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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 104.

  JANUARY 7th 1893.


LONDON: PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET, AND SOLD BY ALL
BOOKSELLERS.

1893.

LONDON: BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PREFACE

SCENE--_The Elysian Fields, a flower-gemmed bank, by a flowing stream,
beneath the sylvan shade of unfading foliage._ Mr. PUNCH--_who is free
of all places, from Fleet Street to Parnassus--discovered, in Arcadian
attire, attempting "numerous verse" on a subject of National
importance--to wit, the approaching Royal Marriage._

_Mr. Punch._ Propt on this "bank of amaranth and moly,"
    Beneath the shade of boughs _un_melancholy,
    I meditate on AEstas and on Hymen!
    Pheugh! _What_ a Summer! Torrid drought doth try men,--
    And fields and farms; yet when our Royal MAY
    Weds--in July--'tis fit that Phoebus stay
    His fiery car to welcome her! By Jove,
    That sounds Spenserian! Illustrious Love
    Epithalamion demands, and lo!
    We've no official Laureate, to let flow,
    With Tennysonian dignity and sweetness,
    Courtly congratulation. DRYDEN's neatness,
    Even the gush of NAHUM TATE or PYE
    Are not available, so PUNCH must try
    His unofficial pen. My tablets, TOBY!
    This heat's enough to give you hydrophoby!
    Talk about Dog-days! Is that nectar iced?
    Then just one gulp! It beats the highest priced
    And creamiest champagne. Now, silence, Dog,
    And let me give my lagging Muse a jog!

  [_Writes, with one eye on the portraits of the_ Duke of YORK
    _and the_ Princess MAY, _the other on the iced nectar-cup._

    Humph! I do hope the happy Royal Pair
    (Whose counterfeit presentments front me there,
    Inspiring, in young manhood and frank beauty)
    Will think their Laureate hath fulfilled his duty,
    His labour of most loyal love, discreetly.
    Compliments delicate, piled not sickly-sweetly,
    Like washy WARTON's, nor so loud thrasonical--
    Like Glorious JOHN's--that they sound half ironical!
    'Tis hard indeed for loyal love to hit
    The medium just 'twixt sentiment and wit----

  [TOBY _barks, and a mellifluous voice soundeth, courteously
    intervenient, as two splendid Shades steal silently through
    the verdurous shadows._

_First Voice._ But you _have_ hit it, never-missing-One!

_Second Voice._ For fulsome twaddle finds best check in Fun!

_Mr. Punch_ (_with respectful heartiness_). What! Sweet-voiced SPENSER!
        Chivalrous-souled SIDNEY!!
    This _is_ a joy! For heroes of your kidney
    PUNCH hath a heartier homage, as he hopes,
    Than the most thundering Swinburnian tropes
    Could all express!

_Spenser_ (_smiling mildly_). ALGERNON's one of Us!
    In fierce superlatives, and foam and fuss,
    He deals o'ermuch, but proof lies in his page.
    _He_'s of the true Parnassian lineage,
    And should be Laureate--if he care to be so.

_Sidney._ Would he but heed what HORACE wrote to PISO!
    "The singing-skill of god APOLLO's giving"
    Is his, however, and no lyrist living
    Hath such a stretch of finger, or such tone.

_Mr. Punch._ Faith, but he sings immortal Fames--your own,
    My PHILIP, latest and not least--in strains
    That thrill our nerves and mount into our brains.
    If he would study less in GOSSON's "School"
    (That of "Abuse," o'er which you laid the rule
    In your "Defence of Poesy"), and stay
    Less in dim Orcus than Arcadia,
    Then--well, I might have well been spared this task.
    SPENSER, _you_ penned _your own_; now may I ask
    Epithalamion-recipes from you?

_Spenser_ (_smiling_). Yes--when you need them! I was Laureate too!
    There's enough inspiration in those faces
[_Pointing to portraits of the_ Duke of YORK _and the_ Princess MAY.
    To bring the needful Muses, and the Graces,
    All to your aid!

_Mr. Punch._ By Jove! That "takes the cake."
    You great Elizabethans had the knack
    Of courtly compliment. Young GEORGE, fair MAY,
    Shall have your _mot_ upon their marriage day,
    As a choice wedding gift, to pair with mine!

_Spenser and Sidney_ (_together_). What's that?

_Mr. Punch_ (_politely_). One you may share, if you incline.
    TOBIAS, hand the new-bound Oracle here!
    Take it, brave SIDNEY, take it, SPENSER dear!
    It may enliven e'en this amaranth shore;
    It is my new

VOLUME ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR!!!

       *       *       *       *       *

"APPARENT FAILURE."

["The Private View was not a success.... The dresses which we noticed
were very ordinary indeed."--_"Art Notes" in a Ladies' Paper._]

  NOT a success--for every toilet there
    Was commonplace and stupid, more or less;
  A fact which clearly made the whole affair,
        Not a success.

  "Were not the pictures good?" Well, we confess
    We know not, neither do we greatly care;
  As writers for the fashionable Press,
    Artistic knowledge falls not to our share;
  We saw no novelties in hat or dress;
    Therefore the Show is plainly, we declare,
        "Not a success."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "LIGHT AND LEADING."

       *       *       *       *       *

"BANG WENT SAX-PENCE!"--_A propos_ of the New Coinage, the _Pall Mall
Gazette_ is our authority for saying, that "The design for the reverse
of the half-crown has been prepared by Mr. BROCK." BROCK is a name
hitherto associated in the popular mind with fireworks; and if the work
be entrusted to this cunning artificer, he will make the New Coinage go
off splendidly. He has, we believe, already submitted illuminated
designs to the QUEEN.

