Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 8, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



October 10, 1892.



AT A HYPNOTIC SÉANCE.

    SCENE--_A Public Hall in a provincial town. The Hypnotist--a
    tall, graceful, and handsome young man, in well-fitting
    evening clothes--has already succeeded in putting most of
    his subjects to sleep, and is going round and inspecting them
    critically, as they droop limply on a semicircle of chairs,
    in a variety of unpicturesque attitudes. The only Lady on
    the platform is evidently as yet in full possession of her
    senses._

_First Female Spectator_ (_to Second_). MARIA MANGLES do take a time
sending off, don't she?

_Second F.S._ (_also a friend of Miss MANGLES_). Yes, that she do--it
gives her such a silly look, sitting there, the on'y one with her
senses about her!

_First F.S._ It's all affectation--she could shut her eyes fast enough
if she _liked_!

_Second F.S._ The 'Ipnotiser's coming round to her now--she'll _have_
to go off now. (_With a not unpleasurable anticipation_.) I expect
he'll make her do all manner o' ridic'lous things!

_First F.S._ Well, it will be a lesson, to her against making' herself
so conspicuous another time. I shan't pity her.

_The Hyp._ (_after a brief colloquy with Miss MANGLES_). I see I am
not likely to succeed with this Lady; so, with many thanks to her on
behalf of myself and the audience for coming forward, I will detain
her no longer.

[Illustration: "I do. Lovely creature!"]

    [_Applause, amidst which Miss M. descends to her seat in the
    body of the hall, with a smile of conscious triumph._

_First F.S._ (_disappointed_). I don't see what she's done to clap
their hands about, myself!

_Second F.S._ Nor I neither--taking up his time all for
nothing--depend upon it she wouldn't have gone up if he hadn't been so
nice-looking!

_First F.S._ I wouldn't like to think _that_ of her myself; but,
anyhow, she didn't get much by it, did she? He soon sent _her_
packing!

_Male Spectator_ (_to a Woman in front of him_). Evening, Mrs.
MIDGELLY--I see they've got your good man up on the platform.

_Mrs. M._ He _will_ go, Mr. BUDKIN! He's gone up every night the
'Ipnotiser's been here, and says he feels it's going to do him good.
So this evening I said I'd come in too, and judge for myself. What
good he expects to get, laying there like a damp dishclout, _I_ don't
know!

    [_Meanwhile the Hypnotist has borrowed a silver-handled
    umbrella from the audience, and thrust it before the faces of
    one or two loutish-looking youths, who immediately begin to
    squint horribly and follow the silver-top with their noses,
    till they knock their heads together._

_Mr. Budkin_ (_to Mrs. MIDGELLY_). He's going to give your husband a
turn of it now.

    [_The umbrella-handle is applied to Mr. M., a feeble-looking
    little man with a sandy top-knot; he grovels after the
    silver-top when it is depressed, and makes futile attempts to
    clamber up the umbrella after it when it is held aloft._

_Mrs. M._ (_severely_). I haven't patience to look at him. A _Kitten_
'ud have had more sense!

_The Hyp._ (_calling up one of the heavy youths_). Can you whistle,
Sir? Yes? Then whistle something. (_The Youth whistles a popular air
in a lugubrious tone._) Now you _can't_ whistle--try. (_The Youth
tries--and produces nothing but a close imitation of an air-cushion
that is being unscrewed._) Now, if I were not to wake him up, this
young gentleman's friends would never enjoy the benefit of his whistle
again!

_Voice from a Back Row_. _Don't_ wake him, Guv'nor, we can _bear_ it!

_Hyp._ (_after restoring the lost talent, and calling up another
Youth, somewhat smartly attired_). Now, Sir, what do you drink?

_The Youth_ (_with a sleepy candour_). Beer when I can get 'old of it.

_A Friend of his in Audience_. JIM's 'aving a lark with him--he said
as 'ow he meant to kid him like--_he_ ain't 'ipnotised, bless yer!

_Hyp._ But you like water, too, don't you? (_JIM admits this--in
moderation._) Try this. (_He gives him a tumbler of water._) Is that
good water?

_Jim_ (_smacking his lips_). That's good water enough, Sir.

_Hyp._ It's bad water--taste it again.

    [_JIM tastes, and ejects it with every symptom of extreme
    disapproval._

_Jim's Friend_. Try him with a drop o' Scotch in it--_'e'll_ get it
down!

_Hyp._ (_to JIM_). There is _no_ water in that glass--it's full of
sovereigns, don't you see? (_JIM agrees that this is so, and testifies
to his conviction by promptly emptying the contents of the glass into
his trousers' pocket_) What have you got in your pocket?

_Jim_ (_chuckling with satisfaction_). Quids--golden sovereigns!

_Hyp._ Wake up! _Now_ what do you find in your pocket--any sovereigns?

_Jim_ (_surprised_). Sovereigns? No, Sir! (_After putting his hand
in his pocket, bringing it out dripping, and dolefully regarding the
stream of water issuing from his leg_.) More like water, Sir.

    [_He makes dismal efforts to dry himself, amidst roars of
    laughter._

_His Friend_. Old JIM didn't come best out o' that!

_Hyp._ (_to JIM_). You don't feel comfortable? (_Emphatic assent from_
JIM.) Yes, you do, you feel no discomfort whatever.

    [_JIM resumes his seat with a satisfied expression._

_An Open-minded Spect._ Mind yer, if this yere 'Ipnotism can prevent
water from being wet, there must be _something_ in it!

_Hyp._ I will now give you an illustration of the manner in which,
by hypnotic influence, a subject can_ be affected with an entirely
imaginary pain. Take this gentleman. (_Indicating the unfortunate
Mr. MIDGELLY, who is slumbering peacefully._) Now, what pain shall we
give him?

_A Voice_. Stomach-ache!

    [_This suggestion, however, is so coyly advanced that it
    fortunately escapes notice._

_Hyp._ Tooth-ache? Very good--we will give him tooth-ache.

