Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, July 12, 1890 online

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of the evening papers, and is compelled, in the end, to submit to an
adverse verdict, and to retire, "it may be for years or it may be
for ever," from the open practice of a profession in which he had so
distinguished himself.

* * * * *


[Her Majesty's Servants are invited to cheer the
Queen. - _Official Invitation_.]

_Soldiers_. Not us - we want more food!

_Sailors_. Belay there - give us more liberty ashore!

_C.S. Clerks_. Can't attend to private business during office
hours - redress our grievances!

_Postmen_. Don't care a rap - groans as before - haven't changed _our_

_Police_. Move on with that there request - just mind your own
business, and look after our pensions!

_Inland Revenue Receivers_. No! That's the only Tax that needn't be

* * * * *

DISTINGUISHED UNIONISTS. - On Saturday next, at Westminster Abbey,
Mr. H.M. STANLEY, the founder of the "Congo Free State," enters the
"Can't-go Free State."

* * * * *


The Baron begs to acknowledge the receipt of a delightful book
entitled, _Bordeaux et ses Vins_ (_Cinquième édition_!) _Classés par
Ordre de Mérite_, written by M. EDOUARD FERRET, and enriched with 225
views of vine-culturing Châteaux, by M. EUGENE VERGIZ. It is published
by G. MASSON, Boulevard Saint Germain 120, and now the Baron has
placed it within reach of all the world. This particular volume
was presented to the Baron by Messrs. HANKEY, BANNISTER & Co., who
succeeded to the business of TOD HEATLEY & Co. (why was there never a
Scotch firm of TODDY DRINKLEY & Co.?) Judging from a few casual dips
into its contents, it will evidently afford him some interesting
half-hours with the best _crus_. The _connoisseur_ in claret should
go right through the book until he comes to "_Entre-deux-mers_," by
which time he will be as wise and as ready as was SOLOMON, _entre deux
mères_, to pronounce judgment. The history of the Pape Clement wine
takes us back to 1305, and is correctly told; but the Baron doubts
whether M. FERRET has ferreted out the real story of the Château
Haut-Brion. The fact is, that about the Twelfth Century, Seigneur THE
BARON O'BRIEN from County Clare - which, as you see, only requires a
"t" to make "Clare" into "Claret" - became the happy possessor of this
elegant vine-growing district. The Baron O'BRIEN having taken a great
deal of trouble about the good of his body, was one day struck by the
remark, "_in vino veritas_," and thought he would do something for the
good of his soul. So he founded a Mission, _La Mission O'Brien_, and
then died in the odour of the most celebrated _crus_. On his tomb were
the simple words, "_Il crut_." In the course of time, grass grew over
the stone, the Mission moved, sold the property, and another family of
Irish descent, O'BLIVION, would have wiped out every memorial of the
original pious founder, had it not been for the peasantry, who had
Gallicised O'BRIEN into HAUT BRION, under which name it has been known
for the last two centuries. If this is not the veracious history
of this celebrated wine, the Baron would like to know what is? How
sensible to give an order of merit to the best Claret-grower. Two
Barons of the House of ROTHSCHILD are thus distinguished. It was after
trying many other Clarets that Baron JAMES turned to Barons ALPHONSE
GUSTAVE and EDMOND DE ROTHSCHILD, and uttered the memorable words,
"_Revenons à nos moutons_." It is a fascinating work, and the Baron
has only just put down these few notes as an instalment of a grand
book on wines, wine-growers, and wine-drinkers of all countries, which
he is on the point of bringing out, entitled _Folks and Grapes_.

[Illustration: Refreshment for the Baron.]

The Baron likes persons who take a hint kindly and act on it sensibly.
He says this _à propos_ of the Hairless Paper-pad Holder, the bald
idea of which was suggested in _Mr. Punch's_ pages. The paper-pad
will be found most useful to travelling writers who use ink, and those
authors whom gout, or some other respectable ailment, compels to work
recumbently in bed or on sofa. The writer in bed, with ink handy, has
only to take up his pad in one hand and his pen in the other, and as
sheet after sheet is covered - sheets of paper _bien entendu_ - he tears
it off, and dries it at once on the blotter, which forms a portion
of the pad. For Mr. GLADSTONE, when he is once again Prime Minister,
the _Hairless Paper-pad_ will be invaluable, as he can place it
comfortably on his knee, write his despatch to HER MAJESTY, and
blot it without distraction. As a writer of considerable practical
experience, the Baron DE BOOK-WORMS strongly recommends the Hairless
Paper-pad, which he will leave as a Hairloom to his family.


