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diff --git a/21818-h/21818-h.htm b/21818-h/21818-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91b9f9a --- /dev/null +++ b/21818-h/21818-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2014 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893, by Various</title> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .center {text-align: center;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + + .note, .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt; text-indent: 0;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + .drama {margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .drama p {margin: 1em 0em 0em 0em;; padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;} + .drama p.i2 {margin: 0; margin-left: 1em;} + .drama p.i4 {margin: 0; margin-left: 2em;} + .drama p.i6 {margin: 0; margin-left: 3em;} + .drama p.i8 {margin: 0; margin-left: 4em;} + .drama p.i10 {margin: 0; margin-left: 5em;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + .figleft {float: left;} + + p.author {text-align: right;} + hr.pg { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + --> + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, +February 11, 1893, by Various, Edited by Francis Burnand</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893</p> +<p>Author: Various</p> +<p>Editor: Francis Burnand</p> +<p>Release Date: June 12, 2007 [eBook #21818]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 104, FEBRUARY 11, 1893***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="pg" /> +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> + +OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> + +<h2>VOL. 104.</h2> + + + +<h2>February 11, 1893.</h2> + + +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>[pg 61]</span> + +<h2>THE LAST WOMAN.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>A contemporary Pendant to "The Last Man."</i>)</p> + +<blockquote><p>[It is stated that the dreaded Crinoline has +actually made its appearance in one or two +quarters.]</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>All modish shapes must melt in gloom,</p> +<p class="i2">Great <span class="sc">Worth</span> himself must die,</p> +<p>Before the Sex again assume</p> +<p class="i2"><span class="sc">Eve's</span> sweet simplicity!</p> +<p>I saw a vision in my sleep,</p> +<p>Which made me bow my head and weep</p> +<p class="i2">As one aghast, accurst!</p> +<p>Was it a spook before me past?</p> +<p>Of women I beheld the last,</p> +<p class="i2">As <span class="sc">Adam</span> saw the first.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Regent Street seemed "No Thoroughfare,"</p> +<p class="i2">Bond Street looked weird, inhuman;</p> +<p>The spectres of past fashions were</p> +<p class="i2">Around that lonely Woman.</p> +<p>Some were the work of native hands,</p> +<p>Some had arrived from foreign lands,</p> +<p class="i2">Nondescript jumbles some!</p> +<p>Pall-Mall had now nor sound nor tread,</p> +<p>Park Lane was silent as the dead,</p> +<p class="i2">Belgravia was dumb.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,</p> +<p class="i2">Or whisked her skirts around,</p> +<p>Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,</p> +<p class="i2">And strews with leaves the ground.</p> +<p>Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun</p> +<p>Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.</p> +<p class="i2">Solitude is <i>too</i> slow!</p> +<p>True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes</p> +<p>(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),</p> +<p class="i2">But—now the thing lacks go.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"What though the grumbler Man put forth</p> +<p class="i2">His pompous power and skill!</p> +<p>He could not make Woman and <span class="sc">Worth</span></p> +<p class="i2">The vassals of his will;—</p> +<p>Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway,</p> +<p>Thou dim discrownéd Queen! To play</p> +<p class="i2">To empty box and stall;</p> +<p>To dress—when not another She</p> +<p>Exists to quicken rivalry—</p> +<p class="i2">No, it won't pay at all!</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall</p> +<p class="i2">Upon the works of men!</p> +<p>Nothing they did that's worth recall,</p> +<p class="i2">With sword, or spade, or pen.</p> +<p>Their bumptious bunglings bring not back!</p> +<p>Man always <i>was</i> a noisy quack</p> +<p class="i2">Who thought himself a god;</p> +<p>But when he fancied he had scored</p> +<p>Prodigiously, the Sex he bored</p> +<p class="i2">Subdued him with a nod.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"Now I am weary. No one tries</p> +<p class="i2">The fit of new attire!</p> +<p>Doom, that the joys of Dress denies,</p> +<p class="i2">Bids Woman's bliss expire.</p> +<p>But shall <i>La Mode</i> know final death?</p> +<p>Forbid it Woman's latest breath!</p> +<p class="i2">Death—who is <i>male</i>—shan't boast</p> +<p>The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall</p> +<p>Shall not like Darkness cover all—</p> +<p class="i2">Till <i>I</i> give up the ghost!</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"What would most vex and worry <i>him</i>,</p> +<p class="i2">Dull, modeless Man, whose spark</p> +<p>Long (beside Woman's) burning dim,</p> +<p class="i2">Has now gone down in dark?</p> +<p>Ha! He'd kick up the <i>greatest</i> shine</p> +<p>(If he <i>could</i> kick) at—CRINOLINE.</p> +<p class="i2">Were he recalled to breath,</p> +<p>I'll have one last man-mocking spree</p> +<p>By <i>donning hooped skirts</i>. Victory!</p> +<p class="i2"><i>This</i> takes all sting from Death!</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"Go, Sun, while Fashion holds me up,</p> +<p class="i2">Swollen skirt and skimpy waist</p> +<p>Shall fill—male—sorrow's bitter cup,</p> +<p class="i2">And mortify—male—taste!</p> +<p>Go, tell the spheres that sweep through space,</p> +<p>Thou saw'st the last of <span class="sc">Eve's</span> fair race,</p> +<p class="i2">In high ecstatic passion;</p> +<p>The darkening universe defy,</p> +<p>To quench her taste for Toggery,</p> +<p class="i2">Or shake her faith in Fashion!"</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:35%;"><a href="images/061a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/061a.png" alt="THE GOVERNESS WHO, MA' SAID, WOULDN'T DO." /></a><h3>"THE GOVERNESS WHO, MA' SAID, WOULDN'T DO."</h3></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A PLAINT FROM PARNASSUS.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>By an "Unrecommended" Resident.</i>)</p> + +<blockquote><p>[Mr. <span class="sc">Gladstone</span> (replying to Mr. <span class="sc">Johnston</span>, of Ballykilbeg) announced that no recommendation +had been submitted to Her <span class="sc">Majesty</span> upon +the subject of the succession to the office of Poet +Laureate, and that there was no immediate +intention of submitting one.]</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard!</p> +<p>Fancy <span class="sc">John Bull</span> without Official Bard!</p> +<p>His plight is sad as that of the great men</p> +<p>Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen,</p> +<p>Before great <span class="sc">Agamemnon</span>. Ah, my <span class="sc">Horace</span>,</p> +<p>Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race!</p> +<p>As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily,</p> +<p>'Twill serve him right if thine "<i>illacrimabile</i>"</p> +<p>Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet?</p> +<p>England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it.</p> +<p>Void of a <i>Sacer Vates</i> to enshrine</p> +<p>In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line,</p> +<p>Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour?</p> +<p>Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor.</p> +<p>When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses,</p> +<p>When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes,</p> +<p>And stand in need of verbal calcitration;</p> +<p>When—let's say <span class="sc">Ashmead-Bartlett</span>—saves the nation</p> +<p>In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo;</p> +<p>When <span class="sc">Bull</span> gives toko or delivers stingo.</p> +<p>To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages;</p> +<p>When our great guns commit most gallant ravages</p> +<p>Among the huts of some unhappy village,</p> +<p>Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage;</p> +<p>When <span class="sc">Someone</span> condescends to be high-born,</p> +<p>Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn,</p> +<p>Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine,</p> +<p>For Fame and—say, about a pound per line?</p> +<p>I must submit. I have not been "submitted,"</p> +<p>But poetless <span class="sc">John Bull</span> is to be pitied.