Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

July 23, 1892.

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TO A SUMMER FLOWER.

Oh, lovely flower sent from afar, Like sunlight to this world of ours, What art thou but a golden star, A priceless gem amongst the flowers?

Alas, all earthly things must die, Thou, too, fair yellow flower must fade, Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye, Upon the breast of some fair maid!

Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate, Unlike the lily or the rose, Thou passest to a higher state When in sad death thy petals close:

For then thine outward form, grown pale Is changed to what, at first scarce seen, Is still thyself, so fair, so frail, A little fruit of tender green!

When quite matured, how very choice Thy juicy flavour; who can then Sing all thy worth with mortal voice, Or write thy praise with mortal pen.

There, take it gently from the ground, O costermonger, to thy barrow, And shout, with loud discordant sound, The praise of Vegetable Marrow!

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ROE, BLOATER'S-ROE.

Faintly it wakes at the even chime, The appetite long past its prime. The supper-room at the Club looks dim. What shall I "peck" for an epicure's whim? Roe, Bloater's Roe! That's the brief repast To tickle the palate, to break the fast!

They may prate of the pleasures of "early purl," Of the frizzled rasher's seductive curl, But, when I fear I can munch no more, When the thought of banquets becomes a bore, Roe, Bloater's Roe, upon toast they cast, And nausea's fled, and repletion's past!

Yes Bloater's Roe--upon toast. Ah, boon! That stayeth satiety, late or soon. Best of _bonnes bouches_, that all seasons fits! The tenderest tickler of all tit-bits! Roe, Bloater's Roe! O _chef_, grill fast, And prepare my palate its pet repast!

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ONE FORM OF A "SHELLEY MEMORIAL."--Awful indigestion the morning after a Lobster Supper.

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FROM DAY TO DAY.

(_A STUDY IN POLITICAL JOURNALISM, FROM SOME OF THE MORNING PAPERS._)

NO. I.

To-day, the first pollings of the General Election take place, and the electors will be called upon to decide one of the most momentous issues that have ever been submitted to the judgment of the country. For ourselves, we cannot doubt for a moment as to what the verdict will be. It is impossible that a policy of empty promises, backed by mere misrepresentation, should prevail against a glorious record of administrative, legislative, and financial success. Careful calculations have convinced us that those who now hold the reins of office will return to power with a largely increased majority, to continue their beneficent work. The country recognises by this time that anything short of that would mean disaster to the commonwealth. Even with a small majority, the forces of disorder would be able to work untold mischief. Such a result, however, is not within the bounds of possibility, seeing that the Election will be fought purely and simply on the Irish question, which has been placed fully before the electorate in all its bearings. Our organisation is perfect, and our triumph assured.

NO. II. (_THREE DAYS LATER_.)

We are constrained to admit that, so far, the result of the Elections has not come up to the confident anticipations of our Party. Seats have been lost that ought to have been retained. On the other hand, we have failed to win seats that we had a right to count upon as certainties. It is not easy to apportion the responsibility for failure. Over-confidence and a consequent want of energy may have had something to do with it; but the chief reason is to be found in the disgracefully defective organisation of the Party. The story is an old one. We have ourselves deemed it our duty to lay this aspect of the case before the Leaders of the Party, but our repeated warnings have been unheeded, and the necessary consequences have followed. Our opponents, however, have not much to congratulate themselves upon. The Irish question has been kept studiously in the back-ground, and the results, so far as they have gone, only prove conclusively that there is no diminution whatever in the dislike with which the majority of the electorate regard the proposals of the party of disorder. We are far from saying that even now we shall lose the Election. Everything may yet be retrieved. But, even should the result be numerically favourable to the Opposition, they will be powerless for mischief with the small majority which is all they are likely to get.

NO. III. (_A WEEK LATER_.)

