Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895 online

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PUNCH, VOL. 109, NOVEMBER 2ND, 1895 ***

Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at


Volume 109, November 2, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_


* * * * *

Edinburgh, in answer to calls for a speech, at the termination of his
visit with _Thoroughbred_, Mr. J. L. TOOLE presented himself to the
audience "habited in his sables" as the nigger minstrel. _Mr. Punch's_
Own Popular Comedian was in excellent health and in his best, _i.e._,
his own, "form." He explained that, despite appearances which might
lead to such a conclusion, he was _not_ about to join the Christy
Minstrels. However, it was probable, but not yet definitely settled,
that in the next revival of the Shakspearian tragedy at the London
Lyceum, he might impersonate _Othello_ to the _Iago_ of his friend Sir
HENRY IRVING. We hope so. What crowded houses! Booking-office should
open at once.

* * * * *


(_From a Newspaper of the Future._)

Many years ago, in 1895, our esteemed contemporary, the _Daily
Graphic_, suggested the appointment of a Minister of Fine Arts. This
seemingly admirable scheme was soon after carried out. The first
Minister was a cautious man. His one great improvement, which met with
universal approval, was to remove all the statues and fountains from
every part of London, and to place them in a row on Romney Marsh, from
Dungeness to Hythe, where they would undoubtedly scare away any French
army endeavouring to land. The second Minister tried to introduce the
so-called "Queen Anne," or Dutch architecture, and prepared a scheme
for altering the whole of London. As a beginning, the north side
of Oxford Street, from Holborn to the Marble Arch, was completely
transformed. Along the whole distance stretched a fantastic row of
red-brick buildings, the surface of which was diversified at every
possible point by useless little windows, and little arches, and
little projections, and little recesses, and little balustrades.
These had risen to the level of the second floors, when a change
of Government brought in a Minister who believed only in English
architecture of the fifteenth century. Under his directions the new
buildings were therefore continued in stone, in imitation of the
Houses of Parliament, but the work was stopped by his death. His
successor, though of course one of the Gothic party, preferred the
Gothic architecture of Italy, and the upper parts of the houses were
therefore finished in that style. As at that time the reduction of
the Budget was urgently needed, it was decided to use painted stucco
instead of real marble, as in Italy.

When the next Government came into office all the houses on the South
side of Oxford Street were pulled down, and everyone said that at
last we should have an imposing row of buildings. Unfortunately a
difficulty arose. The new Minister of Fine Arts was only interested in
gardening, and hardly knew one style of architecture from another. He
could not therefore decide the great question whether the new houses
should correspond with the opposite ones, and, if so, whether they
should be "Queen Anne," or Italian Gothic, or English Perpendicular in
style. The controversy raged for months. Every person interested said,
or wrote, what he thought, or knew, or did not think, or did not know,
about architecture, and taste, and art in general. The Academy of
Arts, the Society of Antiquaries, and the Institute of Architects,
hitherto sedate bodies, became so excited that free fights occurred
almost daily in the neighbourhood of Burlington House, and on the
waste land in Oxford Street. In every newspaper "The Improvement
of Oxford Street" was discussed vigorously. Suddenly the current of
public opinion was turned in another direction by a lamentable event.
The Minister of Fine Arts, returning from his weekly inspection of the
maiden-hair ferns on Wormwood Scrubs, was killed in a cab accident in
Vigo Street, a miserably narrow turning, which had escaped the notice
of everyone but the cabmen, who always prefer the narrowest streets.

At once there arose a universal cry that safety and space were more
important than style. The new Minister was beginning to widen some of
the narrow thoroughfares, when his party went out of office. The work
has not been continued by the present Minister, who is considering a
scheme for the improvement of London by the erection of fountains
and statues. Meanwhile the Oxford Street site is still vacant, and
no improvements are attempted elsewhere. Half of Vigo Street has been
made the same width as Burlington Gardens; the other half remains, as
before, about fifteen feet across from house to house.

Our esteemed contemporary, the _Daily Graphic_, always alive to the
artistic needs of the age, remarks that it is impossible to regulate
art by Acts of Parliament, or to improve London by party government,
and therefore suggests that the Ministry of Fine Arts should be

* * * * *


BOARD AND RESIDENCE. - Here is a gem from the Bandon Quarter Sessions.
Their Medical Officer of Health, Dr. MAGNER, was suing the Guardians
of the Clonakilty Union for failing to erect a fence round the
Dispensary residence: -

Counsel argued that the true cause of all this was that Dr.
MAGNER happened to be a gentleman of independent mind, who had
not, like others in the same position, the _savoir faire_ to
cuddle guardians.

