Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., October 11, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., October 11, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
October 11, 1890.
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)
NO. XX.--THE DIVORCEE.
The Court over which Sir JAMES HANNEN presides was instituted for
the purification of morals by the separation of ill-assorted couples.
Matrimonial errors, which had hitherto stood upon the level of
political grievances, capable of redress only after the careful and
unbiassed attention of British legislators had been, at much expense
both of time and money, devoted to them, were henceforth to form the
subject of a special procedure in a division of the Courts of Law
created for the purpose, and honestly calculated to bring separation
and divorce within the reach even of the most modest incomes. The
tyrant man, as usual, favoured himself by the rules he laid down for
the playing of the game. For whereas infidelity on the part of the
wife is held to be, in itself, a sufficient cause for pronouncing a
decree in favour of the husband, a kind, though constantly unfaithful
husband, is protected from divorce, and only punished by separation
from the wife he has wronged. It is necessary for a man to add either
cruelty or desertion to his other offence, in order that his wife
may obtain from the laws of her country the opportunity of marrying
someone else. But the wit of woman has proved equal to the emergency.
Nowhere, it may be safely stated, have more tales of purely
imaginative atrocity been listened to with greater attention, or with
more favourable results, than in the Divorce Court. On an incautious
handshake a sprained wrist and an arm bruised into all the colours of
the rainbow have been not infrequently grafted. A British imprecation,
and a banged door, have often become floods of invective and a
knock-down blow; and a molehill of a pinch has, under favourable
cultivation, been developed into a mountain of ill-treatment, on the
top of which a victorious wife has in the end, triumphantly planted
the banner of freedom.
[Illustration]
Hence the Divorce Court, after some years of suspicion, has gradually
come to be looked upon as one of the sacred institutions of
the country. And, speaking generally, those who make use of its
facilities, however much certain of the more strait-laced may frown,
are considered by society at large to have done a thing which is
surprisingly right and often enviable. The result at any rate is that
the number of the divorced increases year by year, and that a lady
whose failings have been established against her by a judicial decree,
may be quite sure of a hand of ardent sympathisers of both sexes,
amongst whom she can hold her head as high as her inclination prompts
her without exciting a larger number of spiteful comments than are
allotted to her immaculate and undecreed sisters. She may not have
been able to abide the question of the Counsel who cross-examined
her, but she is certainly free, even in a wider sense than before.
She may not, perhaps, stand on so lofty a social pinnacle as the
merely-separated lady whose husband still lives, and to whose male
friends the fact that she in practically husbandless, and at the same
time disabled from marriage, gives a delightful sense both of zest and
security. On the other hand, the separated lady must be to a certain
extent circumspect, lest she should place a weapon for further
punishment in the hands of her husband. But to the Divorcee all things
apparently, are permitted.
When she left the Court in which, to use her own words, "all her
budding hopes had been crushed by the triumph of injustice," the
beautiful Divorcee (for in order to be truly typical the Divorcee is
necessarily beautiful) might have proceeded immediately to plant them
afresh in the old soil. The various gentlemen who had sustained their
reputation as men of honour by tampering on her behalf and on their
own, with the strict letter of the truth, naturally felt that the
boldness of their denials entitled them to her lasting regard, and
showed themselves ready to aid her with their counsel. But, though she
never ceased to protest her innocence of all that had been laid to her
charge and proved against her, she was sufficiently sensible to give
them to understand that for a time, at least, her path in the world
would be easier if they ceased to accompany her. They accepted the
sentence of banishment with a good grace, knowing perfectly well
that it was not for long. The Divorcee then withdrew from the flaming
placards of the daily papers, on which she had figured during the past
week, and betook herself to the seclusion of her bijou residence in
the heart of the most fashionable quarter. Here she pondered for a
short time upon the doubtful unkindness of fate which had deprived her
of a husband whom she despised, and of a home which his presence had
made insupportable. But she soon roused herself to face her new lack
of responsibility, and to enjoy it. At first, she moved cautiously.
