Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, January 17, 1891 online

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VOL. 100.

January 17, 1891.



* * * * *




_Well-informed Visitor_. That's Dr. KOCH, making his great discovery!


_Unscientific V._ What did _he_ discover?

_Well-inf. V._ Why, the Consumption Bacillus. He's got it in that
bottle he's holding up.

_Unsc. V._ And what's the good of it, now he _has_ discovered it?

_Well-inf. V._ Good? Why, it's the thing that causes _consumption_,
you know!

_Unsc. V._ Then it's a pity he didn't leave it alone!


_First Old Lady_ (_with Catalogue_). It says here that "the note
the page is handing _may_ have come from Sir DIGHTON PROBYN, the
Comptroller of the Royal Household" Fancy _that_!

_Second Old Lady_. He's brought it in in his fingers. Now _that_'s a
thing I never allow in _my_ house. I always tell SARAH to bring all
letters, and even circulars, in on a tray!


_A. Sportsman_. H'm - ARCHER, eh? Shouldn't have backed his mount in
_that_ race!


_Gladstonian Enthusiast_ (_to Friend, who, with the perverse
ingenuity of patrons of Wax-works, has been endeavouring to identify
the Rev. JOHN WESLEY among the Cabinet in Downing Street_). Oh,
never mind all that lot, BETSY; they're only the _Gover'ment_! Here's
dear Mr. and Mrs. GLADSTONE in this next! See, he's lookin' for
something in a drawer of his side-board - ain't that _natural_? And
only look - a lot of people have been leaving Christmas cards on him
(_a pretty and touching tribute of affection, which is eminently
characteristic of a warm-hearted Public_). I wish I'd thought o'
bringing one with me!

_Her Friend_. So do I. We might send one 'ere by post - but it'll have
to be a New Year Card now!

_A Strict Old Lady_ (_before next group_). Who are these two? "Mr.
'ENERY IRVING, and Miss ELLEN TERRY in _Faust_," eh? No - I don't care
to stop to see them - that's play-actin', that is - and I don't 'old
with it nohow! What are these two parties supposed to be doin' of over
here? What - Cardinal NEWMAN and Cardinal MANNING at the High Altar
at the Oratory, Brompton! Come along, and don't encourage Popery by
looking at such figures. I _did_ 'ear as they'd got Mrs. PEARCEY and
the prambilator somewheres. I _should_ like to see that, now.


_An Aunt_ (_who finds the excellent Catalogue a mine of useful
information_). Look, BOBBY, dear (_reading_). "Here we have
CONSTANTINE'S Cat, as seen in the '_Nights of Straparola_,' an Italian
romancist, whose book was translated into French in the year 1585 - "

_Bobby_ (_disappointed_). Oh, then it _isn't_ Puss in Boots!

_A Genial Grandfather_ (_pausing before "Crusoe and Friday"_). Well,
PERCY, my boy, you know who _that_ is, at all events - eh?

_Percy_. I suppose it is STANLEY - but it's not very like.

_The G.G._ STANLEY! - Why, bless my soul, never heard of _Robinson
Crusoe_ and his man _Friday_?

_Percy_. Oh, I've _heard_ of them, of course - they come in
Pantomimes - but I like more grown-up sort of books myself, you know.
Is this girl asleep _She_?

_The G.G._ No - at least - well, I expect it's "_The Sleeping Beauty_."
You remember her, of course - all about the ball, and the glass
slipper, and her father picking a rose when the hedge grew round the
palace, eh?

_Percy_. Ah, you see, Grandfather, you had more time for general
reading than we get. (_He looks through a practicable cottage
window._) Hallo, a Dog and a Cat. Not badly stuffed!

_The G.G._ Why that must be "_Old Mother Hubbard_." (_Quoting from
memory._) "Old Mother Hubbard sat in a cupboard, eating a Christmas
pie - or a _bone_ was it?"

_Percy_. Don't know. It's not in _Selections from British Poetry_,
which we have to get up for "rep."

_The Aunt_ (_reading from Catalogue_). "The absurd ambulations of
this antique person, and the equally absurd antics of her dog, need no
recapitulation." Here's "_Jack the Giant Killer_" next. Listen, BOBBY,
to what it says about him here. (_Reads._) "It is clearly the last
transmutation of the old British legend told by GEOFFREY of Monmouth,
of CORINEUS the Trojan, the companion of the Trojan BRUTUS, when
he first settled in Britain. But more than this" - I hope you're
listening, BOBBY? - "_more_ than this, it is quite evident, even to
the superficial student of Greek mythology, that many of the main
incidents and ornaments are borrowed from the tales of HESIOD and
HOMER." Think of that, now!