       ***

THE KENDALS are announced to appear at the Avenue Theatre. They start
with _A White Lie_. This is the truth. Free admissions will not be heard
of, except when they give _A Scrap of Paper_. They are also going to
produce a new play entitled, _Prince Karatoff_. The plot, to judge by
the name, will be of interest to Vegetarians, as it is whispered that
the hero, _Prince Karatoff_, falls in love with _Princess Turnipon_.

       ***

CURIOUSLY APPROPRIATE CONJUNCTION OF NAMES.--On Friday last the _Times_
published an important letter on a certain fishery. The fish was the
Salmon, and the writer of the letter was FFENNELL. We do not remember
ever having seen Salmon on table without FFENNELL, which is a fanciful
way of spelling it. All information concerning Salmon may now be
obtained from a "FFENNELL source."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

(_Very Latest Version._)

["There is a grievance which has taken hold in the last few years, under
which we are all groaning and complaining, without, as far as I can see,
any present remedy. I allude to the shameful way in which our linen is
destroyed and knocked about by the existing race of Washerwomen in the
Metropolis."--_M. J. G.'s Letter on "London Laundries," in the Daily
Telegraph._]

  With wristbands grubby and worn,
    With collars ragged and frayed,
  A man moaned over a shirt all rags,
    Cursing the laundress trade.
        "Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
  With lime for extracting the dirt;
  With chemicals rot, and with wire-brushes rub!"--
        _That_'s the new Song of the Shirt.

          Buy! Buy! Buy!
  Though I'm but a poor Clerk, with scant "oof,"
        Yet it's buy--buy--buy!
  (My hosier's bills furnish full proof),
        And it's O! to be a slave
    To my Laundress, who's worse than a Turk.
  I seldom look nice, and I never can save;
        And this is woman's work!

          Rub! Rub! Rub!
  Till they're rugged at edge and at rim;
        Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
  Till with scissors the cuffs I must trim.
    Seam, and gusset, and band,
      Band, and gusset, and seam;
  And all the buttonholes gape, and the studs
        Drop out in a golden stream.

  O Men with sisters who wash,
    With housewifely mothers or wives,
  Who "do up" your linen, and _don't_ "put it out,"
    You lead endurable lives!
        Wash--Starch--Iron!
    _That_ may mean home dampness and dirt;
  But at least your collars won't chafe your neck,
    And you'll boast a wearable shirt!

  But why do I dream of soap,
    Or of honest knuckle-bone?
  Now most men's shirts come home in a shape
      That's dreadfully like my own--
      That's dismally like my own,
  Unless a home laundry they keep;
    Great Scott! that shirts should be so dear,
        And chloride and wire so cheap!

        Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
  The wire-brush never flags;
    And what's the result? A collar that's rough,
      And a front that's ever in rags!
  That frayed-out wristband worries me sore,
      It catches--and shows--the dirt.
  And as for the collar!!!--I'll bet you a dollar
    You've never one _clean_ to your shirt.

    Oh! but to breathe the breath
  Of old country linen so sweet,
    Wherein lavender was spread,
      Which was dried on the grass at our feet!
  For only one short week
      To feel as I used to feel,
  Before women washed with chloride of lime,
        And scrubbed with brushes of steel!

  Oh! but for one short week
    Of the good old-fashioned wash,
  Before a laundry meant utter rot,
    Lime, wax, and such chemical bosh!
  A little swearing would ease my heart,
    At that ogress, false, inhuman;
  So to the papers a line I'll drop,
        On the Modern Washerwoman!

  With fingers ready and fleet,
    With features indignantly red,
  A poor Clerk wrote of his linen in rags,
      And this is what he said:--
        "Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!
  Yet _I_ can't keep a decent shirt!
    The thing has reached an unbearable pitch,
  So--as an appeal to the poor and the rich--
        I sing the new Song of the Shirt!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: EUPHEMISM.

_Cab Tout (exasperated by the persistent attentions of Constable)._

"LOOK 'ERE, OLE LIGHTNIN'-KETCHER, W'ERE THE MISSIN' WORD ARE YER
SHOVIN' US TO?"

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ON THE GREAT QUESTION OF THE DAY.

JOLLY old Crismus being cum round agen, as ushal, we had our
Crismus-Heve supper, as ushal, and henjoyed owrselves till a rayther
latish hour, as ushal. Upon cumpareing notes, we didn't find as we had
werry much to complane about, the grand and nobel old wirtue of
horsepitality perwailing much as ushal.

Howsumdever, upon cumparin notes a second time as to the most poplar
subjecks of conwersashun at the warious Eleckshun Dinners, on Saint
Tommas' Day, or the day when the hole of the Common Counselmen has to go
to their Constittuents for to be elected--though what St. Tommas ewer
had to do with it I never could dishcover, no more can BROWN--we found
as they was amost all on 'em a torkin about sum grate change, as a lot
of outsiders called County Counsellors was a going for to try to get
made; the werry principellist being, BROWN said, that they might have
occashonal use of the Manshun Ouse, and so give grand Dinners to the
West-End Swells, and so get them to wote for their having jolly hansum
allowences with which to pay for 'em! But quiet ole JOE, who's one of
them rum fellers as don't say much, but thinks a deal, says, in his
quiet way, as how as it's werry much wus than that, for, from what a
werry ancient Deputty said, as he was a helping him to his jugged air,
he had werry little dowt but that County Counsellors was acshally a
going in for erbollishing the hold Copperashun altogether! if they can
git the Goverment to be fools enuff for to promise to 'elp 'em. And
then, from what he heard from others, they are a going to rob the nobel
and Charytable Liwery Companys of all the money as they spends so nobly;
and then, not contented with that, they are a going for to ask Parlyment
to give them the command of all the sixteen thowsand Policemen as there
is in the hole of London; and then, not content with that, they are a
going for to erbolish all the eight Water Companys, and manage it all
theirselves; and then, not content with that, they are a going to take
all the Meet Markets, and the Fish Markets, includin Ancient
Billingsgate, and the Fruit and Wegeral Markets; and then, just to fill
up sum of their lezzur time, they are a going to erbolish the Thames
Conserwaters, and manage the River theirselves; and then, as they think
as them little trifles ain't quite enuff for 'em, they are a going to
arsk to be aloud to take charge of all the Docks and Wharfs on the
River! And then, as they will naterally want plenty of emusement after
their ard work, they arsks to be aloud to take over the control of
All the London Theaters!

