, stopping, if I remember rightly,
only twice on the road. First-rate run, through lovely scenery, with
the London and South-Western Pack; found at Waterloo, and, with the
exception of a slight check of only three minutes at Southampton
Water--scent generally lost where water is, I believe--and another
of a few seconds at Brockenhurst, ran into our quarry at Bournemouth
Station West, in just two hours and a half. [_Happy Thought_.--Lunch
_en route_, between 12.30 and 3. Pullman cars attached to some trains,
not all. Certainly recommend Pullman, where possible; all comforts at
hand for eating and drinking: likewise smoking-room, &c., &c.]
[Illustration: "WELCOME THE COMING--"
"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have
your company."--_Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to
Un-illustrious Visitor_.]
Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice,
or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo,
and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for
Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a
delightfully mean temperature,--if I may be allowed to use the word
"mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.
Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous
occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present
moment. Odd!
"Not at all," explains flyman; "British Medical Association here. All
sorts of festivities. Hotels all crowded. Lodgings too."
If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a
bathing-machine. Not bad: if fine. Can be called early; then sea-bath;
also man to bring hot water and towels. While speculating on this
probability, we arrive at
_Royal Bath Hotel_.--Flag flying, showing that British Medical
Association Family are at home. Other flags elsewhere express same
idea. B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course. Array of servants in
brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive
visitors. Pleasant and courteous Manager--evidently Manager--with
foreign accent receives me smilingly. "Any difficulty about rooms?"
I ask, nervously. "None whatever in your case," returns courteous
Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive
pronoun. In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies,
chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting
my lightest bow and heaviest baggage. I am "to be shown up." (_Absit
omen!_) However, I am shown up. Charming room: sea-view, nearly all
the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath
which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The
Warm Bath Hotel.
I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall.
"Let me see," I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; "where's my
waterproof with two capes? I've missed--er--" I hesitate, being still
uncertain.
A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room. He pauses in
his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat,
"Missed--er--" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir,
I'll tell him," and vanishes.
"_Tell him?_" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other
Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make
assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out,
"Wrapper--with two capes--probably in the hall--don't see it here."
To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the
Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible,
finishing with, "up there."
I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and
refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the
door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am
turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions
have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached,
white-vested, and generally "in full fig."--(_Mem._--Write to _Notes
and Queries, Unde derivatur_--"Full fig?") who advances briskly but
quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the
number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on _my_ part,
or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor
bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my
room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you;
my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure,
Sir, I am more than delighted to see _you_!" and he proffers his hand,
which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on
earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful
at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the
mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls
to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs
to Mr. CAPES,--Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c. This amiable
gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself. I
also am delighted. "Very kind of him to take this trouble," I say.
"Not at all," he won't hear of there being any special kindness on his
part. And as to trouble!--well, he scouts that idea with an energetic
wave of his hand. Now, he wants to know, what will I do, where will I
go, what will I take? Section A. of the Medical Association is meeting
in the Town Hall, but I shall be late for that; or "perhaps," suggests
the considerate Proprietor, "you would like to rest a bit before
dinner at seven. Then there's the Concert afterwards. I have tickets
for you, and no doubt on your return you'll have a cigar in the
smoking-room with your friends, and be glad to get to bed."
I thank him: most kind. I say, smilingly, that "No doubt, shall meet
some friends;" a remark which seems to tickle him immensely. As a
matter of fact, however, I confide to him that I should prefer keeping
myself quiet this evening, as I have so much to do to-morrow morning.
"Of course you have," assents the Proprietor most sympathetically.
"And you'd like to rest as much as possible to-night after your
journey. You'd like a table to yourself a little later. No--no--no
thanks, I'm only too delighted."
And, so saying, the kind Proprietor leaves me to see to the
hundred-and-one things he has to do to-day, only stopping the Boots,
who now arrives with the double-caped waterproof I had sent him for,
to point me out to him, and to tell him to order a private table
for me in the _salle a manger_ "at--at?"--he queries--and I reply by
inquiring if I may fix it for 7.45, as the room will be quieter then.
"Certainly," says Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, without making the slightest
difficulty about it. Then, turning to Boots, he says, "7.45,"
whereupon Boots repeats the mystic formula. And thus 'tis arranged.
Delightful gardens of Hotel. Stroll out on to cliff. Beautiful air,
not the least enervating. On the contrary, refreshing. Returning
later on to dress, I see the _salle a manger_ full to overflowing.
The Medicals are all feeding well and wisely, as Medicals ought to
do. A pleasant company. Only a few of the younger and idler spirits
remain when I sit down to my dinner about eight. Excellent _cuisine_.
Couldn't be better. Salmon-trout from Christchurch, Poole pickles,
beef from Boscombe, Hampshire ham with Bournemouth beans. For wine,
Peter Pommery '80; and the whole to finish with Corfe Castle
Korffee, a Lyndhurst liqueur, and cigar in the sea-garden, or garden
o'erlooking the sea.
Lovely night. Then, after a stroll, "to bed," as _Lady Macbeth_
observes. Sensible person, _Lady Mac_.
On second thoughts will look at papers in smoking-room. Am alone at
first, but in a few minutes room crowded. Medical Association has
returned in force. I catch occasional bits in conversation:--
"Pity MCSIMMUM (or some name very like this) couldn't come. Great
pity; missed him immensely." (Here several stories about MCSIMMUM, all
evidently more or less good, and all interesting. I myself begin to
wish that MCSIMMUM had arrived. He would have been an acquisition.)
More medical men of various ages and with variety of spectacles.
All enjoying themselves thoroughly,--quite medical boys out for
a holiday,--but every one of them, individually and collectively,
intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of
my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this
celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by
repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a
man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the
smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have
heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.