[_BOBBY thinks of it, with depression._

_The G.G._ (_before figure of Aladdin's Uncle selling new lamps for
old_). Here you are, you see! "_Ali Baba_," got 'em all here, you see.
Never read your "_Arabian Nights_," either! Is that the way they bring
up boys nowadays!

_Percy_. Well, the fact is, Grandfather, that unless a fellow
reads that kind of thing when he's _young_, he doesn't get a chance

_The Aunt_ (_still quoting_). "In the famous work," BOBBY, "by which
we know MASÛDI, he mentions the Persian Hezar Afsane-um-um-um, - nor
have commentators failed to notice that the occasion of the book
written for the Princess HOMAI resembles the story told in the Hebrew
Bible about ESTHER, her mother or grandmother, by some Persian Jew two
or three centuries B.C." Well, I never knew _that_ before!... This is
"_Sindbad and the Old Man of the Sea_" - let's see what they say about
_him_. (_Reads._) "Both the story of _Sindbad_ and the old Basque
legend of Tartaro are undoubtedly borrowed from the _Odyssey_ of
HOMER, whose _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ were translated into Syriac in
the reign of HARUN-UR-RASHID." Dear, dear, how interesting, now!
and, BOBBY, what _do_ you think someone says about "_Jack and the
Beanstalk_"? He says - "this tale is an allegory of the Teutonic
Al-fader, the red hen representing the all-producing sun: the
moneybags, the fertilising rain; and the harp, the winds." Well, I'm
sure it seems likely enough, doesn't it?

[_BOBBY suppresses a yawn; PERCY's feelings are outraged by
receiving a tin trumpet from the Lucky Tub; general move to
the scene of the Hampstead Tragedy._


_Spectators_. Dear, dear, there's the _dresser_, you see, and the
window, broken and all; it's wonderful how they can _do_ it! And
there's poor Mrs. 'OGG - it's real butter and a real loaf she's
cutting, and the poor baby, too!... Here's the actual casts taken
after they were murdered. Oh, and there's Mrs. PEARCEY wheeling
the perambulator - it's the _very_ perambulator! No, not the very
one - they've got _that_ at the other place, and the piece of toffee
the baby sucked. Have they really! Oh, we _must_ try and go there,
too, before the children's holidays are over. And this is all? Well,
well, everything very nice, I _will_ say. But a pity they couldn't get
the _real_ perambulator!

* * * * *




"Oh, let us not like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap comes in an uncoo loon
And with a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrongs be righted!"

ROBERT BURNS's "_Dumfries Volunteers_."

_Shade of_ BURNS, _loquitur_: -

O, rantin' roarin' JOHNNY BURNS,
My namesake - in a fashion,
You do my Scots the warst o' turns
Sae stirrin' up their passion.
Whence come ye, JOHNNY? Frae the Docks?
Or frae the County Council?
Sure Scots can do their ain hard knocks;
We take your brag and bounce ill!
Fal de ral, &c.

Does Cockneydom invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir!
Scotland, they'll find, is Scotland yet,
And for hersel' can fare, Sir.
The Thames shall run to join the Tweed,
Criffel adorn Thames valley,
'Ere wanton wrath and vulgar greed
On Scottish ground shall rally.
Fal de ral, &c.

A man's a man for a' that, JOHN,
And ane's as good as tither;
But that ship's crew is fated, JOHN,
That mutinies in bad weather.
Nae flouts to "honest industry"
Shall fa' frae the Exciseman;
But ane who blaws up strife like this,
Wisdom deems not a wise man.
Fal de ral, &c.

Scot business may be out o' tune,
True harmony may fail in't,
But deil a cockney tinkler loon
We need to rant and rail in't.
Our fathers on occasion fought,
And so can we, if needed;
But windy words with frenzy fraught
Sound Scots should pass unheeded.
Fal de ral, &c.

Let toilers not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided,
Till foreign Trade, which marks our Strikes,
Steps in, and we're derided.
Be Scotland still to Scotland true,
Amang oursels united;
'Tis not by firebrands, JOHN, like you
Our wrangs shall best be righted.
Fal de ral, &c.

