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PUNCH, VOL. 108, MAY 11TH, 1895 ***




Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 108, May 11th, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




"BRAINS FOR CASH."

["The unbridled greediness of some authors." - MR. GOSSE.]

_Publisher_ (_nervously_). And what will your terms be for a short
story, in your best style?

_Author_ (_loftily_). I have only one style, and that is perfection. I
couldn't think of charging less than fifty guineas a page.

_Publisher_ (_aghast_). Fifty guineas a page! But are you aware that
Lord MACAULAY got only ten thousand for the whole of his history, and
that MILTON - -

_Author_ (_rudely_). Hang MACAULAY and MILTON! Surely you would
not compare those second-rate writers with _myself!_ If _they_ were
content to work for starvation wages, I am not.

_Publisher_. But, say your story runs to twenty pages, as it probably
will, I shall have to pay you for that one short tale the really
ridiculous sum of a thousand pounds!

_Author_ (_coolly_). Yes, it is rather ridiculous - ridiculously small,
I mean. Still, out of regard to your pocket, I am willing to accept
that inadequate remuneration. Is it a bargain?

_Publisher_ (_with a groan_). It must be. The public demands your
work, and we have no option. But allow me to remark that your policy
is - -

_Author_ (_gaily_). A Policy of Assurance, on which _you_ have to pay
the premium. Ha, ha!

A YEAR OR TWO LATER.

AUTHOR (DEFERENTIALLY). I have a really capital idea for a work
of fiction, on a subject which I believe to be quite original.
What - ahem! - are you prepared to offer for the copyright?

_Publisher._ Couldn't think of making an offer till we saw the work.
It might turn out to be worth nothing at all.

_Author._ Nothing at all! But you forget how my fame - -

_Publisher._ Disappeared when we were obliged to charge the public
six shillings for a story of yours about the size of an average tract.
Other writers have come to the front, you know. Still, if there's
anything in your novel, when it's finished, we should, I daresay,
be prepared to offer you a couple of guineas down, and a couple more
when - say - a thousand copies had been sold. Is it a bargain?

_Author_ (_sadly_). I suppose it must be! Yet I can hardly be said to
be _paid_ for my work.

_Publisher._ Perhaps not. But you can be said to be _paid out!_

* * * * *

[Illustration: "THE FEMALE OSTRICH AT THE ZOO IS DEAD."]

* * * * *

THE STREETS OF LONDON.

The stately streets of London
Are always "up" in Spring,
To ordinary minds an ex-
traordinary thing.
Then cabs across strange ridges bound,
Or sink in holes, abused
With words resembling not, in sound,
Those Mrs. HEMANS used.

The miry streets of London,
Dotted with lamps by night;
What pitfalls where the dazzled eye
Sees doubly ruddy light!
For in the season, just in May,
When many meetings meet,
The jocund vestry starts away,
And closes all the street.

The shut-up streets of London!
How willingly one jumps
From where one's cab must stop, through pools
Of mud, in dancing pumps!
When thus one skips on miry ways
One's pride is much decreased,
Like _Mrs. Gilpin's_, for one's "chaise"
Is "three doors off" at least.

The free, fair streets of London!
Long, long, in vestry hall,
May heads of native thickness rise,
When April showers fall;
And green for ever be the men
Who spend the rates in May,
By stopping all the traffic then
In such a jocose way!

* * * * *

IN BLOOM. - On Saturday last there was a letter in the _Daily
Telegraph_ headed "Trees for Londoners." The lessee and manager of
the Haymarket Theatre thinks that for Londoners two Trees are quite
sufficient, _i.e._ his wife and himself.

* * * * *

THE DRINK QUESTION.

_First Man._ What rot it is to keep this tax on beer!

_Second Man._ Well, it's better than spirits, anyhow.

_First Man._ Of course you say that as you've got those shares in that
Distillery Company.

_Second Man._ Well, you needn't talk, with your ALLSOPP Debentures.

_First Man._ Come to that, personally I take no interest in beer. It's
poison to me.

