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PUNCH, CHARIVARI, SEPT 15, 1894 ***




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

Volume 107, September 15, 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand




[Illustration: OF VITAL IMPORTANCE.

"HI, BILLIE! _'ERE_'S CHEAP GLOVES!"]

* * * * *

ALL MY EYE!

OR, RHYME AND REASON.

(_By Baron Grimbosh._)

Since first the Muse to melody gave birth,
And with rhyme's chymings blest a happy irth,
Poetic seekers of a "perfect rhyme"
Have missed the bull's-eye almost every thyme.
We want a brand-new Versifiers' Guide,
And he who Pegasus would neatly ruide,
Must shun bards' beaten highways, read no hymn,
Nor by phonetic laws his stanzas trymn.
The eye's the Muse's judge, and by the eye
Parnassian PITMANS must the poet treye.
Rhyme to the ear is wrong; at any rate,
Rhyme that greets not the eye cannot be grate,
And though by long wrong usage sanctified,
It may not pass my new Poetic Gied.
These new Rhyme-Rules let bardlings get by heart,
For from the New Parnassus must depeart,
From TOPLADY to TENNYSON, all those
Who prove sweet Poesy's false phonetic fose.
COWPER and ROWLAND HILL must be arraigned;
In KEBLE, HEBER, NEWMAN, are contaigned
False rhymes the most atrocious upon earth,
Which might move MOMUS to derisive mearth.
Of Rhyme's true laws I'm getting to the root,
And a New Poetry will be the froot,
The Muse, now by the few acknowledged fair,
Shall then be warmly welcomed everywhair,
And not, as now, in one loud howl sonorous,
As "footle" banned by Commonsense in chorous.
Then a verse-scorning world, in pleased surprise,
Will to Parnassus lift delighted ise;
And from St. Albans to the Arctic Pole,
The "lyric cry" (in Grimbosh rhymes) shall role.
The people then not hymns alone shall praise,
But the sweet secular singer's luscious laise,
Phonetic laws to wish to change at once
Must prove a man a duffer and a donce,
The laws of spelling are less fatal foze.
(You can spell "does" as either "duz" or "doze,"
And if you wish to make it rhyme with bosh,
What easier than writing wash as "wosh"?)
If TENNYSON were all rewritten _thus_,
His verse indeed would be de-li-ci-us;
And ISAAC PITMAN'S spelling would add lots
Of charm to the great works of ISAAC WOTTS.
There! Grimbosh sets the world right once again!
May lesser poets mark! A-main!! A-main!!!

* * * * *

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

SCENE - _A Sea-side Library._

_Visitor (wearily, after a series of inquiries and disappointments)._
What I want is a _recent_ novel. I haven't read _The Vermilion
Gillyflower_ yet. It's been out six months or more. Surely you've got
_that_?

_Shop Attendant._ I don't _fancy_ it's in our catalogue. I don't
_remember_ hearing of it. (_Brightly._) We've got _Ivanhoe_.

_Visitor (ignoring the suggestion)._ Well, then, I could do with CONAN
DOYLE'S last, or STANLEY WEYMAN'S.

_Shop Attendant._ STANLEY, did you say? Oh yes, we've _ordered_ the
_Life of Dean Stanley_, but it hasn't come yet.

_Visitor (gloomily)._ I don't want anybody's life. I want - let's see - _A
Gentleman of France_.

_Shop Attendant. A Gentleman of France?_ I don't recollect the title.
But (_cheerfully_) we've _John Halifax, Gentleman_, if that'll do as
well.

_Visitor (groaning)._ Oh no, it won't! How about _So-so_, by BENSON, you
know? Or I hear Mrs. CLIFFORD'S latest is worth reading. Or _Bess of the
Curvybills_, by HARDY. That's been out a couple of years at least.
(_Hopefully._) Oh, I'm sure _that_'s got to you.

