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diff --git a/21598-h/21598-h.htm b/21598-h/21598-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..688e4e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/21598-h/21598-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1785 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> + + <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, January 14th, 1893.</title> + + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + + .note + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img , .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + .figleft {float: left;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .right {text-align: right;} + .indent {margin-left: 10%;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + --> + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, +January 14, 1893, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 14, 1893 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: May 24, 2007 [EBook #21598] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + + + + +Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Juliet +Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> + OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> + + <h2>Vol. 104.</h2> + <hr class="full" /> + + <h2>JANUARY 14th, 1893.</h2> + <hr class="full" /> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page13" id="page13">[pg 13]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SCHOOL FOR PATRIOTISM.</h2> + + +<p class="note">[A Fund has been raised to supply the School Board with Union-Jacks, +with a view to increasing the loyalty of the pupils.—<i>Daily Paper.</i>]</p> + + +<blockquote><span class="smcap">Scene</span>—<i>A Room of the School Board, decorated with flags and trophies +of arms.</i> Teacher <i>discovered instructing his pupils in English +History.</i></blockquote> + + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> And now we come to the Battle of Trafalgar, which was won +by <span class="smcap">Nelson</span> in the early part of the present century. As it is my object +to increase your patriotism, I may tell you that "<span class="smcap">Britannia</span> rules the +waves, and Britons never, never, never will be slaves!" Repeat that in +chorus.</p> + +<p><i>Pupils.</i> "Rule, <span class="smcap">Britannia, Britannia</span> rules the waves; Britons never, +never, never will be slaves!"</p> + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> Thank you very much; and to show how the <i>esprit de corps</i> +in Her Majesty's Ships-of-War is preserved, I will now dance the +Sailor's Hornpipe.</p> + +<blockquote><p>[<i>Does so.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p><i>First Pupil.</i> Please, Sir, do Englishmen always win?</p> + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> Invariably. If they retire, they do not retreat. Can you +tell me what a retirement of troops in the face of the enemy is +called?</p> + +<p><i>Second Pupil.</i> Bolting, Sir.</p> + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> Nothing of the sort. Go to the bottom of the class, Sirrah! +Bolting, indeed! Next boy!</p> + +<p><i>Third Pupil.</i> It is called "a strategic movement to the rear," Sir.</p> + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> Quite right; and now we come to the Battle of Waterloo, +which you will remember was won on the 18th of June, 1815. But perhaps +this may be a convenient time for the introduction of the Union-Jack +War Dance, which, as you all know, has been recently ordered to be +part of our studies by the Committee of the School Board. Now then, +please, take your places.</p> + +<blockquote><p>[The Pupils <i>seize the flags hanging to the walls, and dance merrily. +At the conclusion of the exercise they replace the flags, and resume +their customary places.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p><i>First Pupil.</i> If you please, can you tell us anything about the +Union-Jack?</p> + +<p><i>Teacher.</i> As I have explained on many occasions, when you have been +good and obliging enough to put the same question to me, I am +delighted to have the opportunity. You must know that the Union-Jack +represents the greatest nation in the world. This nation is our own +beloved country, and it is gratifying to know that there are no people +so blessed as our own. The Union-Jack flies in every quarter of the +globe, and where it is seen, slavery becomes impossible, and tyranny a +thing of the past. To be an Englishman is to be the noblest creature +on the earth. One Englishman is worth twenty specimens of other +nationalities; he is more conscientious, more clever, more beautiful +than any other living man, and it is a good thing for the world that +he exists. <i>(Looking at watch.</i>) And now, as we have rather exceeded +our usual time for study, we will depart after the customary ceremony.</p> + +<blockquote><p>[<i>The</i> Pupils <i>then sing the National Anthem, and the School dismisses +itself with three cheers for</i> <span class="smcap">Her Majesty</span>. <i>Curtain.</i></p></blockquote> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%;"> +<a href="./images/013.png"><img src="images/013.png" width="100%" alt="ON NE PATINE PAS AVEC" title="" /></a><br /> +<h3>"ON NE 'PATINE' PAS AVEC L'AMOUR."</h3><br /> +(With Apologies to the Shade of Alfred de Musset.) +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>BUTTERS BUTTERED.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I have been deeply thrilled by the suggestion for curing the +Agricultural depression which Messrs. <span class="smcap">Macdougall</span>, of Mark Lane, have +made. I am not myself an Agriculturist; still, in—or rather near—the +suburban villa in which I reside, I have an old cow, and a donkey on +which my children ride. Directly I heard that the way to keep animals +warm and comfortable in Winter was to smear them all over with oil, +thus saving much of the cost of feeding them, I tried the plan on the +aged cow. Perhaps the oil I used was not sufficiently pure. At all +events the animal, which had never been known before to do more than +proceed at a leisurely walk, rushed at frantic speed into the garden, +and tossed my wife's mother into a cucumber-frame. She has now gone +home. Undeterred by the comparative failure of this attempt, I smeared +our donkey with a pint of the best castor-oil, just before setting out +on its daily amble, with the children (in panniers) on its back. It +did not appear to relish the treatment, as it instantly broke loose, +and was found, five miles off, in a village pound, while the children +were landed in a neighbouring ditch. I am writing to Messrs. +<span class="smcap">Macdougall</span>, to ask for particulars of how the oil is to be applied. I +am sure it is an excellent idea, if the animals could be brought to +see it in the same light.</p> + +<p class="indent">Yours, experimentally,</p> +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Darwin Edison Gubbins</span>.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Punch,—Smith</span> Minor, who is staying at our house for part +of the holidays, said what good fun it would be to try the <span class="smcap">Macdougall</span> +plan on my Uncle from India. He is always cold and shivering. We +waited till he was having a nap after dinner in the arm-chair, and we +coated him over with butter that <span class="smcap">Smith</span> Minor got from Cook. (Cook +never will give <i>me</i> butter.) When we got to his hair he unfortunately +woke up, so that is probably why the plan did not succeed. We thought +he would be pleased to feel warmer, but he wasn't. Uncles are often +ungrateful, <span class="smcap">Smith</span> Minor says. And it <i>did</i> succeed in one way, because +he seemed awfully hot and red in the face when he found what we had +been doing. Perhaps we ought not to have tried smearing him on his +clothes, but how could we get his clothes off without waking him? +<span class="smcap">Smith</span> Minor says it's a pity we didn't drug him. N.B.—I have been +stopped going to the Pantomime for this, and <span class="smcap">Smith</span> Minor is to be sent +home!