I had a chat the other day with one of the LORD MARE's Footmen, as I
allers likes to go to the werry hiest orthorities, and he finished by
saying, most emfatically,--"Mr. ROBERT, I arsks you this simple
quesshun--If it takes about two hunderd and thirty gents to keep the
grand old Citty in the bootiful condishun as it allus is, and to keep us
all in the helthy condishun as we allus is, and with the remarkabel fine
happytites as we allus has, its size being ony one square mile, and our
number ony about fifty thowsand sleepers, and about ten times as many,
as cums ewery day to hearn their living, how is it possibel for a much
smaller number of Gents, with werry littel hexperiens, to do the same
with a plaice about a hunderd and twenty times as big, and with about
five millions of peepel in it? And you may trust what I says, for I had
it from our Chapling."

"Why," I says, boldly, "I says at once as I don't beleeve as it's
posserbel for 'em to do a quorter of it."

"Rite you are, Mr. ROBERT!" says he. And so we parted.

    ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT ANCIENT DRURY.

DRURIOLANUS MAGNIFICUS has given us something gorgeous this year in "The
Hall of a Million Mirrors," the tenth Scene of his Pantomime entitled
_Little Bo-Peep, Little Red Riding Hood, and Hop o' My Thumb_, who are
three very small people,--"small by degrees and beautifully less"--to
make so big a Show. In the Hall of Mirrors appear all the well-known
representatives of ancient Nursery Rhymes, and all the heroes and
heroines of the universally familiar Fairy Stories. Down the Palace
stairs they come, group after group, until the Stage, even of Old Drury,
can hold no more, and there is scarcely room for them all to move, much
less to indulge in any "kicking up ahind and afore," as was the wont of
the Ancient JOSEPH, whose fame is hymned in <DW65> Minstrelsy. A most
brilliant scene, never to be forgotten!--that is, until next Pantomime
Season, when Sir DRURIOLANUS will, in all probability, show us something
equally magnificent, and as perfect in design and colour.

There is such a galaxy of talent, specially of Music-hall talent, with
the two MARIES, LOFTUS and LLOYD, the CAMPBELL of that ilk, comical DAN
LENO (who looks so comically Thin O), and the amusing Brothers
GRIFFITHS, but without the donkey, and with no quadruped to equal him,
though they do make beasts of themselves by appearing as wolves, who
will not be kept from the door of _Granny Green_, Mr. JOHN D'AUBAN,
utterly unrecognisable. Besides these is a Variety Show of other Stars,
including ever-graceful EMMA D'AUBAN, and Miss MABEL LOVE, of the
"skirts-so movement," both rightly reckoned in the programme as among
"the Immortals." Only one fault can be found with the Pantomime, and
that is, that there are too many brilliant Stars in it. They can't all
of them, each and severally, get an opportunity of showing how he or she
can shine in his or her own particular bright way; and so it happens
that the earliest scenes, which are less crowded, are the best for fun,
though in the latter, and specially in the one just preceding the
transformation, there is some capital comic business, and "LITTLE TICH"
is at his best in his burlesque of the Skirt Dance. We wonder that this
clever diminutive person has never appeared as "_the_ Claimant _par
excellence_." But perhaps his name is not "TICH" at all, and so, on his
first appearance on the world's stage, he was not a "_Tich-born_."

The _Extravaganza_ portion of the Pantomime--formerly styled the
"Opening"--gave us great pleasure, and the two "Comic Scenes"--(what are
all the preceding ones? Are CAMPBELL, LENO, WILLIAMS, and "LITTLE TICH,"
all tragedians?)--gave us Great PAYNE--yclept HARRY PAYNE, the good old
Conservative "JOEY."

If the possibilities, "_per variation et mutation_" of gorgeous modern
Pantomime, are exhausted--"which," as EUCLID observes, "is
impossible"--except we may "add a rider" (as the Clown in the Circle
might observe) that Pantomime is, in itself, a _reductio ad
absurdum_--then, perchance, Sir DRURIOLANUS MAGNIFICUS may give us next
Christmas a Shorter Opening, say ten Scenes, to be followed by six
Harlequinade Scenes, treating, by way of "Review," all the leading
topics of Ninety-Three. _Nous verrons_--at least, such is our hope. And
so a Prosperous New Year to Sir DRURIOLANUS, and all his works.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVEL, BUT NOT NEW.

(_A Story of Romance in Town and Country._)

SCENE I.--_Publisher's Sanctum._ Amateur Author _discovered
    in consultation with_ Enterprising Publisher.

_Enterprising Publisher._ Yes, my dear Sir, I think, if you pay all the
expenses, we can see our way to giving _An Oppressed Ophelia_ a chance.

_Amateur Author._ You would not take a small risk?

_Ent. Publisher._ Why no, my dear Sir. I do not see how _An Oppressed
Ophelia_ can be made a safe investment without your entire assistance.
Possibly we may treat about your next novel, which I understand you to
say is called _An English Hamlet_, on other terms. In the meanwhile, let
us hope that _An Oppressed Ophelia_ will be successful.

      [_Exeunt_ Author _and_ Publisher _severally._

SCENE II.--_The Same. Three months have passed._ Publisher _and_
    Author _are discovered discussing the situation._

_Author (gloomily)._ And so you say that _An Oppressed Ophelia_ is a
dead failure?