_Shop Attendant (floored)._ Would you look through the shelves for
yourself, if you please? You'll find _something_ to suit you, I _know_.
There's one or two of DICKENS'S, and _Middlemarch_ - now, _that_'s a
rather recent work. Or _The Channings_. We've had _The Channings_ bound
again, and it's a _great_ favourite.

[_Flits off quite relieved at the entrance of a girl
who desires a penny time-table and a halfpennyworth of
writing-paper._

* * * * *

The Plague of Poets.

(_By a Rabid Reviewer._)

What's this the log-rollers are gushing about?
"Captain JACK CRAWFORD, the Post Scout!"
Oh, bother the Bards! How the rhyme-grinders go it!
My future rule shall be "scout the poet!"

* * * * *

"MUTES AND LIQUIDS." - Some clever detectives, of the Birmingham Police
Force - not by any means Brummagem detectives - disguised themselves
as "Mourners' Mutes" and such like black guards of hearses, and,
after a re-hearsal of their several parts, they went to a tavern for
drink - grief, professionally or otherwise, being thirsty work - and
managed to discover that this public-house was only a privately
conducted betting-house, being, like themselves, in disguise. The result
has yet to be ascertained, but so far it has proved a most successful
"undertaking."

* * * * *

GOOD NEWS. - "Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" "There's a Good Time Coming"; for the
evergreen veteran, Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, is "preparing his reminiscences
for publication." _Mr. Punch_ looks forward with pleasure to perusing
them, and wishes that HENRY'S congenial collaborator, CHARLES MACKAY,
were yet living to share the treat.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE SEA-FAIRIES; OR, ULYSSES-PUNCHIUS AND THE MODERN
SIRENS.

(_A long way after the late Laureate._)]

_Slow strolled the weary PUNCHIUS, and saw,
Betwixt the white cliff and the whiter foam,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold. And PUNCHIUS said:_ -
"Lo! I am lucky, after session long,
To light upon these sirens; and their song
I fear not, though I'm wary as Ulysses,
Nor do I dread their kisses,
(Seeing that far away PENELOPE-JUDY Abides.)
Oh! hang this maudlin muck from MUDIE!
I love not, I, these new, neurotic novels,
In which the wild New Woman soars - and grovels.
Emancipated females are _not_ sirens!
There's pleasure in the peril that environs
Old-fashioned witchery.
A pretty English maiden at her stitchery,
Or a scaled mermaid, siren, or sea-fairy,
Alike have charms for me. Yet I'll be wary,
'Maidens mit nodings' - or but little - 'on,'
As BREITMANN hints, are dangers
For weak wayfaring strangers.
But Beauty never hurt _me_. Fears begone!
See how the long-tressed charmers smile and beckon!
I'll go and risk a chat with them, I reckon!"
_And while Punch mused,
They whispering to each other as in fun,
Soft music reached the Unsurpassable One:_ -

"Whither away, whither away, whither away? Fly no more!
Whither away from the bright white cliff and the sandy siren-haunted
shore?
Back to town - which is horrible now - or to politics - the beastliest
bore?
Day and night do the printers'-devils call?
Day and night do stump-orators howl and squall?
Bless 'em - and let 'em be!
Out from the city of singular sights, and smells.
Come to these saffron sands and these silvery shells,
Far from the niggers, and nursemaids, and howling swells,
Here by the high-toned sea:
O hither, come hither, and furl your sails!
Come hither to me, and to me,
Hither, come hither, and frolic and play,
(Of course, in a highly-respectable middle-aged way).
Good company we - if you do not object to our - tails.
And the least little tiny suspicion of silver scales.
We will sing to you lyrics gay,
Such as LOCKER, or AUSTIN DOBSON, or LANG might pen.
Oh, we know your society-singers, and now and then,
When old Father Nep's in the sulks, or amusement fails,
Or we're tired of the "merry carols" of rollicking gales
(As young ALFRED TENNYSON said
When just a weeny bit 'off his (poetical) head')
We study another than _Davy Jones's_ Locker,
And read your Society Novel or Shilling Shocker!
Oh, spangles are sparkling in bight and bay!
Come down, Old Gentleman, give us your hand.
We are modern mermaids, as you may understand,
And fair, and frolic, fun-loving, and blamelessly free.
Hither, come hither, and see!"

