Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Notes: Alternative spellings retained, puncuation normalized. Italics marked with underscore.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Volume 93, November 19th 1887 _edited by Sir Francis Burnand_ * * * * * THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P. FROM A DEJECTED LETTER-WRITER. _D-v-nsh-re House, Saturday._ DEAR TOBY, I DARESAY you will have been expecting for some time to hear from me, and it is quite true I owe you a letter. But the fact is, I'm sick of letter-writing, which, always a bore, has of late been invested with fresh terrors. The way I am being used up by our Conservative friends is perhaps a little audacious. It certainly is quite embarrassing. Whenever any of their men get into a tight place, or embark upon a difficult enterprise, they write to me for a character, quite regardless of my personal predilections, and even of my actual pledges. You will have seen a good deal of this, including the latest production touching the Aberdeen University Election, where G-SCH-N hopes to ride in on my back. But that was nothing to the letter they got me to write about the Glasgow University Rectorship. That was, unhappily, not my first production on the subject. Months ago I was asked what I thought of R-S-B-RY as Rector, and I let them have my opinion straight. A better fellow, take him all round, there isn't in either House. Just the man to be Lord Rector of a Scotch University, if he cares to undertake the office. Since then, however, L-TT-N comes along, and with that stupendous ambition for personal distinction which I don't understand, not satisfied with being Ambassador to Paris, wants to be Lord Rector of Glasgow University. Of course they come to me to back him up,--a peculiarly hot corner to put a fellow in. It happens not only that I have published my opinion about R-S-B-RY, but all the world knows what I think of L-TT-N. Still, as the M-rk-ss says, we must keep out GL-DST-NE from Downing Street; and so we'll put in L-TT-N for Glasgow University. A hard pill to swallow, but I gulped at it, and the letter was written. But between you and me, Toby, I felt nearer being mean than I ever did in my life, and would go a long way round rather than look a Glasgow University lad in the face. Still, it is no new experience for me to be persuaded to do things I don't like. I'm swallowing hard pills in the Conservative interest now, but many a box I've cleared out in former days to make things pleasant for GL-DST-NE. You've seen me, I daresay, reluctantly brought up to the box on the table of the House, patted, pushed, placed in position, and made to support all kinds of things, which a few months or weeks earlier I honestly believe I loathed. As I write I see GL-DST-NE nodding encouragingly as I proceed. I hear the rapturous cheers of the Radicals, delighted to find me won over. I am conscious of the chilling silence on the benches immediately behind, and I am roused to more desperate declaration by the satirical cheers of my friends on the benches opposite. I recall, as it were but yesterday, the effect H-RC-RT'S cheer used to have upon me--the strong temptation to turn round, publicly chuck up the whole business, and go back to the expression of my opinion on the particular topic before GL-DST-NE took me in hand. That's all over now, at least in that particular development. But it's the same old thing over again in altered circumstances. After I had consented to support GL-DST-NE'S last Land Bill, he sent me a gushing letter, in which he said that, turning over the pages of T-RT-LL-N, he had come upon a passage which might well be engraved on my tombstone. I thought at the time it was, in chronological circumstances, rather cool his preparing a tombstone for me. But that by the way. Here is the epitaph:-- "Sic vita erat; facile omnes perferre ac pati; Cum quibus erat cunque una, his sese dedere; Eorum obsequi studiis; adversus nemini, Nunquam præponens se aliis.----" But that was, of course, before I bolted on the Home-Rule question. I fancy he has found another passage since. I know I'm not a person of any conspicuous ability. If I had not been born a C-V-ND-SH I would never have been even a CH-PL-N. But as things fell out, I am like the boy in the middle of the balanced plank, at the end of which two others sit. According as I move to the right or to the left, one end of the plank goes up, and the other down. So the friends on either side constantly shoulder me one way or the other; which is all very well for them, but rather a nuisance to me. It is part of this perpetual little game by which I am used for the convenience of others, that you get all the talk about my being Premier. I am not at all sure that I should not be shouldered into _that_ by-and-by, if it were not for GR-ND-LPH. I do not pretend to see further through a ladder than an ordinary passer-by; but it is clear to me that you can never have a Government rival to the regular Liberals (observe, I do not say a Conservative Government) without GR-ND-LPH. It is no secret that I have never hankered after GR-ND-LPH, neither liking him, nor believing in him. You know what Dr. J-HNS-N said about C-LL-Y C-BB-R. I don't exactly, but it was something to the effect that "as for CIBBER, if you take away from his conversation all that he should not have said, he is a poor creature." That is a way of putting it curiously applicable to GR-ND-LPH. If you take away from his political speeches all that he should not have said, he is a poor creature, a presumptuous rattle-trap, the _gamin_ of Conservative politics. But if I undertake the titular headship of the Conservative Party, I shall have to deal with him, and that, as they