</p> +<p>Of course self-praise is no "recommendation,"</p> +<p>(In <span class="sc">Gladstone's</span> sense) or else, unhappy nation,</p> +<p>I, even I, could spare you natural worry at,</p> +<p>Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">In a Pickwickian Sense</span>.—When "a nate +Irishman" (as the song has it) "meets with a +friend," he incontinently "for love knocks +him down," whether with a "sprig of shillelagh" +or a "flower of speech," depends +upon circumstances. In either case he +"means no harm," or at any rate far less +harm than the phlegmatic and matter-of-fact +Saxon is apt to fancy. Probably, therefore, +an "Irish Phrase Book," giving the real +"meaning" of Hibernian rhetorical epithets, +would prove a great peacemaker, in Parliament +and out. Colonel <span class="sc">Saunderson</span>, when +he had recovered his temper, and with it his +wit, "toned down" the provocative "murderous +ruffian," into the inoffensive "excited +politician." But what a pity it is that "excited +politicians" so often string themselves up to +(verbal) "ruffianism."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE LAST LIGHT.</h2> + +<div class="figright" style="width:20%;"><a href="images/061b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/061b.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>It scarce can be thou art the last</p> +<p class="i2">To fade before my watchful gaze;</p> +<p class="i2">So short the part that each one plays,</p> +<p>A flickering flame, and life is past.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>And thou wert clothed in robe of snow,</p> +<p class="i2">A crimson veil around thy head,</p> +<p class="i2">And now thou liest, charred and dead,</p> +<p>Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>I held thee in a fond embrace</p> +<p class="i2">To guard thee from the whistling wind;</p> +<p class="i2">And not another can I find</p> +<p>To comfort me and take thy place.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>And though I lay aside my weeds,</p> +<p class="i2">Yet like a widow I bemoan;</p> +<p class="i2">Nor all the wealth the Indies own,</p> +<p>Could satisfy my present needs.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Thy spark has vanished from my sight,</p> +<p class="i2">Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe;</p> +<p class="i2">Of perfect misery the type,</p> +<p>A man without another light.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Employment for the Unemployed</span>.—On +Tuesday, in last week, the Unemployed had +their hands full, when at Temple Avenue they +unsuccessfully attempted to overcome the +effective resistance of the Police. The Unemployed +might have been better employed.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>[pg 62]</span> + +<h2>THE STAR OF HOPE.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>A New Naval Ode.</i>)</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/062.png"><img width="100%" src="images/062.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<blockquote><p>[The Royal Commission on Telegraphic Communication +between Lighthouses and Lightships +and the Shore, have issued their first report +recommending immediate action in the more +urgent cases. Dealing with the same subject, on +November 28, 1891, <i>Mr. Punch</i> said:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"<i>Punch</i> pictures with prophetic pen, a brighter, cheerier page,</p> +<p>Which <i>must be turned</i>, and speedily."—<i>See "The +Sweet Little Cherub that Sits up Aloft</i>," (<i>Modern +Version as it Must Be</i>) Vol. ci., p. 254.</p> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Mr. Punch</i> is mightily pleased that his injunction +has been obeyed, and that his prophecy is in +process of fulfilment.]</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10">I.</p> + +<p>Ye Mariners of England,</p> +<p>Shipwrecked in our home seas,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>[pg 63]</span><p>How this will calm your wives' wild fears,</p> +<p>And give your stout hearts ease!</p> +<p>Hope's blue eyes gleam above the main,</p> +<p>Her lifted light will glow,</p> +<p>And sweep o'er the deep,</p> +<p>When the stormy winds do blow;</p> +<p>When the tempest rages loud and long,</p> +<p>And the stormy winds do blow.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> + +<p class="i10">II.</p> + +<p>The spirit comfort gathers,</p> +<p>From schemes designed to save</p> +<p>Brave fellows, who have dared the deep,</p> +<p>Near home to find a grave.</p> +<p>See how o'er rock and quicksand fell,</p> +<p>The Electric ray doth glow,</p> +<p>And sweep o'er the deep,</p> +<p>While the stormy winds do blow;</p> +<p>While the tempest rages loud and long,</p> +<p>And the stormy winds do blow!</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> + +<p class="i10">III.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Britannia</span> needs as bulwarks</p> +<p>Light-towers along the steep,</p> +<p>To save her gallant sons from graves</p> +<p>Near home, though on the deep.</p> +<p>With levin as from Jovian hand</p> +<p>She'll light the floods below,</p> +<p>As they roar on the shore,</p> +<p>When the stormy winds do blow;</p> +<p>When the tempest rages loud and long,</p> +<p>And the stormy winds do blow.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> + +<p class="i10">IV.</p> + +<p>The Mariners of England</p> +<p>Glad eyes shall shoreward turn</p> +<p>In danger's night. Behold, brave hearts,</p> +<p>Where the Star of Hope doth burn!</p> +<p>Science, tired by Humanity,</p> +<p>Their grateful song shall flow</p> +<p>To the fame of your name,</p> +<p>When the storm has ceased to blow;</p> +<p>When the storm is o'er, and they're safe ashore,</p> +<p>Thanks to Hope's beacon-glow!</p> +</div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Are there any Lighthouses away from +the Coast?—<i>A.</i> Certainly. <i>Q.</i> Where?—<i>A.</i> +In London. <i>Q.</i> Name them.—<i>A.</i> The +Comedy, Toole's, the Opéra Comique, and +Strand. All Light-and-leading Houses.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/063.png"><img width="100%" src="images/063.png" alt="A SNUB." /></a><h3>A SNUB.</h3> + +<p>"<span class="sc">Fifty Guineas for a Boa and a Muff! That's rather dear, isn't it?</span>"</p> + +<p>"<span class="sc">We don't keep Catskin, Madam!</span>"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A METROPOLITAN MAYOR'S NEST.</h2> + +<blockquote><p>["The Common Council is stated to have appointed a 'Fighting Committee' +to oppose the Unification of London, and to take steps for the formation of +separate Municipalities in different parts of the Metropolis."—<i>Daily Paper.</i>]</p></blockquote> + +<p><i>Lord Mayor's Day.</i>—Ah, if only we had not got Parliament to +sanction the plan of splitting London up into distinct Municipalities, +what a proud day this would be for me! As it is, must try and +remember that I am <i>not</i> <span class="sc">Lord Mayor</span> of London at all, but only +Mayor of the new Corporate Borough of Cripplegate Without, one of +the half-dozen boroughs into which the old City has been divided.</p> + +<p><i>The Show.</i>—Well, thank goodness, we do keep <i>that</i> up! All +the 674 Mayors of all the different districts of London take part in +it. That reminds me that I must put on my Civic robes, edged +with imitation ermine, and my aluminium chain of office, and prepare +to start. A little hitch to begin with. Mayors all assembled outside +Guildhall. Mayor of South-South-West Hammersmith tries to join +us. Nobody seems to know him. Very suspicious, especially as, on +referring to official records, we find that there is no such borough as +South-South-West Hammersmith! We tell him so. He replies, +sulkily, that it was created last night by a Special Vote of the +South-West Hammersmith Town Council, who found the work +getting too much for them, and that, anyhow, "he intends to take +part in the procession." Awkward—but we have to yield.</p> + +<p><i>In the Streets.</i>—The 675 Mayors don't inspire as much respect as I +should like. Perhaps it is due to the fact that a regular scramble +took place for seats in the old <span class="sc">Lord Mayor's</span> Coach, in the course of +which the Mayor of Tottenham Court Road was badly pommeled +by the Mayor of Battersea Rise, and the coach itself had one side +knocked out of it. Also that we other Mayors have to follow on foot, +and are repeatedly asked if we are a procession of the Unemployed!</p> + +<p><i>At the Law Courts.</i>—In the good old days Lord Chief Justice +used to deliver a flowery harangue congratulating the Chief Magistrate +on his elevation. But who <i>is</i> the Chief Magistrate now? +To-day a free fight among the Mayors to get first into the Court. +In consequence, Chief Justice angrily orders Court to be cleared, +and threatens to commit us for contempt! Yet surely in former +days a Judge would have been imprisoned in the deepest dungeons +of the Mansion House for much less.