Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 104.

February 4, 1893.

* * * * *

LAMENT OF THE (WOULD-BE) IRISH EMIGRANT.

(_Latest Version, with apologies to Lady Dufferin._)

[Senator CHANDLER, in _The North-American Review_, recommends that immigration into the United States should be suspended, at least for a year.]

Oi'm sittin' on the stile, MARY, an' lookin' o'er the tide, An' by jabers Oi'm afraid, Aroon, that there Oi'll _have_ to bide! The grass is springin' fresh an' green in Ould Oireland, but oh moy! If there's any green in JONATHAN'S land, _it is not in his oi_!

The States are awful changed, MARY; it is not _now_ as _then_, When they lifted a free latch-string to all exiled Oirishmen. Now we miss the whoop ov welcome; they suggest it's loike our cheek, And Oi'm listenin' for brave LOWELL'S words--which CHANDLER does _not_ speak!

It seems to me their Aigle for full Freedom no more pants, And the Senator, he mutthers ov "degraded immigrants." Says they can't "assimilate" us; faix, the wurrud sounds monstrous foine, But Oi fancy that it's maning is, "We mane to draw the loine!"

Shure, we're "ignorant and debased," dear; and the poor won't now find friends Even in free Columbia! So 'tis thus the ould boast ends! "Stop 'em--for a year," says CHANDLER; "we'll be holding our Big Show, An' poverty, an'--well, Cholera, are not wanted _thin_, you know."

It's an artful move, my MARY, but, it stroikes me, a bit thin, And it won't come home consolin', to "the poor ov Adam's kin." Faix! they won't stop 'cabin passengers,' big-wigs, an' British Peerage, But--_they don't want the poor devils that crowd over in the steerage_!

So Oi'm sittin' on the stile, MARY, and there Oi'll loikely sthop, For they don't require poor PADDY in their big new CHANDLER'S Shop. Uncle SAM'S some punkins, MARY, but he's not a great green goose; An' he's goin' to sthop a braggin' ov that latch-string always loose!

* * * * *

MIXED NOTIONS--NO. IV. EGYPT.

_Two_ Well-Informed Men, _an_ Inquirer, _and an_ Average Man, _in suburban morning train to London_.

_First Well-Informed Man_ (_reading his paper_). Oh, I say, dash it, this'll never do. Here's this young KHEDIVE of Egypt kicking up a shine, and dismissing British Ministers. We can't have that, you know.

_Inquirer._ What Ministers has he dismissed?

_First W. I. M._ Why, British Ministers,--at least (_reading on_) I mean Egyptian Ministers; that's to say, chaps whom we appointed.

_Second W. I. M._ Come, come, we couldn't appoint Egyptian Ministers, could we?

_First W. I. M._ Oh, it comes to exactly the same thing; they're appointed subject to our proviso (_consulting paper_), yes, subject to our veto, and then this little whipper-snapper goes and gives them the chuck. He'll jolly soon have to climb down off that.

_Average Man._ Gently! The young chap's King, after all, isn't he? I thought Kings might appoint or dismiss Ministers as they liked.

_First W. I. M._ Oh, rot! The QUEEN can't appoint her own Ministers. We all know that. They're appointed by the Prime Minister. Any fool knows that.

_Inquirer._ But who appoints the Prime Minister?

_First W. I. M._ He appoints himself, and tells the QUEEN he's done it. They all go and kiss hands and get their seals, or something of that sort.

_Inquirer._ Of course, of course. I forgot that. But how about these Egyptian beggars?

_First W. I. M._ The KHEDIVE'S had the cheek to dismiss the Ministry, and shove another lot in. I see Lord CROMER has been to the Palace to protest.

_Inquirer._ Lord CROMER! Who's he?

_First W. I. M._ My dear fellow, fancy not knowing that! Lord CROMER'S our Ambassador at Cairo.

_Second W. I. M._ Oh, nonsense. There are no ambassadors at Cairo.

_First W. I. M._ Aren't there? Oh, indeed. Well, then perhaps you'll tell me what Lord CROMER is?

_Second W. I. M._ He's our Minister. That's what they call them.