And PUNCHIUS, waggishly winking a wary eye,
Cried, "Coming, my nautical darlings! - at least, I'll try.
Middle-aged? I'm as young as a masher of five-and-twenty!
I love pretty girls, honest fun, and the _far niente_.
I'm 'a young man,' but not 'from the country,' as you will find,
And if you are game for flirtation, well, _I_ don't mind!"
And he stepped him down, and he sat by the sounding shore,
And chatted, and flirted, and laughed with the sirens four;
And he sang, as young TENNYSON might have, or UHLAND, the German,
This song of the Modern Merman! -

"Who would not be
A merman bold,
And sit by the sea,
With mermaids free.
And sweet converse hold
With nice nautical girls,
And toy with their curls,
And watch the gleam
Of their glistening pearls,
As they chatter, chatter
On, - well, no matter
Each with her tale
And whisks her - narrative.
(Pink skin or scale,
Charms are all comparative!)
Oh what a happy life were mine
With Beauty (though caudate) beside the brine!
With four sea-fairies beside the sea
_Punch_ can live merrily, merrily!"
And the Mermaids pinched the Punchian cheek
(For his Caudal lecture) and made him squeak.
And he cried "Revenge!" (like TIMOTHEUS, Miss)
And a sweet revenge for a nip is a kiss.
And around the rock siren laughter rang
And that bevy of sweet sea-fairies sang: -

"O the laugh-ripple breaks on the breaking wave,
And sweet are its echoes from cove and cave,
And sweet shall your welcome be,
You dear old Cove,
Whom all she-things love,
O hither, come hither and be our lord,
For merry mischiefs are we!
We kiss sweet kiss, and we speak sweet word:
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten.
('Tis better than being by B-RTL-YS bored!)
Business? O fiddle-de-dee!!!
With pleasure and love make jubilee.
Leucosia, Ligea, Parthenope
Will load your briar and brew your tea.
And we keep rare stingo down under the sea,
For we tithe earth's commerce, all duty-free!
Where will you light on a happier shore.
Or gayer companions or richer store,
All the world o'er, all the world o'er?
Whither away? listen and stay! To _Judy_ and Parliament fly no more!"

_And sick of St. Stephen's, in holiday mood,
The Modern Ulysses half wishes he could!_

[Illustration: CONFRÈRES.

_Master Jacky (who took part in some school theatricals last
term, - suddenly, to eminent Tragedian who has come to call)._ "I SAY,
YOU KNOW - _I_ ACT!"]

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XI. - TIME AND THE HOUR.

SCENE XIX. - _The Dining Hall._

_Spurrell_ (_to himself, uncomfortably conscious of the expectant_
THOMAS _in his rear_). Must write _something_ to this beggar, I suppose;
it'll keep him quiet. (_To_ Mrs. BROOKE-CHATTERIS.) I - I just want to
write a line or two. Could you oblige me with a lead-pencil?

_Mrs. Chatteris._ You are really going to write! At a dinner-party, of
all places! Now _how_ delightfully original and unconventional of you! I
promise not to interrupt till the inspiration is over. Only, really, I'm
afraid I don't carry lead-pencils about with me - so bad for one's
frocks, you know!

_Thomas (in his ear)._ I can lend you a pencil, Sir, if you require one.

[_He provides him with a very minute stump._

_Spurr._ (_reading what he has written on the back of_ UNDERSHELL'S
_missive_). "Will be in my room (Verney Chamber) as soon after ten as
possible.

"J. SPURRELL."

(_He passes the paper to_ THOMAS, _surreptitiously_.) There, take him
that.

[THOMAS _retires_.

_Archie (to himself)._ The calm cheek of these writin' chaps! I saw him
takin' notes under the table! Lady RHODA ought to know the sort of
fellow he is - and she shall! (_To_ Lady RHODA, _in an aggrieved
undertone_.) I should advise you to be jolly careful what you say to
your other neighbour; he's takin' it all down. I just caught him
writin'. He'll be bringing out a satire, or whatever he calls it, on us
all by-and-by - you see if he won't!

