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PUNCH ***




Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond,
Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1894.




[Illustration: "CONTRIBUTIONS THANKFULLY RECEIVED."

_Lardy-Dardy Swell (who is uncertain as to the age of Ingénue he is
addressing)._ "YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE A BALL. WILL YOU PERMIT ME TO SEND
YOU A BOUQUET? AND IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD LIKE?"

_Ingénue._ "O, THANKS! THE BOUQUET WOULD BE _DELIGHTFUL_!
AND" - (_hesitating, then after some consideration_) - "I'M SURE MAMMA
WOULD LIKE THE ICES AND SPONGE CAKES!"]

* * * * *

THE TALE OF TWO TELEGRAMS.

ANOTHER DOLLY DIALOGUE.

(_By St. Anthony Hope Carter._)

The redeeming feature of the morning batch of letters was a short note
from Lady MICKLEHAM. Her ladyship (and ARCHIE) had come back to town,
and the note was to say that I might call, in fact that I _was_ to call,
that afternoon. It so happened that I had two engagements, which seemed
to make that impossible, but I spent a shilling in telegrams, and at
4.30 (the hour DOLLY had named) was duly ringing at the Mickleham town
mansion.

"I'm delighted you were able to come," was DOLLY'S greeting.

"I wasn't able," I said; "but I've no doubt that what I said in the two
telegrams which brought me here will be put down to your account."

"No one expects truth in a telegram. The Post-Office people themselves
wouldn't like it."

DOLLY was certainly looking at her very best. Her dimples (everybody has
heard of DOLLY'S Dimples - or is it DOLLY DIMPLE; but after all it
doesn't matter) were as delightful as ever. I was just hesitating as to
my next move in the Dialogue, which I badly wanted, for I had promised
my editor one by the middle of next week. The choice lay between the
dimples and a remark that life was, after all, only one prolonged
telegram. Just at that moment I noticed for the first time that we were
not alone.

Now that was distinctly exasperating, and an unwarrantable
breach of an implied contract.

"Two's company," I said, in a tone of voice that was meant to
indicate something of what I felt.

"So's three," said DOLLY, laughing, "if the third doesn't count."

"_Quod est demonstrandum._"

"Well, it's like this. I observed that you've already published
twenty or so 'Dolly Dialogues.'" (The dimples at this period were
absolutely bewitching, but I controlled myself.) "So it occurred to
me that it was my turn to earn an honest penny. Allow me to
introduce you. Mr. BROWN, Mr. CARTER - Mr. CARTER, Mr. BROWN."

I murmured that any friend of Lady MICKLEHAM'S was a friend of mine,
whereat Mr. BROWN smiled affably and handed me his card, from which I
gathered that he was a shorthand writer at some address in Chancery
Lane. Then I understood it all. I had exploited DOLLY. DOLLY was now
engaged in the process of exploiting me.

"I hope," I observed rather icily, "that you will choose a respectable
paper."

"You don't mean that."

"Perhaps not. But if we are to have a Dialogue, perhaps we might begin.
I have an engagement at six."

"Telegraph, and put the contents down to my account."

I noticed now that DOLLY had a pile of papers on her table, and that she
was playing with a blue pencil.

"Yes, Lady MICKLEHAM," I said, in the provisional way in which judges
indicate to counsel that they are ready to proceed.

"Well, I've been reading some of the Press Notices of the Dialogues, Mr.
CARTER."

I trembled. I remembered some of the things that had been said about
DOLLY and myself, which hardly lent themselves, it appeared to me, to
this third party procedure.

"I thought," pursued DOLLY, "we might spend the time in discussing the
critics."

"I shall be delighted, if in doing that we shall dismiss the reporter."

"Have you seen this? It's from a Scotch paper - Scottish? you
suggest - well, Scottish. 'The sketches are both lively and elegant, and
their lightness is just what people want in the warm weather.'"

"It's a satisfaction to think that even our little breezes are a source
of cool comfort to our fellow-creatures."