_Publisher (more cheerfully)._ Yes, my dear Sir, but do not be
distressed. Thanks to my foresight, and your acquiescence in a
business-like arrangement, my firm has lost nothing by the transaction.

_Author (dryly)._ That I can readily understand! Well, I suppose you
have plenty of copies you can give back to me?

_Publisher._ Well, scarcely. You see the Londoners did not take up your
book very warmly; but we have made an arrangement to dispose of the rest
of the issue in the country at a considerable reduction.

_Author._ And _An English Hamlet_?

_Publisher._ We shall be glad to produce on the same terms!

      [_Exeunt_ Author _and_ Publisher _severally._

SCENE III.--_Interior of the Circulating Library at
    Slocum-Pogis-on-the-Stodge._ Author _and_ Female Librarian
    _discovered_.

_Author._ Well, if you haven't got the popular novels I have already
mentioned, I will have a book by RIDER HAGGARD, STEVENSON, MEREDITH, or
RUDYARD KIPLING.

_Librarian._ All out, Sir. Won't you have something else?

_Author._ Well, an amusing volume of travels or recollections. Can you
recommend one?

_Librarian._ We did have several books of that kind in the Season, Sir,
but just now our stock is a little low.

_Author (nettled)._ Why, I don't believe you have a book in the shop.
You seem to be out of everything!

_Librarian._ Oh, yes, we have, Sir. Here, for instance, is one of this
year's novels. It's called _An Oppressed Ophelia_.

_Author (pleased)._ Oh, you have got that, have you?

_Librarian._ Got it! Why, the whole place is full of them! To tell you
the truth, Sir, it came down by mistake. We ordered books by BLACK,
MEREDITH, STEVENSON, and the rest of them, and they sent us back, by
accident, I suppose, a dozen copies of _An Oppressed Ophelia_. If you
would like it, Sir, I will look you out a copy with some of the leaves
cut.

_Author (shortly)._ No, thankee, I've read it!

      [_Exit._

_Librarian._ Dear me, what an odd gentleman! He's the first as has
read _An Oppressed Ophelia_, although I have had it in the shop
these six months!

      [_Scene closes in upon her astonishment._

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: A Man of Letters.

       ***

Illustration: "Question time."

       ***

Illustration: The "Seasonable" Lawyer.

       ***

"SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER."

If my memory serves me faithfully, the above heading is a quotation from
the first verse of "_The British Grenadiers_," and is peculiarly
applicable just now to the Lessee of the St. James's Theatre, Mr. GEORGE
ALEXANDER, who has got a decided success in the original Comedy, written
by Mr. R. C. CARTON, entitled _Liberty Hall_, an excellent and a
catching name, that perhaps might have been better bestowed on a larger
picture. To play with "reserved force" until the passionate moment
arrives, is all that Mr. ALEXANDER has to do; but this he does
admirably, never under-acting, never over-acting, always as natural as a
quiet gentleman, of a peculiarly romantic turn of mind, yet with a keen
but chastened appreciation of a practical joke, kept all to himself for
five months, should be. Had he been compelled by circumstances to
sustain the _alias_, and to continue playing the part of a _Burchell_ in
GOLDSMITH's _Vicar of Wakefield_ for one month longer, could he have
done it? However, as the piece has "caught on," it may be that Mr.
ALEXANDER will have to play the part of _Mr. Burchell alias Owen_ for
even longer than half a year; and, as he selected the piece, and as he
plays this part excellently, it is mainly owin' to ALEXANDER that the
piece is payin.' Mr. BEN WEBSTER is good as the somewhat
gentlemanly-caddish mixture called _The Hon. Gould Harringay_. Mr.
NUTCOMBE GOULD, as a Family Solicitor, deeply interests everybody in the
First Act; "and then," like _Macbeth's_ "poor player,"--which Mr. N. G.
isn't, far from it,--"is heard no more." Perhaps, during the Pantomime
season, he might re-appear at the finish with a slight addition to his
head-gear, as intimated in this little sketch of him, when he could
observe confidentially to the audience, "Here we are again!" But this is
only a hint, to the practical use of which, Mr. GOULD, by the kind
permission of Mr. ALEXANDER, is heartily welcome.

Capital is Miss FANNY COLEMAN as the housekeeper and maid-of-all-work;
and, in the small part of _Todman's_ shop-boy, Master RICHARD SAKER
shows that, as _Mr. Wardle_ said of _Mr. Tupman_, when he brought down
the birds with his eyes shut, he is "an older hand at this than we
thought for." If he works at his profession, he will show himself "a
wise-SAKER." Mr. HOLLES and Miss AILSA CRAIG, in two very small but
strongly-marked character-parts, add to the general efficiency of an
exceptionally complete cast. Miss MAUDE MILLETT makes the indiscreet
_Amy Chilworth_ a very sweet person, but it is Miss MARION TERRY who has
in her hands the one strong dramatic situation at the end of the Third
Act. It is a situation which, no matter what might have been the
author's conception of it, depends for its effect solely and only on the
actress; and Miss MARION TERRY, as she sits, rises to the occasion. It
is long since Mr. RIGHTON has had such a part as that of _Todman_, the
quaint little old-fashioned bookshop-keeper, and to this quite
Dickensian character, the actor does thorough justice; as also does Mr.
H. VINCENT to the somewhat highly  blusterous part of
_Briginshaw_. Mr. ALEXANDER commences the new year well. "_Prosit!_"
chirps        THE CRITIC OFF THE HEARTH.

       ***

Illustration: "Put a penny in the hat, and the figure will work."

       *       *       *       *       *

A MOAN OF MERRY CHRISTMAS.

