Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, September 27, 1890 online

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custom spreads, he presumes that the popular topic of conversation,
the weather, will have to give place to the prior claims for
consideration of Somebody's Blacking, or Somebody-else's Soap. This
is to be regretted, as, in spite of the sameness of subject of the
_Bootle's Baby_ series, JOHN STRANGE WINTER is always more amusing
than nine-tenths of his (or should it be her?) contemporaries. B. De
B.-W. & Co.

P.S. No. 2. - The Baron wishes to add that on taking up the _Bride
of Lammermoor_ in order to refresh his memory before seeing the
new drama, he was struck by a few lines in the description of
_Lucy Ashton_, which, during rehearsals, must have been peculiarly
appropriate to her representative at the Lyceum, Miss ELLEN TERRY.
Here they are: - "To these details, however trivial, _Lucy_ lent
patient and not indifferent attention. They moved and interested
_Henry_, and that was enough to secure her ear." "Great Scott!"
indeed! Perfectly prophetic, and prophetically perfect. B. DE B.-W.

* * * * *


"The day of cocked hats and plumes is past and gone. This head-dress
is utterly unsuited for active service." - _Military Correspondent's
Letter to Times_.


* * * * *



I had an invite from JEPSON, a Stock Exchange acquaintance, who has
rented a Moor for the winter months, and who, happening to hear that
I and my two foreign friends were in the neighbourhood, most kindly
asked me to come and have a look at his box, and bring them with me.

"I hear," he writes, "that the deer are very lively, and if you want
to show your foreign friends some first-rate British Sport, you can't
do better than bring them."

Need I say that I jumped at this. Coming along on the top of the
coach, that takes us to Spital-hoo, the place my friend has rented, I
have been endeavouring to describe what I _imagine_ to be the nature
of the sport of Deer-stalking to the Chief and the Bulgarian Count.
The former, who has been listening attentively, says that, from my
description, stalking a stag must be very much the same as hunting
the double-humped bison in Mwangumbloola, and that the only weapon he
shall take with him will be a pickaxe. I have pointed out to him that
I don't think this will be any use, as in deer-stalking I fancy you
follow the stag _at some distance_, but he seems resolute about the
pickaxe, and so, I suppose, I must let him have his way. The Bulgarian
Count was deeply interested in the matter, and says that evidently
the proper weapon to use is a species of quick-firing, repeating
Hotchkiss, and that he has one now on its way through Edinburgh, the
invention of a compatriot, that will fire 2700 two-ounce bullets in
a minute and a-half. I fancy, if he uses this, he will surprise the
neighbourhood; but, of course, I have not said anything to interfere
with his project.


We have arrived at Spital-hoo all safe and sound, and JEPSON has given
us a most cordial welcome. But I must now have once more recourse to
my current notes.

I have now been something like five hours on the tramp, plodding my
way through a deep glen in a pine forest, but have not yet come across
any sign of a stag, I started with the Chief and the Count, but the
former soon went off at a tangent somewhere on his own hook, and the
latter, who had got his Hotchkiss with him and found it heavy work to
drag it up and down the mountain paths, I have left behind to take a
rest and recuperate himself. I pause in my walk and listen. The forest
is intensely still. Not a sign of a stag anywhere.

JEPSON is left at home, as he is expecting a couple of local Ministers
to tea, but he has told me I'm "bound to come across whole herds of
them," if I only tramp long enough. Well, I've been at it five hours,
and I certainly ought to have spotted something by this time. By Jove,
though, what's that moving in the path ahead of me? It is! _It is a
stag!_ A magnificent fellow - though he appears to have only one horn.
But, how odd! I believe he has seen me, and yet doesn't seem scared!
Yes, he is actually approaching in the most leisurely fashion in the
world. But that isn't the correct thing. In deer-stalking, I'm sure
you ought to stalk the deer, not the deer stalk you. And this creature
is absolutely coming down on me. Oh! I can't stand this. I shall have
a shot at him. Bang! Have fired - and _missed_! And, by Jove, the stag
doesn't seem to mind! He is coming nearer and nearer. He actually
comes close to where I am kneeling, and with facetious friendliness
removes my Tam o'Shanter! But, hulloah! who is this speaking? "Ha, and
would ye blaze awa wi' your weepons upon poor old Epaminondas, mon!"
It is an aged Highlander who is addressing me, and he has just turned
out of a bye-path. He is fondling the creature's nose affectionately,
and the stag seems to know him. I remark as much.