</p> + +<p><i>Evening.</i>—The hospitable custom of the Ministerial banquet still +retained. Prime Minister adopts tactics of the Music Hall "Lion +Comique," and, after addressing a few genial words to the guests +assembled at the table of the Mayor of West Ham, jumps into +brougham, and appears a few minutes later at Mayor of Shadwell's +banquet, and so on to Poplar and Whitechapel, and as many +as he can crowd in. Other Ministers do the same. Still, not +enough Cabinet Councillors to go round, and to-night I am horrified +to find that the assistant Under-Secretary to the deputy Labour +Commissioner had been chosen to reply to the toast of the health of +the Ministry at <i>my</i> banquet! Ichabod, indeed! [By the way, +what a good name for a new Lord Mayor, "Ichabod," say, if knighted, +"Sir <span class="sc">Thomas Ichabod</span>." Air to be played by band on his entering +Guildhall, "Ichabody meet a body." But alas! these are dreams! +Ichabod!] Yet, as the only building in which the Mayor of Cripplegate +Without can entertain his guest is the fourth floor of an unused +warehouse, perhaps we really don't deserve a higher official. Still, +one can't help regretting that the City, in its natural dread of the +so-called "Unification of London," persuaded the Government to +agree to this sort of "Punification of London."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Toast for the next "Queensland Meat" Banquet.</span>—"The +Army, the Gravy, and the Preserved Forces!"</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>[pg 64]</span> +<h2>THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.</h2> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc">A Story in Scenes.</span></p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="sc">Scene V.</span>—<i>The Dining-room; walls distempered chocolate; gaselier +with opal-tinted globes; two cast-iron Cavaliers holding +gas-lamps on the mantel-piece. Oil-portrait, enlarged from +photograph, of</i> Mrs. <span class="sc">Tidmarsh</span>, <i>over side-board; on other walls, +engravings—"Belshazzar's Feast," "The Wall of Wailing +at Jerusalem," and</i> <span class="sc">Doré's</span> <i>"Christian Martyrs." The guests +have just sat down</i>; Lord <span class="sc">Strathsporran</span> <i>is placed between</i> +Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span> <i>and his hostess, and opposite</i> Mr. <span class="sc">Gilwattle</span>.</p></blockquote> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to himself</i>). Deuced quaint-looking people—wish +they wouldn't all eat their soup at me! Why can't somebody say +something? Wonder who's the Lady in black, all over big silver +tears—like a foreign funeral. Don't feel equal to talking to +<span class="sc">Marjory</span> again till I've had some Sherry. (<i>After sipping it.</i>) Wormwood, +by Jove! Champagne will probably be syrup—touch old +<span class="sc">Gilwattle</span> up if he isn't careful—ah, <i>he</i> jibs at the Sherry!</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> Where +the dickens did +<span class="sc">Monty</span> get this stuff, +<span class="sc">Maria</span>? Most 'strordinary +bitter taste!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>to herself, +in an agony</i>). +I <i>knew</i> that bottle +of <span class="sc">Gwennie's</span> Quinine +Wine had got +down into the cellar +<i>somehow</i>! (<i>Aloud.</i>) +Don't drink it, +Uncle, please, if it +isn't <i>quite</i> what you +like!</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> I'll +take his Lordship's +opinion. What do +<i>you</i> think of this +Sherry, my Lord? +Don't you find it +rather—eh?</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>observing +his hostess +frown at him imperiously</i>). +Oh, excellent, +Sir—very—er—mellow +and agreeable!</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> Ha—yes—now +your Lordship +mentions it, +there's a sort of +nuttiness about it.</p> + +<blockquote><p>[<i>He empties his +glass.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to +himself</i>). There is—a +<i>rotten</i>-nuttiness! +I'm hanged if he +hasn't bolted it! +Wonderful old +Johnny!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>to him, +in an under-tone</i>). +You said <i>quite</i> the +right thing!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>ambiguously</i>). Oh, not at all!</p> + +<blockquote><p>[<i>Turbot and lobster-sauce are taken round, and conversation +becomes general.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p><i>Conversational Scraps.</i> Assure you if I touch the smallest particle +of lobster it instantly flies to my.... Yes, <i>alive</i>. A dear friend of +mine positively had to leave her lodgings at the seaside—she was so +disturbed by the screams of the lobsters being boiled in the back-kitchen.... +I was reading only the other day that oysters' hearts +continue to beat down to the very moment they are being assimilated.... +<i>What</i> they must suffer, poor dears! Couldn't there be a law +that they should only be eaten under chloroform, or something?... +I <i>never</i> get tired of turbot—cod, now, I <i>don't</i> care for, and salmon +I <i>like</i>—but I can't digest—<i>why</i>, is more than I can tell you.—(&c.)</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:65%;"><a href="images/064.png"><img width="100%" src="images/064.png" alt="Don't make a fuss—you can take one glass, as he wishes it." /></a><h4>"Don't make a fuss—you can take <i>one</i> glass, as he wishes it."</h4></div> + +<p><i>Miss Seaton.</i> (<i>to herself.</i>) To see <span class="sc">Douglas</span> here a—a <i>paid parasite</i>—and +actually seeming to <i>enjoy</i> his food—it's like some dreadful +nightmare—I <i>can't</i> believe it! But I'm glad he hasn't the face to +speak to me!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to</i> <span class="sc">Seakale</span> <i>offering Hock.</i>) If you please. (<i>To himself, +after tasting.</i>) Why, it's quite decent! I begin to feel up to +having this out with <span class="sc">Marjory</span>. (<i>Aloud.</i>) Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span>, isn't it +rather ridiculous for two such old friends as we are to sit through +dinner in deadly silence? Can't you bring yourself to talk to me? +we shan't be overheard. You might tell me <i>why</i> you think me such +a ruffian—it would start us, at any rate!</p> + +<p><i>Miss Seaton.</i> I don't <i>want</i> to be started—and if you really don't +know why I hate your coming here in this way, Lord <span class="sc">Strathsporran</span>, +it's useless to explain!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> Oh, we got as far as that upstairs, didn't we? And +I may be very dense, but for the life of me I can't see yet why I +shouldn't have come! Of course, I didn't know I was in for <i>this</i> +exactly, but, to tell you the truth, I'm by way of being here on +business, and I didn't care much whether they were cheery or not, so +long as I got what I <i>came</i> for, don't you know!</p> + +<p><i>Miss Seaton.</i> Of course, that is the main thing in your eyes—but +I didn't think you would confess it!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> Why, you know how keen I used to be about my +Egyptian work—you remember the book on Hieroglyphs I always +meant to write? I'm getting on with it, though of course my time's +a good deal taken +up just now. And, +whether I get anything +out of these +people or not, I've +met <i>you</i> again, +<span class="sc">Marjory</span>—I don't +mind anything +else!</p> + +<p><i>Miss Seaton.</i> +Don't remind me of—of +what you used +to be, and—and you +are not to call me +<span class="sc">Marjory</span> any more. +We have met—and +I only hope and +pray we may never +meet again. Please +don't talk any more!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to +himself.</i>) That's a +facer! I wonder if +<span class="sc">Marjory's</span> quite—is +this the effect of +that infernal influenza?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>to him +in an under-tone</i>). +You and Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span> +appear to be on +very familiar terms. +I really feel it my +duty to ask you +when and how you +made the acquaintance +of my daughter's +governess.</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to +himself</i>). The governess! +That explains +a lot. Poor +little <span class="sc">Marjory</span>! +(<i>Aloud.</i>) Really? +I congratulate you. +I had the honour of +knowing Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span> +in Scotland a +year or two ago, and this is the first time we have met since.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> Indeed? That is <i>so far</i> satisfactory. I hope you will +understand that, so long as Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span> is in my employment, I +cannot allow her to—er—continue your acquaintanceship—it is not +as if you were in a position——</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>with suppressed wrath.