(_By Our Own Dismal Dyspeptic._)

  Oh, Christmas is a season when this melancholy earth
  Has to put on the appearance of ungovernable mirth--
  When you substitute a chuckle for your ordinary sigh,
  And you give each other presents that you can't afford to buy--
  When the little boys with snowballs are so shockingly unkind,
  And improve on the occasion to attack you from behind--
  When the mistletoe its terrors at the bashful person hurls,
  And you have to kiss a number of unpleasant-looking girls!

  Oh, Christmas is a season when the children make a row,
  And you have to bear it patiently--although you don't know how--
  When they will not let you slumber in your comfortable chair,
  But crawl and tumble over you and ruffle up your hair--
  When TOM and DICK are home from school with all their nasty tricks,
  And have terrific combats with a pair of single-sticks--
  When Auntie comes to stay with us, and always takes their parts.
  And you smile a sickly smile, and murmur, "_Bless_ their little hearts!"

  Oh, Christmas is a season when the beef is very fat,
  (And it turns me topsy-turvey at the simple thought of that!)--
  When it seems as if your relatives could never eat enough,
  And you have to look contented as you sit and watch them stuff--
  When they give you Christmas pudding, and consider it a treat,
  Though they know that you are feeling far too bilious to eat--
  When the very house reverberates with tradesmen's constant knocks,
  As they call in quick succession to demand a Christmas-box!

  Oh, Christmas is a season, when I long to sit alone,
  In some clean and quiet garret, I can really call my own;
  Where no Christmas Cards can reach me with their idiotic rhymes--
  Where I never hear of HARRIS, and his splendid Pantomimes.
  Where the turkey and the goose would feel distinctly out of place,
  Where no pallid pie of mincemeat, dares to look me in the face;
  Where I don't see  plates from Christmas Numbers on the wall,
  Where, in fact, I can forget that it is Christmas-time at all!

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: A REMINISCENCE.

_Aunt Molly_ (_on hospitable thoughts intent_). "YOU SHALL HAVE _THIS_
BEDROOM, MIKE--THE SAME THAT YOU HAD LAST CHRISTMAS!"

_Mike._ "OH, NOT _THAT_ BEDROOM, AUNT MOLLY!--IT'S CHOKE FULL OF
_DREAMS_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FRENCH "SERPENTINE DANCE"
  OR, PAS DE PANAMA.

  The Minuet's cold and modish grace,
    Delirium of the Carmagnole,
  Fair France has known. How will she pace
    _This_ frantic dance, and to what goal?
  Beginning in triumphant sport,
    She's tremulous now, with terror cold.
  The whirl so dizzies, she breathes short;
    The serpent spirals seem to fold
  Laocoon-like about her limbs.
    Tarantula-bitten victims so
  Whirl madly. Shrinks her head and swims;
    This is not glory's ardent glow,
  But fever's hectic, herald sure
    Of dread corruption, if unstayed.
  Dance on the footing insecure
    Of the keen edge of War's red blade,
  Rather than this mad dervish spin,
    Drunk with that poison-breath;
  The music is the devil's din,
    The dance--the modern Dance of Death!

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE FRENCH "SERPENTINE DANCE;"
OR, PAS DE PANAMA.

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST FROM "THE GILBERT ISLANDS."--Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN will probably
stay in these islands while writing his new Opera. If successful, these
islands will then be annexed by Manager D'OYLY CARTE under the style and
title of "The Gilbert and Sullivan Islands."

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A NEW YEAR'S CARD.

["With kind regards and best wishes for 1893, from Mr. and
Mrs. T. BROWN-SMITH and family."]

  FROM TOM! It's thirty years ago
    Or more, since, destined to talk Tamil, he
  Set sail for foreign lands. And so
    To-day he boasts a wife and family.

  Yes, TOM and I were chums at school,
    The Matron--how we used to fool her!
  We broke the very self-same rule,
    We felt the very self-same ruler.

  We gladly in those classic groves
    Accepted all the Fates provided,
  And even in our school-boy loves
    We did not care to be divided.

  Three years at Cambridge--where we spent
    Our money, "linked in friendly tether,"
  Three years that all too quickly went,
    Then _we_ went down, and went together.

  Next year 'twas TOM who went abroad;
    He vowed that he'd be married--never!
  But I was then engaged to MAUDE,
    To MAUDE, who swore to love me ever.

  Perhaps she kept her plighted word--
    But, if she did, she chose as funny
  A way as I have ever heard--
    She married Some One Else and Money.

  Maybe she did not feel inclined
    To risk the bread-and-cheese and kisses,
  Or else her calculating mind
    Preferred "Her Ladyship" to "Mrs."

  So I'm unmarried to this day,
    And live without the great felicity
  Which, as TOM used of old to say,
    Can't fail to wait on domesticity.

  That joy is his alone, not mine,
    Misogynist he liked to call himself,
  Whilst I thought every girl divine--
    Yet TOM has been the first to fall himself.

  I've missed the sweets of married life,
    The bills, the coos, and all the rest of it!
  I cannot boast, like TOM, a wife,
    I wonder, tho', who's got the best of it?

  Fair MAUDE, I willingly allow
    I thought my heart for ever riven.
  It wasn't so at all, and now
    Your Ladyship is quite forgiven.

  And TOM, old friend--tried, trusty, true,
    Across the seas these lines will carry
  All New-Year greetings, TOM, to you
    And yours, from Yours, as ever, HARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Should there be a hard frost, lady-skaters in Hyde Park will be able to
give quite a new turn to the "Serpentine Dance."

       *       *       *       *       *

CRINOLINE is gradually coming in again. She re-enters to the air of
"_Steel so gently o'er Me steeling_."

       *       *       *       *       *

Montagu Williams.

BORN, 1834. DIED, DEC. 23, 1892.