The Baron wishes to say that he has received _Dunlop's Calculating
Apparatus_, and in attempting to discover how on earth to use it,
whether as a game, or a puzzle, or a ready-reckoner, the Baron's hair
is turning from grey to white. There are numbers, and sections, and
tons, and small figures and large figures, and slips, and strips, and
numbers in black ink, and others in red ink, and though it must of
course be the very simplest and easiest thing in the world when you
once know all about it, yet it is just the sort of book (yet it isn't
exactly a book) that might have deeply interested the Hatter and the
March Hare, and LEWIS CARROLL'S Snark Hunters, and suggested many deep
questions to the inquiring mind of _Alice in Wonderland_. As a really
humorous production, capable of affording amusement for many a weary
hour, it may be safely recommended to parties in country houses during
an exceptionally rainy season.


P.S. - My faithful "Co." has been reading _The Lazy Tour of Two Idle
Apprentices, No Thoroughfare_, and _The Perils of Certain English
Prisoners_, the joint work of CHARLES DICKENS and WILKIE COLLINS, and
now published for the first time in a single volume. He says that the
book is instructive, inasmuch as it shows the growth of its authors'
collaboration. When the writers started _The Lazy Tour_ they were, so
to speak, like the gentleman seated one day at the organ, "weary and
ill at ease;" they grew more accustomed to one another during _The
Perils_, and attained perfection in _No Thoroughfare_. This last novel
shows no traces of dual workmanship, and might have been the outcome
of a single pen. My "Co." has but one fault to find with Messrs.
CHAPMAN AND HALL (Limited) - he says that the stories deserved better

* * * * *


[A Juror who failed to put in an attendance at the Old Bailey
sent an excuse that he was away on his honeymoon. The LORD MAYOR
declared this was a perfectly valid excuse.]

The sly Undergraduate, eager to be
Of Tutors and Deans an acute circumventist,
Has been known to declare, when he went on the spree,
'Twas to bury his uncle, or call on his dentist.

The husband who's ever in scrapes or in pickles,
And in coming home early displays a remissness,
Is wont, if it's safe to believe HARRY NICHOLLS,
To say he stayed out on "a matter of business."

The hero whose praises they constantly sound,
A Triton 'mongst minnows in prowess at cricket,
When bowled by a ball that did _not_ touch the ground,
Very frequently swears 'twas the state of the wicket!

And the Juryman, finding excuses were vain,
Of the Judge's displeasure has ever been fearful,
Since he knew it availed not a whit to complain -
He must be in his place, or pay up and look cheerful.

But the thought of a fine never more will produce
Consternation, nor ever again make him pallid.
In a Honeymoon now he has got an excuse,
And the LORD MAYOR pronounces it "perfectly valid"!

* * * * *



NOTHING particular this week. Mlle. MELBA, the two DE RESZKÉS, and M.
LASSALLE sang, by Royal command, in the afternoon at Windsor Castle.
"Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the QUEEN?" Rather. We meant
to wind up the week with _Le Prophète_, but JEAN DE RESZKÉ had caught
cold, - perhaps on the return journey from Windsor, - and so _Faust_ was
substituted, with MELBA as _Marguerite_, and RAVELLI the Reliable as
_Faust_. We are looking forward to _Hamlet_. "_To be or not to be_"?
Probably "to be." Highly successful Season gradually drawing to a
close. Where's _Masaniello_? Not heard it for years. It would come out
as quite a novelty. Let the Sheriff-elect look to it. If not for this
Season, let it mark the year of office of DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS.

* * * * *

"PAROCHIAL" POLITICS INDEED! - Making over to a handful of Colonists
that would not fill many an English parish the "mighty mileage" of
Western Australia!

* * * * *



* * * * *


"Weary of watching and waiting!"
So the old song-words go!
Charity here, contemplating
This trio of lads in a row,
Might turn from the slums of the City,
From "Nobody's Children" might spare
One glance of true practical pity,
One hour of considerate care.

