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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

OCTOBER 20, 1894.




OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Assistant-Reader has been at work, and makes the following report: -

A pretty little volume is Mr. ANTHONY C. DEANE'S _Holiday Rhymes_ (HENRY
& CO). That its merits are high may be safely inferred from the fact
that the largest instalment of its verses came from the columns of _Mr.
Punch_. Mr. DEANE handles his varied metres with great skill, his style
is neat and pointed, his rhymes are above reproach, and his satire,
especially when he deals with literary and academic matters, hits hard
and straight. And, though the author is a Deane, he never sermonises.
But why not sermons in verse? I commend the idea to Mr. DEANE. He could
carry it out excellently, and earn the thanks of countless
congregations.

[Illustration]

Messrs. METHUEN are publishing a series of English Classics, edited by
Mr. W. E. HENLEY. They have started with _Tristram Shandy_, and have
persuaded a Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY to introduce LAURENCE STERNE to the
reading public of the present day. "Permit me," says Mr. WHIBLEY, in
effect, "to present to your notice LAURENCE STERNE, plagiarist,
sentimentalist, and dealer in the obscene," a right pleasant and
comfortable introduction, setting us all at our ease, and predisposing
us at once in favour of the humble candidate for fame, whom Mr. WHIBLEY
alternately kicks and patronises. 'Tis pity (I have caught Mr. WHIBLEY'S
own trick) that Mr. WHIBLEY had not the writing of _Tristram Shandy_.
He, at any rate - so he seems to think - would never have outraged our
sense of decency, or moved us to "thrills of æsthetic disgust" by such
platitudes as _My Uncle Toby's_ address to the fly. RABELAIS, it appears
(Mr. WHIBLEY has got RABELAIS on the brain, he is Pantagruelocephalous),
RABELAIS may steal a horse, but STERNE must not look over a hedge. One
may have no wish to defend the "indecencies" of STERNE, but to condemn
them by contrasting them with the efforts of RABELAIS is a highly
modernised form of criticism, of which I should scarcely have supposed
even a WHIBLEY capable. On the whole, I cannot commend this
introduction, with its jingling, tin-pot, sham-fantastic style. I feel
inclined to cry out aloud with Master _Peter_, "Plainness, good boy; do
not you soar so high; this affectation is scurvy." And why is Mr.
WHIBLEY so hard upon the suburbs? His own manner of writing is
excellently calculated to fascinate Clapham, and move Peckham Rye to an
enthusiasm of admiration.

Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS have brought to a happy conclusion their
monumental work of republishing the CAMPBELL AND STEBBING translation of
_Thiers' History of the Consulate and Empire_. It is in twelve neatly
bound, conveniently sized, admirably printed volumes, illustrated with
many steel engravings. A little soon, perhaps, to talk of Christmas
presents. But if there be any amiable uncle or fairy godmother kept
awake o' nights wondering what they shall give for Christmas box to
Dick, Tom or Harry, here's the very thing for him, her and them. The
volumes comprise a library in themselves, and their study is a liberal
education. Since the world began there is no human life that possesses
for humanity an interest keener or more abiding than that of NAPOLEON.
Sometimes for a while it seems to sleep, only to awaken with freshened
vigour. The NAPOLEON cult is one of the most prominent features of
to-day. The Presses of Paris, London and New York teem with new volumes
of reminiscences, letters or diaries, all about NAPOLEON. THIERS'
massive work has stood the test of time and will ever remain a classic.
To us who read it to-day it has the added interest of its author's
personality, and the sad labour of his closing years. It is pretty to
note how THIERS, writing before the creation of the Third Empire, for
which this book did much to pave the way, shrinks from mentioning
Waterloo. For him it is "the battle after the day of Ligny and Quatre
Bras." We are well into his detailed account of the great fight before
we recognise the plains of Waterloo. THIERS does not disguise his effort
to extol the Prussians at the expense of the English. It was BLUCHER,
not WELLINGTON, who won the fight the Prussians call the Battle of La
Belle Alliance, NAPOLEON the Battle of Mont St. Jean, and the
presumptuous English Waterloo. The patriotic and therefore irascible
Frenchman little thought the day would dawn on France when it would
learn of a battle more calamitous even than Waterloo. Still less did he
perpend that he himself would make the personal acquaintance of the
Prussians in circumstances analagous to those amid which, on a July day
in 1815, three plenipotentiaries set forth from Paris to meet the
foreign invaders, and sue for terms that should, as far as possible,
lessen the humiliation of the occupation of the French capital.