</p> + +<p class="indent">Your dejected</p> +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Tommy</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I want to bring an action against Messrs. <span class="smcap">Macdougall</span>, of Mark +Lane. I tried their smearing plan on a horse in my stable that had a +huge appetite, and was always getting cold if left out in the wet. I +used paraffin, and at first the animal seemed really grateful. In the +night I was called up by a fearful noise, and found that the horse's +appetite had not got at all less owing to the oil; on the contrary, it +seemed to have eaten up most of the woodwork of the stable, and was +plunging about madly. The paraffin caught light, and the stable was +burned, and the horse too. In future I shall feed my horse in the +usual way, not on the outside.</p> + +<p class="indent">Yours,</p> +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Titus Oats</span>.</p> +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page14" id="page14">[pg 14]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE THIN BROWN LINE.</h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%;"> +<a href="./images/014.png"><img src="images/014.png" width="100%" alt="THE THIN BROWN LINE." title="" /></a> +</div> + +<p class="note">["Decidedly the most gratifying feature in the accounts of these +engagements which have reached us, is the proof which they contain of +the remarkable progress in all soldierly qualities made by the +fellaheen forces, under the guidance and instruction of their British +Officers."—<i>The Times.</i>]</p> + +<p class="indent"><i>Tommy Atkins, loquitur</i>:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">"<span class="smcap">We've</span> fought with many men acrost the seas,</p> +<p class="i4">And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not."</p> +<p class="i2">(So Mister <span class="smcap">Kipling</span> says. His 'ealth, boys, please!</p> +<p class="i4">'<i>E</i> doesn't give us <span class="smcap">Tommies</span> Tommy-rot.)</p> +<p class="i2">We didn't think you over-full of pluck,</p> +<p class="i4">When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses;</p> +<p class="i2">But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck!</p> +<p class="i4">Wich you're proving an addition to our forces.</p> +<p>So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran;</p> +<p>You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man;</p> +<p>You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz,</p> +<p>And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit,</p> +<p class="i2">From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-<i>dive</i>;</p> +<p class="i4">Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit,</p> +<p class="i2">And I almost wonder you are left alive.</p> +<p class="i4">But we've got you out of a good deal of <i>that</i>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="page15" id="page15">[pg 15]</a></span></p> +<p class="i2">Sir <span class="smcap">Evelyn</span> and the rest of us. You <i>foller</i>;</p> +<p class="i4">And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat</p> +<p class="i2">One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller.</p> +<p>Then 'ere's <i>to</i> you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid!</p> +<p>When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid,</p> +<p>You'll just make a <span class="smcap">Tommy Atkins</span> of a quiet Coptic sort;</p> +<p>And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say <i>you</i>?</p> +<p class="i4"><i>We</i> don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes;</p> +<p class="i2">But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we <i>do</i>,</p> +<p class="i4">We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;</p> +<p class="i2">With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,</p> +<p class="i4">With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;</p> +<p class="i2">But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?</p> +<p class="i4">That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.</p> +<p>So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,</p> +<p>Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,</p> +<p>We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,</p> +<p>We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet,</p> +<p class="i4">But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line."</p> +<p class="i2">May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet!</p> +<p class="i4">All good fighters may shake fists, you know—'ere's mine!</p> +<p class="i2">You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab!</p> +<p class="i4">I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree</p> +<p class="i2">Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab,</p> +<p class="i4"><span class="smcap">Tommy Atkins</span> drinks your 'ealth with three times three!</p> +<p>So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan,</p> +<p>And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man:</p> +<p>An' 'ere's <i>to</i> you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair</p> +<p>May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="REFLECTION_BY_A_READER_OF_REMINISCENCES" id="REFLECTION_BY_A_READER_OF_REMINISCENCES"></a>REFLECTION BY A READER OF "REMINISCENCES."</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes, life <i>is</i> hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;</p> +<p class="i2">We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;</p> +<p>But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,</p> +<p class="i2">Than front posterity through a <i>Life and Letters.</i></p> +<p>That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,</p> +<p class="i2">We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!</p> +<p>Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,—</p> +<p class="i2">Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.</p> +<p>Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,</p> +<p>So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,</p> +<p>Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,</p> +<p>From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!</p></div> +</div> +<hr /> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">How London Theatres are Warmed.</span>"—By having first-rate pieces. This +prevents any chance of a "frost."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Song for the Liberator Society, and Others.</span>—"Oh, where, and oh where, +is our J. S. B-<span class="smcap">lf-r</span> gone?"</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>When the <i>P. M. Gazette</i> by a Tory was book'd,</p> +<p>The Editor "Cust," and its readers were Cooke'd.</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%;"> +<a href="./images/015.png"><img src="images/015.png" width="100%" alt="SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID" title="" /></a><br /> +<b>"SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID——"</b><br /> +<p>"And whom did you take into Supper, Mike?" "Maud Willoughby."</p> +<p>"You lucky Boy! Why she's a Darling!"</p> + +<p>"Yes—but there was another Fellow on her other Side!"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="ON_AN_OLD_QUARTETTE" id="ON_AN_OLD_QUARTETTE"></a>ON AN OLD QUARTETTE.</h2> + +<p class="note">[<i>Pantaloon, Clown, Harlequin, and Columbine</i> are the characters of an +old sixteenth-century drama, acted in dumb-show. "<i>Pantaleone</i>" is a +Venetian type; <i>Columbine</i> means a "little dove."]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p><span class="smcap">While</span> Fairyland and Fairy tales</p> +<p class="i2">'Neath flaunting pageants fall,</p> +<p>And over Pantomime prevails</p> +<p class="i2">The Muse of Music Hall.</p> +<p>Still echoes, wafted through the din,</p> +<p class="i2">A lilt of one old tune—</p> +<p>Of Columbine and Harlequin,</p> +<p class="i2">Of Clown and Pantaloon.</p> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"><p>Their faded frolics, tarnished show</p> +<p class="i2">Are shadows faint and rude</p> +<p>Of mimes who centuries ago</p> +<p class="i2">Joked, caramboled and wooed,</p> +<p>Of masques Venetian, Florentine,</p> +<p class="i2">Of moyen-age renown—</p> +<p>Of Harlequin and Columbine,</p> +<p class="i2">Of Pantaloon and Clown.