_Second Man._ It's the finest drink in the world. I never touch
spirits.

_First Man._ They're much more wholesome. I wonder what the Government
will do about Local Veto and Compensation. I suppose, as I'm a
Liberal - -

_Second Man._ So am I. But I respect vested interests. Now, in theory,
teetotalism, especially for the masses - -

_First Man._ Waiter, bring me a whiskey and soda.

_Second Man._ And bring me a glass of bitter.

_First Man._ As for WILFRID LAWSON, he's an utter - -

_Second Man._ Oh, WILFRID LAWSON! He's a downright - -

[_They drink_ - _not_ SIR WILFRID'S _health_.

* * * * *

THE LOSS OF THE GALLERY.

(_A Fragment from the Chronicles of St. Stephen's._)

"But must I give up this comfortable furniture?" asked the poor
person, looking at the venerable chairs, some of which were distinctly
rickety.

"You must, indeed," replied firmly, but still with a certain
tenderness, the stern official.

"But I can _nearly_ hear what they are saying," urged the fair
petitioner.

"I cannot help it."

"And _all_ but see them," and once again she peered through the
grille.

"I am forced to obey my orders," returned the official. "You
applauded. You clapped your hands - and you must retire."

"And for that little burst of enthusiasm," almost wept the person,
"I am to lose all this happiness! To be stopped from hearing an
indistinct murmur, seeing a blurred picture, resting on rickety seats,
and breathing a vitiated atmosphere! Am I to lose _all_ these comforts
and pleasures and advantages?"

"I am afraid so," was the answer. And then the official opened the
door of the Ladies' Gallery of the House of Commons, and the person
passed out.

* * * * *

[Illustration: ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

_Lord W-ls-l-y_ (_to Commander-in-Chief_). "IN SEPTEMBER I HAVE TO
RETIRE FROM MY COMMAND."

_Duke._ "DEAR ME! _I_ HAVEN'T!"]

* * * * *

ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

_Seniores priores?_ Rude Rads, and some Tories,
Would make that apply to mere manner of exit.
If the "Spirit of Eld" is in charge of our glories,
Why wantonly vex it?

That Spirit of Eld is the "note" of our era.
Grand old men - and women - at bossing are busy.
Youth? Stuff! Callow youth was indeed the chimera
Of dandyish DIZZY.

But that was when DIZZY, himself young - and curly -
Was VIVIAN GREY, not the Primrose Dames' darling.
The Great Earl himself did not dominate early.
Oh, out on such snarling!

Old ways, and old wines, and old warriors for ever!
(Or, if not for ever, a whacking big slice of it.)
Great SENEX from service 'twere folly to sever,
Whilst winning the price of it.

Retirement is not your true _militaire's_ virtue;
To "beat the retreat" irks us all, dukes or drummers.
Let Winter hold sway, then - it cannot much hurt you -
For - say _x_ - more summers!

True HANNIBAL, GASTON DE FOIX, ALEXANDER,
NAPOLEON, DON JOHN, the GREAT CONDÉ, and CORTES
Were types of the true, adolescent commander,
And swayed ere their forties.

Still, they were god-loved and died young, like our SIDNEY,
But Genius is versatile, Nature is various;
All heroes are not of the same "kiddish" kidney,
Ask - say - BELISARIUS!

To grudge him his obolus ("screw" as _we_ name it)
Because he has drawn it a few years - say fifty -
If Rads had a conscience at all, Sir, would shame it!
But Rads are _so_ - thrifty!

For fellows like WOLSELEY or ROBERTS, retirement
Is all very well; they've no call for to stop, Sir.
But oh! for an Army the master requirement
Is grey hairs - a-top, Sir!

* * * * *

[Illustration: FAMILIAR PHRASE EXPLAINED.

_Robinson._ "WELL, OLD CHAP, HOW DID YOU SLEEP LAST NIGHT?"

_Smith_ (_who had dined out_). "'LIKE A TOP.' AS SOON AS MY HEAD
TOUCHED THE PILLOW, IT WENT ROUND AND ROUND!"]

