Part 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 98, JUNE 14TH 1890

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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"GOOD OLD GRACE!"

(_Doggerel on "The Doctor," by an "Old Duffer."_)

"Dr. GRACE, who seemed to forget his lameness, played with great vigour and dash, and his cuts and drives possessed all their old brilliancy."--_The Times, on the exciting finish in the Cricket Match between the M.C.C. and the Australians, June 3, 1890._

One hundred and eleven runs, and eighty-five minutes to make 'em in, And with TURNER and FERRIS to trundle as fast as they could pitch and break 'em in! And it looked any odds on MURDOCH'S men contriving to make a draw of it; But Cricket, my lads, is a curious game, and uncertainty seems the sole law of it. So they sent in GRACE and SHUTER to start. Well, the Doctor is now called "a veteran," But at forty-two when he's on the job 'tisn't easy to pick out a better 'un. And he "spanked for four," like a lad once more, and he cut and he drove like winking; Though his leg _was_ lame, he forgot that same, and he "played the game" without shrinking. And Surrey's SHUTER he did his part, and so did Notts' GUNN, Sir, Though he _might_ have chucked the game away when the Doctor he managed to out-run, Sir. It was hard, you see, upon W. G. in _that_ way to lose his wicket, But all the same he had won the game, and had played superlative Cricket. Forty-three to make, and forty-five minutes! But GRACE and GUNN were equal to it; And a win, with a quarter of an hour in hand, was the satisfactory sequel to it. The Australians played a manly game, without any dawdling or shirking; And if they didn't avoid defeat why it wasn't for want of hard working. But the stiff-legged "Doctor" who forced the game in the most judgmatical fashion, And forgot his leg and his "forty year" odd, full flushed with a Cricketer's passion! Why he's the chap who deserves a shout. Bravo, brave "W. G," Sir. And when you next are on the job, may the "Duffer" be there to see, Sir!

* * * * *

DEVELOPING HAWARDEN.

"The locality is extremely healthy, and Hawarden will probably become a large residential place, and a centre of mining industry."--_Mr. Gladstone's Evidence before the Commissioners for Welsh Intermediate Education._

_Monday._--Wood-cutting. Inconvenient having so many villas built all round park. Inhabitants inspect everything I do. Nasty little boys (whom I can see over their garden wall) shout "Yah!" and wave large primrose wreath. Irritating. Perhaps due to healthiness of air. Retire to another part of the demesne. Heavens! what is that erection? Looks like a Grand Stand, in a private garden, crowded with people. It is! Invited (by owner of garden) specially to view me and (I hear afterwards) my "celebrated wood-cutting performance," at a shilling a-head. Disgusted. Go in.

_Tuesday._--Down local coal-mine. Interesting to have one at Park-gates. Explain to colliers principle of the Davy lamp. Colliers seem attentive, Ask me at the end for "a trifle to drink my health with." Don't they know I am opposed to Endowment of Public-houses? Yes, "but they aren't," they reply. Must invite WILFRID LAWSON to Hawarden.

_Wednesday._--Curious underground rumblings. Wall of Castle develops huge crack. _What_ is it? A dynamite plot? Can SALISBURY have hired----? HERBERT comes in, and tells me the proprietor of Hawarden Salt Mine has just sent his compliments; with a request that I would "shore up" the Castle. Otherwise "he is afraid it may fall in on his workmen." Impudence! Why can't they dig under Eaton Hall instead?

_Thursday._--WATKIN here. Offers to make a Tunnel under Castle, from one mine to the other. Why a Tunnel? Also wants to dig for gold in Park. Ask him, if there's any reason to suppose gold exists there? He says you never can tell what you may come to if you bore long enough. "At all events, even if no gold there, the boring useful if at any time I feel inclined for a Tunn----" Go in. WATKIN _has_ bored long enough already.

_Friday._--STEPHEN drops in, and says "new Hawarden Cathedral"--_really_ built to accommodate people who come to hear me read Lessons, only STEPHEN thinks it's his sermons that are the attraction--"will soon he finished." I suggest that he should have Welsh "intermediate" services now and then. STEPHEN says "_he_ doesn't know Welsh, and can't see why Welsh people can't drop their horrible tongue at once, and all speak English." Pained, Tell him _he_ needn't conduct service--any Welsh-speaking clergyman would do. STEPHEN replies that if he introduced Welsh service, "villa-residents would boycott the Cathedral altogether." Well, supposing they do? STEPHEN retorts that "I had better have an Irish service at once, and get PARNELL up to read the Lessons." Something in the idea. Must think it over.