There were numerous sympathisers who urged her to defy the world, such
as it is, and to show herself everywhere entirely careless of what
people might say. Such conduct might possibly have been successful,
but the Divorcee foresaw a possible risk to her reputation, and
abstained. She began, therefore, by making her public appearances
infrequent. In company with the devoted widow, whose evidence
had almost saved her from an adverse verdict, she arranged placid
tea-parties at which the casual observer might have imagined that
the rules of social decorum were more strictly enforced than in the
household of an archbishop. Inquiry, however, might have revealed the
fact that a large proportion of the ladies present at these gatherings
had either shaken off the matrimonial shackles, or proposed to do
so, whether as plaintiffs or as defendants, whenever a favourable
opportunity presented itself. The men, too, who were, after a time,
admitted to these staid feasts, were not altogether archiepiscopal,
though they behaved as they were dressed, quite irreproachably. To
counter-balance them to some extent, the Divorcee determined to secure
the presence and the countenance of a clergyman.
After some search, she discovered one who was enthusiastic, deficient
in worldly knowledge, and susceptible. To him she related her own
private version of her wrongs, which she seasoned with quite a
pretty flow of tears. The amiable cleric yielded without a struggle,
and readily placed at her service the protection of his white
tie. Thus strengthened, she moved forward a little further. She
revisited theatres; she was heard of at Clubs; she shone again at
dinner-parties, and in a year or so had organised for herself a
social circle which entirely satisfied her desires. Sometimes she even
allowed herself to dabble in good works. She was accused of having
written a religious poem for a serious Magazine; but all that was ever
proved against her was, that a remarkable series of articles on _The
Homes of the Poor_ bore traces of a style that was said to be hers.
Evil tongues still whispered in corners, and cynics were heard to
scoff occasionally; but the larger world, which abhors cynics, and
only believes what is good, began to smile upon her. She did not
appear to value its smiles,--but they were useful. Whenever London
tired her, she flitted to Paris, or to the Riviera, or even to
Egypt or Algiers. She subscribed to charities, and acted in Amateur
Theatricals. Finally, she married a gentleman who was believed by his
friends to be a poet, and who certainly qualified for the title by the
romance he had woven about her. With him she lived for many years a
poetic and untrammelled existence, and, when she died, many dowagers
sent wreaths as tokens of their sorrow at the loss of an admirable
woman.
* * * * *
VERSES FOR A VIOLINIST.
"The violin has now fairly taken its place as an instrument
for girls."--_Daily News_.
In old days of Art the painter much applause would surely win,
When he showed us Saint Cecilia playing on the violin.
I've no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;
My Cecilia must content herself with an unworthy pen.
Fairy fingers flash before me as the bow sweeps o'er each string;
Like the organ's _vox humana_, Hark! the instrument can sing.
That _sonata_ of TARTINI's in my ears will linger long;
It might be some _prima donna_ scaling all the heights of song.
Every string a different language speaks beneath her skilful sway.
Does the shade of PAGANINI hover over her to-day?
All can feel the passion throbbing through the music fraught with pain:
Then, with feminine mutation, comes a soft and tender strain.
Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked 'neath that entrancing chin--
Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TOURNEY.
["Golf is superseding Lawn-Tennis."--_Daily Paper_.]]
The Champions are mounted, a wonderful pair,
And the boldest who sees them must e'en hold his breath.
Their breastplates and greaves glitter bright in the air;
They have sworn ere they met they would fight to the death.
And the heart of the Queen of the Tournament sinks
At the might of Sir GOLF, the Red Knight of the Links.
But her Champion, Sir TENNIS, the Knight of the Lawn,
At the throne of the lady who loves him bows low:
He fears not the fight, for his racket is drawn,
And he spurs his great steed as he charges the foe.
And the sound of his war-cry is heard in the din,
"Fifteen, thirty, forty, deuce, vantage, I win!"
But the Red Knight, Sir GOLF, smiles a smile that is grim,
And a flash as of triumph has mantled his cheek;
And he shouts, "I would scorn to be vanquished by _him_,
With my driver, my iron, my niblick and cleek.
Now, TENNIS, I have thee; I charge from the Tee,
To the deuce with thy racket, thy scoring, and thee!"
And the ladies all cry, "Oh, Sir TENNIS, our own,
Drive him back whence he came to his bunkers and gorse."
And the men shake their heads, for Sir TENNIS seems blown,
There are cracks in his armour, and wounds on his horse.
But the Umpire, Sir PUNCH, as he watches says, "Pooh!
Let them fight and be friends; _there is room for the two_."
* * * * *
A LAMB-LIKE GAMBOL.