The Elections are now nearing an end, and it is possible to summarise the results. It is not surprising that our opponents should be reduced to the lowest depths of despair. They counted with the utmost certainty on a majority of two hundred. But, as matters stand, it is out of the question that their preponderance should exceed fifty. Where are now the confident boastings with which they inaugurated the campaign? They have confused the judgment of the electors with every kind of side-issue. Misrepresentations have been sown broadcast, and have, in too many instances, succeeded. But the great heart of the country is still sound. Votes must be weighed as well as counted, and it is safe to assume that, with a paltry and heterogeneous majority of merely fifty, the advocates of revolution will be reduced to impotence, even if they can succeed in forming a Government at all. The result is one on which our Party may well congratulate themselves. They have worked hard, and the solid fruit of their efforts is now within their reach. We may safely say that the Irish policy of our opponents has received its death-blow.

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"There he blows! There he goes!" Like a Titan in throes, With his wallopping tail, and his wave-churning nose, The spouting Cetacean Colossus! Eh? Harpoon that Monster! The thought makes one pale, With one thundering thwack of that thumping big tail, To the skies in small splinters he'd toss us!

Rolling in foaming wild billows, ice-laden He goes, like the "boisterous sea" (_vide_ HADYN!) "Upheaved from the deep," swift, tremendous, Leviathan sports on the far-foaming wave. If _he_ runs athwart us, what power shall save, From the doom to which promptly he'd send us?

His "soundings," or "diggings," are many and deep; But would that his "three-hundred fathoms" he'd keep, Below in the ocean's cold quiet. But no, not at all; he's not _that_ sort of whale! He must breathe, he must blow, he must roar, till the gale Is charged with the sound of his riot.

Leviathan loves the wild turmoil of strife, And lashing the billows to him is true life; Behold how he buffets and scourges them! Chase him? The Captain (though also a Kaiser), Might think that his course to avoid him were wiser, Until sheer necessity urges them.

And yet whales _are_ beaten--by narwhals and men, And other mere pigmies. 'Tis said, now and then, E'en sword-fish can compass their ruin, By stabbing together--in _Cassius's_ way With _Cæsar_. Leviathan, dead, is a prey To dog-fish, and sea-birds, or Bruin.

There he blows! There he goes! Would an amateur Whaler, Like WILHELM, that fine blend of Statesman and Sailor, Incline to the chase and the capture Of such a huge, wandering, wallopping whale, To whom "Troubling the waters" with blow-holes and tail Seems a source of such riotous rapture?

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DUST AND HASHES.

SIR,--When I first took my present house, I was advised to get a Sanitary Dust-bin, instead of the old brick one which existed in my back-yard. One of the blessings predicted for my Sanitary Dust-bin, was, that it was "easily removable." I find this to be the case. It has already been removed by some area-sneak, and as I have got rid of the old brick dust-bin, the Vestry threaten to prosecute me for creating a nuisance, because my dust is now placed in a corner under my front steps. What am I to do?

AGGRIEVED HOUSEHOLDER.

SIR,--I find that the law recently passed against tips to Dustmen is quite unknown--at all events, to the Dustmen themselves. My servants, I find, go on freely bribing these functionaries, to remove bones and vegetable refuse. Their rate of tipping, as far as I can make out, is about a halfpenny per bone. If I were now to enforce the law and forbid tips, I foresee that the Dustcarts would have pressing business elsewhere, and would visit me about once a month. Then would follow a _régime_ of "big, big, D.s"--in the window--which would be intolerable. I prefer tipping to typhoid.

Yours long sufferingly, VICTIM OF THE VESTRIES.

SIR,--The Vestry is _quite right_ to insist on every house burning up its own odds and ends. The _true_ domestic motto is--"Every kitchen its own crematorium." I do this _habitually_, out of _public spirit_. It is true that a sickening odour permeates the house for an hour or two of every day, created by the combustion of dinner remnants; also that most of my family suffer from bad sore throats, which they attribute to this cause. What of that? The _truly good Citizen_ will prefer to poison himself rather than his neighbours.

A CLERKENWELL CATO.