["He will be missed far more by lawyers and the world at large than many
men who hold more important offices in his profession."--_The Times._]

  Companions of his ardent youth,
    Or comrades of his riper years;
  The poor who felt his kindly ruth,
    And mourn him with unpurchased tears;
  Men of the world whose mordant sense
    Shorn of all maudlin sentiment
  Seemed the sharp touchstone of pretence;
    Soft hearts on swift world-bettering bent,
  All miss, all mourn the man whom all
  Responsive found to each high call.

  Old long-dead days of boisterous mirth,
    Far dim-seen hours of arduous fight
  When gaiety possessed the earth,
    When morning felt no fear of night;
  School-form, field, footlights, club! _Eheu
    Fugaces!_ These, indeed, are fled,
  But thoughts of dashing MONTAGU,
    That dauntless soul now lying dead,
  After long fight with pitiless pain
  Make the old memories live again.

  Before the triumphs of the Court,
    Before the honours of the Bench,
  Wild days there were of toil and sport,
    Long ere our brows had learned to blench
  At threatenings of the first grey hair.
    Ah! cordial comrade, champion stout,
  The fierce ordeal you had to bear
    Is ended; fortune's final flout
  Has fallen, and that gallant breast
  Is still at last in well-earned rest.

  It was your happy lot to blend
    Sound brain and sympathetic heart;
  The loyal service of a friend,
    With worldly wisdom keen and tart.
  Shrewd advocate and councillor keen,
    You knew the world, yet pitied it;
  Compassion mild, not cynic spleen
    Tempered the edge of caustic wit.
  Farewell! It dims much pomp and state,
  _Your_ title--"Poor Man's Magistrate!"

       *       *       *       *       *

AN IDYLL OF THE CROWD.

(_A Tip (after Tennyson) to Tory Topsawyers._)

  Come down, O Scribe, from yonder sniffy height;
  What pleasure lives in "sniff" (the Councillor sang),
  In sniff and scorn, the weakness of the "swells"?
  But cease to move so near the clouds, and cease
  To sit a votary of the "Great Pooh-Pooh";
  And come, for Labour's in the valley, come,
  For Toil dwells in the valley, come thou down
  And watch him; by the dim slum threshold, he,
  Or hand in hand with poverty in the docks,
  Or black with stithy-swartness by the forge,
  Or troll-like in the mine; nor cares to walk
  With Wealth and Fashion in the parks and squares;
  But _follow!_ Come thou down, and let the cold
  Cramp-headed cynics yelp alone, and leave
  The mugwump scoffers there to shape and sleek
  Their thousand paragraphs of acrid joke
  That like a squirting fountain waste in air:
  So waste thou not; but come; for hunger pale
  Awaits thee; haggard pillars of the hearth
  Appeal to thee; slum children call, and now
  The Crowd's astir, with every man a Vote
  To give him voice, and in that voice you'll hear
  Myriads of "movements" hurrying into "laws,"
  The moan of men at immemorial ills,
  And murmuring of innumerable shes.

       *       *       *       *       *

MY LANDSCAPE.

  Calm sea, the mirror of a cloudless sky,
    Blue mountains, in the purple distance fading,
  Tall, dark-hued pines, through which faint zephyrs sigh,
          A garden shading.

  A view that might inspire a poet's voice,
    Or minstrel's lute to sweetest music waken--
  I came to paint this subject of my choice;
          My place was taken!

  I muttered angry words between my teeth;
    I could not see the features of _la bella_,
  I only saw a dress and cloak beneath
          A great umbrella.

  Perhaps some girl, her hair a touzled mop,
    Plain-featured, round in shoulder, unpoetic,
  With hygienic boots that flatly flop--
          Old style aesthetic.

  I came a little closer, just to see.
    Ye gods, her looks and form were not alarming!
  A graceful, sweet-faced, dainty maiden she,
          Completely charming.

  The landscape that I loved was what she drew.
    I felt my coolness towards her quickly thawing;
  I also stayed to sketch that charming view--
          Here is my drawing.

Illustration: MY LANDSCAPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "SIC ITUR."

       ***

"SIC ITUR."

  The Old Year flits, the New Year comes,
    And, through such severance, man contrives
  To parcel out in little sums
    The little measurements of lives.
  We feign the one a different year,
    Outworn, by solemn bells outrung--
  The other, foundling of our sphere,
    As radiant, innocent, and young.

  Farewell! we cry, to Ninety-Two,
    Its lapses and encompassings,
  We bid them all a fond adieu,
    And fix our gaze on fresher things;
  What has not been we dream will be,
    The wounds will heal, the flaws will mend,
  And hopes be born of Ninety-Three
    That older, cherished hopes transcend.

  It is not thus; Time mocks at pause,
    In march continual onward goes;
  Th' unfailing progress of his laws,
    No respite nor effacement knows;
  This year is but the force of last,
    Not something new to mortal ken;
  Heredity's enchainment vast
    Enthrals the moments as the men.

  Yet welcome still, our childish trust,
    Which breathes a truth that Science mars;
  Our ladder, based upon the dust,
    Mounts ever nearer steadfast stars;
  And, though the rungs be still the same,
    The glimpses, as we strive to rise,
  Are, 'spite our mists of sin and shame,
    More closely neighbouring the skies.

       *       *       *       *       *

MIXED NOTIONS.

No. III.--PANAMA.

  SCENE, _and persons as before--namely, two_ Well-informed
    Men, _an_ Inquirer, _and an_ AVERAGE MAN, _travelling up
    together in a suburban morning-train to London._

_First Well-informed Man._ Jolly old mess they seem to have got into in
Paris over this Panama business. I see they arrested half-a-dozen more
of them yesterday.

