Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

March 26, 1892.

YE MODERATES OF LONDON!

Ye Moderates of London Who sat at home at ease, Ah! little did you think upon The dangerous C.C.'s! While comfort did surround you, You did not care to go To remote Spots to vote When the stormy winds did blow.

The voter should have courage No danger he should shun; In every kind of weather All sorts of risks should run. Not he! So bold Progressives Will tax him, and he'll know He must pay In their way, Which is neither sure nor slow.

But when the Thames Embankment, The finest road in town, Is riotous with tramcars, Will _that_ make rates come down? Will all these free arrangements, Free water, gas, do so? Oh, they may! Who can say? And the Companies may go.

When LIDGETT and McDOUGALL Are censors of the play, We can patronise the Drama In a strictly proper way; When PARKINSON's Inspector Of Ballets, we shall know He will stop Any hop If he sees a dancer's toe.

Such grandmaternal rulers Will settle life for us, And Moderates, escaping All canvassing and fuss, Can still, from cosy firesides, Through three long years or so, Watch whereat Jumps the cat, And which way the wind does blow.

* * * * *

LOCKWOOD THE LECTURER.

["Last Tuesday Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., delivered a lecture entitled 'The Law and Lawyers of Pickwick,' to a large gathering of the citizens of York, which place he represents in Parliament."--_Daily Telegraph_.]

AIR--"_Simon the Cellarer._"

Oh, LOCKWOOD the Lecturer hath a rare store Of jo-vi-a-li-tee Of quips, and of cranks, with good stories galore, For a cheery Q.C. is he! A cheery Q.C. and M.P. With pen and with pencil he never doth fail, And every day he hath got a fresh tale. "A Big-vig on Pig-vig," he quaintly did say, When giving his lecture at York t'other day. For Ho! ho! ho! FRANK LOCKWOOD can show How well he his DICKENS Doth know, know, know! _Chorus._--For Ho! ho! ho! &c.

* * * * *

HOSPITALITY À LA MODE.

["Programmes and introductions are going out of fashion at balls."--_Weekly Paper_.]

SCENE--_Interior of a Drawing-room during a dance. Sprightly Damsel disengaged looking out for a partner. She addresses cheerful-looking Middle-aged Gentleman, who is standing near her._

_She._ I am not quite sure whether I gave you this waltz?

_He._ Nor I. But I hope you did. I am afraid it is nearly over, but we shall still have time for a turn. [_They join the dancers._

_She._ Too many people here to-night to make waltzing pleasant.

_He._ Yes, it is rather crowded. Shall we sit out?

_She_ (_thankfully, as he has not quite her step._) If you like. And see, the band is bringing things to a conclusion. Don't you hate a _cornet_ in so small a room as this? So dreadfully loud, you know.

_He._ Quite. Yes, I think it would have been better to have kept to the piano and the strings.

_She._ But the place is prettily decorated. It must have cost them a lot, getting all these flowers.

_He._ I daresay. No doubt they managed it by contract. And lots of things come from Algeria nowadays. You can get early vegetables in winter for next to nothing.

_She._ Yes, isn't it lovely? All these palms, I suppose, came from the Stores.

_He._ No doubt. By the way, do you know the people of the house at all?

_She._ Not much. Fact was, I was brought. Couldn't find either the host or hostess. Such a crowd on the staircase, you know.

_He._ Yes. Rather silly asking double the number of people the rooms will hold, isn't it?

_She._ Awfully. However, I suppose it pleases some folks. I presume they consider it the swagger thing to do?

_He._ I suppose they do. Do you know many people here?

_She._ Not a soul, or--

_He._ You would not have spoken to me?

_She._ Well, no--not exactly that. But--

_He._ You have no better excuse ready. Quite.

_She._ How rude you are! You know I didn't quite mean that.

_He._ No, not quite. Quite.

_She._ By the way, do you know what time it is?

_He._ Well, from the rooms getting less crowded, I fancy it must be the supper hour. May I not take you down?

_She._ You are most kind! But do you know the way?

_He._ I think so. You see, I have learned the geography of the place fairly well.

_She._ How fortunate! But if I accept your kindness, I think I should have the honour of knowing your name.

_He._ Certainly; my name is SMITH.