    [_The Audience receive this with enthusiasm, which increases
    to rapturous delight when Mr. MIDGELLY's cheek begins to
    twitch violently, and he nurses his jaw in acute agony; the
    tooth-ache is then transferred to another victim, who writhes
    in an even more entertaining manner, until the unhappy couple
    are finally relieved from torment._

_A Spect._ Well, it's better nor any play, this is--but he ought to
ha' passed the toothache round the lot of 'em, just for the fun o' the
thing!

_Mrs. Midgelly_. I should ha' thought there was toothache enough
without coming here to get more of it, but so long as MIDGELLY's
enjoyin' himself, _I_ shan't interfere!

    [_The Hypnot. has impressed his subjects with the idea that
    there is an Angel at the other end of the hall, and they are
    variously affected by the celestial apparition, some gazing
    with a rapt grin, while others invoke her stiffly, or hail her
    like a cab. Mr. MIDGELLY alone exhibits no interest._

_Mr. Budkin_ (_to Mrs. M._). Your 'usband don't seem to be putting
himself out, Angel or no Angel.

_Mrs. M._ (_complacently_). He knows too well what's due to _me_, Mr.
BUDKIN. _I'm_ Angel enough for him!

_Hyp._ I shall now persuade this Gentleman that there is a beautiful
young lady in green at the door of this hall. (_To Mr. M._) Do you see
her, Sir?

_Mr. M._ (_rising with alacrity_). I do. Lovely creature!

    [_He suddenly snatches up a decanter of water, and invites
    his invisible charmer, in passionate pantomime, to come up and
    share it with him--to the infinite delight of the Audience,
    and disgust of his Wife._

AFTER THE PERFORMANCE.

_Mr. Midgelly_ (_as he rejoins his Wife_). I felt the influence more
strongly to-night than what I have yet; and the Professor says, if I
only keep on coming up every night while he's here, I shall soon be
completely susceptible to--Why, whatever's the matter, my dear?

_Mrs. M._ Matter! You're quite susceptible enough as it is; and, now
I know how you can go on, you don't catch me letting _you_ get
'ipnotised again. You and your young lady in green indeed!

_Mr. M._ (_utterly mystified_). Me and my--I don't know what you're
alluding to. It's the first _I've_ heard of it!

_Mrs. M._ (_grimly_). Well, it won't be the last by a long way. Oh,
the insight I've had into your character this evening, MIDGELLY!

    [_Mr. M. is taken home, to realise that Hypnotism is not
    altogether without its dangers._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THUNDERS FROM SNOWDON.

    "Nothing could have served my purpose better, than to have
    drawn this illuminating flash out of the thunders," &c.,
    &c.--_Vide Duke of Argyll's Letter to The Times, and his
    Letter to Somebody who had drawn his Grace's attention to Mr.
    Gladstone's Snowdon Speech._

       *       *       *       *       *

MEM. FROM WHITBREADFORDSHIRE.--Sir BLUNDELL MAPLE is reported to
have said, "I'll give you a good tip. Back _Duke_--and my horses for
the Cambridgeshire." New Carpet Knight not successful as a sporting
tipster, seeing that Colonel DUKE, though he fought well, was beaten.
Perhaps Sir BLUNDELL meant _the Duke_, who races every night at Drury
Lane. That's a very good tip, as safe as houses--Drury Lane houses, of
course.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CITY PARADOX.

  Our City Aldermanic lights
    Who talk (and live) a trifle high,
  In stern defence of civic rights
    Profess themselves prepared to die.
  And yet the Aldermanic crowd--
    It's amply true, say what you will--
  With open eyes have just allowed
    The Mayoralty to come to KNILL!

       *       *       *       *       *

"HABITUAL DRUNKARDS COMMITTEE."--An awful-looking heading to a
paragraph! What a picture the imagination may conjure up of a
Committee of Habitual Drunkards! There would be the Honble. TOM TOPER,
Lord SOTT, SAM SOKER, Marquis of MOPPS and BROOMS, Captain FUDDLE,
DICK SWIZZLER, R.N., FRANK FARGONE (of the _Daily Booze_), with TITE
ASA DRUMM in the Chair, or if not, under the table with the others.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)

Many manuals have been published for the edification of beginners in
the art of shooting. If that art can indeed be acquired by reading,
there is no reason why any youth, whose education has been properly
attended to, should not be perfectly proficient in it without having
fired a single shot. But, _Mr. Punch_ has noticed in all these volumes
a grave defect. In none of them is any instruction given which shall
enable a man to obtain a conversational as well as a merely shooting
success. Every pursuit has its proper conversational complement. The
Farmer must know how to speak of crops and the weather in picturesque
and inflammatory language; the Barrister must note, for use at the
dinner-table, the subtle jests of his colleagues, the perplexity
of stumbling witnesses, and the soul-stirring jokes of Judges;
the Clergyman must babble of Sunday-schools and Choir-practices.
Similarly, a Shooter must be able to speak of his sport and its varied
incidents. To be merely a good shot is nothing. Many dull men can
be that. The great thing, surely, is to be both a good shot and a
cheerful light-hearted companion, with a fund of anecdotes and a rich
store of allusions appropriate to every phase of shooting. _Mr. Punch_
ventures to hope that the hints he has here put together, may be of
value to all who propose to go out and "kill something" with a gun.

THE GUN.

No subject offers a greater variety of conversation than this. But,
of course, the occasion counts for a good deal. It would be foolish to
discharge it (metaphorically speaking) at the head of the first comer.
You must watch for your opportunity. For instance, guns ought not
to be talked about directly after breakfast, before a shot has been
fired. Better wait till after the shooting-lunch, when a fresh start
is being made, say for the High Covert half a mile away. You can then
begin after this fashion to your host:--"That's a nice gun of yours,
CHALMERS. I saw you doing rare work with it at the corner of the new
plantation this morning." CHALMERS is sure to be pleased. You not only
call attention to his skill, but you praise his gun, and a man's gun
is, as a rule, as sacred to him as his pipe, his political prejudices,
his taste in wine, or his wife's jewels. Therefore, CHALMERS is
pleased. He smiles in a deprecating way, and says, "Yes, it's not a
bad gun, one of a pair I bought last year."

"Would you mind letting me feel it?"

"Certainly not, my dear fellow here you are."

