Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 9th, 1892 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 9th, 1892
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 102.
April 9th, 1892.
BOAT-RACE DAY.
_The Reader will kindly imagine that he has crossed Hammersmith Bridge,
and is being carried along by a jostling stream of sightseers towards
Mortlake. The banks are already occupied--although it still wants half
an hour to the time fixed for the start--by a triple row of the more
patient and prudent spectators. On the left of the path, various more
or less_ Shady Characters _have established their "pitches," and are
doing their best to beguile the unsophisticated._
_First Shady Character_ (_presiding over a particoloured roulette board
with a revolving and not unmanageable index_). Three to one any colour you
like! Fairest game in the world! I'm a backin' I'm a layin'.... Pop it on,
you sportsmen! (_Two_ Sportsmen--_a couple of shop-boys_--"_pop it on_,"
_in coppers_.) Yaller was your colour--and it _is_ a yaller cap, sure
enough! _I_'m a payin' this time. Try it again! (_They do._) Blue's your
fancy this turn, my lord. And green it _is_! Good ole Hireland for ever!
Twenty can play at this game as well as one! Don't be afraid o' yer
luck--'ave another go. _Red_ did you put your coppers on? And it's _yaller_
again--and _you _ lose! (_The_ Sportsmen _pass on--with empty pockets_.)
Fairest game _in_ the world!
_Second S.C._ (_who has been conducting a Confidence Auction from a barrow
and egg-box_). Well, I 'ope you're all satisfied, and if you ain't
--(_candidly_)--it don't make no bloomin' difference to me, for I'm
orf--these premises is comin' down fur alterations. [_He gets off the
barrow, shoulders the egg-box, and departs in search of fresh dupes._
_A Vendor._ Now all you who are fond of a bit o' fun and amusement, jest
you stop and invest a penny in this little article I am now about to
introdooce to your notice, warranted to make yer proficient in the 'ole art
and practice of Photography in the small space of five seconds and a
arf--and I think you'll agree with me as it ain't possible to become an
expert photographer at a smaller expense than the sum of one penny. 'Ere I
'old in my 'and a simple little machine, consistin' of a small sheet of
glorss in a gilt frame. I've been vaccinated five 'underd-and-forty-one
times, never been bit by a mad dog in my life, and all these articles have
been thoroughly fumigated before leaving the factory, therefore you'll
agree with me you needn't be afraid o' catchin' the Inflooenza. They tell
me it's nearly died out now--and no wonder, with everythink a cure for
it--but this article is a _certain_ remedy. All you've got to do is to bite
off a corner of the glorss, takin' care to be near a public 'ouse at the
time, chew the glorss into small fragments, enter the public 'ouse, call
for a pot o' four ale, and drink it orf quick. It operates in this way--the
minoot portions of the glorss git between the jaws of the microbe,
preventin' 'im from closin' 'is mouth, and thereby enablin' you to
suffocate 'im with the four ale. (_To the Reader._) Will you allow me to
show you how this little invention takes a photograph, Sir? kindly 'old it
in your 'and, breathe on it, and look steadily on the plate for the space
of a few seconds. (_All of which the Reader, being the soul of courtesy,
obligingly does--and is immediately rewarded by observing the outline of a
donkey's head produced upon the glass._) Now if you'll 'and that round,
Sir, to allow the company to judge whether it ain't a correct likeness--
[_But here the Reader will probably prefer to pass on._
_Third S.C._ (_who is crouching on ground by a tin case, half covered with
a rug, and yelling_). Ow-ow-ow-ow!... Come an' see the wonderful little
popsy-wopsy Marmoseet, what kin tork five lengwidges, walk round, shake
'ands, tell yer 'is buthday, 'is percise age, and where he was keptured!
[_Crowd collects to inspect this zoological phenomenon, which--as soon
as an inconvenient Constable is out of hearing--reveals itself as an
illicit lottery. Speculators purchase numbered tickets freely; balls
are shaken up in the tin box--and the popsy-wopsy invariably gets
distinctly the best of it._
[Illustration: "I'm ole Billy Fairplay, _I_ am!"]