_Inquirer._ Was it him the KHEDIVE dismissed, then?

_Second W. I. M._ (_laughing heartily_). No, no; we haven't got to that yet. He dismissed his own Johnnies, of course; Egyptians. Lord CROMER'S the English Minister.

_Average Man._ No, he isn't. He's the English Agent.

_Second W. I. M._ Oh, well, it's the same thing.

_First W. I. M._ (_taking his revenge_). No, it isn't at all the same thing; it's a very different thing. A Minister's only just short of an Ambassador, and an Agent (_pauses_)--well, he's something quite different. I don't think he gets as much pay for one thing, and of course he can't live in the Embassy.

_Inquirer._ But who does live in the Embassy, then?

_First W. I. M._ It's unoccupied, of course.

_Average Man._ No, it isn't. There isn't any Embassy at all. [_A pause._

_Inquirer_ (_returning to the charge_). But look here, who _is_ Lord CROMER? I never heard of him before. I thought we'd got BARING or ROTHSCHILD, or somebody representing us in Egypt.

_First W. I. M._ (_with smiling superiority_). My dear chap, you're thinking of Sir EVELYN BARING. He left Egypt long ago.

_Inquirer._ Why did he leave?

_First W. I. M._ Old GLADSTONE gave him the sack.

_Second W. I. M._ No, he didn't. GLADSTONE wasn't in power when BARING left Egypt. It was SALISBURY who dismissed him.

_First W. I. M._ I bet you a sov. it was GLADSTONE.

_Second W. I. M._ And I bet you a sov. it was SALISBURY.

_Average Man._ You'll both lose. It was neither.

_First W. I. M._, _Second W. I. M._ (_together_). Bosh! That's impossible.

_Average Man._ It's a fact.

_First W. I. M._ (_triumphant_). Well, how do you account for his not being there now?

_Average Man._ He is there.

_First W. I. M._ He isn't. Lord CROMER'S there. Here it is. (_Producing Times._) "Lord CROMER has protested in person." So come!

_Average Man._ All right. I know all that. Only, unfortunately, they're one and the same person.

_First W. I. M._, _Second W. I. M._ (_together_). Oh, I daresay; and you think we're going to swallow that. You tell that to your Grandmother! [_Both remain absolutely unconvinced._

_Inquirer._ But what's this about the French? What have they got to do with it?

_Second W. I. M._ Oh, they've got their fingers in every pie; always making mischief.

_First W. I. M._ Quite true; but they'll find we're going to sit tight in spite of them, so the sooner they cart themselves and their blessed old Pyramids out of the country the better.

_Inquirer._ Why should they take the Pyramids?

_First W. I. M._ Well, they built 'em, so I suppose they've got a right to do what they like with them.

_Inquirer._ Of course. [_Terminus._

* * * * *

* * * * *

_The Red Spider_, by BARING GOULD, is to be dramatised. What a chance this would have been for the "Brothers WEBB," were they still in stage-land.

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SOLE SURVIVORS.--The uppers of a Tramp's highlows.

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SHARP FIGHTING AT RANGOON.--We hope soon to hear that the Kachins are Kachin' it hot.

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ADVICE TO THOSE "UP A GUM TREE" (_by "Non Possum_").--Come down as quickly as you can, and don't stick there.

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* * * * *

"SOME DAY!"

(_Latest Egyptian Version of Milton Welling's popular Song._)

Mr. BULL _to_ Miss EGYPT, _sings_:--

I know not when the day shall be, I know not when we two shall part; What farewell you will give to me, Or will your words be sweet or tart? It may not be till years have passed, Till France grows calm, young ABBAS grey; But I am pledged--so, love, at last, Our hands, our hearts must part--_some day_! Some day, some day, Some day I shall leave you! Love, I know not when or how, (So I can but vaguely vow) Only this, only this, (Which I trust won't grieve you), Only this--I _can't_ go now, I can't _go_ now, I can't go _Now_!