"Ha! sure he does," he replies, "Why there's nae a body doon the glen
but has got a friendly word for puir Old Epaminondas. You see he's
blind o' one 'ee, and he's lost one o' his antlers, and he's a wee bit
lame, and all the folk here about treat him kindly, when ye thought to
put that bit o' lead into him just noo, sure he was just oomin' to ye
for a bit o' oatmeal cake."

I express my regret for having so nearly shot the "Favourite of the
Glen" through inadvertence! I explain that I came out deerstalking,
and did not expect, of course, to come across a perfectly tame and
domestic stag.

"A weel, there's nae mischief done," continues my interlocutor;
"but it's nae good a stalking Epaminondas, for he's just a sagacious
beastie altogether."

* * * * *

Here we are at the Lodge. But, hulloah! what's this uproar on the
lawn? A herd of deer dashing wildly over everything, flowerbeds
and all, and, yes, absolutely five of them bursting into the house,
through one of the drawing-room windows, while JEPSON and the two
kirk Ministers emerge hurriedly, terrified, from the other. Crash!
And what's _that_? Why, surely it _can't_ be - but yes, I believe it
is - yes, it _positively is_ the Chief's pickaxe that has flown through
the air, and just smashed through the upper panes, scattering the
glass in a thousand fragments in all directions!

And thus ends my Stalking for the Present, and (probably) the Future!

* * * * *

[Illustration: BLACK SYRENS.

_This is how the lovely and accomplished Miss B - - ns (of - - ,
Portland Place) managed to defray the expenses of their Sea-side Trip,
this Autumn, without anybody being any the wiser!_


* * * * *




"When Fox with Lion hunts, one would be sorry
To say who gains - until they've shared the quarry!"
Such was the Moral
Of the first chapter of our modern Fable.
Is the co-partnership still strong and stable,
Or are there signs of quarrel
More than mere querulous quidnuncs invent
To break companionship and mar content?

Reynard has settled down into that latitude,
Pilgrim, perhaps, but certainly a Trader.
Does he not show a certain change of attitude,
Suggestive rather less of the Crusader,
Eager to earn the black-skinned bondsman's gratitude,
Than of the Bagman with his sample-box?
Ah, Master Fox!
Somehow the scallop seems to slip aside,
And that brave banner, which, with honest pride
You waved, like some commercial Quixote - verily
'Tis not to-day so valorously flaunted,
And scarce so cheerily.
You boast the pure knight-errantry so vaunted,
Some two years since,
Eh? You unfeigned Crusading zeal evince?
Whence, then, that rival banner
Which you coquet with in so cautious manner?
Hoisting it? Humph! Say, rather, just inspecting it.
But whether with intention of rejecting it,
Or temporising with the sly temptation
And making Proclamation
Of views a trifle modified, and ardour
A little cooled by thoughts of purse and larder.
Why, that's the question.
Reynard will probably resent suggestion
Of playing renegade, in the cause of Trade,
To that same Holy, Noble, New Crusade.
"Only," he pleads, "don't fume, and fuss, and worry,
The New Crusade is not a thing _to hurry_;
I never meant hot zealotry or haste -
Things hardly to the solid Teuton taste!"

And Leo? Well, he always had his doubts,
Yet to indulge in fierce precipitate flouts
Is not his fashion.
The Anti-Slavery zeal, with him a passion,
He knows less warmly shared by other traders;
But _soi-disant_ Crusaders
Caught paltering with the Infidels, like traitors,
And hot enthusiast Emancipators
Who the grim Slavery-demon gently tackle,
Wink at the scourge, and dally with the shackle,
Such, though they vaunt their zeal and orthodoxy,
Seem - for philanthropists - a trifle foxy!

* * * * *

Réclame (Gratis). - Where is the Lessee of the Haymarket? He ought
to have been in India. He was wanted there. The _Daily News_, last
week, told us in its Morning News Columns that "at a place called
Beerbhoom" - clearly the Indian spelling of Beerbohm - "there was
a desirable piece of land lying waste" - the very spot for a
theatre - "because it was reputed to be haunted by a malignant
goddess," - that wouldn't matter as long as the "gods" were well
provided for. Then it continues, "They" (who?) "did all they could to
propitiate her, setting apart a tree - ." Yes; but it wasn't the right
tree: of course it ought to have been a BEERBHOOM TREE. His first
drama might have shown how a Buddhist priest couldn't keep a secret.