say in a circular space of which I now see too little, is not good enough. That is my present opinion. But, bless us all! I may be talked round on this point, and used by a Party as I was when I made my first appearance in the House of Commons nearly thirty years ago, and, a mere stripling, was made the instrument of turning out a powerful Government. Yours dejectedly, H-RT-NGT-N. * * * * * SUSPIRIA. (_By a Disappointed Sportsman._) The plane's broad plates of weather-beaten gold Lie shrunk and sodden in the miry way, Never around the dappled trunk to play Again with tricksy beams, and breezes bold. Night swathes the sober light in thickening fold, Like a grey moth, webb'd in a prison grey, And the wan willow to the dying day Gleams like despair, unsolaced and untold. Now from the village tow'r the bells begin Their sad-soul'd chiming, as a sullen boy Wails on in wantonness. Oh, to greet again Thames's bright Strand, his theatre-studded joy, The postman's frequent rap, the newsboy's din, The constant cab, the ever-circling train. * * * * * "IN THE SO-CALLED NINETEENTH CENTURY."--When giving three Bishops a little touching up in Mr. KKOWLES'S _Nineteenth Century_, why does the playful Professor always write "_à priori_" instead of "_a priori?_" As no one would accuse Mr. HUXLEY of falling into a "clerical error," the explanation must be that he had nothing to do with it, or didn't know any better, or his printer would have it so, or the Printer's Devil possessed him, or Bathybius got loose and played the mischief with the type. Perhaps it is we who are wrong, if so, we ask has it anything to do with the new accent which is to be used in the pronunciation of Latin? A trifling matter--but for a Professor so "acute" such an accent may be considered a "grave" mistake. * * * * * [Illustration: THE GLADSTONE BAIT. "As regards Home Rule for Ireland, I may say I am prepared to go as far as Mr. Gladstone's own words warrant," &c., &c.--_Times_, Nov. 9. _Joe, the Incomplete Angler (to himself)_, "I THINK I'LL CATCH 'EM WITH THIS!"] * * * * * _The Incomplete Angler singeth_:-- It was all very well, when afar from the "swim," With tackle unready, and plans rather dim, To go in for splashes and plunges. Though, whether Lord S-L-SB-RY thought it so well, I am not quite assured. How the papers did yell At my whirls, and my whisks, and wild lunges! But now, on the spot, with the fish all about, The Waltonian _rôle_, there is not the least doubt, Befits a diplomatist Angler. I must not dance war-dances, shy heavy stones, Or talk in the strident stentorian tones Of a partisan public-house wrangler. I frighten the fish with my shindy? No, no! I will show there's a fisherman's tact about Joe. I make a _fiasco_? No, thankee! I'll be as discreet as _Piscator_ could wish, In a style will enchant the Canadian fish, And utterly ravish the Yankee. But now, as to bait? Well, ahem!--yes, I fear, The Gladstonian minnow is popular here,-- It's a bait I abominate wholly. And yet--if I fish as I fancy--I feel I perhaps may go home with no fish in my creel,-- And that would be most melancholy! I am sure my own patent assortment of flies Ought to make _any_ fish in the universe rise; My spoon-bait is terribly killing In some Irish waters. But here,--well, my hook Must be hidden with something from Hawarden's old book, Though to use it I own I'm unwilling. Ha! ha! Yes, I have it. I've made up a bait That some will think Old, and that some will think Great, And all will deem Grand--if it nicks 'em. It's green--shot with orange; the fins have a look Of a pair of big collars. Great Scott, what a hook! Yes, this, I am certain, must fix 'em. It is--and it isn't--the very same bait That the Nottingham fellows--as anglers so great-- Consider the pink of perfection. Why, WILLIAM himself might well capture a dish With this bait; did he use it, I'm sure, not a fish Would so much as think of rejection. Now, my Starred-and-striped beauties! Canadian pets! Crossed-Irish, so doubtful of hooks and of nets! I drop it in--so! Won't it rummage 'em? Some sneer at my angling. How savage they'll be When the secret of my great success they will see Is Gladstonian bait--_à la_ Brummagem! [_Left winding and winking._ * * * * * By GEORGE!--A first-rate speech was made by the new Patent Commander-in-Chief GEORGE RANGER, Duke of CAMBRIDGE, at the dinner of Volunteer Sergeants, Justice COTTON,--Gun-Cotton on this occasion--in the Chair. "I have always stated," said the Brave old Chief, "that the best way to avoid war, is to be so strong that nobody would think of attacking you." Hear! Hear! _F. M. Punch_ likes this sort of strong language from GEORGE RANGER, and hopes that His Royal Highness will be made Patent President of the International Arbitration Court. * * * * * [Illustration: THE CHILD OF THE PERIOD. "WHY DID THAT POLICEMAN TOUCH HIS HAT TO YOU, AUNTY? HAVE YOU GOT ONE AS WELL AS NURSE?"] * * * * * NOTICE! In consequence of the great success attending the sale of Mr. GLADSTONE'S "Chips," the Grand Old Chief is in future to be known as "the Last of the Ochipaways!" But he refuses to bury the hatchet. * * * * * New Version. O'BRIEN the thin his own breeches would wear, And have nothing to do with the Government pair. "If my patriot legs they those pants would thrust in, They must do it themselves," said O'BRIEN the thin. * * * * * On the 22nd, the _[OE]dipus Tyrannus_ is to be produced at Cambridge. One of the members of the A. D. C. wanted to bring out an old burlesque on _[OE]dipus_ at the Club Theatre on the same night, but Mr. J. W. CLARKE of Trinity, General Manager and University Entrepreneur, immediately objected that it would be irreverent to turn the awful story of _[OE]dipus_ and _Jocasta_ into a jest, "For," said he, "you certainly cannot 'joke as ta' that." The Master of Trinity has summoned the Fellows to consider what ought to be done to the other Fellow. * * * * * A NEW LIFE.