Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 27, 1895 online

. (page 2 of 2)
Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 27, 1895 → online text (page 2 of 2)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook


_First Man._ Come to that, in some ways I agree with the Tories. Now
take Disestablishment.

_Second Man._ Ah, that's just one point where I disagree with the

_First Man._ Well, you may be right. But I should be a Tory if they
supported Home Rule.

_Second Man._ And I should be a Liberal if they didn't want

_First Man._ Now, CHAMBERLAIN - -

_Second Man._ Ah, yes. CHAMBERLAIN - -

_First Man._ He opposes Home Rule.

_Second Man._ He supports Disestablishment.

[_Left mutually abusing_ Mr. CHAMBERLAIN

* * * * *

Punchestown for the races. His Excellency and the house party from
the Viceregal Lodge, which included TOBY, M.P., met with a hearty
reception." Naturally. If TOBY, M.P. was not made welcome at _Punch's_
town, who should be?

* * * * *

CITY NOTES. - _The latest Crushing Report._ - The Londonderry Mine.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE NEW CONDUCTOR.


_Report of the Right Hon. Arthur Balfour's speech on the election of
Mr. Gully as Speaker._]

* * * * *


* * * * *


_Returned Anglo-Indian Colonel_ (_to friend of his boyhood_). Either
your climate is colder than it used to be, or your coals throw out
less heat. Which is it?

_His Friend._ Oh, it's the coals. Rubbishy things, rather. Come from
Tomsk in Siberia.

_R. A.-I. C._ Siberia! They ought to be sent there! But aren't English
coals good enough?

_His Friend._ Oh, yes, they're _good_ enough. But then, you see,
they're dear. That's the result of the last coal strike.

_R. A.-I. C._ Oh, I heard about that at Bangalore. Then how about your
razors? I bought one yesterday in the Strand. If you believe me, I've
only used it once and it's blunt already.

_His Friend._ "Made in Germany," no doubt. The trade's gone over
there, they say.

_R. A.-I. C._ And boots, now. Why has the pair I got in the City a
month ago split open in two places?

_His Friend._ _That's_ the late boot strike. Cheap American goods have
ousted the genuine British article.

_R. A.-I. C._ (_meditatively_). Ah - heard of the boot strike too at
Bangalore. But I didn't find my bootmaker charged me any less than in
the old days for 'em. Tell you what, there's only one thing that will
save England.

_His Friend._ What's that?

_R. A.-I. C._ Why, a new kind of strike altogether. Why shouldn't the
strikers _strike striking?_ Eh?

_His Friend._ That never struck me.

[_They part pensively._

* * * * *


I do not now attempt to sing,
With laudatory phrases,
That now, in verse, quite hackneyed thing,
Which poet, painter praises:
Beloved by TURNER, CLAUDE, or CUYP,
The excellent tobacco-pipe.

Nor yet of bagpipes do I write,
Pan's pipes with Punch and Judy,
Or organ ones, because you might
Read books on them, from MUDIE,
In varied tongues, in varied type -
On any sort of music pipe.

Nor, plagued of late however much
By bronchial affections,
Do I propose just now to touch,
With medical reflections,
On what Jack Frost delights to gripe,
My choking, wheezing, sore wind-pipe,

Nor am I speaking now of wine,
Nor yet, from MARRYAT learning,
Of what the Cockney would define -
Poor A as ever spurning -
"The sime in nime, but not in shipe,"
The pipe of port; the boatswain's pipe.

No! Now I sing - but not with praise,
To praise it would be rummer
Than any other sort of craze,
Excepting in a plumber;
I am not such a fool, a "snipe,"
As says the Bard - my water-pipe.

For weeks I could not get a drop
Of water, it was frozen;
When thus congealed the thing would stop,
I spoke as would a boatswain.
For seamen's oaths the time was ripe,
I here translate them - Hang that pipe!

Then suddenly, of course at night,
There came a sudden splashing,
And I, in most unequal fight,
About my bedroom dashing,
With sheets and towels tried to wipe,
Or check, the flood from that vile pipe.

You would not say that frost is fine,
So exquisitely bracing,
If you had had a pipe like mine,
Your ruined home defacing;
On carpet, stain; on paper, stripe; -
Oh, blow that beastly water-pipe!

* * * * *


* * * * *


* * * * *


Oh, painters, you who always "come
Before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March" - till May - with some
Atrocious smell of paint, and make
The streets in such a shocking state, you
Are quite a nuisance - how I hate you!