SIR,--I recently purchased _Dodger's Digest of Dustbin Law_, and recommend it to the perusal of every householder. In the case of _The Vestry of Shoreditch_ v. _Grimes_, Lord Justice SLUSH remarks--"The Vestry complains that the Defendant's bin was improperly covered; that, in fact, it was not under coverture. To this the Defendant replies that his bin was void _ab initio_, as there was nothing in it. Then the question arises whether the Defendant's Cook was justified in tipping the Dustman into the empty bin, considering that the Legislature has distinctly forbidden tips of all kinds to Dustmen. I am of opinion that the Cook was the Defendant's agent, and that the rule of _qui facit per alium facit per se_ applies here. The Cook's proceeding was undoubtedly tortious; it was not a criminal action, though it certainly cannot be called a civil one. I agree with my brother CHIPPY that the _ratio decidendi_ must be, whether the Dustman, in coming to clean out an empty dust-bin, had a _malus animus_ or no. On all these points I hold that judgment must be for the Vestry." Your readers will see the importance of such clear _obiter dicta_.

Yours, AMATEUR LAWYER.

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THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

Soon on Piccadilly's pavement solitude once more will reign; Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season's on the wane; In Belgravia's lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down, For "the Family is gone, Sir,"--not a soul is left in Town.

South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell; North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and red-deer dwell; Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will view; For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."

Everyone is gone or going,--everyone, that is, one knows,-- And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close. Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls, Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its _fêtes_, With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates; Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities, Gone its _causes célèbres_ and scandals, gone its tears and tragedies.

Weary legislators envy still more weary _chaperons_;-- Much they know the truth who deem them of Society the drones;-- All the maidens are _ennuyées_, vow they "can't do anymore," All the gilded youth are yawning--everything's a horrid bore.

Hearken then, ye youths and maidens, favoured Children of the West, East and South and North are children, who are hungering for rest. They have never seen the country, never heard the streamlet flow: London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,--these they know.

Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side; They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide. From year's end to dreary year's end they must pace the noisy street. Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?

Just one day without your wine, Sir! Madam, just one ribbon less, And one wearied child in London from afar your name will bless. Think, ere now you seek your boredom in fresh pleasure-draughts to drown, Three or four benighted Millions still are left behind in Town!

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GENERAL OPINION ON APPOINTMENT OF NEW CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD OF INLAND REVENUE.--"MILNER's Safe."

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CANVASSERS AND CANVASSED.

(_AN ELECTIONEERING REMINISCENCE._)

SCENE--_A narrow South London Street of two-storeyed houses, with a Rag-and-Bone Shop at one end and a Public House at the other. Time, about four o'clock on a warm Saturday afternoon. Enter Mr. CARLTON-JERMYN, a middle-aged gentleman, in faultless get-up, who, in a moment of weakness, has undertaken to canvass the district for his friend, the Conservative Candidate._

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself, as he regards his surroundings with dismay, and tries to arrange his canvassing-cards_). I suppose this _is_ Little Anna Maria Street? I didn't understand at the Committee Rooms that it was _quite_ such a--however, I must do my best for dear old TILNEY. Who's the first man I must see and "use my best endeavours to persuade him into promising his vote?" Ah, Mr. J. SPLURGE, No. 1. (_He picks his way delicately along, attempting to make out the numbers on the doors, which are all thrown back; female residents watch him from doorsteps and windows with amused interest._) No. 5; No. 3; the next is No. 1. (_It is; but the entrance is blocked by a small infant with a very dirty face, who is slung in a baby-chair between the door-posts._) Very embarrassing, really! Can't ask such a child as this if Mr. SPLURGE is at home! I'll knock. (_Stretches for the knocker across the child, who, misinterpreting his intentions, sets up a howl._) My good child, I assure you ... for Heaven's sake, don't!... I--I wonder whether I ought to _kiss_ it--some fellows would!

