Punch, Or the London Charivari
Volume 107, October 27th 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
[Illustration: AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.
_'Arry (shouting across the street to his "Pal")._ "HI! BILL! THIS IS
'ER!"]
* * * * *
POLYCHROME ENGLISH.
_A short suburban dialogue, illustrating the deplorable downward
spread of the New Colour-descriptiveness, as exemplified in such
works as the "Arsenic Buttonhole."_
SCENE--_Peckham._ CHARACTERS--BILL, _a Greengrocer_. JIM, _an Oil and
Colour Man_.
_Jim._ 'Ow are yer, BILL? Fine pink morning, yn't it?
_Bill._ Um, a shyde too migenta for me, mate--'ow's yerself?
_Jim._ Oh, I'm just gamboge, and the missus, she's bright vermilion.
'Ow's _your_ old Dutch?
_Bill._ She's a bit off colour. Pussonally, I'm feelin' lemon yaller,
hall through a readin' o' this yer Pioneer kid.
_Jim._ Buck up, mate; you've no call to be yaller, nor a perminent bloo,
heither! 'Ow's tryde?
_Bill._ Nothin' doin'. Wy, I ain't sold an indigo cabbige or a chocolate
tater to-day. It's enuff to myke a cove turn blackleg, s'elp me!
_Jim._ Well, I'm a tyking pupils--leastways, I've a young josser of a
bankclurk come messin' around my pyntshop, wantin' to know wot sort o'
_noise_ raw humber mykes, an' wot's the _feel_ o' rose madder. I gives
'im the tip--'arf a crown a go!
_Bill._ Well, that _is_ a tyke-down! 'E must be a bloomin' green-horn!
_Jim._ Yus, a carnation green-horn, you tyke it from me! I've done 'im
vandyke brown, _I_ tell yer! I don't think 'e'll hever pynt the tarn
red!
_Bill._ Blymy, you're a knockout! Look 'ere, mate, now you've got the
ochre, you'll stand 'arf a quartern at the "Blue Pig," eh?
[_Exeunt ambo._
* * * * *
By an Old Bachelor.
"Are children humorous?" the _Spectator_ asks.
Practical jokers are they, every one of them;
Their laughter my poor tympanum sorely tasks,
But I'll be hanged if I can see the _fun_ of them!
* * * * *
LETTERS FROM A DÉBUTANTE.
My Dear MARJORIE,--You remember CECIL CASHMORE? Of course no theatricals
could be a success unless he took the entire management. He is a
celebrated private performer, and his name is frequently seen in
"Amateur Dramatic Notes," where he is freely compared to COQUELIN,
ARTHUR ROBERTS, IRVING, and CHARLES KEAN, in his earlier manner--I mean
CHARLES KEANE'S earlier manner, not CECIL'S. He always greets me with,
"Oh, I'm so afraid of you. I believe you're very cross with me"; and his
parting words are invariably "_Good_-bye; I'm coming to see you _so_
soon!" CISSY--everyone calls him CISSY--seems to be a little particular,
not to say fidgetty.
BABY BEAUMONT heard him say to his valet, "Take away that
eau-de-cologne--it's corked." He seems to think himself ill, though he
looks blooming; and says he has neurasthenia. He's always going through
some "course," or "treatment." One hears him cry to the footman who
hands him a forbidden dish, "Good Heavens, my dear man, don't offer me
_that_--I'm under JOWLES!"
[Illustration]
We wanted to act _The School for Scandal_, but CISSY has persuaded us to
get up a burlesque of his own--_Red Riding Hood_. I am to be _Red Riding
Hood_!!! I am delighted. I have never acted before; but they say I have
only to trip on with a basket. BABY declared he would be a Proud Sister.