* * * * *



A Yankee Journal raises wordy strife
About "the happiest hour of Woman's life."
I'll answer in less compass than a sonnet: -
"When she outshines her best friend's smartest bonnet!"

* * * * *


(_Vide Cartoon, Nov. 17, 1888._)]

* * * * *


1. The Meet was to be at Cropper's Gorse, 5:30. At 4:30 Thompson
called for me. He said he knew the way perfectly.

2. After we had gone a couple of miles, a steady rain came on. I
didn't think much of the beauties of early morning.

3. "Well, my man," said Thompson, "seen the hounds? This is Cropper's
Gorse, I suppose?" "Noa, Sur; this be Cropper's Plantation. The Gorse
be four miles over yonder!"

4. "Extraordinary thing I should have been mistaken," said Thompson.
"Never mind. Let's canter on, and we'll see some fun yet."

5. "Hi! my boy, is this Cropper's Gorse?" asked Thompson. "Noa, Sur.
This be Cropper's Common. The Gorse be five miles over yonder!"

6. Then Thompson had the decency to say, "Let's go back and have

* * * * *


A mass meeting of Rats was held (unknown to the Park-keepers) under
the Reformer's Oak in Hyde Park, at midnight of last Sunday. The
object of the gathering was to protest against the proposal made by a
Correspondent of _The Times_, that the "sewer-rats who had established
themselves in the sylvan retreat" known as Hyde Park Dell, should be
exterminated by means of "twenty ferrets and a few capable dogs."

Mr. RODENT (Senior) was called upon to preside. He took the hillock
amid waving of tails and much enthusiasm, and remarked that he trusted
that that vast assembly, one of the most magnificent demonstrations
that even Hyde Park had ever known, would show by its orderly
behaviour, that Rats knew how to conduct business. (_Cheers._) They
lived in strange times. A barbarous suggestion had been made to evict
them - to turn them out of house and home, by means of what he might
call Emergency Ferrets. (_Groans, and cries of "Boycott them!"_)
He feared that boycotting a ferret would not do much good. (_A
squeak - "Why not try rattening?" - and laughter._) Arbitration seemed
to him the most politic course under the circumstances. (_Cheers._)
They were accused of eating young moor-chicks. Well, was a Rat to
starve? ("_No, no!_") Did not a Rat owe a duty to those dependent upon
it? (_Cheers, and cries of "Yes!"_) He appealed to the opinion of
the civilised world to put a stop - At this point in the Chair-rat's
address, an alarm of "Dogs!" was raised, and the meeting at once
dispersed in some confusion.

* * * * *


Who would not be a Journalist-at-Arms?
Life for that paladin hath poignant charms.
Whether in pretty quarrel he shall run
Just half an inch of rapier - in pure fun -
In his opponent's biceps, or shall flick
His shoulders with a slender walking-stick.
The "stern joy" of the man indeed must rise
To raptures and heroic ecstacies.
Oh, glorious climax of a vulgar squabble,
To redden your foe's nose, or make him hobble
For half a week or so, as though, perchance,
He'd strained an ancle in a leap or dance!
Feeble sword-play or futile fisticuffs
Might be disdained by warriors - or roughs;
But to the squabbling scribe the farce has charms.
Who would not be a Journalist-at-Arms?

* * * * *


A thoroughly well appointed and handsomely furnished COUNTRY MANSION
(Elizabethan or Jacobæan period preferred) wanted immediately. It must
contain not less than 50 bedrooms, appropriate reception-rooms, and
a hall capable of being utilised for _fêtes_ and gala entertainments
on a large scale, and must stand in the midst of extensive timbered
grounds, surrounded by orangeries, hot-houses, and beautifully kept
pleasure grounds replete with the choicest pieces of statuary and
ornamental fountains arranged for electrical illumination, the perfect
installation of which on the premises, on the newest principles, is
regarded as a _sine quâ non_ by the Advertiser. The shooting over four
or five hundred acres, and the meeting of not less than three packs
of hounds in the immediate neighbourhood, with salmon and trout
fishing within easy distance of the mansion, are also considered
indispensable. Particulars as to the surrounding country gentry are
requested. Write also stating whether any recognised race-meeting is
held in the immediate vicinity. The distance of the property from
town must not be more than half an hour's railway journey, and the
inclusive rent must not exceed _five and twenty shillings a week_.