Some little time ago we noticed with great satisfaction, that the
Committee of the Sunday School Union had advertised in the _Athenaeum_
for the "best Tale on Gambling," for which they were anxious to
pay One Hundred Pounds sterling. The principal "condition" that the
C.S.S.U. attached to their competition was that "the tale must be
drawn as far as possible from actual life, and must vividly depict
the evils of gambling, setting forth its ruinous effects sociably and
morally on the young people of our land." Perhaps the following short
story may serve as a model to the candidates. This romance must be
considered "outside the competition." Here it is.
PLEASANT POVERTY BETTER THAN WICKED WEALTH!
PETER was a good boy. He went to Sunday school regularly, and always
took off his hat to his superiors--he so objected to gambling that
he never called them "betters." One day PETER found a sovereign, and
fearing, lest it might be a gilded jubilee shilling, decided to spend
it upon himself, rather than run the risk of possibly causing the
Police to put it in circulation, under the impression that it was
a coin of the higher value. He spent ten shillings on a ticket to
Boulogne-sur-Mer, and with the remaining half-sovereign played at
_Chemin de Fer_ at the Casino. And, alas! this was his first straying
from the path of virtue. Unfortunately he was most unlucky (from a
moral point of view) in his venture, leaving the tables with a sum
exceeding forty pounds. Feeling reluctant that money so ill-gained
should remain for very long in his possession, he spent a large slice
of it in securing a ticket for Monte Carlo.
Arrived at this dreadful place he backed Zero fifteen times running,
was unhappy enough to break the bank, and retired to rest with over
ten thousand pounds. He now decided, that he had best return to
England, where he felt sure he would be safe from further temptation.
When he was once more in London, he could not make up his mind whether
he should contribute his greatly scorned fortune to the Committee of
the Sunday School Union, or plank his last dollar on a rank outsider
for a place in the Derby. From a feeling of delicacy, he adopted the
latter course, and was indescribably shocked to pull off his fancy
at Epsom. Thinking that the Committee of the same useful body would
refuse to receive money obtained under such painful circumstances, he
plunged deeply on the Stock Exchange, and again added considerably
to his much-hated store. It was at this period in his history that
he married, and then the punishment he had so justly merited overtook
him. His wife was a pushing young woman, whose great delight was
to see her name in the Society papers. This pleasure she managed to
secure by taking a large house, and giving costly entertainments to
all sorts and conditions of individuals. Poor PETER soon found this
mode of life intolerably wearisome. He now never knew an hour's
peace, until one day he determined to run away from home, leaving in
the hands of his wife all that he possessed. His absence made no
perceptible difference in Mrs. PETER's _menage_. It was generally
supposed that he was living abroad. However, on one winter night there
was a large gathering at his wife's house, and, it being very cold,
the guests eagerly availed themselves of the services of the linkman,
who had told himself off to fetch their carriages.
And, when everyone was gone, the poor linkman asked the mistress of
the house for some broken victuals.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed that Lady, "if it isn't my husband! What do
you mean, PETER, by so disgracing me?"
"Disgrace you!--not I!" returned PETER. "No one recognises me. Of all
the guests that throng my house, and eat my suppers, I don't believe
there is a solitary individual who knows me by sight."
And PETER was right. Ah, how much better would it have been had PETER
remained at school, and not found that sovereign! Had he remained at
school, he would some day have acquired a mass of information that
would have been of immense assistance to him when his father died, and
he succeeded to the paternal broom, and the right of sweep over the
family street-crossing!
* * * * *
[Illustration: TOO MUCH GENIUS.
_Poet_. "OH--A--I ALWAYS WRITE MY POEMS RIGHT OFF, WITHOUT ANY
CORRECTIONS, YOU KNOW, AND SEND THEM STRAIGHT TO THE PRINTER. I NEVER
LOOK AT 'EM A SECOND TIME."
_Critic_. "NO MORE DO YOUR READERS, MY BOY!"]
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OSTRICH "FARMING."--We are afraid we cannot give you any sound
or useful information to assist you in your project of keeping an
ostrich-farm in a retired street in Bayswater; but that you should
have already received a consignment of fifty "fine, full-grown birds,"
and managed, with the aid of five railway porters, and all the local
police available, to get them from the van in which they arrived
up two flights of stairs, and locate them temporarily in your back
drawing-room, augurs at least for a good start to your undertaking.
