



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 9th, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




TO LUCENDA.

(_Who had made "Copy" of Me._)

  The bright September when we met
    My prospects were _not_ over healthy,
  Though you were, I do _not_ forget,
          Extremely wealthy.

  I know not why it chanced to be,
    But this I recollect most clearly--
  It never once occurred to me
          To love you dearly.

  'Twas not your fault, so do not vex
    Yourself, for I admired your beauty,
  Since admiration of your sex
          Is Man's Whole Duty.

  And thus it came to be our lot
    To part without a sign or token;
  I went upon my way, but not
          The least heart-broken.

  My "fatal pride" does not object
    At your fair hands to be made verse on;
  But p'raps next time you will select--
          Some other person!

       *       *       *       *       *

UNANSWERABLE.--The Archbishop of CANTERBURY, speaking at Folkestone
last week, said that "The Disestablishment Bill does not need any
answering: it answers itself." An' it please your Grace, if it does
"answer," and answers its purpose, what more can be required of this
Bill or any other?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW WEATHER PROVERB.--It never rains--but it snows!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BRAVE GIRL!

_Millicent_ (_from the country_). "_NOW_, MABEL! LET'S MAKE A DASH!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.

FREEZING THE VERTEBRAE.--I am in the last stage of bronchitis,
complicated with pneumonia, influenza, and asthma, and a friend has
advised me to try the new French cure of applying ice to the spine.
Will some obliging physician tell me whether he considers such a
course safe? None but a recognised specialist need trouble to reply;
and if he does so, I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that I
have saved his fee, as well as my own life. My boy advises me to go
skating, and "I shall be sure then to have my back applied to the
ice," which he says is the same thing as applying ice to my back. But
is it? A nephew who is staying in the house also kindly offers to "shy
hard snow-balls at my spine," if that would help me in any way. It is
a pity that the newspaper (from which I derived this medical hint) was
not clear as to details; for instance, when I _have_ applied the ice,
what is to prevent its melting and trickling all over me?--NON-PAYING
PATIENT.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meteorological Moralising.

  'Tis an ill-wind which blows nobody good,
    And one man's meat another's poison is.
  What is disaster to one man or mood,
    Is to another mood or man "good biz."
  What to your dramatist means love's labour's lost,
  Your would-be skater craves--"a perfect frost!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

By the publication of _The Play Actress_ (S. R. CROCKETT) Mr. FISHER
UNWIN fully maintains the success attained by his Autonym Library. My
Baronite is least attracted by the scenes which possibly pleased the
author most--those in which he describes life in the purlieus of
London theatres. Mr. CROCKETT is much more at home in Galloway, and
with the people who sparsely populate it. The opening chapter,
describing Sabbath day in the Kirk of the Hill is in his best style,
as are others describing the Great Preacher's tender caring for his
little grand-daughter. _The Play Actress_ is just the sort of thing to
buy at a bookstall on starting for a journey. It will be felt to be a
matter of regret if the journey isn't quite long enough to finish it
at a sitting.

In _The Worst Woman in London_ ("and other stories," a subtitle
craftily suppressed on the outside of the book by F. C. PHILIPS) the
author gives us a number of capital detached stories of a most
irritating abruptness. Almost every one of these stories is a novel
thrown away; that is, every story is in itself the germ of what might
have been a good novel. They are little more than "jottings for
plottings." Yet, to be read with a pipe or small cigar, they just
suffice to wile away time and obviate conversation. They are dedicated
to Mr. WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK, who has on more than one occasion shown
himself an adept at real good short stories--not merely as plots, but
genuinely complete in themselves and full of humour--and from whom the
Baron expects something more in the same line, or, rather, on the same
lines.

    The BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MODERN ECLOGUE.

    SCENE--_A Crowded Thoroughfare._ _Enter_ STREPHON _and_ PHYLLIS
    _on bicycles, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour_.

        _Strephon._

  We care not, PHYLLIS, my own, to-day,
    For walking in Kensington Park,
  To flirt in the old conventional way,
    And saunter home in the dark.
  Nay, pleasanter far it is to "scorch"--
    To hear your silvery bell,
  While the answering squeak of my horn may speak
    For the fact that I love you well!

        _Both._

  Oh, isn't it sweet to clear the street,
    While elderly persons frown!
  "Now, stoopid, look out!" we pleasantly shout,
    And bang goes a gentleman down!

        _Phyllis._

  STREPHON, I love you, I confess,
    For who could fail to admire
  The humorous way you spoil a dress
    And ruin a girl's attire?
  To see you silently creep along,
    And then with a burst of speed
  Spread liberal dirt on the feminine skirt
    Is a sight for the gods, indeed!

        _Both._

  Oh, isn't it glee to do it, and see
    The lady-pedestrian flinch,
  With jubilant rush to scatter the slush
    And miss her foot by an inch!

        _Strephon._

  I frightened those horses, I'm much afraid,--
    The excellent coachman's riled!

        _Phyllis._

  And I've demolished a nursery-maid,
    And certainly hurt a child!

        _Strephon._

  I made that stately dowager jump,
    She leapt to one side, and puffed!

        _Phyllis._

  That leisurely cur, I'm inclined to infer,
    To-morrow will go to be stuffed!

        _Both._

  So side by side we merrily ride,
    And scatter the murmuring throng,
  Who think the police should compel us to cease,
    And mournfully ask, "How long?"

       *       *       *       *       *

JUST A LITTLE TOO MUCH.--When a parliamentary candidate or popular
Member is received with a torchlight procession, it is almost
unnecessary for his constituents to present him, on a dark night, with
"an illuminated address."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FRENCH AMNESTY.

