Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

September 3, 1892.

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NOT GOING AWAY FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

_Cookson Gaze, Q.C._ Because MARIA votes Eastbourne vulgar, and the girls (sorry now I sent them to that finishing-school at Clapham) laugh so consumedly whenever I open my mouth to address a native if we go to Trouville or Dinard.

_C. Jumper_. Because the Governor thinks three days in the year enough for anybody.

_Eastend Dr._ Because that fiver will just give little SALLY the breath of sea-air she wants, and she'll never make a good cure unless she has it.

_Reg. Rake_. Because wife says she shall certainly accompany me.

_Barmaid_. Because I've just been ill for a fortnight from overwork, and the Company say they can't give any more leave.

_Eastend Clergyman_ (_of any church._) Because there are hundreds who want it more than I do, and I must help them to get a change first.

_Major Hornblower_. Because MACCRACSHOTT (the only man who has asked me) was in the smoking-room the night I was fool enough to tell that Snipe and Rhinoceros Story of PEYTON's in the first person.

_Quiverful_. Because there's another pair.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON AN OLD CRICKETER'S TOMBSTONE.--"Out at 70."

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MUSICAL NOTES.

_Popping a Question._--The _Daily News_, in its last week's "Music and Musicians," informs us that "Mr. CHAPPELL has now definitely decided that the season of Monday Popular Concerts shall this year commence on a Tuesday." Sure then it must be Mister O'CHAPPELL, the CHAPPELL by the hill-side, who arranges to have his first "Monday Pop" on a Tuesday? If he be going out shooting on his own native heath, his name O'CHAPPELL, then there's no reason why he shouldn't have his first pop on a Tuesday, only it couldn't be his Monday Pop, could it now? Or if he drinks _Mr. P.'s_ health in Pommery '80 (_grand vin!_), or let's say Poppery '80, he could do so on a Tuesday, only it would no longer be the "Monday Pop." That's all. Sure 'tis mighty confusing and upsets the week entirely. If Tuesday is to have all the Pop, what's to become of Monday? For further particulars inquire at the Pop-shop, Bond Street.

The next great Musical Event is at the Gloucester Festival--it is Dr. HUBERT PARRY "on the Job." This, though the work of a thoroughly English Composer, may yet be considered as an "_Article de Parry_."

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"MARS IN OPPOSITION."--"Mother says I mustn't."

* * * * *

THIS PICTURE AND THAT.

(_EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A LOVER OF THE BEAUTIFUL._)

_First Extract_.--Really an excellent notion to buy an estate, instead of picking up what Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING calls a "smeared thing." Got one, too, pretty cheap. Twenty miles from a railway station, but so much the better. RUSKIN hates railway stations, and so do I. Never can make them look picturesque. The Agent tells me my place is famous for its sunsets; also good moonlight effects on occasions. Pretty village, too, in the background. Altogether, most satisfactory. After all, Nature is much better than Art.

_Second Extract_.--Dullerton-on-the-Slush is a charming spot, but it has its drawbacks. Pretty, but damp. Fog interferes a good deal with the sunsets, and hides the moon at the wrong moment. Village deliciously out of repair. But tenants unreasonable. Offered to put up some red brick roofs for them, which would have looked charming, but they insist upon having slates. Wish they would consent to having a few cows in the fields, but they say they prefer pigstyes. Have consulted a builder and a gardener, and they think that they could "run up" a stye between them, and cover it over with shrubs. Tenants object. They say the pigs would not like it, and might eat the shrubs with fatal results. All this annoying, but still the view from my dining-room window charming. It reminds me not a little of CONSTABLE, LINNELL, not to say Old CROME.