</i>) Forgive me—but, as Miss +<span class="sc">Seaton</span> shows no desire whatever to renew my acquaintance, I don't +see that we need discuss my position, or hers either. And I must +decline to do so.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>crimsoning.</i>) Oh, very <i>well</i>. I am not accustomed to +be told what subjects I am to discuss at my own table, but (<i>scathingly</i>) +no doubt your <i>position here</i> gives you the right to be independent—ahoo!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> I venture to think so. (<i>To himself.</i>) Can't make +this woman out—is she trying to be rude, or what?</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> Hullo, your Lordship's got no Champagne! How's +that? It's all <i>right</i>—"<span class="sc">Fizzler</span>, '84," my Lord!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> I daresay—but the fact is, I am strictly forbidden +to touch it.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>[pg 65]</span><p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> Pooh!—if your Lordship will excuse the remark—<i>this</i> +won't do you any harm—comes out of my own cellar, so I <i>ought</i> to +know. (<i>To</i> <span class="sc">Seakale</span>.) Here, you, fill his Lordship's glass, d'ye +hear?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>in a rapid whisper.</i>) Don't make a fuss—you can take +<i>one</i> glass as he wishes it!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to himself.</i>) Can I though? If she imagines I'm +going to poison myself to please her uncle! (<span class="sc">Seakale</span> <i>gives him half +a glass, after receiving a signal from</i> Mrs. T.) I suppose I must +just——(<i>After tasting.</i>) Why it's <i>dry</i>! Then why the deuce +was I cautioned not to——?</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> That's a fine wine, isn't it, my Lord? Not much of +<i>that</i> in the market nowadays, I can tell you!</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to himself.</i>) Precious little <i>here</i>. (<i>Aloud.</i>) So I +should imagine, Sir.</p> + +<p><i>Uncle Gab.</i> Your Lordship mustn't pass this <i>entrée</i>. My niece's +cook knows her business, I will say that for her.</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>as he helps himself.</i>) I have already discovered that +she is an artist.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>in displeased surprise.</i>) Then you know my cook <i>too</i>? +An <i>artist</i>? and she seems such a <i>respectable</i> person! Pray what +sort of pictures does she paint?</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> Pictures? Oh, really I don't know—potboilers +probably.</p> + +<blockquote><p>[Mrs. <span class="sc">Tid.</span> <i>glares at him suspiciously</i>.</p></blockquote> + +<p><i>Conversational Scraps.</i> And when I got into the hall and saw +them all sitting in a row with their faces blacked, I said "I'm sure +<i>they</i> can't be the Young Men's Christian Association!"... +Hysteria? my poor dear wife is a dreadful sufferer from it—I've +known her unable to sleep at all except with one foot curled round +her neck!... (&c. &c.)</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to himself.</i>) There's no doubt about it—this woman +<i>is</i> trying to snub me—hardly brings herself to talk at all—and <i>then</i> +she's beastly rude! What did she ask me here <i>for</i> if she can't be +civil! If she wasn't my hostess—I'll try her once more, she may +know something about antiquities—(<i>Aloud.</i>) I suppose Mr. <span class="sc">Cartouche</span> +keeps his collection in a separate room? I was told he has +some hunting scarabs of the Amenhoteps that I am very curious to +see.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> (<i>stiffly</i>). Mr. <span class="sc">Cartouche</span> may keep all sorts of disagreeable +pets, for anything <i>I</i> know to the contrary.</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>to himself, in amazement</i>). Pets! I'm hanged if +I let myself be snubbed like this! (<i>Aloud.</i>) I'm afraid you have +very little sympathy with his tastes?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Tid.</i> Sympathy, indeed! I don't even know if he <i>has</i> any +tastes. I am not in the habit of troubling myself about my next-door +neighbour's affairs.</p> + +<p><i>Lord Strath.</i> (<i>with a gasp</i>). Your next-door——! (<i>He pulls +himself together.</i>) To be sure—of course not—stupid of me to ask! +(<i>To himself.</i>) Good Heavens!—these <i>aren't</i> the <span class="sc">Cartouches</span>! I'm +<i>at the wrong dinner-party</i>—and this awful woman thinks I've done +it on purpose! No wonder she's so confoundedly uncivil!... +And <span class="sc">Marjory</span> knows it, too, and won't speak to me! Perhaps they +<i>all</i> know it.... What on earth am I to do?... I feel such a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Miss Seaton</i> (<i>to herself</i>). How perfectly <i>ghastly</i> <span class="sc">Douglas</span> is +looking! Didn't he <i>really</i> know the <span class="sc">Cartouches</span> lived next door?... +Then—<i>oh</i>, what an idiot I've been! It's a mistake—he <i>doesn't</i> +come from <span class="sc">Blankley's</span> at all! I <i>must</i> speak to him—I must tell +him how——no, I <i>can't</i>—I forgot how horrid I've been to him! +I should have to tell him I believed <i>that</i>—and I'd rather die! No, +it's too late—it's too late now!</p> + +<blockquote><p>[Miss <span class="sc">Seaton</span> <i>and</i> Lord <span class="sc">Strathsporran</span> <i>sit regarding the tablecloth +with downcast eyes, and expressions of the deepest +gloom and confusion</i>.</p></blockquote> + +<p class="center">(<i>End of Scene V.</i>)</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Rhyme by a Rad.</h2> + +<blockquote><p>[The question where the Liberal-Unionists shall sit has excited some +discussion.]</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>They have stolen the old Tory togs bit by bit,</p> +<p class="i2">And we wish they would openly don them.</p> +<p>However, it matters not much <i>where</i> they sit,</p> +<p class="i2">For wherever it be we'll sit <i>on</i> them!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"<span class="sc">Railway Rates</span>."—Whatever question there may be on this +subject, there can be none whatever as to the rates at which "The +Bournemouth Express," "The Granville L. C. & D.," and "The +Flying Dutchman," severally travel. Such rates are first rate.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Con. for the Consolation of the many Sufferers from a +current Catch-word</span>.—<i>Q.</i> What is the only thing that is <i>really</i> +"up-to-date"?—<i>A.</i> A palm-tree.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Mem. for Mr. Vivian and the Royalists</span>.—The Last of the +<span class="sc">Stuarts</span>,—<span class="sc">Stuart <i>Knill</i></span>. There can be none after <i>Nil</i>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>DRAMATIC WITHOUT BEING STAGEY.</h2> + +<div class="figright" style="width:25%;"><a href="images/065.png"><img width="100%" src="images/065.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<p>The plan, successfully inaugurated, and, within the last fortnight, +still more successfully carried out by Sir <span class="sc">Druriolanus Operaticus +Balmascus Pantomimicus</span>, of giving what may be called "unstagey +representations" of popular Operas—that is, popular Operas sung +and acted without the aid of scenes or properties (though "substitutes" +may be permitted, as, for example, a chair with four legs +complete would +represent a horse, +and a round table +a tower); the +singers, however, +being in costume, +may work an extensive +"Transformation" +Scene +(which is quite +in Sir <span class="sc">Drurio's</span> +line) in the +Dramatic and Operatic world, and +may effect such a change as will save +thousands to a Manager. Why not +go a step further? Why have "costumes," +or even "hand-properties"? Why not leave everything, +except the perfection of the singing and the dramatic action, to +the imagination of the audience? The prices of admission would +be proportionately lowered, and the numbers admitted, in all probability, +would be trebled, on which hypothesis a calculation may +be based. What an exercise it would be for the imagination of the +audience, were the Statue Scene from <i>Don Giovanni</i> to be given +with the Basso Profondo in evening dress, who represents the Stony +Commendatore, seated astride a plank resting on tressels placed on a +table which would have been substituted for the stone pedestal, +while the Don or <i>Leporello</i> (it doesn't much matter which) sings his +asides to the audience! Here is novelty, and a great attraction! +It is returning to Elizabethan days, when Managers called a spade +a spade, and then so labelled it to prevent mistakes.