I know not if 'tis far or near, Some six months' hence, while we both live; I know not who the blame shall bear, Or who protest, or who forgive; But when we part, some day, some day, France, fairer grown, the truth may see, And all those clouds be rolled away That darken love 'twixt her and me. Some day, some day, Some day I must leave you! Lawks! I know not when or how, (Though the Powers kick up a row), Only this, only this, (Which I won't deceive you), Only this--I can't go _now_, I shan't go _now_, I won't go _Now_!

* * * * *

IS SCIENCE PLAYED OUT?

["In a grain of butter you have 47,250,000 microbes. When you eat a slice of bread-and-butter, you therefore must swallow as many microbes as there are people in Europe."--"Science Notes" in _Daily Chronicle_.]

Charlotte, eating bread-and-butter, Read this Note with horror utter, And (assisted by the cutter) Went on eating bread-and-butter! Man will say--with due apology To alarmed Bacteriology-- Spite of menacing bacilli, Man _must_ eat, friend, willy-nilly! And where _shall_ he find due foison If e'en bread-and-butter's poison? Science told our amorous Misses Death may be conveyed _in kisses_; But it did not keep the nation From promiscuous osculation. Now it warneth the "Young Person" (Whom GRANT ALLEN voids his curse on) "Bread-and-butter Misses" even In _their_ food may find death's leaven! Never mind how this is made out! Science--as a Bogey's--played out. Spite all warnings it may utter, Women _will_ have Bread-and-Butter!

* * * * *

OUT OF WORK.

(_After reading "Outcast London" by the Daily Chronicle's Special Commissioner at the East End._)

Divines inform us that the Primal Curse On poor humanity was Compulsory Work; But Civilisation has devised a worse, Which even Christian effort seems to shirk. The Worker's woes love may assuage. Ah, yes! But what shall help Compulsory Worklessness? Not Faith--Hope--Charity even! All the Graces Are helpless, without Wisdom in high places. Though liberal alms relieve the kindly soul, You can't cure destitution by a dole. No, these are days when men must dare to try What a Duke calls--ARGYLL the high-and-dry-- "The Unseen Foundations of Society"; And not, like wealthy big-wigs, be content With smart attacks on "Theories of Rent." Most theories of rent we know, the fact is What we have doubts about, Duke, is--the practice! When Rent in Power's hands becomes a rack To torture Toil, bold wisdom will hark back To the beginnings and the bases; ask _What_ hides beneath that Economic mask Which smiles unmoved by Sorrow's strain and stress On half-starved Work and whole-starved Worklessness!

* * * * *

THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.

A STORY IN SCENES.

SCENE IV.--Mrs. TIDMARSH'S _Drawing-room_; MR. TIDMARSH _has just shaken hands with the latest arrival, and is still in the utmost perplexity as to the best manner to adopt towards him. The other Guests are conversing, with increased animation, at the further end of the room._

_Lord Strathsporran_ (_to_ Mr. TIDMARSH). Afraid I'm most abominably late--had some difficulty in getting here--such a fog, don't you know! It's really uncommonly good of you to let me come and see your antiquities like this. If I am not mistaken, you have got together a collection of sepulchral objects worth coming any distance to study. [_He glances round the room, in evident astonishment._

_Mr. Tid._ (_to himself_). Nice names to give my dinner-party! Impudent young dog, this--Lord or no Lord! (_Aloud, with dignity._) I--ha--hum--don't think that's quite the way to speak of them, Sir--my Lord, I suppose I _ought_ to say!

_Lord Strath._ Oh, I expect a most interesting evening, I assure you.

_Mr. Tid._ Well, I--I daresay you'll have no cause to complain, so far as _that_ goes, Lord--er--STRATH--you'll excuse me, but I haven't _quite_ got accustomed to that title of yours.

_Lord Strath._ (_smiling_). Not surprised at that--feel much the same myself.

_Mr. Tid._ Ha--well, to tell you the honest truth, I should have been just as pleased if you had come here _without_ any handle of that sort to your name.

_Lord Strath._ Quite unnecessary to tell me so--and, you see, I couldn't very well help myself.

_Mr. Tid._ (_to himself_). BLANKLEY sends 'em _all_ out with titles--then his _is_ bogus! (_Aloud._) Oh, I don't blame _you_, if it's the rule; only--(_irritably_)--well, it makes me feel so devilish _awkward_, you know!