_Second W. I. M._ Yes--and they haven't done yet. I knew, months and
months ago, the crash must come. That French chap, LAMPION told me all
about it. He says it'll bust up the Republic before they've done with
it.

_First W. I. M._ And a good thing too. That kind of corruption only
flourishes under a Republican form of government. They want a strong man
in France, that's what they want.

_Average Man._ I don't believe much in your strong men. I suppose the
last Emperor was a pretty fair specimen; but they seem to have had some
high old ramps under him, too. Besides, look at Russia.

_First W. I. M._ You can't bring Russia forward as an example.

_Second W. I. M._ Of course not. Russia don't count.

_A. M._ Why not? I don't suppose you can make a man much stronger than
the CZAR; but, if we're to believe what we're told, the whole place is
honeycombed with corruption. Why--(_to_ First W. I. M.)--you were saying
yourself, only the other day, that Russia was corrupt to the core.

_First W. I. M._ Oh, but I was speaking of something quite different.
Russia is a country _per se_.

_Inquirer._ I thought Russia was an Autocracy.

_First W. I. M._ It's the same thing.

_Second W. I. M._ (_after a pause_). Well, anyhow, we in England haven't
done anything of the kind. You can't deny that.

_A. M._ No, we haven't done anything quite on the same scale lately, I
admit that. But we've done our best with worthless mines, and bogus
Companies of all kinds, and financial papers, and Building Societies.
Seems to me we've no right to chuck stones at poor old LESSEPS.

_Inquirer._ Is that the same old chap who did something in Egypt some
years ago?

_Second W. I. M._ (_smiling, and superior_). Yes, the very same. He made
the Suez Canal.

_Inquirer._ Of course--so he did. That was what we went to the Soudan
for, wasn't it?

_Second W. I. M._ (_dubiously_). Well, it had something to do with it,
of course. As we'd got four million pounds' worth of shares in the
Canal, we couldn't afford to see it upset. And then (_brightening_)
there was the Dual Control. That was really at the bottom of the whole
business.

_Inquirer._ The Dual Control? I don't remember what that was.

_Second W. I. M._ Why, don't you remember ARABI setting himself up
against the KHEDIVE? Well, naturally, we couldn't stand the two of them
playing their games there; so we just had to nip in, and smash old
ARABI.

_Inquirer._ Of course, I remember the whole business now; Khartoum, and
the MAHDI, and all the rest of it.  [_A pause._

_Inquirer_ (_returning to the charge_). I wonder why they called it the
Panama Canal?

_First W. I. M._ Why shouldn't they? It happens to be its name.

_Inquirer._ Yes, I know that's its name now. But why call it after a
straw hat?

_First W. I. M._ (_amazed_). After a _what_?

_Inquirer._ After a straw hat.

_First W. I. M._ (_calmly, but firmly_). It isn't called after a straw
hat. The straw hat's called after it. That's all.

_Inquirer_ (_dogged, and unconvinced_). Well, anyhow, I know I bought a
Panama hat last summer--and deuced expensive it was, too.

_First W. I. M._ My dear boy, it was made in Panama. Panama's a place.

_Inquirer._ Well, I'm dashed! I never knew that. But what on earth do
they want a Canal there for?

_First W. I. M._ Oh, well, I'm bound to admit it would be a convenience.
Just think how it would shorten the sea-route. Instead of having to go
all the way round Cape What's-his-name--what _is_ that blessed Cape's
name?

_Second W. I. M._ (_tentatively_). Cape of Good Hope?

_First W. I. M._ No, no--they're building the Nicaragua Canal for that.
Cape--Cape--why, dash it, I shall be forgetting my own name next!

_Inquirer_ (_brilliantly_). Capricorn.

_First W. I. M._ Yes, that's it! Well, instead of having to go all round
Cape Ricorn, all we've got to do is to sail to Panama, and--(_impotently
concluding_)--there we are!

_Second W. I. M._ Ah, but I don't think they'll ever finish it.

_First W. I. M._ I'm not so sure about that; but, of course, the French
couldn't do it.

_Second W. I. M._ Of course not. [_Terminus._

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "CREDE EXPERTO."

_Q.C._ "YES; I LIKE THE ARMY AS A PROFESSION. I MEAN TO PUT MY SON INTO
IT."

_Little Snooks_ (_who was Gazetted the week before last_). "AH, YOU TAKE
THE ADVICE OF A MAN WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT--AND _DON'T!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY CIVIL LAW.

(_With Mr. Punch's Compliments to the London County Council._)

  SCENE--_The Interior of the Court under the Patronage of the
    London County Council._ Judge, _appointed according to the
    popular view, discovered in the act of passing sentence._

_Judge._ Prisoner in the dock, or I should say, my good friend--for are
we not all liable to err?--I have no wish to increase the natural
embarrassment of your position. I am here, as you know, to dispense
judgment. This I tell you judicially. I am, when I make this statement,
merely the mouthpiece of the Law. In my private capacity, I am deeply
sorry for you.

_Prisoner_ (_much affected_). Thank you kindly, Sir.

_Judge._ My dear friend, I feel for your misfortunes. I make every
allowance for them. By the Statute under whose provisions both of us are
here, I notice that I have the power to sentence you to seven years'
penal servitude.

_Prisoner_ (_startled_). Seven years! But you ain't going to do it?

_Judge._ My dear friend, I will do nothing that is unjust.

_Prisoner_ (_angrily_). You'd better not, or you'll 'ear of it again!

_Judge._ I hope, I do hope that is not intended as a threat! My object
is to treat you courteously, and even considerately, but, as I have
already remarked, the Law is, in fact, the Law. Although I represent the
London County Council to a very large extent, still I am a Member of the
Bar, and, by virtue of my office, a gentleman. Under these
circumstances, I shall only be doing my duty--painful as its performance
may be--when I sentence you to be kept in penal servitude for seven
years.