_She._ Any relation of the people who are giving the dance?

_He._ Well, yes. I am giving the dance myself--or rather, my wife is.

_She._ Oh, this is quite too delightful! For now you can tell me what to avoid.

_He._ Certainly; and I have the pleasure of speaking to--?

_She._ You must ask my _chaperon_ for my name. You know, introductions are not the fashion.

_He._ And your _chaperon_ is--?

_She._ Somewhere or other. In the meanwhile, if you will allow me?

_He_ (_offering his arm_). Quite!

[_Exeunt to supper._

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY FOR CHILDREN.

NO. 1.--"LITTLE MISS MUFFIT."

Little Miss MUFFIT Reposed on a tuffet, Consuming her curds and whey-- She had dozens of dolls, And some cash in Consols Put by for a rainy day.

But though calm and content While she drew Three per Cent., The Conversion unsettled her mien, And she said, "Though they've thrown us This Five-Shilling Bonus, I cannot brook Two pounds fifteen!"

Comes a Broker outsider-- Who chanced to have spied her, And "Options" and "Pools" he extols-- When he pictures the profit (Commission small off it), She cheerfully sells her Consols.

Then she starts operations With fierce speculations In Stocks of all manner and shape; But whatever she chooses Her "cover" she loses, And sees it run off on the tape.

So alas! for Miss MUFFIT-- She now has to rough it, And never gets jam with her tea; While the Bucket-shop Dealer Employs a four-wheeler, Regardless of _L._ _S._ and _D._

* * * * *

"THE FROGS" AT OXFORD.

SCENE--_Parlour of Private House, Oxford._ TIME--_Quite recently. Cook wishes to speak to her Mistress._

_Cook._ Please, 'm, I should like to go out this evening, 'm, which it's to see them Frogs at the New Theayter.

_Mistress._ But it's all Greek, and you won't understand it.

_Cook._ O yes, 'm. I once saw the Performin' Fleas, and they was French, I believe, leastways a Frenchman were showin' of 'em, and I unnerstood all as was necessary.

[_After this, of course she obtains permission._

* * * * *

Mrs. Ram's Uncle (on the maternal side) has recently joined the religious sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. This has greatly distressed the good Lady. "If it had been anything else," she says, "a Moravian Missionary, or a Christian Brother-in-law, I wouldn't have minded. But to think that an Uncle of mine should have become a Yarmouth Bloater is a little hard on a poor woman no longer in her idolescence."

* * * * *

Young WILHELM was a wilful lad, And lots of "cheek" young WILHELM had. He deemed the world should hail with joy A smart and self-sufficient boy, And do as it by _him_ was told; He _was_ so wise, he _was_ so bold. If anyone dared stop his play, He screamed out--"Take the wretch away! Oh, take my enemy away! I won't have any foes to-day!"

His old adviser WILHELM swore Was a pig-headed senile bore. _He_ meant to try another tack, So his Old Pilot got the sack. Nay more, one day, in a fierce squall, He smashed his picture on the wall; Tore up the papers when they said He was a little "off his head." He yelled, in his despotic way, "Not any Press for me," I say! "Oh, take that nasty _Punch_ away I won't have any _Punch_ to-day!"

He deemed himself, and this was odd, A sort of new Olympian god; And when the wise, who watched his whim, Sighed, "Have the gods demented him? _Quem deus vult, et cetera_" he Was just as mad as mad could be; And, just like other angry boys, Kicked over tables, smashed his toys, And cried out, "Take the things away! I'll have nought but new toys to-day!"

"Prudence?" he yelled; "what do _I_ care?" And here he kicked the old pet Bear His sire and grandsire had so cherished, Till the old policy had perished With Wilful WILHELM, who preferred The Eagles. With a pole he stirred Big Bruin up. "Oh, _I_'ll surprise him! And, if he growls, I'll 'pulverise' him." Some thought that picking rows with Bruin Meant folly, if it did not ruin; But when they whispered words of warning, Then Wilful WILHELM, counsel scorning, Shrieked, "Take the nasty brute away! I won't have any Bears to-day!"