In vain he was told there were no Proud Sisters in _Red Riding Hood;_ he
seemed to have set his heart on it so much that CISSY has written one in
for him. Now BABY is happy, designing himself a gorgeous frock, and
passing hours in front of a looking-glass, trying various patterns
against his complexion. All the strength of the piece falls upon CISSY,
who plays the _Wolf_, and has given himself any amount of songs and
dances, lots of "serious interest," and all the "comic relief." He says
it's not an ordinary burlesque, but a mixture of a problem play and a
comic opera. Captain MASHINGTON is to play the Mother, so I see a good
deal of him. (The LORNE HOPPERS are in Scotland). We had had sixteen
rehearsals when LADY TAYMER suddenly horrified us by saying it seemed so
much trouble--why not give it up, and if we wanted a little fun, black
our faces and pretend to be niggers!! Of course, we would not listen to
her. I hear Captain MASHINGTON rehearsing his part every morning,
quietly, in the billiard-room. He never can remember the lines
"Good bye, my dear, now mind you're very good,
And shun the dangers lurking in the wood."
He thinks the mother ought to kiss _Red Riding Hood_ before she starts.
_I_ think _not_. We asked CISSY. He says it's optional.... CISSY rose
with the owl to-day, and said he was not well. A little later he
came and told us complacently that he had been looking it up
in the Encyclopedia, and found he had "every symptom of _acute_
lead-poisoning." He added that there was nothing to be done.
"I thought there was something wrong with you yesterday," said BABY.
"You declined all nourishment between lunch and tea."
"By the way," said CISSY, pretending not to hear, "MASHINGTON really is
not quite light enough for the Mother. You should persuade him to go
through a course, Miss GLADYS."
"He's just been through a course," I said, "at Hythe."
"My dear lady, I don't mean musketry. He ought to consult CASTLE JONES,
the specialist. No soup, no bread, no potatoes--saccharine. What are
_you_ allowed?" turning to BABY, who was sitting on a window seat eating
_marrons-glacés_ out of a paper-bag.
This sight seemed to infuriate our manager. He made a wild dart at BABY,
saying, "Oh, look at this; it's fatal, positively fatal!" snatched
violently at the bag, secured a chestnut, and calmly walked out of the
room eating it and saying it was delicious.
I had just come home from a very nice drive with JACK--I mean Captain
MASHINGTON--when I found a letter from ORIEL. He says he is engaged to
Miss TOOGOOD. The matter is to be kept a profound secret for the
present.... He asks me, _for the sake of the past_, to try and get him a
stamp of the Straits Settlements, in exchange for a Mauritian.... She
collects stamps too--it must have been the bond of union.... How fickle
men are! It's enough to disgust one with human nature. I know I broke it
off, but still----
Ever your loving friend, GLADYS.
I wonder if Miss TOOGOOD will have a bangle. I should like to advise her
not to have it _rivetted on_. It's such a bother getting them filed off.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "BUT OH, IT WAS SUCH AN 'ORRIBLE TAIL!"]
* * * * *
MRS. PROWLINA PRY.
You hope you don't intrude? PROWLINA PRY
You do, you _do_! In ignorance it may be,
The _rôle_ of RHADAMANTHUS you would try,
With scarce the fitness of a bumptious baby.
With folly's headlong haste you would rush in
Where well-tried wisdom treads with fear and trembling.
Gregarious Silliness would cope with Sin;
But when geese swarm what comes of _such_ assembling?
Cackle, and cant, and chaos! Needless noise,
Meddling and mischief and sheer moral muddle!
Reformers must not act like gutter-boys
Who rake up mud, stir each malodorous puddle.
Life's purlieus are defiled; will it avail
To grub and rake in reeking slum and by-way,
Until the foul infection loads the gale,
And pestilence stalks boldly in the highway?
PROWLINA PRY, your purview is too small;
Life is not plumbed by microscopic peeping,
And Nature is too large for nursery-thrall.
The globe is _not_ in Mrs. GRUNDY'S keeping.
Clear sense, and not lop-sided sentiment,
Must front Society's perplexing puzzles;
Humanity, when roused, has ever rent
_Partington_ policies of mops and muzzles.
