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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 105

NOVEMBER 11th 1893

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand


* * * * *


[Illustration: POLICE PROTECTION FOR PIANISTS!!

MADE NECESSARY BY THE ANTICS OF THE PADDED-ROOMSKI DEVOTEES AT ST.
JAMES'S HALL, WHO RUSH AT, TRY TO EMBRACE, AND DECK WITH ROSES, A
CERTAIN MASTER WHENEVER HE APPEARS.]

* * * * *

A QUESTION OF TINT.

["Who will paint London?" - _Daily News_.]

What a question to ask! If the colour be blue,
A batch of our London Minervas will do:
For each one will dye - the allusion is shocking -
Our town and its streets with the tint of her stocking.
Our pessimist frauds and the Ibsensite pack
Will groan as they thickly bedaub it in black.
Asiatic Sir EDWIN, the Poet of Light,
He will wipe out their work, and arrange it in white.
Then the Company-gulls will arrive on the scene,
And, _presto_, the colour of London is green.
And a rare crew of "Johnnies" will stay out of bed
Till the daylight appears, while they paint the town red.
In fact - and you'll thank me for giving the hint -
Painting London is merely a question of tint.

* * * * *

MRS. R. cannot call to mind where the original picture of "_The
Waterloo Blanket_" is to be seen.

* * * * *

THE NOBLE ORGAN-GRINDER.

["Lord BRASSEY never goes on a cruise, however short, without taking
with him a very costly barrel-organ. He plays on it regularly for
some time every evening, as he finds it a congenial form of exercise
and amusement." - _The World._]

Grinder, when serenely grinding
On your yacht the Hundredth Psalm,
Tell me, are you truly finding
In this work congenial charm?

"Music hath" (an old quotation)
"Charms to soothe the savage breast,"
Think how you might lull some nation
Into dilettante rest.

GRINDER, gentle-hearted Grinder,
Try the savage who has spurned
Culture, for he might grow kinder,
Soothed by barrel deftly turned.

Matabele LOBENGULA
(Accent on penultimate)
Might be made by music, you'll a-
gree, a model potentate.

ORPHEUS like, you might so charm him
That a mere Mashona child's
Hand could easily disarm him
In those equatorial wilds.

He would cease to wear his skimpy
Kilts that leave his legs half bare,
He would soon disband his _impi_;
Culture then would be his care.

Suits of dittos clothe this whopper;
Patent leather boots be got;
You might lead him - "smash, my topper!" -
Even to a chimney-pot.

He would have a daily paper,
Standard authors sold in parts,
Shops of tailor, hatter, draper,
An Academy of Arts.

He would teach, by plays, the loyal
Folk on marsh or fertile plain,
Opening a Theatre Royal,
Where they've only Reeds and Grain.

And, till death made him a _Morgue_ 'un,
WAGNER, BRAHMS and GREIG no doubt
He would doat on - then your organ
Might be ruthlessly chucked out.

* * * * *

THE CENTRAL HALL OF THE LAW COURTS.

O barristers' wigs from far and wide
You gather anew!
The Strand, like meadow with daisies pied,
Is dotted with you.

You crowd the courts, so stuffy, so small,
So awkwardly placed;
You don't go into the Central Hall -
Magnificent waste!

That thing of beauty was meant to be
For ever a joy,
Just built to accommodate, as we see,
One messenger boy.

Proud emblem he of the empire's might,
That thus, for a whim,
Spent pounds in thousands with such delight
Just to shelter him.

The courts are draughty, the courts are dark,
The passages small,
And witness, client, solicitor, clerk,
Are squeezed in them all.

Those lancet windows on winding stairs
Don't help one to see;
A falling Commissioner even swears
Without any fee.

Still though we stumble and though we're squeezed,
We all recollect
That deserted Hall, and we're truly pleased
With it's fine effect.

The vacant acre of paving there
Should never annoy,
It has one occupant, we 're aware -
That messenger boy.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE AUTUMN SESSION.

