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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. XCVIII.


FEBRUARY 22, 1890.




[Illustration: THE SCIENTIFIC VOLUNTEER.]

"If ever I have to choose.... I shall, without hesitation,
shoulder my rifle with the Orangeman." - _See Professor Tyndall's
Reply to Sir W. V. Harcourt._ "_Times_," Feb. 13, 1890.

* * * * *

'ARRY ON EQUALITY.

DEAR CHARLIE, - Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy.
I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie
of toy
Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's _me_, CHARLIE! My back seemed to open
and shut,
As the _grippe_-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss
with my nut.

Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one.
The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's
their fun.
I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but _this_ weren't no cold,
leastways _mine_.
Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.

Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me.
When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old
_D. T._
A party named ROBERT BUCHANAN, as always appears on the job,
Was a slating a chappie called HUXLEY. Thinks I, I'll take stock of
friend BOB.

Well, _he_ ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never
wos.
Old HUXLEY's wuth ten on him, CHARLIE, though _he's_ rather huppish and
poz.
Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout.
BOB B., he says "Yus;" HUXLEY, "No;" and BOB'S wrong, there's no manner
of doubt.

"Free and equal?" Oh, NEBUCHADNEZZAR! how _can_ they talk sech tommy-rot?
Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot.
Nice hidea, but _taint so_, that's the wust on it. There's where these
dreamers go wrong.
Ought's nothink, and that as is, _is_; all the rest isn't wuth a old
Song.

Bad as BUGGINS, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez BUGGINS, sez he,
Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me?
Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts _for_ us all.
It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's
Stall.

All I've got to say, CHARLIE, is this. If so be Nature meant all that
there,
She must be a fair "J." as a mater. _I've_ bin bested out of _my_ share.
So has BUGGINS, and nine out o' ten on us. _If_ the few nobble the quids
Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.

Poor BUGGINS! He's nuts upon HENERY GEORGE, WILLIAM MORRIS, and such.
He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch
Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. _Him_ born free and equal?
Great Scott!
'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot.

Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't
exist,
Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist.
It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. _Is_ men equal in muscle and pith?
Arsk BISMARCK and DERBY, dear boy, or arsk JACKSON the Black and JEM
SMITH.

There'd be precious few larks if they wos, CHARLIE - where'd be the chance
of a spree
If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me?
It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun - for the
ups.
Equal? Yus, as old BARNUM and BUGGINS, or tigers and tarrier pups.

He's a long-winded lot, is BUCHANAN, slops over tremenjous, he do;
Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few,
Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher
know,
But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so ROBERT, my nabs, it's no go.

Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up.
Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp.
'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me,
But to fancy as them as _has_ got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.

Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay
they did.
Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid!
Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish _I_'d a spanking
estate
Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the
slate.

No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the
nobs,
Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S.
As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy.
Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to
enjoy.

Life's a great game of grab, fur's _I_ see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well,
_call_ it that.
If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat.
There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each,
It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at
the peach.

_High priori_ hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot.
Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot!
"Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's
religion and law;
Pooty fakes! But when _sharing's_ the word they ain't in it with sheer
tooth and claw.

Orful nice to see Science confirming wot _I_ always held. Blow me tight,
If I don't rayther cotton to HUXLEY; he's racy, old pal, and he's right.
The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream,
And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's
Dream!

Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs,
Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old BUGGINS, he flushes
and coughs;
Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or
_you'll_ choke.

Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
As 'cute Bishop MAGEE sez Religion would do - _carried out_ - with the
State.
Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common
sense,
To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!

All cop and no blue ain't _my_ motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum;
And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum.
And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there,
dontcher know;
But shake up the Bag and share round, like good pals a pot-lucking?
Oh no!

Wot these jokers call Justice means knocking all 'andicap out of life's
race;
"Equal chances all round," they declare, wouldn't give equal power and
pace!
Wy, no; but if things weren't made nice for the few with the power and
the tin,
The 'andicapped many would be in the 'unt, and some on 'em might _win_.

Pooty nice state o' things for the perkers! Luck, Law, and the Longheads,
dear boy,
Have arranged the world so that the many must work that the few may
enjoy.
These "Equality" jossers would spile it; if arf their reforms they can
carry,
The enjoyers will 'ave a rough time, and there won't be a look in for
'ARRY.