_Lady Rhoda._ What an ill-natured boy you are! Just because _he_ can
write, and you _can't_. And I don't believe he's doin' anythin' of the
sort. I'll ask him - _I_ don't care! (_Aloud, to_ SPURRELL.) I say, I
know I'm awfully inquisitive - but I do want to know so - you've just been
writin' notes or somethin', haven't you? Mr. BEARPARK declares you're
goin' to take them all off here - you're not really, _are_ you?

_Spurr. (to himself)._ That sulky young chap has spotted it! (_Aloud,
stammering._) I - take everything off? _Here!_ I - I assure you I should
never even _think_ of doing anything so indelicate!

_Lady Rhoda._ I was sure that was what you'd say! But still (_with
reviving uneasiness_), I suppose you _have_ made use of things that
happened just to fit your purpose, haven't you?

_Spurr. (penitently)._ All I can say is, that - if I have - you won't
catch me doing it _again_! And other people's things _don't_ fit. I'd
much rather have my own.

_Lady Rhoda (relieved)._ Of course! But I'm glad you told me. (_To_
ARCHIE, _in an undertone_.) I _asked_ him - and, as usual, you were
utterly wrong. So you'll please not to be a Pig!

_Archie (jealously)._ And you're goin' to go on talkin' to him all
through dinner? Pleasant for me - when I took you down!

_Lady Rhoda._ You want to be taken down yourself, I think. And I mean to
talk to him if I choose. You can talk to Lady CULVERIN - she likes boys!
(_Turning to_ SPURRELL.) I was goin' to ask you - ought a schipperke to
have meat? Mine won't touch puppy biscuits.

[SPURRELL _enlightens her on this point_; ARCHIE _glowers_.

_Lady Cantire_ (_perceiving that the_ Bishop _is showing signs of
restiveness_). Well, Bishop, I wish I could find you a little more ready
to listen to what the other side has to say!

[Illustration: "I shall be - ah - all impatience, Lady Cantire."]

_The Bishop (who has been "heckled" to the verge of his endurance)._ I
am - ah - not conscious of any unreadiness to enter into conversation with
the very estimable lady on my other side, should an opportunity present
itself.

_Lady Cant._ Now, that's one of your quibbles, Dr. RODNEY, and I detest
quibbling! But at least it shows you haven't a leg to stand upon.

_The Bishop._ Precisely - nor to - ah - run away upon, dear Lady. I am
wholly at your mercy, you perceive!

_Lady Cant. (triumphantly)._ Then you _admit_ you're beaten? Oh, I don't
despair of you _yet_, Bishop!

_The Bishop._ I confess I am less sanguine. (_To himself._) Shall I have
strength to bear these buffets with any remains of Christian forbearance
through three more courses? Ha, thank Heaven, the salad!

[_He cheers up at the sight of this olive-branch._

_Mrs. Earwaker_ (_to_ PILLINER). Now, I don't altogether approve of the
New Woman myself; but still, I am glad to see how women are beginning to
assert themselves and come to the front; surely you sympathise with all
that?

_Pilliner (plaintively)._ No, really I _can't_, you know! I'd so much
rather they _wouldn't_. They've made us poor men feel positively
obsolete! They'll snub us out of existence soon - our sex will be
extinct - and then they'll be sorry. There'll be nobody to protect them
from one another! After all, we can't help being what we are. It isn't
_my_ fault that I was born a Man Thing - now, _is_ it?

_Lady Cant. (overhearing this remark)._ Well, if it _is_ a fault, Mr.
PILLINER, we must all acknowledge that you've done everything in your
power to correct it!

_Pill. (sweetly)._ How nice and encouraging of you, dear Lady CANTIRE,
to take up the cudgels for me like that!

[_The_ Countess _privately relieves her feelings by expressing
a preference for taking up a birch rod, and renews her attack
on the_ Bishop.