_Female Voice_ (_from side-window_). You leave that pore child alone, will yer--or I'll come out and _tork_ to you, d'y'ear?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself_). That's _Mrs._ SPLURGE! I think, perhaps, I'd better _not_ wait. (_With an inspiration._) I'll leave a card. (_Drops one of his visiting-cards in the child's lap--to its exceeding terror--and retreats._) I'm _afraid_ I haven't produced a very favourable impression, so far, I'll try No. 2, across the street. (_He approaches a doorstep upon which two stout and dishevelled Women are seated._) Er--I _beg_ your pardon, but could you kindly inform me if Mr.--er--(_consulting card_)--GUFFIN is at home?

_First Woman_ (_with sarcasm_). Now _do_ yer think he's nothink else to do but set indoors in a arm-cheer all day?

_Mr. C.-J._ I--I thought--I hoped--that, it being Saturday, I might be--er--fortunate enough--have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. GUFFIN? [_Both Women are convulsed with uncontrollable mirth._

_Second Woman_ (_on recovering--calling down the passage_). 'Ere, Mrs. GUFFIN, yer wanted. 'Ere's a gentleman come to see yer!

_Mrs. Guffin_ (_appearing from the basement, and standing at the further end of the passage_). Well, what does _he_ want?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_raising his hat, and sending his voice down the passage to her_). I ventured to call, Mrs. GUFFIN, in the hope of finding your husband at home, and ascertaining his--er--political sympathies, in view of the Election.

_Mrs. Guffin._ Oh, it's about the voting, is it? Are you for a Conservatory?

_Mr. C.-J._ For a--? Oh, to be sure, yes. I came to ask Mr. GUFFIN to support Sir TILNEY BRUTON, the Conservative Candidate. Perhaps if I called again, I might--?

_Mrs. Guffin_ (_in a matter-of-fact tone_). I don't expect my 'usband 'ome till late, and then he'll be drunk.

_Mr. C.-J._ Just so. But I trust, Mrs. GUFFIN, your husband feels the importance of maintaining the Union--?

_Mrs. Guffin._ He _did_ belong, I know, but I think his branch broke up, or somethink.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_puzzled_). Ah, but I mean in--er--politics--I hope he is opposed to granting Home Rule to Ireland?

_Mrs. G._ He don't tell _me_ nothing about his politics, but I've 'eard him say he was Radikil.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_diplomatically, as Mrs. G. slowly edges towards the door_). Might I suggest, Mrs. GUFFIN, that you should use the--er--influence which every woman possesses, to--er--induce your husband--(_here he suddenly becomes aware that Mrs. GUFFIN has a very pronounced black eye_); but perhaps I ought not to ask you.

_Mrs. G._ Well, _my_ opinion is--if you want someone to tork over my 'usband to your side, you'd better come and do it yourself; because _I_ ain't goin' to. So there! [_She retires to the basement again._

_First Dish. W._ If you toffs can't do nothink better than come 'ere makin' mischief between a man and his wife, you'd better stop at 'ome, _that_ you 'ad!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself_). Upon my word, I believe she's right! But I never noticed the poor woman's eye before. I wish I could find one of the _men_ in, and have a talk with him--much more satisfactory! (_Knocks at No. 4_) Is Mr. BULCHER at home?

_Mr. B._ (_lurching out of a room on the ground-floor_). Qui' c'rect, Guv'nor--thash me!

_Mr. C.-J._ I wanted to see you, Mr. BULCHER, to ask if we may count upon your support for the Conservative Candidate at the Election. I need hardly point out to you the--er--vital importance of--

_Mr. B._ (_slouching against the passage-wall, opposite Mr. C.-J._). 'Old on, Guv'nor, lemme ashk you thish question, 'fore we go any furrer. Wharriwanter 'ear from _you_ is--'Ow 'm I goin' git little bit o' good outer thesh 'lections for myshelf. You unnershtand me? What good Conshervative gov'men' ever done er workin' man--d' yer shee? Why, never--not in all their born daysh! You take that shtraight from me.

_Mr. C.-J._ But surely--er--it was a Conservative Government that gave you Free Education?

_Mr. B._ (_knowingly_). No, it washn't, Guv'nor. There yer wrong, d'yer see? It wash er _Radicals_ give us Free Education. And whatsh Free Education er me? Wouldn' say Thank yer f'rall Free Education in er wide world!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_recognising that he must strike a stronger chord_). Well, at all events you will admit that, during the last six years, you have been--er--peaceful and prosperous?