_Fourth S.C._ (_an extremely disreputable-looking old gentleman, with a
cunningly curled piece of tape on a board_), 'Ere, I'm ole BILLY FAIRPLAY,
_I_ am! Come an' try yer fortins at little 'Ide an' Find! Arf a crown yer
don't prick the middle o' this bit o' tape. Bet arf a crown, to win five
shillin's! (_A school-boy sees his way to doubling his last tip, and
speculates._) Wrong agin, my boy! It's old BILLY FAIRPLAY'S luck--for
_once_ in a way! [_The School-boy departs, saddened by this
most unexpected result._
_Fifth S.C._ (_a fat, fair man, with an impudent frog-face, who is trying
desperately hard to take in a sceptical crowd with the too familiar
purse-trick_). Now look 'ere, I don't mind tellin' yer all, fair _an_'
frank, I'm 'ere to get a bit, if I _can_; but, if you kin ketch me on my
_merits_, why, _I_ shan't grumble--I'll promise yer that much! Well,
now--(_to a stolid and respectable young Clerk_)--jest to show you don't
know _me_, and I don't know _you_--(_he throws three half-crowns into the
purse_). There, 'old _that_ for me. Shut it. (_The Clerk does so,
grinning._) Thank you--you're a gentleman, though you mayn't look like
it--but perhaps you're one in disguise. _Now_ gimme 'arf a crown for it.
Yer won't? _Any_ one gimme arf a crown for it? Why--(_unprintable
language_)--if ever I see sech a blanky lot o' mugs in _my_ life! 'Ere,
I'll try yer once more! (_He does._) _Now_ oo'll gimme arf a crown for it?
(_To a Genteel Onlooker, with an eyeglass, who has made an audible
comment_) "See 'ow it's done!" So yer orter, with a glazier's shop where
yer eye orter be! Well, if anyone had 'a told me I should stand 'ere, on
Boat-Race Day too, orferin' six bob for arf a crown, and no one with the
ordinary pluck an' straightforwardness to take me at my word, I'd have
suspected that man of tellin' me a untruth! (_To a simple-looking
spectator._) Will _you_ 'old this purse for me? Yer will? Well. I like the
manly way yer speak up! (_Here the_ Gent. Onl., _observing a seedy man
slinking about outside, warns the company to "mind their pockets"--which
excites the_ Purse-seller's _just indignation_.) "Ere!--(_to the_ G.O.) you
take _your_ 'ook! I've 'ad enough o' you. I 'ave. You're a bloomin' sight
too officious, _you_ are! Not much in _your_ pockets to mind--'cept the key
o' the street, and a ticket o' leave, I'll lay! If you carn't beyave as a
Gentleman _among _ Gentlemen, go 'ome to where you 'ad your 'air cut
last--to Pentonville! (_The_ G.O. _retires._) There, we shall get along
better without '_im_. 'Ow long are you goin' to keep me 'ere? Upon my word
an' honour, it's enough to sicken a man to see what the world's come to!
Where's yer courage? Where's yer own common sense? Where's your faith in
'umin nature? What do yer _expect_? (_Scathingly._) Want me to wrop it up
in a porcel, and send it 'ome for yer? Is _that_ what yer waitin' for!
Dammy, if this goes on, I shall git wild, and take and give the bloomin'
purse a bath! (_The_ Simple Spectator _feels in his pockets--evidently for
a half-crown_.) 'Ere, _you_ look more intelligent than the rest--I'll try
yer jest this once. Jest to show yer don't know me, and--(_Shouts of
"They're off! They're coming!" from the bank; the_ Purse-seller's _audience
suddenly melts away, leaving him alone with the_ Seedy Slinker.) 'Ere, JIM,
we may as well turn it up. 'Ere come them blanky boats!
_A Juvenile Plunger_ (_with rather a complicated book on the event_). If
Oxford wins, I've got ter git a penny out of 'im, and if Kimebridge wins,
you've got ter git a penny outer _me_!