_Saturday._--My usual holiday. Fifteen speeches. Park literally crammed. Excursionists, colliers, salt-miners, villa-residents, and Chester Liberals, all seem to find locality tremendously healthy. All enjoying themselves thoroughly. Wish _I_ was. Worn-out in evening. Begin to wonder what Park and Castle would fetch, if I were to go and settle in Hebrides to escape mob.

_Sunday._--Escorted by two regiments of mounted Volunteers to Church. Volunteers have great difficulty in securing a passage. Have to use butts of their muskets on more impulsive spectators. Curious that just at this point I should Remember Mitchelstown. Must try and get over the habit. Lessons as usual. Find a crushed primrose between the pages, evidently put there on purpose. Those villa-residents again! Surely DREW might inspect the lectern before service commences! Home, and think seriously of Hebrides.

* * * * *

ON THE SPOT.

(_By a Practical Sportsman._)

The spot for me all spots above In this wide world of casual lodgers, Is not the nook sacred to love; The "cot beside a rill" of ROGER'S. 'Tis not the spot which TOMMY MOORE Praised in "_The Meeting of the Waters_." Avoca's Vale my soul would bore; I should prefer more lively quarters. Thy "little spot," ELIZA COOK, Means merely patriotic flummery; And COLERIDGE'S "hidden brook" Won't fetch me, e'en when weather's summery. I hold the Picturesque is rot, "Love in a Cot" means scraps for dinner; I only know _one_ pleasant spot,-- I mean the "spot" that "finds a winner!"

* * * * *

PRIVATE AND SPECIAL LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.--Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH'S new novel is to be entitled, _Won of the Conquerors_. It would be unfair to the author to mention how what the Conquerors had conquered was won from them in turn. "I am at liberty to inform the public, however," says the BARON DE B.-W., "that WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR is not in it with the others. I am able also to assure his numerous admirers that _Beauchamp's Career_ is not a medicinal romance, and has no sort of connection with a certain widely-advertised remedy."

* * * * *

* * * * *

WILLIAM HENRY _loquitur_:--

Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and terrified scamper, With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper. Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him; No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him. But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir. And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further _I_ can run, Sir. Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him? Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the _cloture_ pound they should pop him, With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it! I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it; And I _am_ that fat--no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear ARTHUR, quite lathy. And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is getting exceedingly wrathy. Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile wings is the floorer. If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my rear to yon roarer. Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously prodding. Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded with woollen "wadding." Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one second. I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I must have misreckoned. That bull of GLADDY'S most certainly mad is, though he gave me his word, the Old Slyboots, It was perfectly quiet. I have SALISBURY'S fiat, but I wish he was only in _my_ boots. "Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings, and perspiration, I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that "Compensation," It is sure to stick. "_Quick_, SMITH, _man_, _quick!_" Oh, it's all very well to holloa; With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy that counsel to follow. My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by Taurus. Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us, and score us, and gore us. "_Run! run!_" Oh, _ain't_ I running like winking? Reach the turnstile? I may just do it But with its three wings--oh, confound the things!--I much doubt if I'll ever get _through_ it!

[_Left trying._

* * * * *

WEEK BY WEEK.

THE attention of statisticians has lately been directed to a question of no little interest. To put it as shortly as possible, the point is to discover the number and size of the mayonnaises of lobster consumed in the course of one evening in the district bounded on the east by Berkeley Square, and extending westward as far as Earl's Court. It is well-known that no lobster ever walked backwards. Taking this as the basis of our calculations and assuming that [Greek: pi]^{n_1} is equal to the digestive apparatus of six hundred dowagers, we reach the surprising total of 932,146-1/8 lobsters. No allowance is made for dressing or returned empties.

* * * * *

"A Poet" writes to us as follows:--"I have long been puzzled by the difficulty attending the proper construction of rhymed verse in English. Some words possess many rhymes, others only a few, others again none. Yet I find that the temptation to end a line with a non-rhyme-possessing word like 'month' is almost irresistible, and frequently gives rise to the most painful results. In the course of my emotional ballad entitled, '_The Bard's Daughter_,' I was compelled on an average to kill half-a-dozen German bands every day, and to throw ten jam-pots at my butler for unseasonable interruptions. Can any of your readers help me?"

* * * * *

A flight of ducks was observed to settle on the Serpentine yesterday at four o'clock exactly. They had been moving in a westerly direction. The Park-keepers explain this curious incident by the well-known affection of these birds for water, combined with an occasional impulse to aerial navigation, but the explanation appears to us inadequate.