_His Honour._ Do you mean to say that any unfortunate medical
officer has to cuddle boards of guardians? A very unpleasant
duty certainly.

_Mr. Powell._ Well, they had to attend the meetings, and,
perhaps, stand drinks, and things of that kind. (_Laughter._)

Who would not be such a Medical Officer,
Practised in keeping his Board well in hand?
D'you think that he offers them cocoa or coffee, Sir?
No; but it's whisky he's called on to "stand."

Paupers fall ill, and his task is to cure 'em;
In fights with infection he comes up to time;
'Gainst bad sanitation he's paid to secure 'em;
His drains may be poor, but his "drinks" must be prime.

Is any Guardian cantankerous? He "cuddles" him
(So did a Counsel obscurely declare);
And should this fail, then his "Irish hot" fuddles him;
For what is a doctor without "_savoir faire_"?

* * * * *

THE WATER-BANDITS AGAIN! - Not content with spoiling the Falls of
Foyers, the Aluminium Company now threatens an attack on the Falls of
Clyde. Oh, what a Fall is there, my countrymen! exclaims the patriotic
Scot. The Co. that dares to lay its hands on Clyde, save in the way
of kindness, is a willun, and should be wound up instanter. Says the
_North British Daily Mail_ -

The times are distinctly utilitarian and prosaic, and yet we
have not all progressed up, or down, to the level of the
man who sees nothing in a grand cataract beyond so much
horse-power running to waste.

Neatly put, and even from a utilitarian standpoint it may be well to
remember that as much money may be brought into Scotland by a thousand
tourists wanting to view the Falls, as by a single company wanting to
ruin them.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A THIN DISGUISE.

_The Russian Bear_ (_in Chinese costume, only more like himself than
ever, slily chuckles as he crosses Manchuria_). 'AHA! THEY WON'T KNOW

(_See Special Communication to "Times," October 25._)]

* * * * *


[MAX O'RELL says that the English wife sits opposite to her
husband at the fireside in the evening with her curl-papers in
her hair.]

Air - "_She wore a Wreath of Roses._"

She wore a wreath of roses,
The night when first we met;
Her hair, with careful oiling,
Looked shiny, black, and wet.
Her footsteps had the lightness
Of - say a mastodon;
And oh! she look exceeding smart,
Though high of hue - and bone.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now
With the slimness, style and lightness
Of - say a Low Dutch Vrow!

A wreath of orange blossoms
When next we met she wore,
The spread of form and features
Was much greater than before.
And standing by her side was one
Who strove, and strove in vain,
To make believe that such a wife
Was a domestic gain.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With her big front teeth projecting,
A queer blend of horse and cow.

And once again I see that brow -
No bridal wreath is there -
A ring of curl-papers conceals
What's left of her scant hair.
She sits on one side of the hearth.
Her spouse, poor man, sits near,
And wonders how that scarecrow thing
Could once to him be dear!

* * * * *

I wondered, and departed,
Yet methinks I see her now,
That type of British wife-hood,
With the corkscrews round her brow!

* * * * *


MY DEAR MARJORIE, - Since I wrote to you last, ARTHUR has developed
unmistakable signs of acute jealousy. _Bluebeard_ was mild in
comparison with him; _Othello_ childishly unsuspicious. At first, I
liked it, and was flattered; but it is now beginning to be a little
wearing. Also, I find that it has the effect of making me ridiculously
and unjustifiably vain; catching, as it were, from ARTHUR, the idea
that everyone I meet must necessarily admire me, and would like to
take his place. A quite absurd instance of this has just happened, of
which I am rather ashamed. My cousin FREDDY, who is staying with us in
the country, has a musical friend, called PERCIVAL, for whose talents
and accomplishments FREDDY has the greatest possible admiration.
Having got permission to bring him down, FREDDY instantly dragged him
to the piano and insisted on his playing and singing a song which went
like this: -

"The people call me DAISY,
Little DAISY, with the dimple,
And all the boys are fond of me
Because I am so simple," &c.