"Here's another criticism. 'It's a book which tempts the reader - - '"

"It must have been something you said."

"' - - a book which tempts the reader to peruse from end to end when once
he picks it up.'"

"'Read at a Sitting: A Study in Colour.'"

"Please, Mr. BROWN, don't take that down."

"Thank you, Lady MICKLEHAM," said I. "_Litera scripta manet._"

"You are not the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. CARTER, and you must
break yourself of the habit."

"The next cutting?"

"The next says, 'For Mr. CARTER, the hero or reporter - - '"

"It's a calumny. I don't know a single shorthand symbol."

"Let me go on. 'Reporter of these polite conversations, we confess we
have no particular liking.'"

"If you assure me you did not write this yourself, Lady MICKLEHAM, I
care not who did."

"That, Mr. BROWN," said DOLLY, in a most becoming frown,
"must _on no account_ go down."

"When you have finished intimidating the Press, perhaps you
will finish the extract."

"'His cynicism,'" she read, "'is too strained to commend him to
ordinary mortals - - '"

"No one would ever accuse you of being in that category."

"' - - but his wit is undeniable, and his impudence delicious.'
Well, Mr. CARTER?"

"I should like the extract concluded." I knew the next sentence
commenced - "As for DOLLY, Lady MICKLEHAM, she outdoes all the
revolted daughters of feminine fiction."

Then an annoying thing happened. ARCHIE'S voice was heard,
saying, "DOLLY, haven't you finished that Dialogue yet? We
ought to dress for dinner. It'll take us an hour to drive there."

So it had been all arranged, and ARCHIE knew for what I had been
summoned.

Yet there are compensations. DOLLY sent the Dialogue to the only
paper which I happen to edit. I regretfully declined it. But the
fact that she sent it may possibly explain why I have found it so
easy to give this account of what happened on that afternoon when
I sent the two telegrams.

* * * * *

The Cry of Chaos.

"_Vive l'Anarchie?_" - Fools! Chaos shrieks in that cry!
_Did_ Anarchy live soon would Anarchists die.
One truth lights all history, well understood, -
Disorder - like Saturn - devours its own brood.

* * * * *

[Illustration: UNEARNED INCREMENT.

_Experienced Jock (during preliminary canter, to Stable-boy, who has
been put up to make the running for him)._ "NOW, YOUNG 'UN, AS SOON AS
WE'RE OFF, YOU GO TO WORK AND MAKE THE PACE A HOT 'UN!"

_Stable-boy (Irish)._ "BEGORRA THIN OI'M THINKIN' IT'S MESELF _ROIDES_
THE RACE, AND YOU POCKETS ALL THE CREDIT O' WINNIN'!"]

* * * * *

"ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"

["Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE, as First Commissioner of Works, informed
the house that 'no series of historical personages could be complete
without the inclusion of CROMWELL,' and though he had no sum at his
disposal for defraying the cost of a statue this year, Sir WILLIAM
HARCOURT, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had promised to make the
necessary provision in the estimates for next year." - _Spectator._]

Room for the Regicide amongst our Kings?
Horrible thought, to set some bosoms fluttering!
The whirligig of time does bring some things
To set the very Muse of History muttering.
Well may the brewer's son, uncouth and rude,
Murmur - in scorn - "I hope I don't intrude!"

Room, between CHARLES the fair and unveracious, -
Martyr and liar, made comely by VANDYKE, -
And CHARLES the hireling, callous and salacious?
Strange for the sturdy Huntingdonian tyke
To stand between Court spaniel and sleek hound!
Surely that whirligig hath run full round!

Exhumed, cast out! - among our Kings set high!
(Which were the true dishonour NOLL might question.)
The sleek false STUARTS well might shrug and sigh Make room - for
_him_?
A monstrous, mad suggestion! O Right
Divine, most picturesque quaint craze, How art thou fallen upon evil
days!