I confess I am disappointed with ANTHONY HOPE'S _The God in the Car_.
Some of the dialogue is in his very best "Dolly" comedy-vein. The last
interview between hero and heroine is admirably written. But it is not
"in it" with his most originally conceived story of _The Prisoner of
Zenda_. The title requires explanation, and you don't get the
explanation until the climax, which explanation is as unsatisfactory as
the title. "The hazy finish is," quoth the Baron, "to my thinking,
artistic." "What becomes of the lady? what becomes of the lover?" are
questions the regular romance-reader will put. And the reply is
evidently the old one, on which no improvement is possible, "Whatever
you please my little dear, you pays your money and you takes your
choice." But it is well worth reading, and our friend "the Skipper," who
"knows the ropes," will find there are some, though not very frequent,
opportunities for his mental gymnastic exercise.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

AN EPICURE TO HIS LOVE.

My Queen, Mayonnaise! Oh, give ear to thy lover -
Oh, pity his passion, my sweet Mayonnaise!
Just one glance from those eyes which (like eggs of the plover!)
Can kill - (or be cooked) - in a hundred of ways!

When first I beheld thee my thoughts flew unbidden
To dishes I'd eaten - so fair to the eye.
That I've looked and I've looked till the flavour they've hidden
Was forgot at the sight of the dish, or the pie.

[Illustration]

Oh, grant that our loves, like _potage à la crême_,
Flow gently and smoothly along through the days.
(To me it's the same, for though MABEL'S thy name,
To me thou art ever my sweet "Mayonnaise.")

White as snow are thy teeth that, like _riz à l'Anglaise_,
Shine forth between lips red as _sauce écrevisse_;
And the truffle-like beauty-spot nestles and says,
"Come and kiss next the dimple and taste, dear, of bliss!"

_Dinde de Bresse_ is not plumper nor fairer than thee;
And thy gown and its trimmings thy beauties enhance.
None so sweet in the country of Gruyère and Brie,
Where St. Sauce counts for more than St. Louis of France.

Nay, turn not your head. Never blush _portugaise_,
Be tender as _chaufroid_ of veal _à la reine_ -
(A dish for the gods! - not what Englishmen praise,
Indigestible veal _qui ne "veau" pas la_ pain!)

Hot as _sauce rémoulade_ though thy temper may be -
Though caprice gall thy thoughts till thy brain's _panaché_ -
I'll love thee and love thee - I swear it by THEE! -
The roast thou shalt rule, by night and by day!

My Queen, Mayonnaise, oh give ear to my prayer!
Be my love - be my wife! Come, Mayonnaise dear,
And to Paris we'll fly, and at BIGNON'S we'll fare,
And the evening we'll spend at the _Menus_-Plaisirs!

Though TORTONI'S no more, we may still taste of joy,
For I wot of a house where a goddess might eat -
Where the palate's not worried, the dishes don't cloy,
Where to eat is to live, and to drink is a treat!

Behold, Mayonnaise, I'm the slave of thy wishes -
A lover devoted who cannot do less
Than to set on thy table the daintiest dishes;
So the man thou mayst love, while the cook thou dost bless.

* * * * *

NEW ARRANGEMENT OF MOTTO FOR THE FRENCH (_Suggested
Gallus Anti-Gallicanus_). - "_Liberté, Ill-égalité, Fraternité!_"

* * * * *

A CLERICAL QUESTION
FOR EXETER.

The Special Correspondent "doing" the Church Congress at Exeter for the
_Morning Post_, when remarking on the clerical costumes in the
procession to the Cathedral, told us that among the "college caps"
_i.e._ "mortar-boards," (which of course go with the university gown or
clerical surplice,) and "birettas," (which, being Italian, are not
certainly part of English academical or ecclesiastical costume,) there
appeared a "tall hat," _i.e._ the topper of private life, which, as it
happens, is part of the Academical Master of Arts costume, and
therefore, though unbecoming in a procession of mortar-boards and
birettas, is yet unassailable from a purely academic and Cantabrigian
point of view. It may not be "Oxonian," by the way; but if the wearer
were an Oxford man he would know best. Now, if the hat, presumably
black, had been _a white one_? White is the surplice: why not the hat?
White is the emblem of purity, although, sad to say, when associated
with a hat, it used at one time to be provocative of an inquiry as to
the honesty of the wearer in regard to the surreptitious possesion of a
donkey. Has anybody anywhere ever seen a parson, whether M.A. or not, in
a white hat? Surely such a phenomenon must rank with the defunct postboy
and dead donkey. This will be one of the inquiries to which clerical
costume at ecclesiastical Exeter must naturally give rise. Perhaps the
top-hatted clergyman was a Freemason, wearing this as emblematic of a
"tiled lodge."