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Not horseplay rough, the Saraband</p> +<p class="i2">They danced in vanished years,</p> +<p>But Love and Satire hand-in-hand,</p> +<p class="i2">And laughter linked with tears,</p> +<p>And Youth equipped his dove to win,</p> +<p class="i2">And Age, who grudged the boon;—</p> +<p>Sweet Columbine, bold Harlequin,</p> +<p class="i2">Cross Clown and Pantaloon.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Our Children-Critics now who deign</p> +<p class="i2">To greet this honoured jest,</p> +<p>Acclaiming, "Here we are again!"</p> +<p class="i2">With patronising zest,</p> +<p>They mark no soft Italian moon</p> +<p class="i2">Which once was wont to shine</p> +<p>On Harlequin and Pantaloon,</p> +<p class="i2">And Clown and Columbine!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>But, spangled pair of lovers true,</p> +<p class="i2">And, whitened schemers twain,</p> +<p>The scholar hears in each of you</p> +<p class="i2">A note of that quatrain;</p> +<p>The dim Renaissance seems to spin</p> +<p class="i2">Around your satin shoon,</p> +<p>Fair Columbine, feat Harlequin,</p> +<p class="i2">Sly Clown and Pantaloon!</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Everyone</span> sincerely hopes that Sir <span class="smcap">West Ridgway</span> will make a good bag +during his visit to the Moors. "Ridgway's Food" is something that can +be swallowed easily, and is so palatable as to be quite a More-ish +sort of dish. Good luck to the experienced and widely-travelled Sir +<span class="smcap">East-and-West Ridgway</span>. Our English <span class="smcap">Rosebery</span> couldn't have made a +better choice.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">To a Brewer</span> (<i>by Our Christmas Clown</i>).—"Wish you a Hoppy New Year!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="page16" id="page16">[pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="THE_MAN_WHO_WOULD" id="THE_MAN_WHO_WOULD"></a>THE MAN WHO WOULD.</h2> + +<h3>VI.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A SOUL.</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Lincoln B. Swezey</span> was a high-toned and inquiring American citizen, who +came over to study our Institootions. He carried letters to almost +everybody; Dukes, Radicals, Authors, eminent British Prize-fighters, +Music-hall buffoons, and he prosecuted his examination steadily. He +did not say much, and he never was seen to laugh, but he kept a +note-book, and he seemed to contemplate in his own mind, The Ideal +American, and to try to live up to that standard. When he did speak, +it was in the interrogative, and he pastured his intellect on our +high-class Magazines.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lincoln B.</span> discovered many things, and noted them down for his work on +<i>Social Dry Rot in Europe</i>, but one matter puzzled him. He read in +papers or reviews, and he vaguely heard talk of a secret institution, +the Society of Souls. They were going to run a newspaper; they were +<i>not</i> going to run a newspaper. There was a poem in connection with +them, which mystified <span class="smcap">Lincoln B. Swezey</span> not a little; he "allowed it +was darned personal," but further than that his light did not +penetrate. He went to a little Club, of which he was a temporary +member; it was not fashionable, and did not seem to want to be, and +<span class="smcap">Swezey</span> thought it flippant. There he asked, "What <i>are</i> the Souls, +anyhow?" "<i>Societas omnium animarum</i>," somebody answered, and <span class="smcap">Swezey</span> +exclaimed "Say!" "They are a congregation of ladies. Their statutes +decree that they are to be <i>bene natæ, bene vestitæ</i>, and +<i>mediocriter</i>,—I don't remember what."</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Swezey</span> perceived that he was being trifled with, and turned the +conversation to the superior culture and scholarship of American +politicians, with some thoughts on canvas-backed ducks.</p> + +<p>He next applied to a lady, whom he regarded as at once fashionable and +well-informed, and asked her, "Who the Souls were, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, a horrid, stuck-up set of people," said this Pythoness. "They +have passwords, and wear a silver gridiron."</p> + +<p>"Why on earth do they do that?" asked <span class="smcap">Swezey</span>.</p> + +<p>"No doubt for some improper, or blasphemous reason. Don't be a +Soul—you had better be a Skate. I am a Skate. We wear a silver skate, +don't you see" (and she showed him a model of an Acme Skate in +silver), "with the motto, <i>Celer et Audax</i>—'Fast and Forward.'"</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Swezey</span> expressed his pride at being admitted to these mysteries—but +still pursued his inquiries.</p> + +<p>"What do the Souls <i>do</i>?"</p> + +<p>"All sorts of horrid things. They have a rule that no Soul is ever to +speak to anybody who is not a Soul, in society, you know. And they +have a rule that no Soul is ever to marry a Soul."</p> + +<p>"Exogamy!" said <span class="smcap">Swezey</span>, and began to puzzle out the probable results +and causes of this curious prohibition.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," said the lady, "and I don't know why you +are so curious about them. They all read the same books at the same +time, and they sacrifice wild asses at the altar of the Hyperborean +Apollo, <span class="smcap">Ibsen</span>, you know."</p> + +<p>These particulars were calculated to excite <span class="smcap">Swezey</span> in the highest +degree. He wrote a letter on the subject to the <i>Chanticleer</i>, a +newspaper in Troy, Ill., of which he was a correspondent, and it was +copied, with zinco-type illustrations, into all the journals of the +habitable globe, and came back to England like the fabled boomerang. +Meanwhile <span class="smcap">Swezey</span> was cruising about, in town and country, looking +out for persons wearing silver gridirons. He never found any, and the +more he inquired, the more puzzled he became. He was informed that a +treatise on the subject existed, but neither at the British Museum, +nor at any of the newspaper offices, could he obtain an example of +this rare work, which people asserted that they had seen and read.</p> + +<p>Finally <span class="smcap">Swezey</span> made the acquaintance of a lady who was rumoured darkly +to be learned in the matter. To her he poured forth expressions of his +consuming desire to be initiated, and to sacrifice at the shrine.</p> + +<p>"There is not any shrine," said his acquaintance.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 33%"> +<a href="./images/016.png"><img src="images/016.png" width="100%" alt="Then what in the universe is it all about?" title="" /></a><br /> +"Then what in the universe is it all about?" +</div> + +<p>"Well, I guess I want bad to be a Soul—an honorary one, of course—a +temporary member."</p> + +<p>"There are conditions," said the Priestess.</p> + +<p>"If there's a subscription"——<span class="smcap">Swezey</span> began.</p> + +<p>"There is not any subscription."</p> + +<p>"If there's an oath"——</p> + +<p>"There is not any oath."</p> + +<p>"Well what are the conditions, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Are you extremely beautiful?"</p> + +<p>Among the faults of <span class="smcap">Swezey</span>, personal vanity was not reckoned. He shook +his head sadly, at the same time intimating that he guessed no one +would turn round in Broadway to look at the prettiest Englishwoman +alive.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, he reflected that this was hardly the right thing to have +said.</p> + +<p>"Are you extremely diverting?"</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Swezey</span> admitted that gaiety was not his forte. Still, he pined for +information.</p> + +<p>"What does the Society <i>do</i>?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"There is not any Society."</p> + +<p>"Then why do they call themselves Souls?"</p> + +<p>"But they don't call themselves anything whatever."</p> + +<p>"Then why are they called Souls?"</p> + +<p>"Because they——but no! That is the Mystery which cannot be divulged +to the profane."