(BY A RELUCTANTLY RETURNED M.P.)

AIR - "_O! that will be joyful!_"

HERE we suffer grief and pain,
Here we part to meet again:
No field, no copse, no moor!
O! it will be jawful,
Jawful, jawful, jawful!
O! isn't it awful?
Autumn Meet's an awful bore!

All who hate the "Lords," you know,
Swear this misery below,
We owe to peers above!
O! that, &c.

We'll be lammed by LABOUCHERE,
Who the Afric strife will swear
Is due to RHODES'S rule.
O! won't _he_ be jawful, &c.

ASHMEAD, too, will strive to prove
Freedom, prestige, all we love
We'll lose to gain no more,
Through GLADSTONE the jawful, &c.

O! how weary we shall be,
Ere the two Big Bills, or three,
Are passed and Peer-wards gone!
O! WEG will be jawful, &c.

Then the Rads will shout with joy,
And the short Recess employ,
In larrupping the Lords!
O! won't _they_ be jawful? -
Awful, awful, awful!
It shouldn't be lawful
Autumn Meets to summon more!

* * * * *

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME. - WAT TYLER is avenged - upon wicked WALWORTH,
and unfair history. A namesake of his is to be Lord Mayor of London!
All we want now is, that the Right Hon. Mr. JOHN CADE (of Birmingham?)
should be made Prime Minister.

* * * * *

DR. DULCAMARA UP TO DATE; OR, WANTED A QUACK-QUELCHER.

["_The jury, in giving their verdict, strongly censured the
gross ignorance of the accused, and regretted that there was
no law to prevent them from practising surgery._"]

[Illustration] _Mr. Punch sings, sotto voce:_ -

_Begone, Dulcamara_,
_I prythee begone from me!_
_Begone, Dulcamara_,
_Thou and I will never agree!_

_AGREE?_ By all good powers, no! no more than oil and water!
For to the conscious humbug honest wrath should give no quarter;

And if _Punch's_ ready _b√Ęton_ lays its thwacks on any backs
With special zest, it is on those of charlatans and quacks.

Quack! Quack! Quack! Oh the pestilential pack!
If there is a loathsome chorus, it is Quack! Quack! Quack!

But the Quacks are having high old times in these peculiar days,
And gulls mistake their horrid din, 'twould seem, for pleasant lays.
We are quacked into distraction by unchastened power of Jaw,
Assisted by Advertisement and unrestrained by Law.
Dulcamara up to date is no longer poor or petty,
The pompous, brainless charlatan pictured by DONIZETTI,
He outshines, out-talks, out-thumps, out-cheats, out-swaggers, and
out-dresses,
With his nauseous, noxious nostrums, and his nasty, mucky messes.
Quack! Quack! Quack! He may quack the donkeys dead,
Their coin out of their purses and their eyes out of their head,
Their brains into sheer softening, their bodies to the grave,
But _he_ flourishes unpunished. Is there _nothing_ then to save
The noodles from his ignorance and knavery and bounce?
No law to lay him by the heels, no hangman's whip to trounce,
No pillory to gibbet the false fortune-piling pack
Who poison, maim, and madden with their Quack! Quack! Quack?

Dulcamara stands defiant, while his drum the live air fills
With praise of his appliances, his potions, and his pills.
With sham science for his shield, venal literature and art
For his touts and advertisers, he can bravely play his part.
The comic man will clown for him, if adequately paid,
And the poet and the painter puff his wares and push his trade.
He's proudly testimonialised; folly or purchased cunning
Crack up his nastiest nostrums, keep his worst deceptions running.
He will bleed you and blackmail you, if you're weak as well as
wealthy,
Impoverish _and_ drench you, aye, do aught - save leave you healthy.
For 'tis quack, quack, quack! and 'tis drum, drum, drum!
And Dulcamara - when not _worse_ - is safe to prove a hum!