--Mr. JOSEPH HATTON, author of _Clytie_, and quite recently of _The Gay World_, a novel which has created a considerable sensation, is coming out as the biographer of "Friend TOOLE." Author and Actor have been about together a great deal lately; in fact so much so, as to give rise to the report that Mr. J. L. TOOLE was dreadfully afraid of catching cold, as he was never seen anywhere without his Hat on. * * * * * The British Mission in Abyssinia seems to have got into difficulties. The Negus won't listen to the Queen's English as contained in HER MAJESTY'S letter. This Negus evidently is not so sweet as usual: a little punch-in' his head would do him some good. At all events this Negus must be stirred up and taken down pretty sharply. * * * * * THE TOWN MOUSE'S TRIALS. [Dr. MILNER FOTHERGILL has published a pamphlet on _The Effects of Town Life upon the Human Body_.] O Doctor MILNER FOTHERGILL, it's hard to hear you state, That people who must dwell in towns will all deteriorate; We all live at too fast a rate, and ought to be more placid, And, like the Ichthyosaurus, we develop too much acid. Moreover the good Doctor, too, this sad assertion makes, The dweller in the country can enjoy his Banbury Cakes; But here in town he warns each man his constitution's undone By flour and fat, and so adieu to pleasant cakes in London. We're getting smaller, too, in size: our Mentor bids us go And pit ourselves 'gainst effigies we see when _chez_ TUSSAUD; And then he ventures on what seems a terrible assertion-- He says we've ta'en a lower form, and calls it "retroversion." Our nervous system's too much forced, like early hot-house peas-- Our children are inferior to bumpkins, if you please; In fact this pamphlet quite enough to give a man a fright is, With all its nasty prophecies of childish _meningitis_. Town life is most unnatural; but, hang it, Doctor, you Know somebody must live in town, and so what shall we do? Why, just forget your catalogue of city-bred diseases, And let each fellow eat and drink exactly what he pleases! * * * * * Mr. CHAMPION (not one of the Seven of Christendom) writing to the _Times_ in defence of the Socialists--and writing very effectively too--said, "Of OLDLAND, who has been committed for trial, I know nothing, except that he is a total abstainer." Is he? Then why didn't he abstain from attending a disorderly meeting in Trafalgar Square? * * * * * MORAL GOVERNMENT REQUIRED.--We are always reading of Vice-Presidents everywhere. Are there no Virtue-Presidents? * * * * * SHOWS VIEWS. _By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere._ _The Arabian Nights_, at the Globe, is a piece chiefly remarkable for the performances of Messrs. HAWTREY and PENLEY, and Miss LOTTIE VENNE. The play is an adaptation from the German. It has been "done into English" at least once before, when, under the joint authorship of a lady and gentleman, a version was produced with the very appropriate title of _The Skeleton_. The Comedy in Newcastle Street, Strand, is more than a framework, for it has sinews, and resembles, to some extent flesh and blood. Miss LOTTIE VENNE has not been seen to so much advantage since she embodied _Betsy_ at the Criterion; and Mr. PENLEY, in his get-up, suggests that he has not altogether forgotten a character he played years ago in _Our Club_. The part now taken by Mr. HAWTREY was, I believe, originally intended for Mr. WYNDHAM. The plot is of the usual character. A married man, in the absence of his wife, gets involved in a more or less innocent flirtation with some one else, and, to escape from this entanglement, on the return of his better half, has to trust to his power of invention as a substitute for a plain statement of facts. Mr. HAWTREY, as the embarrassed husband, was guilty of verbal equivocation (to use a pleasant substitute for "lying") with an earnestness that insured success. This is very like somebody's piece called _Truth_ at the Criterion. _The Arabian Nights_ is a kind of piece that will be the better for "working up," and indeed it is a joke which will be improved by repetition. Some of the lines are so daring, that only a male GRUNDY could have written them. If the well-known lady of the same name had heard them, I fancy they would have been erased by request. On the first night, however, all went well, and I can only trust that every succeeding audience will be equally appreciative, and not more exacting. [Illustration: Rather a Close Shave.] I frankly admit that the Royal Westminster Aquarium has a terrible fascination for me. It is not the fact that years ago it was opened by the Duke of EDINBURGH, as a tribute to the memory of the late lamented Prince CONSORT, that attracts me, nor do I think that the recollection that the Survivors of the Balaclava Charge take their annual dinner in commemoration of the battle of the 25th of October on the second-floor back favourably impresses me--no, I imagine that I am drawn towards it by the posters. Certainly the hoardings persuaded me to see _La Belle Fatma_ and to assist at a _séance_ with the Wolves. The other evening I was lured within its highly illuminated walls by the announcement that those who were present in the stalls in front of the Central Stage at ten o'clock would see a Shaving Contest. Two barbers were to shave a number of members of the public for the stakes of £50 or £100 (I forget which) a side. I arrived in good time and was told (I fancied rather contemptuously) that the contest was to come off in "the Balloon Room." I made my way to this mysterious apartment, which