We were all charmed, except ARTHUR, and except PERCIVAL himself.
PERCIVAL composes songs, called "_Dreaming Eyes_," "_Far from Thee_,"
"_Ever_"; besides, he can play WAGNER, and MASCAGNI, and TOSTI, and
all kinds of real classical music, and didn't quite like to be treated
as if he were a mere music-hall singer. He is a gentle, amiable
creature, without any pose, and with (as I know _now_) not the very
smallest intention or desire to steal the heart of one who belonged
to another. It would be difficult to find anyone less likely than
PERCIVAL to break up - let us say, for instance, a happy English home.
ARTHUR thought otherwise; to ARTHUR, PERCIVAL seemed a _Don Juan_,
a gay _Lothario_, a very _Lovelace_, the most dangerous of young
troubadours. And he glared - really, glared is the only word - so much
while I talked to poor young PERCIVAL that I, also, actually began to
think there must be something in it; and, from mischief, I talked
to him the more. After dinner, we danced. To tease ARTHUR, who was
snubbing everyone and looking sulky, I couldn't resist sitting in
the conservatory a little while with FREDDY'S friend. True, my
conversation with this reckless _Rizzio_ might have been, word for
word, carried on between two provincial old ladies: and yet, the
knowledge that ARTHUR wouldn't have believed it, gave a sort of
imaginary romantic wickedness to the whole thing. He asked me if I had
read _Trilby_, and said he had, curiously enough, never seen the _Shop
Girl_. We agreed, that though we didn't much like the winter, still
it was certainly a nice change after the summer. We had reached
this point, when ARTHUR came into the conservatory; I rose, so did
PERCIVAL, and at the same time he handed me a little piece of paper on
which he had, while he talked, been writing something in pencil....
I walked away with ARTHUR, mechanically squeezing the little bit of
paper in my hand.

"What," he said, furiously, "was that letter that young fool gave

Becoming frightened, I denied that he had given me a letter, slipped
it into my mouth, and slowly ate it.... We had a scene. I cried; we
made it up, and he gave me a new brooch afterwards.

The next day I seized an opportunity to tell PERCIVAL that he
_mustn't_ do such things, as it made ARTHUR very angry, and also
to ask what was on the piece of paper. He looked at me. "Why, Miss
GLADYS," he said, "didn't you show it to your future husband?"

"What was it?" I asked, timidly.

"It was my publisher's address. You said you would like to have some
of my songs, and - - " Thank heaven, he has gone away now, and as
FREDDY is always cycling, there is peace again.

But advise me what to do about ARTHUR.

Your affectionate friend,

* * * * *


_Johnnie_ (_who finds that his Box, £20, has been appropriated by "the

_Bill Bashford._ "OH, IS IT? WELL, WHY DON'T YOU TIKE IT?"]

* * * * *


(_By "Hansom Jack."_)



London is not _only_ gloomy and ghostish, at least Cabby's London
is not, by a dollop,
But chock-full of fun. Wot _is_ fun you may ask. Well, I'd like to
refer you to "CARROTTY CHOLLOP"!
Spot arf-a-dozen of street-boys or gutter-snipes doin' a skylark
or slum double-shuffle,
And you'll find _one_ of 'em a native born _comique_ who'll make
you crack sides with a kick or a snuffle.

Same with a cab-rank! There's mostly one cove with a mug like a
clown's, needing no chalk or scarlet;
"CARROTTY CHOLLOP" 's a natural grin-maker; don't seem to _try_,
the mischeevious young varlet.
Trying's no good, for you can't _learn_ the comic; it comes, like
a knowledge of 'osses, spontanyus.
And if without props, with the flags for a stage, you can make
people _laugh_ - well, that's wot _I_ call janyus.

ROBERTS and PENLEY theirselves can't do _more_. Tell you "CARROTTY
CHOLLOP" can "gag," and no error.
To bumptious 'bus drivers and 'igh-'anded bobbies and fussy old
toffs 'e's a fair 'oly terror.
Never says nothink offensive - not CHOLLOP! - 'e's far too
hartistic, 'is voice soft as gruel;
But still 'e can make puffy Crushers go purple with just one
tongue-snack as goes 'ome and stings cruel.

Can't score off CHOLLOP. "'E leaves nothink on," says our champion
cue-'andler, "JOHNNY THE JIGGER."
'E can make fun out of anythink, CHOLLOP can, jam-full of jokes,
if 'e just pulls the trigger,
Bang goes 'is charge, sweeping like a machine-gun; old "CARROTTY"
ramming 'is 'ands in 'is pockets,
And cocking 'is queer ginger-scrub of a chin, while the wheezes
fly round 'im like crackers and rockets.