What will White Rose fanatics say to this?
Stuartomaniacs will ye not come wailing;
Or fill these aisles with one gregarious hiss
Of angry scorn, one howl of bitter railing?
To think that CHARLES the trickster, CHARLES the droll,
Should thus be hob-a-nobbed by red-nosed NOLL!

Methinks I hear the black-a-vised one sneer "Ods bobs,
Sire, this is what I've long expected!
If they had _him_, and not his statue, here
Some other 'baubles' might be soon ejected.
Dark STRAFFORD - I mean SALISBURY - _might_ loose
More than his Veto, did he play the goose.

"He'd find perchance that Huntingdon was stronger
Than Leeds with all its Programmes.
NOLL might vow That Measure-murder should go on no longer;
And that Obstruction he would check and cow.
Which would disturb MACALLUM MORE'S composure;
The Axe is yet more summary than the Closure!

"As for the Commons - both with the Rad 'Rump'
And Tory 'Tail' alike he might deal tartly.
He'd have small mercy upon prig or pump;
I wonder what he'd think of B-WL-S and B-RTL-Y?
Depend upon it, NOLL would purge the place
Of much beside Sir HARRY and the Mace."

Your Majesties make room there - for a Man!
Yes, after several centuries of waiting,
It seems that Smug Officialism's plan
A change from the next Session may be dating.
You tell us, genial HERBERT GLADSTONE, that you
_May_ find the funds, next year, for CROMWELL'S Statue!

Room for a Big One! Well the STUART pair
May gaze on that stout shape as on a spectre.
Subject for England's sculptors it is rare
To find like that of England's Great Protector;
And he with bigot folly is imbued,
Who deems that CROMWELL'S Statute _can_ intrude!

[Illustration: "ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"

_Cromwell._ "NOW THEN, YOUR MAJESTIES, I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"]

* * * * *

"OH, YOU WICKED STORY!"

(_Cry of the Cockney Street Child._)

Speaking of our Neo-Neurotic and "Personal" Novelists, JAMES PAYN says:
"None of the authors of these works are storytellers." No, not in his
own honest, wholesome, stirring sense, certainly. But, like other
naughty - and nasty-minded - children, they "tell stories" in their own
way; "great big stories," too, and "tales out of school" into the
bargain. Having, like the Needy Knife-grinder, no story (in the true
sense) to tell, they tell - well, let us say, tara-diddles! Truth is
stranger than even _their_ fiction, but it is not always so "smart" or
so "risky" as a loose, long-winded, flippant, cynical and personal
literary "lie which is half a truth," in three sloppy, slangy, but
"smart" - oh, yes, decidedly "smart" - volumes!

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART IX. - THE MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE.

SCENE XVI. - _The Chinese Drawing Room at Wyvern._

TIME - 7.50. Lady CULVERIN _is alone, glancing over a written list._

_Lady Cantire (entering)._ Down already, ALBINIA? I _thought_ if I made
haste I should get a quiet chat with you before anybody else came in.
What is that paper? Oh, the list of couples for RUPERT. May I see? (_As_
Lady CULVERIN _surrenders it_.) My dear, you're _not_ going to inflict
that mincing little PILLINER boy on poor MAISIE! That really _won't do_.
At least let her have somebody she's used to. Why not Captain
THICKNESSE? He's an old friend, and she's not seen him for months. I
must alter that, if you've no objection. (_She does._) And then you've
given my poor Poet to that SPELWANE girl! Now, _why_?

_Lady Culverin._ I thought she wouldn't mind putting up with him just
for one evening.

_Lady Cant._ Wouldn't _mind_! Putting up with him! And is that how you
speak of a celebrity when you are so fortunate as to have one to
entertain? _Really_, ALBINIA!

_Lady Culv._ But, my dear ROHESIA, you must allow that, whatever his
talents may be, he is not - well, not _quite_ one of Us. Now, _is_ he?

_Lady Cant._ (_blandly_). My dear, I never heard he had any connection
with the manufacture of chemical manures, in which your worthy Papa so
greatly distinguished himself - if _that_ is what you mean.