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Song from "As You Like It"</span> (<i>for the Member for East Galway, +arranged by Colonel Saunderson, M.P.</i>).—"What shall he have +who shot the Deer?"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">A Bank Note</span>.—The most likely time for obtaining payment "in +hard cash," is when the Money Market "hardens a little," as +was the case, so <i>The Times</i> Money Article informed us, last Friday.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>[pg 66]</span><div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/066.png"><img width="100%" src="images/066.png" alt="AN EARLY PURITAN." /></a><h3>AN EARLY PURITAN.</h3> + +<p><i>Bobby</i> (<i>who sees his Mamma in Evening Dress for the first time, and doesn't like it</i>). "<span class="sc">I'll write and tell Papa!</span>"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>"A STIFF JOB."</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>Grand Old Ploughman sings</i>:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Speed the Plough! Ah, that's all mighty fine,</p> +<p class="i2">And I like the old saying's suggestion;</p> +<p>But—wi' a small crock such as mine,</p> +<p class="i2">The <i>speed</i> may be matter o' question.</p> +<p>I've set my hand to 'un, o' course,</p> +<p class="i2">And munna look back, there's no doubt o' it:</p> +<p>Yet I wish I'd a handier horse</p> +<p class="i2">For the job, or that <i>I</i> were well out o' it!</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Stiff clay on a slaantin' hill-side,</p> +<p class="i2">Would tax a strong team. Steady, steady!</p> +<p>The little 'un goes a bit wide,</p> +<p class="i2">And seems to be shirkin' already.</p> +<p>To keep a straight furrow this go</p> +<p class="i2">Will strain the old ploughman's slack muscle;</p> +<p>And yet my new measters, I know,</p> +<p class="i2">Will expect I to keep on the bustle.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Stiff job for a little 'un? Yes!</p> +<p class="i2">If he doesn't pull straight there'll be bother,</p> +<p>Must make the best of 'un I guess,</p> +<p class="i2">This time, for I sha'an't get no other.</p> +<p>Gee up! I shall have a good try,</p> +<p class="i2">On that they may bet their last dollar.</p> +<p>It's do, poor old crook, now, or die!</p> +<p class="i2">But—I <i>must</i> keep 'un oop to the collar!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"This room is very close!" said Mrs. R., +settling herself down to her knitting, which +her nephew had furtively unravelled. "Open +the window, <span class="sc">Tom</span>, and let out the asphyxia."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>LINES ON THE AUTHOR OF THE +LABOUR BUREAU.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>By a Labourer.</i>)</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>'Ooray for Mister <span class="sc">Mundella</span>,</p> +<p>(Who's under Old <span class="sc">Gladdy's</span> umbrella.)</p> +<p class="i2">For he's a jolly good fella,</p> +<p class="i4">And so say all of <i>hus</i>!</p> +<p>With a 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray!</p> +<p>We hope the Bureau may pay.</p> +<p class="i2">Of course it might well have been better,</p> +<p class="i4">But then—it might have been <i>wus</i>!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Emphasis Gratiâ</span>.—What a difference a +slight emphasis makes in an ordinary sentence! +The <i>D. T.</i> when giving, in advance, +an account of a marriage to be solemnised +the same afternoon, spoke thus concerning +the costumes of the very youthful bridesmaids. +"They will wear dresses of very +pale blue silk, made up with ivory-hued +lace." Now, had the second word been in +italics, it would have read thus, "They <i>will</i> +wear," &c., as if everything had been done to +prevent them from so arraying themselves, +"but, in spite of all efforts, they <i>will</i> wear +dresses of very pale blue!" So obstinate of +them! Such nice little ladies, too!</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"The Liberal-Unionists have resolved to +abstain from pairing during the present +Session." So <i>The Times</i>. "Birds in their +little nests agree," quoth the eminent Dr. +<span class="sc">Watts</span>; but these Parliamentary Birds will +belie their name of "Unionists" if they refuse +to "pair."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Telegram from Hawaians to American +President</span>.—"WE would be U.S."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE ANTI——?</h2> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Your aid let me ask in a difficult task, <i>Mr. Punch</i>, with the greatest submission;</p> +<p>To win for my name a well-merited fame was always my ardent ambition,</p> +<p>And clearly to-day the least difficult way is to send an appeal to the papers,</p> +<p>To form an intrigue for creating a league against fashion-designers and drapers.</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Thereby shall I reap an advertisement cheap, and writers, with much perseverance,</p> +<p>Will furnish as news their apocryphal views on my appetite, age, and appearance;</p> +<p>They all will revere my conviction sincere, and loudly re-echo my praises,</p> +<p>But the thing which, as yet, I'm unable to get, is a novel departure in crazes</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>The idea shall we float that a swallow-tail coat is only adapted for Vandals?</p> +<p>Write pamphlets, designed to enlighten mankind on the duty of taking to sandals?</p> +<p>Would a hatred of hats, or crusade on cravats, secure us a sympathy louder?</p> +<p>Or shall we assert it is time to revert to patches, knee-breeches, and powder?</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Meanwhile, your applause we invite for our Cause—you notice the capital letter—</p> +<p>Subscriptions and fees you may send when you please to the writer, the sooner the better.</p> +<p>But as to the theme of this notable scheme, I wait for a timely suggestion;</p> +<p>Its worth's beyond doubt, but what it's about remains, for the present, a question!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p>The Bishop of <span class="sc">Chester</span> trembles. He is +marked with the brand of "<span class="sc">Caine</span>"!</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>[pg 67]</span><div class="figcenter" style="width:75%;"><a href="images/067.png"><img width="100%" src="images/067.png" alt="A STIFF JOB." /></a><h3>"A STIFF JOB."</h3> + +<p>W. E. G. (<i>to himself</i>). "SHALL HAVE TO KEEP HIM <i>UP TO THE COLLAR</i>!" (<i>Aloud.</i>) "GEE UP!!"</p></div> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>[pg 68]</span><hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>[pg 69]</span> + +<h2>CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.</h2> + +<p class="center">HOSTS.</p> + +<p>"Dear Punch," writes a valued Correspondent, "I wish you'd +tip me the wink how I'm to talk to my hosts. I'm a poor man, but +not a poor shot. So I get asked about a good deal to different +places, and as I'm not the sort that turns on the talking-tap very +easily, I often get stuck up. Just as I've got fairly into the swim +with one of them I leave him, and have to think of talk for quite a +different kind of chap, and so on all through the season. For +instance, last December I did three shoots in as many weeks. The +first was with old <span class="sc">Callaby</span>, the rich manufacturer, who's turned +sportsman late in life. I thought he'd like a talk about bimetallism, +so I sweated it up a bit, and started off with a burst as soon as I got +a look in. All no go. Nothing would please him but to talk of +birds, and rabbits, and hares, and farming, and crops, and who was +going to be High Sheriff, and all that. So I got a little left at the +first go off.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/069.png"><img width="100%" src="images/069.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<p>"Next week I shot with <span class="sc">Blossom</span>, another new friend, who's +come into money lately, after knocking about all over America the +greater part of his life. +I tried him with the +Chicago Exposition, +and ranching as a business +for younger sons; +did it delicately, of +course, and with any +amount of deference, +but he only looked at +me blankly, and began +talking about the Bank-rate. +After that, I +settled with myself I +wouldn't talk to any +more of them about +things that they might +be expected to feel an +interest in.