    _Bruxelles, le 31. Janvier._

MONSIEUR,--I write to you, _M. Punch_, these some words, which I essay
to write in english. I come of to receive--how say you _la
nouvelle?_--the new of the amnesty in France. The government which
banished the descendant of the great NAPOLEON has recalled some
exileds. But he has not recalled me, _ce gouvernement infame!_ He has
left to languish the heir of the crown imperial in this droll of
little town. _Nom d'une pipe, quelle ville! Rien qu'un Palais de
Justice et quelques rues desertes!_ But I go to write in english. I
rest here, at five hours of Paris, alldays ready, alldays vigilant.
_Mais que c'est triste!_ _Tiens_, it is not perhaps so sad as
that--how write you the name?--that Stove, in your _departement_ of
the Bukkinhammshir. At least one speak french in this country. It is
not the french of Paris, or the french of Touraine, but all of same it
values better than english--a language so difficult. Thus I rest here,
I walk myself to horse in their Wood of Cambre, I visit of time in
time the Palace of Justice and Ste. Gudule, _et voila c'est fini!_
Then I recommence and I see, _encore une fois_, the _Bois_, the
_Palais_, and the _Cathedrale_. I go not to Waterloo, for people say
my Great Ancestor there was conquered by your Duc of WELINTONG. One
has wrong, the historians have wrong, _mais enfin, que faire?_ I may
not to write the history of new. _A l'avenir nous verrons. En
attendant j'attends._ And I stand, like my Great Ancestor, the arms
folded, and frown towards the frontier of the France, _la patrie
ingrate_. It is a fine attitude, and I study it all the days.

    _Agreez, &c._      N.


    _Stowe, the 31. January._

Sir,--I tell you my thoughts as calmly as possibly, but my heart
burns! Heaven, what injustice! To France--ah, I say not her name
without emotion!--to France I offered my sword, my service, my life!
She refused them! Ingrateful country! Me who--but I go to be calm!
When CASIMIR-PERIER resigns I voyage without to lose an instant to
Dover, I wait, I receive each instant some despatch, I regard the
coast of France and weep, I am photographed! Me, the descendant of St.
LOUIS, I am photographed! But in vain! I desire even to die for
France, but I may not! By blue, what ingratitude! And now she
proclaims the amnesty and I am forgotten! Me, the descendant of St.
LOUIS! Me who desire the struggle, the efforts of a life of soldier,
of a life of king, me I rest here in simple renter of province! Me who
wish to die for France, I am obliged to live in England! To live, just
heaven! And in England, which I despise, though she shelters me!
Perhaps she is not worse than Belgium, Buckingham or Bruxelles! It is
equal to me! Nor the one nor the other is France! Again I weep! Ah, if
I could shed tears of blood! I can not! Heaven, that I should not have
even that consolation there! And ROCHEFORT returns! He may die for his
country, for France! Once more I weep bitterly! But me I may not! I
conclude, and my last word shall be a word of order! It shall be,
though she spurns me, though she mock herself of me, "Live France!"
Again I weep! Receive, &c. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SUCCESSFUL SANITATION.

_Anxious Tourist._ "SINCE YOUR TOWN HAS BEEN NEWLY DRAINED, I SUPPOSE
THERE IS LESS FEVER HERE?"

_Hotel-Keeper_ (_reassuringly_). "ACH, YES, SIR! ZE TEEFOOSE (TYPHUS)
IS NOW QUITE _ZE EXCEPTION!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"VOICI LE SABRE DE MON PERE!"

    ["Let all know that, in devoting all my strength to the welfare of
    the people, I intend to protect the principle of autocracy as
    firmly and unswervingly as did my late and never-to-be-forgotten
    father."
        _The Czar to the assembled Deputies and Delegates in the
        Winter Palace._]

[Illustration: "VOICI LE SABRE DE MON PERE!"

"I intend to protect the principle of autocracy as firmly and
unswervingly as did my late and never-to-be-forgotten father."
  --_Czar's Speech, Jan. 29._]

  "_It was my father's custom, and so it shall be mine!_"--
  One seems to hear those simple words 'midst all the show and shine
  Of the great, gay, white-pillared hall. The gold and silver chains
  Of deputies and delegates from distant steppes and plains
  Gleam in the winter daylight. The tall white-tunic'd Guards
  Stand with drawn swords, Autocracy's serene and stalwart wards.
  All in the Winter Palace; from regions vast and far
  They come of many a race and creed to welcome their young Czar.
  The nobles and the Zemstros, too, are represented here.
  With tribes of the wild Caucasus, the hosts who love--and fear--
  The monarch of one hundred and twenty million souls.
  And through thine Hall, St. Nicholas, in full firm accents rolls
  The Voice of armed Autocracy, unbending and unchanged.
  Unfaltering the youthful eye that boldly roved and ranged
  Over that motley muster. He lifts his sire's great sword,
  This youthful heir to power supreme, by freemen much abhorred,
  But dear to bowing myriads of Slavdom's loyal hosts;
  And with that calm cold dignity which despotism boasts
  Establishes the Ego of Autocracy once more.
  _Voici le sabre de mon sire!_ What ALEXANDER bore
  Shall NICHOLAS not wear and wield? The appanage of our line!
  "_It was my father's custom, and so it shall be mine!_"
  Old rustic song, your refrain long shall echo round our world,
  Until all burdens from the back of toiling men are hurled.
  Far, far off day! Now proud and gay Autocracy's strong thralls
  Muster to-day in fine array in those white-pillared halls.
  To be--not snubbed, say _reassured_, that Autocrats, still strong,
  Still give small heed to serfs who plead, to freedom's siren song,
  Or to "absurd illusions," which, slipped from mouth to mouth,
  Must still be silenced in the North, if heeded in the South.
  Those Zemstros voices must be hushed. Autocracy's sole hand
  Must wield the sabre of his sire, and sway a silent land;
  The Bear from the new Bearward gentler treatment well may hope,
  But hardly loosening of the chain or slackening of the rope.
  The patient Northern Bruin stands and rubs a dubious ear.
  Amnesty means not Liberty. Autocracy is clear
  In "firmly and unswervingly," with strength that doth not tire,
  Holding the mastery of its race, the Sabre of its Sire!