Humanity is a most complex thing,
Not simple as a gag or feeding-bottle.
You, lest it stray, would rob it of its wing.
Lest it feed ill would simply close its throttle.
The Puritanic plan in a new guise!--
A female _Praise-God-Barebones_ now would rule us.
We Britons, who have baffled our male _Prys_,
Are little like to let she-ones befool us.
Unclean! Unclean! 'Twas the old lepers' cry,
You'd silence them and call it--purifying!
Drive swine possessed of devils from their sty,
And bid them spread infection as they're flying!
Did some steep place lead down into the sea
Of dead oblivion and sheer extirpation,
'Twere well to scourge them thither. What if, free,
They carry foul contagion through--a nation?
Thousands of fellow-creatures flung from work
At the mere pen-stroke of a hasty censor!--
An unconsidered trifle Zeal may shirk!
But Sense may not, nor Justice! They are denser
Than _Punch_ imagines, our new Bumble-band,
If Mistress PRY'S decision they abide by;
But _should_ they fail us, _Punch_ throughout the land
Will wake the People prudes and prigs are tried by!
Petticoat-government, PROWLINA PRY,
Of this peculiar sort will scarcely suit us.
Such cases clear collective sense must try,
Not a she-DRACO or a lady-BRUTUS.
To sweeten our poor world we all may strive,
But life's not one long Puritanic Sunday;
And the great World while manhood is alive,
Shall not be wholly swayed by Mrs. GRUNDY.
PROWLINA PRY Society's festering ills
Will not be healed by your pragmatic plaster.
Tare-rooting that the growing corn-crop kills
Was not the plan or counsel of the Master.
You with rash hand would wield the whip of cords
_He_ raised but once in righteous indignation.
Heed the great lesson that the fact affords,
And leave our woes to Wisdom's mild purgation.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MRS. PROWLINA PRY.--"I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"
THOUSANDS OF FELLOW-CREATURES FLUNG FROM WORK
AT THE MERE PEN-STROKE OF A HASTY CENSOR!--
AN UNCONSIDERED TRIFLE ZEAL MAY SHIRK!
BUT SENSE MAY NOT, NOR JUSTICE! THEY ARE DENSER
THAN _PUNCH_ IMAGINES, OUR NEW BUMBLE-BAND,
IF MISTRESS PRY'S DECISION THEY ABIDE BY;
BUT _SHOULD_ THEY FAIL US, _PUNCH_ THROUGHOUT THE LAND
WILL WAKE THE PEOPLE PRUDES AND PRIGS ARE TRIED BY!]
* * * * *
TO A VENETIAN POLICEMAN.
[The _guardia municipale_ of Venice is now dressed like the London
policeman.]
That afternoon when first you burst
Upon my quite bewildered eyes,
I seemed in London; you are too
Confusing in that strange disguise.
The very clothes of blue! It's true
In black kid gloves you are arrayed,
No truncheon at your side you hide,
A sword is openly displayed.
That vile black helmet yet you get,
Most dismal head-dress ever planned.
In Venice this! Where once doge, dunce,
Dame, doctor, all were gay and grand.
In that prosaic dress! Oh, bless
The man, why wear such awful things?
In Venice long ago, we know,
The costermongers looked like kings.
Italians love what's new, so you
Suit buildings all, _de haut en bas_,
Restored and new--how bad and sad!
But you're a still worse _novità_.
A peeler pacing here--how queer!
A copper checking crimes and larks,
When gleams on lone lagoon the moon!
A bobby's beat beside St. Mark's!
* * * * *
BY A BIRKENHEAD MAN.--The LEVER, though strong, could not _quite_ lift
the Liberal minority into power, but it brought the Conservative
majority down to its LEES!
* * * * *
LYRE AND LANCET.
(_A Story in Scenes._)
PART XVII.--A BOMB SHELL.