proved to be a hall decorated with charts and maps and not too brilliantly lighted by one gas-jet. A small man, assisted by a smaller, stood in front of several chairs, behind which were ranged toilet necessaries. A mildly-spoken gentleman in evening dress and a neck scarf then addressed the audience (chiefly composed of persons in pot hats), and told them (so I understood him to say) that "the Management" had considered it better to have the entertainment in the Balloon Room instead of the Central Stage as more appropriate. He then was loud in his admiration of a patent American razor, which was passed from hand to hand for inspection amongst the audience. After a while some youths were induced to come up to be shaved, and were shaved by the small barber whose eyes had been covered with a bandage before the commencement of the operation. When the first youth was "done," the mildly-spoken gentleman observed that he had great pleasure in announcing that the gentleman had been shaved by Mr. So-and-so, (I forget the barber's name) blindfolded, without having been cut! This encouraging information was received with cheers, but I could not help fancying that the audience was not subsequently quite so eager to assist by submission to the razor in contributing to the blindfolded barber's triumph. Then the mildly-spoken gentleman announced that the contest would not come off, for some reason that was not quite clear to me. Hereupon a rather aggressive person claimed to be shaved--and shaved he was, also another person of an older growth than the first applicants. The aggressive person turned upon his co-shavist (if I may be allowed to coin a word) and feeling his chin declared him to be only half shaved. Then several other persons felt the man's chin and expressed the same opinion. Then there was a "scene," which I understood the mildly-spoken gentleman to declare to be "an unseemly altercation," and officers of the institution in uniform were introduced. The aggressive person continued his aggressiveness, and claimed to be the Champion Shaver of a large territory including (I think) both the inhabited and uninhabited portions of the globe. Then a gentleman in morning dress, connected with the Management appeared, and we were all requested politely to leave. I followed with the crowd, for I had an idea (no doubt it was a foolish fancy) that if I had not I should have been "chucked out." I spent the rest of the evening in admiring a lady who claimed to be one of the strongest women, if not the very strongest woman in the world, and wondering why, before having a cannon fired off, from the support of her shoulder, she should think it necessary to wave the British flag and appear in the costume of BRITANNIA. The Lord Mayor's Procession was also a "Show," and a very important Show of the week. It has been so fully described that it requires only a passing notice. The cars on their return were more pleasing than on their first appearance, for when seen with the horses' heads turned westwards the poor creatures, engaged to grace our London holiday, were shivering in the heavy downpour. Even Father Thames (who should have been in his element) seemed dissatisfied. When dismissed at the Royal Courts, and told they might make the best of their way home, the thinly-clad representatives of Music, Prosperity, and Commerce, were allowed to assume shawls and wraps, and other protections from the weather. Why before starting were they not all supplied with umbrellas? It is true that BRITANNIA would have looked a little incongruous with a _parapluie_.--I put this in French in honour of the Brave Beige Mi Lor DE KEYSER,--but, on the other hand, she did not seem _much_ like England without one. The Show was like all its predecessors, inasmuch as it served once more as an excuse for a subsequent luncheon party in pleasant company, and again afforded the populace a glimpse of the LORD MAYOR and Corporation in their not very frequently assumed characters of the wealthy Unemployed. * * * * * Strictly Private. (_From Mr. Secretary B-LF-R._) STOKES! STOKES! No more of your jokes, In sending O'BRIEN to gaol. For what we're to do, With _him_--all through you-- Is a puzzle; you've shown _trop de zèle_. * * * * * More Reminiscences. We've scarcely done _with_ Our bright Mister FRITH, When out comes a dollop By T. DOLLY TROLLOPE * * * * * PROFESSORS OF THE "DECORATIVE" ARTS.--General CAFFAREL and Madame LIMOUSIN. * * * * * A BURLY GENTLEMAN.--The Moral out of the Hurly-Burleigh affair is this, When an Editor commissions one of his "salaried assistants," as Sir COUTTS-LINDSAY might term them, to report the proceedings of such a meeting as that held in Trafalgar Square, he should apply to the Chief Commissioner of Police for a _passe-partout_, which would serve as a trump card to be played when in doubt. It was rather hard on the doughty Soudan Correspondent, who is every inch a soldier--round the waist included--to be Soudanly "run in." It is one thing to be taken up by the Proprietors of the _Daily Telegraph_, and quite another to be taken up by the Police. Still as _Mr. Weller Senior_ persisted in asking, "Why worn't there an Alleybi?" so we cannot help regretting that Mr. BENNETT BURLEIGH had not been furnished with proper credentials. * * * * * Rather Mixed. _Pugilist Enthusiast (to Musical Ditto)._ I'm glad they gave SULLIVAN a bouquet. _Musical Ditto (on the wrong tack)._ He deserves it. I see they've put his _Pinafore_ on again. _Pugilistic Enthusiast (puzzled)._ His pinafore! What's that for? _Musical Ditto._ To give him breathing time, I suppose, before he makes his next hit. Ta Ta! [_Exit Musical Ditto without further explanation._ * * * * * Mr. WALTER BESANT wrote to the _Times_ last Saturday to deny having signed a petition in favour of the Chicago Anarchists. He admitted that he had received such a petition, to which he had not returned any answer. Mr. BESANT, in his dealings with "all sorts and conditions," should remember that "silence gives consent"--an aphorism (is this all right, Mr. MORLEY?) naturally attributed to TACITUS. * * * * * OUR BOOKING OFFICE. _Monarchs I Have Met_, by BEATTY KINGSTON (CHAPMAN & HALL), is a title which recalls the old story in SMITH'S _Irish Diamonds_, and reproduced in another form by CHARLES LEVER, of the little crossing-sweeper who ran home to his mother and recounted how he had met WILLIAM THE FOURTH. "Mother, sure I've met the King this mornin'! An' he spoke to me!!" "Did he now? Bless his Majesty! An' what might the King have said to yez, PATSY?" "What did he say to me, is it? Sure, he said, 'Get out of the way, ye dirty little blackguard!'" Not that the Monarchs were so rude to Mr. BEATTY KINGSTON, whose entertaining society was rather thrust on the Monarchs by his employers than sought by the Royal Personages themselves. If Mr. KINGSTON was entertaining in one sense, so were the Monarchs in another. The first volume is especially festive. Within the first 183 pages there is more eating and drinking than in any other book I can call to mind since _Pickwick_. These pages must be not only read, but well digested. The writer congratulates himself on "not having let anything escape him;" and certainly nothing eatable or drinkable seems to have done so. He seems to be always smacking his lips over reminiscences of the savory and the succulent--"Savory and More" should be his motto--and it is sad to record that apparently--but I trust I am mistaken in my deduction--he glories in iced champagne, which is rank heresy, and an abomination to the true epicure. His stories are told in an amusing, rough-and-ready, barrack-like, swaggery-Germany-soldiery style; and _rien n'est sacré pour un sapeur_. He witnesses the ceremony of anointing the King of Hungary, and describes the function as the Primate "oiling" his Majesty, as if the latter were having his locks Macassar'd, and the Archbishop were the hair-dresser. Mr. BEATTY KINGSTON, according to the Book of B. K., or "the B. of B. K.," seems to have been generally entertained in the "most sumptuous manner" wherever he went in Germany and Hungary--he is very German, and always very Hung'ry--and writes of his sojourn in these countries with a full heart. Then, in the second volume, he finds himself in Rome, where there was "nothing fit to eat," "food bad," "cookery abominable, and the wine worst of all." If the perusal of the first part of the B. of B. K. causes many a mouth to water, his wretched plight in the second will draw tears from the eyes of the least sympathetic. He complains,--indeed, it is his first and most important grievance,--"_Imprimis_, there was not a bit of clear ice to be had in the Eternal City. Whatever liquid was cooled at all had to be inserted in salt snow." What a cruel hardship for any man to bear, especially a rollicking epicure who revels in "Roederer _carte blanche_ of Alpine coldness." However, there was a good deal for him to swallow in Rome, and for lack of better food, he seems to have taken it in with all the alacrity of a dutiful Special with an appetite for gossip. The book finishes with less solid eating, but there is smoking perfumed golden tobacco, preserve-tasting, hot coffee drinking, an interesting account of LESSEPS, and also of Prince MICHAEL of Servia. Altogether, these are the volumes of a Voluble Voyager, containing the amusing tales of a Talkative Traveller, who can run on by the hour, with no one on the spot to interrupt or contradict him. I received, some time since, a charming little book, daintily bound in vellum, called _The Joyous Neighbourhood of Covent Garden_, for which I have to thank Mr. CHARLES EYRE PASCOE. It is styled "a literary souvenir," and, I fancy, is not intended for publication. It was brought out early this year, but at the time of its first appearance I did not see it. If still unpublished, it is to be hoped that it will not remain so for long. His account of EVANS'S in the days of PADDY GREEN must revive in not a few of us whose memory is still "green," the reminiscences of many a cheery evening, though Mr. PASCOE seems only to have visited EVANS'S when it was enlarged, and not in the good stuffy old days, when PADDY GREEN himself took the chair. The author says that Mr. JOHN GREEN was "the personification of a stout, cheery, open-hearted, kindly English landlord." Not "English, you know"--"PADDY" GREEN could not well be that, though he might, I admit, "personify" the character. Anyone wishing to learn as much as he can possibly carry away with him at a sitting should get Mr. PASCOE'S book, and if it is not published, I only wish he may get it. In the _Dublin Review_ (BURNS AND OATES) for this quarter, there is a most interesting review of the various Jewish and anti-Jewish books, which within the last two years have made a considerable stir on the Continent, especially in France. The Ancient Hebrew Race are, it appears, to possess the earth,--ultimately. In all persons with a spark of genius, nay even with only a talent for music, for drama, for any art whatsoever, there is--nay, say some enthusiastic Judaizers, there must be--Jewish blood. Most Christians will be inclined to grant the artfulness of the race, traditionally. The Jews claim every great Genius. At this, _Mr. Punch_ will put his finger to his nose, and meditate whether he too has not his share in the _damnosey hæreditas_. A footnote to the article quotes G. DE PASCAL as stating that, "CROMWELL proposed to sell Ireland to the Jews for 2,000,000 sterling a year." Then why didn't he do it? Because the Jews wouldn't buy it, I suppose. If they had, at this present time the English Government would have been dealing with the O'ROTHSCHILDS, the O'LEVYS, and so forth, and on the National flag, the Harp of Erin would have become the Jews' Harp. That SHAKSPEARE was a Jew, and that his real name was MOSES, is a theory which the notes of the new edition of SHAKSPEARE, now being brought out by Messrs. HENRY IRVING and FRANK MARSHALL, will probably go some way towards establishing. YOUR OWN BARON DE BOOK WORMS. * * * * * THEORY AND PRACTICE. _Brief Tragi-Comedy for the Times._ ACT I.