Now, WILHELM, do not be absurd, But listen to a friendly word! You are a clever boy, no doubt, And very smart, and very stout, Like young AUGUSTUS, dainty eater, Whose story is in _Struwwelpeter_. Did'st ever read those truthful stories, Good Dr. HEINRICH HOFFMANN's glories, Which round the world have travelled gaily, By Nursery pets consulted daily? If not, just get "Shock-headed PETER"; Read of AUGUSTUS, the soup-eater, And stuck-up "JOHNNY Head-in-Air," Who came down "bump" all unaware. And "Fidgety PHILIP." You'll confess them Pointed,--and don't try to suppress them, Like Princes, party-men and papers Which can't admire _all_ your mad capers! My Wilful WILHELM, you'll not win By dint of mere despotic din; By kicking everybody over In whom a critic you discover, Or shouting in your furious way, "Oh, take the nasty _Punch_ away! I won't have any _Punch_ to-day!"

* * * * *

WHAT THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, MR. PUNCH, SAYS TO THE ARTISTS' CORPS.--"Gentlemen, you would no doubt like a brush with the enemy, to whom you will always show a full face. Any colourable pretence for a skirmish won't suit your palette. You march with the colours, and, like the oils, you will never run.' You all look perfect pictures, and everybody must admire your well-knit frames. Gentlemen, I do not know whether you will take my concluding observation as a compliment or not, but I need hardly say that it is meant to be both truthful and complimentary, and it is this, that though you are all Artists, you look perfect models,"

* * * * *

* * * * *

"BUTCHER'D TO MAKE--."

[On Monday the 14th a "lion-tamer" was torn to pieces in a show at Hednesford.]

Shame to the callous French, who goad The horse that pulls a heavy load! Shame to the Spanish bull-fight! Shame To those who make of death a game! We English are a better race: We love the long and solemn face; We fly from any cheerful place,-- On Sunday.

But, other days, we like a show. There may be danger, as we know; We put the thought of that aside, For noble sport is England's pride: We'd advertise a railway trip, To see a wretched tamer slip And die beneath the lion's grip,-- On Monday!

* * * * *

A REALLY EXCEPTIONALLY REMARKABLE AND NOTEWORTHY FACT.--_To-day, Thursday, March_ 17.--Fine Spring weather. Have sat for over half-an-hour at a window looking on to the street, between 3·30 and 4·15 P.M., _and have not once heard either the whole or any portion of the now strangely popular "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!"_ ... As I write this ... ha!... The grocer's book!... "Boom-de-ay" without the "Ta-ra." The spell is broken! N.B.--As this delightful song has now a certain number of Music-"hall-marks," the places where it is sung can be spotted and remembered as "Ta-ra's Halls."

* * * * *

TO THE YOUNG CITY-MEN.

TO MAKE MUCH OF (LUNCHEON) TIME; OR, A COUNSEL TO CLERKS. (AFTER HERRICK.)

Gather ye fish-bones while ye may, The luncheon hour is flying, And this same cod, that's boiled to-day, To-morrow may be frying.

The handsome clock of ormolu A quarter past is showing, And soon 'twill be a quarter to, When you must think of going.

That man eats best who eats the first, When fish and plates are warmer, But being cold, the worse and worst Fare still succeeds the former.

Then be not coy, but use your lungs, And while ye may, cry "_Waiter_!" For having held just now your tongues, You may repent it later.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PONSCH, PRINCE OF OLLENDORF.

(_M. MAETERLINCK'S VERY LAST MASTERPIECE._)

The Belgian Master has tried, as he has already informed the world, "to write SHAKSPEARE for a company of Marionnettes." Encouraged by his extraordinary success, he has soared higher yet, and adapted our greatest national drama for the purposes of the (Independent) itinerant Stage. We are enabled by the courtesy of his publishers to give a few specimen scenes from this _magnum opus_, which, as will be seen, requires somewhat more elaborate mounting and mechanical effects than are at present afforded by the ordinary Punch Show. In M. MAETERLINCK's version, Ponsch becomes the Prince of Half-seas-over-Holland; he is the victim of hereditary homicidal mania, complicated by neurotic hysteria. Inflamed by the insinuations of Mynheer Olenikke--a kind of Dutch Mephistopheles and Iago combined--he is secretly jealous of his consort the Princess Jödi's preference for the society of Djoë, the Court Jester and Society Clown. Here is our first sample:--

_A Chamber in the Castle. Princess JÖDI discovered at a window with DJOË._

_Jödi_. Lo! lo! a shower of stars is falling upon the fowl-house!