* * * * *

NINETY YEAR!

["In the retrospect of ninety years there is a pathetic
mixture of gratitude for ample opportunities, and humiliation
for insignificant performances." - _Dr. James Martineau, on his
Ninetieth Birthday._]

AIR - THACKERAY'S "_Age of Wisdom_"

Ho! petty prattler of sparkling sin,
Paradox-monger, slave of the queer!
All your wish is a name to win,
To shook the dullards, to sack the tin, -
Wait till you come to Ninety Year!

Curled locks cover your shallow brains,
Twaddle and tinkle is all your cheer.
Sickly and sullied your amorous strains,
Pessimist praters of fancied pains, -
What do you think of _this_ Ninety Year?

Ninety times over let May-day pass
(If you should live, which you won't I fear),
Then you will know that you were but an ass,
Then you will shudder and moan, "Alas!
Would I had known it some Ninety Year!"

Pledge him round! He's a Man, I declare;
His heart is warm, though his hair be grey.
Modest, as though a record so fair,
A brain so big, and a soul so rare,
Were a mere matter of every day.

His eloquent lips the Truth have kissed,
His valiant eyes for the Right have shone.
Pray, and listen - 'twere well you list -
Look not away lest the chance be missed,
Look on a Man, ere your chance be gone!

MARTINEAU lives, he's alive, he's here!
He loved, and married, seventy years' syne.
_Look_ at him, taintless of fraud or fear,
Alive and manful at Ninety Year,
And blush at your pitiful pessimist whine!

* * * * *

HAMLET (_amended by Lord Farrar_). - "In my mind's eye, O ratio!"

* * * * *

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

[Illustration: No. 436. The President and Mr. Marks, R.A., as seen at
a long range.]

[Illustration: No. 147. A Father's Cuss!]

[Illustration: No. 39. Bray on the Thames. By T. Sidney Cooper, R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 321. "You should see us dance the Pole-ka!" By
Arthur Wardle.]

[Illustration: No. 91. Gloucestershire "Colts" at practice. New
left-handed bowler promises well. By George Clausen, A.R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 195. All snuggled up! The President is compelled to
economise space!]

[Illustration: No. 503. "How long! how long!" Portrait of a blasé
youth. Even his cane is jade-d! By John S. Sargent, A.R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 172. Couldn't 'e Padmore? By John S. Sargent,
A.R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 277. The G. O. M. at Cannes. By T. Graham.]

A. R. AT THE R. A.

(_I.e., A Representative at the Royal Academy._)

Anyone arriving at Burlington House so early as to be the first person
to pay his money and take his choice, will probably look straight
before him, and will feel somewhat confused at seeing in the distance,
but exactly opposite him, a dignified figure wearing a chain of
office, politely rising to receive the early visitor. "It can be no
other than the President himself," will at once occur to the stranger
within the gates; "and yet, did I not hear that he was abroad for
the benefit of his health?" Then, just as he is about to bow his
acknowledgments of the courtesy extended to him personally by the
Chief Representative of Art in this country, he will notice seated, at
the President's left hand, and staring at him, with a pen in his hand,
ready either to take down the name of the visitor, or to make a sketch
of him, a gentleman in whose lineaments anyone having the pleasure of
being personally acquainted with Mr. STACY MARKS, R.A., would at once
recognise those of that distinguished humourist in bird-painting. "Is
there wisions about?" will the puzzled visitor quote to himself, and
then boldly advancing, hat in hand, to be soon replaced on head,
he will come face to face with the biggest picture in the Academy,
covering almost the entire wall.

The stately figure is not Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON, P.R.A., who
unfortunately has been compelled to go abroad for the benefit of his
health - _prosit!_ - nor is the seated figure Mr. S. MARKS; but the
former is "_The Bürgermeister of Landsberg, Bavaria_," and the latter
is his secretary, while the other figures, all likenesses, are
"his Town Council" in solemn deliberative assembly. The picture,
an admirable one, and, as will be pretty generally admitted, a
masterpiece of the master's, is No. 436 in the book, the work of
Meister HUBERT HERKOMER, R.A.

