



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Lisa Tang,
Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net





PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

Volume 108, February 23rd, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




THE O. W. VADE MECUM.

_Question._ Is it easy to become a dramatist?

_Answer._ As easy as anything else.

_Q._ What are the requisites?

_A._ A West-end theatre, a first-rate troupe of artists, a trained
audience, and a personality.

_Q._ What do you mean by a trained audience?

_A._ An assembly accustomed to accept everything as wit, and to laugh
at anything.

_Q._ Would such a gathering consider it amusing for someone to say
"Flirting with one's husband is quite indelicate: it is like washing
one's clean linen in public"?

_A._ Certainly; and would find much to admire in a dialogue given over
for something like ten minutes to an exhaustive consideration of
muffins.

_Q._ And what do you mean by a personality?

_A._ More or less--an _insouciant_ manner, and a rather startling
button-hole.

_Q._ Does the personality require a speech or a cigarette?

_A._ Neither now, as both have ceased to be the fashion.

_Q._ Given the requisites you have specified for creating a dramatist,
what is the product?

_A._ A trivial comedy for serious people.

_Q._ Why give a play such a title?

_A._ Why not?

_Q._ Can a comedy occupying two or three hours in representation be
entirely trivial?

_A._ Not to the members of the audience.

_Q._ And are they serious people?

_A._ That depends upon the condition of their brains and their
capacity of enjoyment.

_Q._ Does the trivial comedy require a plot?

_A._ Nothing to speak of.

_Q._ Or characterisation?

_A._ No, for the same kind of dialogue will do for all the
company--for London ladies, country girls, justices of the peace,
doctors of divinity, maid-servants, and confidential butlers.

_Q._ What sort of dialogue?

_A._ Inverted proverbs and renovated paradoxes.

_Q._ Is this kind of dialogue entirely new?

_A._ Not entirely, as something rather like it has been heard at the
Savoy for the last ten or twenty years.

_Q._ But is it good enough for a British Public?

_A._ Quite good enough. They will laugh when a London lady expresses
surprise at finding flowers growing in the country, and roar when they
hear the retort, that plants are as common in the provinces as people
in town.

_Q._ But surely this vein of sarcasm, satire, or whatever it is, will
some day be worked out. What can the dramatist then do?

_A._ Act upon precedent, and try something else.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PURIST IN ENGLISH.

"YOU CALLED ME VERY _LATE_ THIS MORNING, JENKINSON!"

"YES, SIR, I'M SORRY TO SAY I _OVERLAID_ MYSELF!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TONING IT DOWN.

(_See the Daily Papers of Last Week._)

        JAPANESE VERSION.                 CHINESE VERSION.

    Early on Tuesday a severe         The Chinese Fleet gave a good
    engagement took place between     account of the Japanese
    the Japanese Fleet and the        Squadron on Tuesday. The
    Chinese Flotilla, in which        slaughter of the <DW61>s was
    the Chinese ironclads             enormous, amounting to at
    _Wi Ho Wi_, _Bang Tel Bang_,      least 40,000 sailors and
    and _Bosh Lu Rot_ were sunk.      50,000 marines. There was no
    The loss on the Japanese          loss on the Chinese side.
    side was a cabin-boy wounded.     Owing to a mistake the
    The Chinese prisoners             _Wi Ho Wi_ lost a rope, the
    amounted to 180,000 men.          _Bang Tel Bang_ had her
                                      figure-head slightly damaged,
                                      and the _Bosh Lu Rot_
                                      re-entered port just to have
                                      her deck repainted. The
                                      Japanese lost several
                                      ironclads and all their
                                      torpedo-boats.

    On Wednesday morning the          On Wednesday an attack of
    Japanese landed and took all      70,000 Japanese troops was
    the forts, and garrisoned         repulsed with great slaughter
    the city, which is now            by the Chinese, and the
    completely in the hands of        invaders are now in active
    the troops of the Taicoon.        retreat. The Chinese have not
                                      pursued them, from motives of
                                      an entirely philanthropic
                                          character.

    On Thursday the Japanese          An artillery duel took place
    commenced a general               on Thursday between the
    bombardment of the                Chinese troops and the
    island, and blew up all the       Japanese, in which the latter
    forts and sixty-seven powder      lost all their war materiel
    magazines. The Chinese loss       and seventy-nine general
    is estimated at 36,000 men.       officers. The casualty on the
    The Japanese escaped              Chinese side was one
    unscathed.                        drummer-boy slightly
                                      wounded--sprain of the left
                                      little toe.

    On Friday the Japanese made       For a few minutes the Japanese
    their grand attack and took       secured a footing on the island,
    the island by assault, and        but were soon induced to
    destroyed all the enemy's         retreat. Many of the Chinese
    fleet, with the exception         ironclads have seen much
    of a gun-boat.                    service, but are still able to
                                      dispose of the enemy.

    The Chinese Fleet on Saturday     The Chinese Admiral during
    was entirely at the mercy of      Saturday has wired to his
    the Japanese, and the Admiral     Government--"The Japanese,
    is soliciting for terms. A        after one slight reverse,
    flag of truce is floating         having lost all heart, are
    from the remaining Chinese        now suing for peace. We shall
    ironclad.                         be careful to guard the best
                                      interests of the empire."

    On Sunday the Japanese            The Chinese Admiral (under
    consented to permit the           Sunday's date) has wired to
    Chinese Admiral and sailors       Pekin--"Have come to
    to unconditionally                arrangement with Japanese
    surrender, and have               authorities. Shall not return
    arranged to protect them          to Pekin. Good-bye. Those
    from the fury of the              who have no other engagements
    Chinese Government.               are going home to tea."

       *       *       *       *       *

HARD LINES.

(_By a Mathematical Bard._)

  Ah, spooks of EUCLID, NEWTON, weep for me,
    For I'm a miserably blighted biped!
  And here's the cause--I wrote an ode, you see,
    Alluding to a parallel_e_piped.