* * * * *

LE PETIT DUC.

[Illustration: _Audience._ "BRAVO, MONSEIGNEUR!"]

"BRAVO Monseigneur!" Quite a natural cry,
For he looks picturesque, and appears to be plucky,
The Roscius _rôle_ the young actor would try;
His _début_ "gets a hand," which is certainly lucky.
These Infant Phenomena frequently fail
To rouse anything more than good-natured derision;
But clappings and cheers this boy histrion hail.
What then is his Vision?

"The thoughts of youth, they are long, long thoughts;"
Exceedingly true, most mellifluous LONGFELLOW!
But later come crosses, oft leading to noughts,
And "_l'homme nécessaire_" often finds he's the wrong fellow.
How many _débuts_ have occurred on the Stage
With various set scenes, and with properties varied?
Sensationalism, the vice of the age,
To extremes has been carried.

A good situation all actors desire,
All playrights approve, and all managers glory in.
He has struck out his own with decision and fire.
What part will he play a more serious story in?
Who knows? For the moment the cue is applause.
"_Vive_, ROSCIUS!" It may mean mere _claque_, empty chatter.
And whether the youngster will further the Cause
Is a different matter.

_A coup de théâtre_ is not everything,
As well he's aware, that tragedian troubled
Who is gliding so gloomily off at the wing.
Hope's cup at his lips lately brimmingly bubbled,
Now "foiled by a novice, eclipsed by a boy!"
Is the thought in his mind. The reflection is bitter -
Theatrical taste often craves a fresh toy,
And is captured by glitter.

What thinks Madame France of the attitude struck
By this confident slip of good stock histrionic?
Though dames swear their dear _Petit Duc_ is a duck,
The smile of old stagers is somewhat ironic.
But "Bravas!" resound. A lad's "resolute will,"
The "wisdom of twenty years," stir admiration,
The political _Café Chantant_ pluck will thrill
In a stage-loving nation.

* * * * *

ROYAL BERKSHIRE. - Go to DOWDESWELL'S, in Bond Street, and they will
show you how County-history is written in the present day. It is
altogether different to the dull, old, dry volumes, "the musty
histories," which our grandfathers exhibited on their shelves, but
never took down to read; and these County-historians are of a much
more entertaining character. Those who know Royal Berkshire well - as
most of us do - will be glad to have their memory refreshed by the
fresh, bright, breezy pictures by YEEND KING, JOHN M. BROMLEY, and J.
M. MACKINTOSH. KEELEY HALSWELLE'S superb painting of "_Royal Windsor_"
occupies the place of honour in the room. It is one of the best
pictures - and at the same time one of the most unconventional - ever
produced of this oft-painted subject.

* * * * *

THE ROOT OF THE MATTER.

(_The Typical Woman's Reply to the Arguments of the Rational Dress
Society._)

My dear LENNOX BROWNE, and my good Dr. SMITH,
There is probably truth, there is certainly pith,
In your Kensington talk about Rational Dress.
Dr. GARSON and Miss LEFFLER-ARNIM also,
Talk sound common sense, but they'll find it no go;
The Crusade they have started _can't_ meet with success.

No, sage Viscountess HARBERTON, sweet Mrs. STOPES,
You had better not nourish ridiculous hopes
About "rationalising" our frocks and our shoes.
There is just one invincible thing, and that's Fashion!
That object of every true woman's chief passion,
'Tis vain to attack, and absurd to abuse.

You may say what you please about feminine "togs,"
That they're ugly, unhealthy, are burdens or clogs,
Too high, or too low, or too loose, or too tight,
There is just one reply (but 'tis more than enough)
To such "rational," but most irrelevant stuff: -
_If not in the Fashion, a Woman's a Fright!!!_

* * * * *

FROM THE ZOO. - The Tapir, the _Daily Telegraph_ stated in one of the
paragraphs of its useful and amusing diary of "London Day by
Day," - "The Tapir," at the Zoological Gardens, is a specimen of a
species now "verging on the brink of extinction. He was an old Tory;
the world changes, but change he would not." He should be known as the
"Red Tape-ir."