_Mr. B._ (_beerily_). I've been peashful and proshperous ever sinsh I was born. No, look 'ere, Guv'nr, I'm torken to you 'bout wharri _unnershtan'_, d'yer see? Jes' you lishen er wharri'm goin tell you. (_Here he punctuates his remarks by poking Mr. C.-J.'s ribs with a clay pipe._) Workin' man's gettin' more and more 'telligent every day--he'sh qui' capable lookin' after his own interests. What he wantch is, One Man One Vote, Redooced Hours o' Labour, 'Ome Rule for London, an' the Control of the Liquor Traffic! What did Misher GLADSHTONE say? Educated and 'telligent clashes alwaysh _wrong_--mashes always _ri'_! An' hain't _I_ 'telligent an' educated? Very _well_, then. There you _'ave_ it.

_Mr. C.-J._ But--er--don't you see, my friend, that, according to Mr. GLADSTONE, the more intelligent and educated you are, the more you're wrong?

_Mr. B._ Nothing of--er--kind. Don' you make any mishtake. _I_ ain't wrong. I gommy 'pinions--my p'litical 'pinions, and the prinshiples I go 'pon are--Down with--er--Tories!

_Mr. C.-J._ In that case, Mr. BULCHER, I need not occupy your time any longer, so I'll say--

_Mr. B._ (_buttonholing him_). Don' you go 'way, Guv'nor, 'fore I've finished torkin. I've lishened all _you_ gorrer say--now itsh _my_ turn talk, and I tell _you_ er Conshervative Gov'men ish a downri'--&c., &c.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_escaping, after ten minutes' incoherence_). I'm afraid he was not _quite_ in a condition to be argued with, but perhaps I shall do better with Mr. MOLESKIN, next door. (_To a small boy in passage._) Mr. MOLESKIN in, my lad?

_The Boy._ Father--_e's_ in. Go right up the stairs, and you'll find 'im.

[_Mr. C.-J. flounders up the narrow stairs, and is met at the top by a very burly and surly mechanic._

_Mr. Moleskin_. Now, then, what do _you_ want 'ere? (Mr. C.-J. _explains his object, in some confusion_.) Oh, that's it, is it? And what right ha' you got comin' up my stairs as if they belonged to you? Jest you tell me that!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_meekly_). I'm really very sorry--but I was--er--_shown_ up.

_Mr. M._ It's 'igh time you and the likes o' you _were_ shown up, in my opinion. 'Ow would you like to 'ave me comin' bustin' up _your_ stairs, eh?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_thinking that he wouldn't like it at all_). I assure you I quite feel that this is an unwarrantable intrusion on my part--I must ask you to accept my best apologies--but I should be very glad to know that we might count on your--er--support at such a national crisis.

_Mr. M._ I dessay yer would. But what I ask _you_ is--where does the secresy of the Ballot come in, if I'm to tell you which way I'm goin' to give my vote?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_in distress_). Pray believe that I should not dream of--er--forcing any confidence from you, or dictating to you in any way! I merely--

_Mr. M._ (_mollified_). Well, I don't mind tellin' yer this much:--I've made up _my_ mind long ago, and, when the time comes, I shall vote to please myself and nobody else; and that's as much as you've got any right to know!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_with a feeling that he would give much the same answer himself under similar circumstances_). Then I'm afraid it would be of no use if I said any more?

_Mr. M._ Not a bit o' use! [_He goes into his room again._

_Mrs. Moleskin_ (_coming out and addressing her son from landing_). 'Ere, JIMMY, you come in orf o' that doorstep, and don't you go showin' any _more_ folks up, or you don't know _oo'_ you may let in next!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_sadly, to himself, as he descends_). I'd no idea canvassing was such exhausting work. I--I really think I've done enough for one afternoon! [_Leaves Little Anna Maria Street--for ever!_

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