       *       *       *       *       *

"MR. PEPYS'S PARISH CHURCH."--The Rev. ALFRED POVAH'S interesting work
gives us the origin of the "Navy pew" in St. Olave's. In such a church
how appropriate was the old "three-decker," as this structure, which
contained clerk below, parson in the middle, and preacher in the
topmost compartment, used to be termed.

       *       *       *       *       *

A JUST CORRECTION.--In _Macmillan's_ for this month there is an
interesting article entitled "_In the Wake of Captain Cook_." An Irish
member of the club threw the number down, exclaiming, "The man who
wrote that can't write English! 'Tis not '_in_ the wake' at all. Sure
it ought to be '_at_ the wake.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

LEGAL CLOCKWORK.--Towards the end of last week, the key of the
difficulty having been found, the Justice-VAUGHAN-WILLIAMS'-winding-up
business was wound up, and J. V. W., being wound up, was set going
again. There is, however, still some difficulty, and a little oil on
the troubled works will be necessary. _Mem. to the Lord
Chancellor._--"Please not to touch the figures."

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Q._ What is the best sort of cigar to smoke in a Hansom?

    _A._ A Cab-ana.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITTLE MOPSEMAN.

THE SECOND ACT.

[Illustration: "Yes, Alfred, Retribution!"]

    _A little narrow glen, with a <DW72> in the background, belonging
    to_ ALFRED. _Under the dripping trees a table and chairs, all made
    of thin birchstaves. Everything is sodden with wet, and
    mist-wreaths are driving about._ ALFRED FRUeYSECK, _dressed in a
    black mackintosh, sits dejectedly on a chair. Presently_ MOPSA
    BROVIK _comes down the <DW72> cautiously behind, and touches his
    shoulder_; ALFRED _jumps_.

_Mopsa._ You shouldn't really sit about on damp seats in such
miserable weather, ALFRED. I have been hunting for you everywhere.

    [_Closing her umbrella with quiet significance._

_Alfred_ (_to himself_). Run to earth! Oh, Lor'! (_Aloud._) If you
would only be kind enough to search for MOPSEMAN instead! I _cannot_
unravel the mystery of his disappearance. There he was, just entering
upon conscious intelligence--full of the infinite possibilities of
performing poodlehood. I had charged myself with his education. After
having been an usher at so many boarding-schools, I felt peculiarly
fitted for such a task. And then a shady scoundrel has only to come
his way with rats in a bag----!

_Mopsa._ But we don't in the least know how it really all came about.

_Alfred._ That infernal VARMINT-BL[=O]K is at the bottom of it, you may
depend upon that! Though what motive in the world----(_Quivering._)
It's not as if MOPSEMAN would ever have faced a rat. He used to bolt
at the mere sight of a blackbeetle even. The whole thing is so utterly
meaningless, MOPSA. And yet, I suppose the order of the universe
requires it.

_Mopsa._ Have you indulged in these abstruse philosophical
speculations with SPRETA?

_Alfred_ (_shakes his head hopelessly_). She is so utterly incapable
of----(MOPSA _nods_.) I prefer discussing them with _you_. There is
something unnatural in imparting confidences to a mere wife. What on
earth have you got there?

_Mopsa_ (_takes a little housewife out of her pocket_). SPRETA said
you had lost the button off the back of your collar. I thought I would
sew it on for you. _May_ I? (_With quiet warmth._) I'll _try_ not to
run the needle into you.

_Alfred_ (_absently_). Do; it may distract my thoughts a little. Where
_is_ SPRETA, by the way?

_Mopsa._ Only taking a little walk with BLOCHDRAeHN. (_Sewing._)
Perhaps it is _hardly_ the weather for a stroll; but then he was
always so perfectly devoted to--h'm--to Little MOPSEMAN, you know.

_Alfred_ (_surprised_). But SPRETA wasn't. She never liked him--not
even as a puppy. And now tell me--don't you think you could take a
fancy to BLOCHDRAeHN--h'm?

_Mopsa._ Oh, no! Please! (_Covers her face with her hands._) You
mustn't really ask me why. (_Looks at him through her fingers._)
Because I _know_ I should tell you; you have such an irresistible
influence over me. Oh dear! oh dear! what _will_ you think of me?
(_Moves close up to him._) There's a button off your _shirt-front_
now!

_Alfred_ (_plaintively_). Am I to have _that_ one sewn on too?

_Mopsa._ Yes, it's the right thing to do. Though how SPRETA can _let_
you go about like this, I _can't_ think!

_Alfred_ (_with a half smile_). When I have _you_ to look after me.
This is quite like the dear old days!

_Mopsa._ Yes. (_Sewing._) I remember I mended all your things, like a
sister. Even then you never had _quite_ all your buttons, _had_ you,
dear?

_Alfred_ (_patting her hand_). Not even then. And do you remember how
you used to follow me about, just like a little dog? And I used to
call you "Little MOPSEMAN," because your name was MOPSA; and if I had
_had_ a dog, I should have called _him_ Little MOPSEMAN. And then how
you used to sit up and hold a biscuit on your nose, my dear faithful
MOPSA!

_Mopsa._ I wonder how you can be so childish! (_Smiling
involuntarily._) It _was_ a rich beautiful time; but it was all over
when you married. I hope you have never mentioned all that nonsense to
SPRETA?

_Alfred._ I _may_ have. One _does_ tell one's wife some
things--unintentionally. (_Clutching his forehead._) But oh, how _can_
I sit here and forget Little MOPSEMAN so completely? Have I _no_
heart?

_Mopsa._ If you have lost it, I think I know where it is. And you must
surely give your grief a rest occasionally, too.

_Alfred._ I mustn't. I won't. I _will_ think of him.... By the way,
are we to have dried fish for dinner _again?_... Oh, _there_ I go once
more--in the very middle of my agony--just when I want to be torturing
myself unspeakably with this gnawing crushing regret! What a
wonderfully realistic touch it is, though, eh? So dramatic! But after
all, I have _you_, MOPSA. I'm so glad of that!

_Mopsa_ (_looking earnestly at him_). Surely you mean dear SPRETA--not
_me_, ALFRED?