</p> + +<p>"Then what in the universe is it all about?" asked <span class="smcap">Swezey</span>; but this +was a problem to which no answer was vouchsafed.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Swezey</span> is still going around, and still asking questions. But he has +moments of despondency, in which he is inclined to allow that the poor +islanders possess, after all, something akin to that boasted +inheritance of his native land, the Great American Joke. "Guess +they've played it on me," is the burden of his most secret +meditations.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="THE_INFANTS_GUIDE_TO_KNOWLEDGE" id="THE_INFANTS_GUIDE_TO_KNOWLEDGE"></a>THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>Revised to date by Mr. Punch.</i>)</p> + + +<p><i>Question.</i> What is an Infant?</p> + +<p><i>Answer.</i> A guileless child who has not yet reached twenty-one years +of age.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a year?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> An unknown quantity to a lady after forty. And this reply is +distinctly smart.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is "smartness"?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> The art of appearing to belong to a good set.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a good set?—<i>A.</i> A clique that prefers modes to +morality, <i>chic</i> to comfort, and frivolity to family ties.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is <i>chic</i>?—<i>A.</i> An indefinable something, implying "go," +"fast and loose style," "slap-dash."</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a dinner-party?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> A large subject, that cannot be disposed of in a paragraph.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a subject?—<i>A.</i> Something distinct from Royalty.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> Can one be distinct after dinner?—<i>A.</i> Yes,—with difficulty.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a difficulty?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> When of a pecuniary character—the time following the using up of +the pecuniary resources of your friends.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a friend?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> A man who dines with you—a past enemy or a future foe.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is bad champagne?—<i>A.</i> A fruity effervescing beverage +costing about thirty shillings the dozen.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is good?—<i>A.</i> Cannot reply until I have received samples.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> How can an inexperienced diner discover that he has taken bad +champagne?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> By the condition of his head on the following morning.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is a head?—<i>A.</i> A necessary alternative to money.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is money?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> The only satisfactory representative of credit.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What are representatives?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> The mouthpieces of voters mustered in the House of Commons.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is mustard?</p> + +<p><i>A.</i> The chief ingredient of breakfast, after a night of it with your +friends, when your appetite requires coaxing.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> What is the future?—<i>A.</i> To-morrow, and the coming centuries.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> And the past?—<i>A.</i> Two minutes ago, and all that went before.</p> + +<p><i>Q.</i> And the present?—<i>A.</i> The right time for bringing the current +instalment of the Infant's Guide to a prompt conclusion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="page17" id="page17">[pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="ENCORE_ALADDIN" id="ENCORE_ALADDIN"></a>"ENCORE, ALADDIN!"</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 30%"> +<a href="./images/017a.png"><img src="images/017a.png" width="100%" alt="Notes for the Storey of Aladdin, supplied by M.Jacobi." title="" /></a><br /> +Notes for the <i>Storey of Aladdin</i>, supplied by M. +Jacobi. +</div> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 30%"> +<a href="./images/017b.png"><img src="images/017b.png" width="100%" alt="Marie-Aladdin." title="" /></a><br /> +Marie-Aladdin and the Electric Light Pollini. +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Aladdin</span> at the Alhambra is a genuine "Ballet Extravaganza," the story +being told in pantomimic action, illustrated by <span class="smcap">M. Jacobi's</span> +sympathetic music. <i>Aladdin</i> was an excellent subject for Mr. <span class="smcap">John +Hollingshead</span> to take, though I venture to think that our old friend +<i>Blue Beard</i> would be a still better one. The only fault I find with +<i>Aladdin</i> is that it is too soon over. It certainly will take rank +among the most superb and the most dramatic spectacles ever placed on +the Alhambra stage. <i>Aladdin</i> ought to have been made much more of, as +a sort of <i>L'Enfant Prodigue.</i> What a chance there would have been for +him in games with the street-boys! Mlle. <span class="smcap">Legnani</span>—so called, of +course, from the graceful facility with which she remains for several +seconds at a time on one leg—is both a pretty and nimble +representative of the Dancing Princess. The <i>Slave of the Ring</i> does +not appear in this story, as far as I could gather, only the <i>Spirit +of the Lamp</i>, Signorina <span class="smcap">Pollini</span>, puts in an appearance, and a very +splendid appearance it is too! Mr. <span class="smcap">John Hollingshead</span> is to be +congratulated on having struck out a new line—though how he or the +<span class="smcap">Lord Chamberlain</span> could "<i>strike out a new line</i>" where there is no +dialogue, will ever remain a mystery, even to <span class="smcap">M. Jacobi</span> who knows most +things well, and music better than anything. Mlle. <span class="smcap">Marie</span> is a +sprightly <i>Aladdin</i>, her pantomimic action being remarkably good. How +many <i>Aladdins</i> have I seen! Whatever may become of other fairy +tales—though all the best fairy tales are immortal—this of <i>Aladdin</i> +will serve the stage for ever. At least, so thinks <span class="smcap">Private Box</span>.</p> + +<hr /> +<h3>CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY.</h3> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100%;"> +<p> +<i>Probable Development of the new "London Chamber of Arbitration," for +the economical Settlement of Disputes without recourse to +Litigation.</i></p> +<a href="./images/017c.png"><img src="images/017c.png" width="100%" alt="CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY." title="" /></a> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Basqueing in a New Language.</span>—Much interest has been excited by the +report that Mr. <span class="smcap">Gladstone</span>, during his stay at Biarritz, used up his +spare moments by studying the Basque tongue. <span class="smcap">Autolycus</span> hears that, +contrary to his usual habit, the Right Hon. Gentleman has in this +matter an ulterior purpose. Occasionally, in the heat of debate in the +House of Commons, Mr. <span class="smcap">Abraham</span> drops into his native tongue, and +addresses the <span class="smcap">Speaker</span> in Welsh. Mr. <span class="smcap">Gladstone</span>, desiring to add a fresh +interest to Parliamentary proceedings, will, in such circumstances, +immediately follow the Hon. Member for the Rhondda Vally, and continue +the debate in Basque.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Evident, "When you come to think of it."</span>—At what most patriotic +moment of a most patriotic French exile must his feelings be most +bitter?—When his love turns to Gaul.</p> + +<hr /> + + + +<h2>"TO BE CONTINUED."