But as this is in Gallery No. VI., and as it is not every one who will
be privileged to see the picture as the early bird has seen it, and
as some few others may, perhaps, see it during the season, this
Representative retraces his steps from No. VI., and commences _de
novo_ with No. 1.

No. 17. "_Finan Haddie_," fresh as ever, caught by J. C. HOOK, R.A.
Title, of course, should have been "_Finan Haddie Hook'd_."

Sir JOHN MILLAIS' _St. Stephen_ (_not_ a parliamentary subject),
showing that Good Sir JOHN'S hand has lost none of its cunning, is No.
18; and after bowing politely to Mrs. JOHNSON-FERGUSON, and pausing
before this charming picture by LUKE FILDES, R.A., to take a last Luke
at her, you will pass on, please, to No. 25, "_The Fisherman and the
Jin_," and will wonder why VAL. C. PRINSEP, R.A., spells the cordial
spirit with a "J" instead of a "G." It is a spirited composition.

No. 31. Mr. JOHN S. SARGENT, A., let "_Mrs. Ernest Hills_" go out of
his studio in a hurry. She is evidently "to be finished in his next."

No. 34. "_A Quiet Rehearsal._" Lady Amateur all alone, book in hand,
to which she is not referring, trying to remember her part and say it
off by heart. It is by W. B. RICHMOND, A. To quote a cigarette paper,
this work may be fairly entitled "A Richmond Gem."

No. 43. "_Evening._" By B. W. LEADER, A. Delightful. Artistic
aspirants in this line cannot play a better game than that of "Follow
my Leader."

This Representative recognised "_Dr. Jameson, C.B._," by HERKOMER, at
a glance. If you are asked by anyone to look at "_Hay Boat_" do not
correct him and say "You mean _A_ Boat," or you will find yourself in
the wrong boat, but admire HILDA MONTALBA'S painting, and pass on to
OULESS, R.A.'s, excellent portrait of "_J. J. Aubertin_" (a compound
name, whose first two syllables suggest delightful music while the
last syllable means money); thence welcome our old friend FRITH, R.A.,
who, in 67, [and a trifle over, eh?] shows us "_Mrs. Gresham and
Her Little Daughter_." From the "little D.'s" expressive face may be
gathered that she has just received a "Gresham Lecture." After noting
No. 73 and 83 (the unhappily separated twins) together, you may look
on No. 126. Two fierce animals deer-stalking in a wild mountainous
region, painted by _Arthur Wardle_. Only from what coign of vantage
did Mr. WARDLE, the artist, make this life-like sketch? However,
he came out of the difficulty safe and sound, and we are as glad to
welcome a "_Wardle_" as we should be to see his ancient associate
"_Pickwick_," or a "_Weller_," in Burlington House.

No. 139. Charming is Sir F. LEIGHTON'S "_Fair One with the Golden
Locks_." To complete the picture the hairdresser should have been
thrown in. She is _en peignoir_, and evidently awaiting his visit.
This is the key to these locks.

No. 242. Mr. ANDREW C. GOW, R.A., gives us BUONAPARTE riding on the
sands with a party of officers, "1805." The Emperor is cantering ahead
of the staff. Another title might be "_Going Nap at Boulogne_."

No. 160. "_A Lion Tamer's Private Rehearsal._" But BRITON RIVIÈRE,
R.A., calls it "_Ph[oe]bus Apollo_."

No. 251. Queer incident in the life of a respectable middle-aged
gentleman. Like _Mr. Pickwick_, he has mistaken his room in the hotel,
and has gone to bed. Suddenly, lady, in brilliant diamond tiara,
returns from ball, and finds him there. The noise she makes in opening
the curtains awakes him. He starts up alarmed. "Hallo!" he cries, and
for the moment the ballad of "_Margaret's Grim Ghosts_" recurs to
his mind. His next thought is, "How fortunate I went to bed in my
copper-coloured pyjamas, with a red cummerbund round me." Of course he
apologised, and withdrew. What happened subsequently is not revealed
by the artist who has so admirably depicted this effective scene, and
whose name is Sir JOHN MILLAIS, Bart., R.A.