_Lord Strath._ Extremely sorry--don't know why it should. (_To himself._) Queer little chap my host. Don't _look_ the Egyptologist exactly. And where does he keep all his things? Downstairs, I suppose. (_He turns, and recognises_ Miss SEATON.) MARJORY SEATON--here! and I've been trying to hear something of her ever since I came back from Gîzeh--this _is_ luck! (_To her._) How do you do, Miss SEATON? No idea we should meet like this!

_Miss Seaton_ (_in a low constrained voice_). Nor I, Mr. CLAYMORE. [Mr. TIDMARSH _catches his Wife's eye, and crosses to her._

_Mrs. Tid._ (_sotto voce_). MONTAGUE, isn't it time you introduced me to this Lord Whatever-it-is? As the person of highest rank here, he certainly ought to take _me_ in!

_Mr. Tid._ He's _done_ it, MARIA. He's no more a Lord than I am. Miss SEATON knows him--I just heard her call him "Mr. CLAYTON," or some name like that!

_Mrs. Tid._ (_aghast._) So _this_ is the sort of person you _would_ go and engage! He'll be found out, MONTAGUE, I can see Uncle edging up towards him already. And anyhow, you know what his opinions are. A pretty scrape you've got us into! Don't stand gaping--bring the man up to me this minute--I must give him a hint to be careful. (_Lord S. is led up and presented._) Sit down here, please, in this corner, Lord--(_with a vicious emphasis_)--STRATH-_BLANKLEY_. (Lord. S. _obeys in mild amazement._) Really, my husband and I were _hardly_ prepared for so _aristocratic_ a guest--we are such plain humdrum people that a title--a _real_ title like your _lordship's_--ahoo!--(_with an acid titter_)--is, well--_rather_ overwhelming. I only hope you will be able to--er--sustain it, or otherwise----

_Lord Strath._ (_lifting his eyebrows._) Am I to understand that you did not expect me, after all? Because, if so,--I----

_Mrs. Tid._ Oh, yes, we _expected_ you, and of course, you will be treated exactly the same as everybody else--except--I don't know if my husband warned you about not touching the champagne? No? Oh, well, you will drink _claret_ please, _not_ champagne. I daresay you prefer it.

_Lord Strath._ Thank you, I should indeed--if you have any misgivings about your champagne.

_Mrs. Tid._ We must draw _some_ distinction between you and our regular guests, as I'm sure you'll understand.

_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) Poor devils--if they only knew! But what an unspeakable snob this woman is! I'd give something to get out of this house--if it wasn't for MARJORY. I must have a word with her before dinner--strikes me she's put out with me about something or other.

_Mrs. Gilwattle_ (_to her Husband_). Did you ever see anything like the way MARIA'S talking to that young nobleman, GABRIEL? as easy and composed as if she'd kept such company all her life--it's a wonder how she can _do_ it!

_Uncle Gab._ Look at the finishing she's had! And after all, he's flesh and blood like ourselves. She might introduce you and me to him, though--it looks as if she was ashamed of her own relations. I shall go up and introduce myself in a minute, and do what I can to make the young fellow feel himself at home. (_Intercepting_ Lord S. _in the act of moving towards_ Miss SEATON.) Excuse me, my Lord, but, as the uncle of our worthy host and hostess, I should like the honour of shaking you by the hand. (_He shakes hands._) My name's GILWATTLE, my Lord, and I ought to tell you before I go any further that I've no superstitious reverence for rank. Whether a man's a lord or a linen-draper, is exactly the same to me--I look upon him dimply as a human being.

_Lord Strath._ Quite so? he--ah--generally _is_, isn't he?

_Uncle Gab._ Very handsome of your Lordship to admit it, I'm sure--but what I _mean_ to say is, I regard any friend of my niece and nephew's as a friend of mine--be he a Duke or be he a Dustman.