That three should have escaped, and, after severely kicking the Vicar,
who happened to be dining with you, terrified the whole neighbourhood,
and effected an entrance into an adjacent public-house, where they
appear to have done a good deal of damage to the glass and crockery,
upsetting a ten-gallon cask of gin, and frightening the barmaid into
a fit of hysterics, being only finally captured by the device of
getting a coal-sack over their heads, was, after all, but a slight
_contretemps_, and not one to be taken into account when measured
against the grand fact that you have got _all your birds safely lodged
for the night_. A little arnica, and a fortnight in bed, will, in all
probability, set the Vicar all right. With regard to their food, we
should advise you to continue the tinned lobster and muffins, which
they seem to relish. You appear to be alarmed at their swallowing the
tins. There is no occasion for any anxiety on this point, the tin,
doubtless, serving as the proverbial "digestive" pebble with which
all birds, we believe, accompany a hearty meal. We fear we cannot
enlighten you as to how you make your profits out of an ostrich-farm;
but, speaking at random, we should say they would probably arise by
pulling the feathers out of the tails of the birds and selling them to
Court Milliners. Your idea of trying them in harness in a Hansom seems
to have something in it. Turn it over, by all means. Meantime, get
a Shilling Handbook on the Management of the Ostrich. We think you
will have to cover in your garden with a tarpaulin as you suggest.
You cannot expect the fifty birds to stay for ever in your back
drawing-room; and the fact that you mention, of their having already
kicked down and eaten one folding-door, is significant. They will be
escaping from your balcony all over the neighbourhood if you do not
take care to secure them; and as they seem fresh, very aggressive, and
strong in the leg, such a catastrophe might lead you into a good deal
of unpleasantness. Take our advice, and get them downstairs, tight
under a stout tarpaulin, as soon as possible.
* * * * *
HOW IT'S DONE.
_A HANDBOOK TO HONESTY._
NO. I.--"I'M MONARCH OF ALL I _SURVEY_!"
SCENE--_Interior of newly-erected building. Present, the
Builder and a Surveyor, the former looking timidly foxy,
the latter knowingly pompous, and floridly self-important;
Builder, in dusty suit of dittoes, carries one hand in
his breeches-pocket, where he chinks certain metallic
substances--which may be coins or keys--nervously and
intermittently. Surveyor, a burly mass of broadcloth and big
watch-chain, carries an intimidating note-book, and a menacing
pencil, making mems. in a staccato and stabbing fashion, which
is singularly nerve-shaking._
_Surveyor_ (_speaking with his pencil in his mouth_). Well,
Mister--er--er--WOTSERNAME, I--er--think--'m, 'm, 'm--things seem to
be _pretty_ right as far's I can see; though of course--
_Builder_ (_hastily_). Oh, I assure you I've taken the _greatest_
pains to conform to--er--rules in--er--in _every_ way; though if there
_should_ be any little thing that ketches your eye, why, you've only
to--
[Illustration]
_Surveyor_. Oh, of course, of course! _We_ know all about that. You
see _I_ can only go by rule. What's right's right; what's wrong's
wrong; that's about the size of it. _I've_ nothing to do with it, one
way or another, except to see the law carried out.
_Builder_. Ex-ack-ly! However, if you've seen all you want to, we may
as well step over to the "Crown and Thistle," and--
_Surveyor_ (_suddenly_). By the way, I suppose this wall is properly
underpinned?
_Builder_ (_nervously_). Well--er--not exackly--but, 'er, 'er--well,
the fact is I thought--
_Surveyor_ (_sternly_). What you _thought_, Sir, doesn't affect the
matter. The question is, what the Building Act _says_. The whole thing
must come down!
_Builder_. But, I say, that'll run me into ten pounds, at least, and
really the thing's as safe as--
_Surveyor_. Maybe, maybe--in fact, I don't say it isn't. But the Act
says it's got to be done.
_Builder_. Well, well, if there's no help for it, I must _do_ it, of
course.
_Surveyor_ (_looking somehow disappointed_). Very sorry, of course,
but you see what must be must.
_Builder_ (_sadly_). Yes, yes, no doubt. Well (_brightening_), anyhow,
we may as well step over to the "Crown and Thistle," and crack a
bottle of champagne.
_Surveyor_ (_also brightening_). Well, ours is a dusty job, and I
don't care if I do.