_Alfred._ What relation is a wife to her husband? None whatever. Now
you, MOPSA, _you_ are very nearly a second cousin once removed, not
quite--because our family is a thing so entirely apart. We have always
had vowels (the very _best_ vowels) for our initials, and the same
 spectacles, and poor relations we invariably cut, and great
thick works we never get really on with. You take after your mother,
KAIA.

_Mopsa._ And my Aunt--she that was a Miss REBECCA WEST. I feel so
irresistibly drawn to disturb other people's domestic harmony. But you
must really forget me, and try to care for poor SPRETA a little.

_Alfred_ (_vehemently_). It's no use. I _can't_. You've entranced me
so thoroughly. (_Helplessly._) I _knew_ you would! Do let me remain
here with you!

    [_Seizes her hand._

_Mopsa_ (_looks warmly at him_). Of course, if you really mean _that_,
I cannot pretend that such comradeship is----Hush! let go my
hand--there's somebody coming!

    [SPRETA _and_ BLOCHDRAeHN _enter in waterproofs, sharing the same
    umbrella_.

_Alfred_ (_annoyed_). Why do you come bothering here? Surely you must
see that such an interruption is _most_ ill-timed.

_Spreta_ (_with a cutting laugh_). We did gather _that_, ALFRED. I
came to see what you were about.

_Alfred._ MOPSA was simply sympathising with me over Little MOPSEMAN'S
disappearance--that was all.

_Spreta._ Sympathising and philandering, ALFRED, are synonymous terms
in the Norwegian Drama. And I may be allowed to observe that _other_
people can philander if they're driven to it.

    [_Glances at_ BLOCHDRAeHN.

_Mopsa_ (_taking her umbrella quickly, to_ BLOCHDRAeHN). We seem to be
somewhat _de trop_ here. Suppose we withdraw?

    [_They do._

_Spreta._ Doesn't it strike you, ALFRED, that all this morbid harping
on that missing mongrel may be just a little monotonous--for a popular
audience, I mean?

_Alfred_ (_gloomily_). They'll have to sit through another Act and a
half of it--that's all. I shall harp if I choose. I _like_ harping.
And you always detested MOPSEMAN. You said he ate too much, and had
evil eyes.

_Spreta._ So he _did_--so he _had_! And _you_ never really and truly
loved him either, or you would never have made such a fool of the dog
as you did!

_Alfred._ I had renounced my wonderful thick book. I needed
_something_ to fill up my life!

_Spreta._ You might have chosen something better than a miserable
little poodle with no hair on his tail!

_Alfred_ (_turns pale_). It is you--_you_, who were the guilty one in
that. (_Harshly and coldly._) It was _your_ hand that spilt the hot
water over him as he lay comfortably on the hearthrug. It _was!_ And
you _know_ it!

_Spreta_ (_terrified, yet defiant_). Better own at once that you came
behind me and jogged my arm!

_Alfred_ (_in suppressed desperation_). Yes, that is true. You looked
so entrancingly beautiful as you were putting the kettle on for tea,
that I was irresistibly impelled to kiss you!

_Spreta_ (_exasperated_). ALFRED! This is intolerable of you. _Do_ I
deserve to be reproached for looking entrancingly beautiful?

_Alfred_ (_with sarcasm_). Not in the least--_now_. You are subject to
the Law of Change. But what does all that matter? We have _both_
sinned, if you like. While we had him, we both shrank in secret from
him--we could not bear to see the tail he dragged about after him!

_Spreta_ (_whispers_). You were so perpetually putting paraffin upon
it, ALFRED!

_Alfred_ (_calmer_). Yes, _that_. I tried to perfect its
possibilities. But it was no use--I could never, never make it good
again. And after that I dressed him up in military uniform, and then
he had to remain too much indoors, so, of course, he followed the
VARMINT-BL[=O]K, and then the street curs chevied him over the pier. And
after I had trained him so thoroughly to shoulder a musket, he was so
totally unable to swim. Oh, it all works out into quite a logical
Retribution. And I must go away into the solitudes and writhe with
remorse--by myself.

_Spreta_ (_bitingly_). Unless, of course, you can induce MOPSA to----I
think you mentioned once that she used to follow you about like a
little dog?

_Alfred_ (_in a hollow voice_). I did. I remember now. That time when
the tea-kettle----Retribution!

    [_He staggers into the thinnest birchstave chair, which collapses
    under him._

_Spreta_ (_menacingly standing over him_). Yes, ALFRED, Retribution!

    [MOPSA _and_ BLOCHDRAeHN _return_.

_Mopsa_ (_pleasantly_). Well, my dear SPRETA, have you and dear ALFRED
talked things thoroughly out?

_Spreta._ Oh, yes; quite thoroughly enough, I really will _not_ be
left alone with ALFRED any more; he is _too_ depressing!

_Alfred_ (_on the ground_). One cannot be expected to rollick when one
is being gnawed with remorse! But perhaps BLOCHDRAeHN _would_ be a more
cheerful companion for you; go on with him, while MOPSA helps me up
again. We'll follow you--presently.

    [SPRETA _and_ BLOCHDRAeHN _go off together;_ MOPSA _tenderly
    assists_ ALFRED _to rise_.

_Mopsa._ Oh, dear me! it does seem _such_ a pity! But SPRETA always
_was_ peculiar. It must be so trying for _you_, dear!

_Alfred._ So much so that I can't stand her any longer. I _must_ get
away, anywhere--quite alone. MOPSA, will you come _too?_

_Mopsa_ (_shocked_). ALFRED! How _can_ you? What _have_ I said or done
to encourage such a proposal? So utterly unexpected!

_Alfred_ (_feebly_). I really couldn't help it. It's the troll inside
me. What am I saying? That belongs to another Norwegian drama!

_Mopsa._ All this part belongs to _several_ other Norwegian dramas,
dear. But we must see if we can't get out of the old groove _this_
time!

_Alfred._ But why in the world----? When you showed such a wonderful
preference for my society, too!