How can I wear in peace a neat,
Silk hat, and coat of decent black,
When, passing you in any street,
Your paint may tumble on my back,
Or I may smash, which might be sadder,
My hat against your sloping ladder?

How can the spring delight my mind,
How can I like the budding trees,
The butterflies of any kind?
A Painted Lady could not please
In any way the mental man,
Were I a painted gentleman.

How can I like the balmy air,
How dream of violets in bloom,
When paint-pots swing aloft and scare
With visions of impending doom?
I'm mad and hot - quite crimson madder -
With dodging each successive ladder.

* * * * *


(_Lines written to a Lady who "Banted."_)

Some rhymes to make you laugh? I can't
Drop, Wegg-like, into rhyme instanter.
It's easiness itself to bant,
Comparatively hard to banter.

The many pretty things I'd say,
The pleasant thoughts I'd like to utter,
I may not do, it seems to-day -
You scorn the bare idea of _butter!_

"Sweets to the sweet." Not long ago,
Why chocolates - you'd gladly greet them.
Now you've abandoned them, and so
You never (hardly ever) eat them.

To see you drink hot water - that
The very stoniest heart would soften,
You evidently think it flat,
You're in it - aren't you - much too often?

Yet whether 9st. 12, as when
You weighed that day at Margate Station,
Or 10st. 7, or 7st. 10,
_I_ can't pretend to indignation.

To bant from early morn till late
May be, of course, supremely right of you;
But if you feel oppressed by weight,
Would it not do if we made light of you?

Though that I swear I will not do,
Let others, if they like, make bold to -
I merely write these rhymes for you,
I _always_ do just what I'm told to!

But if you cease to peak and pine
(For Time the Banting Conscience hardens),
You will not fail to drop a line -
My chambers are in Temple Gardens.

* * * * *


_By an Angry Old Buffer._

"When ADAM delved and EVE span,"
No one need ask which was the man.
Bicycling, footballing, scarce human,
All wonder now "Which is the woman?"
But a new fear my bosom vexes;
To-morrow there may be _no_ sexes!
Unless, as end to all the pother,
Each one in fact becomes the other.
E'en _then_ perhaps they'll start amain
A-trying to change back again!
Woman _was_ woman, man _was_ man,
When ADAM delved and EVE span.
Now he can't dig and she won't spin,
Unless 'tis tales all slang and sin!

* * * * *




* * * * *


["The magnificent ostrich at the Zoological Gardens, presented
by the QUEEN, has recently died from lung-disease." - _Daily

My eyes are wet with dewy tears,
That will not cease to flow.
Like MARY'S little lamb, my grief
Somehow is sure to go
Wherever I do. It all comes
From something that I've read,
The ostrich that I loved so well
Fell ill, and now is dead.

"Magnificent" indeed, it was.
I never ceased to take
A pride in its magnificence
For its own special sake.
But added unto this there was
An extra joy. I mean
That loyalty asks ardour for
A present from the QUEEN.

Oh! ostrich. I have often thought
Your smile childlike and bland,
And speculated if it's true
That right down in the sand
You really _do_ conceal your head.
But even though that's wrong,
It seems without a lung for life
You could not live for long.

My wife and I delight to hear
Our wee girl's merry laugh,
As she's astride the elephant
Or feeding the giraffe.
But ostrich - regal, lung-gone, dead!
When we are at the Zoo,
My wife's best hat will always serve
To turn my thoughts to you.

* * * * *


(_An Impression._)


"O east is east, and west is west
And never the twain shall meet."
And the dance of Spain is one of the twain
To the English Man in the Street.

We love the trick of the lofty kick
And the muscular display
Of the nymph who has leapt at a muslin hoop
And stopp'd in her flight half-way.

A plain, blunt girl in the stormy swirl
Of accordion pleats and laces,
Tho' she cannot dance, if she spin and prance,
Is numbered among the Graces.

For heel and toe our hearts can glow
And the feats of the rhythmic clog,
And a poem of motion wells forth in the notion
Of a Serpentine Dancing Dog.

But the dancer's art, of her life a part,
A song of the wordless soul
With a tale to tell, like the music's swell,
Too large for the word's control,

_That_ goes not down in London town
Where dogg'd conventions stick,
And dancers still must charm with frill,
Or "make shymnastic drick."