The knave who'd crush the toilers doun,
And him, his true-born brither,
Who'd set the mob aboon the Crown,
Should be kicked out together.
Go, JOHN! Learn temperance, banish spleen!
Scots cherish throne and steeple,
But while we sing "_God save the Queen_,"
_We_ won't forget the People.
Fal de ral, &c.

* * * * *

A LENGTHY NOVEL. - _A Thousand Lines of Her Own_, in 3000 vols., by the
Authoress of _A Line of Her Own_, in 3 vols. N.B. - What a long line
this must be to occupy three vols.! A work of and for a lifetime.

* * * * *


_Small Stranger_ (_to Master of the house_). "OW MY! THE GENTLEMAN AS

* * * * *


During the preparation of Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN's new Opera, _Ivanhoe_,
a grave objection to the subject occurred to him, which was, that
one of the chief personages in the _dramatis personæ_ must be
"Gilbert" - i.e., _Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert_. True, that _Sir Brian_
is the villain of the piece, but this, to Sir ARTHUR's generous
disposition, only made matters worse. It was evident that he couldn't
change the character's name to _Sir Brian de Bois-Sullivan_, and Mr.
D'OYLEY CARTE refused to allow his name to appear in the bill except
as Lessee. "I can't put him in simply as _Sir Brian_," said the
puzzled Composer, "unless I make him an Irishman, and I don't think my
librettist will consent to take this liberty with SCOTT's novel." "But
the name in the Opera isn't pronounced the same as W.S.G.'s," objected
D'OYLEY. "It will be outside the Opera by ninety out of a hundred,"
answered Sir ARTHUR. "But," continued D'OYLEY, persistently, "it isn't
spelt the same." "No," replied Sir ARTHUR, "that's the worst of it;
there's 'u' and 'i' in it; we're both mixed up with this _Guilbert_."
Fortunately, the Composer and the Author made up their quarrel, and as
a memento of the happy termination to the temporary misunderstanding,
Sir ARTHUR, in a truly generous mood, designed to call the character
"_Sir Brian de Bois-Gilbert-and-Sullivan_." Whether the mysterious
librettist, whose name has only lately been breathed in the public
ear, insisted on SCOTT's original name being retained or not, it is
now pretty certain that there will be no departure from the great
novelist's original nomenclature.

* * * * *

A BREACH OF VERACITY. - According to the papers, the Chief Secretary's
Lodge in Dublin is blocked with parcels of clothing designed for the
poor in the West of Ireland, sent in response to the request of Lord
ZETLAND and Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR. We understand there is no truth in the
report, that amongst the first arrivals was a parcel containing Mr.
O'BRIEN's br - s, with a note explaining, that as he was about to go to
prison again, he had no further use for the article.

* * * * *

NEW IRISH DRINK. - The Parnellite "Split."

* * * * *


The excellent article in the _Times_ on the 6th inst. upon CHARLES
KEENE was worthy of its subject. The writer in the _P.M.G._ of a day
earlier performed his self-imposed task with a judicious and loving
hand, and, as far as I can judge, his account of our lamented
colleague seems to be correct. As to our CARLO's Mastership in his
Black-and-White Art, there can be but one opinion among Artists. Those
who possess the whole of the _Once a Week_ series will there find
admirable specimens of CHARLES KEENE in a more serious vein. His most
striking effects were made as if by sudden inspiration. I remember a
story which exactly illustrates my meaning. An artistic friend was in
KEENE's studio, while CARLO was at work, pipe in mouth, of course. "I
can't understand," said his friend, "how you produce that effect of
distance in so small a picture." "O - um - easy enough," replied KEENE.
"Look here," - and - _he did it_. But when and how he gave _the_ touch
which made the effect, his friend, following his work closely, was
unable to discover. F.C.B.

* * * * *

PARS ABOUT PICTURES. - There is always something fresh coming out at
Messrs. DOWDESWELL's Articultural Garden in Bond Street. Their latest
novelty is the result of a caravan tour from Dieppe to Nice ("Dieppend
upon it, he found it very nice!" said Young PAR, regardless of
propriety and pronunciation) by Mr. C.P. SAINTON. CHARLES COLLINS
utilised such an expedition from a literary point of view in his
inimitable "_Cruise upon Wheels_," and this young artist has
turned similar wanderings to good artistic account. His _cartes de
visite_ - no, I beg pardon, his _caravans de visite_ - are numerous and
varied. Verily, my brethren, all is caravanity! Not altogether, for
Mr. SAINTON, in addition to returning with his caravan and himself,
has brought back an interesting collection of original and delicate
works in oil and silver-point - in short, taken every caravantage of
his special opportunities. Yours parlously, OLD PAR.

