Part 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 105

NOVEMBER 11th 1893

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand

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* * * * *

A QUESTION OF TINT.

["Who will paint London?"--_Daily News_.]

What a question to ask! If the colour be blue, A batch of our London Minervas will do: For each one will dye--the allusion is shocking-- Our town and its streets with the tint of her stocking. Our pessimist frauds and the Ibsensite pack Will groan as they thickly bedaub it in black. Asiatic Sir EDWIN, the Poet of Light, He will wipe out their work, and arrange it in white. Then the Company-gulls will arrive on the scene, And, _presto_, the colour of London is green. And a rare crew of "Johnnies" will stay out of bed Till the daylight appears, while they paint the town red. In fact--and you'll thank me for giving the hint-- Painting London is merely a question of tint.

* * * * *

MRS. R. cannot call to mind where the original picture of "_The Waterloo Blanket_" is to be seen.

* * * * *

THE NOBLE ORGAN-GRINDER.

["Lord BRASSEY never goes on a cruise, however short, without taking with him a very costly barrel-organ. He plays on it regularly for some time every evening, as he finds it a congenial form of exercise and amusement."--_The World._]

Grinder, when serenely grinding On your yacht the Hundredth Psalm, Tell me, are you truly finding In this work congenial charm?

"Music hath" (an old quotation) "Charms to soothe the savage breast," Think how you might lull some nation Into dilettante rest.

GRINDER, gentle-hearted Grinder, Try the savage who has spurned Culture, for he might grow kinder, Soothed by barrel deftly turned.

Matabele LOBENGULA (Accent on penultimate) Might be made by music, you'll a- gree, a model potentate.

ORPHEUS like, you might so charm him That a mere Mashona child's Hand could easily disarm him In those equatorial wilds.

He would cease to wear his skimpy Kilts that leave his legs half bare, He would soon disband his _impi_; Culture then would be his care.

Suits of dittos clothe this whopper; Patent leather boots be got; You might lead him--"smash, my topper!"-- Even to a chimney-pot.

He would have a daily paper, Standard authors sold in parts, Shops of tailor, hatter, draper, An Academy of Arts.

He would teach, by plays, the loyal Folk on marsh or fertile plain, Opening a Theatre Royal, Where they've only Reeds and Grain.

And, till death made him a _Morgue_ 'un, WAGNER, BRAHMS and GREIG no doubt He would doat on--then your organ Might be ruthlessly chucked out.

* * * * *

THE CENTRAL HALL OF THE LAW COURTS.

O barristers' wigs from far and wide You gather anew! The Strand, like meadow with daisies pied, Is dotted with you.

You crowd the courts, so stuffy, so small, So awkwardly placed; You don't go into the Central Hall-- Magnificent waste!

That thing of beauty was meant to be For ever a joy, Just built to accommodate, as we see, One messenger boy.

Proud emblem he of the empire's might, That thus, for a whim, Spent pounds in thousands with such delight Just to shelter him.

The courts are draughty, the courts are dark, The passages small, And witness, client, solicitor, clerk, Are squeezed in them all.

Those lancet windows on winding stairs Don't help one to see; A falling Commissioner even swears Without any fee.

Still though we stumble and though we're squeezed, We all recollect That deserted Hall, and we're truly pleased With it's fine effect.

The vacant acre of paving there Should never annoy, It has one occupant, we 're aware-- That messenger boy.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE AUTUMN SESSION.

(BY A RELUCTANTLY RETURNED M.P.)

AIR--"_O! that will be joyful!_"

HERE we suffer grief and pain, Here we part to meet again: No field, no copse, no moor! O! it will be jawful, Jawful, jawful, jawful! O! isn't it awful? Autumn Meet's an awful bore!

All who hate the "Lords," you know, Swear this misery below, We owe to peers above! O! that, &c.

We'll be lammed by LABOUCHERE, Who the Afric strife will swear Is due to RHODES'S rule. O! won't _he_ be jawful, &c.

ASHMEAD, too, will strive to prove Freedom, prestige, all we love We'll lose to gain no more, Through GLADSTONE the jawful, &c.

O! how weary we shall be, Ere the two Big Bills, or three, Are passed and Peer-wards gone! O! WEG will be jawful, &c.

Then the Rads will shout with joy, And the short Recess employ, In larrupping the Lords! O! won't _they_ be jawful?-- Awful, awful, awful! It shouldn't be lawful Autumn Meets to summon more!

* * * * *

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME.--WAT TYLER is avenged--upon wicked WALWORTH, and unfair history. A namesake of his is to be Lord Mayor of London! All we want now is, that the Right Hon. Mr. JOHN CADE (of Birmingham?) should be made Prime Minister.