_Third Extract_.--Further troubles. Tenants are really very disagreeable, and they have no feeling for Art. They have cut down a lot of ornamental trees, and they won't grow the right sort of crops,--I mean from a picturesque point of view. As agriculturists they may be all right, but that's not my point. I did not buy the estate to try how "roots" would thrive. Then they will burn weeds, and hang out clothes to dry--clothes without any regard to contrast of colour. Eyesores meet me everywhere. I am really not sure whether I acted wisely in trusting to a House-agent instead of a Picture-dealer. "Pictures by Nature" are not as reliable as they should be.

_Fourth Extract_.--This is really too bad! A perambulating Circus has pitched its tent on the Village Green! When I say tent, I make a mistake; it is a beastly ugly iron thing, that looks simply hideous, and from the durable stoutness of its construction, it evidently is going to be a fixture for some time. My tenants support the Circus people, and my Agent tells me, that if I interfere, my life will be made a burden to me. It appears my tenants are "a very unruly lot when they are irritated." Pleasant!

_Fifth Extract_.--The Circus won't go. And now I find I can't get any of my rents. My agent tells me, that my tenants never would settle with their last landlord. Besides, they expect me to pay for the damage done to their dwellings by the floods. They say it was my fault, because I would put up a bank and plantation in my back garden. Only light in the general gloom is, the prospect my Agent holds out to me of getting rid of the property for me to another lover of the picturesque. Scarcely fair; but after all, or rather before all, must take care of Number One.

_Last Extract_.--Hurray! Sold my estate to another fellow. However, on looking over my accounts, I fancy I should have found it cheaper if, in the first instance, I had bought a chromo lithograph!

* * * * *

EPITAPH.--An Alpining Traveller sends us, on the "Bär" Hotel lately destroyed at Grindelwald, the following adapted and reversified quotation:--

"Good-bye to the Bär-- And it's moaning" we are!

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* * * * *

SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

NO. I.--DISORGANISED.

Still in London now you'll find me, Still detained against my will; And I wish, distinctly, mind me, To accentuate the "_still_;" It's a sort of consolation, As I sit, and fume, and frown, That the greatest botheration Of my life is out of town.

He who used to grind "_She Wore a Wreath of Roses_" every day, And "Selections from _Dinorah_," And--"_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay_." With his execrable smiling, And exasperating din, Must, I needs infer, be riling Some one else with grind and grin.

He who seemed, in fact, delighted, And a kiss--the fiend!--would blow, When I got a bit excited, And exclaimed "_Al Diavolo_!" Who, with unabashed assurance, Only beamed the more, and kissed, If, incensed beyond endurance, In his face I shook my fist.

He has earned his little outing, This excruciating cove, And his instrument is flouting Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove. For the moment I can get a Peaceful interim, and free-- But he cherishes vendetta, This Italian count, to me.

Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder, Had he ne'er relaxed his track; He'll return, that grinning grinder, Reinvigorated, back! Then, as I remarked before, a Spell of doom for me remains, With "Selections from _Dinorah_," And his other worse refrains.

* * * * *

WHY I DON'T GO OUT OF TOWN, FOR THE AUTUMN?--Because I've been pretty well everywhere, but always _quite_ well in London.

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* * * * *

THE GERMAN WATERS.

A promenade with tongues alive That every phrase of OLLENDORFF use; And "_Luther's Hymn_" at half-past five To drag you from the arms of Morpheus; Fat Germans in their awful "Fracks," Pale Frenchmen, too, a bit _décolletés_, And dapper Britons with attacks Of livers and digestions faulty.

A garden fair with "Quellen" foul-- _Ach, Himmel_! How they taste those "Quellen"! Then rolls and coffee, next a prowl Among the shops with JANE or ELLEN; The mid-day meal at _table d'hôte_, All windows closed--a climate hellish!-- With dishes too crackjaw to quote, And sometimes difficult to relish.

An afternoon of drowsy drives-- How these poor foreigners love driving To places where, when one arrives, There's nought for which it's worth arriving!-- A "Belvedere"--like Primrose Hill, A "Gartenhaus," tobacco-scented; Yet there they smoke, and moon, and swill, Quite adipose, and self-contented.