***

THE SEAS-ON. - Mr. J. L. TOOLE, until he reaches Australia.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A WOMAN'S REASON.]

_Cousin Jack._ "Then why did you Marry him, Effie?"

_Effie._ "Oh, well - I wanted to see the Paris Exhibition, you know!"

* * * * *

SHOOTING ARROWS AT A SONG.

DEAR MR. PUNCH, - I observe, that a gentleman has written, in a book
called _In Tennyson Land_, an account of the exact localities of "the
Moated Grange," and other well-advertised places - statements, which
however, have been promptly challenged by the Poet's son in the
_Athenæum_. As there seems to be some doubt upon this subject,
perhaps, you will allow me to give a few notes anent the interesting
objects which Lord TENNYSON has so obligingly immortalised in song.

_The Owl._ - The name of a bright little newspaper which, amongst other
items of news and flashes of humour, gave a list of proposed
marriages - hence, no doubt, the refrain of "To wit and to woo." It
owed its temporary success both to its fun and its matrimonial
intelligence.

_The Dying Swan._ - Probably, suggested by the condition of one of
these interesting creatures on the Thames, whose plumage had changed
from white to blue, owing to the River being made the temporary
repository for the outcome of some chemical works.

_Oriana._ - This name, there is every reason to believe, was suggested
by a character in the opening of a pantomime at one of the minor
theatres, very popular some twenty or thirty years ago.

_The Miller's Daughter._ - A very touching reference to the domestic
life of a hero of the Prize Ring.

_Lady Clara Vere de Vere._ - Tradition has it that this aristocratic
sounding title was originally intended for a new sort of velveteen,
that would have been sold at a profit at three-and-sixpence a yard,
double width.

_The May Queen._ - Believed to have been changed at the last moment
from "The Jack-in-the-Green," a subject that had already been used by
a poet of smaller fame than ALFRED TENNYSON.

_The Lotos Eaters._ - No doubt adapted from the English translation to
a German picture of some children playing at a once well-known game
called "The Loto Seaters."

_The Northern Cobbler._ - Suggested by a favourite coal, supplied to
this day from Newcastle.

_The Moated Grange._ - The site of the original still exists at
Haverstock Hill, and was fifty years ago more remote than it is now.
Hence the title of one of the most pleasing little poems of
comparatively modern times.

Trusting that these hints may be of service to those who take an
interest in Lord TENNYSON'S very entertaining works, I remain, my dear
_Mr. Punch_, yours sincerely,
A SCOTCH COUSIN (THRICE REMOVED AGAINST HIS WILL) OF
_Brain Cobwebby, Hatchley Colwell._ BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. VII. - RECLAIMED!

_Or, How Little Elfie taught her Grandmother._

CHARACTERS.

_Lady Belledame_ (_a Dowager of the deepest dye_).
_Monkshood_ (_her Steward, and confidential Minion_).
_Little Elfie_ (_an Angel Child_). This part has been specially
constructed for that celebrated Infant Actress, Banjoist, and
Variety Comédienne, Miss BIRDIE CALLOWCHICK.

SCENE - _The Panelled Room at Nightshade Hall._

[Illustration]

_Lady Belledame_ (_discovered preparing parcels_). Old and
unloved! - yes, the longer I live, the more plainly do I perceive that
I am _not_ a popular old woman. Have I not acquired the reputation in
the county of being a witch? My neighbour, Sir VEVEY LONG, asked me
publicly only the other day "when I would like my broom ordered," and
that minx, Lady VIOLET POWDRAY, has pointedly mentioned old
cats in my hearing! PERGAMENT, my family lawyer, has
declined to act for me any longer, merely because MONKSHOOD
rack-rented some of the tenants a little too energetically in the
Torture Chamber - as if in these hard times one was not justified in
putting the screw on! Then the villagers scowl when I pass; the very
children shrink from me - [_A childish voice outside window_: "Yah, 'oo
sold 'erself to Old Bogie for a pound o' tea an' a set o' noo
teeth?"] - that is, when they do not insult me by suggestions of
bargains that are not even businesslike! No matter - I will be avenged
upon them all - ay, all! 'Tis Christmas-time - the season at which
sentimental fools exchange gifts and good wishes. For once I, too,
will distribute a few seasonable presents.... (_Inspecting parcels._)
Are my arrangements complete? The bundle of choice cigars, in each of
which a charge of nitro-glycerine has been dexterously inserted? The
lip-salve, made up from my own prescription with corrosive sublimate
by a venal chemist in the vicinity? The art flower-pot, containing a
fine specimen of the Upas plant, swathed in impermeable sacking? The
sweets compounded with sugar of lead? The packet of best ratsbane?
Yes, nothing has been omitted. Now to summon my faithful MONKSHOOD....
Ha! he is already at hand.