* * * * *

In Vienna the other day, a Cabman was observed to claim more than his fare from an elderly lady, whom he afterwards abused violently in the choicest Austrian for refusing to comply with his demands. After all, the nature of Cabmen all over the world varies very little. Elderly Ladies too, are much the same.

* * * * *

Mr. STANLEY continues to attend dances, dinners and receptions at the usual hours. He has lately expressed himself in strong terms with regard to the action of a friendly Power on the continent of Africa. Mr. STANLEY appears to think very lightly of the Foreign Office pigeon-holes, in which his treaties have been stored in the meantime.

* * * * *

* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)

HA! ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates in the world couldn't have induced me to back _Surefoot_. There they were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite, gin-palace, gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them blowing a _fan-fare_ upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I had my eye on them all the time. For as the public must have discovered long before this, if there is one person in the world who sets their interests above everything, and swerves neither to the right nor to the left in the effort to save them from the depredations of the pilfering gang of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter on sporting matters, that person, I say it without offence, is _me_.

What was it I said last week about _Sainfoin_? "_Sainfoin_," I said, "is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this. It meant, of course, that _Sainfoin_ never lets the grass grow under his feet, and that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he would win the race. _And he did win the race._ We all know that; all, that is, except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they know something about racing. But I have made my pile, and so have my readers, and we can afford to snap our fingers at every pudding-headed barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the Derby.

As for the Oaks, it would be impossible to conceive anything more scientifically, nay geometrically, accurate than my forecast. "_Memoir_," I said, "might do _pour servir_." Well, didn't she? And if anybody omitted to back her, all I can nay is, serve them right for a pack of goose-brained Bedlamites. For myself, I can only say that, having made a colossal fortune by my speculations, I propose shortly to retire from the Turf I have so long adorned.

* * * * *

A BIASSED AUTHOR.--One whose MS. is written "on one side only."

* * * * *

ASK A WHITE MAN!

(_Highly Humorous Song. Sung with Immense Success by King M'Tesa, of Uganda._)

"King M'TESA inquired of Mr. STANLEY what an 'Angel' was. He (Mr. STANLEY) had not seen an angel, but imagination was strong, and M'TESA was so interested in what he was told, that he slapped his thigh and said, 'There! if you want to hear news, or wish to hear words of wisdom, always ask a white man.'"--_Mr. Stanley at the Mansion House._

AIR--"_Ask a Policeman!_"

THE White Men are a noble band (Though TIPPOO swears they're not), Their valour is tremendous, and They know an awful lot, If anything you'd learn, and meet A White Man on the way, Ask _him_. You'll find him a complete En-cy-clo-pae-di-a.

_Chorus._

If you want to know, you know, Ask a White Man! Near Nyanza or Congo, Ask a White Man! In Uganda I am King, Yet _I_ don't know everything. If you want to know, you know, Ask a White Man!

If you would learn how best to fight Your way through regions queer, Thread forest mazes dark as night, And deserts dim and drear! If you your rival's roads would shut, And get his in your grip; You go to him, he's artful, but He'll give you the straight tip.

_Chorus._

If you'd know your way about, Ask a White Man! He knows every in and out Does a White Man! He will tell you like a shot If the roads are good or not; He can open up the lot, Ask a White Man!

And if about the Angels you Feel cu-ri-os-i-ty, For information prompt and true, To a White Man apply. _He_ knows 'em, and, indeed, 'tis said Himself is _almost_ such. His "words of wisdom" on this head Will interest you much.

_Chorus._

If you want to shoot and drink, Ask a White Man! He can help you there, I think. Ask a White Man! If you'll learn to grab and fight, And be mutually polite, And observe the laws of Right, Ask a White Man!

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.

THEATRICAL CRITICISM.

"_Mr. Ranter's Macbeth is too well known to all play-goers to need any special notice at our hands. Those who have not yet seen it should avail themselves of the present opportunity;_" _i.e._, "Can't pitch into old RANTER, good chap and personal friend."

DIAGNOSTIC.

"_I should say in your case, that the Digestion was a little upset;_" _i.e._, "As gross a case of over-eating as I have ever come across in the whole of my professional experience. You must have been feeding, literally, like a hog, for years!"

SOCIAL.

"_What I so like about dear Sibyl is her charming simplicity;_" _i.e._, "The silliest little chit conceivable."

"_His conversation is always so very improving;_" _i.e._, "A pedantic prig, who bores you with Darwinism in the dance, and 'earnestness' at a tennis-party."