* * * * *

[Illustration: IN THE WILDS OF THE NORTH.

_Hungry Saxon (just arrived, with equally hungry family)._ "WELL,
NOW - ER - WHAT CAN YOU GIVE US FOR DINNER, AS SOON AS WE'VE HAD A WASH?"

_Scotch Lassie._ "OH, JIST ONYTHING!"

_H. S. (rubbing his hands in anticipation)._ "AH! NOW WE'LL HAVE A NICE
JUICY STEAK."

_Lassie._ "A - WEEL. WE'LL BE HAEIN' SOME STEAK HERE MAYBE BY THE BOAT I'
THE MORN'S MORN!"

_H. S. (a little crestfallen)._ "OH - WELL - CHOPS THEN. WE'LL SAY MUTTON
CHOPS."

_Lassie._ "OH, AY, BUT WE'VE NO BEEN KILLIN' A SHEEP THE DAY!"

[_Ends up with boiled eggs, and vows to remain
at home for the future._]

* * * * *

"ALL UP WITH THE EMPIRE!"

This is a dreadful cry to raise. Let's hope it is not anywhere near the
truth. Says the Emperor, _i.e._ the chairman of the Empire (Theatre),
"There will be only one effect should the County Council endorse the
decision of its Licensing Committee. The Empire Theatre will be at once
closed, as it would be impossible to carry it on under such absurd
restrictions." Such is the Imperial ukase issuing from Leicester Square.
And the Emperor is right. This "grandmotherly legislation," however
well-intentioned the grandmothers, may be all very well for "babes and
sucklings," but then babies in arms are not admitted to the Empire, and
those babes of older growth who have evidently been partaking too freely
of "the bottle" are strictly excluded by the I. C. O. or Imperial
Chuckers Out. No doubt London common sense will ultimately prevail, even
in the Court of the London County Council, and the Empire will soon be
going stronger than ever.

* * * * *

MOTLEY REFLECTION. - What better name for an historian than "MOTLEY"? Not
in the buffoonic sense of the term; not when, to change the spelling,
"Motley is your only _ware_"; but as implying a variety of talents as
equal as the patches in the perfect dress of a harlequin. Of course the
pen is the wand. What transformations cannot the Motley historian bring
about! A monster becomes a man, and a man a monster.

* * * * *

[Illustration: LITTLE AH SID AND THE BUTTERFLY-BEE.]

* * * * *

LITTLE AH SID;

OR THE CHINEE BOY AND THE JAPANESE
BUTTERFLY BUMBLEBEE.

AIR - "_Little Ah Sid._" (_With Apologies to
Mr. Louis Meyer._)

Little AH SID
Was a lemon-faced kid,
With a visage as old as an ape's;
Saffron son-of-a-gun,
He was fond of his fun,
And much given to frolics and japes.
Once in his way,
As AH SID was at play,
A big bumblebee flew in the spring.
"Jap butterfly!"
Cried he, winking his eye;
"Me catchee and pull off um wing!"

_Chorus._

"_Kiya, kiya, kyipye, yukakan!
Kiya, kiya, yukakan!_"
Sang little AH SID,
That elderly kid,
As he went for that bee from Japan.

He made a sharp snap
At the golden-ring'd chap,
That innocent butterfly-bee,
Which buzzed and which bummed,
And circled and hummed
Round the head of that little Chinee.
He guessed not the thing
Had no end of a sting,
As he chased him in malice secure,
And he cried with a grin, -
"Buzzy-wuzzy no win!
Me mashee um buttlefly, sure!"

_Chorus._

"_Kiya, kiya, kyipye, yukakan!
Kiya, kiya yukakan!_"
Sang little AH SID,
The Celestial kid,
As he after "um buttlefly" ran.

Little AH SID
Was a pig-headed kid
(As well as pig-tailed). Could he guess
What _kind_ of a fly
Was buzz-wuzzing hard by,
Till he grabbed him - with stinging success.
"_Kiya, kyipye!_"
Yelled AH SID, as that bee
Stung him hard in a sensitive spot.
"_Kiya yukakan!_
Hang um Japanese man,
Um buttlefly velly much hot!"

_Chorus._

"_Kiya, kiya, kyipye yukakan!
Kiya, kiya, yukakan!_"
Howled hopping AH SID,
"Um hurt me, um did,
Um buttlefly bites - in Japan!!!"