_Mopsa_ (_gently_). I know, dear. But that was before----. Let me tell
you something. (_Slow music;_ ALFRED _sits down, cautiously_.) I've
just been looking through my big portfolio, and I've discovered--what
_do_ you think? (ALFRED _shakes his head hopelessly_.) I'm not KAIA'S
daughter at all, really. I'm only adopted!

_Alfred._ But what difference does that make in _our_ relations?
Practically, none whatever!

_Mopsa._ _All_ the difference, ALFRED. I always pursued you about with
reluctance and under protest. Being, as I supposed, descended from
KAIA FOSLI, and related to REBECCA WEST, it seemed so utterly the
right thing to do. But I know _now_ that I am nothing of the sort, and
that if my real mother ever possessed such a thing as a Past at all,
it was Plu-perfect. So heredity doesn't come in, and, rather than
interfere between you and poor dear SPRETA, I have decided to go right
away and never see you again. I really _mean_ it, _this_ time!

    [_She opens her umbrella and runs off up the <DW72>._

_Alfred_ (_takes up his hat sadly_). Isn't this play going to end
pessimistically after all, then? (_Shudders._) Are we actually going
to be--moral? (_More hopefully._) After all, there's another Act left.
There's a chance still!

    [_He follows hastily after_ MOPSA.

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC.--"Faure-warned,
Faure-armed."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TOO MUCH.

(_Pity the Sorrows of a poor Hunting Man!_)

_Sportsman_ (_suffering from intense aberration of mind in consequence
of the Weather, in reply to Wife of his bosom_). "PUT OUT? WHY, O'
COURSE I'M PUT OUT. BEEN JUST THROUGH THE VILLAGE, AND HANG ME IF AT
LEAST HALF A DOZEN FOOLS HAVEN'T TOLD ME THAT IT'S NICE SEASONABLE
WEATHER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

RETRIBUTION.

(_Wrought by a cheap Foreign Cigar._)

  I'm feeling--great heavens!--all sixes and sevens,
    And dizzy, and giddy, and green;
  Knocked flat as a pancake, I've got a blank, blank ache
    All over--a sight to be seen!

  Alas! for the reason 'tis easy to seize on--
    The same I'll proceed to relate:--
  I've just come from Brussels, whence, after some tussles
    With conscience, I rushed to my fate.

  For by Calais and Dover I safely brought over
    A contraband hatful of weeds;
  Ah, why did I struggle to juggle and smuggle,
    Thus paying the price for my deeds?

  They cost each five farthings, and goodness! they _are_ things
    You'd not get your worst foe to smoke,
  This "Cabbagio Fino" _has_ giv'n me a beano--
    But there! I'm too seedy to joke!

  So this crude composition I pen in contrition,
    My state of collapse to explain;
  I thought to be clever, but never, oh never,
    Will make such a bargain again!

       *       *       *       *       *

CONTRADICTION.--A fortnight ago, in the law reports of the _Times_,
were reported proceedings in bankruptcy "_in re_ TOBY." We have been
requested to state that this gentleman is not _Mr. Punch's_ "TOBY,
M.P.," nor is "our Mr. TOBY" the gentleman mentioned in the same case
as "the bankrupt's brother, M. P. TOBY." The coincidence was,
naturally, somewhat startling. Our M.P. for Barks will, by now, have
appeared in his place at St. Stephen's.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LOGICAL INFERENCE.

"I WONDER WHY HE'S SO BLACK, MUMMY? I SUPPOSE HE WAS BORN IN THE DARK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"

    ["I have had occasion to speak on the difficulties of a minister
    who finds himself pledged to a very large and extensive programme,
    to each point of which programme there is a large circle of
    adherents who consider it the foremost and the preeminently
    important point."--_Lord Rosebery._]

_Westminster Pavement Artist loquitur:_--

  Who would be a political "screever"? A drudge
  Foredoomed to designing, and destined to smudge,
    Like impressionist painters of posters?
  Art's in a rum way. Lor! what humbug it is!
  Far better the days of old CRUIKSHANK and PHIZ,
    Than our era of blobbers and boasters.

  With chalks, and my thumb, and a bit of old rag,
  I can do better work on a rough slab of flag
    Than they do on smooth hot-pressed paper.
  But oh! what a bother to squat and to smear
  All sorts of strange subjects, quaint, squiffy and queer,
    To please every lounger and gaper.

  There once was a time when the old repertore
  The public would fetch. Now they want a lot more,
    And always a somethink that's novel,
  And then such a choice of 'em! Not one or two
  Seascapes, with a liberal yaller and blue,
    Or some picture of cottage or hovel.

  Two mackerels crossed, or a slice o' red salmon,
  A rasher o' bacon, or lump o' brown "gammon,"
    A ginger-beer bottle and candle.
  A rat in a trap and a portrait or two,
  Say old GARIBALDI, the Wandering Jew,
    And p'raps JULIUS CAESAR or HANDEL.

  These gave satisfaction to parties all round;
  But 'tisn't so now as I lately have found.
    They ask a whole National Gallery.
  And every one wants his own fav'rite fust off.
  Good old "Moonlight Scene"? Why, a yokel would scoff
    At anythink bluey-and-yallery.

  They claim fancy-chalks now, or pollychrome pastel;
  It's no use to tip 'em a storm or a castle;
    They want "local colour"--a lot of it.
  Yes, something distinctly Welsh, Irish, or Scotch;
  My pitch in these critical days is no cotch;
    I'm sick of the worry and rot of it!

  Pity the artist! What boots that appeal?
  No! "Many help one," or "A heart that can feel,"
    Won't fetch 'em, however well flourished.
  I _did_ think that Guy Fawkes blow-up of the Lords
  Would call out the coppers; but shrugs and cold words
    Have damped the last hope that I nourished.

  Awful cynicle lot! Scarcely one a believer
  In _me_, it would seem, since that there Grand Old Screever
    To my hands has turned his pitch over.
  There! I've touched up the lightning, and now I am ready!
  But, though I must look bright, expectant, and steady,
    I don't feel percisely in clover!