A "Kursaal," very large, and fine; A Theatre, small, and shabby-splendid; More beer, more music, ditto wine (This latter can be much commended). The Military (each salutes!) With HANNCHEN on their arm or MARIE; I wonder where they get those boots-- I mean, of course, the Military.

Lawn-Tennis and an "English Club," Frequented now by Lords and Princes, Where every snobling likes to rub His elbows with a Peer, who winces; The tittle-tattle of the cliques, Some half-proposals for our daughters-- Such is the life that makes for weeks A fortune--for the German Waters!

* * * * *

CHOOSING HIS WORDS.

(_MADE IN GERMANY._)

According to the _Hochliche Zeitung_, His Imperial Majesty said that although the sky was apparently cloudless, the atmosphere might be charged with electricity. He knew what that electricity denoted. There were thunderbolts in the clouds and thunderbolts on earth. Those on earth meant war and invasion. He warned those who threatened the Fatherland, that there were a million of swords ready to spring forth from a million of scabbards. It was well enough to be neighbourly when those who lived in your vicinity were benevolently inclined. But when they showed a disposition to be offensive, then it was necessary to sharpen your swords and keep your power dry. They had already conquered France, and were not afraid of Russia. Besides, the Army contained young soldiers who would be the better for a real campaign. He himself had no objection to visiting Paris and St. Petersburg, as a German Emperor should--at the head of a German Army. Still he might again remark, it was splendid weather, he saw nothing but blue sky.

According to the _Nichtgeboren Zeitung_, His Imperial Majesty said that, although the sky was apparently cloudless, he recognised dangers a-head. He was willing to put himself forward as the Leader of the toilers. It was their duty to secure the best possible constitution, and then to force that constitution upon all neighbouring people, if needs be, at the point of the bayonet. He was not an alarmist, and said exactly what he meant. He had no wish to beat about the bush. War was the Hand-servant of Peace, and the sooner that servant came back the better. He did not wish to threaten, but he told Russia and France that Germany was ready to begin, when and where they chose to meet him. But he might again remark it was splendid weather, and he saw nothing but blue sky.

_Authorised Version_ (_all others declared to be misleading and inaccurate_).--His Imperial Majesty merely observed that it was a fine day.

* * * * *

ON BOARD A YACHT.--The conversation at lunch-time had turned on recent publications. A learned Theban from Oxford inquired of the Skipper, if he had seen the "_Rig-Veda_." "What sort of Rig's that?" asked the Skipper, a bit puzzled. But the Oxonian wisely declined a rigmarole explanation, and told him that all further inquiries must be made to Professor MAX MÜLLER.

* * * * *

FEELING THEIR WAY.

(_A STUDY IN THE ART OF GENTEEL CONVERSATION._)

SCENE--_The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. Time--evening. Mrs. ARDLEIGH (of Balham), and Mrs. ALLBUTT (of Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery._

_Mrs. Allbutt._ You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the butter in the pan, make a paste of it with _dry_ flour.

_Mrs. Ardleigh._ It sounds delicious--but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.

_Mrs. All._ I never _do_. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now _some_ men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband _does_.

_Mrs. Ard._ I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure _I_ should never--

_Mrs. All._ Oh, it takes time, of course--but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?--because that's a _great_ improvement!

_Mrs. Ard._ I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything--and that's eggs.

_Mrs. All._ (_with elegant languor_). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm _very_ fond of--_fried_, that is.

_Mrs. Ard._ They're very nice done in the real shells. Or on scollops. We have silver--or rather--(_with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour_), silver-plated ones.

_Mrs. All._ How funny--so have we! (_Both women feel an increase of liking for one another._) I like them cooked in milk, too.

[_The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments._

_Mrs. Ard._ My doctor _does_ do me good, I must say--he never lets me get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.