</h2> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 75%"> +<a href="./images/017d.png"><img src="images/017d.png" width="50%" alt="A Tale Continued in our Next." title="" /></a><br /> +A Tale Continued in our Next. +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"><p>How eagerly those tales I read</p> +<p class="i2">While still of tender years,</p> +<p>Of murder strange, of Haunted Grange,</p> +<p class="i2">And gory Buccaneers!</p> +<p>But, at the most exciting point,</p> +<p class="i2">Abruptly ceased the text,—</p> +<p>What rage was mine to meet the line,</p> +<p class="i2"><i>"Continued in our next"!</i></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Sometimes, indeed, misfortune sharp</p> +<p class="i2">The Journal would attend—</p> +<p>The funds would fail, and so the tale</p> +<p class="i2">Remains without an end.</p> +<p>Now, when I take a serial up,</p> +<p class="i2">I cry, in accents vexed,—</p> +<p>"I've read enough—why <i>is</i> the stuff</p> +<p class="i2"><i>'Continued in our next'?"</i></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Ah well, the things we valued once</p> +<p class="i2">Enliven us no more!</p> +<p>(Remarks like these, if morals please,</p> +<p class="i2">I've furnished by the score.)</p> +<p>And should these verses but result</p> +<p class="i2">In making you perplexed,</p> +<p>You'll learn with glee <i>they</i> will not be</p> +<p class="i2"><i>"Continued in our next"!</i></p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"Oh, these Christmas Bills!" cried <span class="smcap">Paterfamilias</span>. "That's what I do," +rejoined <span class="smcap">Impey Qunious</span>. "My sentiments and practice precisely—'Owe +these Christmas Bills'—and many others."<span class='pagenum'><a name="page18" id="page18">[pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="BUILDING_THE_SNOW_MAN" id="BUILDING_THE_SNOW_MAN"></a>BUILDING THE SNOW MAN.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><p><span class="smcap">Billy</span> and <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span> were two little boys,</p> +<p>Who wearied of lessons, and tired of their toys.</p> +<p>Says <span class="smcap">Billy</span>, "I've hit on an excellent plan;</p> +<p>Let's go out in the cold, <span class="smcap">John</span>, and build a Snow Man!"</p> +</div> + +<p><i>Johnnie</i> (<i>blowing his fingers</i>). Oh, I say, <span class="smcap">Billy</span>, isn't it cold, +either?</p> + +<p><i>Billy</i> (<i>stamping</i>). <i>Is</i> it, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>? I haven't noticed it myself.</p> + +<p><i>Johnnie.</i> Oh, you're as hard as nails, <i>you</i> are. <i>My</i> fingers are +quite numb.</p> + +<p><i>Billy.</i> Then work away briskly. <i>That'll</i> warm 'em! Snow's a bit less +binding than I expected to find it. Result of the severe frost, I +suppose. But peg away, and we shall podge it into shape yet, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>.</p> + +<p><i>Johnnie.</i> Ye-e-e-s! (<i>Shivers</i>). But what—er—er—what pattern, or +plan, or model, have we—that—is—er—have <i>you</i>—er—decided on, +<span class="smcap">Billy</span>?</p> + +<p><i>Billy</i> (<i>winking</i>). Well, that's as it happens, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>! Remember the +one we built in '86—eh?</p> + +<p><i>Johnnie</i> (<i>shuddering</i>). I should think I did. Don't mean to say +we're to go on <i>those</i> lines again, <span class="smcap">Billy</span>?</p> + +<p><i>Billy.</i> I mean to <i>say</i> nothing of the kind. Many things have +happened since then, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>. For one thing, we've had heaps of +advice.</p> + +<p><i>Johnnie.</i> Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof +and criticising our work—<i>in advance</i>. Where's that bold, blusterous, +bumptious Behemoth, <span class="smcap">Bill Stead</span>? Knew all about building Snow Men, <i>he</i> +did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other +things, <span class="smcap">Bill</span> had. And now he's licking creation into shape for +six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance. +Little cocksure <span class="smcap">Labby</span>, too! Oh, <i>he</i>'s a nice boy! If <span class="smcap">Bill</span> takes all +Knowledge for his province, <span class="smcap">Henry</span> considers himself sole proprietor of +<i>Truth</i>, and he lets us <i>have</i> Truth—<i>his</i> Truth—every week at +least—in hard chunks—that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness, +too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from +being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there, +with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as +we've licked him into it—if ever we do. <span class="smcap">Teddy Reed</span>, too, <i>he</i>'s +turned nasty, though he <i>does</i> come from "gallant little Wales;" and +now here's <span class="smcap">Wallace</span>, the Scotch boy—though <i>he</i> was all right +anyhow!—cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our +Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because +he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his +Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, <span class="smcap">Billy</span>! And +where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are +freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it +were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land +<i>us</i> a nasty one now and then—just to encourage us!</p> + +<p><i>Billy</i> (<i>patting and punching away vigorously</i>). Loyal? Grateful? Ah, +<span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on +your liver. You're a brave boy, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>, but just a bit bilious. +Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them +bicker, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>, and <i>listen to what they say</i>! It may all come in +handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all +round, from <span class="smcap">Arty Balfour</span> and <span class="smcap">Joey Chamberlain</span>, as well as <span class="smcap">Henry</span>, and +<span class="smcap">Teddy</span>, and <span class="smcap">Tim</span> and <span class="smcap">John E.</span>, and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst +we build, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and +whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most +damage I hardly know—yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal +with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights +a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But, +<span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some +plan! I only hope (<i>entre nous</i>, <span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>) that a thaw won't set in, +and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!</p> + +<blockquote>[<i>Left hard at it.</i></blockquote> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 75%;"> +<a href="./images/018.png"><img src="images/018.png" width="100%" alt="A DISTINCTION AND A DIFFERENCE." title="" /></a><br /> +<h3>A DISTINCTION AND A DIFFERENCE.</h3> + +<p><i>Mr. Wilkins.</i> "<span class="smcap">Beg pardon, Sir Pompey, but could you tell me who that +Young Gen'l'man is you just took off yer 'At to</span>?"</p> + +<p><i>Sir Pompey</i> (<i>pompously</i>). "<span class="smcap">He's not a Gentleman at all, Wilkins. +He's a Noble Lord—the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Speedicutts—a +Friend of mine</span>."</p> + +<p><i>Mr. Wilkins.</i> "<span class="smcap">Indeed, Sir Pompey! But, I s'pose <i>some</i> of 'em's +Gen'l'men, sometimes?"</span></p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p>Great consternation at hearing of the arrest of "<span class="smcap">M. Blondin</span>" in +connection with the Panama scandals. Of course there can be only <i>one</i> +<span class="smcap">Blondin</span>, and some wiseacres at once applied the proverb about "Give +him enough rope," &c. But <span class="smcap">Blondin</span> never fell. It was quite another +<span class="smcap">Blondin</span>. The Hero of Niagara was not the Villain of the Panama +piece—if villain he turn out to be. <span class="smcap">Blondin</span> is still performing; +always walking soberly, though elevated, on the rope that is quite +tight. Maybe the rope gets tighter than ever at this jovial period, +but <span class="smcap">Blondin</span>, <i>the</i> <span class="smcap">Blondin</span>, our <span class="smcap">Blondin's</span> acts are in the sight of +everybody, his proceedings are intelligible to all, though far above +the heads of the people.