As the jungle king with his wrathful spring,
To the lamb that aptly bleats,
As the trumpet's blare to the palsied air
Of that which plays in pleats,

So is east to west, with its sun-born zest,
With fire at the quick heart's core,
And passions bold as the ardent gold
Of the sun on a southern shore.

* * * * *


(_In brief._)

"The sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise."

_Henry the Fourth_, Part I., Act i., Sc. 3.

A quarrel, anything but pretty,
Cannot be healed by parmaceti.
But honour, bruisèd in the leg,
Finds sovereign solace in an egg.

* * * * *


_Saturday._ - Things looking queer. Leamington in a ferment, Tories
denouncing _me_. Like their impudence. Must order ARTHUR BALFOUR to
stop this nonsense, and bring rebels to reason. I shall want Hythe
thrown into the bargain. BALFOUR must write more letters. If our
little lot are to get nothing out of all this, what's the use of
having sacrificed principles and COURTNEY? Obviously none. JESSE
COLLINGS quite agrees. Says the Tories will repent, when it is too
late, of having refused to submit to the greatest, wisest, most
generous and noblest statesman of this or any other age, past
or future. Wonderful amount of sense in JESSE. Shall make him
Governor-General of India, or First Lord of Admiralty.


_Monday._ - Have seen BALFOUR. Says he can do nothing at Leamington.
Wanted me to withdraw Liberal Unionist candidate. ME! The mere notion
ridiculous. Told him so. Also asked him how about Compact. He said
"Compact be - - ". At this moment GOSCHEN came in, and interrupted.
BALFOUR said missing word was "observed." GOSCHEN full of sympathy,
but said he could do nothing. Shall not allow him to be Chancellor of
Exchequer again. Shall be Chancellor of Exchequer myself. Letter
in _Times_ from GEOFFREY DRAGE, saying kind things about me. Rather
patronising, but well meant. Shall make DRAGE Home Secretary.

_Tuesday._ - Letter in _Times_ from Lord TEYNHAM attacking me on
account of vote on Welsh Disestablishment. Even a fool of a lord
might know a man can't wriggle out of everything, and can't please
everybody. Have written to SALISBURY ordering him to throw TEYNHAM
into the Tower as soon as Unionist Government in power. If he refuses,
shall accept Premiership myself and execute TEYNHAM on Tower Hill.
Leamington still raging. If this goes on shall march at head of
Birmingham Fencibles and rase Leamington to the ground - all except
three houses said to belong to Liberal Unionists. That'll teach them
to oppose _me_.

_Wednesday._ - Letter in _Times_ from BYRON REED. Says I'm not so bad
as they want to make me out. Nice sensible fellow BYRON. Shall make
him Minister of Agriculture. Have sent ultimatums to SALISBURY,
them to retire from public life. Shall run the show on entirely
different lines with AUSTEN and JESSE to help me. Have heard from
editor of _New Review_, who refuses to disclose name of author, of an
attack on me. Have sent HENRY JAMES to editor with new patent rack
and thumbscrews. But there, my name's easy. Never could bear malice.
Always forgive everybody.... Notes from SALISBURY, BALFOUR & CO. They
refuse to retire. HENRY JAMES returns. Editor broke rack and threw
thumbscrews out of window. A very rude man, HENRY JAMES says. GULLY
elected Speaker. I'm off to Birmingham.

* * *

_Later._ - Letter from HART DYKE in the _Times_. A good fellow, HART
DYKE. But why, in the name of screw-nails, should they all presume to
patronise _me?_

* * *

Letter in _Standard_ from STANLEY BOULTER. Must stop that kind of
nonsense. Leading article in _Standard_. Usual futilities: "We fully
recognise loyal services, but on the present occasion," &c. Shall
refuse peerage and retire to Central Australia with JESSE to found a
Me-colony. Sick of the whole show.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERY. - ANY ADVANCE? - I see that at the Shop Assistants'
Conference at Cardiff it was said that what shop-workers ought to go
in for was a "Forward Policy." Surely this must be a mistake? If there
is one thing that everybody objects to, it is forward young men and
women behind the counter. One often hears the shop-walker say, "Will
you come forward, Miss JONES, and serve this lady!" And perhaps _that_
was what the Cardiff people were thinking of. Can this be the true
explanation? I sincerely hope so; I don't want a "forward" young
person, a sort of "independent labour party," slamming down goods for
_me_ to inspect! - ALARMED.

* * * * *


Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 27, 1895 → online text (page 2 of 2)