_Mrs. All._ That's like _my_ doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time. That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_feeling that Mrs. ALLBUTT can't be "anybody very particular" after all_). What--to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired of it? I should.

_Mrs. All._ (_with dignity_). I didn't say I always went to Margate. On the contrary I have never been here before, and shouldn't be here now, if my doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_reassured_). I only came down here on my little girl's account. One of those nasty croopy coughs, you know, and hoops with it. But she's almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air. Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet a soul one knows!

_Mrs. All._ Well, that's the charm of it--to me. One has enough of that during the Season.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_recognising the superiority of this view_). Indeed one has. What a whirl it has been to be sure!

_Mrs. All._ The Season? Why, I never remember one with so little doing. Most of the best houses closed--hardly a single really smart party--one or two weddings--and that's positively all!

_Mrs. Ard._ (_slightly crushed, in spite of a conviction that--socially speaking--Balham has been rather more brilliant than usual this year._) Yes, that's very true. I suppose the Elections have put a stop to most things?

_Mrs. All._ There never was much going on. _I_ should rather have said it was Marlborough House being shut up that made everything so dull from the first.

_Mrs. Ard._ Ah, that _does_ make such a difference, doesn't it? (_She feels she must make an effort to recover lost ground._) I fully expected to be at Homburg this year.

_Mrs. All._ Then you would have met Lady NEURALINE MENTHOL She _was_ ordered there, I happen to know.

_Mrs. Ard._ Really, you don't say so? Lady NEURALINE! Well, that's the first _I've_ heard of it. (_It is also the first time she has heard of HER, but she trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission._)

_Mrs. All._ It's a fact, I can assure you. You know her, perhaps?

_Mrs. Ard._ (_who would dearly like to say she does, if she only dared_). Well, I can hardly say I exactly _know_ her. I know _of_ her. I've met her about, and so on. (_She tells herself this is quite as likely to be true as not._)

_Mrs. All._ (_who, of course, does not know Lady NEURALINE either_). Ah, she is a most delightful person--requires _knowing_, don't you know.

_Mrs. Ard._ So many in her position do, don't they? (_So far as she is concerned--they ALL do._) You'd think it was haughtiness--but it's really only _manner_.

_Mrs. All._ (_feeling that she can go ahead with safety now_). I have never found anything of _that_ sort in Lady NEURALINE myself (_which is perfectly true_). She's rather odd and flighty, but _quite_ a dear. By the way, _how_ sad it is about those poor dear CHUTNEYS--the Countess, don't you know!

_Mrs. Ard._ Ah (_as if she knew all the rest of the family_), I don't know _her_ at all.

_Mrs. All._ Such a sweet woman--but the trouble she's had with her eldest boy, Lord MANGO! He married quite beneath him, you know, some girl from the provinces--not a county-family girl even.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_shocked_). Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!

_Mrs. All._ No; somebody quite common--I forget the name, but it was either GHERKIN or ONION, or something of that sort. I was told they had been in Chili a good while. Poor MANGO never had much taste, or he would never have got mixed up with such a set. Anyway, he's got himself into a terrible pickle. I hear Capsicums is actually to be sold to pay his debts.

_Mrs. Ard._ You don't say so! Capsicums! Gracious!

_Mrs. All._ Yes, _isn't_ it a pity! Such a lovely old place as it was, too--_the_ most comfortable house to stay at in all England; so beautifully _warm_! But it's dreadful to think of how the aristocracy are taking to marry out of their own set. Look at the Duke of DRAGNET--married a Miss DUCKWEED--goodness only knows where he picked her up! but he got entangled somehow, and now his people are trying to get rid of her. I see so many of these cases. Well, I'm afraid I must wish you good evening--it's my time for retiring. (_Patronisingly._) I've quite enjoyed this conversation--such a pleasure in a place like this to come across a congenial companion!