You then interchange guns, having, of course, assured one another that
they are not loaded. Having received CHALMERS's gun, you first appear
to weigh it critically. Then, with an air of great resolution, you
bring it to your shoulder two or three times in rapid succession, and
fire imaginary shots at a cloud, or a tuft of grass. You now hand
it back to CHALMERS, observing, "By Jove, old chap, it's beautifully
balanced! It comes up splendidly. Suits me better than my own."
CHALMERS, who will have been going through a similar pantomime with
your gun, will make some decently complimentary remark about it, and
each of you will think the other a devilish knowing and agreeable
fellow.

From this point you can diverge into a discussion of the latest
improvements, as, e.g., "Are ejectors really valuable?" This is sure
to bring out the man who has tried ejectors, and has given them up,
because last year, at one of the hottest corners he ever knew, when
the sky was simply black with pheasants, the ejectors of both his guns
got stuck. He will talk of this incident as another man might talk of
the loss of a friend or a fortune. Here you may say,--"By gad, what
frightful luck! What did you do?" He will then narrate his comminatory
interview with his gun-maker; others will burst in, and defend
ejectors, or praise their own gun-makers, and the ball, once set
rolling, will not be stopped until you take your places for the
first beat of the afternoon, just as MARKHAM is telling you that his
old Governor never shoots with anything but an old muzzle-loader by
MANTON, and makes deuced good practice with it too.

"Choke" is not a very good topic; it doesn't last long. After you have
asked your neighbour if his gun is choked, and told him that your left
barrel has a modified choke, the subject is pretty well exhausted.

"Cast-off." Not to be recommended. There is very little to be made of
it.

Something may be done with the price of guns. There's sure to be
someone who has done all his best and straightest shooting with a gun
that cost him only £15. Everybody else will say, "It's perfect rot
giving such high prices for guns. You only pay for the name. Mere
robbery." But there isn't one of them who would consent not to be
robbed.

It sometimes creates a pretty effect to call your gun "My old
fire-iron," or "my bundook," or "this old gas-pipe of mine."

"Bore." Never pun on this word. It is never done in really good
sporting society. But you can make a few remarks, here and there,
about the comparative merits of twelve-bore and sixteen-bore. Choose
a good opening for telling your story of the man who shot with a
fourteen-bore gun, ran short of cartridges on a big day, and was, of
course, unable to borrow from anyone else. Hence you can deduce the
superiority of twelve-bores, as being the more common size.

All these subjects, like all others connected with shooting, can be
resumed and continued after dinner, and in the smoking-room. Talk of
the staleness of smoke! It's nothing to the staleness of the stories
to which four self-respecting smoking-room walls have to listen in the
course of an evening.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PIS-ALLER.

"ARE THERE ANY NIGGERS ON THE BEACH THIS MORNING, MAMMIE?"

"NO, DEAR; IT'S SUNDAY MORNING."

"OH, THEN I MAY AS WELL GO TO CHURCH WITH YOU!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

BY-AND-BY LAWS FOR TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

(_WHEN MEETINGS ARE HELD IN "TIMES OF POLITICAL OR SOCIAL CRISES_.")

1. Cabs, omnibuses, carriages, and pedestrians will be expected to
keep clear of the space occupied by the Demonstrators.

2. To prevent destruction of glass and removal of property from shop
windows, tradesmen will be expected to put up their shutters several
hours before the holding of the meeting.

3. No particular notice will be paid to the transference of property
from one leader of labour to another. If done by stealth, it will be
accepted as a proof of secret Socialism.

4. No objection will be raised to combats amongst the Demonstrators,
with the restriction that no Government property is injured.

5. As the maintaining of the road is a matter of contract,
Demonstrators wishing to emphasise their opinions, must bring their
own stones.

6. As a good deal of property is expected to change hands during the
various proceedings, an application with a description of lost goods,
and photograph of supposed thief, can be addressed to the Chief
Inspector of Police, Scotland Yard.

7. These regulations (which are tentative) will be in force until
after the next General Election, when a fresh series will be
published, to be followed by others as occasion may require.

       *       *       *       *       *

A POOR ROAD TO LEARNING.

    SCENE--_Interior of a School Board Office. Official discovered
    hard at work, doing single-handed in London what is done by
    nearly a thousand officials combined in "Bonnie Scotland."
    Enter Female Applicant, with infant._

_Applicant_. Please, Sir, here's my boy. Can you take him?

_Official_. Certainly. Has he had any education?

_App._ Well, as he's rising five, not much.

_Off._ But does he know anything? For instance, has he learned any
English history?

_App._ Not that I know of.

_Off._ Has he dipped into geography?

_App._ Well, I don't think he has.

_Off._ Can he cipher at all?

_App._ Not very well.

_Off._ Does he know what two and two make?

_App._ Well, he has never said he does.

_Off._ Can he write?

_App._ Well, no, he doesn't write.

_Off._ But I suppose he can read? Come, he at least can read?

_App._ Well, no, Sir, I am afraid he's not much of a scholar. I don't
think he can read.

_Off._ Then he is absolutely ignorant--miserably ignorant.

_App._ Very likely, Sir,--you know best.

_Off._ Well, now, my good woman, I will tell you what we will do with
him. We will teach him to read, write, and cipher, and give him an
excellent education.

_App._ And you will take care of him, Sir?

_Off._ Of course we will take care of him; and as for his education,
we will--

_App._ Oh, Sir, so long as you looks after him, never you mind about
his education!

    [_Exit infantless._

       *       *       *       *       *

TO MAUD.

_A PENITENT ROUNDEL._

  I called you MAUDE. I only meant to tease,
    But somehow, ere I ended, came to laud
  Your charms in my poor verses. So in these
          I called you MAUDE.

  "My name is _MAUD_."
      And I am overawed,
    Forgive the indiscretion if you please.
  The spirit Truth, they tell me, is abroad,
    And since she sojourns still across the seas,
  I swear I knew the final _e_ a fraud--
    So that you suffered from no lack of _e_'s
          I called you MAUDE!

       *       *       *       *       *

KNILL NISI BOIMUM.