_Djoë_. Oh! oh! a shower of stars upon the fowl-house? (_A water pipe in the back-garden bursts suddenly and splashes them._) Ah! ah! I am wet all over! Have you a pocket handkerchief?

_Jödi_. Oh, look! a comet--an enormous one--has descended into the water-butt! The sky is blood-red, and the moon has turned the colour of green cheese. This bodes some disaster!

_Djoë_. It is unsettled--rainy--unpleasant weather. Can you lend me an umbrella?

_Jödi_. I cannot lend you an umbrella, because I have lent mine to the gardener's wife. Owls are roosting on the chimney-pots, and a stickleback has jumped out of the pond. Hush, my Lord the Prince approaches!

[_Prince PONSCH enters, bearing a stout staff, which he nurses gloomily, like an infant; a hurricane is heard in the middle distance; the waterpipe sobs strangely and then expires; a blackbeetle comes out of a cupboard and runs uneasily about, until a flash of lightning enters down the chimney and kills it. PONSCH stands glaring at DJOË and the Princess._

_Djoë_ (_hastily_). There is going to be a storm. Do not forget what I have uttered. Good evening!

[_He goes; the wind whistles a popular air through the keyhole._

_Jödi_ (_nervously_). What an appalling evening! I have never seen the like of such a sky.

_Ponsch_. There is something about you this evening--how beautiful you are looking! Bring BEBBI-PONSCH.

_Jödi_ (_fetching the Infant Prince_). Here he is. Why do you look so strangely at him?

_Bebbi-Ponsch_ (_a small, but important part_). Is Pa-a-par poo-oorly? Won't he p'ay wiz me no mo-ore?

_Ponsch_. The soul of a little stage-child looms from under his green eyes! OLENIKKE was right, and I-- No matter. I will open the window.

[_Opens it, and throws BEBBI-P. out. Sound of water-splash audible._

_Jödi_. Oh my! Oh my! What have you done? He has fallen right into the moat--on one of the swans!

_Ponsch_. Indeed--on one of the swans? (_A pot of mignonnette is blown off the window-sill by a gust._) I will close the window. (_Closes it; a hailstorm beats on the panes._) Is that really a hailstorm--or only birds?

_Jödi_. I can hear nothing. (P. _strikes her suddenly on the head with staff._) Someone is knocking at my door. Come in! I cannot see anything now.

_Ponsch_. Can you, indeed, see nothing? [_He strikes her again._

_Jödi_. Now I can see stars. I feel as if purple mills were going round in my head. I shall never kiss anybody any more. Oh! oh! oh! [_She dies._

_Ponsch_. She was a beautiful woman, do you know? Oh, how lonely I shall feel hereafter! (_A black dog is heard scratching and sniffing outside the door._) It is only Tobbi. Someone has trod on your toe, my poor Tobbi. Come in. Give me your paw. (_Tobbi enters, and flies suddenly at his nose._) Oh, my nose is bleeding! Let us go to the pond. I do not know why I feel so melancholy this evening. [_He goes out, pursued by Tobbi._

SAMPLE No. II.--_A Hall in Castle Ollendorff. A Marionnette Theatre at the back of Stage. DJOË, a Belgian Bedell, and Dutch Dolls-in-waiting discovered._

_Djoë_. Green flames are running along the walls, and blue globes are bounding about the back garden. I have never seen such a night. Here comes the Prince.

[_Enter PONSCH, conscience-stricken; all bow._

_Ponsch_. I am not melancholy, but I have hardly any hair. Let the Play commence!

_Curtain of Marionnette Show rises; a Clown is seen chasing a butterfly._

_A Councillor_. Oh! oh! oh! [_Uproar; the Clown and Butterfly are withdrawn. A Skeleton appears on the Stage, and dances his head and limbs off in a blue light._

_Ponsch_ (_rising_). That was done purposely! You are driving at something. Confess it! Is there no topic more cheerful? I cannot bear it any longer!