</p> + +<p>"In the following +week I was due at +<span class="sc">Whichello's</span>. He's +been a perfect lunatic +all his life for music. +He got up an orchestra +in his nursery, which +came to smash because +his younger brother +filled all the wind instruments +with soap-suds. +Later on he was +always scraping, or +blowing, or thumping, +scooting about from +one concert to another, +making expeditions to +the shrine of <span class="sc">Wagner</span> +as he called it, composing +songs, and symphonies, +and operas, and +Heaven only knows +what besides. He came +into the old place in +Essex when his brother died, about a year ago, and this was his +first pheasant-shoot. I thought to myself, 'If you're anything +like these other Johnnies, it's no good pulling out the music-stop +with you.' On the first morning he seemed a shade anxious at +breakfast, and said he was going to try a new plan of beating his +coverts, which it had given him a lot of trouble to arrange as he +wanted. Off we went after breakfast. We had about half a mile +to walk before we got to the first wood, and I kept puzzling my +brains the whole way about this blessed new dodge of beating.</p> + +<p>"'Where are the beaters?' I said to <span class="sc">Whichello</span>, when we +got there, for devil a bit of one did I see.</p> + +<p>"'You'll find them out directly,' says <span class="sc">Whichello</span>, looking sly +and triumphant; 'just you stand here, and wait. You'll get some +shooting, I warrant you;' and, with that, he posted the other +guns at the far end of the covert, told me and another chap we +were to walk outside, in line with the beaters, and walked off. +Suddenly he gave a whistle. Then what do you think happened? +I'll give you a hundred guesses, and you won't be on it. Out of +a little planting, about fifty yards off the piece we were to shoot, +came marching a troop of rustics, dressed as rustic beaters usually +are, but each of them carrying, in place of the ordinary beater's +stick, a musical instrument of some sort. They were headed by +the keeper, who waved a kind of <i>bâton</i>. When they got to our +covert, they arranged themselves in line, and then, on a signal from +<span class="sc">Whichello</span>, crash, bang! they struck up the <i>Tannhäuser March</i>, +and disappeared into the wood.</p> + +<p>"'Line up, Trombone!' shouted the keeper—I heard his +stentorian roar above the din—'Come, hurry along with the +Bombardon; Ophicleide, you're too far in front. Keep it going, +Clarinets. Now then, all together! What are you up to, Cymbals? +Let 'em have it!' And thus they came banging and booming +and blowing through the covert. The bassoon tripped into a thorn-bush, +the big-drum rolled over the trunk of a tree and smashed his +instrument, the hautboy threw his at an escaping rabbit, while +the flute-man walked straight into a pool of water, and had to be +pulled out by the triangle. But the rest of them got through somehow +with that infernal idiot of a conducting keeper, still backing +and twisting and waving like mad in the front. That was +<span class="sc">Whichello's</span> idea of beating his coverts. 'Combining æsthetic +pleasure with sporting pursuits,' he called it. Somehow we had +managed to bring down a brace of pheasants, which, with three +rabbits, made up our total, out of a covert which ought to have +yielded ten times as many.</p> + +<p>"I daresay you won't believe this story, but it's true all the same. +If you don't believe it, +write to <span class="sc">Whichello</span> +himself. I never saw +anyone half so pleased +as that fool was. He +had given up all his +time to teaching his +rustics music, with a +view to this performance, +and had shoved in, +as one of his keepers, +a sporting third violin +from the Drury Lane +orchestra. They said +it was glorious, and +congratulated one another +all round, with as +much enthusiasm as if +they'd repelled a +foreign invasion. On +the next beat they +played the <i>March in +Scipio</i>, and after that +came a <i>Pot-Pourri of +Popular Melodies</i>, arranged +by the keeper. +They played a selection +from <i>The Pirates of +Penzance</i> while we +lunched, and took the +big wood to the tunes +of '<i>Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay</i>' +and '<i>Up-rouse +ye then, my +merry, merry Men!</i>' +'<i>Rule Britannia</i>' and +'<i>Home, Sweet Home</i>,' +played us back to the +house. I never heard +such a confounded Babel +of brass and wood in +all my life. A German +band in a country town couldn't come near it. Curiously enough, we +most of us got urgent letters by next morning's post, summoning us +home at once to attend to business, or to be present at the death-beds +of relatives. I thought you'd like to hear this story, old cock. +If you like, you're very welcome to shove it in your shooting series. +I've seen a lot of rum goes in my life, but this was the rummest of +the lot. And don't forget to let me have a word or two about talking +to one's host. I know what I thought of that maniac <span class="sc">Whichello</span>, +but I shouldn't have liked to say that to him.</p> + +<p class="center">"Yours to a turn,<br /> +<span class="sc">A Sportsman</span>."</p> + +<p>For the present I must leave this striking letter to the judgment +of my readers. Space fails me to deal with it adequately. On +another occasion I may be able to set down some ideas on the +difficult subject suggested by my polite Correspondent.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">The Appreciation of Gold.</span>—"Why all this fuss?" writes a +Correspondent. "Is there a difficulty in finding persons who +properly appreciate gold? If so, I, Sir, am not of that number. I +will be happy to receive from the Bank any quantity of sovereigns; +and, further, I will undertake to show and honestly express my +appreciation of this generosity on the part of the Bank. Ah! I +should like to possess any number of those 'promises of May.'</p> + +<p class="center">"Yours,<br /> +<span class="sc">A Munnie Grubber</span>."</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>[pg 70]</span> + +<h2>ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h2> + +<p class="center">EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.</p> + +<p><i>House of Commons, Tuesday, Jan. 31st.</i>—"Members desiring to +take their seats will please come to the Table."</p> + +<p>'Twas the voice of the <span class="sc">Speaker</span>; one could hear him declaim just +as Big Ben tolled four o'clock this afternoon. House crowded in +every part, throbbing with excitement; crowds everywhere. In +Centre Hall some vainly hoping for impossible places; others content +to see the men go by whose names they read in the papers. Outside +Palace Yard multitude standing patiently for hours, happy if only +they saw the tip of Mr. G.'s hat as he drove in at the gate, or +imagined the buttons on the Squire of <span class="sc">Malwood's</span> gaiters. Never, +in recent times, such a rush on opening days.</p> + +<p>And Colonel <span class="sc">Saunderson</span>, comfortably seated on Front Bench +below Gangway, in choice companionship with Dr. <span class="sc">Tanner</span>, actually +yawning!</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:65%;"><a href="images/070.png"><img width="100%" src="images/070.png" alt="Historical Subject" /></a><p class="center"><span class="sc">Historical Subject</span>.—S-nd-rs-n "finding the body of"—T-nn-r.</p></div> + +<p>"All very well for you, <span class="sc">Toby</span>, dear boy," he said, responsive to +my polite stare. "You come down here leisurely in afternoon, and +take your seat. I've been on war-path since before daybreak. +Knew the wild Irishmen meant to open proceedings of Session by +appropriating our seats. Have not served in Royal Irish Fusiliers +for nothing. Session opened by Royal Commission at two o'clock +this afternoon. Thought if I arrived on spot at seven in morning +would be in moderately good time. Here before seven: place in +utter darkness; found friendly policeman with bull's-eye light; +tightened my belt; cocked my pistol; requisitioned Bobby and his +lantern. You should have seen us groping our way into House; +Bobby first, with bull's-eye +lantern professionally flashing +to right and left, under +seats, into dark corners. +Made straight for my old +corner-seat below Gangway; +something white gleaming +on front bench; with supple +turn of wrist Bobby brought +flambeau to bear upon it; +found it was <span class="sc">Tanner</span>—<span class="sc">Tanner</span>, +hatless, coatless, +without even a waistcoat on! +You might have knocked me +down with much less than +bayonet-prod. 'Morning, +Colonel,' says he. 'Been +here all night?' I gasped. +'Oh, no,' says he; 'had cup +of coffee at stall by Westminster +Bridge, bought a +few hats in the New Cut, +and, you see, I've planted +them out.' So he had, by +Gad! Every corner-seat +taken, and he prone in <span class="sc">Jemmy Lowther's</span>. 