The waifs from the slum and the gutter
Are off "to the country" in troops,
To feed on new eggs and fresh butter,
To frolic with balls and with hoops;
These three, with their eyes on the poster
That hints unattainable joys,
Must envy the son of the Coster,
The waifs of the Workhouse. Poor boys!

They, too, are unitedly yearning
To "go to the country," together.
Hope on the horizon is burning
With prospect of promising weather.
One pities them, looking and longing,
Aweary of waiting their turn
With those who are country wards thronging;
The "Voice of the Country" _they_'d learn.

The lay of the lark or the linnet?
The babble of brooklet or rill?
Nay, that "Voice," to their ears, hath more in it
Than sounds in the nightingale's trill.
There's a song, though to some it sounds raucous,
For them most seductively rolls;
'Tis the crow of a bird (the "Caw-Caw-Cus")
Whose song is _so_ like "_Pretty Poll's"!_

* * * * *



_Henley, Monday_.

I have arrived, and Henley once more is Henley. Even the weather has
recognised me, and good old Plu himself came out to shake me by the
hand and talk of old times. The course is of the usual length, but a
slight alteration has been made in the breadth. Many house-boats are
moored along the Oxfordshire bank. The bridge has not changed its
position since I saw it last. The courteous Secretary of the Regatta
assured me, that my complaint with reference to the impediment
which this structure offers to rowing-boats had been laid before the
Stewards. No action, however, is to be taken this year.

This being the day before the Regatta, very heavy work was done by
all the crews engaged in the race for the Grand Challenge Cup. They
all have a good chance, and, personally, I should not feel the least
surprise if I saw at least two eights rowing in the final heat on
Thursday. Thames, London, Brasenose, Kingston, New College, and
Trinity Hall all possess some "sterling oarsmen," and carry "banners"
of different colours. I may remark, in passing, that no crew is
allowed to row with more than eight oars.

The race for the Stewards will be exciting. All these officials are in
hard training, but the Mayor of Henley is favourite at short odds.*

*_Note by the Editor._ - Are you sure this is right?

_Reply._ - Right? Of course it is. I'm here, and I ought to

I notice that the Ladies have a race all to themselves. Doubtless this
is due to Miss FAWCETT's pernicious example, but the innovation is not
to be commended. The entries for the Visitors are of average quality.
Three visitors only are to compete over a course of picnic luncheons
and strawberries and cream. I have only room left to remark that the
weather has been changeable, and that all the above tips are to be
thoroughly relied upon.

* * * * *




DUNCAN gay came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
'Gainst CAINE, who thought all drinkers fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
CAINE, he held his head full high,
And bade brave DUNCAN just stand by;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

DUNCAN was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
On the poll he gat first place.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Shifting swift and swagger vain
He will hardly try again;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

* * * * *

NEW TITLE. The Public-house Compensation Bill shall be hereafter known
and alluded to as the _Bung Bungle'd Bill_.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "HOPE DEFERRED."


* * * * *


_A Story of Signor Piatti and his 'Cello._]

* * * * *


The stillness of the Summer day
Broods o'er the country sweet,
And all things, save the murmuring stream,
Are silent in the heat.
The sunbeams through the green leaves play,
The air is sweet with new-mown hay -
But I am bound at home to stay
Here in Great Gasworks Street.

On the fourth-floor I take the air,
And hear the trains roll by,
And dream of all the visions fair
That o'er the housetops lie;
The meadows where the daisies stray,
The bleating sheep, as white as they,
The breakers and the sparkling spray,
Beneath the smokeless sky.

There's MINNIE in the cradle,
And TOMMY on the floor,
And JOHNNY with a ladle
Is banging on the door;
And, where the household linen dries,
Cross little ANNIE sits and cries
As loud as she can roar.

About the street the children sprawl,
Or on the door-steps sit;
The women, gay with kerchief-shawl,
Engage the men with wit,
Who lounge at ease against the wall,
And meditate and spit.

So through the Summer Sunday hours
The sunbeams slowly steal,
Gilding the beer-shop's saw-dust bowers,
The cabbage-stalks in lieu of flowers,
The trodden orange-peel,
Till, calm as heaven, the moon appears,
A Sister in a house of tears,
Who soothes, but cannot heal.