* * * * *

DR. DULCAMARA UP TO DATE; OR, WANTED A QUACK-QUELCHER.

["_The jury, in giving their verdict, strongly censured the gross ignorance of the accused, and regretted that there was no law to prevent them from practising surgery._"]

* * * * *

A WORD TO THE WISE WHEELMAN.

THE SPEAKER, at Warwick, said that "the bicyclists of the day are debilitating and degenerating the human race by the way in which they stoop over their work." The wheelmen would probably retort that, like GOLDSMITH'S sprightly heroine, they "stoop to conquer." And we are not yet _all_ wheelmen. Still, the SPEAKER has hit a blot in the contemporary Cyclomania. Few things are more unlovely than the "Bicyclist's Bend." Record-cutting would be purchased dearly at the cost of making men look like camels; and if success on the cinderpath or the road involved giving humanity at large "the hump," one would stigmatise the Cycle Race as the _In_human Race. Let us hope the SPEAKER'S sharp words will make our stooping cyclists "sit up"--in other than the slangy sense of the phrase.

* * * * *

Birds of Pray.

We're told a cormorant sits, and doth not tire, For a whole month, perched upon Newark spire! VINNY BOURNE'S jackdaw's beaten, it is clear. Yet there _are_ cormorants who, year after year, Perch in the Church. But these omnivorous people Favour the pulpit mostly, not the steeple. Thrivers upon fat livings find, no doubt, Cormorant within is cosier than without.

* * * * *

CREAM OF THE CREAM.--"London Society proper"--we are informed by Lady CHARLES BERESFORD--consists of no more than thirty or forty families! And how about London Society _improper_? Is _that_ equally sparse and exclusive? And--terrible thought!--crucial question!--is it possible that the two orders _overlap_ at all? That there are any "noble swells" who belong to both?

* * * * *

THE GOVERNMENT'S PUBLIC POLICY IN SOUTH AFRICA (ACCORDING TO MR. SYDNEY BUXTON).--_Not_ "CARRINGTON'S Entire"!

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UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes_).

SCENE XIII.--_"Behind" at the Eldorado._ TIME--_about_ 10 P.M.; _the Stage at the back of the Scene-cloth is in partial darkness; in the centre, a pile of lumber and properties. Bare whitewashed brick walls; at one side, two canvas cabins for the Lady-Artistes to change their costumes; near them a deal table, with a jug and glasses. At one of the wings, behind the proscenium, a shelf and small mirror, at which the Comedians can arrange their make-up, and a frame, in which a placard, with each Artiste's number, is inserted before his or her entrance. A "turn" has just been concluded, and the Stage is clear._

_The Stage-Manager_ (_bustling up to_ Footman, _in crimson plush breeches_). Now then, look alive, there, can't you, they're getting impatient in front. Why don't you change the number?

_Footman_ (_with aggrieved dignity_). Because, Sir, Mr. ALF REDBEAK ought to come on, by rights, and, not 'aving chosen to appear yet, I think you'll see yourself, on reflection, as it would be totally----

_Stage-M._ Well, don't argue about it; here's Miss LUSHBOY ready to go on, put _her_ number up!

_Footm._ I always understood it was the regulation 'ere that no number was to be put up until the band-parts were passed into the orchestra; which Miss LUSHBOY'S music most certainly has not been handed in yet, and, that bein' so----

_Stage-M._ You can spare a good yard off that tongue of yours, you can; put Miss LUSHBOY'S number up, and----Ah, here comes Mr. REDBEAK; never mind.

_Enter_ Mr. REDBEAK, _breathless_.

_Mr. Redbeak._ Phew! I've had a job to get 'ere in time, I can tell you. (_The Orchestra strikes up._) 'Ullo, _that_ ain't mine. (_To_ Footman.) What are you about? Put up my number--sharp, now!

_Miss Lushboy_ (_to_ Footman). Here, let me go on; I've been messing about long enough. What are you taking my number out for?

_Footm._ Now, look 'ere, Miss, I can't please everybody! (_Indicating_ Stage-Manager.) You are as well aware as what I am that it's for _him_ to give the word 'ere, not me. I'm on'y actin' under what----

_Mr. Redb._ It's crule, you know, that's what it is--crule. I've got to go right across London for my next turn, and----

_The Stage-M._ (_returning_). What the blazes are we waiting for _now_? ALF, dear boy, you should come up to time. (_To_ Footman.) Why don't you do as you're told? You're getting too big for your boots, it strikes me! (_To_ Miss LUSHBOY.) There, go on, my dear, go on.

[Miss L. _bounds on to the stage, and begins her song_.