[_Chord as_ MONKSHOOD _enters_.

_Monkshood._ Your Ladyship, a child, whose sole luggage is a small
bandbox and a large banjo, is without, and requests the favour of a
personal interview.

_Lady B._ (_reproachfully_). And you, who have been with me all these
years, and know my ways, omitted to let loose the bloodhounds? You
grow careless, MONKSHOOD!

_Monks._ (_wounded_). Your Ladyship is unjust - I _did_ unloose the
bloodhounds; but the ferocious animals merely sat up and begged. The
child had took the precaution to provide herself with a bun!

_Lady B._ No matter, she must be removed - I care not how.

_Monks._ There may be room for one more - a little one - in the old
well. The child mentioned that she was your Ladyship's granddaughter,
but I presume that will make no difference?

_Lady B._ (_disquieted_). What! - then she must be the child of my only
son POLDOODLE, whom, for refusing to cut off the entail, I had falsely
accused of adulterating milk, and transported beyond the seas! She
comes hither to denounce and reproach me! MONKSHOOD, she must not
leave this place alive - you hear?

_Monks._ I require no second bidding - ha, the child ... she comes!

[_Chord._ _Little_ ELFIE _trips in with touching self-confidence._

_Elfie_ (_in a charming little Cockney accent_). Yes, Grandma, it's
me - little ELFIE, come all the way from Australia to see you, because
I thought you must be sow lownly all by yourself! My Papa often told
me what a long score he owed you, and how he hoped to pay you off if
he lived. But he went out to business one day - Pa was a bushranger,
you know, and worked - oh, _so_ hard; and never came back to his little
ELFIE, so poor little ELFIE has come to live with you!

_Monks._ Will you have the child removed now, my Lady?

_Lady B._ (_undecidedly_). Not now - not yet; I have other work for
you. These Christmas gifts, to be distributed amongst my good friends
and neighbours (_handing parcels_). First, this bundle of cigars to
Sir VEVEY LONG, with my best wishes that such a connoisseur in tobacco
may find them sufficiently strong. The salve for Lady VIOLET POWDRAY,
with my love, and it should be rubbed on the last thing at night. The
plant you will take to the little PERGAMENTS - 'twill serve them for a
Christmas tree. This packet to be diluted in a barrel of beer, which
you will see broached upon the village green; these sweetmeats for
distribution among the most deserving of the school-children.

_Elfie_ (_throwing her arms around_ Lady B.'s _neck_). I _do_ like
you, Grandma; you have such a kind face! And oh, what pains you must
have taken to find something that will do for everybody!

_Lady B._ (_disengaging herself peevishly_). Yes, yes, child. I trust
that what I have chosen will indeed do for everybody, - but I do not
like to be messed about. MONKSHOOD, you know what you have to do.

_Elfie._ Oh, I am sure he does, Grandma! See how benevolently he
smiles. You're such a good old man, you will take care that all the
poor people are fed, _won't_ you?

_Monks._ (_with a sinister smile_). Ah! Missie, I've 'elped to settle
a many people's 'ash in my time!

_Elfie_ (_innocently_). What, do they all get hash? How nice! I like
hash, - but what else do you give them?

_Monks._ (_grimly_). Gruel, Missie. (_Aside._) I must get out of this,
or this innocent child's prattle will unman me!