_Mr. Shorthorn (who has been dragging his mental depths for a fresh
topic - hopefully, to_ Miss SPELWANE). By the bye, I haven't asked you
what you thought about these - er - Revolting Daughters?

_Miss Spelwane._ No, you haven't; and I thought it _so_ considerate of
you.

[Mr. SHORTHORN _gives up dragging, in discouragement_.

_Pill._ (_sotto voce, to_ Miss SPELWANE). Have you quite done sitting on
that poor unfortunate man? _I_ heard you!

_Miss Spelw. (in the same tone)._ I'm afraid I _have_ been rather
beastly to him. But, oh, he _is_ such a bore - he _would_ talk about his
horrid "silos" till I asked him whether they were easy to tame. After
that, the subject dropped - somehow.

_Pill._ I see you've been punishing him for not happening to be a
distinguished Poet. I thought _he_ was to have been the fortunate man?

_Miss Spelw._ So he was; but they changed it all at the last moment: it
really was rather provoking. I _could_ have talked to _him_.

_Pill._ Lady RHODA appears to be consoling him. Poor dear ARCHIE'S face
is quite a study. But really I don't see that his poetry is so very
wonderful; no more did _you_ this morning!

_Miss Spelw._ Because you deliberately picked out the worst bits, and
read them as badly as you could!

_Pill._ Ah, well, he's here to read them for himself now. I daresay he'd
be delighted to be asked.

_Miss Spelw._ Do you know, BERTIE, that's rather a good idea of yours.
I'll ask him to read us something to-night.

_Pill. (aghast)._ To-night! With all these people here? I say, they'll
never _stand_ it, you know.

[Lady CULVERIN _gives the signal_.

_Miss Spelw._ (_as she rises_). They ought to feel it an immense
privilege. I know _I_ shall.

_The Bishop_ (_to himself, as he rises_). Port in sight - at last! But,
oh, _what_ I have had to suffer!

_Lady Cant._ (_at parting_). Well, we've had quite one of our old
discussions. I always enjoy talking to _you_, Bishop. But I haven't yet
got at your reasons for voting as you did on the Parish Councils Bill:
we must go into that upstairs.

_The Bishop_ (_with veracity_). I shall be - ah - all impatience, Lady
CANTIRE. (_To himself._) I fervently trust that a repetition of this
experience may yet be spared me!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_as she leaves SPURRELL_). You will tell me the name of
the stuff upstairs, won't you? So very much ta!

_Archie_ (_to himself_). I'd like to tar him very much, and feather him
too, for cuttin' me out like this! (_The men sit down_; SPURRELL _finds
himself between_ ARCHIE _and_ Captain THICKNESSE, _at the further end of
the table_; ARCHIE _passes the wine to_ SPURRELL _with a scowl_.) What
are you drinkin'? Claret? What do you do your writin' on, now, as a
general thing?

_Spurr._ (_on the defensive_). On paper, Sir, when I've any to do. Do
you do yours on a _slate_?

_Captain Thicknesse._ I say, that's rather good. Had you there,
BEARPARK!

_Spurr._ (_to_ ARCHIE, _lowering his voice_). Look here, I see you're
trying to put a spoke in my wheel. You saw me writing at dinner, and
went and told that young lady I was going to take everything off there
and then, which you must have known I wasn't likely to do. Now, Sir,
it's no business of yours that I can see; but, as you seem to be
interested, I may tell you that I shall do it in my own room, as soon as
I leave this table, and there will be no fuss or publicity about it
whatever. I hope you're satisfied now?

_Archie._ Oh, _I_'m satisfied. (_He rises._) Left my cigarette-case
upstairs - horrid bore - must go and get it.

_Capt. Thick._ They'll be bringing some round in another minute.

_Archie._ Prefer my own. (_To himself, as he leaves the hall._) I knew I
was right. That bounder _is_ meaning to scribble some rot about us all!
He's goin' straight up to his room to do it.... Well, he may find a
little surprise when he gets there!