[Illustration: Lord Mayor Elect Knill and the Livery Goose.]

The good common sense of the Common Councilman and Liverymen of the
City,--Liverymen not to be led astray by any false lights,--coupled
with their truly English love of fairplay, prevailed, and the City
Fathers on Goose Day were prevented from following in the goose-steps
of that Uncommon Councilman who, bearing the honoured names of BEAUFOY
(a fine old Norman-Baron title!) and of MOORE (shade of Sir THOMAS!),
made so extraordinary a display of bigotry and ignorance as, it is to
be hoped, is rare, and becoming rarer every day, among our worthy JOHN
GILPINS of credit and renown East of the Griffin.

But in spite of this nonsensical hot-gospelling rant, Alderman and
Sheriff STUART KNILL was elected Lord Mayor, while BEAUFOY MOORE
was, so to speak, no MOORE, and, in fact, very much against his will
and wish, was reduced to NIL. WILLY-KNILLY he had to cave in. _Mr.
Punch_ congratulates the Lord Mayor Elect, but still more does he
congratulate the City Fathers on rising above paltry sectarianism, so
utterly unworthy of time, place, and persons, and for standing up,
in true English fashion, for freedom of worship coupled with absolute
Liberty of Conscience.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PRIDE OF THE EMPIRE.

[Illustration: "A Warde with you."]

[Illustration: Stock Exchange Swell (Empire Period).]

At this moment there is really a very excellent extertainment at
the Empire Theatre of Varieties, something, or rather many things
of which the Management may, and should be proud. A capital troupe
of Bicyclists, a Spanish Dancer and singer--whose gestures to the
multitude are more intelligible than her language--a graceful,
serpentine dancer, and "a very peculiar American Comedian"--all these
are a part of the programme. But the best item in this liberal bill of
fare is _Round the Town_, a characteristic Ballet, in five _tableaux_.
The composers of this pleasing piece are Madame KATTI LANNER, and Mr.
GEORGE EDWARDES. As the lady is well known for her admirable dances,
it may be safely presumed that the gentleman is solely responsible for
the plot, or rather "the argument." It runs as follows:--"_Dr. Burch_,
newly arrived in London with his pupils, wishes to show them the
sights. What better to begin with than Covent Garden Market in the
early morning?" Quite so, the more especially as the lads must be very
backward boys. There are six of them, and the youngest seems about
thirty, and the oldest about double that age. The Doctor must have
rescued them from Epsom Race Course, and apparently is attempting to
give them an education fitting them to follow what seems to be his own
calling--the profession of an undertaker. These elderly pupils follow
their kind preceptor (for, although he is called _Burch_, there is
not the slightest suggestion of the rod about him, and, moreover, his
charges are really too elderly to receive chastisement) to the Royal
Exchange, the Thames Embankment, and, lastly, to the Empire. During
their travels, they meet _Mr. Rapless_, known as "the Oofless Swell,"
(a part amusingly played by Mr. W. WARDE), and _John Brough_, a
carpenter with a taste for ballet costumes and drink, the carpenter's
wife, and the carpenter's child. _Dr. Burch_, who is evidently
easy-going, but good-hearted, after flirting with a lady who has her
boots cleaned before the Royal Exchange, suddenly developes into a
philanthropist, not to say a divine. On the carpenter's wife and
child appearing on the Thames Embankment in the characters of would-be
suicides, the worthy pedagogue convinces them (to quote the programme)
"That they have no right to take away the lives which the Almighty has
placed in their hands." Mother and child are quickly convinced, and
the neat but drunken father (Signorina MALVINA CAVALAZZI) appearing
on the scene, the good man informs him that his wife and child are
dead, "driven to an untimely grave by his (the intemperate but natty
artisan's) desertion and cruelty." The effect of this inaccurate
statement is startling. To quote once more from the argument,
"incontinently the now penitent ruffian falls fainting to the ground."
But he is brought back to himself, his better self, by his child
whispering "Father!" The situation is full of pathos, even when
witnessed from the Stalls. Recovering his senses, the converted
carpenter promptly borrows money from the good old Doctor, and when
that estimable gentleman is about to enter the Empire Theatre of
Varieties (accompanied by his school), a little later he has the
"satisfaction of seeing his _protégé Mortimer_ (the ex-ruffian),
returning contentedly from his work." This is the simple but pathetic
story that Mr. GEO. EDWARDES touchingly tells with the assistance of
a full _corps de ballet_, five _tableaux_, and last, but certainly not
least, the hints of Madame KATTI LANNER.

[Illustration: Jolly Tar A.B. "Hip, Hip, Hooray!"]

[Illustration: Dramatic Situation on the Embankment, as seen from
Empire Stalls.]

There are many remarkable persons in _Round the Town_. Notably
an effeminate but substantial stock-broker, who looks like a
stock-jobber's maiden-aunt in disguise. Another important personage is
a representative of the Navy, whose figure suggests as an appropriate
greeting, "Hip, hip, hip, hooray!" Both these characters are
well-played, and although subordinate parts, make their mark, or
rather, we should say, score heavily. Altogether; the ballet is
excellent both in dances and plot. The first is a testimony of the
good head of Madame KATTI LANNER, and the last of the equally good
heart of Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES. There is no doubt that _Round the Town_
will draw all London to see (in its realistic scenes) all London
drawn!

       *       *       *       *       *

WRITTEN A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

(_FROM A COLLECTION OF COMMUNICATIONS SUPPLIED BY OUR PROPHETIC
COMPILER._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Forgive me for addressing you, but the urgency of
the occasion warrants the intrusion. A hundred years since, the old
Fighting _Foudroyant_ was sold by the Admiralty to be broken up. The
moment the Public of the Period learned the cruel fact through the
customary sources of information, they flew to the rescue. Headed by
the then LORD MAYOR, they raised a fund to bring back the discarded
vessel, and yet in those distant days there were they who denied
that the _Foudroyant_ had ever done anything in particular. And now
we propose doing the same thing. On the Thames there is an ancient
steamboat called _Citizen Z_, that once belonged to the Company that
started penny river lifts. It is certainly rather out of date, but is
full of historical memories. It is said that the Cabinet travelled
to Greenwich on its venerable boards, where they feasted on the
half-forgotten Whitebait, and the entirely, superseded Champagne. It
has carried, at one time or another, all the nobility to Rosherville,
there to spend (as the old saying went) "a happy day," and yet it is
proposed to break it up! Out upon the thought! Have we no veneration
for our relics of the past? Cannot we appreciate a boat that should
have had an honoured place in the Museum at Woolwich? Do not let this
act of Vandalism be done. Save the steamer for the sake of its past.