--_A West End Club Smoking Room. Philosophic Philanthropists discovered disposing of question of the hour._ _First Philosophic Philanthropist (putting down Times)._ Well, I'm sure nothing could be more satisfactory, and it's all clearly set down here. Not a single soul in the Metropolis need pass the night in the streets. Here's the whole thing set out, chapter and verse. It seems the Police take the matter in hand, and there's a decent night's lodging provided for every single tramp who's in want of it. _Second Philosophic Philanthropist._ Just so. Of course one knows there's no end of exaggerated clap-trap talked about the matter. The thing's as simple as can be. They're drafted off to the Casual Wards, where there is clean, wholesome, and comparatively comfortable accommodation; and the system works perfectly, and is capitally organised. _First Philosophic Philanthropist (warmly)._ Capitally! [_Are left mutually congratulating each other on the ample provision made by the Authorities for the nightly shelter of the homeless Metropolitan poor as the scene closes in._ ACT II.--_Exterior of a Casual Ward. Time_ 9 P.M. _Thirty Shivering Creatures in charge of Practical Policeman, discovered waiting outside in the wind and rain._ _First Shivering Creature._ I say, Bobby, d'you think we shall git in 'ere? I'm almost froze, and am that drippin' there ain't a bloomin' dry rag upon me. _Practical Policeman (who has already been to three other Casual Wards with his "charges" but has found them all full)._ You wait a minute; perhaps we shall have luck here. (_The Master appears._) Well, Mister Master, have you got any room? _Master._ No; full as we can hold. (_Surveying the shivering crowd._) How many are you? Twenty or thirty! Hum--well, I might squeeze in five. Pick 'em out. [First Shivering Creature _and four others are passed into a damp close, stone-paved room, crowded with human beings, some of which are lying on a few wooden benches, the majority being huddled in heaps upon the floor_. _First Shivering Creature._ Wot! Call this a night's lodging? Why, quod's a pallis to it! [_Sinks down in a corner, and huddles himself to sleep with the rest._ _Master (concluding his address to Policeman)._ Well, good-night to you. Your best game would be Wapping, I should say--not, though, that I think they'll be able to help you. [_Shuts door on Policeman and his "charges," who try Wapping, from which place, being "full," they are directed in turns to several other Wards in different parts of the Metropolis, but after trudging about for hours and finding no room anywhere, they eventually draw up outside a Casual Ward in the Bermondsey district at_ 1 A.M. _Practical Policeman (coming to the point)._ Well, as I can't get you in 'ere, nor, as it seems, anywheres, I must leave you to shift for yourselves. [_Retires pensively._ _Second Shivering Creature._ Well, mates, there ain't then nuffink for it but the "Square" agin; so I'm hoff. [_Straggles aimlessly westward, followed at intervals by other Shivering Creatures as Curtain descends on "capitally organised" Tableau._ * * * * * MOST APPROPRIATE EVIDENCE.--Mistress MARGARET DILLON, Midwife and Monthly nurse, who brought an action against the Irish Secretary for slander, had determined to produce in Court several most respectable wet-nusses to character. * * * * * Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS advertise _Jack the Fisherman_, by Miss PHELPS. A catching title, and which sounds like a continuation of _Exchange for a Sole_, by Miss LINSKILL. * * * * * [Illustration: THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNSAID. _Her Ladyship._ "I'M SO GLAD YOU ARE COMING TO OUR CONCERT IN THE SCHOOLROOM TO-NIGHT, PRICE! MISS DAVEY, THE GREAT CONTRALTO FROM LONDON, IS COMING TO HELP US, YOU KNOW!" _Old Servant._ "YES, MY LADY, WE WAS A SAYING IN THE SERVANTS' 'ALL AS WE FELT VERY HANXIOUS ABOUT 'ER. THEY DON'T APPRECIATE ANYTHING REALLY FUST-RATE DOWN 'ERE. NOW YOU AND MISS HEMMAR ALWAYS TAKES BEAUTIFUL, MY LADY!"] * * * * * THE SCHOOLMASTER OF THE FUTURE. _Skilled Mechanic of Old School loquitur_:-- It's a nice pretty state of affairs, if you look at the business all round! If someone don't alter it somehow, Old England must come to the ground. I've thought it all out a good bit, for it touches us home, don't you see; It puzzles the swells, so, no doubt, it's too much of a twister for me. But I look at the thing from a side which they can't have their eye on,--not close,-- A fair forty year at the bench ought to give one the tip, I suppose. If me and my mates and the masters, the Book _and_ the Bench, could combine To take the job fairly in hand, I suppose we could strike out a line. Odd luck if we couldn't, at least; but we _don't_ pull together, you see: Pull devil pull baker's the game,--it's a mad one, as most will agree. The Book and the Bench! There's the nip. And a fellow will see--if he'll look-- That although the three R's are good value, a man cannot _live_ by the Book. True, Bench without Book may be blindish, but Book without Bench may be worse, To read penny papers won't feed you, if you haven't pence in your purse. Men can't live on cackle not nohow, the bulk of 'em that is to say; A few gassy spouts can, of course; for _they_ prate, don't you see, and _we_ pay; But _that_ rule will not work all round, thanks be!