  I'd spelt my polysyllable all right,
    The blessed word I hoped would make me famous;
  The vulgar error I'd avoided quite,
    And thought no one _could_ call me "ignoramus."

  It safely passed in proof through each "revise";
    But didn't I _rave_, when I my book inspected,
  And found it by some printer over-wise
    To "parallel_o_piped" miscorrected!

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S CRITICISM ON JOHN DAVIDSON'S LATEST PRODUCTION.--"It ain't
all Lavender."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE UNEMPLOYED.

_Plumber Joe._ "IF THESE 'ERE PIPES 'UD ONLY BUST, THERE'D BE A
CHARNCE OF A JOB FOR ME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THROUGH STRESS OF WEATHER.

_Tommy_ (_after contemplating the Horses in front of him_). "I SHALL
HUNT ON CAWIDGE HORSES WHEN I'S A MAN, JOHN! _THEY_ HASN'T EAT ANY OF
THEIR HEADS OFF, LIKE WHAT HUNTERS ALWAYS DOES IN FROSTY WEATHER, HAS
THEY?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE UNEMPLOYED.

_Plumber Joe loquitur_:--

  Oh, bust it! Or, rayther, bust _them!_ I've my eye on the pipes o' this
          House,
  As might give me the chanst as _I_ wants, but, by gob, it's a regular
          chouse.
  Nary bust in 'em yet, as I sees! I ain't none o' yer ornary hands,
  There isn't a task in my trade but wot smart Plumber JOE understands,
  And at making a jint I'm daisy. Our trade is a topper, it is,
  But one arf of the pottrers called plumbers ain't nothink like up to
          their biz--
  Mere poor paltryfoggers, most on 'em, as boggle, and bungle, and botch.
  'Tain't _bizness_ the beggars are arter, but more speshul Irish--or
          Scotch!
  A copper-bit jint is their utmost, but wot they like most is a splodge
  Of canvas and white-lead or putty; _their_ work is all fakement and
          dodge,
  As won't last a fortnit, not watertight. As to a blow-jint, well did,
  They jest couldn't take it on nohow--no, not if you tipped 'em a quid.
  But I'm a certif'cated plumber, a master of shave-hook and solder,
  Of turn-pin, and mallet, and fire-devil. Plumber who's smarter and bolder
  With blow-pipe, and lamp-black, and size, you won't find London through
          if yer try;
  And at "wiping a jint"--ah!--a pickter--there's none as can wipe JOEY'S
          eye.
  Then at sanitry work! Bless yer buttons, yer dashed County Council ain't
          in it;
  And as to that there WALLACE BRUCE, wy, I'll jist wipe him up in a minit,
  Though he _has_ a good fighting name on 'im. Calls me a quack, too, does
          BILL,
  And 'ints I dunno my own trade! Wait a bit, and I'll give _him_ a pill.
  Insanitry aireys, indeed! As a judge of a rookery or slum
  There ain't ne'er a Cockney C. C. as can sideup with JOEY the Brum;
  Wot _'e_ doesn't know 'aint _wuth_ knowing. I'll set 'em all right,
          though,--in time.
  When England's _all_ Brummagemised, and I'm boss of it, _won't_ it be
          prime?
  Meanwhile, I'm a bit out-of-work. Unemployed, so to speak, like a lot,
  Although I ain't no "Unskilled Labourer." HARDIE talks thunderin' rot,
  But I thought 'e might make me a hopening. Somehow the fakement was lost.
  And yet I _should_ be flush o' work, for we've had a unusual frost,
  As this House, like the rest, must have felt. Wy, I thought they'd ha'
          bust long ago,
  Them Guverment pipes, and be blowed to 'em. 'Ere in the sludge and the
          snow
  I've bin waiting a tidy long spell, till my toes 'ave like icicles grown.
  I've bin journeyman quite long enough, and I want to set up "on my own."
  Pal ARTHUR is all very well, but at bossing a bit of a slob.
  And when these big pipes do a bust, well--I see a rare charnce of a job!

       *       *       *       *       *

FIN DE SIECLE.--"New men, new manners." "New women--no manners."

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ARTISTIC "FROST."

    [According to the _Daily Telegraph_, the Saffron Hill
    street-musicians are complaining that their barrel-organs are
    frozen.]

_Macaroni Carlo sings_:--

  _Ah, che la morte ognora_--
    _Basta!_ no more can I play!
  _So ai nostri monti ancora
    Ritorneremo_ to-day!

  _Ebbene, il mio padrone_--
    I bid 'im an' Londra good-bye!
  'E may grind out 'imself 'is _canzone_
    For never again will I try!

  _E troppo!_ my barrel--'e's frosty,
    An' round I can not make 'im turn!
  The music of VERDI and TOSTI
    No longer a _soldo_ can earn!

  "_My Honey!_" won't thaw, and there's "_Daisy_"
    An _icicle_ frozen right through!
  So _addi, Inghilterra, paese_
    Where artists have no more to do!

       *       *       *       *       *

RETURN TO THE CLASSICS.--There is a talk of reviving Olympian Games.
Athens or Paris to begin. The competitors to be cosmopolitan. England
will send her prize boxer or wrestler, and if crowned victor, let him,
after the manner of the ancient Greeks, be free of taxes and rates for
the remainder of his life. How the competition will grow. The Smiths,
the Browns, all the patres familias will be urged by the matres to go
forth and take part in the contest.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THE CAUSE OF CHARITY.

    SCENE--_Mona House, the Town Mansion of the_ Marquis of MANX,
    _which has been lent for a Sale of Work in aid of the "Fund for
    Superannuated Skirt-dancers," under the patronage of Royalty and
    other distinguished personages_.

  IN THE ENTRANCE HALL.

_Mrs. Wylie Dedhead_ (_attempting to insinuate herself between the
barriers_). Excuse me; I only want to pop in for a moment, just to see
if a lady friend of mine is in there, that's _all!_

_The Lady Money-taker_ (_blandly_). If you will let me know your
friend's name----?

_Mrs. W. D._ (_splendide mendax_). She's assisting the dear Duchess.
_Now_, perhaps, you will allow me to pass!

