Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, November 3, 1894 online

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VOL. 107.

NOVEMBER 3, 1894.


Law is not Pan; but "BOB"'s a man,
To make us sure indeed.
Themis will play airs bright and gay,
Armed with this "vocal REID"!

* * * * *



"'Now I'm furnished,'" hummed the Baron. "'Now I'm furnished' - with
several books for my journey, and - - " "Tickets, please," broke in the
inspector. "Just when I was comfortable," growled the Baron; "but no
matter. And now for the _Pen and Pencil Sketches_."

[Illustration: "Little Billee."]

The father of Mr. STACY MARKS predestined him for the coach-building
business. Providence, interposing, made him a painter, and the gaiety of
nations has been increased by the possession of some storks. In _Pen and
Pencil Sketches_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) he has given the world some
reminiscences of a career justly crowned by the laurels of the Royal
Academy. The work is in two volumes, and my Baronite says would have
been more than twice as good had it been in one. The first volume is
charming, with its chat about LEIGH'S studio and the men met there; of
CHARLES KEENE and the delightful cruise off Gravesend in the _William
and Mary_; of merry days with the St. John's Wood clique; of nights at
ARTHUR LEWIS'S; and of days with FRED WALKER. When the flood of memory
runs dry, and there still remains a second volume to be produced, Mr.
MARKS grows desperate, and shovels in anything he finds handy in the
pigeon-holes of his desk. Thus the pleased reader finds reprinted
articles that appeared in the _Spectator_ thirty years ago, when Mr.
MARKS was art critic to that respectable journal. Also there is a
description of BAMPTON, which once thrilled the readers of the _Tiverton
Gazette_. This gives to the second volume something of the smell of an
apple store-room. But the first is good enough to atone for the burden
of the second. By a happy coincidence, whilst Mr. DU MAURIER in _Trilby_
has made all the world in love with _Little Billee_, he appears under
his own name in many of Mr. MARKS' pages, and is always the same
charming, simple-minded, sensitive man of genius. It is pleasant to read
how our Mr. AGNEW - "WILLIAM" the wise call him - gave the young painter
his first substantial lift. WALKER had painted a picture he called
"_Spring_," a young girl gathering primroses in a wood. Yielding to the
advice of his friends, he put on it a price the amount of which abashed
him. Mr. AGNEW saw the picture, recognised its merit, and wrote a cheque
for the full amount asked. When the young artist heard of his good
fortune he burst into tears, and gasping out "I must go and tell my
mother," rushed from the place. Of the original sketches with which the
volumes are enriched are some pen-and-ink drawings by FRED WALKER, which
reveal in a new light the painter of "_The Almshouse_." Amongst many
good stories, Mr. MARKS tells how he was addressed by a clergyman, who,
believing from his name that he was a Jew, invited him to look in at his
church and be converted. "MARCO'S" reply conclusively proved his
possession of a Christian spirit.

[Illustration: "A Late Physician."]

Since SAMUEL WARREN wrote his _Diary of a Late Physician_, - to which, as
the Baron supposes, allusion is made in p. 200 of this book, where the
narrator says, "Thus it happens that the ablest chronicler of their
(_i.e._ medical men's) experiences in our literature was a lawyer," - no
more interesting, and occasionally sensational, stories have appeared
than those written by Mr. CONAN DOYLE, and published by METHUEN & CO. in
a single volume, under the title of _Round the Red Lamp_. One of these,
_A Straggler of '15_, has been recently developed into a one act
dramatic sketch for Mr. IRVING, who, in the part of the ancient veteran
"lagging superfluous," is reported to have achieved a remarkable
success. For pathos, _A Physiologist's Wife_ is as perfect in style as
it is original in design; to those who want to take something strong
before going to bed, the Baron can confidently recommend _The Case of
Lady Sannox_; while for those of the inferior sex whom Providence has
blessed with nerves, the Baron prescribes to be taken, the last thing at
night, with a favourite pipe and a tumbler of the reader's special
"wanity," the story of _Lot No. 249_; "lights full up," as the stage
directions say, the door locked, and the room previously searched, in
order to be quite sure that no practical joker is in hiding behind
screen, curtains, or under table, who might think it humorous to pop out
when you are deep in the story, and "give you fits."