No. 368. Excellent likeness, by Mr. _Arthur S. Cope_, of the
well-known and popular parson ROGERS. _A Parsona Grata_. This
typical old-fashioned English clergyman, who, in ordinary ministerial
functions, would be the very last person to be associated with a
"chasuble," will henceforth never be dissociated from a "COPE."

No. 491. A picture by Mr. FRED ROE. If NELSON'S enemies had only
known of this incident in his lifetime!! Here is our great naval hero,
evidently "half seas over," being personally conducted through some
by-streets of Portsmouth, on his way back to the _Victory_, in order
to avoid the crowd. Rather a hard ROE, this.

No. 767. Congratulations to T. B. KENNINGTON on his "_Alderman George
Doughty, J.P._," or, as the name might be from the characteristic
colouring, Alderman DEORGE GOUHTY, which is quite in keeping with the
proverbial aldermanic tradition.

* * * * *

A LITTLE MIXED. - In its account of the private view at the Royal
Academy the _Daily News_ says: - "The Countess of MALMESBURY studied
the sculpture in a harmonious costume of striped black and pink, and a
picture hat trimmed with pink roses." This is presumably the result of
the influence of Mr. HORSLEY. But isn't it going a little too far,
at least to begin with? A piece of sculpture - say, a Venus - in a
harmonious costume of striped black and pink might pass. But the
addition of a picture hat trimmed with pink roses is surely fatal.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A NASTY ONE.

_Disgusted Sculptor._ "SO YOU'VE GOT THE LINE IN TWO PLACES, HAVE YOU?
HANG ME IF I DON'T GIVE UP ART, AND GO IN FOR PAINTING!"]

* * * * *

AT THE BANQUET, SATURDAY, MAY 4.

Chair of absent President ably filled by Sir JOHN MILLAIS, who,
pluckily struggling against evidently painful hoarseness, made, in
returning thanks, an exceptionally graceful, touching, and altogether
memorable speech. Odd to note that, had Sir JOHN, speaking hoarsely,
broken down, we should have heard his _remplaçant_ Horsley speaking.
_The_ incident, however, which will mark this banquet as unique in
Academical records, was Sir JOHN'S mistaking one Archbishop for the
other, and, in consequence, pleasantly indicating by a polite bow to
the prelate on his left, that he called upon _him_, the Archbishop
of YORK, to reply for the visitors. "YORK, you're wanted," said, in
effect, the genial Sir JOHN, utterly ignoring the presence of His
Grace of CANTERBURY. Whereupon, CANTERBURY collapsed, while the
Northern Primate, vainly attempting to dissemble his delight,
professed his utter surprise, his total unpreparedness, and
straightforth hastened to improve the occasion. But before fifty words
had passed the jubilant Prelate's lips, Sir JOHN, having discovered
his mistake, rose quickly in his stirrups, so to speak, and pulled up
the impetuous YORK just then getting into his stride. Genially beaming
on the slighted CANTERBURY, Sir JOHN called on "The Primate of All
England" (a snub this for YORK) to return thanks. "One Archbishop very
like another Archbishop," chuckled the unabashed Sir JOHN to himself,
as he resumed his seat, "but quite forgot that YORK as Chaplain to
Academy is 'His Grace _before_ dinner,' and CANTERBURY represents
'Grace _after_ dinner.'" "'Twas ever thus," muttered YORK, moodily
eyeing the last drop in his champagne-glass, as he mentally recalled
ancient ecclesiastical quarrels between the two provinces, from which
the Southern Prelate had issued victorious. CANTERBURY flattered,
but, fluttered, lost his chance. His Royal Highness's speech brief,
comprehensive, effective. Lord ROSEBERY entertaining. "The rest is
silence," or better if it had been. No more at present. Good luck to
the Academy Show of 1895.