_Crowd_ (_as the Crews flash by_). Go it, Oxford! Ox--ford! No, Kimebridge!
Well rowed, Kimebridge!... Oxford wins! No, it don't. _I'll_ lay it don't!
Splendid rycin'. Which on 'em was Oxford? The inside one. No, it worn't--
they was _outside_. Well, Oxford was _leadin_', anyway!... There, _that's_
all over till next year! Not much to come out for, either--on'y just see
'em for a second or so. Oh, _I_ come out for the lark of it, _I_ do....
There goes the pidgins orf.... We shan't be long knowin' now.... 'Ere's the
Press Boat comin' back.... There, wot did I _tell_ yer, now? Well, they
didn't orter ha' won. that's all--the others was the best crew.... 'Ere
they are, all together on the launch, d'ye see? Seem friendly enough, too,
considerin', torkin' to each other and all. Lor, they wouldn't bear no
malice now it's over!
[_Crowd disperse, and patronise_ "_Popsy Wopsy_," _the Roulette_, _Ole
Billy Fairplay_, _&c._, _&c._, _with renewed zest._
* * * * *
Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM is staying with her niece in the country. She is much
delighted with the rich colour of the spring bulbs, and says she at last
understands the meaning of "as rich as Crocus."
* * * * *
WILLIAM THE WHALER, AND HIS GREAT LONE WHALING EXPEDITION.
MODERN IMPERIAL GERMAN VERSION. (BY BIZZY THE PILOT.)
["The arrangements for the German Emperor's Whale-hunting excursion have
been made."--_The Times._]
[Illustration]
'Twas arter he'd got rid o' Me,
Brave boys.
When Will-I-AM he did sa-a-a-ail,
In a bit of a boat
Which would scarcely float,
And he went for to catch a Whale,
Brave boys!
All alone for to catch a Whale.
His Sire and his Grandsire trusted Me,
Brave boys!
Who was never known for to fa-a-a-il;
But _he_ thought he knew
More than Cap'en _and_ crew,
In the matter o' catching a Whale,
Brave boys!
In the matter o' catching a Whale.
He'd inwented a new harpoon,
Brave boys
As was shaped on a whoppingish sca-a-a-le
And he thought with delight,
(The "magnanimous" mite!)
He was _going_ to catch that Whale,
Brave boys!
He made cocksure o' catching that Whale!
There were several Whales about,
Brave boys!
Here and there a twitching a ta-a-a-il;
And he thinks, thinks he,
"I will catch all three,
But pertikler that big black Whale,
Brave boys!
Most pertikler that big black Whale."
Enraptured with his bit of a boat,
Brave boys!
He set forth to sea in a g-a-a-a-le;
Which was altogether
The wrong sort o'weather
For a novice to capture a Whale,
Brave boys!
A mere nipper for to capture a Whale.
I gives him the best of adwice,
Brave boys!
For I knowed he was bound for to fa-a-a-il;
But he ups, and he offs,
And he snubs me, and he scoffs
At the notion of a-missing that Whale,
Brave boys!
The mere notion of _not_ catching that Whale.
And he bobbles about on the waves,
Brave boys!
And his stout heart doth not qua-a-a-ail;
He's a foolish little chuck,
But he's got a lot o' pluck,
Still, he will not catch that Whale,
Brave boys!
He ain't going for to catch that Whale.
There was three whopping Whales in the offing,
Brave boys!
And them he did loudly h-a-a-ail;
But to such a voice as his'n
They worn't a-going to listen,
Especially that big black Whale,
Brave boys!
Most especially that big black Whale.
He crept up with his big harpoon,
Brave boys!
That monster to impa-a-a-ale,
And stubbornly he kep' on
A hurling of his weapon,
Till he managed to hit that Whale,
Brave boys!
He managed to prick that Whale.
Then he thought he'd done a mighty clever thing,
Brave boys!