_Mr. Redb._ (_to_ Footman). I've got a bone to pick with you, old feller. Don't you go wool-gatherin' to-night, as you did last. I've told you till I'm tired that when you see me chuck this property piecrust into the wings you've got to throw down these fire-irons--it's a safe laugh every time it comes off, and you know 'ow important it is, and yet you forget it nine times out of ten! What's the good of me thinkin' out my business when you go and crab it for me?

_Footm._ (_pathetically_). Mr. REDBEAK, Sir, you'll excuse me, but I'm on'y one man 'ere, I ain't a 'undred. _Don't_ thank 'eaven for it, Sir, it's 'ard when a man as tries to do his best, and with all my responsibilities on him----

_Mr. Redb._ (_impatiently_). Oh, cheese it; you're not on a stool in 'Ide Park, are you? I'm only _tellin'_ you.

_Miss L._ (_on stage, singing chorus_).

Say, boys, say, if you'd like to come. Who's for a merry old "Tiddley-um?" Fall in behind, and we'll all get "blind," before they close the pub! You're not jays, so you won't refuse. Join our band, for we're on the booze, And you'll see some larks with the rollicking sparks of the Rowdy Razzle Club!

(_Here she capers off, brandishing a gibus, and has a difficulty in opening the practicable door in the wing._ _To_ Footman.) There you are _again!_ How often am I to tell you to keep that wood open for my dance off? I break my fingers over it every blessed night, and lose my encore as well!

_Footm._ I'm exceedingly sorry, miss, but the fact of the matter is my attention was took off at the time owing to----

_Miss L._ Oh, hold _your_ jaw, do.

_Footm._ (_to himself_). I'm to hold my jaw! Oh, these hartistes, they lead me a dorg's life among 'em!

_Mr. Redb._ (_touching_ Miss L.'s _coat as she passes_). What's that badge you're wearing? Salvation Army, Temperance, Primrose League, or what?

_Miss L._ No, only the colours of the Balls Pond Football Team; they presented them to me the other day. I told them _I_ didn't play football.

_Mr. Redb._ You're pretty fair at the 'igh kick though, ain't you? There, there. 'Alf time. Goin' on again?

_Miss L._ With a cold like mine? Not likely. Just look at my tongue! (_She protrudes the tip of an indigo-coloured tongue for his inspection._)

_Mr. Redb._ (_concerned_). Why, it's like one o' those Chow-chow dogs, I'm blest if it isn't! You _are_ off colour to-night, no mistake!

_Miss L._ Oh, that's the remedy, not the disease--liquorice, you know.

_Stage-M._ Now, ALF, if you're in such a hurry, go on. Cut it as short as you like--no extra turns to-night.

_Mr. Redb._ No fear. Oh dear, oh dear, such a rush as it is!

[_He goes on grumbling._

_A Small Boy_ (_who has been sitting patiently on a chair by the wing--to_ Stage-Manager). If you please, Sir, will Mr. WILDFIRE want me to-night?

_Miss L._ Want you, indeed, you silly kid! What would Mr. WILDFIRE want a shrimp like you for?

_The Boy._ If he's going to do the Sandwich Man 'ere to-night, he'll want me, _I_ know. Why, it all _depends_ on me, that song does. (_To_ Stage-M.) _Is_ he going to do the Sandwich Man to-night, Sir?

_Stage-M._ Oh, don't bother me; wait till he comes and you'll find out. (_To_ Miss L.) I suppose you've heard he's talking of not renewing his engagement after to-night--giving up the halls altogether!

_Miss L._ And no great loss either! I don't see anything particular about his songs myself. As for all that gas about his raising the tone of the halls, it's sickening. Anyone would suppose we _lowered_ it!

_Miss Cissie Cinders (coming out of a dressing-cabin, in a battered old velvet hat and broken feathers, with her face smudged)._ Who's that you're talking about? WILDFIRE? Ah, my dear, this 'Igh Art and Littery rot'll be the ruin of the 'alls--him and his articles in the swell magazines, praising us all up--he can keep his praises to himself--_I_ don't want 'em! I've never set up to refine the public myself, or else I could fake it easy enough!

[_She passes on to stage._

_Mr. Gus. Tadman_ (_Variety Vocalist_). We could all do it, come to that. But there, he won't last, you'll see. Why, look at the 'it I made with my "_Rorty Naughty Nell_"! That _was_ a good song if you like, and well-written, mind yer. But lor, it's clean forgotten now. I 'ear WILDFIRE'S bringing out a play to-night at the Hilarity, it'll serve him right if it gets the bird, going back on his own profession like that! (_To_ Miss CINDERS, _who has just sung_.) House cold to-night?

_Miss Cinders_ (_in a temper_). Cold, it's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices! I used to have the choruses all sung for me when I brought out that song first; and now they've let me go off without a 'and! We shall see whether they'll rise to WILDFIRE to-night. Ah, here he is. Actually coming up to speak to us; there's an honour!