And now the cheap excursionists
Come, tired and happy, home,
And hear amid the noisy streets
The churning of the foam.
They've seen the surges rolling in
With slow, reluctant roar.
Or shouted to the ceaseless din
Along the rocky shore;
And others in the woodland way,
Or on the breezy down,
Have gone excursioning astray,
While I have stayed in Town,
And wished that I was dead and bu-ri-_ed_,
For all my Sunday gown.

And little BOBBY'S hair is curled
By country breezes sweet;
And LIZZIE'S heart is full of light,
Though heavy are her feet.
Father and mother face their plight
More hopeful for the treat,
And bless the God who made a world
Beyond Great Gasworks Street.

* * * * *


to Sevenoaks; lovely drive, see Knole Park and House, drive back _viâ_
Farningham - prettiest place possible, and one that the broken-hearted
_Tupman_ might have chosen for his retreat from the madding crowd - to
Dartford, where dine at the ancient hostelrie called "The Bull."
Recommended by the _Punch_ faculty, the Bull and no mistake. Then up
to London, still by road, - if a fine moonlight night, delightful, - and
remember the summer day so well spent as "a Knole 'Oliday."

* * * * *



_Question_. So you have finished your education?

_Answer_. Yes, thanks to the liberality of the School Board.

_Q._ Do you know more than your parents?

_A._ Certainly, as my father was a sweep, and my mother a charwoman.

_Q._ Would either occupation suit you?

_A._ Certainly not; my aspirations soar above such pursuits, and my
health, impaired by excessive study, unfits me for a life of manual

_Q._ Kindly tell me what occupation _would_ suit you?

_A._ I think I could, with a little cramming, pass the examinations
for the Army, the Navy, or the Bar.

_Q._ Then why not become an officer in either branch of the United
Service, or a Member of one of the Inns of Court?

_A._ Because I fear that as a man of neither birth nor breeding, I
should be regarded with contempt in either the Camp or the Forum.

_Q._ Would you take a clerkship in the City?

_A._ Not willingly, as I have enjoyed something better than a
commercial education, besides City clerkships are not to be had for
the asking.

_Q._ Well, would you become a shop-boy or a counter-jumper?

_A._ Certainly not; I should deem it a sin to waste my accomplishments
(which are many) in filling a situation suggestive of the servants'
hall, rather than of the library.

_Q._ Well then, how are you to make an honest livelihood?

_A._ Those who are responsible for my education must answer that

_Q._ And if they can't?

_A._ Then I must accept an alternative, and seek inspiration and
precedents from the records of success in another walk of life,
beginning with the pages of the _Newgate Calendar!_

* * * * *



"_The humble individual who now addresses you_;" i.e., "I mustn't
exactly assert my superiority in so many words; this is an invitation
to you to do it for me."


"_Quite a wonderful wine, when you think of the price_;" i.e., Good
enough for _you_.

"_He is said to have quite the biggest practice about here_;" i.e.,
You may call him in if you like; _I_ shouldn't.


"_Poor dear Mulligan! he it quite too delightfully good-natured,
don't you know_;" i.e., "A great goose who gushes, and fancies it

"_A great authority on Golf_;" "An energetic bore, whose talk is all
of 'bunkers' and 'Mr. BALFOUR.'"


"_Have been asked to come forward_;" i.e., "The result of ten years
pushing and scheming on my part."

_A "local" man_; i.e., Owns a small property in the furthest corner
of the county.

"_The good old cause_;" i.e., Ourselves.

"_Have always felt that the - - class are the mainstay of the
country_;" i.e., "Must conciliate the industrial section of

* * * * *


_Frivolous Lady_ (_making conversation_). "OH, THE ACADEMY! I NEVER
SAW SUCH RUBBISH AS THERE IS THIS YEAR!" (_Suddenly remembers that the
Gentleman she is talking to is an R.A._) "HAVE YOU ANYTHING THERE?"


* * * * *



"Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen, they do shout."
SPENSER, "_Epithalamion_."