* * * * *

[Illustration: COLD COMFORT!

_Aunt Phillida._ "THE LAST TIME I WENT TO A GROWN-UP FANCY BALL, I
WENT AS A _WASP_. THAT WAS ONLY TEN YEARS AGO. I DON'T SUPPOSE I SHALL
EVER AGAIN GO TO A FANCY BALL AS A _WASP!_"

[_Sighs deeply._

_Mary._ "HARDLY AS A _WASP_, AUNT PHILLIDA. BUT YOU'D LOOK VERY
SPLENDID AS A BUMBLE-BEE!"

* * * * *

THE UP-TO-DATE DUCKLINGS.

(_A Fable._)

A Duck that had lately succeeded in hatching a fine brood of
ducklings, and was much concerned on the point of their polite
education, took them down to the river one day in order to teach them
to swim.

"See, my dears!" she said when they were all got to the bank,
addressing her brood in encouraging accents, "this is the way to do
it," and so saying the old duck pushed off from the land, in evident
expectation that her young ones would follow her.

The Ducklings, however, instead of coming after their mother, remained
on the bank, talking and laughing and whispering among themselves in
a very knowing manner; until at last the old bird, provoked by their
levity and wondering what ailed them, called out sharply to them
from mid-stream to come into the water at once; upon which one of the
Ducklings, who had evidently been constituted spokesman for the rest,
made bold to address his mother in the following words.

"You must be a simpleton indeed, Madam," said he, "to imagine that we
are going to do anything so foolish as to endanger our lives in the
reckless fashion in which you are now exposing yours; for though it
may be true that in obedience to some unwritten law of nature (unknown
at present to us) you are floating securely upon the surface of the
stream, instead of sinking to the bottom of it, yet it by no means
follows from thence that we should do the same thing, supposing we
were so foolish as to follow your example. Rest assured, dear Madam,"
continued the Duckling, "that so soon as we have sifted this matter
to the bottom for ourselves, we shall act on the knowledge of it,
according as our experience may suggest to us; but for the present, at
any rate, we prefer to remain where we are."

And so saying, the Duckling, accompanied by the rest of the brood,
turned his back on his natural element, and returned forthwith to the
poultry-yard.

* * * * *

A PHILISTINE PÆAN;

_Or, The Triumph of the Timid One._

At last! I see signs of a turn in the tide,
And O, I perceive it with infinite gratitude.
No more need I go with a crick in my side
In attempts to preserve a non-natural attitude.
_Something_ has changed in the season, _somewhere_;
I'm sure I can feel a cool whiff of fresh air!

Mental malaria worse than the _grippe_
Has asphyxiated my mind, or choke-damped it.
The plain honest truth has been strange to my lip;
I've shammed it, and fudged it, humbugged it and vamped it
Till I wasn't I, self-respect was all gone,
And I hadn't a taste that I dared call my own.

I do _not_ love horror. I do _not_ like muck;
And mystical muddle to me is abhorrent.
In Stygian shallows long time I have stuck,
Or, like a dead dog on a sewage-fouled torrent,
Have gone with the stream; but beyond the least doubt
I'm grateful - _so_ much - for a chance to creep out.

Egomania it seems then is _not_ the last word
Of latter-day wisdom! By Jove I _am_ glad!
I always _did_ feel it was highly absurd
To worship the maudlin, and aim at the mad;
And now, there's a chance for the decent again,
One may relish one's DICKENS, yet not seem insane!

The ghoulish-grotesque, and the grimy-obscure,
I _have_ tried to gloat on in poem and prose,
But oh! all the while there seemed something impure
In the _sniff_ of the thing that tormented my nose;
And as to High Art - well, to me it seemed _high_,
Like an over-hung hare - only food for the fly.

Yet _I_ didn't dare say that I felt it to be
Pseudo-sphinxian fudge, and sheer Belial bosh;


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