[Illustration: "Reading _Lot No. 249_."]

In the _Yellow Book_, No. 3, let me praise Mr. DOWSON'S "Apple Blossoms
in Brittany"; a charming unfinished picture. You must guess what the
fruit may possibly be from the blossom. Also very good is HENRY
HARLAND'S "When I am a King."


* * * * *



(_After Rossetti._)


Under a canopy dark-hued as - well,
Consult the Bilious Book, page 51 -
Lies pallid WHISKERSLEY'S presentment, done
By WHISKERSLEY'S own weird unearthly spell.
His is that Lady known as JEZEBEL
Or LILITH, Eden's woman-scorpion,
LIBIFERA, that is, that takes the bun,
BORGIA, VIVIEN, Cussed Damosel.

Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break
The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame
The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.
Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake
Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame
In the wan waste of weary water-butts.

* * * * *

writes to the Cardinal Archbishop of TOLEDO to protest against the
appointment of an Anglo-Iberian bishop to Spain made by the Archbishop
of DUBLIN & CO.; and his English Eminence Cardinal VAUGHAN writes to
Spanish Eminence to protest against the protest of Lord HALIFAX. Of
which the sum is that all the parties to the case are evidently, for the
time being, Protestants!

* * * * *


I asked the Queen of Flowers
Why the blush-rose blushed so red,
Through the sun-rays and the showers,
And so bowed its modest head.
And fair Flora whispered "Hush!
It would hurt the rose to hear! -
The beginning of that blush
Was not love, or shame, or fear.
All the pretty faëry fancies
That you find in poet's song,
And encounter in romances,
Are entirely false and wrong.
That flush so fair and fleeting
Means not passion, pride or pity;
But hot memories of the meeting
Of a Vigilance Committee!"

* * * * *

Mrs. CHANT-I-CLEAR THE MUSIC HALLS. - So the verdict of the L.C.C. was
against the Empire. This, of course, does not prove that the Members of
the Council are amenable to _Chantage_. On this occasion Mrs. CHANT made
them sing to her tune. But the tune will not be popular.

* * * * *

A CRUEL POET. - Father Time is the offender when he begins to write lines
on your face.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "ADVICE GRATIS."

_Betsy Trotwood (Mrs. London City) to Mr. Dick (Mr. H-w-s)._ "NOW HERE


FIRE-ENGINE WITH SOAP-AND-WATER!" - _"David Copperfield," adapted._]

* * * * *


My mind a perfect blank I've made,
Upon a disc I've fixed my eyes.
I hoped, by mesmerism's aid,
To probe stupendous mysteries.
Hour after hour in solitude
I thus have spent, but, to be frank,
There was no magic trance ensued,
My mind remained a perfect blank.

To _séances_ if I repair,
"A hostile influence" they detect.
The spirits, of my presence ware,
Their customary rites neglect.
A few faint raps, and they have flown,
With all their perfumes, notes, and flowers.
The mediums on my entrance frown -
I am not blest with occult powers!

* * * * *

PERFECT. - The _Daily Telegraph_, in a short notice of a present made to
a Mr. OSLER for assisting the police, mentions the unavoidable absence
on this interesting occasion of "Chief Inspector BELTON," - which is a
good name suggestive of staff attached to "belt on," - and of "Mr.
Superintendent FERRETT" - than which no better name was ever found, out
of a burlesque novel, for a clever detective.

* * * * *



SCENE. - _A Chamber in a Civic Building. The Town Clerk and the Auditor
discovered at a table covered with papers._

_Clerk._ Then I believe that you are entirely satisfied with the

_Auditor._ Oh, perfectly. (_After a pause._) There is one item
I wanted to ask about - I've no doubt you'll be able to explain it
satisfactorily - it's this "£25 for ginger-beer to the Mayor and Council
on the occasion of opening the new Cemetery." Does not - er - that sum
represent a rather large number of bottles?