Yours truly, A REAR-ADMIRAL.

_H.M.S. Electric-Balloon, Skye._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I appeal to you, and I know I shall not appeal in
vain. The picturesque Cabman's Shelter in the middle of Piccadilly is
threatened! I hope you will exert your influence to preserve it. It
absolutely teems with historical associations. Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL
is supposed to have used it for writing his famous letter on the
Poor-Laws, and to this day is shown the initials of CHARLES STUART
PARNELL which were carved by that celebrated statesman on one of its
benches about the middle of the last century--probably in 1854. And
why is it to be removed? Simply because it is said to impede the
traffic! Could anything be more absurd? Do, pray, save it from the
hand of the ruthless "improver." Yours truly,

ONE WHO RESPECTS THE PAST.

_Tumbledowns, West Kensington_ (_late Reading_).

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OVERHEARD IN THE HIGHLANDS.

_First Chieftain_. "I SAY, OLD CHAP, WHAT A DOOSE OF A BORE THESE
GAMES ARE!"

_Second Chieftain_. "AH, BUT, MY DEAR BOY, IT IS THIS SORT OF THING
THAT HAS MADE US SCOTCHMEN _WHAT WE ARE_!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A NUISANCE.

_Miss Priscilla_. "YES; IT'S A BEAUTIFUL VIEW. BUT TOURISTS ARE IN THE
HABIT OF BATHING ON THE OPPOSITE SHORE, AND THAT'S RATHER A DRAWBACK."

_Fair Visitor_. "DEAR ME! BUT AT SUCH A DISTANCE AS THAT--SURELY--"

_Miss Priscilla_. "AH, BUT WITH A _TELESCOPE_, YOU KNOW!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT LAST!

(_JEREMIAD BY A MIDDLE-AGED MARTYR TO THE GREAT SEASIDE
SUPERSTITION._)

    ["To middle-aged people, at all events, nothing can be more
    trying and deleterious than holidays."--_Daily News_.]

  Oh, thanks to thee, thanks to thee, sage unconventional!
    Heaven be blest, the truth's out, then, at last!
  Holiday woes--'twould take volumes to mention all!--
    Now, in the lump, meet a shrewd counterblast.
  _Trying?_ Of course they are! _Most deleterious?_
    Scribe, let me clasp thee, in thought, to this breast!
  Holiday-hunting is Man's most mysterious,
            Maddening guest!

  _Quixote_, I swear, was a model of sanity,
    When with the Holiday-seeker compared.
  Fidgety folly, and fussy inanity.
    These be the figments by which we are snared.
  Soon as you're drawn from your own cosy drawing-room,
    Far over flood, field, or foam--for your sins--
  Then, when your breast makes for vulturine gnawing room,
            Bother begins!

  Bother, that bugbear of bufferish Middle-Age!
    Swift "scurry-funging" may do for the young,
  The "hey-diddle-diddle, the Cat-and-the-fiddle" age.
    "Over the moon" I myself once had sprung,
  Thirty years syne, in sheer fervour athletical--
    Now, like the dog, I would laugh, and look on.
  Once, with sheer "drive," I'd a sense sympathetical--
            Now I have none!

  Holiday? Term, Sir, is simply a synonym
    For--waste of tissue! What doctor will dare
  Tell his poor patients so? _I_'ll put _my_ tin on him!
    Rest? Recreation? Pick-up? Change of air?
  All question-begging fudge-phrases of sophistry!
    Let city-toilers who're fagged or "run down,"
  Autumnal _quiet_ (in home or in office), try;
            _Not_ "out of town."

  Out of town? Where is the term that's claptrappier?
    _Means_ out of temper, or out of your mind.
  Boot-black or old crossing-sweeper's far happier,
    Tied to his task in the town--as you'll find.
  Picking up coppers far better than picking up
    Shells by the sea, or sham friends on the snore.
  Bah! What have buffers to do with such kicking-up
            Heels? It's a bore!

  Who'll start a League to be called Anti-Holiday?
    Bet half the middle-aged men-folk will join!
  Then we _might_ get an occasional jolly day,
    Free from the pests who perplex and purloin.
  "Health-Resort" quackery, portmanteau-packery,
    Cheat-brigade charges and chills I might miss.
  Dear-bought jimcrackery, female knicknackery!--
            Oh! 'twere pure bliss!

       *       *       *       *       *

BRAVO, BOBBY!

    ["The Brighton Police have received orders to move on all
    organ-grinders."]

  Bless you, Brighton Bobby, bless you,
    Boldly bringing balmy bliss!
  Barrel--organ barred--I guess you
    Banish blatant bands with this.

  Brazen blasts, by boobies blowing,
    Bad as barrel's buzz can be.
  Bid them budge! I'd vote for throwing
    Beggars like these in the sea.

  Battered bands from Bremen, Berlin;
    Bearded bandits, born between
  Bari and Bergamo, hurl in!
    Bathed--that's what they've never been!

  Britons all, oh, be not laggards,
    But, like Brighton, move them on!
  Bad, bacteria-hearing black-guards,
    Beastly, blatant brutes, begone!

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER ABOUT THE NEW LORD MAYOR ELECT.--"It's _a Knill wind_ that
blows nobody any good." _Signed_, BOGIE MOORE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE OLD SPIRIT.

["_Gentlemen of the Life Guards,--Forward--March!"--_Sir WALTER SCOTT.
"_Old Mortality_."]

L'ESPRIT DE CORPS (_loq._). "SHAME! SHAME!--IS IT THUS YOU USE YOUR
SWORDS? WHATEVER MAY HAVE HAPPENED, ARE WE NOT STILL 'GENTLEMEN OF THE
LIFE GUARDS'?"