But the Whale gave a fhwisk! with his ta-a-a-ail,
And then vanished from his view,
_With the harpoon wot he threw_,
And WILL-I-AM nearly followed that Whale,
Brave boys!
Wos werry near to _following_ that Whale:
Then WILL-I-AM the Whaler looked dumfoozled,
Brave boys!
And _I_ sings out--a being within ha-a-a-il--
"I told you, noble Cap'en,
Exactly wot would happen!"
So--he didn't catch that Whale,
Brave boys!
_No--he never caught that Whale!_
* * * * *
"NAMES AND THEIR MEANING."--_A propos_ of some correspondence in the
_Morning Post_ under the above heading, we would ask, Why not make the
Second Chief Commissioner for the Behring Straits Difficulty, Mr. SEALE
HAYNE, M.P., with Lord SAY AND SELE to speak on the subject, and then sign
the official documents?
* * * * *
MRS. R. has heard much lately about the "Sandringham Stud" and the "St.
Andrews Links," both of which, she understands, are very large. She can't
make out how gentlemen prefer them to nice, neat little shirt-buttons!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A BROTHER PASTELLIST.
[Messrs. GOUPIL admit Artists and Students free to Mr. WHISTLER'S
Exhibition.]
_Gatekeeper (stopping squalid Stranger)._ "NOW THEN, WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
_S.S._ "COME TO SEE JIMMY'S SHOW." _Gatekeeper._ "ONE SHILLING,
PLEASE!"
_S.S._ "NOT ME! I'M A ARTIST--CORNER O' BAKER STREET--CHALKS. LE'MME
THROUGH!" [_Chucked!_]
* * * * *
"Signs" of the Times.
["He was brought up to speak in the ante-stumping era."--_Lord Rosebery
on Lord Granville._"]
You do well, my dear Lord, to spread GRANVILLE'S renown.
Knightly, loyal, and courteous to monarch or clown,
He had pluck, and swift speech, though no mere Party Pump.
To our late platform level he hardly worked down;
But the popular sign of _his_ day was "The Crown,"
Of _ours_ 'tis "The Magpie and Stump."
* * * * *
A PROPHECY AS TO THE U.B.R.
When the Eights are reaching Chiswick,
One will give the other physic.
* * * * *
TWO DROMIOS.--One day last week at Highgate, a certain or uncertain WILLIAM
PEA, horsedealer, was summoned by the Police for furious driving. The
Police knew him well by sight, but not well enough, as he clearly proved
what _Mr. Weller Senior_ called "a alleybi." Evidently Mr. PEA has a
double, and "as like as two Peas" is peculiarly applicable in this case.
For if the other one isn't a Pea, he has been taken for one by the
Pee-lers.
* * * * *
QUESTION OF POLITENESS.--Except in the case of a man's father having been
"a big gun" at any time, to call anyone "a Son of a Gun," has hitherto been
considered a gross insult. Is it equally insulting to speak of a Lady as "a
Daughter of a Canon?"
* * * * *
AN EMPTY TRIUMPH.
(_A Story of Show Sunday._)
It was Show Sunday; lovers of Art were streaming in and out of every Studio
they could hunt up, fired with a laudable ambition to break the record by
the number they visited in the hours between luncheon and dusk.
[Illustration]
The residence of so rising a painter as TINTORETTO TICKLER was naturally a
place in which no person of any self-respect would neglect to be seen; and
on this particular afternoon the entrance-hall, sitting-rooms, and studio
were simply choked with an eager throng of friends, acquaintances, and
utter strangers; for TINTORETTO'S lavish hospitality was well known, and no
expense had been spared to give his guests as favourable an impression of
his talent as possible. A couple of knights, clad in complete steel--the
local greengrocer and an Italian model--took the guests' hats, and
announced their names; there were daffodils and azaleas in profusion; the
Red Roumanians performed national airs in the studio-gallery; Italian
mandolinists sang and strummed on the staircase, and, in the dining-room,
trim maid-servants, in becoming white caps and streamers, dispensed coffee,
claret-cup, and ices to a swarm of well-conducted social locusts.