_The L. M._ Afraid I can't, really. But if you mean Lady HONOR
HYNDLEGGES--_she_ is the only lady at the Duchess's stall--I could
send _in_ for her. Or of course, if you like to pay half-a-crown----

_Mrs. W. D._ (_hastily_). Thank you, I--I won't disturb her ladyship.
I had no _idea_ there was any charge for admission,
and--(_bristling_)--allow me to say I consider such regulations _most_
absurd.

_The L. M._ (_sweetly, with a half glance at the bowl of coins on the
table_). Quite _too_ ridiculous, ain't they? _Good_ afternoon!

_Mrs. W. D._ (_audibly, as she flounces out_). If they suppose _I_'m
going to pay half-a-crown for the privilege of being _fleeced_----!

_Footman_ (_on steps, sotto voce, to confrere_). "Fleeced"! that's a
good 'un, eh? _She_ ain't brought much wool in with _her!_

_His Confrere._ On'y what's stuffed inside of her ear.

    [_They resume their former impassive dignity._

  IN THE VENETIAN GALLERY--_where the Bazaar is being held_.

_A Loyal Old Lady_ (_at the top of her voice--to Stall-keeper_). Which
of 'em's the Princess, my dear, eh? It's her I paid _my_ money to see.

_The Stall-keeper_ (_in a dismayed whisper_). Ssh! Not _quite_ so
loud! There--just opposite--petunia bow in her bonnet--selling
kittens.

_The L. O. L._ (_planting herself on a chair_). So _that's_ her! Well,
she _is_ dressed plain--for a Royalty--but looks _pleasant_ enough. I
wouldn't mind taking one o' them kittings off her Royal 'Ighness
myself, if they was going at all reasonable. But there, I expect, the
cats _'ere_ is meat for my masters, so to speak; and you see, my dear,
'aving the promise of a tortoise-shell tom from the lady as keeps the
Dairy next door, whenever----

    [_She finds, with surprise, that her confidences are not encouraged._

_Miss St. Leger de Mayne_ (_persuasively, to_ Mrs. NIBBLER). Do let me
show you some of this exquisite work, all embroidered entirely by
hand, you see!

_Mrs. Nibbler_ (_edging away_). Lovely--_quite_ lovely; but I
think--a--I'll just take a look round before I----

_Miss de M._ If there is any _particular_ thing you were looking for,
perhaps _I_ could----

_Mrs. N._ (_becoming confidential_). Well, I _did_ think if I could
come across a nice _sideboard-cloth_----

[Illustration: "You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament."]

_Miss de M._ (_to herself_). What on earth's a sideboard-cloth?
(_Aloud._) Why, I've the very _thing!_ See--all worked in Russian
stitch!

_Mrs. N._ (_dubiously_). I thought they were always quite plain. And
what's that queer sort of flap-thing for?

_Miss de M._ Oh, _that?_ That's--a--to cover up the spoons, and forks,
and things; quite the latest fashion, _now_, you know.

_Mrs. N._ (_with self-assertion_). I _have_ noticed it at several
dinner-parties I've been to in society lately, certainly. Still, I'm
not sure that----

_Miss de M._ I always have them on my _own_ sideboard now--my husband
won't _hear_ of any others.... Then, I _may_ put this one in paper for
you? fifteen-and-sixpence--thanks _so_ much! (_To her colleague, as_
Mrs. N. _departs_.) CONNIE, I've got rid of that awful nightgown case
at _last!_

_Mrs. Maycup._ A--you _don't_ happen to have a small bag to hold a
powder-puff, and so on, you know?

_Miss de M._ I _had_ some very pretty ones; but I'm afraid they're
all--oh, no, there's just _one_ left--crimson velvet and real
_passementerie_. (_She produces a bag._) Too trotty for words, isn't
it?

_Mrs. Maycup_ (_tacitly admitting its trottiness_). But then--that
sort of purse-shape---- Could I get a small pair of folding
curling-irons into it, should you think, at a pinch?

_Miss de M._ You could get _anything_ into it--at a pinch. I've one
myself which will hold--well, I can't tell you what it _won't_ hold!
Half-a-guinea--so _many_ thanks! (_To herself, as_ Mrs. MAYCUP
_carries off her bag_.) What _would_ the Vicar's wife say if she knew
I'd sold her church collection bag for _that!_ But it's all in a good
cause! (_An_ Elderly Lady _comes up_.) May I show you some of
these----?

_The Elderly Lady._ Well, I was wondering if you had such a thing as a
good warm pair of sleeping socks: because, these bitter nights, I do
find I suffer so from cold in my feet.

_Miss de M._ (_with effusion_). Ah, then I can _feel_ for you--so do
_I!_ At least, I _used_ to before I tried--(_To herself._) Where _is_
that pair of thick woollen driving-gloves? Ah, _I_ know.
(_Aloud._)--these. I've found them _such_ a comfort!

_The E. L._ (_suspiciously_). They have rather a queer---- And then
they're divided at the ends, too.

_Miss de M._ Oh, haven't you seen _those_ before? Doctors consider
them so much healthier, don't you know.

_The E. L._ I daresay they are, my dear. But aren't the--(_with
delicate embarrassment_)--the separated parts rather long?

_Miss de M._ Do you _think_ so? They allow so much more freedom, you
see; and then, of course they'll shrink.

_The E. L._ That's true, my dear. Well, I'll take a pair, as you
recommend them so strongly.

_Miss de M._ I'm quite _sure_ you'll never regret it! (_To herself, as
the_ E. L. _retires, charmed_.) I'd give _anything_ to see the poor
old thing trying to put them on!

_Miss Mimosa Tendrill_ (_to herself_). I do so _hate_ hawking this
horrid old thing about! (_Forlornly, to_ Mrs. ALLBUTT-INNETT.) I--I
beg your pardon; but _will_ you give me ten and sixpence for this
lovely work-basket?