_Lady Culv._ (_with some increase of colour_). That is _not_ what I
meant, ROHESIA - as you know perfectly well. And I do say that this Mr.
SPURRELL'S manner is most objectionable; when he's not obsequious, he's
horribly familiar!

_Lady Cant._ (_sharply_). I have not observed it. He strikes me as well
enough - for that class of person. And it is intellect, soul, all that
kind of thing that _I_ value. I look _below_ the surface, and I find a
great deal that is very original and charming in this young man. And
surely, my dear, if I find myself able to associate with him, _you_ need
not be so fastidious! I consider him my _protégé_, and I won't have him
slighted. He is far too good for VIVIEN SPELWANE!

_Lady Culv._ (_with just a suspicion of malice_). Perhaps, ROHESIA, you
would like him to take _you_ in?

_Lady Cant._ That, of course, is quite out of the question. I see you
have given me the Bishop - he's a poor, dry stick of a man - never forgets
he was the Headmaster of Swisham - but he's always glad to meet _me_. I
freshen him up so.

_Lady Culv._ I really don't know whom I _can_ give Mr. SPURRELL. There's
RHODA COKAYNE, but she's not poetical, and she'll get on much better
with ARCHIE BEARPARK. Oh, I forgot Mrs. BROOKE-CHATTERIS - she's sure to
_talk_, at all events.

_Lady Cant._ (_as she corrects the list_). A lively, agreeable
woman - she'll amuse him. _Now_ you can give RUPERT the list.

[Sir RUPERT _and various members of the house-party appear one by
one;_ Lord _and_ Lady LULLINGTON, _the_ Bishop of BIRCHESTER _and_
Mrs. RODNEY, _and_ Mr. and Mrs. EARWAKER, _and_ Mr. SHORTHORN _are
announced at intervals; salutations, recognitions, and commonplaces
are exchanged_.

_Lady Cant._ (_later - to the_ Bishop, _genially_). Ah, my dear Dr.
RODNEY, you and I haven't met since we had our great battle about - now,
was it the necessity of throwing open the Public Schools to the lower
classes - for whom of course they were originally _intended_ - or was it
the failure of the Church to reach the Working Man? I really forget.

_The Bishop_ (_who has a holy horror of the_ Countess). I - ah - fear
I cannot charge my memory so precisely, my dear Lady CANTIRE.
We - ah - differ unfortunately on so many subjects. I trust, however, we
may - ah - agree to suspend hostilities on this occasion?

_Lady Cant._ (_with even more bonhomie_). Don't be too sure of _that_,
Bishop. I've several crows to pluck with you, and we are to go in to
dinner together, you know!

_The Bishop._ Indeed? I had no conception that such a pleasure was in
store for me! (_To himself._) This must be the penance for breaking my
rule of never dining out on Saturday! Severe - but merited!

_Lady Cant._ I wonder, Bishop, if you have seen this wonderful volume of
poetry that everyone is talking about - _Andromeda_?

_The Bishop_ (_conscientiously_). I chanced only this morning, by way of
momentary relaxation, to take up a journal containing a notice of that
work, with copious extracts. The impression left on my mind
was - ah - unfavourable; a certain talent, no doubt, some felicity of
expression, but a noticeable lack of the - ah - reticence, the discipline,
the - the scholarly touch which a training at one of our great Public
Schools (I forbear to particularise), and at a University, can alone
impart. I was also pained to observe a crude discontent with the
existing Social System - a system which, if not absolutely perfect,
cannot be upset or even modified without the gravest danger. But I was
still more distressed to note in several passages a decided taint of the
morbid sensuousness which renders so much of our modern literature
sickly and unwholesome.

_Lady Cant._ All prejudice, my dear Bishop; why, you haven't even _read_
the book! However, the author is staying here now, and I feel convinced
that if you only knew him, you'd alter your opinion. Such an unassuming,
inoffensive creature! There, he's just come in. I'll call him over
here.... Goodness, why does he shuffle along in that way!