Just outside his painting-room stood TINTORETTO TICKLER, at the receipt of
compliment, which was abundantly and cheerfully paid. Indeed, the torrent
of congratulation and delicately-expressed eulogy was almost overwhelming.
One lovely and enthusiastic person told him that the sight of his "_Dryad
Disturbing a Beanfeast_" had just marked an epoch in her mental
development, and that she considered it quite the supreme achievement of
the Art of the Century. A ponderous man in spectacles, whom TICKLER had no
recollection of having ever met before in his life, encouraged him by his
solemn assurance that his "_Jews Sitting in a Dentist's Waiting-room, in
the reign of King John_," was perfectly marvellous in its realism and
historical accuracy, and that it ought to become the property of the
Nation; while an elderly lady, in furs and a crimped front, declared that
the pathos of his nursery subject--a child endeavouring to induce a
mechanical rabbit to share its bread-and-milk--was sending her home with
tears in her eyes. Some talked learnedly of his "values," his "atmosphere,"
and the subtlety of his modelling; all agreed that he had surpassed himself
and every living artist by his last year's work, and no one made any
mistake about the nature of his subjects, perhaps because--in consideration
for the necessities of the British Art-patron--they had been fully
announced and described in the artistic notes of several Sunday papers.
When they got outside, it is true, their enthusiasm slightly evaporated;
TICKLER was going off, he was repeating himself, he had nothing that was
likely to produce a sensation this year, and most of his pictures would
probably never be seen again.
As, however, these last remarks were not made in TINTORETTO'S presence, it
might have been thought that the unmistakable evidences of his success
which he did hear would have rendered him a proud and happy painter,--but
if he was, all that can be said was that he certainly did not look it. He
accepted the most effusive tributes with the same ghastly and conventional
smile; from feminine glances of unutterable gratitude and admiration he
turned away with an inarticulate mumble and an averted eye; at times he
almost seemed to be suppressing a squirm. If expression is any index to the
thoughts, he was neither grateful nor gratified, and distinctly
uncomfortable.
A painter-friend of his, who had been patiently watching his opportunity to
get a word with him as he stood there exchanging handshakes, managed at
last to get near enough for conversation. "Very glad to find there's no
truth in it!" he began, cordially. "No truth in _what_!" said TICKLER, a
little snappishly, for he was getting extremely fractious, "the
compliments"?
"No, no, my dear boy. I mean in what a fellow told me outside just
now--that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and carried off
all your canvasses--a lie, of course!"
"Oh, _that_?" said TICKLER, "that's true enough--they left nothing behind
'em but the beastly frames!"
"Then what on earth----?" began the other, in perplexity, for another group
was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that demanded the relief of
instant expression.
"Well--er--fact is," explained poor TICKLER, in an undertone, "I _did_
think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere--but my wife
wouldn't hear of it, you know; said it would be such a pity to have had all
the expense and trouble for nothing, and didn't believe the mere absence of
pictures would make any particular difference. And--er--I'm bound to say
that, as you can see for yourself, it _hasn't_!"
And even as he spoke, he had to resign himself once more to a farewell
burst of positively fulsome appreciation.
* * * * *
THE KING AND THE CLOWN.
[Illustration: PAYNFUL PROCEEDINGS; OR, AFTER THE PANTOMIME'S OVER.
[See _Times_ Report, Friday last, April 1st, "All Fools' Day."]]
KING HERBERT CAMPBELL THE FIRST, and HARRY PAYNE, the Clown, were sitting
together, quaffing, after hours, and when work was done, just as in the
good old times was the wont of _The King and the Cobbler_, or _The King and
the Miller_. To them entered a Constable, intent on duty, and no respecter
of persons. Often had he seen the Clown maltreat a policeman on the stage,
nay, had seen him unstuff him, cut his head off and blow him limb from limb
from a gun, and then put him together again; the only mistake being that
the unfortunate official's head was turned the wrong way. So this
Constable, too, looking backwards, as had done the poor pantomimic
policeman, remembered all the slights, insults, and injuries, publicly
inflicted on his cloth for many years, and now rejoiced--Ha! ha!--at last
at having the Clown, the original JOEY, nay, the last of the JOEYS, in his
grasp.