Fussy young coppers fight shy of 'im mostly, for 'e knows the
ropes, and 'e can't be caught napping.
No "two-and-six-and-two" (fine and costs) knock _'im_ at Marlboro'
Street, 'long o' loitering _or_ lapping.
Sharp as a weasel, and slippy as jelly, 'e's got such a manner of
landing 'is wheezes
As makes the most wooden-chumped constable snigger behind 'is own
cuff; _then_ it's go as 'e pleases!

_Actor?_ 'E's good as a pantermine, CHOLLOP is. 'E can play simple
and soft as a babby;
Make you emagine 'e's some gawping chawbacon 'stead of a hartful
and up-to-date Cabby.
Struck a bright once. At the risk of 'is life stopped a runaway
carriage. Old gent, name o' JENNER,
Told 'im to call at 'is 'ouse the next day; and, when CHOLLOP
turned up, old gent _tipped 'im a tenner!_

_'E_ set some store on 'is life, that old codger did. Many a
swell, whose sole motter seems "collar,"
After a sharp risky service like that, would 'a' thought a mere
Cabby well paid with a dollar.
Many a charge against Cabbies is cackled, and many a bit o' sharp
practice recorded,
But 'onesty don't come as sweet as it should when you know wot
some mean by the words "well rewarded."

Wealth 'as rum notions of _wages_ - sometimes. I once 'ad a case as
tots up in this manner: -
To saving a bosky old toff from two footpads, and drivin' 'im 'ome
(two miles) two-and-a-tanner!
Watch they were grabbing was worth fifty quid, and _he_ - I
persoom - was worth _somethink_, to someone,
Though I wouldn't buy such at tuppence a stun. In the matter o'
meanness this world _is_ a rum one.

CHOLLOP was luckier. "JACK," 'e says, rubbing 'is rhububy chin,
like a old nutmeg-grater;
"JACK, I was fair discumfuddled _that_ journey. 'Ardly knew wich
was my bloomin' equator,
And wich my North Pole. Left my 'at on the 'arthrug, and tried to
shake 'ands with the mortar-haired flunkey!
Scott! if you'd seen 'im dror back with a shudder! 'Twould fetch a
fair grin from a blessed brass monkey.

"A tenner! The fust my ten fingers 'ad 'andled. As crisp and as
clean as my Sunday-best dickey.
Wanted to change it right off; 'fraid o' losing, _or_ lighting my
pipe with it. Paper's so tricky;
Popped in a shop for a ounce o' best shag and a sixpenny briar.
But when the old codger
Clapped heyes on the flimsy in _my_ bunch o' fives, wy 'e set me
down, strite, for a fair Hartful Dodger.

"'Where did you get _this?_' 'e croaked, down 'is throat, like a
pompous old Beak bullyragging a Cabby;
'Lawks, 'ere's a lark on!' I sez to myself. 'Hay? _Git_ it?' I
drawls, making heyes like a babby.
'_Found_ it, perhaps?' sneers the Josser. 'Ah! p'r'aps so,' sez I,
'or maybe, dontcherknow, it was _guv_ me.'
Lor, 'ow 'e bossed at me over 'is barnacles. Tenners, 'e thought,
looked a long cut above me.

"'If you carn't give more straightforrard account of 'ow this
ten-pun note came into _your_ possession,
Wy, I shall detain it, and send for a constable,' snorts 'e,
a-thinkin' 'e'd made a himpression.
'Well,' sez I, 'umble, 'a gentleman guv it me, if you _must_
know.' Then 'e wagged 'is old pow-wow
And sez, 'I must 'ave that gent's name and address, and see _into_
the thing, as I think sounds all bow-wow.'

"'Well, shall I take you to see 'im,' I asks, mild and mealy and
timersome-like. Sniffin' orty
'E pops on a topper, and _jumps in my cab_. Then I _druv_
'im, - no, _not_ to a 'undred and forty
In Topsawyer Square, but to Scotland Yard, strite! Then I alters
my part, playing up hinjured virtue.
'_Now charge me!_' I sez. 'E went squelch like this hegg. 'Look
ere, Cabby,' 'e starts, 'I've no wish for to 'urt you - - '

"Larf? 'Ow the bobbies and me did a chortle to see 'im cave in and
squirm round and skedaddle.
'Hi! Stop, Sir!' I shouts. 'For a fourteen-stun lump of fat
helderly fuss, you _are_ prompt on the paddle.
But - fare, if you please, - from your shop to the Yard!
Eighteen-pence, Sir, to _you_, though it _should_ be two
That fare knocked 'im silly, at fust. But 'e parted; and I never
took a fare's money more willin'."