_Spurrell_ (_meeting_ Sir RUPERT). Hope I've kept nobody waiting for
_me_, Sir RUPERT. (_Confidentially._) I'd rather a job to get these
things on; but they're really a wonderful fit, considering!

[_He passes on, leaving his host speechless._

_Lady Cant._ That's right, Mr. SPURRELL. Come here, and let me present
you to the Bishop of BIRCHESTER. The Bishop has just been telling me he
considers your _Andromeda_ sickly, or unhealthy, or something. I'm sure
you'll be able to convince him it's nothing of the sort.

[_She leaves him with the_ Bishop, _who is visibly annoyed._

_Spurr._ (_to himself, overawed_). Oh, Lor! Wish I knew the right way to
talk to a Bishop. Can't call _him_ nothing - so doosid familiar.
(_Aloud._) _Andromeda_ sickly, your - (_tentatively_) - your Right
Reverence? Not a bit of it - sound as a roach!

_The Bishop._ If I had thought my - ah - criticisms were to be repeated - I
might say misrepresented, as the Countess has thought proper to do, Mr.
SPURRELL, I should not have ventured to make them. At the same time, you
must be conscious yourself, I think, of certain blemishes which would
justify the terms I employed.

_Spurr._ I never saw any in _Andromeda_ myself, your - your Holiness.
You're the first to find a fault in her. I don't say there mayn't be
something dicky about the setting and the turn of the tail, but that's a
trifle.

_The Bishop._ I did not refer to the setting of the tale, and the
portions I object to are scarcely trifles. But pardon me if I prefer to
end a discussion that is somewhat unprofitable. (_To himself, as he
turns on his heel._) A most arrogant, self-satisfied, and conceited
young man - a truly lamentable product of this half-educated age!

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). Well, he may be a dab at dogmas - he don't know
much about dogs. _Drummy_'s got a constitution worth a dozen of _his_!

_Lady Culv._ (_approaching him_). Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, Lord LULLINGTON
wishes to know you. If you will come with me. (_To herself, as she leads
him up to_ Lord L.) I do _wish_ ROHESIA wouldn't force me to do this
sort of thing!

[_She presents him._

_Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). I suppose I _ought_ to know all
about his novel, or whatever it is he's done. (_Aloud, with
courtliness._) Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. SPURRELL;
you've - ah - delighted the world by your _Andromeda_. When are we to look
for your next production? Soon, I hope.

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). He's after a pup now! Never met such a doggy
lot in my life! (_Aloud._) Er - well, my lord, I've promised so many as
it is, that I hardly see my way to - -

_Lord Lull._ (_paternally_). Take my advice, my dear young man, leave
yourself as free as possible. Expect you to give us your best, you know.

[_He turns to continue a conversation._

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). _Give_ it! He won't get it under a five-pound
note, I can tell him. (_He makes his way to_ Miss SPELWANE.) I say, what
do you think the old Bishop's been up to? Pitching into _Andromeda_ like
the very dooce - says she's _sickly_!

_Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). He brings his literary disappointments
to _me_, not MAISIE! (_Aloud, with the sweetest sympathy._) How
dreadfully unjust! Oh, I've dropped my fan - no, pray don't trouble; I
can pick it up. My arms are so long, you know - like a kangaroo's - no,
what _is_ that animal which has such long arms? You're so clever, you
_ought_ to know!

_Spurr._ I suppose you mean a gorilla?

_Miss Spelw._ How crushing of you! But you must go away now, or else
you'll find nothing to say to me at dinner - you take me in, you know. I
hope you feel privileged. I feel - - But if I told you, I might make you
too conceited!

_Spurr._ Oh, no, you wouldn't.

[Sir RUPERT _approaches with_ Mr. SHORTHORN.

_Sir Rupert._ VIVIEN, my dear, let me introduce Mr. SHORTHORN - Miss
SPELWANE. (_To_ SPURRELL.) Let me see - ha - yes, you take in Mrs.
CHATTERIS. Don't know her? Come this way, and I'll find her for you.