    "It is stated that Lord METHUEN, after censuring the
    conduct of the regiment, requested the men who had cut the
    saddle-panels to step forward and own the act, which would in
    that case be dealt with simply as a case of insubordination.
    He gave them a few minutes to consider, but as none of them
    made any admission, he intimated that he should have to report
    the matter to the Commander-in-Chief as a mutiny."--_Daily
    Paper_, 30th Sept., 1892.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN ABSENT AUDIENCE.

_Socialist_. "Ah!--it's all very well yer looking at _Me_, with yer
Smiles AND yer Jeers...."]

       *       *       *       *       *

DE CORONA.

    ["The shape of the hat is another token in which individuality
    asserts itself, and the angle at which it is worn. There are
    men who vary this angle with their different moods."--_Article
    on "Men's Dress," Daily News, Sept. 10._]

  You ask why I gaze with devotion
    At ALGERNON's features, my love?
  Nay, you are astray in your notion,
    My glance is directed above;
  His hair may be yellow or ruddy,
    No longer I'm anxious for that,
  But now I incessantly study
          The tilt of his hat.

  At times it will carelessly dangle
    With an air of æsthetic repose,
  At others will point to an angle
    Inclined to the tip of his nose;
  When it rests on the side of his head, he
    Will smile at whatever befalls,
  When pushed o'er his brow, we make ready
          For numerous squalls!

  When he starts for his train to the City
    It is put on exactly upright,
  And who would not view it with pity
    Return, mud-bespattered, at night?
  When early, so polished and glowing,
    Jammed on at haphazard when late;
  It forms a barometer, showing
          His mood up to date.

  And you, who are young and unmarried,
    Give heed to my counsel, I pray;
  Do not, I entreat you, be carried
    By wealth or affection away;
  The heroine, novelists mention,
    "Eyes fondly his features." Instead,
  Observe, for _your_ part, with attention,
          The hat on his head!

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW COLLECTION OF _HIMS_, ANCIENT AND MODERN.--The Church Congress
at Folkestone.

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

We were not overcrowded last week at Newmarket, and really the more
one takes racing from a business point of view, the more attractive it
becomes!--at least, I have found it so myself ever since it has been
my duty to acquire information for the benefit of my readers.

There was only one thing that annoyed me during the week, and that
was the inconsiderate behaviour of _Windgall_ in winning the October
Handicap, although it was a most extraordinary confirmation of my
remarks anent his performance in the Leicester Handicap, in my last
letter; but it _is_ annoying that, when you select a horse to win a
race, he runs _second_, and directly after wins a race for which he is
_not_ selected, beating the horse chosen by a length!--it puzzles me
completely, as it is impossible in this case to put it down to want
of good breeding! We were sorry not to have the _Buccaneer-Orvieto_
match decided, as it would have been the event of the meeting; but,
as the old proverb runs, "a wise owner is merciful to his beast," so
_Orvieto_ had an afternoon's rest at the price of £100!--rather more
than some people might be inclined to pay for a game of forfeits!

The time is not yet ripe--(has anyone _ever_ seen time get ripe, I
wonder?)--for disclosing what I know about the Cesarewitch--(I never
know whether I've spelt that correctly or not!--and the more you look
at it the "wronger" it seems!)--but I may mention that I've heard
great accounts of _Kingkneel_, who was bought the other day for Sir
GREENASH BURNLEY (the latest favourite of fortune, and beloved of
the ring)--and had he not earned a penalty--(this expression ought
to be changed, as it implies, to my mind, which is an _excellent_
average sample; a misdemeanor)--by winning a paltry thousand pounds
race somewhere; I really believe the Cesare--no!--not again!--was
at his mercy--but now, as the turf-writer puts it--"I shall look
elsewhere!"--as if _that_ would make any difference!--but of this
race, more anon, and meantime, those who are fond of the "good things"
of this life must not miss my selection for the big race of next week
at Kempton--on the Jubilee Course, which said course, I am told, is by
no means a Jubilee for the jockeys, owing to the danger in "racing for
the bend."

There are several horses entered who seem to have great chances,
making the race as difficult as a problem in _Euclid_--but my
selection will most certainly be "there, or thereabouts," which is a
comforting, if somewhat vague reflection.

Yours truly, LADY GAY.

DUKE OF YORK STAKES SELECTION.

  The muse is dull!--the day is dead!
    And vain is all endeavour
  To light afresh the poet's spark--
    I _can't_ find a rhyme for the winner,
          _Iddesleigh_,

P.S.--Really it's most thoughtless of owners to harass one with such
names!

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN THIS STYLE, TWO-AND-SIX."

(IN THE POUND).

SIR,--I have been much struck with the suggestion to do without hats,
and have made trial of the system. It has also made trial of _me_,
in the way of colds in the head, bronchial catarrh, &c., but I still
persevere. _It's so much cheaper!_ I have sold my stock of old
hats for half-a-crown, and calculate that I shall save _quite three
shillings per annum_ by not buying new ones. Surely anybody can see
that this is well worth doing! I am now seriously contemplating the
possibility of _doing without boots_!

Yours truly, SAVE THE SAXPENCES.

SIR,--Talk about hair growing if you leave off hats! My hair
was falling off in handfuls a little time ago. Did I abjure hats
altogether? Not being a born idiot, I did not. But I saw that what was
needed was proper ventilation aloft. So I had a specially-constructed
top-hat made, with holes all round it. In fact there were more holes
than hat, and the hatter scornfully referred to it as a "sieve." The
invention answered splendidly. There was a thorough draught constantly
rushing across the top of my head, with the speed and violence of a
first-class tornado. My locks, before so scanty, at once began to grow
in such profusion that it now seems impossible to stop them, except
by liberal applications of "Crinificatrix," the Patent Hair Restorer.
_That_ checks the growth effectually. My general name among chance
acquaintances is "Old Doormat." You can judge how thick my hair must
be and I ascribe it entirely to the beneficent action of the draught,
as before,

Yours, WELL-COVERED.