Quack! Quack! Quack! It is time that cry to quelch
By Law - or else to treat the quacks like sorry rogues who "welsh";
And if Dulcamara's really safe, until the Law they alter,
Why honest men must see to it, nor in their purpose falter
Till rascals of "gross ignorance," in foul gregarious pack,
Can no longer _safely_ victimise with quack, quack, quack!

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE LION AT HOME.

_The Hope and Pride of the Family (just home from the Grand Tour)._
"OH, REALLY, YOU KNOW, THE MEN ONE MEETS IN SOME OF THOSE PLACES OUT
WEST! I SAID TO MYSELF EVERY NIGHT, 'WELL, THANK HEAVEN I HAVEN'T SHOT
ANYBODY!'" _Fond and Nervous Mother._ "YOU MEAN, THANK HEAVEN NOBODY
SHOT YOU, DON'T YOU, DEAR?"]

* * * * *

A WORD TO THE WISE WHEELMAN.

THE SPEAKER, at Warwick, said that "the bicyclists of the day are
debilitating and degenerating the human race by the way in which they
stoop over their work." The wheelmen would probably retort that, like
GOLDSMITH'S sprightly heroine, they "stoop to conquer." And we are
not yet _all_ wheelmen. Still, the SPEAKER has hit a blot in the
contemporary Cyclomania. Few things are more unlovely than the
"Bicyclist's Bend." Record-cutting would be purchased dearly at the
cost of making men look like camels; and if success on the cinderpath
or the road involved giving humanity at large "the hump," one would
stigmatise the Cycle Race as the _In_human Race. Let us hope the
SPEAKER'S sharp words will make our stooping cyclists "sit up" - in
other than the slangy sense of the phrase.

* * * * *

Birds of Pray.

We're told a cormorant sits, and doth not tire,
For a whole month, perched upon Newark spire!
VINNY BOURNE'S jackdaw's beaten, it is clear.
Yet there _are_ cormorants who, year after year,
Perch in the Church. But these omnivorous people
Favour the pulpit mostly, not the steeple.
Thrivers upon fat livings find, no doubt,
Cormorant within is cosier than without.

* * * * *

CREAM OF THE CREAM. - "London Society proper" - we are informed by Lady
CHARLES BERESFORD - consists of no more than thirty or forty families!
And how about London Society _improper_? Is _that_ equally sparse and
exclusive? And - terrible thought! - crucial question! - is it possible
that the two orders _overlap_ at all? That there are any "noble
swells" who belong to both?

* * * * *

THE GOVERNMENT'S PUBLIC POLICY IN SOUTH AFRICA (ACCORDING TO MR.
SYDNEY BUXTON). - _Not_ "CARRINGTON'S Entire"!

* * * * *

UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes_).

SCENE XIII. - _"Behind" at the Eldorado._ TIME - _about_ 10 P.M.; _the
Stage at the back of the Scene-cloth is in partial darkness; in the
centre, a pile of lumber and properties. Bare whitewashed brick walls;
at one side, two canvas cabins for the Lady-Artistes to change their
costumes; near them a deal table, with a jug and glasses. At one of
the wings, behind the proscenium, a shelf and small mirror, at which
the Comedians can arrange their make-up, and a frame, in which a
placard, with each Artiste's number, is inserted before his or her
entrance. A "turn" has just been concluded, and the Stage is clear._

_The Stage-Manager_ (_bustling up to_ Footman, _in crimson plush
breeches_). Now then, look alive, there, can't you, they're getting
impatient in front. Why don't you change the number?

_Footman_ (_with aggrieved dignity_). Because, Sir, Mr. ALF REDBEAK
ought to come on, by rights, and, not 'aving chosen to appear yet, I
think you'll see yourself, on reflection, as it would be totally - -

_Stage-M._ Well, don't argue about it; here's Miss LUSHBOY ready to go
on, put _her_ number up!