_Clerk_ (_in an off-hand way_). Well, we put down ginger-beer, you know,
as it _looks_ better, and there's a rather strong temperance party in
the borough. Of course, it was really champagne - "extra sec," too, you

_Auditor._ Oh, of course. I merely mentioned the matter for the sake of
form. And the "£15 for cigars" - that was an expenditure incurred at the
same time, I conclude?

_Clerk_ (_carelessly_). Oh, yes. Y'see, one of the Councillors is the
leading tobacconist in the place.

_Auditor_ (_relieved_). Ah, that accounts for it. Then these "models of
the Crematorium in gold and jewels, as brooches for the wives of the
Councillors" - I see they come to £105 in all.

_Clerk_ (_sternly_). You don't _object_ to the brooches, I presume?

_Auditor_ (_anxiously_). Oh, not at all. Not in the least. A
most - er - praiseworthy method of spending the ratepayers' money.

_Clerk._ Quite so. Our Mayor's our leading jeweller, you know. So, as
you've put "Examined and Approved," shall we go in to lunch? For a "cold
collation on the occasion of the audit" our Council always allows £10.
It'll be rather a good feed.

[_Exeunt into banqueting apartment._


_Auditor._ Oh, what larks!

[_Subsides into a chair, and takes two minutes to recover from
his fit of merriment._

_Clerk_ (_surprised_). I really fail to see where the joke comes in.

_Auditor._ Oh, don't you know? I'm one of the new class of comic
auditors - "made in Manchester." What tickles me is this item of £17 for
gold match-boxes for lighting the cigars of the Mayor and Aldermen on
the occasion of the visit to the Sewage Farm. _There's_ persiflage, if
you like!

_Clerk_ (_smiling_). I'm glad you take so humorous a view of the matter.
Of course you allow that expenditure?

_Auditor._ Allow it! Not for worlds. Then - (_with difficulty restraining
another outburst of mirth_) - how about "£27 for oysters and Chablis"
after the visit?

_Clerk._ The Council naturally required some refreshment at the end of
the journey - quite a quarter of a mile, in their own carriages - and
oysters were rather dear just then - a little out of season.

_Auditor_ (_after a guffaw_). Capital! "Out of season" - out of reason,
too, _I_ should say. Of course I must surcharge the oysters and Chablis.
Really, I'm enjoying myself immensely!

_Clerk_ (_gloomily_). I hope the Council will feel equal enjoyment at
your report. Do you mean seriously - -

_Auditor._ Seriously! Not a bit of it. I tell you I'm a comic character.
And what better practical joke can one play than suddenly to come down
on public officials with an audit disallowing all their little personal
luxuries? Afraid I must strike out these items of "Visits to Olympia by
Corporation to inspect the lighting arrangements," and "Ditto at Empire
and Alhambra Theatres." No doubt the Aldermen will be glad to pay for
them themselves. Now I think the business is finished. Lunch? No,
thanks. A screaming joke like this is lunch enough for me.

[_Crams handkerchief in mouth, and exit._

* * * * *


If "want of decency is want of sense,"
So want of sense may very likely lead
To want of decency. The poor pretence
Of interested vice sense will not heed.
A satyr's satire is but sorry stuff;
Anti-Cant's canting is most sickening fudge.
Belial, who backs his trade with bounce and bluff,
Wins not a case where wisdom is the judge.
Protests against the pryings of the prude
Are not to help the profitably lewd.

* * * * *


(_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Friend._)


In the good old days of yore there was little trouble in obtaining
admission to the Civil Service. All that was necessary was a slight
knowledge of a Cabinet Minister, and a smattering of schooling. The
latter might be obtained at Eton, Winchester, Rugby, Westminster, or
Harrow. The acquaintance of the Minister, of course, had to be made by
your father. You were too young to have attracted the attention of so
important a personage. Suppose you had reached the mature age of
eighteen, and had given up the round jackets and collars of boyhood, and
had assumed "stick-ups" and "cutaways," your father would probably ask
you "What you intended to do next?"

"No, my dear fellow," would be the paternal reply to a suggestion about
Trinity or Christ Church. "I am afraid I can't manage either. You see,
your two elder brothers went to the University, but then we could find
_them_ family livings. It would be useless to let you read for the Bar,
because we haven't any of us married into a single firm of Solicitors;
and in these hard times I really can't afford to buy you a commission."