_Mrs. Allbutt-Innett._ My good girl, let me tell you I've been
pestered to buy that identical basket at every bazaar I've set foot in
for the last twelvemonth, and how you can have the face to ask ten and
six for it--you must think I've more money than wit!

_Miss Tendr._ (_abashed_). Well--_eighteenpence_ then? (_To herself,
as_ Mrs. A.-I. _closes promptly_.) There, I've sold _something_,
anyhow!

_The Hon. Diana D'Autenbas_ (_to herself_). It's rather fun selling at
a Bazaar; one can let oneself _go_ so much more! (_To the first man
she meets._) I'm sure you'll buy one of my buttonholes--now _won't_
you? If I fasten it in for you myself?

_Mr. Cadney Rowser._ A button'ole, eh? Think I'm not classy enough as
I am?

_Miss D'Aut._ I don't think _anyone_ could accuse you of not being
"_classy_"; still, a flower would just give the finishing-touch.

_Mr. C. R._ (_modestly_). Rats!--if you'll pass the freedom. But
you've such a way with you that--there--'ow much?

_Miss D'Aut._ Only five shillings. Nothing--to _you!_

_Mr. C. R._ Five bob? You're a artful girl, _you_ are! "_Fang de
Seakale_," and no error! But I'm _on_ it; it's worth the money to 'ave
a flower fastened in by such fair 'ands. I won't 'owl--not even if you
_do_ run a pin into me.... What? You ain't done a'ready! No _'urry_,
yer know.... 'Ere, won't you come along to the refreshment-stall, and
'ave a little something at my expense. Do!

_Miss D'Aut._ I think you must imagine you are talking to a barmaid!

_Mr. C. R._ (_with gallantry_). I on'y wish barmaids was 'alf as
pleasant and sociable as _you_, Miss. But they're a precious stuck-up
lot, _I_ can assure you!

_Miss D'Aut._ (_to herself, as she escapes_). I suppose one ought to
put up with this sort of thing--for a charity!

_Mrs. Babbicombe_ (_at the Toy Stall, to the Belle of the Bazaar, aged
three-and-a-half_). You _perfect_ duck! You're simply too _sweet!_ I
_must_ find you something. (_She tempers generosity with discretion by
presenting her with a small pair of knitted doll's socks._) There,
darling!

_The Belle's Mother._ What do you say to the kind lady now, MARJORY?

_Marjory_ (_a practical young person, to the donor_). Now <DW37> me a
dolly to put ve socks on.

    [Mrs. B. _finds herself obliged to repair this omission_.

_A Young Lady Raffler_ (_to a_ Young Man). Do take a ticket for this
charmin' _sachet_. Only half-a-crown!

_The Young Man._ Delighted! If you'll put in for this _splendid_ cigar
cabinet. Two shillin's!

    [_The_ Young Lady _realises that she has encountered an Augur,
    and passes on_.

_Miss de M._ (_to_ Mr. ISTHMIAN GATWICK). Can't I tempt you with this
tea-cosy? It's so absurdly cheap!

_Mr. Isthmian Gatwick_ (_with dignity_). A-thanks; I think not. Never
_take_ tea, don't you know.

_Miss de M._ (_with her characteristic adaptability_). Really? No more
do _I_. But you could use it as a _smoking-cap_, you know. I
always----

    [_Recollects herself, and breaks off in confusion._

_Miss Ophelia Palmer_ (_in the "Wizard's Care"--to_ Mr. CADNEY
ROWSER). Yes, your hand indicates an intensely refined and spiritual
nature; you are perhaps a _little_ too indifferent to your personal
comfort where that of others is concerned; sensitive--too much so for
your own happiness, perhaps--you feel things keenly when you _do_ feel
them. You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament--seven and
sixpence, please.

_Mr. C. R._ (_impressed_). Well, Miss, if you can read all that for
seven and six on the palm of my 'and, I wonder what you _wouldn't_ see
for 'alf a quid on the sole o' my boot!

    [Miss P.'s _belief in Chiromancy sustains a severe shock_.

_Bobbie Patterson_ (_outside tent, as Showman_). This way to the
Marvellous Jumping Bean from Mexico! Threepence!

_Voice from Tent._ BOBBIE! Stop! The Bean's _lost!_ Lady HONOR'S
horrid Thought-reading Poodle has just stepped in and swallowed it.

_Bobbie._ Ladies and Gentlemen, owing to sudden domestic calamity, the
Bean has been unavoidably compelled to retire, and will be unable to
appear till further notice.

_Miss Smylie_ (_to_ Mr. OTIS BARLEYWATER, _who--in his own set--is
considered "almost equal to_ CORNEY GRAIN"). I thought you were giving
your entertainment in the library? Why _aren't_ you?

_Mr. Otis Barleywater_ (_in a tone of injury_). Why? Because I can't
give my imitations of ARTHUR ROBERTS and YVETTE GUILBERT with anything
_like_ the requisite "go," unless I get a better audience than three
programme-sellers, all under ten, and the cloak-room maid--_that's_
why!

_Mrs. Allbutt-Innett_ (_as she leaves, fur the benefit of
bystanders_). I must say, the house is _most_ disappointing--not at
_all_ what I should expect a _Marquis_ to live in. Why, my _own_
reception-rooms are very nearly as large, and decorated in a much more
modern style!

_Bobbie Patterson_ (_to a_ "Doosid Good-natured Fellow, _who doesn't
care what he does," and whom he has just discovered inside a case got
up to represent an automatic sweetmeat machine_). Why, my dear old
_chap!_ No idea it was _you_ inside that thing! Enjoying yourself in
there, eh?

_The Doosid Good-natured Fellow_ (_fluffily, from the interior_).
Enjoying myself! With the beastly pennies droppin' down into my boots,
and the kids howlin' because all the confounded chocolates have worked
up between my shoulder-blades, and I can't shake 'em out of the slit
in my arm? I'd like to see _you_ tryin' it!

_The L. O. L._ (_to a stranger, who is approaching the_ Princess's
_stall_). 'Ere, Mister, where are your manners? 'Ats off in the
presence o' Royalty!