'Weren't enough o' +them,' <span class="sc">Tanner</span> said, with his sixpenny snigger; 'couldn't leave +put our revered leaders, <span class="sc">Tim Healy</span> and <span class="sc">O'Brien</span>, you know. So +just took off my coat, flopped it down for <span class="sc">Tim</span>, hung the waist-coast +on a knob, and there's <span class="sc">William O'Brien's</span> place secured for +the night. Now, if you'd like a seat, you'll find one above the +Gangway; or if you want to come and sit by me, here you are. I've +got a necktie, a collar, and a pair of braces to spare; if you've any +particular friends in your mind, why, we'll get seats for them.' +No knowing what a fellow like <span class="sc">Tanner</span> would do in these circumstances. +Even his trowsers not sacred. So made best of bad job, +and here I am. At least, better off than <span class="sc">Jemmy Lowther</span>, evicted +without compensation for disturbance."</p> + +<p>Conversation interrupted by loud cheer. Mr. G. marching with +head erect, and swinging stride, to take the Oath and his seat. +Necessary by Standing Orders that two Members shall accompany +new Member on these occasions to certify identity and prevent guilty +impersonation. It's a wise child that knows his own father, but +<span class="sc">Herbert</span>, walking on one side of Premier, with <span class="sc">Marjoribanks</span> on +other, ready to testify. Clerk at table, thus assured all was right, +administered Oath and then conducted Premier up to <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, +presenting the new Member.</p> + +<p>"Mr. <span class="sc">Gladstone</span>, I presume," said <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, making a motion +towards extending his hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir," said the new Member, nervously.</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" said the <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, now shaking hands. "I've often +heard of you. I daresay you'll soon get accustomed to the place, +and will, I hope, be comfortable." Mr. G. bowed, and retired to his +seat. <span class="sc">Speaker</span> suffered succession of shocks as in same way were +brought up and introduced to him, <span class="sc">Squire of Malwood</span>, <span class="sc">John Morley</span>, +<span class="sc">Campbell-Bannerman</span>, the Count <span class="sc">Mundellani</span>, <span class="sc">George Trevelyan</span>, +The Boy <span class="sc">Asquith</span>, and quite a host of new acquaintances.</p> + +<p><i>Business done.</i>—New Members took their seats. Address moved.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday Night.</i>—Something like flash of old times to-night. +Of course, it came from Irish quarter, and it was <span class="sc">Saunderson</span> who +kindled the torch. Colonel presented himself early in sitting on +corner bench below Gangway. This apparently reverted to possession +of <span class="sc">Jemmy Lowther</span>. He lent it to Colonel for an hour, sitting +on other side of him. How they secured the place is a mystery, +darkened by temporary disappearance of <span class="sc">Tanner</span>. "Where is +<span class="sc">Tanner</span>?" Members ask, looking, not without suspicion, on placid +face and generally respectable appearance of <span class="sc">Jemmy Lowther</span>. Last +seen, not exactly in company of <span class="sc">Jemmy</span> and the Colonel, rather in +conflict for the corner-seat. <span class="sc">Lowther</span> has the seat; lends it to +<span class="sc">Saunderson</span>. But where is <span class="sc">Tanner</span>?</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>he</i>'s all right," said <span class="sc">Lowther</span>, with forced smile, when +<span class="sc">Justin McCarthy</span>, with ill-feigned indifference, inquired after the +lamb missing from his fold. "Bad sixpence, you know; always +turns up," <span class="sc">Jemmy</span> added. But his merriment forced, and <span class="sc">Saunderson</span> +abruptly changed subject.</p> + +<p>Evidently a case for <span class="sc">Sherlock Holmes</span>; must place it in his +hands.</p> + +<p>Doubtless it was with object of diverting attention from a ghastly +subject that <span class="sc">Saunderson</span> led up to row alluded to. In course of +remarks on release of Gweedore prisoners, he alluded to Father +<span class="sc">McFadden</span> as "a ruffian." Irish Members not used to language of +that kind. Howled in pained indignation; the Colonel, astonished +at his own moderation, varied the phrase by calling the respected +P.P. "a murderous ruffian." Shouts of horror from compatriots +closely massed behind. <span class="sc">Tim Healy</span>, in particular, boiling with indignation +at use of language of this character addressed to gentlemen +from whom one had +difference of opinion on +public matters. Nothing +would content them short of +absolute and immediate withdrawal. +Colonel declined to +withdraw. Uproar rose in +ungovernable fury. Every +time Colonel opened his +mouth to continue his remarks, +an Irish Member (so +to speak) jumped down his +throat.</p> + +<p>Considerable proportion of +Ministerial majority had disappeared +in this fashion, +when happy thought occurred +to <span class="sc">John Dillon</span>. Hotly +moved that <span class="sc">Saunderson</span> "be +no longer heard." Considering +he had not been +heard for fully five minutes, +this joke excellent. <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, +however, wouldn't see it. +<span class="sc">Colonel</span> trumped the card +by moving Adjournment of Debate. Mr. G. interposed, adjured +<span class="sc">Saunderson</span> to put end to scene by withdrawing expression +objected to.</p> + +<p>Colonel, hitherto obdurate, found irresistible the stately appeal +from Premier. "Certainly," said he, ever ready to oblige; "I will +withdraw the words 'murderous ruffian,' and substitute the expression, +excited politician." This accepted as perfectly satisfactory. +Terms apparently synonymous; but the latter, on the whole, less +irritating to susceptible nerves. Irish members round about +fell on Colonel's neck; embraced him with tears; gently disengaging +himself, he proceeded uninterrupted to the end of his +address.</p> + +<p>"Capital title that," said <span class="sc">George Newnes</span>, who always has eye +to business. "Shall start a new Weekly; lead off with serial Novel +by Colonel <span class="sc">Saunderson</span>, entitled <i>The Murderous Ruffian; or, the +Excited Politician</i>. Sure to take."</p> + +<p>All very well, this cleverly conceived diversion. But where is +Dr. <span class="sc">Tanner</span>? <i>Business done.</i>—Debate on Address.</p> + +<p><i>Friday Night.</i>—Still harping on Ireland. Began with row round +issue of Writ for South Meath. <span class="sc">Esmonde</span>, one of innumerable Whips +present House possesses, says the business was his. "Then why +didn't you do it?" asked <span class="sc">Nolan</span>. "As you didn't seem disposed +to move, I do." Nationalists want to get North Meath Election +finished first; Parnellites don't. So <span class="sc">Esmonde</span> is in no hurry to +move Writ, and Colonel <span class="sc">Nolan</span> is. Pretty, in these circumstances +to hear <span class="sc">Nolan</span> with his indignant inquiry, "Is the moving of Writs +to be taken as an Election dodge?"</p> + +<p>After Ireland, Uganda. <span class="sc">Sage of Queen Anne's Gate</span> talked for +hour and half. Later, rose to blandly explain that this was only +half his speech; rest will be delivered when he brings question up +again on Supplementary Vote. As Mr. G. says, this is fair notice, +and every Member may determine for himself whether he will +forego a portion of the promised treat. <i>Business done.</i>—Talking.</p> + +<hr /><span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>[pg 71]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/071.png"><img width="100%" src="images/071.png" alt="THE PARLIAMENTARY BILL MARKET, ST. STEPHENS." /></a><h3>THE PARLIAMENTARY BILL MARKET, ST. STEPHENS.