--a skilled hand, a sharp eye Are the artisan's proper rig-out; and as for the rest of it, why Mr. Schoolmaster there does his best with his 'ologies, 'isms, and things, But if a man's lot is to trudge, it is small use a-fitting him wings. No, I 'm not against learning, not me; but life's battle means gumption and tools, That is for the general ruck, and the saps who deny it are fools. I remembered my father, old Millwright, in days as no more will be seen, When a man put his soul in his work, a mechanic was not a machine. It would take lots o' "technical" teaching to bring our lads up to his trim, Or make our mere chippers and filers a match for such workmen as _him_. He _had_ been through the mill, a rare grind, for apprenticeship then meant it's name. I have known him take ten quid a week, only wish I could earn half the same. Times altered? Of course; so have systems, and not for the better some ways. I've read, for I _can_ read, you know, of the wild old apprentices' days, When the shout of "Clubs! Clubs!" roused the town, and political feelings ran high, And the stiff Spanish courtiers went weak in the hams at the ominous cry. Wild blades!--but the youngsters could work, knew their craft; but you pale, loose-limbed lout, The sort of crammed hobbledehoy that the School-Board appears to turn out, Who can spell out Sedition in penn'orths, and howl it out hot in the Square, If you give him the "Work" that he yells for with so much wild blather and blare, What sort of a fist will he make of it? Which of the blustering band Has a really sound head on his shoulders, a really skilled craft to his hand? And Capital wrangles with Labour, each hating the other like snakes; And the Foreigner creeps in and up, and the Board Agent comes and he takes Our boys, and he crams 'em with kibosh as makes 'em too big for their breeches; But real true bread-winning knowledge--the stuff that the Bench only teaches-- They don't find set down in their books, with their 'isms and 'ometries--no; But the nipper's turned out in the world, and then what shall he turn to?--where go? Cheap clerking, or rule-of-thumb drudgery, bands, and black flags, and that rot? They may give it what fine names they like, but it simply means going to pot! And the swells snarl and sneer, and the bobbies are bid to be sharp with their staves, And the dupes who get all the cracked heads are informed if they don't they'll be slaves. [Illustration: THE SCHOOLMASTER OF THE FUTURE. (_And the sooner we get him the better._) BRITISH WORKMAN: "BOTHER YOUR 'OLOGIES AND 'OMETRIES, LET _ME_ TEACH HIM SOMETHING USEFUL!"] Seems to me all a muddle all round. Half the Masters are grinders and grabs, And the men, when not cynical churls, are too apt to be shirkers and blabs. I don't see it's a lively look out for my mates, in the country or town, With "Standards" and School-rates still rising, and most other things going down. Nice thing for the nippers too, ain't it? The boys may be stuffed at both ends, Without "technical" knowledge they're wasters; them as tells 'em this truth are their friends. There 'aint no true "Apprentices" now; seven years of sound teaching don't please. But the masters and workers appear to be sweet upon freedom and ease; Old "Indentures" are too long and tight, so they just shuffle on and slop through, And it's diamond cut diamond all round, till Trade seems just a regular do. I was trained in a different school, and my motto's good work for good wage; But the sweaters and spouters between 'em spoil _that_ in this book-learned age. Mister School Teacher just take my tip, I can tell you you're on the wrong lay; You get paid, so I've heard, by results; the results, Sir, are bad, and _don't_ pay. Boys learning to read, and then spending their pence upon "Highwaymen" trash; Lads knowing the _pons asinorum_, who can't make a door or a sash; Louts lolloping round on the loose, spouting fragments of Socialist stuff; Mobs of "workmen," played shuttlecock with by the ranter, the "red," and the rough; True hands by the thousand left idle, poor mouths by the myriad unfilled, Because Wealth's so hard upon Labour, and Labour's so often unskilled; These are rummy "results!" See this lad, now; he's pale; he's well-packed, I suppose With the stuff that your "Standards" require; well, his schooling must come to a close; To stuff him, and lots of his like, rate-collectors must put on the screw. Well, when you have done with the nipper, the question comes, what can _he_ do? Will his bag of books stand him in stead, when he ought to have tools in his bag? Are your "Standards" quite up to the mark, if they lead to the Black or Red Flag? Oh, bother your 'isms and 'ologies! Excellent things in their way; But bread-winning wants something else, and the 'isms without it won't pay. Yes--"Technical Knowledge" they call it--means practical gumption and skill, Or used to when I was a youngster; it may be a sort of a pill, But if you'll stand aside and let _me_ teach the lad something useful, my friend, Old England may yet hold her own, which some think a desirable end! * * * * * ROBERT ON LORD MAYOR'S DAY. [Illustration] DETERMINED to have a good long gaze at what I was told was to be a reglar stunning Lord Mayor's Show, such as they has in sum of the low countrys of Urope on werry high occasions, I got a old friend of mine, who's a reglar tribble Bob Major of a bell ringer at a Citty Church, to git me a ticket for a lovely seat in his boarded