    [_She pokes him in the back with her umbrella: the stranger turns,
    smiles slightly, and passes on._

_A Well-informed Bystander._ You are evidently unaware, Madam, that
the gentleman you have just addressed is His Serene Highness the
Prince of POTSDAM!

_The L. O. L._ (_aghast_). Her _'usban'!_ And me a jobbin' of 'im with
my umberella! 'Ere, let me get out! [_She staggers out, in dead terror
of being sent to the Tower on the spot._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A POOR ADVERTISEMENT.

_Tourist._ "I SUPPOSE YOU FEEL PROUD TO HAVE SUCH A DISTINGUISHED MAN
STAYING IN YOUR HOUSE?"

_Host of the "Drumdonnachie Arms."_ "'DEED NO! A BODY LIKE THAT DOES
US MAIR HAIRM THAN GUID; HIS APPEARANCE IS NAE CREDIT TAE OOR
COMMISSARIAT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COMPENSATION.

_He._ "THAT'S MRS. GRIMSHAW, WHO LECTURES ON BIMETALLISM. I'VE HEARD
HER. HOW EXASPERATINGLY CLEVER SHE SEEMS TO BE!"

_She._ "YES--BUT HOW CONSOLINGLY UGLY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LEARNED WELSH GOAT.

_Dame Ap-Asq-th loquitur_:--

_Not_ the Learned Pig, ladies and gentlemen, this time. Oh dear no! I
should think the public had had about enough of him for some time to
come, and---- Oh, I forgot! (_Aside: He'll have to be trotted out again
presently, so I'd better shut up, and not spoil the market for_
Misther O'MORLEY.) As I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, not the
Learned Irish Pig, but the Learned Welsh Goat!

A goat, you know, is a nimble creature, which, in a state of nature,
mounts pinnacles, and leaps from rock to rock, like the poor gentleman
in the _Contrabandista_. This one could climb a church steeple, and
balance itself on the weathercock--if permitted to do so. Couldn't
you, TAFFY? (_Aside: I hope the blessed brute won't butt me. He's been
a bit restive of late._)

No, ladies and gentlemen, _Esmeralda's_ goat was really not in it with
mine, for nimbleness and _nous_, much less the goat in _Dinorah_. As
to _Robinson Crusoe's_ much talked of animal---- Here, I say, TAFFY!
_Crwych llnwyddfohw ychonbompthyy kckonobommthygy!_ That means, "Mind
your 'p's' and 'q's'," ladies and gentlemen, or, in Welsh, "Mind your
'l's' and 'y's.'" But _my_ goat understands English quite well, as
you'll see presently, and, moreover, is not, as Lord ROSEBERY says
most _other_ members of the Liberal Party are, floored by words of two
syllables. TAFFY is equal to _five_--at least! Most Welsh words, you
know, are in about twenty. At east, they _look_ so, to non-Welshers--I
mean, non-Welshmen. (_Aside: Hope they won't ask me what is the Welsh
for "Ploughing the Sands"!_)

Now, you see, ladies and gentlemen, here are sixteen letters,
scattered, "in pie," as it were, forming a word of five syllables,
which has been familiar in our mouths as "All the Year Round"--I mean
household words--of late. (_Aside: Indeed it has! And if they knew
what a bore it has become in Cabinet Councils and other places where
they squabble---- Well, no matter!_) Behold the letters, ladies and
gentlemen!

  M. B. L. E. A. T. I. S. H. D. I. S. S. E .N. T

Now, TAFFY, what can you make of _that?_ Watch him, ladies and
gentlemen! Mark his sagacity! And remember, it is all done by
kindness! (_Aside: Yes, "by_ CADWALLADER _and all his goats," it
wouldn't do to try anything else with_ this _animal, or we should all
be sprawling in no time!_)

Plbymbch y llnrnwtclfly, TAFFY! See, he starts with "a big, big D." No
profanity intended, I assure you. This is a Noncomformist goat, and
carries a conscience! D.I.S. Ah! that, too, hath an ominous sound,
<DW75>! But you're not through yet. E. S. T. A. B! How carefully, yet
how confidently, he picks them out. No hesitation, no indecision. Ah!
Gallant Little TAFFY knows his book! D. I. S. E. S. T. A. B---- Well,
and what's the _next_ letter, TAFFY?

    [_Left spelling it out._

[Illustration: THE LEARNED WELSH GOAT.

DAME AP-ASQ-TH. "NOW, TAFFY, WHAT'S THE NEXT LETTER?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

HARD TO (L. C.) C.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I crave your advice and sympathy under the following
circumstances. I have been of late considerably perplexed as to which
side I ought to support in the forthcoming London County Council
Election. Sometimes I have felt drawn to the banner of Progressivism,
at other times I have yearned to embrace Moderateness, I do not say
the Moderate Programme, because there are so many. In my difficulty I
saw an announcement that the _Daily Chronicle_ was about to become an
illustrated paper in the interest of the Progressives. Accordingly,
last Monday I eagerly bought the first copy of the newly-pictured
paper, and found a delightful feast for my eyes in a reproduction of a
drawing by Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES. It was without doubt a charming
piece of work, and the printing was marvellously good. That decided
me--I threw in my lot with the Progressives without more ado.

But, unfortunately, that was only the commencement of the difficulty.
That very afternoon I met a friend who happened to be a "Moderate"
candidate. "I suppose I can reckon on your assistance, old fellow?"
was his greeting as he patted me familiarly on the back. I explained
to him that I had determined to vote Progressive. He asked me why. For
some time I tried to think of some reason which should appear, on the
face of it, conclusive. It ended in my being truthful, and playing Sir
EDWARD BURNE-JONES. Then came the questions which have been ringing in
my ears ever since. "What on earth has that delightful picture to do
with the question? Why, I've got it myself and am having it framed for
our drawing-room. But why should it make you vote Progressive?" And
that's just it--I didn't know, and I don't know. Please can anyone
tell me?

  Yours, Burne-Jonesing to know,
    Muchpurp Lext.