[_He marches_ SPURRELL _off._

_Mr. Shorthorn_ (_to_ Miss SPELWANE). Good thing getting this rain at
last; a little more of this dry weather and we should have had no grass
to speak of!

_Miss Spelw._ (_who has not quite recovered from her disappointment_).
And now you _will_ have some grass to speak of? _How_ fortunate!

_Spurr._ (_as dinner is announced, to_ Lady MAISIE). I say, Lady MAISIE,
I've just been told I've got to take in a married lady. I don't know
what to talk to her about. I should feel a lot more at home with you.
Couldn't we manage it somehow?

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). What a fearful suggestion - but I simply
_daren't_ snub him! (_Aloud._) I'm afraid, Mr. SPURRELL, we must both
put up with the partners we have; most distressing, isn't it - _but_!

[_She gives a little shrug._

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_immediately behind her, to himself_). Gad,
_that_'s pleasant! I knew I'd better have gone to Aldershot! (_Aloud._)
I've been told off to take you in, Lady MAISIE, not _my_ fault, don't
you know.

_Lady Maisie._ There's no need to be so apologetic about it. (_To
herself._) Oh, I _hope_ he didn't hear what I said to that wretch.

_Capt. Thick._ Well, I rather thought there _might_ be, perhaps.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He _did_ hear it. If he's going to be so
stupid as to misunderstand, I'm sure _I_ shan't explain.

[_They take their place in the procession to the Dining Hall._

[Illustration: "I'd rather a job to get these things on; but they're
really a wonderful fit, considering!"]

* * * * *

RATIONAL DRESS.

(_A Reformer's Note to a Current Controversy._)

[Illustration]

OH, ungallant must be the man indeed
Who calls "nine women out of ten" "knock-kneed"!
And he should not remain in peace for long,
Who says "the nether limbs of women" are "all wrong."
Such are the arguments designed to prove
That Woman's ill-advised to make a move
To mannish clothes. These arguments are such
As to be of the kind that prove too much.
If Woman's limbs in truth unshapely grow,
The present style of dress just makes them so!

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES. - A QUESTION OF TERMS. - I am sometimes allowed, by the
kindness of a warder, to see a newspaper, and I have just read that some
scientific cove says that man's natural life is 105 years. Now is this
true? I want to know, because I am in here for what the Judge called
"the term of my natural life," and, if it is to last for 105 years, I
consider I have been badly swindled. I say it quite respectfully, and I
hope the Governor will allow the expression to pass. Please direct
answers to Her Majesty's Prison, Princetown, Devon. - No. 67.

* * * * *

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOLUME I. - _Awakening._

AND so the work was done. BELINDA, after a year's hard writing, had
completed her self-appointed task. _Douglas the Doomed One_ had grown by
degrees into its present proportions. First the initial volume was
completed; then the second was finished; and now the third was ready for
the printer's hands. But who should have it? Ah, there was the rub!
BELINDA knew no publishers and had no influence. How could she get
anyone to take the novel up? And yet, if she was to believe the
_Author_, there was plenty of room for untried talent. According to that
interesting periodical publishers were constantly on the lookout for
undiscovered genius. Why should she not try the firm of Messrs. BINDING
AND PRINT? She made up her mind. She set her face hard, and muttered,
"Yes, they _shall_ do it! _Douglas the Doomed One_ shall appear with the
assistance of Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT!" And when BELINDA made up her
mind to do anything, not wild omnibus-horses would turn her from her
purpose.

[Illustration]

VOLUME II. - _Wide Awake._

Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT had received their visitor with courtesy. They
did not require to read _Douglas the Doomed One_. They had discovered
that it was sufficiently long to make the regulation three volumes. That
was all that was necessary. They would accept it. They would be happy to
publish it.

"And about terms?" murmured BELINDA.

"Half profits," returned Mr. BINDING, with animation.


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