* * * * *


* * * * *

[Illustration: THE DEMON ALPS

(_Our Artist's Dream, after reading the numerous Accidents to

* * * * *



"London is a terrible consumer of ozone." - _Standard_.

A'R - "_The Dutchman's Little Dog._"

O where and O where, is our treasured Ozone?
O where, and O where can it be?
From London to leeward 'tis utterly gone,
To windward but little floats free.

Since SCHÖNBEIN of Basle discovered the stuff,
We've lived half a cen-tu-ree.
If of it we only could swallow enough,
How healthy, how happy were we!

Condensed form of oxygen, essence of air
That's fresh, or electricitee,
Ozone is the stuff shaken health to repair.
'Tis for it we all fly to the sea!

Solidified Ozone they talk about now,
To be bought in small bricks like pressed tea.
The air that is cheering when breathed on one's brow
In cubic foot-blocks would bring glee.

How pleasant to buy one's Ozone, like one's coal,
And store it up an-nu-al-lee!
And not fly for it to some dull cockney hol
Just because it is dug by the Sea!

Ah yes, let us have it, this needful Ozone,
In portable parcels! Ah me!
No longer need Paterfamilias groan
At the cost of that month by the Sea!

* * * * *

Artisan left out in the cold_.) - "In the ambush of my name, strike
home!" - _Measure for Measure_.

* * * * *


'Twere hard indeed to try to get
A theme without some poem on it -
A vilanelle, a triolet,
An ode, an epic, or a sonnet.
CASTARA'S charms were sung of old,
Both SWIFT and SIDNEY, wrote to STELLA,
But mine it is to first unfold
The praise of my beloved Umbrella.


You are not difficult to please,
Although no doubt a trifle "knobby;"
Whilst I'm reclining at mine ease,
I leave you standing in the lobby.
I ever treat you thus, and yet
I haven't got a friend who's firmer;
In point of fact, you even let
Me shut you up without a murmur.

Now some seek solace sweet in smoke,
And make a pipe their AMARYLLIS;
So think not that I do but joke
In calling you my darling PHYLLIS.
And though the gossips never spare
For ill-report to seek a handle,
The (indiarubber) ring you wear
Prevents the very thought of scandal.

"Fair weather, friend," we've often heard
Used as a term to throw discredit,
Though clearly it were quite absurd
If speaking of yourself one said it.
When skies are blue (a thing that's rare)
I in the coolest way forsake you,
But when the Forecast tells me "Fair,"
Or "Settled Sunshine," then I take you.

I like to think of one sweet day
When cats and dogs it kept on raining,
(Why "cats and dogs," it's right to say,
Who will oblige me by explaining?)
When someone, who had golden hair,
And I were walking out together,
And underneath your sheltering care,
Were happy spite of wind and weather.

One day I asked a friend to dine,
The friend I most completely trusted.
We sat and chatted o'er the wine,
He liked the port - my fine old crusted.
At length we said "Good-night." He went
But not alone. For to my sorrow
My mind with jealousy was rent,
To find you missing on the morrow.

You had eloped! Yet all the same
I felt quite sure you were his victim,
When back a sorry wreck you came,
I very nearly went and kicked him!
Did Love take wings, and fly away?
Grew my affection less? No, never!
To tell the truth, I'm bound to say
I fondly loved you more than ever!

With him - the man who was my friend -
It's pretty clear you got on badly;
Your ribs, somehow, seem prone to bend,
Your silken dress seems wearing sadly.
It's very hard, I know, to part,
And sentimental feelings smother,
But even though it break my heart,
I'm going, next week, to get another.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON A PLATE OF VENISON (_a suggestion, at the service of those
who collect menu cards_). - "Though lost to sight, to memory deer!"