_Feb. 15, 1895._

       *       *       *       *       *

CHILLY NOTION.--The gentleman who had "nothing on his mind" was
reduced to "a bare idea." He has not survived it.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO MY DOCTOR IN BED.

  With much regret I hear it said
  That you, dear doctor, are in bed,
          Quite invalided.
  For you the uninviting fare--
  The broth, the gruel, made with care,
          The milk--is needed.

  I mourn, yet grimly chuckle, too,
  When thinking that not I, but you,
          Should be a fixture;
  Not I, but you, must sadly sip,
  With utterly unwilling lip,
          Some awful mixture.

  Not I, but you, must now obey
  What dictatorial doctors say,
          So interfering!
  I might perhaps be less averse
  To some attractive youthful nurse,
          And find her cheering.

  In weather such as we have had,
  Your fate may not have been so bad;
          In bed one lingers
  When blizzards bite the bluish nose,
  When cold half numbs the tortured toes,
          The frozen fingers.

  So I perhaps should envy you,
  With nothing in the world to do
          But, idly dozy,
  And disregarding snow and storm,
  To just be comfortably warm,
          And snugly cosy.

  To pass the time, your pulse you feel,
  And dream of charms all ills to heal,
          Like some magician;
  In mirrors you may see your tongue;
  You cannot listen to your lung,
          My poor physician.

  You read the _Lancet_, I should say,
  Or books on your complaint, all day,
          Stiff-bound or limp tomes,
  And when you put the volumes by,
  You lie and sigh and try and di-
          -agnose your symptoms.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS have omitted one thing that would have
contributed to the full success of their publication of _The Memoirs
of the Duchesse de Gontaut_, done out of the French by Mrs. W. DAVIS.
They ought to have engaged the services of our E. T. R., who would
have been quite at home in illustrating the prehistoric peeps here
opened. The Duchesse was _gouvernante_ to those she fondly styles the
"children of France" during the Restoration. Of her charges one was
"The Child of Miracle," born to the DUCHESSE DE BERRY after the murder
of her husband. He was subsequently known to French Royalists as HENRI
THE FIFTH, and to the rest of the world as the Comte DE CHAMBORD. What
is amazing, in a sense fascinating, to readers at this end of the
century, is to find a state of things existing in which such a poor,
common-place, fatuous creature as CHARLES THE TENTH could be regarded
with reverence, almost worship, by his fellow-creatures. Madame DE
GONTAUT, a high-minded, well-educated, sensible woman, almost weeps
over the king as in the days of July, 1830, he sat on the balcony at
the Palace of St. Cloud playing whist, the game interrupted from time
to time by the sound of the tocsin, and the flashing forth of fresh
fires in the streets of revolted Paris. On the 28th of July overtures
were made from the revolutionary committee in Paris, which might,
temporarily at least, have saved the throne had the king accepted
their moderate conditions. "I think," he said, for all response, "it
is a great impertinence to bring me such propositions." Three days
later, at two o'clock in the morning, the king was roused out of his
peaceful sleep, and packed off to Dieppe by friends, anxious to save
him from the fate of LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH.

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Importunate Street Urchin_ (_for the tenth time_).
"GI' US A COPPER, SIR! GI' US A COPPER!"

_Testy Individual_ (_losing patience_). "OH, GO TO"--(_substitutes a
milder form_)--"BLAZES!"

_Street Urchin._ "SURE THIN AN' I WOULD IN THIS BASTLY COULD WEATHER,
IF I WAS ONLY CERTAIN O' COMIN' BACK AGAIN!"

    [_Individual's testiness overcome and Urchin rewarded._
]

       *       *       *       *       *

Seasonable Conundrum.

_Q._ What is the difference between laying down the Golden Rule (Do to
others, &c.) and _acting_ upon it?

_A._ One is a truism, the other an altruism.

    [Mr. Punch _advises the well-to-do readers to work this out
    practically among the poor this inclement season_.

       *       *       *       *       *

THRIFT!

    (_To "_Un_splendid Paupers, in Workhouses and other places where
    they wish to enjoy themselves" on the cheap._)

  If you'd really learn and practice Thrift
    (As the frozen poor have needed lately)
  Get the great Elizabethan gift
    Of (_economically_) being "stately."
  (Mr. STEAD that dower will explain.)
    You must have a castle to begin with;
  Then give a _Bal Poudre_. You will gain!
    (Having nothing else to do your "tin" with.)
  The true way to save is--spend your money
    On a splendid pageant! Ain't it funny?
  SALISBURY for HODGE advised a circus,
    I a _Bal Poudre_ for every "Vorkuss"!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

IT IS PROPOSED TO ADD A REAL ICE RINK (WET OR SHINE, SUMMER OR WINTER)
FOR THE USE OF MEMBERS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A VALEDICTION TO ST. VALENTINE.

(_By an Old-fashioned Fellow._)

  Old friend of the lass and the lover,
    They say you are moribund now,
  Your rule--it was gentle--is over,
    Because--it is "vulgar" to vow,
  "No class" to be vassal to Cupid,
    "Bad form" to go wooing in verse!
  Well, Saint, your old rhymings _were_ stupid
          But new ones seem worse.

  Your hearts and your darts were as healthy
    As daffodils, larks or Spring lamb.
  But now we're so wise, and so wealthy,
    Simplicity strikes us as sham;
  Your empire was kind, if despotic,
    And blent of the smile and the tear.
  But now we're all "new" and "neurotic,"
          And slaves to the queer.

  A Beardsley design, now, would shock you.
    And so would a verse by VERLAINE.
  Our Art, modern Art, would but mock you,
    Our poetry give you much pain.
  Oh Woman, New Woman, thou clamorest
    Loudly for right to revolt.
  But oh! from our latter-day Amorist
          S. V. would _bolt!_

  'Tis well, good Saint Valentine, truly,
    That you have got notice to quit,
  For, faith! you must find us unduly
    Devoted to cynical wit.
  The poor dear conventional passions,
    You voiced, with bird-pipings, in Spring,
  Are not "up to date." Love's new fashions
          _You_ never could sing!