_Prisoner_ (_indignantly_). What, seven years! Why, you----

  [_Scene closes in hurriedly upon a flood of language more
    forcible than polite. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE GRAND OLD PRINTER.

SEVERAL REPORTS HAVE APPEARED IN THE PAPERS ABOUT THE PRINTING OF THE
NEW HOME-RULE BILL BY AN OLD EXPERIENCED HAND WORKING IN SECRET.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: AN UNDERGROUND SELL.

_First Passenger._ "THEY SAY THEY'VE PUT ON DETECTIVES 'ERE, TO CATCH
COVES AS TRAVELS WITHOUT TICKETS."

_Second Passenger._ "'AVE THEY? WELL, ALL I CAN SAY IS, _I_ CAN TRAVEL
AS OFTEN AS I LIKE FROM CANNON STREET TO VICTORIA, AND NOT PAY A
'APENNY!"

_Detective._ "SEE HERE MATE; I'LL GIVE YOU HALF-A-CROWN IF YOU TELL ME
HOW YOU DO IT."

_Second Passenger_ (_after pocketing the Half-Crown_). "WELL,--WHEN I
WANTS TO GIT FROM CANNON STREET TO VICTORIA WITHOUT PAYIN'--_I WALKS!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

"CUT AND COME AGAIN."

The Annual New-Year's Dinner of Anti-Vivisectionists took place
yesterday. The following was the _menu_:--

  Oysters--eaten alive.

  Turtle Soup--the Turtle having been exhibited for several days
    previously in a Confectioner's window.

  Stewed Eels--chopped up wriggling.

  Lobsters--boiled alive.

  Prawns--ditto ditto.

  Curried Rabbit--trapped.

  Pates de Foies Gras.

  Roast Pork--Prize Pig, suffocated at a show.

  Roast Veal--Calf bled to death to secure an elegant whiteness.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROBLEM.--At the stranding-of-the-_Howe_ trial there appeared a
Witness, whose official position, it appears, is "Hydrographer of the
Navy." What is a hydrographer? clearly, by derivation, "a drawer of
water." But a ship also "draws water." Therefore, logically, a
Hydrographer is a ship. But a ship is never put into a witness-box,
where it would be quite at sea, but in the dock, where it could be quite
at home. "Truly," writes our Puzzled Correspondent, "there is a muddle
somewhere." _Q. E. D._

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHEERFUL INVESTMENT.--A Laughing-Stock.

       *       *       *       *       *

SAFE PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR.

Someone will write about the extraordinary characteristic of the Season,
whether it be warm or cold.

There will be a Political Crisis in Paris on the average of once in
every six weeks.

The German Emperor will continue his tours, to the great inconvenience
of the Crowned Heads he favours with a visit.

Mr. GLADSTONE will lecture, write articles to the Magazines, fell trees,
and govern the country, as per usual.

Someone will get a trifle tired of Home Rule, the Channel Tunnel, and
General BOOTH.

A few persons will leave Europe for America, to see the Chicago
Exhibition.

A crowd (more or less) will attend the Oxford and Cambridge Boat-race,
the Derby, and the Private View at the Royal Academy.

Mrs. SMITH (after having been presented by My Lady BROWN) will present
Miss SMITH, Miss ELFRIDA SMITH, and Miss VICTORIA ALEXANDRA SMITH, at
Her MAJESTY'S Drawing-Room.

Mr. and Mrs. PORTLAND SNOOKS will give a dinner-party, which will be
reported in the Society papers.

The First Nights at the Lyceum will be amongst the features of the
Season.

There will be several failures at the Theatres, and also a success
or two.

There will be half a dozen full-dress debates in the House of Commons,
and as many important divisions.

The "Popular Budget" is sure, with some people, to be exceedingly
unpopular.

The London County Council and the School Board will be censured by
the Press.

There will be any number of railway "accidents," and avoidable "deaths
by misadventure."

It will be discovered that the British Army is a myth, and that the
British Navy is a snare and a delusion.

Parliament will be up in time for the partridges, even if a little late
for the grouse.

Everyone will praise the United Kingdom as the land of the tourist, and
promptly go abroad.

A subject of deep domestic importance will be discussed in the columns
devoted to correspondence in the daily papers during the Silly Season.

A new Author will be discovered, and spring into great popularity with
the Publishers, if not with the Public.

Out of every hundred novels, ten per cent. will be absorbed by the
London Libraries, and the remainder carted off to the "Circulating Book
Emporiums" at the seaside.

A new Magazine will be started, to supply a want hitherto unsuspected.

Someone will write his experiences, and expect someone else to
read them.

The children (periodically) will return to school after the holidays,
and "men" will go to Oxford and Cambridge, as occasion requires.

Calls to the Bar by the Benchers of the Inns of Court will add
materially to the numbers of the Unemployed.

Several social failures will go to the Colonies, and (like a bad
shilling) return again.

Professor JONES will call black white, while Professor ROBINSON
insists that it is grey.

There will be bags on the moors, and sales at the poulterers'.

The Christmas Numbers will be prepared in May and published in October.

The Divorce Court will be open for the Season, and the Season will amply
avail itself of the opportunity.

The year will pass in less than no time, and the Yule-tide greetings
will be heard, as it were, shortly after Easter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: Going with the Times.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUBJECT FOR FANCY PICTURE.--Fined five shillings for swearing. A bench
of Magisterial Salmon from the River Tees, after considerable
consultation, deciding that they cannot pass over the Dinsdale Dam, but
admitted that it was quite allowable for a ladylike Salmon to say to the
river, "O you Tees!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE _PRESENT_ TIMES."--Christmas and New Year.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed
Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be
returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume
104, January 7, 1893, by Various

*** 