</h3></div> + +<hr /><span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>[pg 72]</span> + +<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> + +<p>Everyone knows Mr. <span class="sc">Austin Dobson's</span> dainty verse. In <i>Eighteenth +Century Vignettes</i> (<span class="sc">Chatto and Windus</span>) everyone has an opportunity, +which he will do well to seize, to enjoy his equally charming prose. +Mr. <span class="sc">Dobson</span> is one of those enviable men who have time to +read. He spends an appreciable portion of his days and nights not +only with <span class="sc">Addison</span>, but with <span class="sc">Steele</span>, <span class="sc">Prior</span>, <span class="sc">Johnson</span>, <span class="sc">Goldsmith</span>, +and others, whom a generation that read newspapers and subscribe +to <span class="sc">Mudie's</span>, know only by name. Mr. <span class="sc">Dobson</span> is so omnivorous, +that he has read right through <span class="sc">Jonas Hanway's</span> <i>Journal of Eight +Days' Journey from Portsmouth to Kingston-upon-Thames</i>, the +book which drew from <span class="sc">Johnson</span> the genial remark that <span class="sc">Hanway</span> +"had acquired some reputation by travelling abroad, but lost it all +by travelling at home." A man that would read that, would read +anything. Mr. <span class="sc">Dobson</span>, happily, survived it, living to write a paper +in which, within the limit of a +few pages, we become thoroughly +acquainted with <span class="sc">Jonas</span>, his travels +in Persia, his discreet flirtations, +his umbrella (the first under which +man ever walked in the streets +of London), his suit of rich dark +brown, lined with ermine, his +<i>chapeau bras</i> with gold button, his +gold-hilted sword, and his three +pairs of stockings. <span class="sc">Jonas</span> always +thought there was safety in numbers, +whether odd or even. When +he travelled, his "Partie" consisted +of Mrs. D. and Mrs. O. +When he dedicated a book (which +Mr. <span class="sc">Dobson</span> found, more than a +hundred years later, in a second-hand +book-shop in Holborn), he +inscribed it to the "Twin Sisters, +Miss <span class="sc">Elizabeth</span> & Miss <span class="sc">Caroline +Grigg</span>." When he took his +walks abroad, he wore three pairs +of stockings. <span class="sc">Jonas Hanway</span>, +under Mr. <span class="sc">Dobson's</span> care, is +unexpectedly delightful. With +the same magic touch he brings +upon the stage <span class="sc">Steele</span>, <span class="sc">Fielding</span>, +<span class="sc">Goldsmith</span>, <span class="sc">Gray</span>, <span class="sc">Hogarth's +Sigismunda</span>, and Dr. <span class="sc">Johnson</span>, +who lives for us again in his +garret in Gough Square. These +<i>Vignettes</i> should be framed in the +private room of every man and +woman who loves books.</p> + +<p>(<i>Signed</i>), "<i>Non obstat</i>," +<span class="sc">Baron de B.-W.</span></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Discovered in Drury Lane</h2> + +<blockquote><p><i>Near the new Baker Street Lodging +House established by the County +Council.</i></p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>I 'old it true wote'er befall;</p> +<p class="i2">I feel it when things go most cross;</p> +<p class="i2">Better to do a fi'penny doss,</p> +<p>Than never do a doss at all!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"<span class="sc">Waite for the End</span>."—On +Friday last, at another Unemployed +Meeting, a certain person, whose name is never mentioned in +ears polite, "found mischief still," as wrote the immortal Dr. <span class="sc">Watts</span>, +"for idle hands to do," and set one <span class="sc">Waite</span>, whether a light or heavy +weight is not stated, and one <span class="sc">Sullivan</span>, by the ears. It was a hand-to-hand +fight, and <span class="sc">Waite</span> was subsequently captured and brought +before the Magistrate. <i>Mem.</i> for <span class="sc">Waite</span>, in the words of a recently +popular song, "<i>Never hit a Man of the name of Sullivan.</i>"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Fallen Fortunes.</span>—Quoth <i>The Observer</i> of a certain celebrity, +"The family to which he belongs can trace an uninterrupted descent +for a period of six centuries." What an awful "come-down"! +<i>Quelle dégringolade!</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Between Two Government Officials.</span>—"What do you think +of <span class="sc">Campbell-Bannerman's</span> choice of an assistant private secretary? +Odd? eh?" "Not odd! <i>Strange.</i>"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">Proverb for Members of Parliament who wish to secure +Seats.</span>—"Two Hats are better than one."</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:45%;"><a href="images/072.png"><img width="100%" src="images/072.png" alt="SELF-PRESERVATION IS THE FIRST LAW OF NATURE" /></a><h3>SELF-PRESERVATION IS THE FIRST LAW OF NATURE;</h3> <p class="center">OR, GETTING THE START OF CRINOLINE.</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.</h2> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc">Concerning Cash</span>.</p> + +<p><i>Question.</i> What is cash?</p> + +<p><i>Answer.</i> Cash may be described as comfort in the concrete.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Is it not sometimes called "the root of all evil"?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> Yes, by those who do not possess it.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Is it possible to live without cash?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> Certainly—upon credit.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Can you tell me what is credit?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> Credit is the motive power which induces persons who have +cash, to part with some of it to those who have it not.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Can you give me an instance of credit?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> Certainly. A young man who is able to live at the rate of +a thousand a-year, with an income not exceeding nothing a month, +is a case of credit.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Would it be right to describe +such a transaction "as much to +his credit"?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> It would be more precise +to say, "much by his credit;" +although the former phrase would +be accepted by a large class of the +community as absolutely accurate.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is bimetallism?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> Bimetallism is a subject +that is frequently discussed by +amateur financiers, after a good +dinner, on the near approach of +the coffee.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Can you give me your impression +of the theory of bimetallism?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> My impression of bimetallism +is the advisability of obtaining +silver, if you cannot get gold.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is the best way of +securing gold?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> The safest way is to borrow +it.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Can money be obtained in +any other way?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> In the olden time it was +gathered on Hounslow Heath and +other deserted spots, by mounted +horsemen wearing masks and +carrying pistols.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is the modern way of +securing funds, on the same principles, +but with smaller risk?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> By promoting Companies +and other expedients known to +the members of the Stock Exchange.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>QUEER QUERIES.</h2> + +<p><span class="sc">Foreign Clerks.</span>—I should be +grateful for any information as +to where I could acquire a knowledge +of French, German, Italian, +Spanish, Arabic, and Russian, +without leaving the neighbourhood +of Camberwell New Road, +and at a merely nominal cost. I +find that, unless I know those languages, +I have no chance of competing +with German Clerks; whereas, if I did know them, I should +be nearly sure of obtaining a berth in a London Firm at not less +than fifteen shillings a week, rising, by half centuries, to fifteen +and sixpence, and even to sixteen shillings. Also, what is the least +amount of porridge (without milk or sugar), haricot beans, or lentil +soup, that will preserve a person from starvation, if he takes +nothing else, and works fourteen hours a day? I intend imitating +my Teutonic rivals in frugality, as well as in languages; any +dietetic hints (especially from Scotchmen), would therefore be +welcomed by <span class="sc">No Polyglot</span>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="sc">A Delicate Request.</span>—On Wednesday—that day in every week +which is kept as a whole holiday in honour of <i>Mr. Punch</i>—the +8th Feb., there is to be "a meeting of Old Paulines" at Anderton's +Hotel, when "<i>the attendance of all Old Paulines is requested</i>." +Ahem! The aged representatives of the heroine of the <i>Lady of +Lyons</i> will not be attracted by the wording of this rather un-paulite +announcement. Why was not the invitation extended to the old +<i>Claude Melnottes</i> as well? There must be a lot of them about.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><font size="+1">☞</font>NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will +in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule +there will be no exception.</p> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="pg" /> + +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 104, FEBRUARY 11, 1893***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 21818-h.txt or 21818-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/8/1/21818">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/8/1/21818</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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