  Good gracious! LE GALLIENNE'S lyrics,
    And DAVIDSON'S Lavender-scent,
  Would certainly give you hysterics.
    Song now, just like wine, must _ferment_.
  The dewdroppy old dithyrambics
    You loved, in our day don't go down.
  Our maidens like brisk galliambics
        On which you would frown.

  Indeed ithyphallics--but, bless us!
    Our poesy, Saint, unto you
  Would be like a new shirt of Nessus.
    Our art is all yellow--or blue.
  And so, poor old boy, 'tis a blessing
    You're off, with a tear in your eye.
  Like soft hearts and simple caressing,
          You're vulgar! Good-bye!

       *       *       *       *       *

STRANGE OMEN.--Sir FRANK LOCKWOOD, Solicitor-General, was
"entertained," says the _Daily Telegraph_, "to dinner"--(observe, not
"entertained _at_ dinner"; perhaps he had to do the entertaining,
then)--"at the House of Commons, his host, Mr. JOHN AIRD" (always a
host in himself), "being a Conservative," while the other guests were
either Conservatives or Unionists. DANIEL in the lions' den is the
parallel that arises to everyone's mind; but in this instance DANIEL
actually dined with the lions, and probably felt none the worse for
the "feast of reason and the flow of soul."

       *       *       *       *       *

We haven't as yet seen _An Artist's Model_ at Daly's, but as the piece
seems to depend for its "go" mainly on the music composed for it by
Mr. OWEN HALL (to clever lyrics by Mr. GREENBANK), it would not be
unfair to say that it is to its music it is OWEN HALL its success.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANTICIPATORY.--Should HENRY IRVING, as the acknowledged leading
representative of the Histrionic side of Dramatic Art in this country,
receive the honour of knighthood, the Lyceum bill might be headed,
"Great Success! First Knight!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "'AD ANY BREAKFUS' 'S MORNIN'?"

"NOT A DROP!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday Night, February 11._--The other day rumour
about that TIM HEALY, weary of strife, finding how sharper than a
serpent's tooth is the enmity of parted friends, had resolved to
retire from political life. That news, if true, would eclipse the
gaiety of Parliament. TIM'S manner may not be precisely described as
gay. It is, in truth, somewhat saturnine; rather raspy, occasionally
vitriolic. If there is any instruction to be conveyed, TIM approves
the fashion of the ancient Israelitish captain, who "taught the men of
Succoth with thorns of the wilderness and briars." TIM'S former
colleagues, now ranged under modest leadership of JOHN REDMOND, are,
he conscientiously believes, much in need of instruction. So to-night
TIM "taught them" with thorns of the wilderness and briars.

A brisk debate, falling into most attractive sequence. This in measure
accidental; looked like admirable stage management. First JOHN
REDMOND, with his neatly-moulded phrases, his assumption of profound
statecraft, his assertion that Tories please him not, nor Liberals
either; his conclusion that since Government are on friendly terms
with the major Irish Party, the minor (nine strong) will march into
lobby with PRINCE ARTHUR, whom they used to hate, and JOSEPH of
Birmingham, whom they scarcely love. Next JOHN MORLEY, stirred to
unusually profound depths, his speech glowing above the unwonted fire.
Then PRINCE ARTHUR, gracefully skating on exceedingly thin ice,
incidentally dropping into imagery on successive phases of the married
state, which House, ever alert for personal references, listened to
with quickened interest. A scholar's current speech or writing is
insensibly tinctured with flavour of his latest study. Odd that just
now PRINCE ARTHUR should display this curiously minute knowledge and
appreciation of various phases of married life as it is to be studied
in books of reference.

Finally, TIM, his truculence tempered by humour of the situation. JOHN
REDMOND protested he had made no bargain with Opposition in
transferring to them his handful of votes. PRINCE ARTHUR had confirmed
disclaimer. Too much for tender-hearted TIM. Tears glistened in his
eyes; his voice trembled; his hand shook; his body seemed to grow
limp, as he lamented this last degeneration of ancient Irish spirit.

"I have," he said, "been in alliance with the Tory Party before now,
and may be again; but I know of no occasion when any Irish party gave
their votes unless they got something for them."

That only TIM'S fun. Overcoming his emotion, he, with ruthless force,
pitiless logic, laid bare position of the new Party of the Muses.

_Business done._--Parnellite Amendment, supported by Unionists,
negatived by 256 against 236.

_Tuesday._--If you want to make your flesh creep, you should have
heard the SPEAKER just now challenging the Lord Mayor of Dublin, whom
he discovered standing at Bar; and, as Sir WILFRID LAWSON adds, "not
drinking." Lord Mayor got up in gorgeous apparel; scarlet gown,
ermine-tipped, with gold chain gleaming across manly chest. Recalls
days of yesteryear when DAWSON was Lord Mayor of Dublin. Being also
Member for an Irish constituency, no autocratic SPEAKER might
challenge his right to cross the Bar, whether in civilian dress, or in
robes of office. On occasions when he had a petition to deliver he
came down, cloaked, in a four-wheeler. Made the heart of Mr. COVE in
Members' cloak-room stand still, when he suddenly threw back his
wraps, and disclosed glittering garb beneath. Sat on front bench below
gangway with inadequate legs partially crossed, his chain mysteriously
clanking, motion understood at time to serve double purpose of calling
attention to Lord Mayor's presence, and of hinting at the kind of bond
that held Ireland to Great Britain.

Present Lord Mayor of Dublin, not being a Member had to sue for
admission at door of House. Word passed to Sergeant-at-Arms; gallant
officer, having heard something of Irish habits, observed precaution
of shouldering mace before he went out to confront the strangers. If
they had shillelaghs, the mace, twirled about by lusty arms, might be
reckoned on to keep the gate. The messengers not behind in military
precaution; hauled out the bar--the veritable Bar of House of Commons
of which we hear so much and see so little.