* * * * *

TOPPING THE TRIPOS;

_Or, Something like a Score for the Sex._

[In the Cambridge Mathematical Tripos Miss P. G. FAWCETT, of Newnham, daughter of the late Professor FAWCETT, is declared to be "above the Senior Wrangler."]

ABOVE the Senior Wrangler! Pheugh! Where now are male reactionaries Who flout the feminine, and pooh-pooh Sweet Mathematic MEGS and MARIES? Who says a girl is only fit To be a dainty, dancing dangler? Here's girlhood's prompt reply to it: Miss FAWCETT tops the Senior Wrangler!

Would it not have rejoiced the heart Of her stout sire, the brave Professor? AGNETA RAMSAY made good start, But here's a shining she-successor! Many a male who failed to pass Will hear it with flushed face and jaw set. But _Mr. Punch_ brims high his glass, And drinks your health, Miss P. G. FAWCETT!

* * * * *

TAKEN FROM THE FRENCH PLAYS.

SCENE--_Her Majesty's Theatre._ _Enter_ Mr. _and_ Mrs. BROWN.

_Brown_ (_to_ Boxkeeper, _with the air of a Sovereign conferring an Order upon a faithful subject_). There's sixpence for a programme.

_Boxkeeper._ Very sorry, Sir, but it isn't a programme; it's a Book of the Argument, and we have to pay _that_ for it ourselves!

_Brown_ (_resenting the information_). Oh, bother! Then I'll do without it.

_Mrs. Brown_ (_annoyed_). Why didn't you get a book? You know we'll never understand it without one.

_Brown._ Nonsense, my dear! It's a distinct advantage to trust to one's own resources.

[_Curtain goes up, and discovers a number of male characters, who come on and go off severally._

_Mrs. Brown._ What are they talking about?

_Brown._ Oh, all sorts of things. (_Enter_ Mlle. DARLAUD, as Lydie Vaillant.) Ah! you see this is the heroine.

_Mrs. Brown._ Is it? (_Examining her through opera-glass._) Very simple frock. I think I shall have one like it.

_Brown_ (_dreading a dress-maker invasion_). Oh, it wouldn't suit you at all. You always look better in silks and satins.

[_Entr'acte over._ _Second Act_, Madame PASCA appears, _and is admirable_.

_Mrs. Brown_ (_deeply interested_). CHARLEY, dear, she's wearing Russian net, and you know you can get it at----

_Brown_ (_hurriedly_). Hush, you are disturbing everybody.

_Mrs. Brown_ (_at end of Second Act_). What was it all about?

_Brown._ Oh, didn't you see. It was a castle, and a number of tourists were shown round the pictures by an old servant. Excellent!

_Mrs. Brown._ I do so wish you would get a book.

_Brown._ Oh, we can do without it now--the piece is nearly over.

[_Third Act is played, and Curtain falls._

_Mrs. Brown._ Well, what was _that_ about?

_Brown._ Oh, didn't you see they had breakfast--and with tea too, not with wine. Very strange how English customs are spreading.

[_Tableau I. of Act III. is played. Considerable applause._

_Mrs. Brown._ I don't quite understand _that_.

_Brown._ You don't! Why, it's as simple as possible. _Paul Astier_ arrived late, and dressed for dinner. Excellent!

_Mrs. Brown._ But what's the plot?

_Brown._ Oh, _that's_ of secondary importance--the piece is a clever skit upon modern manners! (_Tableau II. is played._) Capital! Wasn't MADAME PASCA good when she wanted a glass of water?

_Mrs. Brown._ Quite too perfect! And her velvet and satin gown was absolutely lovely! (_With determination._) I shall get one like it!

_Brown_ (_alarmed_). I am not so sure! You look better in muslins.

[_Last Act is played, and_ Paul Astier _is shot dead_.

_Mrs. Brown_ (_much affected_). Oh! what did they do _that_ for?

_Brown._ Don't you see--the reward of life. Hence the title. (_Subsequently in the cab._) Wasn't it good? Didn't you enjoy yourself?

_Mrs. Brown._ Very much indeed, but I _do_ wish you had got a book! (_To herself._) Let me see--green velvet over white satin. (_Aloud._) It will take about eighteen yards!

_Brown_ (_waking up_). Eighteen yards of what?

_Mrs. Brown._ Oh, nothing! I was only thinking.

[_Scene closes in upon a mental vision of the dress-maker from opposite points of view._

* * * * *

"ALLOWED TO STARVE."--To save time, contributions to the Balaclava Fund should be forwarded direct to the Editor of _The St. James's Gazette_.

* * * * *

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.