_Lord Strath._ Unhappily for me, I'm neither a Duke nor a Dustman, and--er--will you kindly excuse me? (_To himself as he passes on._) That old gentleman makes me quite ill. Ah, MARJORY at last! (_To_ Miss SEATON.) You've scarcely spoken a word to me yet! I hoped somehow you'd look a little pleased to see me--after all this time!

_Miss Seaton._ Pleased? I can hardly be that under the circumstances, Mr. CLAYMORE!

_Lord Strath._ Well, I only thought--we used to be such friends once. You seem so changed!

_Miss Seaton._ I am not the only one who is changed, I think. You seem to have changed everything--even your name. What ought I to call you, by the way, I didn't catch it exactly. "Lord SOMEBODY," wasn't it?

_Lord Strath._ Never mind the confounded name, I have heard quite enough of it already! It's not my fault if I'm what I am. _I_ never wanted to be STRATHSPORRAN!

_Miss Seaton._ Then you really are Lord STRATHSPORRAN! Oh, DOUGLAS, how _could_ you?

_Lord Strath._ I didn't. It was all that accident to my poor uncle and cousin. And I'm about the poorest Peer in Scotland; if _that's_ any excuse for me!

_Miss Seaton._ How can it be any excuse for your coming here? Have you no pride, DOUGLAS!

_Lord Strath._ My goodness, what is there to be proud about? Why _shouldn't_ I dine with anybody, provided----?

_Miss Seaton._ Please don't excuse yourself--I can't bear it. You _know_ it is unworthy of you to be here!

_Lord Strath._ I don't indeed. I came here simply as a----

_Miss Seaton._ Don't trouble to tell me--I know _everything_. And--and you ought to have _died_ rather than descend to this!

_Lord Strath._ Ought I? Died, eh? That never occurred to me; and, after all, MARJORY, _you_'re here! What's wrong? What have I let myself in for?

_Miss Seaton_ (_bitterly_). What have you let yourself _out_ for, you mean, don't you?

_Lord Strath._ (_mystified_). _I_ don't know! I believe my man let me out; and, anyway, what _does_ it matter now I've come? There's dinner announced. MARJORY, before we're separated, just tell me what on earth I've done to deserve this sort of thing!

_Miss Seaton_ (_with a little gesture of despair_). Is it possible you want to be told how _horribly_ you have disappointed me!

[_The couples are forming to go down._

_Lord Strath._ (_stiffly_). I can only say the disappointment is mutual!

[_He moves away, and awaits his hostess's directions._

_Little Gwennie_ (_stealing up to her Governess_). Oh, Miss SEATON, _haven't_ I been good? I've kept quite quiet in a corner, and I haven't said a single word to anybody ever since he came. But _what_ nice Gentlemen BLANKLEY does send, doesn't he?

_Mrs. Tid._ (_on_ Uncle GABRIEL'S _arm_). Oh, I quite forgot _you_, Lord--ah--STRATHPORRIDGE. As you and Miss SEATON seem to be already acquainted, perhaps you will have the goodness to take her down? You will sit on my left--on the fireplace side--and--(_in a whisper_)--the less you say the better!

_Lord Strath._ I am _quite_ of your opinion. (_To himself._) Can't make my hostess out, for the life of me--or MARJORY either, if it comes to that! This is going to be a lively dinner-party, I can see!

[_He gives his arm to_ Miss SEATON, _who accepts it without looking at him; they go downstairs in constrained silence._

(_End of Scene IV._)

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.--CITY IMPROVEMENTS.--How much longer are we to wait for the widening of the whole of Cheapside, the removal of the Post-Office Buildings to a more convenient site, and the total and unconditional sweeping away of Paternoster Row and the south side of Newgate Street? These slight alterations are _imperatively required_. They will only cost about ten millions, and what are ten millions to the Corporation? As I purchased the five square yards on which my little tobacco-shop is built in confident expectation of being bought out at a high figure, I consider that any further delay in the matter involves something like a breach of public faith. Why should not the Government help? They have lots of money, and I haven't.--DISINTERESTED.

* * * * *

"FACTS AND FIGURES."--The business of the Labour Commissioner has to be very delicately managed. There must be a good deal of "give and take" in the work. However much "taking" there may be, there is sure to be plenty of _Giffen_.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.