* * * * *


Last week the _St. James's Gazette_ published an article
proving that the Bastille, so far from being a gloomy prison,
was the most delightful of hotels. This historical record has,
however, caused no surprise in 85, Fleet Street, because the
following extract from a very old diary has for years been
awaiting publication. The time has now arrived for it to see
the light.



_Newgate, September 29, 17 - _. - Got up with the assistance of my
valet, and held my customary _levée_. The Governor of the place asked
my permission to enter my luxuriously furnished apartments, to show me
an amusing set of irons that had been discovered in one of the cells
used during the last two hundred years for the storage of fire-wood.
The droll things were called the "Little Ease," and seemingly, were
intended to create merriment. One of the officers was complacent
enough to assume them, and caused great diversion by his eccentric
gestures. My _levée_ was not quite so successful, as is generally the
case, as that tedious old gossip, GUIDO FAUX, obtained admission. As
usual he had a grievance. It appears that a report has got abroad that
he was executed in the days of our late lamented Monarch, JAMES THE
FIRST of Great Britain, and SIXTH of Scotland. Says GUIDO, "If this be
believed by the multitude there will be a demand for my expulsion, and
what shall I do if I be turned out?" Condoled with him, and escaped
his importunities by joining with Master JOHN SHEPPARD, and Squire
TURPIN in a game of "Lorne Ten Hys," a recreation recently introduced
by my good neighbour Monsieur CLAUDE DU VAL. Failed in making a goal,
and put out thereat. However, regained my usual flow of spirits on
receiving a polite request from the Governor to join him and his
good Dame in a visit to the Tower of London, to call upon Lady JANE
GREY - once Queen - and now a guest in that admirable institution. Was
graciously received by Her Ladyship, who is now of advanced age. Her
Ladyship was vastly amused at the news that had reached her that some
chroniclers do insist that she has lost her head. "I have in good
sooth lost my teeth," laughed the venerable gentlewoman "but my head
is as firmly set upon my shoulders as ever. I do verily believe that
it must be some mad piece of waggery of that Prince of good fellows,
Sir WALTER RALEIGH. The aged Knight is always up to some of his
nonsense!" After playing a game of quoits with Lord BALMARINO and the
Tower Headsman (whose office is a well-paid sinecure), I returned
to Newgate, greatly pleased with my morning's promenade. In the
afternoon, entertained the Governor at dinner, who declared that he
could never get so good a meal in his own quarters. "Strap me, no!"
I exclaimed: "and, were it not that our food was excellent, who
would stay at Newgate?" For I confess that, although there are
pleasure-gardens, and every sort of amusement and comfort, Newgate, at
times, is decidedly damp. Then I raised a glass of punch to my lips,
and wished him the same luck that I myself enjoyed. "And that I had!"
quoth he. "Would I were prisoner instead of Governor. But it would
not be meet. I am not a man of sufficient quality!" And now I must
bring this entry to a conclusion, for there is to be a theatrical
performance in the dining-hall. Little DAVID GARRICK is to play
the principal male character, while Mistress NELLIE GWYNE, Mistress
SIDDONS, and Mistress PEG WOFFINGTON, are also in the cast. The title
of the piece is _Hamlet_, and I am told it is written by a young man
new to Town. The name of the author is either SHAKSPEARE or SMITH. I
am not sure which, but think SMITH.

* * * * *

P.S. - Open my Diary once again. _Hamlet_ a poor piece. It is now
said that it was written by BACON or BUCHANAN. Of the former I know
nothing, and posterity must discover the identity of the latter.
For the rest, if again I am pressed to go to the Play - strap me!
but, comfortable as I am, I will pack up my traps, and be off from
Newgate - for ever!

* * * * *




_The Commissioner_ (_sharply_). Well, Sir, what is it?

_Shareholder_. I have come to complain about the Gas Companies -

_The Com._ I am not surprised. They are generally causing some one or
other trouble.

_Shareh._ No, I beg your pardon, Sir, but you misunderstand me. I am
interested in the prosperity of Gas Companies -


_The Com._ Then I pity you, for they are certain, sooner or later, to
be superseded by the Electric Light.

_Shareh._ Will you allow me to continue? I am annoyed that some
one has been complaining in the _Times_ that "A Chief of a Rental
Department" (invariably a person of the highest respectability) has a


Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, September 27, 1890 → online text (page 2 of 3)