CHOLLOP should go on the boards, so I tell 'im. I've 'eard 'im
change patter with regular pros.
Hegged on by their lydies to take the shine out of 'im. When
they've squared up, 'tis but little _'e_ owes.
Ah! the world's tenners are sprinkled unreglar; but talent does
not always follow the money,
And many a _comique_ at ten quid a week, though much fatter than
CHOLLOP, is not arf as funny.

* * * * *

NOTE FROM THE OPERA. - Dash my LUDWIG, but this artist is mighty good
as the _Flying Dutchman_ at Covent Garden. Likewise Madame DUMA, as
_Senta_, enthusiastically applauded and showered with bouquets. And
that DUDLEY BUCK, too! Delightful name for a lady-killing lover is the
Deadly BUCK, who appropriately played the forester _Erik_ in love
with _Senta_. Capital performance and first-rate house. Conductor, Mr.
FELD. Recognised his style of conducting at once. Merely saw his back,
and exclaimed, "That's FELD to the ground!"

* * * * *

CONCERNING THAT LITTLE PARTY. - A correspondent objects to the
suggestion made in these columns last week that Dr. GRACE should give
a dance in honour of his recent cheque from the _Daily Telegraph_
without consultation with the representative of domestic Home Rule.
"It is possible," writes the scribe, "that were such an appeal made
to such an umpire, the verdict might be 'no ball,' and cause some
confusion." Were such a thing to happen, the champion cricketer might
be "put out" - a contingency so highly improbable, that it does not
merit a moment's consideration.

* * * * *

coals!" (_Aside._) But we must, and not on our own terms. (See _Romeo
and Juliet_, Act I., Sc. 1)

* * * * *

Shortly to be published, in illustrated form, by the Punch Press,
"_Historic Peeps's Diary_."

* * * * *



_The Chronicles of Count Antonio_, by ANTHONY HOPE. "Delightful,"
quoth the Baron; all colour laid on artistically, yet in bold
slap-dash style. Broad effects as in scene-painting. He is the Sir
JOHN GILBERT of romancers is Count ANTONIO HOPE HAWKINS The _beau
cavalier_ wins his lady against all odds. It is WALTER SCOTT, G. P.
R. JAMES, LEVER, AINSWORTH, DUMAS, Drury Lane drama, ancient Astley's
Amphitheatre, essenced; the whole thing done in one readable volume!
Genuine romance: all "movement": interest never allowed to flag:
drums, alarums, excursions: obstacles everywhere only to be
surmounted: dramatic finish and final tableau magnificent! Curtain:
loud applause: and calls for author. Great success.

Hugely content is the Baron with a book published by SMITH, ELDER &
CO., and writ by one "JACK EASEL," some time a frequent contributor
to _Mr. Punch's_ pages. The title of the work is "_Our Square and
Circle_." All is written "on the square," and that the matter is
"non-contentious" is evident, as otherwise the author would be
"arguing in a circle," which is absurd; or "in a vicious circle,"
which would of course utterly take away the reputation of his quiet
square for eminent respectability. That it is pleasantly written, the
reader will find out for himself; that it was a labour of love, and
therefore Easel-y writ, goes without saying. The Baron joins issue
with him on certain details as to the table, the wines, and dinners
generally; though up to now he should have thought himself at one with
him [or "at 7.45 with him," which is the more likely hour] on all
such important points. The Baron gives the book his "Imprimatur," says
"Pass JACK EASEL," and is the author's and everybody's


* * * * *


[It has recently been suggested in the _Author_ that novelists
should take the management of their books entirely into their
own hands.]

Happening to call lately on my friend SNOOKS, the eminent novelist, I
was rather surprised at the change which had come over the appearance
of his drawing-room. The books, which had been scattered over the
table in former days, were now methodically arranged along the shelves
which covered the entire walls, and in the corner, where a china
cabinet had formerly stood, there now figured a sort of counter,
behind which stood SNOOKS himself, arrayed in his shirt-sleeves.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, as I entered, "what can I have the pleasure of
showing you to-day? Romances, poetry, travels - - "

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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895 → online text (page 1 of 3)