    [_Left waiting for patronage._

[Illustration: "PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DECADENT LOVER OF FICTION.

  "One love, one life," was my ancient manner,
    For introspection I had no brain,
  But I would have died beneath her banner,
    Or I would have lived, her grace to gain.
  I loved her silent, I loved her sprightly,
    With Grecian braid or with glossy curl;
  I loved her wrongly, I loved her rightly,
    But ever I loved a single girl.

  But now with _ennui_ my love is laden
    Before it really has quite begun;
  If I win the heart of any maiden
    It makes me prefer another one.
  Dim passions stir me, deflections fleeting;
    I feel myself in a hopeless whirl.
  There never are less than six competing.
    Why can I not love a single girl?

  Contented I and my love were mated
    In those brave days when we both were young.
  For marriage I'm now too complicated,
    Too many-natured, too finely-strung.
  My spreading canvas all zephyrs vary
    For one calm funnel how can I furl?
  In truth, the statute is somewhat chary.
    And old, and grey, grows the dearest girl!

  Oh, love that was loyal, losing, winning,
    That time and change had no power to quell,
  That once could even dispense with sinning,
    And that possession could not dispel!
  Your day is done, and your star's declining,
    The hero was but a brainless churl
  Who ever dreamed that without repining
    His whole life long he could love _one_ girl!

  And yet, I feel there is something wanting.
    The knowledge that love is sure to die
  To every lover is disenchanting.
    I would I loved as in days gone by.
  'Twas braver folly the height to capture,
    Though down from the height Fate often hurls.
  He misses woe, but he misses rapture,
    Who falls in love with too many girls!

       *       *       *       *       *

SITTING OUT.

  In throbbing silence my glances stray
    O'er her unreciprocal face,
  And I haven't a notion what to say
    Now I've finished with commonplace.

  How I hate the <DW72> of that cheerless chin,
    And the stare of those vacant eyes,
  That take the commonest objects in
    With placid and cool surprise.

  And I sit in a calm that she will not break,
    A desert that is not peace,
  And ever and ever the windows shake
    To a dance that will never cease.

  I cannot join the rout again,
    I am far too weary and warm.
  So I needs must suffer this speechless pain,
    In a draught, on the red baize form.

  There is one remark--it has proved a key
    Already to one long chat,
  Of course--I'll start it, for even she
    Must answer awhile to that.

  But horror! my agonised fingers curl,
    Did I say it to her? I think
  It must have been to that other girl
    In the delicate shrimp-sauce pink.

  Shall I chance it again! I must! I will!
    With a stammer I've half begun--
  Saved! saved! the music at last is still.
    Thank goodness, the dance is done.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CASE OF SELF-SACRIFICE.

_Mrs. Grimes._ "NO, SIR, MR. SMITH AIN'T A-BIN IN 'IS CHAMBERS NOT FOR
A WEEK, SIR."

_Mr. Broom._ "OH! YOU'RE SURE NOW YOU KNOW THE GENTLEMAN I MEAN--MR.
MELDON SMITH?"

_Mrs. Grimes._ "_HI_ KNOWS 'IM RIGHT ENOUGH. WY, I DOES ALL 'IS
WASHIN' AND MENDIN' FOR 'IM!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A WINTER WEDDING.

  When bleak, bluff, blatant blizzards blew,
    And hats from storm-tossed heads were carried,
  My enterprising friend, then you
            Got married!

  Soon spring had come, when doves can coo,
    And flowers blossom, had you tarried;
  Instead, in January you
            Got married.

  Then in your honeymoon you two
    The gloom and snow of winter parried;
  It's two to one two won when you
            Were married.

  And thus henceforward may you do;
    By life's rough storms be never harried,
  Together face them all now you
            Are married.

       *       *       *       *       *

More Anglomania!

    [M. FELIX FAURE, having gone out into the garden at about six
    o'clock in the evening, was making for the door leading to his
    private apartments, when he was stopped by a sentinel. The
    President could not give the pass-word, and was accordingly
    marched off to the Elysee guard-room, where he was fortunately
    recognised.--_Daily Paper._]

  That Gallic statesmen rather like
    Trade Union methods can we doubt?
  President PERIER went "on strike";
    Now, FAURE has been "locked out."

       *       *       *       *       *

DEUX MOTS.--The retirement of one of the oldest and most popular
actors of the Comedie Francaise may be summed up in two words, "GOT:
gone."

       *       *       *       *       *

"ART IS LONG----"

The _Daily Graphic_ of February 1, commenting on the time-contest
between two pianists, suggests that exponents of the other fine arts
should follow their example. The idea has been taken up at the Royal
Aquarium with great success, as will be seen from the following
press-cuttings:--


_From the "Magazine of Art."_

The Directors of the Aquarium are to be congratulated on their new
departure, which takes the form of a highly exciting and sportsmanlike
contest between those two well-known entertainers Professor HERR KOMER
and Senor HARDLI DUDDI in their great poster-painting exhibition. This
consists of a trial of strength and endurance, the challenger, Senor
DUDDI, having given out that he will beat Professor KOMER'S previous
record in time and area combined by one hour and a hundred square
yards. As the public are well aware, the latter performer's
sensational achievement, "_Miss Letty Lind_," stands at present
unbeaten as an artistic poster, having far eclipsed his "_All
Beautiful in Naked Purity_," which attracted such attention on the
Royal Academy hoardings last year. As to time, his LIND _tour de
force_ (shown at the Society of Portrait Painters at the New Gallery
last autumn) was painted in one continuous whirl or sitting of fifty
hours duration, and would have taken even longer, had not the
accomplished _danseuse_ fainted from exhaustion. (It is understood, by
the way, that Miss LIND has issued a challenge that she will pirouette
against the world, including Lord YARMOUTH and Little TICH.)