_Mrs. Ard._ (_fluttered and flattered_). I'm sure you're exceedingly kind to say so, and I can say the same for myself. I hope we may become better acquainted. (_To herself, after Mrs. ALLBUTT has departed._) I've quite taken to that woman--she's so thoroughly the lady, and moves in very high society, too. You can tell that from the way she talks. What's that paper oil the table? (_She picks up a journal in a coloured wrapper.) Society Snippets, the Organ of the Upper Ten. One Penny._ The very thing I wanted. It's such a comfort to know who's who. (_She opens it and reads sundry paragraphs headed "Through the Keyhole."_) Now how funny this is! Here's the very same thing about the dulness of the Season that she said. That shows she must be really in it. And a note about Lady NEURALINE being about to recruit at Homburg. And another about her reputation for eccentricity, and her "sweetness to the select few privileged to be her intimates." And here's all about Lord MANGO, and what a pleasant house Capsicums is, and his marriage, and the Duke of DRAGNET's too. Her information was very correct, I must say! (_A light begins to break in upon her._) I wonder whether--but there--people of her sort wouldn't require to read the papers for such things.

[_Here the door opens, and Mrs. ALLBUTT appears, in some embarrassment._

_Mrs. All._ (_scrutinising the tables_). Oh, it's nothing. I thought I'd left something of mine here; it was only a paper--I see I was mistaken, don't trouble.

_Mrs. Ard._ (_producing Society Snippets_). I expect it will be this. (Mrs. ALLBUTT's face _reveals her ownership_.) I took it up, not knowing it was yours. (_Meaningly._) It has some highly interesting information, I see.

_Mrs. All._ (_slightly demoralised_). Oh, has it? I--I've not had time to glance at it yet. Pray don't let me deprive you of it. I dare say there's very little in it I don't know already.

_Mrs. Ard._ So I should have thought. (_To herself, after Mrs. ALLBUTT has retired in disorder._) Fancy that woman trying to take me in like that, and no more in Society than I am--if so much! However, I've found her out before going too far--luckily. And I've a good mind to take in this _Society Snippets_ myself--it certainly does improve one's conversation. She won't have it _all_ her own way _next_ time!

* * * * *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

NO. IX.--"IN THE MORNING."

The Music-hall Muse, if not exactly impeccably moral, is, at least, good at moralising. Not only to topers, Totties, larky Benedicts and spreeish servant-maids, is there pregnant meaning in the warning words "But oh! what a difference in the morning!!!" As may thus--_pace_ "NORTON ATKINS" and "FELIX MCGLENNON"--be made manifest:--

AIR--"_IN THE MORNING!_"

I'd sing of the singular triumphs we see, At night, at night! In Politics, Pleasure, Love, Art, L.S.D., At night, at night! The "Johnnies" of Sport and the "Oof-birds" of Cash, The Statesmen who shine, and the Beauties who mash, Are in champagny spirits and cut quite a dash, At night, at night! But oh! don't their hearts ache, In the morning? Then cometh disillusion and self-scorning. Things look their natural size Unto hot awaking eyes, For no gingerbread is gilded, In the morning!

A Premier potent may perorate free, At night, at night! And pretty Primrosers will shout and agree, At night, at night! He'll say those brave Orangemen Home Rule will quash, He'll hint that raised Tariffs trade rivals must smash, And his eloquence sounds neither rabid nor rash, At night, at night! But oh! what a difference In the morning! He vows he merely meant a friendly warning, But fuss and fad 'twill boom. And his colleagues growl with gloom O'er the "_Times_" upon their tables, In the morning!

Observe what the Specials call "News of the Day" At night, at night! The Dalziel Telegrams startle, and slay, At night, at night! There's war in the East, or the CZAR is laid low, Financiers have failed--Fifty Millions or so!-- Or they've found Jack the Ripper in far Jericho, At night, at night! But oh, what a difference In the morning! Those Latest Wires were lies, small facts adorning. "It is not as we stated, For the cable's mutilated," And "we hear 'tis contradicted" In the morning!