* * * * *

"MAY IT PLEASE YOUR 'WARSHIPS.'" - Twenty-three American ships, 118
guns, and 3,000 men; six British ships, 52 guns, 1,229 men; and seven
German ships, 42 guns, and 1,500 men - all in "Pacific" waters! Looks
like Pacific, doesn't it?

* * * * *




[In a long communication which accompanied the MS. of this
novel, the Author gives a description of his literary method.
We have only room for a few extracts. "I have been accused of
plagiarism. I reply that the accusation is ridiculous. Nature
is the great plagiarist, the sucker of the brains of authors.
There is no situation, however romantic or grotesque, which
Nature does not sooner or later appropriate. Therefore the
more natural an author is, the more liable is he to envious
accusations of plagiarism.... Humour may often be detected in
an absence of leg-coverings. A naval officer is an essentially
humorous object.... As to literary style, it can be varied
at pleasure, but the romantic Egyptian and the plain South
African are perhaps best. In future my motto will be, '_Ars
Langa Rider brevis_,' and a very good motto too. I like
writing in couples. Personally I could never have bothered
myself to learn up all these quaint myths and literary fairy
tales, but LANG likes it."]


[Illustration: "Then a strange thing happened."]

My name is SMALLUN HALFBOY, a curious name for an old fellow like
me, who have been battered and knocked about all over the world from
Yorkshire to South Africa. I'm not much of a hand at writing, but,
bless your heart, I know the _Bab Ballads_ by heart, and I can tell
you it's no end of a joke quoting them everywhere, especially when
you quote out of an entirely different book. I am not a brave man, but
nobody ever was a surer shot with an Express longbow, and no one ever
killed more Africans, men and elephants, than I have in my time. But
I do love blood. I love it in regular rivers all over the place, with
gashes and slashes and lopped heads and arms and legs rolling about
everywhere. Black blood is the best variety; I mean the blood of black
men, because nobody really cares twopence about them, and you can
massacre several thousands of them in half-a-dozen lines and offend no
single soul. And, after all, I am not certain that black men have any
souls, so that makes things safe all round, as someone says in the
_Bab Ballads_.


I was staying with my old friend Sir HENRY HURTUS last winter at
his ancestral home in Yorkshire. We had been shooting all day with
indifferent results, and were returning home fagged and weary with our
rifles over our shoulders. I ought to have mentioned that COODENT - of
course, you remember Captain COODENT, R.N. - was of the party. Ever
since he had found his legs so much admired by an appreciative public,
he had worn a kilt without stockings, in order to show them. This,
however, was not done from vanity, I think, but rather from a high
sense of duty, for he felt that those who happened to be born with
personal advantages ought not to be deterred by any sense of false
modesty from gratifying the reading public by their display. Lord, how
we had laughed to see him struggling through the clinging brambles
in Sir HENRY's coverts with his eye-glass in his eye and his Express
at the trail. At every step his unfortunate legs had been more and
more torn, until there was literally not a scrap of sound skin upon
them anywhere. Even the beaters, a stolid lot, had roared when old
VELVETEENS the second keeper had brought up to poor COODENT a lump of
flesh from his right leg, which he had found sticking on a thorn-bush
in the centre of the high covert. Suddenly Sir HENRY stopped and
shaded his eyes with his hand anxiously. We all imitated him, though
for my part, not being a sportsman, I had no notion what was up.
"What's the time of day, Sir HENRY?" I ventured to whisper. Sir HENRY
never looked at me, but took out his massive gold Winchester repeater
and consulted it in a low voice. "Four thirty," I heard him say, "they
are about due." Suddenly there was a whirring noise in the distance.
"Duck, duck!" shouted Sir HENRY, now thoroughly aroused. I immediately
did so, ducked right down in fact, for I did not know what might be
coming, and I am a very timid man. At that moment I heard a joint
report from Sir HENRY and COODENT. It gave on the whole a very
favourable view of the situation, and by its light I saw six fine
mallard, four teal and three widgeon come hurtling down, as dead as so
many door-nails, and much heavier on the top of my prostrate body.

When I recovered Sir HENRY was bending over me and pouring brandy down
my throat. COODENT was sitting on the ground binding up his legs. "My
dear old friend," said Sir HENRY, in his kindest tone, "this Yorkshire
is too dangerous. My mind is made up. This very night we all start for
Mariannakookaland. There at least our lives will be safe."