"Bring home the triumph of our Victory,"
Sings SPENSER. From wide wanderings you have come
Victorious, yet, as all the world may see,
Your sweetest, crowning triumph find - at home.
Say, would ULYSSES care again to roam
Wed with so winning a PENELOPE
Loyal like her of Ithaca, and dowered
With charms that in the Greek less fully flowered,
The charms of talent and of character,
Which blend in her
Who, won, long waited, and who, waiting, won
The virile, valiant son
Of our adventurous England. May the bays
Blend well with Hymen's roses, and long days
Of happiness and honour crown the pair
For whom to-day loud plaudits rend the air.
"Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen, they do shout," -
Health to brave DOROTHY and STANLEY stout!

* * * * *


Capital entertainment the GERMAN REEDS have just now. Mr. ALFRED
REED immensely funny in _Carnival Time_, written by MALCOLM WATSON
and CORNY GRAIN. You should have heard Miss NELLIE FARREN'S hearty
laughter at the drolleries in St. George's Hall last Thursday
afternoon. NELLY FARREN'S as good an audience as she is a comic
actress, and that's saying a good deal. Miss FANNY HOLLAND and Miss
KATE TULLY excellent. Then, after the _Carnival_, CORNY GRAIN'S
_Society Peepshow for 1890_ sent everybody into fits. That austere
Indian Judge, Mr. Justice STRAIGHT, was straight no longer, but
bent double by convulsions of laughter. Mr. CORNY GRAIN deals out
pleasantly some hard bits all round, but as everyone applies them to
his or her neighbour, everyone naturally enjoys the joke immensely. We
used the word "drolleries" just now. Happy Thought; As we have had the
Fisheries, and the Sogeries, and any number of other "eries," why not
re-name St. George's Hall "The Drolleries?" Advice gratis: - Before the
Season's over, it is a place to spend a happy afternoon or evening. As
_Hamlet_, if he had thought of it, would have said to _Ophelia_, "Go!
to the Drolleries! Go!"

* * * * *




[For further details, See Mr. OSCAR WILDE'S Article in _The
Nineteenth Century_ for July.]

_Erbert_ (_at the banjo_). My dear GILLIE, what are you doing?

_Gilnest_ (_yawning_). I was wondering when you were going to begin.
We have been sitting here for an hour, and nothing has been said upon
the important subject we proposed to discuss.

_E._ (_tapping him lightly on the cheek_). Tut, tut, my dear boy, you
must not be petulant. And yet, when I come to study you more closely,
your face looks charming when you make a _moue_. Let me see you do it
again. Ah, yes. You look into my eyes with the divine sullenness that
broods tragically upon the pale brow of the Antinous. And through
your mind, though you know it not (how indeed should you?), march many
mystical phantoms that are not of this base world. Pale HELEN steps
out upon the battlements and turns to FLAUBERT her appealing glance,
and CELLINI paces with Madame DE SEVIGNÉ through the eternal shadows
of unrevealed realism. And BROWNING, and HOMER, and MEREDITH, and
OSCAR WILDE are with them, the fleet-footed giants of perennial
youth, like unto the white-limbed Hermes, whom Polyxena once saw, and
straight she hied her away to the vine-clad banks of Ilyssus, where
Mr. PATER stands contemplative, like some mad scarlet thing by DVORÁK,
and together they march with the perfect significance of silence
through realms that are cloud-capped with the bright darkness that
shines from the poet's throne amid the stars.

[Stops, and lights a cigarette.

_G._ Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Now indeed I recognise my ERBERT's
voice; and that is - yes, it must be - the scent of the cigarettes you
lately imported. Grant me one, only one. (_Takes one and lights it._)
But what were you talking about?

_E._ (_pinches his cheek_). There you are horrid again. But you smile.
_Je te connais, mon brave._ [Greek: Gignosko se pai] (never mind the
accents). _Ich kenne dich, mein alter._ _Cognosco te, amice._ I know
you, old fellow. You are only chaffing. As if you had not discovered
that which all truly great indolence has taught ever since the first
star looked out and beheld chaotic vastness on every hand. For to say
something is what every puny whipster can do. To talk much, and in
many languages, and yet to have said nothing, that, my dear GILLIE, is
what all have striven for, but only one, gifted above his fellows
with magic power of weaving the gossamer thread of words, has truly
attained. For it is in that reconcilement of apparent opposites,


Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, July 12, 1890 → online text (page 2 of 3)