DEAR SIR,--Why would it be a mistake to say that a Negro was "as
black as my hat?" _Because I never wear one._ The only inconvenience
resulting is in wet weather--but, even then, I am prepared for all
emergencies. I keep in my pocket a little square of black waterproof,
to cover my head when it rains. In an Assize town, the other day, I
was followed by an angry crowd, who imagined that I was one of the
Judges, and that I had gone mad, and was walking about the streets
with the black cap on! But all true reformers are treated in this way,
even in England, the land of Liberty.

Yours, HATZOFF.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE JERRY-BUILDING JABBERWOCK.]

  "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"--
  Ah, CARROLL! it is not in fun
    Your song's light lilt we snatch.

  Our Jabberwock's a _real_ brute,
    With mighty maw, and ruthless hand,
  Who ravage makes beyond compute
    In Civic Blunderland.

  Look at the ogre's hideous mouth!
    His tiger-teeth, his dragon-tail!
  O'er Town, East, West, and North and South,
    He leaves his slimy trail.

  And where he comes all Beauty dies,
    And where he halts all Greenery fades.
  Pleasantness flies where'er he plies
    His gruesomest of trades.

  He blights the field, he blasts the wood,
    With breath as fierce as prairie flame;
  And where sweet works of Nature stood,
    He leaves us--slums of shame.

  The locust and the canker-worm
    Are not more ruinous than he.
  "I'll take this Eden--for a term!"
    He cries, and howls with glee.

  "Beauty? Mere bosh! Charm? Utter rot!
    What boots your 'Earthly Paradise,'
  Until 'tis made 'A Building Plot'?
    Then it indeed looks nice!

  "O Jerry Street! O Jerry Park!
    O Jerry Gardens, Jerry Square!--
  You won't discover--what a lark!--
    One 'touch of Nature' there!

  "'This handsome Villa Residence'
    Means mud-built walls and clay-clogged walks;
  And drains offensive to the sense,
    And swamps whence fever stalks.

  "Beauty's best friends I drive away,
    Artists who sketch, ramblers who rove,
  Lovers who spoon, children who play,--
    All, all who Nature love.

  "Nor do I give them wholesome homes
    For verdant meads--no, there's the fun!
  Stuccodom, frail and sickly, comes
    After 'Lot Twenty-One!'

  "I make a clearing, dig a trench,
    Run up a shell of rotten bricks.
  And thus the rule of sham and stench
    Upon the 'site' I fix.

  "The ugly and unhealthy still
    Associate with the name of Jerry;
  And thus I work my wicked will,
    And flourish, and make merry!"

  'Twas so the Jerry-Jabberwock
    Sang in a suburb, void of shame,
  Blunderland's civic will to mock,
    And put its sense to shame.

  This ogre of our towns to slay,
    Where is the urban "Beamish Boy"?
  CARROLL, when comes that "frabjous day,"
    _We_'ll "chortle in our joy."

  Young County Council, are _you_ one?
    'Tis said you're but a Bumble-batch!
  Beware the Jobjob Bird, and shun
    The Bigot-Bandersnatch!

  We'll pardon much that seems absurd,
    Excuse some blunders that bewilder,
  If you'll but "draw your vorpal sword"
    And slay--the Jerry-Builder!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: METAMORPHOSIS.

("_We know what we are, but we know not what we may be._")

_Conductor_. "TAKE YER TO THE CIRCUS, AND THERE YOU'LL CHANGE INTO A
HELEPHANT."

_Master Kenneth_. "OH, MOTHER, WHAT A JOLLY CIRCUS! MAY WE GO AND SEE
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CHANGE INTO AN ELEPHANT?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN MERCURY.

[Illustration]

  Behold that urchin, occupied
  In counting with an honest pride
    The marbles he has won!
  O tardy messenger of fate,
  Without distinction, small and great,
  Their telegrams, perforce, await
    Until your game is done.

  Perchance a philosophic strain
  Makes you regard as wholly vain
    Our human bliss and woes;
  What matters, whether State affairs,
  Or news of good, or weighty carts,
  Or tidings relative to shares
    Within your bag repose?

  Well, not by me will you be blamed;
  I like to see you not ashamed
   To dawdle for awhile;
  You furnish, by example sage,
  A moral for our busy age;
  And so, though others fume and rage,
    I watch you with a smile.

  He moves at length, and now we'll see
  Which way ... This telegram for me?
    Oh, worst of human crimes
  Is such delay!--it's monstrous quite!
  I'll forward a complaint to-night!
  Here, pen and paper--let me write
    A letter to the _Times_!

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. RAM was heard to remark that she "didn't know a finer body of
men than the Yokel Loamanry." Probably the old lady meant the Local
Yeomanry.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. XVI.--TO YOUTHFULNESS.

You are much misunderstood. For it is supposed that those who in this
world bear your stamp upon them are to be recognised without trouble
by the mere calculation of their years of life. No notion can be
further from the truth. Mere absence of wrinkles, the presence or
colour of the hair on the head, the elasticity of limbs, these do not
of themselves, I protest, testify to youthfulness. I knew a lad of
twenty, who, in the judgment of the world, was young. In mine he was
one of the hoariest as he was one of the least scrupulous of men. No
veteran that I ever met could have put him up to any trick, or added
any experience to his store. He seemed to have a marvellous and
intuitive experience of the ways of life, and of the tricks of men.
No shady society came amiss to him. He gambled, in his way, as coolly,
and with as careful a precision, as _Barry Lyndon_; he met the keen
frequenters of the betting-ring on equal terms, and contrived, amid
that vortex to keep his head above water. He had a faultless taste
in wine--he knew a good cigar by an instinct. It is hardly necessary
to add that, with all these accomplishments, he held and expressed
the meanest opinion of human nature in general. Not even Sir ROBERT
WALPOLE could have more cynically estimated the price at which men
might be bought. As for women, this precocious paragon despised them,
and women, as is their wont, repaid him by admiration, and, here
and there, by genuine affection. I shudder to think how he might
have developed in the course of years. It happened, however, that a
shipwreck--a form of disaster against which cynicism and precocity
afford no protection--removed him from the world before he had come of
age. Now, to call this infant young, would have been a mockery. To all
outward appearance, indeed, he was a boy, but his mind was that of a
selfish and used-up _roué_ of sixty, without illusions, and without
hope.