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Still, whatever financial accident may have happened to <span class="smcap">M. Blondin</span>, he +has always kept his balance—on the rope.</p> + +<hr /> +<p class="center"><span class='pagenum'><a name="page19" id="page19">[pg 19]</a></span> +<i>[Blank page]</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page20" id="page20">[pg 20]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 75%;"> +<a href="./images/019.png"><img src="images/019.png" width="100%" alt="THE SNOW MAN." title="" /></a><br /> +<h3>THE SNOW MAN.</h3> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page21" id="page21">[pg 21]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="TO_CHLORINDA" id="TO_CHLORINDA"></a>TO CHLORINDA.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>With a Fan.</i>)</p> + + +<div class="figright" style="width: 30%"> +<a href="./images/021a.png"><img src="images/021a.png" width="100%" alt="Lady with fan" title="" /></a> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"><p>All in your glory you to-night</p> +<p>Will dance, and me they don't invite</p> +<p class="i2">Your charms to scan;</p> +<p>And, as a seal might send its skin</p> +<p>To please the girl it may not win,</p> +<p class="i2">I send a fan.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Behind this fan some other man</p> +<p class="i2">Your hand will hold;</p> +<p>Your fearless eyes, so bright and brown,</p> +<p>Will hide their gladness, glancing down,</p> +<p class="i2">No longer cold.</p> +<p>And your pale, perfect cheek will take</p> +<p>That colour for another's sake,</p> +<p class="i2">I ne'er controlled,—</p> +<p>Yet, ere you sleep, stray thoughts will creep</p> +<p class="i2">To days of old.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Of old! For in a single day,</p> +<p>When love first gilds a maiden's way,</p> +<p class="i2">The world grows new;</p> +<p>And from that new world you will send</p> +<p>Sweet pity to the absent friend</p> +<p class="i2">Who so loved you.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>Loved—for my love will wither then;</p> +<p>I cannot share with other men</p> +<p class="i2">The dear delight</p> +<p>That dwells in your austerest tone,</p> +<p>That latent hope of joys unknown—</p> +<p>Though now you will not be my own,</p> +<p class="i2">Some day you might.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>My trusted little friend of yore,</p> +<p>Of course you'd think my love a bore,</p> +<p class="i2">It's not romantic:</p> +<p>I've passed beyond the football stage,</p> +<p>And e'en despair is saved by age</p> +<p class="i2">From growing frantic.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>No, like a veteran grim and grey,</p> +<p class="i2">With sling and crutch,</p> +<p>I am but fit to watch the fray</p> +<p>Where, in the world-old, witching way,</p> +<p>In other hands your fingers stay</p> +<p class="i2">With lingering touch,</p> +<p>That may mean nothing, or it may</p> +<p class="i2">Mean, oh! so much.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"><p>I'll wed some woman, prim of face,</p> +<p>Who'll duly fill the housewife's place,</p> +<p>And with her hard, domestic grace</p> +<p class="i2">Illusions scatter;</p> +<p>But sometimes when the stars are full,</p> +<p>While at my season'd pipe I pull,</p> +<p>I'll see my little love once more,</p> +<p>With brilliant lovers by the score,</p> +<p class="i2">Whose tributes flatter.</p> +<p>And, thinking of the light gone by,</p> +<p>Murmur with philosophic sigh,</p> +<p class="i2">"It doesn't matter."</p> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"><p>And then, perchance, this fan you'll find,</p> +<p class="i2">When all the new romance is over.</p> +<p>Sweet, may you ne'er with troubled mind</p> +<p>Half wish you never had resigned,</p> +<p class="i2">Your truest lover.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p>Last week, Dr. <span class="smcap">Adler</span> gave, as appears by the extracts, an excellent +Lecture on "Jewish Wit and Humour." He himself is well known as the +<i>The Jew d'Esprit</i>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Temporary Change of Name</span>.—Will Poplar Hospital be styled, "Un-pop'lar +Hospital?"</p> + +<hr /> + + + +<h2>"THE VERY LATEST."</h2> + +<div class="note"> +<p>["A Cookery Autograph-book is the last idea. Each friend is supposed +to write a practical recipe for a dainty dish above his or her +signature."</p> + +<p class="right"><i>The Graphic.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p>No, <span class="smcap">Mabel</span>, no;—though your behest</p> +<p class="i2">I always heed with rapt attention,</p> +<p>Most fervently I must protest</p> +<p class="i2">Against this horrible invention;</p> +<p>Your word has hitherto been law,</p> +<p>But this appears the final straw!</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 30%"> +<a href="./images/021b.png"><img src="images/021b.png" width="100%" alt="" title="" /></a> +</div> + +<p>Obedient to imperious looks,</p> +<p class="i2">I've had to write, at your suggestion,</p> +<p>The answers in confession-books</p> +<p class="i2">To many an idiotic question;</p> +<p>I'll vow my favourite tint is blue</p> +<p>(The colour mostly worn by you);</p> + +<p>I'll gladly draw a fancy sketch,</p> +<p class="i2">I'll make acrostics with elation,</p> +<p>I'll write you verses at a stretch,</p> +<p class="i2">Or give my views on vaccination;</p> +<p>But, even to fulfil your wishes,</p> +<p>I cannot manufacture dishes!</p> + +<p>I know, in theory, how to make</p> +<p class="i2">The matutinal tea and coffee,</p> +<p>And, when at school, I used to bake</p> +<p class="i2">A gruesome mess described as toffee;</p> +<p>But these, which form my whole <i>cuisine</i>,</p> +<p>Are scarce the kind of thing you mean.</p> + +<p>Of course I'd learn some more by heart,</p> +<p class="i2">If this could gain me your affection,</p> +<p>But fear the anguish on your part</p> +<p class="i2">Produced by faulty recollection;</p> +<p>On me, my <span class="smcap">Mabel</span>, please to look</p> +<p>As lover only—not as Cook!</p> +</div> +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="CRINOLINE" id="CRINOLINE"></a>CRINOLINE.</h2> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%"> +<a href="./images/021c.png"><img src="images/021c.png" width="100%" alt="" title="" /></a> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p>Rumour whispers, so we glean</p> +<p>From the papers, there have been</p> +<p>Thoughts of bringing on the scene</p> +<p>This mad, monstrous, metal screen,</p> +<p>Hiding woman's graceful mien.</p> +<p>Better Jewish gabardine</p> +<p>Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen!</p> +<p>Vilest garment ever seen!</p> +<p>Form unknown in things terrene;</p> +<p>Even monsters pliocene</p> +<p>Were not so ill-shaped, I ween.</p> +<p>Women wearing this machine,</p> +<p>Were they fat or were they lean—</p> +<p>Small as <span class="smcap">Wordsworth's</span> celandine,</p> +<p>Large as sail that's called lateen—</p> +<p>Simply swept the pavement clean:</p> +<p>Hapless man was crushed between</p> +<p>Flat as any tinned sardine.</p> +<p>Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen,</p> +<p>Make a Canon or a Dean</p> +<p>Speak in language not serene.</p> +<p>We must all be very green,</p> +<p>And our senses not too keen,</p> +<p>If we can't say what we mean,</p> +<p>Write in paper, magazine,</p> +<p>Send petitions to the <span class="smcap">Queen</span>,</p> +<p>Get the House to intervene.</p> +<p>Paris fashion's transmarine—</p> +<p>Let us stop by quarantine</p> +<p>Catastrophic Crinoline!</p> +</div> +<hr /> + +<p>"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the <i>P. M. G.</i>, "to the +Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this +article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother +Country that has buttered the Colonies.</p> + +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="On_Three_Poets" id="On_Three_Poets"></a>On Three Poets.</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>By the Fourth Party.