_Footm._ I always understood it was the regulation 'ere that no number
was to be put up until the band-parts were passed into the orchestra;
which Miss LUSHBOY'S music most certainly has not been handed in yet,
and, that bein' so - -

_Stage-M._ You can spare a good yard off that tongue of yours, you
can; put Miss LUSHBOY'S number up, and - - Ah, here comes Mr. REDBEAK;
never mind.

_Enter_ Mr. REDBEAK, _breathless_.

_Mr. Redbeak._ Phew! I've had a job to get 'ere in time, I can tell
you. (_The Orchestra strikes up._) 'Ullo, _that_ ain't mine. (_To_
Footman.) What are you about? Put up my number - sharp, now!

_Miss Lushboy_ (_to_ Footman). Here, let me go on; I've been messing
about long enough. What are you taking my number out for?

_Footm._ Now, look 'ere, Miss, I can't please everybody! (_Indicating_
Stage-Manager.) You are as well aware as what I am that it's for _him_
to give the word 'ere, not me. I'm on'y actin' under what - -

_Mr. Redb._ It's crule, you know, that's what it is - crule. I've got
to go right across London for my next turn, and - -

_The Stage-M._ (_returning_). What the blazes are we waiting for
_now_? ALF, dear boy, you should come up to time. (_To_ Footman.) Why
don't you do as you're told? You're getting too big for your boots, it
strikes me! (_To_ Miss LUSHBOY.) There, go on, my dear, go on.

[Miss L. _bounds on to the stage, and begins her song_.

_Mr. Redb._ (_to_ Footman). I've got a bone to pick with you, old
feller. Don't you go wool-gatherin' to-night, as you did last. I've
told you till I'm tired that when you see me chuck this
property piecrust into the wings you've got to throw down these
fire-irons - it's a safe laugh every time it comes off, and you know
'ow important it is, and yet you forget it nine times out of ten!
What's the good of me thinkin' out my business when you go and crab it
for me?

_Footm._ (_pathetically_). Mr. REDBEAK, Sir, you'll excuse me, but
I'm on'y one man 'ere, I ain't a 'undred. _Don't_ thank 'eaven for
it, Sir, it's 'ard when a man as tries to do his best, and with all my
responsibilities on him - -

_Mr. Redb._ (_impatiently_). Oh, cheese it; you're not on a stool in
'Ide Park, are you? I'm only _tellin'_ you.

[Illustration: "It's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices!"]

_Miss L._ (_on stage, singing chorus_).

Say, boys, say, if you'd like to come. Who's for a merry old
"Tiddley-um?"
Fall in behind, and we'll all get "blind," before they close the
pub!
You're not jays, so you won't refuse. Join our band, for we're on
the booze,
And you'll see some larks with the rollicking sparks of the Rowdy
Razzle Club!

(_Here she capers off, brandishing a gibus, and has a difficulty in
opening the practicable door in the wing._ _To_ Footman.) There you
are _again!_ How often am I to tell you to keep that wood open for my
dance off? I break my fingers over it every blessed night, and lose my
encore as well!

_Footm._ I'm exceedingly sorry, miss, but the fact of the matter is my
attention was took off at the time owing to - -

_Miss L._ Oh, hold _your_ jaw, do.

_Footm._ (_to himself_). I'm to hold my jaw! Oh, these hartistes, they
lead me a dorg's life among 'em!

_Mr. Redb._ (_touching_ Miss L.'s _coat as she passes_). What's that
badge you're wearing? Salvation Army, Temperance, Primrose League, or
what?

_Miss L._ No, only the colours of the Balls Pond Football Team;
they presented them to me the other day. I told them _I_ didn't play
football.

_Mr. Redb._ You're pretty fair at the 'igh kick though, ain't you?
There, there. 'Alf time. Goin' on again?

_Miss L._ With a cold like mine? Not likely. Just look at my
tongue! (_She protrudes the tip of an indigo-coloured tongue for his
inspection._)

_Mr. Redb._ (_concerned_). Why, it's like one o' those Chow-chow dogs,
I'm blest if it isn't! You _are_ off colour to-night, no mistake!