Poor KING HERBERT the Merry Monarch the Constable pitied, but still
"constabulary duty must be done," as he had heard sung; and remembering
that my Lord Chief Justice, in days gone by, had sent off the Heir Apparent
to prison, so now he the Constable, in the name of the Law, would hale KING
HERBERT before the Magistrate. So King and Clown were had up accordingly.
Did the Clown whimper, and cry, "Oh, please, Sir, it wasn't me, Sir; it was
t'other boy, Sir!" and did the good King prepare to meet his fate like a
man? and was he ready to put his head cheerfully on the wig-block and
declare with his latest breath (up to 12.55 P.M.) that in his closing hours
he died for the benefit of the Public? We know not--except that both
delinquents were let off--like squibs--and Mine Host, the Boniface, had to
pay all the fines. He at all events had a Fine old time of it! _Sic
transit_! So fitly ends the long run of a good Pantomime. _Finis coronat
opus_!
* * * * *
The Volunteer Review at Dover.
_General Idea of Officers in Command._--To make as few mistakes as possible
in handling some thousands of imperfectly-drilled and entirely
undisciplined bodies of men.
_The same of the Rank and File._--To spend an annual holiday in marching
and counter-marching, and then, after thirty miles of moving over a heavy
country, to return to London dead beat.
* * * * *
EFFECTIVELY SETTLING IT.--A "par" in the _Daily Telegraph_ last Friday
informed us that "The Bishop of EXETER administered, yesterday, the rite of
confirmation to thirty-eight patients of the Western Counties' Idiot Asylum
at Starcross. This is the first time such a rite has been conferred upon
inmates of this institution." Very hard on these inmates, as, previous to
the ceremony there might have been some hope of their recovery; but now
they have become "confirmed idiots."
* * * * *
ODE TO A GIRAFFE.
(_On hearing that the Solitary Specimen at the Zoo had just died._)
[Illustration]
So Death has paid the Zoo a call,
And claimed you for his own,
Who "neck or nothing" had been left
To bloom--and die--alone.
From far I gazed into your face,
I did not know your name,
You looked uncomfortable, but
I loved you all the same.
Your neck _was_ just a trifle long,
I think you must confess.
I've often thought if, as a fact,
You could have done with less.
But we must take you all in all,
And so I hear with pain
That probably we shall not look
Upon your like again.
I could have spared a buffalo
Or elephant with ease,
An armadillo, or a bear,
A dozen chimpanzees.
When _Jumbo_ left for foreign skies,
I did not shed a tear,
For though his _Alice_ mourned his loss,
I knew that _you_ were here.
You've gone to heaven, if that's where
The good giraffes all go.
I wonder if you'll ever see
What happens down below.
I hope, for your own comfort, not,
But, if you ever do,
Please recognise me as the Man
Who sadly haunts the Zoo.
* * * * *
THE POET AND THE SONGS.
[Illustration]
I HAD a thought, a dainty thought,
A quaint and cunning fancy,
I said, "A theme with humour fraught
Within my grasp I can see.
This thought will work into a set
Of verses fit for singing."
A voice rasped, "Oh, a deal o' wet!"
And off that thought went winging.
And once again that thought returned,
With yet more brightness on it--
This time with the desire I burned
To weave it in a sonnet.
I'd get an artist chum to do
The subject in a rare cut.
Alas! before 'twas grasped it flew,
Alarmed by, "Git yer 'air cut!"
I strayed in silent solitude
That lost thought to recover,
And, as my journey I pursued,
'Twould still around me hover.
Almost I grasped, one fatal day,
That fancy, quaint and clever,
A cad shrieked, "Tara-boom-de-ay!"
And off it flew--for ever!
* * * * *