[_Exit with parcels._

_Elfie._ You seem so sad and troubled, Grandma. Let me sing you one of
the songs with which I drew a smile from poor dear Pa in happier days.

_Lady B._ No, no, some other time. (_Aside._) Pshaw! why should I
dread the effect of her simple melodies? Sing, child, if you will.

_Elfie._ How glad I am that I brought my banjo! [_Sings._
Dar is a lubly yaller gal that tickles me to deff;
She'll dance de room ob darkies down, and take away deir breff.
When she sits down to supper, ebery coloured gemple-man,
As she gets her upper lip o'er a plate o' "possum dip," cries,
"Woa, LUCINDY ANN!" (Chorus, dear Granny!)
Woa, LUCINDY! Woa, LUCINDY! Woa, LUCINDY ANN!
At de rate dat you are stuffin, you will nebber leave us nuffin; so woa,
Miss SINDY ANN!

_To Lady B._ (_who, after joining in chorus with deep emotion, has
burst into tears_). Why, you are _weeping_, dear Grandmother!

_Lady B._ Nay, 'tis nothing, child - but have you no songs which are
less sad?

_Elfie._ Oh, yes, I know plenty of plantation ditties more cheerful
than that. (_Sings._)

Oh, I hear a gentle whisper from de days ob long ago,
When I used to be a happy darkie slave. (_Trump-a-trump._)
But now I'se got to labour wif de shovel an' de hoe -
For ole Massa lies a sleepin' in his grave! (_Trump-trump._)

_Chorus._

Poor ole Massa! Poor ole Massa! (_Pianissimo._) Poor ole Massa, dat I
nebber more shall see!
He was let off by de Jury, Way down in ole Missouri - But dey lynched him
on a persimmon tree.

_Elfie._ You smile at last, dear Grandma! I would sing to you again,
but I am so very, very sleepy!

_Lady B._ Poor child, you have had a long journey. Rest awhile on this
couch, and I will arrange this screen so as to protect your slumbers.
[_Leads little_ ELFIE _to couch._

_Elfie_ (_sleepily_). Thanks, dear Grandma, thanks.... Now I shall go
to sleep, and dream of you, and the dogs, and angels. I so often dream
about angels - but that is generally after supper, and to-night I have
had no supper.... But never mind.... Good night, Grannie, good night
... goo'ni' ... goo ... goo! [_She sinks softly to sleep._

_Lady B._ And I was about to set the bloodhounds upon this little
sunbeam! 'Tis long since these grim walls have echoed strains so sweet
as hers. (_Croons._) "Woa, LUCINDY," &c. "Dey tried him by a jury, way
down in ole Missouri, an' dey hung him to a possum-dip tree!" (_Goes
to couch, and gazes on the little sleeper._) How peacefully she
slumbers! What a change has come over me in one short hour! - my
withered heart is sending up green shoots of tenderness, of love, and
hope! Let me try henceforth to be worthy of this dear child's
affection and respect. (_Turns, and sees_ MONKSHOOD.) Ha, MONKSHOOD!
Then there is time yet! Those parcels ... quick, quick! - the
parcels! - -

_Monks._ (_impassively_). Have been left as you instructed, my Lady.

[_Chord_: Lady B. _staggers lack, gasping, into chair. Little_ ELFIE
_awakes behind screen, and rubs her eyes._

[N.B. - The reformation of a Grandmother being necessarily a process of
some length, the conclusion of this touching little Drama is
unavoidably deferred to a future number.]

* * * * *

MODERN TYPES.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Type-writer._)

No. I. - THE DULL ROYSTERER.

[Illustration]

The Dull Roysterer, or, as he is termed by the slangiest of his
intimates, the "Bluff Boozer," is ordinarily the son of a wealthy, but
injudicious father, who, having sent him to a good public school,
furnished him with an income that would keep a curate in luxury. He
developes an early inclination for check trousers, and the pleasures
of the table. Appalled by the difficulties of English spelling, he
seeks comfort in Scotch whiskey, and atones for a profound distaste
for the tongues of ancient Greece and Rome by cultivating an


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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 22nd, 1890 → online text (page 1 of 3)