We were in Mariannakookaland. We had been there a month travelling
on, ever on, over the parching wastes, under the scorching African sun
which all but burnt us in our _treks_. Our _Veldt_ slippers were worn
out, and our pace was consequently reduced to the merest _Kraal_. At
rare intervals during our adventurous march, we had seen Stars and
heard of Echoes, but now not a single _Kopje_ was left, and we were
trudging along mournfully with our blistered _tongas_ protruding from
our mouths.

Suddenly Sir HENRY spoke - "SMALLUN, my old friend," he said, "do you
see anything in the distance?"

I looked intently in the direction indicated, but could see nothing
but the horizon. "Look again," said Sir HENRY. I swept the distance
with my glance. It was a sandy, arid distance, and, naturally enough,
a small cloud of dust appeared. Then a strange thing happened. The
cloud grew and grew. It came rolling towards us with an unearthly
noise. Then it seemed to be cleft in two, as by lightning,
and from its centre came marching towards us a mighty army of
Amazonian warriors, in battle-array, chanting the war-song of the
Mariannakookas. I must confess that my first instinct was to fly, my
second to run, my third, and best, to remain rooted to the spot. When
the army came within ten yards of us, it stopped, as if by magic,
and a stout Amazon, of forbidding aspect, who seemed to be the
Commander-in-Chief, advanced to the front. On her head she wore an
immense native jelibag, tricked out with feathers; her breast was
encased in a huge silver _tureene_. Her waist was encircled with
a broad girdle, in which were stuck all manner of deadly arms,
_stuhpans, sorspans, spîhts_, and _deeshecloutz_. In her left hand she
carried a deadly-looking _kaster_, while in her right she brandished a
massive _rolinpin_, a frightful weapon, which produces internal wounds
of the most awful kind. Her regiments were similarly armed, save that,
in their case, the breast-covering was made of inferior metal, and
they wore no feathers in their head-dress. The Commander held up her
hand. Instantly the war-song ceased. Then the Commander addressed
us, and her voice sounded like the song of them that address the
_butchaboys_ in the morning. And this was the _torque_ she hurled at
us, -


"Oh, wanderers from a far country, I am She-who-will-never-Obey, the
Queen of the Mariannakookas. I rule above, and in nether regions,
where there is Eternal Fire. Behold my Word goes forth, and the Ovens
are made hot, and the _Kee-chen-boi-lars_ are filled with Water. Over
me no Mistress holds sway. All whom I meet I keep in subjection, save
only the _Weeklibuks_; them I keep not down, for they delight me. And
the land over which I reign is made glad with fat and much stored
up _Dripn_. Who are ye, and what seek ye here? Speak ere it be too
late!" And as she ceased the whole army broke forth into a chorus,
"She-who-will-never-Obey has spoken! The Word is gone forth! Speak,
speak!" I confess I was alarmed, and my fears were not diminished
when two of the _Skulrimehds_ (a sort of native camp-follower) came
up to COODENT and me, and actually began to make love to us in the
most forward manner. But Sir HENRY maintained his calm demeanour.
"She-who-will-never-Obey," he said, "we are peaceful traders. We
bring no Commission - " how his sentence would have ended will never
be known. Certain it is that what he said roused the Amazons to a
frenzy of passion. They yelled and danced round us. "He who brings no
Commission must die!" they shouted; and in a moment we found ourselves
bound tightly hand-and-foot, and marching as prisoners of war in the
centre of the Mariannakookaland army.


It is unnecessary to go through the details of our marvellous escape
from the lowest dungeon of the royal Palace of SURVAN TSAUL, where for
months we were immured on a constant diet of suet pudding. Of course
we did escape, but only after killing ten thousand Mariannakookas,
and then swimming for a mile in their blood. COODENT brought with him
a very pretty _Skulrimehd_ who had grown attached to him, but she
drooped and pined away after he lost his false teeth in crossing a
river, and tried to replace them with orange-peel, a trick he had
learnt at school. Sir HENRY's fight with She-who-will-never-Obey is
still remembered. He will carry the marks of her nails on his cheeks
to his grave. I myself am tired of wandering. "_Home, Sweet Home_," as
the _Bab Ballads_ have it, is the place for me.


* * * * *




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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, January 17, 1891 → online text (page 1 of 3)