_Miss Betsy Beno_ (_to_ WILDFIRE, _as he passes the table where she is sitting waiting for her turn_). 'Ere, WATTY, old man, stop and 'ave a drop along of me. Do--there's plenty 'ere! (_as_ WILDFIRE _excuses himself laughingly_). Well, I'm sure--refusing to drink when a lady goes out of her way to ask him--he hasn't the manners of a pig! And I draw my sixty quid a week the same as he does!

_Mr. Tadman._ Well, dear boy, how's the play getting on? Not a frost, I hope?

_Wildfire._ No; I just looked in on my way from the Val. here, and they seemed to think it was all right; but I couldn't stay till the finish. They're going to send round and let me know. (_To the_ Small Boy, _who has approached anxiously_.) Oh, there you are, youngster! Yes, I shall want you--for the last time, you know.

_The Boy._ Why, you--you ain't going to take the part away from me, Sir, when I created it, too!

_Wildf._ (_patting his shoulder kindly_). I'm giving up singing altogether--that's why. Never mind; I'll see it makes no difference to you, so don't you distress yourself. We'll find you something or other to do.

_The Boy_ (_with a gulp_). If I ain't going to be with _you_ any more, I--I don't care _what_ 'appens, Sir. I'd as soon throw up the perfession myself, I would!

[_He turns away into a dark corner._

_Wildf._ (_to himself, as he goes to the wing_). Nice boy that; didn't think he'd care so much; must keep an eye on him. _Flattery_ must be over now. I wish I could have stayed to see it out; it was going magnificently; but there were some rather risky scenes ahead. Still, I believe it's a success; and, if it is, I shall have done with all this for ever after to-night. I can go to ALTHEA and tell her, without---- By Jove! wasn't it to-night that Old TOOVEY was to be in front? I wonder what he'll think of it. (_He looks at himself in the mirror._) He'll have some difficulty in recognising me in this get up. Well, I shall know on Monday. (_He goes on, and sings; then rushes back to the wing to change his costume, with the assistance of his dresser._) Yes, the coat, now, dresser, please. (_To himself, as he paints some lines on his face._) I couldn't see anyone at all like old TOOVEY. Very odd! They must have sent him the box, I suppose. Well, it doesn't matter; if he didn't think it necessary to come, so much the better. (_Aloud._) Wigpaste, please. Now the boards. All right--I'm ready. (_To the Boy._) Now, youngster, look out for your cue.

[_He goes on._

_The Limelight Man_ (_up in the flies--to himself_). What's wrong with Mr. WILDFIRE? He as nearly broke down just now as----and I can't keep the limelight on him nohow to-night! He can't have been drinking--he ain't _that_ sort. But he do look bad--it's as much as ever he can do to go through with it; somethink's given him a turn.

_Wildfire_ (_to himself, as he goes back to the wing, unsteadily_). She's here--and, what's worse, she's recognised me! She must have, or she would never have looked like that. If I could only have told her first; but, to discover it like this,--she'll think I meant to---- (_He pitches away his boards in a fury._) Well, I've done for myself--it's all over! (_To his dresser._) A note, eh?

[_He opens it, and reads the contents mechanically_; Mr. TADMAN _and one or two other artistes come up with curiosity on seeing his expression_.

_Tadm._ Why, WILDFIRE, old man, what's this? Play gone wrong? Never mind, dear boy, we can't have everything. But what's the report, eh?

_Wildf._ (_impatiently_). Oh, I don't know. What does it matter now? (_He lets the note fall._) There, you can read it if you want to know.

[_He walks away._

_Tadm._ (_with complacency_). Poor chap, he's hard hit! But I could have told him it wasn't to be expected that---- (_He picks up the note, and reads it with a falling jaw._) Hullo! What's the meaning of this? It says the piece is a tremendous go--safe for a long run--had to raise the rag again and again. Why, he'll make his fortune over this alone; and yet, look at him! (_Pointing to_ WILDFIRE, _who has seated himself on the pile of lumber, in utter dejection_.) And all those fools in front clapping and stamping for him to come on again. What _more_ does the feller want, I wonder!

END OF SCENE XIII.

* * * * *

UNION IS (LOGICAL) WEAKNESS.--The Congregational Union lays it down as a law, "that the rights of humanity must take precedence of those of property." We fear this admirable maxim (like equally admirable Charity) might be made to cover a multitude of sins, from petty larceny to anarchism. Would it be consonant with the "rights of humanity," for, say, a Congregational Unionist to object to a poor tramp stealing his best umbrella on a wet day?

* * * * *

ROBERT ON THE COMING SHO.