"Now," said the oldest Messenger, folding his arms and clenching his
teeth, "let them do their worst."

Sergeant-at-Arms marched in, mace on shoulder, escorting Lord Mayor
and two sheriffs. If they had meant mischief they thought better of it
on looking round. Lord Mayor might, it is true, if he were in good
condition have vaulted over bar or ducked beneath it, and run amuck up
floor. But then the sheriffs, before they could have imitated him,
would have been awfully mauled with the mace.

Any piratical mention that may have lurked in minds of the insurgents
was finally crushed by really awful tone in which the SPEAKER, fixing
glittering eye on group at bar, said, "My Lord Mayor of Dublin, what
have you there?"

Members expected trembling culprit would produce from under his cloak
the horse-pistol, dagger, cup of poison, or whatever he may have
brought with him with felonious intent. But he meekly answered, "A
petition." This he unfolded, and as he showed a disposition to read it
through, Members went off.

_Business done._--Another day passed talking round Address. NAOROJI
moved Amendment raising question of financial relations between
England and India. Read a paper of prodigious length; beat the tom-tom
for nearly an hour. "In churches," said the (almost) Reverend JEMMY
LOWTHER, "an incumbent sometimes reads himself in. NAOROJI reads his
congregation out. Mayn't be quite so black as the MARKISS painted him,
but he's quite as long-winded as could have been expected."

_Thursday._--New Session not quite a fortnight old, and lo! a strange
thing has happened. Electric bells struck--I mean they won't strike.
When, just now, House cleared for division on Amnesty motion electric
knobs touched as usual. Thereupon should have followed
tintinnabulation of the bells in all the rooms and corridors outside
the Chamber. Only little tinkle heard; sort of weird mocking laugh,
"Ha! ha!" and then silence.

Consequences might have been serious. Last thing well-trained Member
regards as absolute preliminary to voting is to sit throughout the
debate. Scattered far and wide, in library, tea-room, dining-room, or
smoking-room, when they hear the bell they rush in to vote. If they
don't hear it they stop where they are. Difficulty temporarily
overcome by sending policemen and messengers bawling along all the
passages, "Division! division!" This all very well for the moment; but
what is to be done about the bells?

ALBERT ROLLIT, steeped in parliamentary usages, says, "If the bells
won't obey the SPEAKER'S order, send them to the Clock Tower."

STUART promptly places at disposal of SPEAKER a squadron of _Star_
boys, to run about premises on given signal and proclaim division.
"They'd do it much better than the policemen and messengers," he says.

True; but as Colonel LEGGE apprehends, they would be certain in
excitement of moment, instead of calling out "Division," to lapse into
more familiar cry, "Hextra Speshul!" That would never do. Simplest
plan is to stop this interminable talk round the Address and get to
work. When the electric bells shut up in sheer disgust at waste of
time, grown-up men of business may be expected to reconsider the
position.

_Business done._--TIM HARRINGTON talked for two hours and five minute
about ancient history of Maamtrasna.

_Friday._--Much murmuring below Gangway just now because to programme
of Session already overloaded Government decline to add Bill providing
for payment of Members. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE been observed to
regard this topic with smiling equanimity. Secret of his content now
disclosed. Papers report how Spanish merchant, resident in Barcelona,
having studied SAGE'S public Parliamentary career, begs leave, as
trifling indication of his esteem and admiration, to be permitted to
pay SAGE'S election expenses whenever incurred.

"'Tis a pretty variation on Spanish devotional habit," says PLUNKET,
who has followed BORROW'S footsteps in Spain, "More especially in
rural districts, pious men approach the shrine of favourite saint and
hang upon it an offering, peradventure poor in intrinsic value, but
rich in proportion to their revenues. Expect by-and-by the SAGE will
be canonised, and straying by the banks of the Guadalquivir, you shall
here and there come upon shrines to Saint LABBY, rich with votive
offerings."

[Illustration: Labby's Share.]

"That may be so," said GORST. "You're always ready to take the poetic
view of a thing. But I'd like to wait and see the colour of the money.
You know the SAGE has long been firing away at enterprising traders in
Spain who, usually dating their missives from a State prison, offer
for a slight consideration to disclose fabulous stores of hidden
wealth. The SAGE has spoiled their little game. Should like to be
quite sure they've not broken out in a new place, and are trying it on
first with the SAGE."

_Business done._--Set-to between the Birmingham Cock and the
Yorkshire-cum-Fifeshire Bantam. Odds at first in favour of the
veteran. Admitted on both sides the young 'un beat him hollow.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUIET RUBBERS.

Off to Olympia--greatest show on earth--with wife; also with BOB and
_his_ wife. Find the two ladies wearing goloshes--"rubbers" they call
them--say "they've just read in the paper that they are universal in
America in winter." Annoyed. Never knew my wife's feet were as large
as they seem now. BOB defends goloshes--hypocrite! Says "nothing wets
feet like snow, and at any moment we may be in for the greatest _snow_
on earth." Stupid joke, considering that a good boot will keep out
anything. Why shouldn't the ladies leave their rubbers _outside_ show,
in cloak-room--as people do in mosques in the East? Would be quite in
keeping with the "Orient." Ladies say they'll be lost--a good job if
they were! Getting quite sulky, when BOB suggests dinner. Good dinner!
Excellent wines! Wife's feet don't look as large now. Why doesn't
everybody wear g'loshes? Old Greeks must have worn 'em--don't we read
of the "Goloshus of Rhodes?" Old Romans, too, or why did they call
_their_ Olympia the Golosheum? BOB says they didn't. I say they did!
Disturbance. Wonder who's making it? Turn 'em out! They're turning
_me_ out! Won't go--send for KIRALFY--GOLOSHY KIRALFY--there's the
word again! GOLOSHY _must_ wear rubbers. People trying to pacify me.
Won't let 'em. Back home. Wife crying. What for? Says she will never
go out in rubbers again! Yes, she shall. So will I. Put 'em on
now!--To bed in rubbers.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume
108, February 23, 1895, by Various

*** 