Senor DUDDI has hitherto made his mark with presentments of
ultra-_chic_ young ladies, which have certainly taken up a great deal
of space, and fulfilled their purpose as "eye-openers." We have no
details as to the time in which they were designed, but we should
think about twenty minutes on an average.

As the Aquarium contest will not be concluded until after we go to
press, we cannot give the result, but at the time of writing, after
three days' painting without cessation, Mr. KOMER had covered a
quarter of an acre of canvas, while Mr. DUDDI had traversed three
hundred yards of advertisement hoarding. Both were going well and
strong, the only people showing signs of exhaustion being the umpires
and spectators.


_From the "Sporting Times."_

What will our dear friends of the Anti-Sporting League say to this?
Here's yet another form of iniquity, the Poet Stakes at the Aquarium!
We looked in last night at that classic abode, and found them all hard
at it in the Bijou Theatre. We soon made a pretty book, and only
regret we hadn't entered BALLYHOOLY and DOSS CHIDERDOSS. A
black-haired colt was making the pace with what he called "beautiful
prose music," quite as good as any we turn out in our first page. But
the backers rather fancied a Chestnut Pegasus, who was going well
within his stride with his "Odes and Poems." There were one or two
other dark horses in the field, that we put down for a place. That
worthy and veteran sportsman, and cutest of tipsters, G. ALLEN,
wielded the flag, and got his little lot off, as we were told, with
only ten false starts. We left at the fifty-seventh hour, when the
leaders had completed two hundred and twenty laps of very blank verse
and other paces, it being a go-as-you-please contest. A sonnet divided
the first and second, and there was an epigram and a half between the
second and the third. As it promised to be a long-winded affair, and
rather too noisy for our refined and delicate constitutions, we
retired early. We give the odds, however, on another page.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PARLIAMENTARY HOUSE WARMING!

(PARTIES ARE OFTEN RENDERED VERY ATTRACTIVE BY THE ADOPTION OF FANCY
DRESS!)]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_Tuesday, February 5._--House filled once more with bustle of new
Session. Lobby crowded. Corridors, long silent, burst into bustling
life. "Seems to me," says JEMMY LOWTHER, looking on with his
juvenile-veteran air, "that the happiest day in a member's life is the
first of a Session, if indeed the cup of his joy isn't fuller on the
day of prorogation."

For some the jubilation of the hour is toned down by saddened thought.
There is one step that will never more be heard in the lobby, one
familiar face seen here no more, one voice, wont to sway the passions
of the House, that now is still. LYCIDAS is dead, not quite ere his
prime, but in what, had fate been kinder, should have been the fulness
of his rich gifts.

The House knew GRANDOLPH, as he presented himself to its notice from
various points of view. First, an unknown new Member, rising from
bench immediately behind Ministers, a situation which, deliberately
chosen, seemed to observant Whips to indicate pleasurable prospect of
docility. Next, whilst his Party was still in office, he popped up
from front bench below gangway, and pricked at ponderous hide of
SCLATER-BOOTH, pink of respectability, sublimation of
county-gentry-Toryism. Then, with sudden brilliancy and sustained
force, he rose on the firmament below the gangway in Opposition,
tilting almost single-handed at the panoplied host, a majority over a
hundred strong, that seemed to make Mr. G.'s second Administration
invulnerable. For a moment in a famous night in June he was seen
standing jubilant on his seat at the corner of the bench, waving his
hat, shouting himself hoarse with cries of victory. From this
elevation he sprang lightly on to the Treasury Bench, and astonished
Members who, with him, had heard the chimes at midnight and after, by
the quiet dignity of his manner, his unerring tact, his unfailing
skill of management. Never since the time _Prince Hal_, boon companion
of _Falstaff_, became _King Henry the Fifth_, has there been seen such
transformation.

  Never was such a sudden scholar made;
  Never came reformation in a flood,
  With such a heady currance, scouring faults;
  Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness
            So soon did lose his seat, and all at once,
            As in this king.

The succeeding Session had a fresh surprise. It found our GRANDOLPH,
self-reduced to the ranks, caressing his moustache on the corner seat
behind the Treasury Bench. After a while he wearied of the invidious
position, and went off to the races, to Norway a-fishing, to South
Africa to observe the ways of lions from precarious proximity. But his
heart was, after all, at Westminster. He came back broken in health,
undaunted in spirit. Nothing pluckier, nothing more pathetic seen in
the House than his long stubborn fight against the paralysis that
crept over him even as he stood at the table and tried to weave again
the magic spell by which he once held the House.

He died as he lived, fighting, keeping Death at arm's length for a
full month after the highest authorities had said it was a mistake to
be such an unconscionably long time in dying.

The House of Commons will know GRANDOLPH no more. But it will never
forget one who will through all time rank among the most brilliant of
its sons.

      * * *

Something decidedly hysterical about jubilation of the hour. Prevalent
hilarity suggests case of crowded passenger ship, having been in
imminent danger of shipwreck, suddenly steams into comparatively
placid seas.

"If," says WILFRID LAWSON, an authority on Church matters, "it were
customary to commence the Session by singing a hymn I know what SQUIRE
OF MALWOOD would give out. It's the one beginning

  And are we still alive
    And see each other's face?

Thought it was to be all over before Christmas; Cabinet broken up;
everybody retiring; Parliament dissolved; demoralised Party finally
smashed up at polls; the other side left to settle who was to be who
in best of all Governments. 'Instead of which,' as the Judge said,
here we are in for a long Session, with, as usual, more work on hand
than could be done in two."

"So you haven't resigned after all?" I remarked, getting up on a chair
to have a chat with the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD.