You would notice _sotto voce_ that when ways and means were being
discussed, times were always hard.

"I suppose you could be a doctor if you pleased; but walking the
hospitals is not a particularly pleasant occupation. Then there is
another opening - why not try the Civil Service?"

You would rather freshen up at this. You would have read in a comic
paper, that never will be nameless, that Government clerks were like the
fountains in Trafalgar Square (old style), "because they played from ten
to four."

"Well, yes," you would return. "I don't think I should mind that so
much. It would be rather fun to go to Paris as an _attaché_."

"I'm afraid I couldn't quite manage that, my dear boy," your fond parent
would respond. "They don't pay _attachés_ at first, and so you would
have to be satisfied with the War Office or the Admiralty instead of the
Foreign Office."

"All right, Pater," you would say, and leave the matter in the hands of
the elder generation.

Then your father would write to any Cabinet Minister of his acquaintance
about things in general and nothing in particular, and would add a
"P.S." asking for a nomination. In due course a reply would come
granting the sweet boon. A test examination would follow of a
perfunctory character, and an intimation of your appointment would be
the sequel. Then you would take up your daily residence in Pall Mall or
Whitehall for twenty or thirty years and then retire as a Knight or a
C.B. Thus was done in the comparatively long ago. But now-a-days another
plan has to be adopted.

Instead of entering the Civil Service as a junior join it as a senior.
As a preliminary you must get into the House. This is simpler than
having to cram and then stand the racket of a competitive examination.
Any one under certain conditions can enter Parliament, but the Civil
Service Commissioners bar the entrance to the Government offices with
equally certain regulations. For the sake of argument let me assume that
you are in the House. You have stood for Slocum-on-the-Marsh, and have
persuaded the Slocum-on-the-Marshers to elect you. As an M.P. you are
duly qualified to accept any appointment under the Crown when the
Government ask you. The best plan is to think of an office and then add
one to it - yourself.

"Why not the Public Squander Department?" you ask yourself. To which you
reply with a second question, "Why not?"

Yes, the P. S. D. is not half bad. But how to get into it. Well, why not
take up Milestones? All the world knows that the Public Squander
Department are responsible for all the Milestones not under the
superintendence of the county authorities. Go for the Milestones.

Begin with a question. Learn that the Milestones in the Old Bath Road
are in many cases illegible. Request the Secretary of the Public
Squander Department to inform you when the inscription of such and such
a Milestone was last restored? The official will fence the query.
Probably his Private Secretary, considering you a new man, will have
failed to furnish the necessary information. You must expect a little
retardation at the first set-off.

And here let me point out for your future guidance the importance of
having a private secretary thoroughly up to his work. Had your answerer
been possessed of the proper sort of assistant you would have been
discovered, respectfully button-holed, and perforce satisfied. You would
never have had the heart to put your question about the Milestones. But
the particular Private Secretary of your answerer being _not_ up to his
work you get snubbed.

But don't be discouraged; stick to your Milestones.


Bombard "the Right Hon. Gentleman opposite" with questions. Ask him for
particulars about the Milestones in the Old Kent Road and on Salisbury
Plain. If he requests notice, give him notice. By degrees you will find
that you are becoming an institution. Milestones are your specialty.
When the House is sitting demand particulars. When the House is up,
write to the papers. Move for returns about Milestones. Go down to
Slocum-on-the-Marsh and read papers on Milestones. If possible, be made
a F.S.A. on the strength of your knowledge of Milestones. So identify
yourself with Milestones that when your name is casually mentioned
anywhere, let it be common form for some one to say, "Of course, the
chap who looks after the Milestones."

Wait patiently until your side move over from the Opposition to the
Government benches. Then will come your opportunity. You will have sat
upon a Milestone Commission. You have been very instrumental in getting
Milestones polished. You have caused Milestones to be multiplied. All
these services must be recognised. And they will.