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). Mustn't let this poet fellow think I'm
jealous; daresay, after all, there's nothing serious between them.
Not that it matters to me; anyway, I may as well talk to him. I
wonder if he knows anything about steeplechasin'.

[_He discovers that_ SPURRELL _is not unacquainted with this
branch of knowledge._

SCENE XX. - _A Corridor leading to the Housekeeper's Room._

TIME - 9.30 P.M.

_Undershell_ (_to himself_). If I wasn't absolutely compelled by sheer
hunger, I would not touch a morsel in this house. But I can't get my
things back till after ten. When I do, I will insist on a conveyance to
the nearest inn. In the meantime I must sup. After all, no one need know
of this humiliating adventure. And if I _am_ compelled to consort with
these pampered menials, I think I shall know how to preserve my
dignity - even while adapting myself to their level. And that girl will
be there - a distinctly redeeming fact in the situation. I will be easy
and even affable; I will lay aside all foolish pride; it would be
unreasonable to visit their employer's snobbery upon them. I hear
conversation inside this room. This must be the door. I - I suppose I had
better go in.

[_He enters._

* * * * *

FOLLOWING FOOTSTEPS.

(_Fragment from a Romance founded on Reality._)

He had become famous. Or perhaps that was scarcely the word - notorious
would have been better. At any rate his name had appeared in the papers.
For nine days everyone talked about him. It was during those nine days
that he was wanted. No, not by the myrmidons of the law. He had escaped
them. His plea of innocent had been accepted. So far as Scotland Yard
was concerned he was safe. Quite safe.

[Illustration]

But was he safe from "that other"? Ah, there was the point. With the
instinct of desperation he took himself off. He hurried away. He went by
an excursion train - one that stopped at all the stations and was called
a "fast train to this place" and "that place," but never referred to in
connection with its destination - and arrived in due time at a cockney
watering-place.

He was followed! As sure as fate, came the follower! Ready to hunt him
down! Ready to take him! He rapidly repacked his bag. He hurriedly left
for the station. Once again he was flying away. Now he had chosen a
prosperous city. The place was teeming with population. Surely he would
be lost in this giddy throng? No. He was followed! On came the pursuer!
Ready to take him!

Again and again the same thing happened. Did he go to the Continent, his
pursuer was after him. Did he travel to Scotland, he was met in the
Highlands by the same fatal presence.

It was useless to fight against destiny any longer. Assisted by those
interested in a popular paper - which had slightly altered its character,
changing from an authority on scientific research into a cheap sporting
weekly - he reached the Antarctic Circle. He heard following footsteps.
He tried to hide himself behind the South Pole. But it was of no avail.
At length he was discovered! They stood face to face, both wearing
skates.

"What do you want with me?"

"You were accused of murder, but was innocent."

"Yes," he returned, with an ugly frown. "I was innocent _that_ time."

"You are an interesting person. I have followed you all this way because
I have determined to interview you."

"No you don't," cried the pursued, drawing a sword walking-stick, and
holding the blade dagger-wise.

"Yes I do," shouted the pursuer, producing a note-book. "And now tell me
who were your father and mother?"

There was a short, decisive struggle, and then all was over.

"If there is ever an inquest in this distant spot," said the conqueror,
"the jury will bring it in justifiable homicide."

And no doubt he was right in his conjecture.

* * * * *

TITLE FOR THE NEW IRISH FARCICAL COMEDY. - _The Two (or more) Shamrocks;
or, A Little Cheque!_

* * * * *

THE INCONVENIENCED TRAVELLER'S PHRASE-BOOK.

(_To be Translated into every Language._)

AN INCIDENT _EN ROUTE_.

Why, although I telegraphed for rooms, am I told at three in the morning
that there is no better accommodation for me than this stable?

[Illustration]

Why do you threaten me with the police-station for protesting?

Why do you take me by the throat and drag me along when I am offering no
resistance?

Why do you put me in a cell when I had ordered an apparently now


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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, September 15, 1894 → online text (page 1 of 3)