"_Et tu_, TOBY!" he cried. "I thought better of your intelligence. I
welcome re-opening of Session for one thing. Obliged to be in my place
every night. Whilst House is sitting people will see I haven't
resigned. That should--don't know that it will--check to certain
extent what at Derby I ventured distantly to allude to as mendacious
inventions. I have, as you know, had a somewhat troublesome time
during recess. Rarely got up in morning but found by newspapers I had
resigned overnight. Seldom went to bed without conviction derived from
glancing over evening papers that I had upset the Ministerial
coach--I, the mildest mannered man that ever sat in Cabinet Council.
Daresay you remember incident in almost equally troubled career of
LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH. When he was brought back to Paris and lodged in
Tuileries after his flight to Varennes, the _sans-culottes_,
_Messieurs et Madames_, could not sleep in their beds at night from
apprehension that king had again escaped. They used to make up little
family parties, stroll down to Tuileries, mass themselves before the
King's bedroom window, and call upon LOUIS CAPET to show himself. The
King thereupon got out of bed, put on red Cap of Liberty and showed
himself at the window. '_Mes enfants_,' he said, 'you see I am here.'
'_Tres bien_,' said _Monsieur_, _Madame_, _et le Bebe_, and trudged
back content to the Faubourg St. Antoine. Now that was all very well
for a King. But you know, TOBY, it can't be expected of me in
so-called holiday times to be constantly attending knocks at the front
door, or even getting up in the dead of night, showing myself at the
window, and saying, 'My good newspaper friends, I have not resigned.'"

    _Business done._--Just commenced.

[Illustration: "MR. R-S-B-RY'S" DREAM.

_Mr. R-s-b-ry._ "Hullo! Where's the House of Lords?"

_Spectral Caretaker._ "''Ouse o' Lords,' Sir? Why, it's GONE!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE PORTRAIT OF NOBODY."--When the signature "[Greek: Outis]" first
appeared to a pamphlet or an article, people wondered "who 'tis?" and
"'ow 'tis he knows all about it?" The signature appearing again to an
article in _The New Review_, No. 69, suggests that though the author
has an anti-scriptural objection to a single-eyed individual, perhaps
'[Greek: Outis]' simply indicates a person who, with the majority of
us, detests an egotist. Only one would hardly gather this explanation
of the assumption of this classic and poetic signature from the style
of the article.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT A GILT-EDGED SECURITY.--The investment of Wei-hai-wei.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ANIMAL SPIRITS."--No. 3. THE BARN DANCE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

I.--THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS. (CONTINUED.)

It did not take me long to make my preparations and devise my plans.
In such matters as these I have always found it best to prepare for
every possible contingency, and then, with a trustful heart, to leave
the rest to chance. I therefore calculated to a nicety the number of
miles we should have to traverse, took into account the physical
configuration of the country through which we should have to pass, the
height of its various mountains, the depth of its valleys, the breadth
and current of its rivers, its capacity for food supply, and the
nature of its inhabitants. Having done all this, I spare the reader
unnecessary details. It would profit him but little if I were to set
down exactly the equipment, the clothing, the arms, and all the other
preparations which my matchless experience prompted me to make. Such
an expedition as that which I was about to engage in can never be
undertaken again, for the simple reasons that there are now no pink
hippopotami in the world, and that improved methods of communication,
ridiculous railways, absurd telegraphs, preposterous telephones, and
ludicrously well-metalled roads have robbed life, even in
Seringapatam, of all the romance which, in my younger days, cast a
halo of adventure round the smallest undertaking. How gloriously we
revelled, how grandly we fought, how magnificently contemptuous we
were of danger! But now we clothe ourselves in patent wool, we tremble
at the shadow of a policeman, we judge everything by the mean standard
of its money value. Some day we shall awake from our dreams of false
security, when the crash of invasion sounds in our ears, and we see
our homesteads ruthlessly trampled down by the hoof of some despised
and foreign foe. Then, when it is too late, the public will remember
that England still possesses one great leader inured to hardship and
danger from his earliest youth, one whom, though a perverse Parliament
has slighted him, the greatest warriors and the gallantest sportsmen
have been proud to salute as their unquestioned superior. I shall
answer to the call with what strength I may still possess, and my
prematurely grizzled hair shall be seen waving in the van of my
country's defenders; but even an ORLANDO WILBRAHAM (have I mentioned
that that was my name?) must fail if he has only shop-reared dummies
to support his efforts. Enough, however, of these mournful
prognostications.

My preparations, then, were quickly made. I resolved on confining the
numbers of the expedition within the smallest possible limits, and,
after much thought, I decided to take only one associate. My choice
fell upon Major THEOPHILUS GANDERDOWN. He had gone through the whole
of the previous campaign with me, and had proved his solid worth on
many a hard-fought field. A man, like myself, of herculean strength,
and of inexhaustible endurance, he was eminently fitted to help me in
those perilous situations in which I had no doubt we should find
ourselves before the adventure was over and the task performed. It was
not his fault that he lacked those brilliant powers of initiative,
that wonderful ingenuity of resource for which I had already become
famous. But one genius of that kind is sufficient in any adventure,
and I knew that for courage, strength, and bulldog tenacity, I could
reckon on GANDERDOWN to the death.

We fixed our start for a Thursday, always a lucky day for any
expedition in which I have been engaged. I gave GANDERDOWN rendezvous
at the western gate, at midnight, and bade him maintain the complete
secrecy in which all our plans had hitherto been involved. I myself
set forth when dinner was over to bid farewell to the beautiful and
affectionate CHUDDAH, the last scion of the glorious Rampore dynasty,
who was at that time dwelling in the little marble palace on the
outskirts of the park of her vindictive aunt, the Ranee of
Seringapatam.

[Illustration: "_Chuddah_"]

Ah, CHUDDAH, loveliest of olive maidens, even now, when I think of
thee, this war-worn heart beats faster in my breast, and the
unaccustomed tear trickles down a cheek seamed by many a scar. How
different would my life have been had cruel fate not stepped in to
prevent us from fulfilling those mutual vows of eternal love which we
had pledged to one another, I, who water these lines with my tears,
might now have been the ruler over hosts of dusky myrmidons, the
acclaimed chief of the fierce and warlike Chal tribes, whilst thou, a
queen, a wife, a mother, wouldst have---- But, bah, these wailing
regrets are unmanly. To my story.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *




Note: [=O] represents O-macron.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume
108, February 9, 1895, by Various

*** 