_Miss L._ Oh, that's the remedy, not the disease - liquorice, you know.

_Stage-M._ Now, ALF, if you're in such a hurry, go on. Cut it as short
as you like - no extra turns to-night.

_Mr. Redb._ No fear. Oh dear, oh dear, such a rush as it is!

[_He goes on grumbling._

_A Small Boy_ (_who has been sitting patiently on a chair by the
wing - to_ Stage-Manager). If you please, Sir, will Mr. WILDFIRE want
me to-night?

_Miss L._ Want you, indeed, you silly kid! What would Mr. WILDFIRE
want a shrimp like you for?

_The Boy._ If he's going to do the Sandwich Man 'ere to-night, he'll
want me, _I_ know. Why, it all _depends_ on me, that song does. (_To_
Stage-M.) _Is_ he going to do the Sandwich Man to-night, Sir?

_Stage-M._ Oh, don't bother me; wait till he comes and you'll find
out. (_To_ Miss L.) I suppose you've heard he's talking of not
renewing his engagement after to-night - giving up the halls
altogether!

_Miss L._ And no great loss either! I don't see anything particular
about his songs myself. As for all that gas about his raising the tone
of the halls, it's sickening. Anyone would suppose we _lowered_ it!

_Miss Cissie Cinders (coming out of a dressing-cabin, in a battered
old velvet hat and broken feathers, with her face smudged)._ Who's
that you're talking about? WILDFIRE? Ah, my dear, this 'Igh Art and
Littery rot'll be the ruin of the 'alls - him and his articles in
the swell magazines, praising us all up - he can keep his praises to
himself - _I_ don't want 'em! I've never set up to refine the public
myself, or else I could fake it easy enough!

[_She passes on to stage._

_Mr. Gus. Tadman_ (_Variety Vocalist_). We could all do it, come to
that. But there, he won't last, you'll see. Why, look at the 'it I
made with my "_Rorty Naughty Nell_"! That _was_ a good song if you
like, and well-written, mind yer. But lor, it's clean forgotten now.
I 'ear WILDFIRE'S bringing out a play to-night at the Hilarity, it'll
serve him right if it gets the bird, going back on his own profession
like that! (_To_ Miss CINDERS, _who has just sung_.) House cold
to-night?

_Miss Cinders_ (_in a temper_). Cold, it's like singing to a lot
of 'ap'ny ices! I used to have the choruses all sung for me when I
brought out that song first; and now they've let me go off without a
'and! We shall see whether they'll rise to WILDFIRE to-night. Ah, here
he is. Actually coming up to speak to us; there's an honour!

_Miss Betsy Beno_ (_to_ WILDFIRE, _as he passes the table where she is
sitting waiting for her turn_). 'Ere, WATTY, old man, stop and 'ave
a drop along of me. Do - there's plenty 'ere! (_as_ WILDFIRE _excuses
himself laughingly_). Well, I'm sure - refusing to drink when a lady
goes out of her way to ask him - he hasn't the manners of a pig! And I
draw my sixty quid a week the same as he does!

_Mr. Tadman._ Well, dear boy, how's the play getting on? Not a frost,
I hope?

_Wildfire._ No; I just looked in on my way from the Val. here, and
they seemed to think it was all right; but I couldn't stay till the
finish. They're going to send round and let me know. (_To the_ Small
Boy, _who has approached anxiously_.) Oh, there you are, youngster!
Yes, I shall want you - for the last time, you know.

_The Boy._ Why, you - you ain't going to take the part away from me,
Sir, when I created it, too!

_Wildf._ (_patting his shoulder kindly_). I'm giving up singing
altogether - that's why. Never mind; I'll see it makes no difference to
you, so don't you distress yourself. We'll find you something or other
to do.

_The Boy_ (_with a gulp_). If I ain't going to be with _you_ any
more, I - I don't care _what_ 'appens, Sir. I'd as soon throw up the
perfession myself, I would!