Church Yard, oppersite Newgate, and near the Hold Bayley, so there was plenty to cheer us hup afore the Show cum, and plenty to emuse us. Of course the best fun of all was to watch the poore chaps in the crowd below us a being scrowged and shoved and pushed about, while we sat in our bootiful crimson seats just like so many hemenent swells in the theatre, a looking down on the common fellers beneath 'em. I don't think, upon the hole, if I had my choice, that I woud choose to be a Perliceman on Lord Mare's Day. Ony to think of the diffrence betwixt them and hus! They begins hurly, we begins late; they is, aperiently, on their poor feet all day long, we merely spends a hour or two in the hevening on them useful xtremes; they has to snatch a bit of quite plane food and drink anyhows and anywheres, while we--but no! I draws a whale over the thrilling contrast; there's sum things as is best left to the emadgination, speshally such things as them things. And when at length they seeks their tired homes, what has they to console 'em for their long day's pushing and scrowging? Nothink! What have we, for our day of ministering to the luxyourious wants of the helegant and refined? Sumthink, but how much, depends upon suckemstances over which unfortnitly we haven't not no control. And I thinks that upon the hole, the libberality of mankind is not a increesing helement, more's the pitty! What a percession it was when at full length it came at last! It begun with the flags and the principle officers of no less than 8 City Washupfool Companies. And which of the Officers was it as first fixt my gaze, and held it firmly? Need I say it was the Beedles in their butiful Clokes of office. There was a quiet dignerty, not to say a degree of subblimmity in their demeener, as quite affected me, and I at once confess, amost arowsed my henvy. Wat a termination to my great career! But keep quiet my throbbing buzzom, and pass on. Of the four bootiful Cars drawn by 6 strong horses, I gives my wote without no hezitation to the Epping Forest one. It was xactly like life, specially the gents a pretending to carry partridges on their fistes, which was all probbubly washed off by the rain. The late Lord Mare was in werry good time, and passed by amid our shouts, looking jest as good-tempered as he did last year, when he was our Rising Son of power. At last came the Ero of the day in his grand old Coach of State, and then came one of the principle ewents of the journey, for the Carridge and all its six horses was stopt, and about harf-a-dozzen most respectabel looking gents, all of whom I was told was Churchwardens and OWERSEERS of the werry hiest quality, all drest in their werry best close, and wearing butiful reel gold Badgers, went bang up to the State Coach and sed something werry kind to the Lord MARE, and gave him something for hisself, at which he seemed werry much pleased, and said sumthink werry nice in reply, and then we all cheered so artily that the 6 horses got impashent and insisted on going on. So on they went, and I seed 'em no more. There was a good deal of grumbling about the rain, and it suttenly _did_ rain. I did try to pass it off as a mere passing shower, but that didn't do after about two hours of it. Sum of the wet higneramusses wanted to make out as it was all the Lord MARE's fault. Well, I wasn't a-going for to stand that gross injustice while I was comfortably a setting in my rheumantic churchyard, so I boldly said as how as all the derangements for the weather was always left to the Hed Waiter, and that after giving my whole mind to the subject, I had decided that, of the two, rain and peace and quietness was far more better than sunshine and row, at which they all larfed, but it put a stop to all the grumbling, so I reckoned that was one to me. Perhaps the most saddest specktacle as was seen by any one pare of eyes on that orful wet day, was the poor gennelmen of the Lord Mare's ousehold a picking their dellicate way through the middle of the muddy road with their butiful wands of office, and striving in wain to keep their lovely pink silk stockings from being soiled by the wulger mud. What their feelings must have been how few can no, specially when they found theirselves the sport of the ribbald jester. I didn't think as the frantic efforts of the hundereds of children to sing "_Rool Britannier_" was werry much helped by the accumpanyment of the passing Band playing werry lowdly, "_All Werry Fine and Large_;" but then, in coarse, tastes differ. The Bankwet was werry much as usual; that is to say, about the werry grandest thing in the world; but I cannot report the speeches, coz we was all on us all turned out of the All directly as they begun, more's the pitty, but I was priviliged to hear some of the shouting and hollering. I'm not quite sure whether it's right even of Committee Gentlemen to make fun of one of the werry sacredest of human hinstitootions, wiz., the nessessery refreshment of the xhausted body, and yet I heard one on 'em say to a reel fine tall Cabbinet Minister, who arsked him the werry nateral question, whether they had their dinner afore or after the gestes? "Both, and a little snack after breakfast, and a quite lite supper when it was all over." Praps the xaggeration wasn't werry great, but still there was xaggeration, and xaggeration is the Waiter's cuss! It rained as I went to my reserwed place in the frendly church-yard, it rained as I went to the Bankwetting All, and it rained as I sort my nupshal couch at about one o'clock, Hay. Hem., and it recalled to fond memory the words of the Royal Hanthem,
{'title': 'Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 19, 1887 by Various', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}