* * * * *

MODERN MANGERS. - Nearly all hotel advertisements prominently announce as
among the principal attractions of each establishment "_separate
tables_." It looks as if the "all-together-_table-d'hôte_-system" had
failed by reason of "incompatibility of temper." Hence the divorce
_a mensâ_. The long table with all the noses in a row down in the
feeding-trough is by this time a remnant of barbarism. Yet the "boxes"
common to the old eating-houses, such for example, as may still be seen
in some parts of London both east and west, were "pernicious snug" and
sufficiently private, too, for business conversation and confidential
communications.

* * * * *

SERIOUS, VERY! LATEST FROM CHINA. - The Emperor has been consulting his
physician, who, after careful diagnosis, has pronounced "TUNG in bad
condition, and LUNG queer."

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XVI. - AN INTELLECTUAL PRIVILEGE.

SCENE XXV. - _The Chinese Drawing Room._ TIME - _About_ 9.45 P.M.

_Mrs. Earwaker._ Yes, dear Lady LULLINGTON, I've always insisted on each
of my girls adopting a distinct line of her own, and the result has been
_most_ satisfactory. LOUISA, my eldest, is literary; she had a little
story accepted not long ago by _The Milky Way_; then MARIA is musical;
practises regularly three hours every day on her violin. FANNY has
become quite an expert in photography - kodaked her father the other day
in the act of trying a difficult stroke at billiards; a back view - but
_so_ clever and characteristic!

_Lady Lullington (absently)._ A back view? How _nice_!

_Mrs. Earw._ He was the only one of the family who didn't recognise it
at once. Then my youngest, CAROLINE - well, I must say that for a long
time I was quite in despair about CAROLINE. It really looked as if there
was no single thing that she had the slightest bent or inclination for.
So at last I thought she had better take up Religion, and make _that_
her speciality.

_Lady Lull. (languidly)._ Religion! How _very_ nice!

_Mrs. Earw._ Well, I got her a _Christian Year_ and a covered basket,
and quantities of tracts, and so on; but, somehow, she didn't seem to
get _on_ with it. So I let her give it up; and now she's gone in for
poker-etching instead.

_Lady Lull. (by an act of unconscious cerebration)._ Poker-etching! How
very _very_ nice!

[_Her eyelids close gently._

_Lady Rhoda._ Oh, but indeed, Lady CULVERIN, I thought he was perfectly
charmin'; not a bit booky, you know, but as clever as he can stick;
knows more about terriers than any man I ever met!

_Lady Culverin._ So glad you found him agreeable, my dear. I was half
afraid he might strike you as - well, just a little bit _common_ in his
way of talking.

_Lady Rhoda._ Pr'aps - but, after all, one can't expect those sort of
people to talk quite like we do ourselves, _can_ one?

_Lady Cantire._ Is that Mr. SPURRELL you are finding fault with,
ALBINIA? It is curious that _you_ should be the one person here
who - - _I_ consider him a very worthy and talented young man, and I
shall most certainly ask him to dinner - or _lunch_, at all events - as
soon as we return. I daresay Lady RHODA will not object to come and meet
him.

_Lady Rhoda._ Rather not. _I_'ll come, like a shot!

_Lady Culv. (to herself)._ I suppose it's very silly of me to be so
prejudiced. Nobody else seems to mind him!

_Miss Spelwane (crossing over to them)._ Oh, Lady CULVERIN, Lady
LULLINGTON has such a _delightful_ idea - she's just been saying how very
very nice it would be if Mr. SPURRELL could be persuaded to read some of
his poetry aloud to us presently. _Do_ you think it could be managed?

_Lady Culv. (in distress)._ Really, my dear VIVIEN, I - I don't know
_what_ to say. I fancy people would so _much_ rather talk - don't you
think so, ROHESIA?

_Lady Cant._ Probably they would, ALBINIA. It is most unlikely that they
would care to hear anything more intellectual and instructive than the
sound of their own voices.

_Miss Spelw._ I _told_ Lady LULLINGTON that I was afraid you would think
it a bore, Lady CANTIRE.

_Lady Cant._ You are perfectly mistaken, Miss SPELWANE. I flatter myself
I am quite as capable of appreciating a literary privilege as anybody
here. But I cannot answer for its being acceptable to the majority.

_Lady Culv._ No, it wouldn't do at all. And it would be making this
young man so _much_ too conspicuous.

_Lady Cant._ You are talking nonsense, my dear. When you are fortunate
enough to secure a celebrity at Wyvern, you can't make him _too_
conspicuous. I never knew that LAURA LULLINGTON had any taste for
literature before, but there's something to be said for her
suggestion - if it can be carried out; it would at least provide a
welcome relief from the usual after-dinner dullness of this sort of
gathering.