[_Knocks down DJOË with his staff. A combat, during which DJOË several times obtains possession of the weapon, and wounds PONSCH. N.B.--Note the striking resemblance here to the similar, but very inferior, Scenes in "Hamlet."_

_The Dutch Dolls_ (_running about_). Both of them bleeding already! There's blood on the walls already! Already blood on the walls! (&c.).

_The Bedell_. The Prince has slain DJOË. Take him into custody.

[_PONSCH strikes the Bedell down._

_The B._ Ha! ha! ha! (_Tries to rise--but is struck again_). Ha! ha! (_PONSCH strikes once more._) Ha!

[_The Bedell dies; a draught enters under the door and blows out two of the candles; a thunderbolt is heard coming down-stairs, and the Ghost of JÖDI suddenly appears from behind a tapestry representing "The Finding of Moses."_

_Ponsch_ (_to Ghost_). Have you any hearse-plumes at hand? Do not be angry with me. Can you hear my teeth? I am only a poor little old man. Will you please undo my necktie? (_cf. "King Lear"_). Let us go to breakfast. Will there be muffins for breakfast?

[_Exit, leaning heavily on Ghost's arm._

_The Dutch Dolls_ (_with conviction_). One more such night as this, and all our heads would have gone bald!

SAMPLE No. III.--_The Courtyard with a scaffold and gibbet. A blood-red moon is sailing amid the currant-bushes, and a shower of stars proceeds uninterruptedly. PONSCH discovered looking through the fatal noose._

_Djakketch_ (_the Court Executioner_). Can you see anything through the loop?

_Ponsch_. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere.

_Djak._ No; we are probably above the heads of the audience. But can't you distinguish Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE?

_Ponsch_. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. SHAKSPEARE anywhere.

_Djak._ Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can you see nothing?

_Ponsch_. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green.

_Djak._ Ay, ay! A Bayswater 'bus. They _are_ green. But don't you see any of the general public?

_Ponsch_. I can see Mr. WILLIAM ARCHER, and some new Critics, and unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with books of the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets.

_Djak._ This is wonderful. No more errand-boys with baskets?

_Ponsch_. No more small children with babies!

_Djak._ No more small children? Do pray let _me_ look. (_PONSCH retires, and DJAKKETCH puts his head through the loop._) Oh, I can see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have all been bored to death!

_Ponsch_. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little, and I will fondle you. [_Pulls the cord towards himself._

_Djak._ Oh, what have you put round my neck? Oh me! You are going to ... oh, you _are_!

_Ponsch_. Oh, I _am_!

_Djak._ Then--oh!

_Ponsch_. Oh!

[_Exeunt all, except DJAKKETCH, who ceases kicking gradually. A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the corner; a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows._

FINIS.

* * * * *

HORACE IN LONDON.

TO A CRUSTED OLD PORT. (_AD AMPHORAM_.)

Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me, Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me, Or passions that witch and defy us, Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious.

Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it--an Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan, Befitting, whate'er be its label, You, my good host, and the guest at your table.

Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age, Dare you presume to resist such a beverage? Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue, Never imagined its vintage could hurt you.

Liquor like this from a bottle whose crust is whole, Liquor like this rubs the rust from the rusty soul; The faddist it mellows: the private Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at.

Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis; Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is, Yes, Poverty, such a spell under, Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder.

Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to Bacchus, the _Pas-de-trois_ Graces, and Venus too, With all of that classical ilk, man-- Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.

* * * * *

THE "TA-RA-RA" BOOM.

(_BY OUR OWN MELANCHOLY MUSER._)

I am shrouded in impenetrable _gloom_-de-ay, For I feel I'm being driven to my _doom_-de-ay, By an aggravating ditty Which I don't consider witty; And they call the horrid thing, "Ta-ra-ra-_boom-de-ay_!"

Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and _groom_-de-ay, City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with _broom_-de-ay Makes my nervous system bristle As he tries to sing or whistle That atrocious and absurd "Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!"

So I sit in the seclusion of my _room_-de-ay, And deny myself to all--no matter _whom_-de-ay-- For I dread a creature coming Whose involuntary humming May assume the fatal form, "Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!"

Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses _bloom_-de-ay, You will read upon a well-appointed _tomb_-de ay:-- "Influenza never lick'd him, But he fell an easy victim To that universal scourge--'Ta-ra-ra-_boom_-de-ay!'"

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.