[Illustration]

Let me pass to a more pleasant subject, and one with which you,
my dear boy, are more closely connected. I refer to my old friend.
General VANGARD, the kindest and best-natured man that ever drew
half-pay. Seventy years have passed over his head, and turned his hair
to silver, but his heart remains pure gold without alloy. In vain do
his whiskers and moustache attempt to give a touch of fierceness to
his face. The kindly eyes smile it away in a moment. He stands six
feet and an inch, his back his broad, his step springy; he carries
his head erect on his massive shoulders with a leonine air of
good-humoured defiance. To hear him greet you, to feel his hand-shake,
is to get a lesson in geniality. I never knew a man who had so
whole-hearted a contempt for insincerity and affectation. It was
only the other day that I saw little TOM TITTERTON, of the Diplomatic
Service, introduced to him. TOM is a devil of a fellow in Society.
He warbles little songs of his own composition at afternoon teas,
he insinuates himself into the elderly affections of stony-hearted
dowagers, he can lead a _cotillon_ to perfection, and is universally
acknowledged as an authority on gloves and handkerchiefs. It was at a
shooting-party that he and the General met. The little fellow advanced
simpering, and raised a limp and dangling hand to about the height
of his eyes. The General had extended his in his usual bluff and
unceremonious manner. Naturally enough the hands failed to meet. A
puzzled look came over the General's face. In a moment, however,
he had grasped the situation, and TITTERTON's hand, and shaken the
latter with a ferocious heartiness. "OW!" screamed TOM. It was a short
exclamation, but a world of agony was concentrated into it. "The
old bear has spoilt my shooting for the day," said TITTERTON to me
afterwards, as he missed his tenth partridge. That very evening, I
remember, there was a great discussion in the smoking-room on the
subject of wrestling. One of the party, a burly youth of twenty-six,
boasted somewhat loudly of the tricks that a Cornishman had lately
taught him. For a long time the General sat silently puffing his
cigar, but at length the would-be wrestler said something that roused
him. "Would you mind showing me how that's done?" he said; "I seem to
remember something about it, but it was done differently in my time.
No doubt your notion's an improvement." Nothing loth the burly one
stood up. I don't quite know what happened. The General seemed to
stoop with outstretched hands and then raise himself with a spring as
he met his opponent. A large body hurtled through the air, and in a
moment the younger man was lying flat on the carpet amidst the shouts
of the company. "It's the old 'flying mare' my boy," said the General
to me, "a very useful dodge. I learnt it fifty years ago."

In the company of young men the General is at his very best. He knows
all their little weaknesses, and chaffs them with delightful point and
humour, though he would not, for all the world, give them pain. It
is a pleasant sight to see the old fellow with a party of his young
friends, poking sly fun at them, laughing with them, taking all their
jests in good part, and thoroughly enjoying himself. He can walk most
of them off their legs still, can row with them on the broad reaches
of the Thames, and keep his form with the best of them; he can hold
his gun straight at driven birds, and revel like a boy in a rattling
run to hounds across country. All the youngsters respect him by
instinct, and love the cheery old fellow, whose heart is as soft as
his muscles are hard. They talk to him as to an elder brother, come to
him for his advice, and, which is perhaps even more strange, like it,
and follow it. Withal, the General is the most modest of men. In his
youth he was a mighty man of war. It was only the other day that I
heard (not from his own lips, you may be sure) the thrilling stories
of his hand-to-hand conflict with two gigantic Russians in the fog of
Inkermann, and of his rescue of a wounded Sergeant at the attack in
the Redan. With women, old or young, the General uses an old-fashioned
and chivalrous courtesy, as far removed from latter-day smartness as
was BAYARD from BOULANGER. The younger ones adore him. They all seem
to be his nieces, for they all call him Uncle JOHN.

A year or two ago the General fell ill, and the doctors shook their
heads. It was touching to see the concern of all his young friends.
CHARLIE CHIRPER, a gay little butterfly of a fellow, who never seemed
to treat life as anything but a huge joke, became gloomy with anxiety.
Twice every day he called to make inquiries, and, as the bulletins
got worse, CHARLIE became visibly thinner. I saw him at the Club one
evening, sitting moodily in a corner. "What's up, CHARLIE?" I said
to him. "You look as if you'd been refused by an heiress." "The Old
General's worse to-day," said CHARLIE, simply. "They're very anxious
about him. No, dash it all!" he went on, "it's too bad. I can't bear
to think of it. Such an old ripper as the General! Why must they take
him? Why can't they take a useless chap like me, who never did anyone
any good?" And the unaccustomed tears came into the lad's eyes as he
turned his head away. But the old General battled through, and, thank
Heaven, I can still write of him in the present tense.

Yours as always, my dear boy, DIOGENES ROBINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

"ANECDOTAGE."

(_COMPANION VOLUME TO OTHER WORKS OF THE SAME KIND._)

A traveller in Italy during the middle ages knew a Chemist very well
indeed. One day a rather stylish Lady, with a shifty look about the
eyes, entered the shop and asked for some poison. "I cannot furnish
you. Madam, with what you require. I have quarrelled with the
undertaker." The Traveller subsequently ascertained that the name of
the lady was LUCREZIA BORGIA.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just before the Battle of Waterloo, FOUCHÉ met BONAPARTE, who was then
in command of the French Army. He said, "You will find that, before
this campaign is over, I shall have on one foot a BLUCHER, and on
the other a WELLINGTON. It is fortunate for me I cannot find pairs
of both! This is a proof (if one is needed) of the EMPEROR's fear of
fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS was (as a lad) very fond of exploration. One day
he went over to America, and, arriving at his destination, christened
it Columbia. The land of the Yankees, even now, is occasionally known
by this appellation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mr. Punch_ one day was invited to listen to Someone's Recollections
or Reminiscences. All went well for five minutes, when the
Autobiographist, looking up from his Autobiography, found that _Mr.
Punch_ was fast asleep. The Sage slumbered as the Representative of
the Public.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 8, 1892" ***

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