</i>)</p> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>, <span class="smcap">Austin</span>, <span class="smcap">Morris</span>,</p> +<p class="i2">Bardic busybodies,</p> +<p>Threnodies they wrote:—</p> +<p class="i2"><i>They</i> were the Three Noddies!</p> +</div> +<hr /> + +<p>Mrs. R. says that, in this cold weather, whenever she wants to know if +there is to be a change, she consults her <i>thaw</i>mometer.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The amusing article, "A Man's Thoughts on Marriage," ought not to have +appeared in <i>The Gentleman</i>, but in the <i>United Service Magazine</i>. +This is evident.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page22" id="page22">[pg 22]</a></span></p> +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%;"> +<a href="./images/022.png"><img src="images/022.png" width="100%" alt="TOO AFFECTIONATE BY HALF." title="" /></a><br /> +<h3>TOO AFFECTIONATE BY HALF.</h3> + +<p><i>Auntie.</i> "<span class="smcap">Oh, you naughty Boy! What are you doing? Smoking! Why +you'll never Grow!</span>"</p> + +<p><i>Artful Nephew.</i> "<span class="smcap">That's just it, Auntie. I don't want to Grow. I want +to keep the same Size always, so that I can sit on your Lap, an' Love +you!"</span></p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.</h2> + + +<p>Before I proceed with the order of subjects which I have proposed to +myself as the proper one to follow, I feel that I must revert for a +moment to the question of "ladies at lunch." You may remember that +some two or three weeks ago I ventured to offer some observations on +this topic. Dear ladies, you can read for yourselves the winged words +in which your adoring <i>Punch</i> settled the matter. "By all means," I +said, "come to lunch, if you must." What can be plainer or more +direct? Bless your pretty, pouting faces, I am not responsible for the +characters of my fellow-men, nor for the harsh language they use. If +they behave like boors, and show an incomprehensible distaste for your +delightful presence, am I, your constant friend, to be blamed? I +cannot alter the nature of these barbarians. But what has happened +since I published an article which had, at any rate, the merit of +truthful portraiture? Why, I have been overwhelmed with epistolary +reproaches in every variety of feminine hand-writing. "<span class="smcap">A Careful +Mother</span>" writes from Dorset—a locality hitherto associated in my mind +with butter rather than with blame—to protest that she has been so +horrified by my cynical tone, that she does not intend to take me in +any longer. She adds, that "<i>Punch</i> has laid upon my drawing-room +table for more than thirty years." Heavens, that I should have been so +deeply, so ungrammatically, honoured without knowing it! Am I no +longer to recline amid photograph albums, gift-books, and +flower-vases, upon that sacred table? And are you, Madam, to spite a +face which has always, I am certain, beamed upon me with a kindly +consideration, by depriving it wantonly of its adorning and necessary +nose. Heaven forbid! Withdraw for both our sakes that rash decision, +while there is yet time, and restore me to my wonted place in your +affections, and your drawing-room.</p> + +<p>But all are not like this. Here, for instance, is a sensible and +temperate commentary, which it gives me pleasure to quote word for +word as it was written:—</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Punch</span>,—I want to tell you that, although I am what one of +your friends called "a solid woman," and ought to feel <i>deeply</i> hurt +by what you said about ladies at lunch, yet I liked that article the +best. I think it was <i>awfully</i> good. But don't you think you are all +rather hard on ladies at shooting-boxes? My idea is that there ought +to be some new rules about shooting-parties. At present, ladies are +asked to amuse the men—at least that is my experience—and it is +rather hard they may not sometimes go on the moors, if they want to. +But, at the same time, I <i>quite</i> understand that they are horribly in +the way, and I am not surprised that the men don't want women about +them when they are shooting. But couldn't they arrange to have a day +now and then, when they could shoot all the morning, and devote +themselves to amusing the women on the moors after lunch? Otherwise, I +think there ought to be a rule that no women are to be invited to +shooting-boxes. It is generally very dull for the women, and I feel +sure the men would be quite as happy without them. I suppose the host +might want his wife to be there, to look after things; but <i>she ought +to strike</i>, and ask her lady-friends to do the same; and then they +could go abroad, or to some jolly place, and enjoy themselves in their +own way. Really we often get quite angry—at least I do—when men +treat us as if we were so many dolls, and patronise us in their heavy +way, and expect us to believe that the world was made entirely for +them and their shooting-parties. There must be more give and take. +And, if <i>we</i> are to give you our sympathy and attention, <i>you</i> must +take our companionship a little oftener. We get so dull when we are +all together.</p> + +<p class="indent">Your sincere admirer,</p> +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">A Lady Luncher</span>.</p> + +<p>I confess this simple letter touched an answering chord in my heart. I +scarcely knew how to answer it. At last a brilliant thought struck me. +I would show it to my tame Hussar-Captain, <span class="smcap">Shabrack</span>. That gallant son +of Mars is not only a good sportsman, but he has, in common with many +of his brother officers, the reputation of being a dashing, but +discriminating worshipper at the shrine of beauty. At military and +hunt balls the Captain is a stalwart performer, a despiser of mere +programme engagements, and an invincible cutter-out of timid youths +who venture to put forward their claims to a dance that the Captain +has mentally reserved for himself. The mystery is how he has escaped +scathless into what his friends now consider to be assured +bachelor-hood. Most of his contemporaries, roystering, healthy, and +seemingly flinty-hearted fellows, all of them, have long since gone +down, one after another, before some soft and smiling little being, +and are now trying to fit their incomes to the keep of perambulators, +as well as of dog-carts. But <span class="smcap">Shabrack</span> has escaped. I found him at his +Club, and showed him the letter, requesting him at the same time to +tell me what he thought of it. I think he was flattered by my appeal, +for he insisted on my immediate acceptance of a cigar six inches long, +and proposed to me a tempting list of varied drinks. The Captain read +the letter through twice carefully, and thus took up his parable:—</p> + +<p>"Look here, my son, don't you be put off by what the little woman +says. She don't mean half of it. Get the hostess to strike!"—here he +laughed loudly—"now that's a real good 'un. Why, they haven't got it +in them. Fact is, they can't stand one another's company. She says as +much, don't she? 'We get so dull when we are all together.' Well, that +scarcely looks like goin' off on the strike together, does it? Don't +you be alarmed, old quill-driver, they'll never run a strike of that +kind for more than a day. They'll all come troopin' back, beggin' to +be forgiven, and all that, and, by gum, we shall have to take 'em back +too, just as we're all congratulatin' ourselves that we shan't have to +go to any more blessed pic-nics. That's a woman's idea of enjoyin' +herself in the country—nothin' but one round of pic-nics. I give you +my word, when I was stayin' with old <span class="smcap">Fred Derriman</span>, in Perthshire, +they reg'larly mapped out the whole place for pic-nics, and I'm dashed +if they didn't spoil our best day's drivin by pic-nickin' in, 'oh, +such a sweet<span class='pagenum'><a name="page23" id="page23">[pg 23]</a></span> place.' Truth is, they can't get along without us, my +son, only they won't admit it, bless 'em! And, after all, we're better +off when they're in the house, I'm bound to confess; so I don't mind +lettin' 'em have a pic-nic or two, just to keep 'em sweet. Them's my +sentiments, old cock, and you're welcome to them."