_Miss Spelw._ Then - would _you_ ask him, Lady CANTIRE?

_Lady Cant._ I, my dear? You forget that _I_ am not hostess here. My
sister-in-law is the proper person to do that.

_Lady Culv._ Indeed I couldn't. But perhaps, VIVIEN, if you liked to
suggest it to him, he might - -

_Miss Spelw._ I'll try, dear Lady CULVERIN. And if my poor little
persuasions have no effect, I shall fall back on Lady CANTIRE, and then
he _can't_ refuse. I must go and tell dear Lady LULLINGTON - she'll be so
pleased! (_To herself, as she skims away._) I generally _do_ get my own
way. But I mean him to do it to please _Me_!

_Mrs. Chatteris_ (_a little later, to_ Lady MAISIE). Have you heard what
a treat is in store for us? That delightful Mr. SPURRELL is going to
give us a reading or a recitation, or something, from his own poems; at
least, Miss SPELWANE is to ask him as soon as the men come in. Only _I_
should have thought that he would be much more likely to consent if
_you_ asked him.

_Lady Maisie._ Would you? I'm sure I don't know why.

_Mrs. Chatt. (archly)._ Oh, he took me in to dinner, you know, and it's
quite wonderful how people confide in me, but I suppose they feel I can
be trusted. He mentioned a little fact, which gave me the impression
that a certain fair lady's wishes would be supreme with him.

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ The wretch! He _has_ been boasting of my
unfortunate letter! (_Aloud._) Mr. SPURRELL had no business to give you
any impression of the kind. And the mere fact that I - that I happened to
admire his verses - -

_Mrs. Chatt._ Exactly! Poets' heads are so easily turned; and, as I said
to Captain THICKNESSE - -

_Lady Maisie._ Captain THICKNESSE! You have been talking about it - to
_him_!

_Mrs. Chatt._ I'd no idea you would mind anybody knowing, or I would
never have dreamed of - - I've such a perfect _horror_ of gossip! It took
me so much by surprise, that I simply couldn't resist; but I can easily
tell Captain THICKNESSE it was all a mistake; _he_ knows how fearfully
inaccurate I always am.

_Lady Maisie._ I would rather you said nothing more about it, please; it
is really not worth while contradicting anything so utterly absurd. (_To
herself._) That GERALD - Captain THICKNESSE - of all people, should know
of my letter! And goodness only knows what story she may have made out
of it!

_Mrs. Chatt. (to herself, as she moves away)._ I've been letting my
tongue run away with me, as usual. She's _not_ the original of "Lady
Grisoline," after all. Perhaps he meant VIVIEN SPELWANE - the description
was much more like _her_!

_Pilliner_ (_who has just entered with some of the younger men, to_ Miss
SPELWANE). What _are_ you doing with these chairs? Why are we all to sit
in a circle, like MOORE and BURGESS people? You're _not_ going to set
the poor dear Bishop down to play baby-games? How perfectly barbarous of
you!

_Miss Spelw._ The chairs are being arranged for something much more
intellectual. We are going to get Mr. SPURRELL to read a poem to us, if
you want to know. I _told_ you I should manage it.

_Pill._ There's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement.
The bard, with prophetic foreknowledge of your designs, has
unostentatiously retired to roost. So I'm afraid you'll have to do
without your poetry this evening - that is, unless you care to avail
yourself again of my services?

_Miss Spelw. (indignantly)._ It is too _mean_ of you. You must have told
him!

[_He protests his innocence._

_Lady Rhoda._ ARCHIE, what's become of Mr. SPURRELL? I particularly want
to ask him something.

_Bearpark._ The poet? He nipped upstairs - as I told you all along he
meant to - to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (_with a
suppressed grin_) I don't _think_ you'll see him again this evening.

_Captain Thicknesse (to himself, as he enters)._ She's keepin' a chair
next hers in the corner there for somebody. Can it be for that poet
chap?... (_He meets_ Lady MAISIE'S _eye suddenly._) Great Scott! If she
means it for _me_!... I've half a mind not to - - No, I shall be a fool
if I lose such a chance! (_He crosses, and drops into the vacant chair
next hers._) I _may_ sit here, mayn't I?

_Lady Maisie_ (_simply_). I meant you to. We used to be such good
friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. And - and I want to ask
you what that silly little Mrs. CHATTERIS has been telling you at dinner
about me.

_Capt. Thick._ Well, she was sayin' - and I must say I don't understand
it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this Mr. SPURRELL till


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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, October 20, 1894 → online text (page 1 of 3)