You will find yourself offered the Secretaryship of the Public Squander
Department - to take care of the Milestones. Accept it. You will now have
become a Civil Servant. On some future occasion I may suggest how you
may successfully perform your duties in your new position.

[Illustration: A REALIST IN FICTION.




* * * * *

DEFINITION. - A London Square is the Paradise of Perambulators.

* * * * *


(_A Story in Scenes._)


SCENE XXVII. (_continued_). - _The Chinese Drawing Room._ SPURRELL'S
_ingenuous remark upon the coincidence of the title of the volume in his
hand with the name of his bull-dog has produced a painful silence, which
no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds._

_Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). Not CLARION BLAIR! Not even a poet! I - I
could _slap_ him!

_Pilliner_ (_to himself_). Poor dear VIVIEN! But if people will insist
on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He _didn't_ write _Andromeda!_ Then he
hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a _brute_ to the poor
dear man! _How_ lucky I said nothing about it to GERALD!

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). So he _ain't_ the bard!... Now I
see why MAISIE's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted
him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though.
Well, I shall stay out my leave now!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself_). I thought all along he seemed too good a
sort for a poet!

_Archie_ (_to himself_). It's all very well; but how about that skit he
went up to write on us? He _must_ be a poet of sorts.

_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris_ (_to herself_). This is fearfully puzzling. What
made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"?

_The Bishop_ (_to himself_). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not
unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to
that young man. Now why?

[_He ponders._

_Lady Lullington_ (_to herself_). I thought this young man was going to
read us some of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us
about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared _what_ he called it!

_Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could
catch LAURA'S eye - but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just

_Lady Culverin_ (_to herself_). Can ROHESIA have known this? What
possible object could she have had in - - And oh, dear, how disgusted
RUPERT will be!

_Sir Rupert_ (_to himself_). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad
of ROHESIA to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is - he's
none the worse for not being a poet.

_Lady Cantire_ (_to herself_). What _is_ he maundering about? It's
utterly inconceivable that _I_ should have made any mistake. It's only
too clear what the cause is - _Claret!_

_Spurrell_ (_aloud, good-humouredly_). Too bad of you to try and spoof
me like this before everybody, Miss SPELWANE! I don't know whose idea it
was to play me such a trick, but - -

_Miss Spelw._ (_indistinctly_). Please understand that nobody here had
the _least_ intention of playing a trick upon you!

_Spurr._ Well, if you say so, of course - - But it looked rather like it,
asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as - as a pot hat!
Still, if I'm _wanted_ to read aloud, I shall be happy to oblige - -

_Lady Culv._ (_hastily_). Indeed, _indeed_, Mr. SPURRELL, we couldn't
think of troubling you under the circumstances! (_In desperation._)
VIVIEN, my dear, won't you _sing_ something?

[_The company echo the request with unusual eagerness._

_Spurr._ (_to himself, during_ Miss SPELWANE'S _song_). Wonder what's
put them off being read to all of a sudden. (_As his eye happens to rest
on the binding of the volume on his knee._) Hullo! This cover's pink,
with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! Didn't EMMA ask me - - ?
By George, if it's _that!_ I may get down to the Housekeeper's Room,
after all! As soon as ever this squalling stops I'll find out; I _can't_
go on like this! (Miss SPELWANE _leaves the piano; everybody plunges
feverishly into conversation on the first subject - other than poetry or
dogs - that presents itself, until_ Lord _and_ Lady LULLINGTON _set a
welcome example of departure._) Better wait till these county nobs have
cleared, I suppose - there goes the last of 'em - now for it!... (_He
pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess._) Hem, Sir
RUPERT, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely
possible you may have got it into your heads that I was something in the
_poetical_ way.

_Sir Rup._ (_to himself_). Not this poor young chap's fault; must let
him down as easily as possible! (_Aloud._) Not at all - not at all!
Ha - assure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word
about it.

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). Just my luck! They quite understand! No
Housekeeper's Room for me this journey! (_Aloud._) Of course I knew the
Countess, there, and Lady MAISIE, were fully aware all along - - (_To_
Lady MAISIE, _as stifled exclamations reach his ear._) You _were_,

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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, November 3, 1894 → online text (page 1 of 3)