[_He turns away into a dark corner._

_Wildf._ (_to himself, as he goes to the wing_). Nice boy that; didn't
think he'd care so much; must keep an eye on him. _Flattery_ must
be over now. I wish I could have stayed to see it out; it was going
magnificently; but there were some rather risky scenes ahead. Still, I
believe it's a success; and, if it is, I shall have done with all this
for ever after to-night. I can go to ALTHEA and tell her, without - -
By Jove! wasn't it to-night that Old TOOVEY was to be in front? I
wonder what he'll think of it. (_He looks at himself in the mirror._)
He'll have some difficulty in recognising me in this get up. Well, I
shall know on Monday. (_He goes on, and sings; then rushes back to the
wing to change his costume, with the assistance of his dresser._) Yes,
the coat, now, dresser, please. (_To himself, as he paints some lines
on his face._) I couldn't see anyone at all like old TOOVEY. Very odd!
They must have sent him the box, I suppose. Well, it doesn't
matter; if he didn't think it necessary to come, so much the better.
(_Aloud._) Wigpaste, please. Now the boards. All right - I'm ready.
(_To the Boy._) Now, youngster, look out for your cue.

[_He goes on._

_The Limelight Man_ (_up in the flies - to himself_). What's wrong with
Mr. WILDFIRE? He as nearly broke down just now as - - and I can't keep
the limelight on him nohow to-night! He can't have been drinking - he
ain't _that_ sort. But he do look bad - it's as much as ever he can do
to go through with it; somethink's given him a turn.

_Wildfire_ (_to himself, as he goes back to the wing, unsteadily_).
She's here - and, what's worse, she's recognised me! She must have, or
she would never have looked like that. If I could only have told her
first; but, to discover it like this, - she'll think I meant to - -
(_He pitches away his boards in a fury._) Well, I've done for
myself - it's all over! (_To his dresser._) A note, eh?

[_He opens it, and reads the contents mechanically_; Mr. TADMAN
_and one or two other artistes come up with curiosity on seeing his
expression_.

_Tadm._ Why, WILDFIRE, old man, what's this? Play gone wrong? Never
mind, dear boy, we can't have everything. But what's the report, eh?

_Wildf._ (_impatiently_). Oh, I don't know. What does it matter now?
(_He lets the note fall._) There, you can read it if you want to know.

[_He walks away._

_Tadm._ (_with complacency_). Poor chap, he's hard hit! But I could
have told him it wasn't to be expected that - - (_He picks up the
note, and reads it with a falling jaw._) Hullo! What's the meaning of
this? It says the piece is a tremendous go - safe for a long run - had
to raise the rag again and again. Why, he'll make his fortune over
this alone; and yet, look at him! (_Pointing to_ WILDFIRE, _who has
seated himself on the pile of lumber, in utter dejection_.) And all
those fools in front clapping and stamping for him to come on again.
What _more_ does the feller want, I wonder!

END OF SCENE XIII.

* * * * *

UNION IS (LOGICAL) WEAKNESS. - The Congregational Union lays it down as
a law, "that the rights of humanity must take precedence of those
of property." We fear this admirable maxim (like equally admirable
Charity) might be made to cover a multitude of sins, from petty
larceny to anarchism. Would it be consonant with the "rights of
humanity," for, say, a Congregational Unionist to object to a poor
tramp stealing his best umbrella on a wet day?

* * * * *

ROBERT ON THE COMING SHO.

WELL, here we are just about gitting to the bend of our Citty Year,
when we changes our raining Sovverain, altho he is but twelve munse
old, and takes on a new one, for better or wuss as the case may
be, and in this case I most suttenly thinks that it would be werry
differcult indeed to change for a better, for it tisn't not only me
and all my tribe, as _Shylock_ calls us, but all the many hundreds,
if not thowsends, as has had a share of the Rite Honnerabel the LORD
MARE'S noble ospitality, must all agree that a more liberaller, or
hospitaler, or hopen artider Gent never entered the honored Manshun


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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, November 11, 1893 → online text (page 1 of 3)