</p> + +<p>I thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and withdrew. But if the whole +thing is merely a matter of pic-nics, it is far simpler than I +imagined.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100%;"> +<a href="./images/023.png"><img src="images/023.png" width="100%" alt="MR. PUNCH'S SKATING PARTY." title="" /></a><br /> +<h3>MR. PUNCH'S SKATING PARTY.</h3> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="page24" id="page24">[pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<hr /> +<h2><a name="OUR_BOOKING-OFFICE" id="OUR_BOOKING-OFFICE"></a>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 25%;"> +<a href="./images/024a.png"><img src="images/024a.png" width="100%" alt="" title="" /></a> +</div> + +<p>"Have you read," asks one of the Baron's Assistants of his Chief, +"Miss <span class="smcap">Braddon</span>'s Christmas Annual? It is entitled, <i>The Misletoe +Bough</i>, and contains some of the best short stories I have read +lately. One of them, 'In Mr. <span class="smcap">Cartwright</span>'s Library,' is a remarkable +combination of quaint, dry humour, and literary skill. Who is the +clever author? But here are other stories, too, that interest and +please, and, not least among them, a charming sketch, by the ever +welcome editress. Bravo, Miss <span class="smcap">Braddon</span>!</p> + +<p>"<i>Brownies and Rose-leaves</i>, by <span class="smcap">Roma White</span> (<span class="smcap">Innes & Co.</span>), is a pretty +little book, prettily written, prettily illustrated by <span class="smcap">Leslie Brooke</span>, +and prettily bound," he continues. "Miss <span class="smcap">White</span> has a charming knack of +writing musical verse, simple, rhythmical, delightful. To children and +their parents, I say, take my tip (the only one parents will get at +this season), and read <span class="smcap">Roma White</span>'s dainty, delicate, fresh and breezy +book."</p> + +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="ROBIN_POOR_FELLOW" id="ROBIN_POOR_FELLOW"></a>ROBIN POOR FELLOW!</h2> + + +<p><i>Robin Goodfellow</i>, by Mr. <span class="smcap">Carton</span>, is not a brilliant play, as its +dialogue lacks epigrammatic sparkle: neither is it an interesting +play, as the plot, such as it is, is too weak for words,—which, by +the way, at once accounts for the absence of the sparkle +above-mentioned.</p> + +<p>Three questions must have occurred to those who have already seen the +play, and which those who may hereafter see it will be sure to ask +themselves,—and they are these:—</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 30%"> +<a href="./images/024b.png"><img src="images/024b.png" width="100%" alt="Nearly burning his fingers. Mr. Hare acting with +Grace." title="" /></a><br /> +Nearly burning his fingers. Mr. Hare acting with +Grace. +</div> + +<p>First. Why should <i>Grace's</i> father, <i>Valentine Barbrook</i>, tell her of +the means by which he had brought about the betrothal of <i>Hugh Rokeby</i> +to <i>Constance</i>?</p> + +<p>Secondly. This being so, why allow six weeks to elapse when a word +from the one girl, who knows, to the other, who doesn't, would explain +everything?</p> + +<p>Thirdly. If a sudden shock would kill the grandmother, surely, in the +course of six weeks, <i>Grace</i> would have found out that her shortest +and best way was to tell the truth to her cousin, without mentioning +it to the old lady.</p> + +<p>If in doubt, why didn't she confide in the Doctor, who would at once +have told her whether the nature of the communication she had to make +was of a sufficiently startling nature to kill the old lady right off +or not?</p> + +<p>The fact is, it was necessary to keep the lover, <i>Mr. Stanley +Trevenen</i>, away for some time, in order to allow of there being a +glimmer of probability in the announcement of his having thrown over +the girl to whom he is devotedly attached, and having married somebody +else whom he met abroad. "Now," says the dramatist, "what is the +shortest possible space of time I can allow for this? Ahem!—say a +month." So he gives him a month. "Then," says he, next, "what is the +shortest possible time we can allow for an engagement and a marriage? +Say six weeks. Good. Six weeks be it. Only, hang it, this muddle has +to last for six weeks! Well, it can't be helped. I can't give any more +trouble to the bothering plot; and, as after all, there's a capital +character for Mr. <span class="smcap">Hare</span>, and not at all a bad one for Miss <span class="smcap">Rorke</span>, with +a fairish one for <span class="smcap">Forbes Robertson</span>, why, if Mr. <span class="smcap">Hare</span> will accept the +play, and do it, I should say that, cast and played as it will be, it +is pretty sure to be a success."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 25%;"> +<a href="./images/024c.png"><img src="images/024c.png" width="100%" alt="The Happy Pair." title="" /></a> +The Happy Pair. +</div> + +<p>So much for the Author and the Play. As to the Actors, Mr. <span class="smcap">Hare</span> has +had many a better part, and this is but an inferior species of a genus +with which the public has long been familiar; but there is no one who +can touch him in a part of this description. Admirable! most +admirable! <i>Barbrook</i> is in reality a silly elderly scamp, with all +the will to be a villain but not endowed with the brains requisite for +that line of life. Thus, the Author, unconsciously, has created him. +But Mr. <span class="smcap">Hare</span> invests this feather-headed scoundrel with Iago-ish and +Mephistophelian characteristics, that go very near to make the +audience believe that, after all, there <i>is</i> something in the part, +and also in the plot. But the part is only a snowman, and melts away +under the sunlight of criticism. Miss <span class="smcap">Kate Rorke</span> is charming. It is a +monotonous and wearisome part, and the merit of it is her own. Miss +<span class="smcap">Norreys</span> is very good but the girl is insipid. Miss <span class="smcap">Compton</span>, as the +good-hearted, knowing, fast lady, wins us, as she proves herself to be +the real <i>Robin Goodfellow</i>, the real good fairy of the piece, <i>Robin +Goodfellow</i> is a misnomer, unless the aforesaid <i>Robin</i> be dissociated +from <i>Puck</i>: but it is altogether a bad title as applied to this piece +for, as with Mr. <span class="smcap">Carton</span>'s piece at the St. James's, <i>Liberty Hall</i>, it +is a title absolutely thrown away. Mr. <span class="smcap">Forbes Robertson</span> is as good as +the part permits, and it is the Author's fault that he is not better. +Mr. <span class="smcap">Gilbert Hare</span> gives a neat bit of character as the Doctor, and Mr. +<span class="smcap">Donald Robertson</span> may by now have made something of the rather foolish +Clergyman (whether Rector, Vicar, or Curate I could not make out), +whose stupid laugh began by making a distinct hit, and, on frequent +repetition, became a decided bore. It is played in one Scene and three +Acts, and no doubt in the course of a fortnight certain repetitious +and needless lines will have been excised, and the piece will play +closer, and may be an attraction, but not a great one, for some time +to come. At all events, the part of <i>Valentine Barbrook</i> will add +another highly-finished picture to Mr. <span class="smcap">Hare's</span> gallery of eccentric +comedy-character. I think of him with delight, and exclaim, once +more—Admirable!</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Private Box</span>.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>At Drury Lane the Baddeley Cake Meeting was a Goodly sight.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><img src="./images/hand.png" alt="" title="" /><b>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.</b></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume +104, January 14, 1893, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + +***** This file should be named 21598-h.htm or 21598-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/5/9/21598/ + +Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Juliet +Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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