[_They do so. Surveyor drinks his full share of Heidsieck,
and smokes a cigar of full size and flavour. He and
Builder exchange reminiscences concerning past professional
experiences, the "tricks of trade," diverse devices for
"dodging the Act," &c., &c. Surveyor explains how stubborn
builders ("not like you, you know"), who don't do the thing
handsome, often suffer by having to run themselves to expenses
that might have been avoided--and serve 'em right too! Also,
how others, without a temper above "tips," and of a generally
gentlemanly tone of mind, save themselves lots of little
extras, which, maybe, the letter of the law would exact,
but which a Surveyor of sense and good feeling can get
over, "and no harm done, neither, to nobody." As the wine
circulates, it is noticeable that good-fellowship grows almost
boisterous, and facetiousness mellows into chuckling cynicism
of the winking, waggish, "we all do it" sort._
_Surveyor_ (_tossing off last glass, and smacking his lips_). Well,
well, the best of friends must part, and I guess I must be toddling.
Very glad to have met you, I'm sure, and a better bit of building than
yours yonder I haven't seen for some time. Seems a pity, hanged if
it don't, that you should have to put yourself to such an additional
outlay--ah, by the way, _what_ did you say it would cost you?
_Builder_. Oh, about ten pounds, I suppose.
_Surveyor_ (_lighting another cigar_). Humph! (_Puff'
puff!_) Pity--pity! (_Puff! puff!_) Now look here, my
boy--(_confidentially_)--suppose you and me just divide that
tenner between us, five to you, and five to me; and, as to the
"underpinning"--well, nobody'll be a bit the wiser, and the building
won't be a halfpenny the worse, _I'll_ bet my boots. Come, is it a
bargain?
[_After a little beating about the bush, the little "job" is
arranged amicably, on the practical basis of "a fiver each,
and mum's the word on both sides," thus evading the law,
saving the Builder a few pounds, and supplementing the
salary of the Surveyor. Ulterior results, unsanitary or
otherwise, do not come within the compass of this sketch._
* * * * *
STRANGER THAN FICTION!
(_POSTMARKS--LEEDS, HULL, AND ELSEWHERE._)
Mr. Punch was assisting at a Congress. The large room in which that
Congress was being held was crowded, and consequently the heat was
oppressive. The speeches, too, were not particularly interesting,
and the Sage became drowsy. It was fortunate, therefore, that a fair
maiden in a classical garb (who suddenly appeared seated beside him)
should have addressed him. The interruption reassembled in their
proper home his wandering senses.
"I fear, _Mr. Punch_," said the fair maiden, looking at herself in a
small mirror which she was holding in her right hand, "that you are
inclined to go to sleep."
"Well, I am," replied the Sage, with unaccountable bluntness; "truth
to tell, these orations about nothing in particular, spouted by
persons with an imperfect knowledge of, I should say, almost any
subject, bore me."
"The information is unnecessary," observed the young lady; with a
smile. "I share your feelings. But if you will be so kind as to pay a
little attention to the speakers while they are under my influence, I
think you will discover a new interest in their utterances."
"Are you an hypnotist, Madam?" asked _Mr. Punch_.
"Well, not exactly. But, when I have the chance, I can make people
speak the Truth."
Then _Mr. Punch_ listened, and was surprised at the strange things
that next happened.
"I wish to be perfectly frank with you," said a gentleman on the
platform; "I am here because I wish to see my name in the papers, and
all the observations I have made up to date have been addressed to the
reporters. I am glad I can control my thoughts, because I would not
for worlds let you know the truth. It is my ambition to figure as a
philanthropist, and on my word, I think this is the cheapest and most
effective mode of carrying out my intention."
Then the gentleman resumed his seat with a smile that suggested that
he was under the impression that he had just delivered himself of
sentiments bound to extort universal admiration.
"That is not exactly my case," observed a second speaker, "because I
do not care two pins for anything save the entertainments which are
invariably associated with scientific research, or philanthropical
inquiry. I pay my guinea, after considerable delay, and then expect
to take out five times that amount in grudgingly bestowed, but
competitionally provoked (if I may be pardoned the expression)
hospitality. I attend a portion--a small portion--of a lecture, and
then hurry off to the nearest free luncheon, or gratuitous dinner, in
the neighbourhood. I should be a tax upon my friends if I dropped in
at half-past one, or at a quarter to eight, punctually, and my motives
would be too wisely interpreted to a desire on my part to reduce the
sum total of my butcher's book. So I merely drop in upon a place where
a Congress is being held, and make the most of my membership."