Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 13, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 13, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
September 13, 1890.
OUT FOR A HOLIDAY.
(_BY OUR IMPARTIAL AND NOT-TO-BE-BIASSED CRITIC._)
I had often been told that St. Margaret's Bay, between Deal and Dover,
was lovely beyond compare. Seen from the Channel, I had heard it
described as "magnificent," and evidence of its charms nearer at hand,
was adduced in the fact that Mr. ALMA TADEMA, R.A., had made it his
headquarters during a portion of the recent summer.
[Illustration]
So I determined to visit it. I had to take a ticket to Martin's Mill,
a desolate spot, containing a railway station, a railway hotel, and
(strange to say) a mill. I was told by an obliging official on my
arrival, that St. Margaret's Bay was a mile and a half distant--"to
the village." And a mile and a half--a very good mile and a half--it
was! Up hill, down dale, along the dustiest of dusty roads, bordered
by telegraph poles that suggested an endless lane without a turning.
On climbing to the summit of each hill another long stretch of road
presented itself. At length the village was reached, and I looked
about me for the sea. A cheerful young person who was flirting with a
middle-aged cyclist seemed surprised when I asked after it. "Oh, the
sea!" she exclaimed, in a tone insinuating that the ocean was at a
decided discount in her part of the world--"oh, you will find _that_
a mile further on." I sighed wearily, and recommenced my plodding
stumbles.
I passed two unhappy-looking stone eagles protecting a boarding-house,
and a shed given over to the sale of lollipops and the hiring
of a pony-chaise. The cottages seemed to me to be of the
boat-turned-bottom-upwards order of architecture, and were adorned
with placards, announcing "Apartments to Let." Everything seemed to
let, except, perhaps, the church, which, however (on second thoughts),
appeared to be let alone. But if the houses were not, in themselves,
particularly inviting, their names were pleasing enough, although,
truth to tell, a trifle misleading. For instance, there was a "Marine
Lodge," which seemed a very considerable distance from the ocean,
and a "Swiss _chalet_," that but faintly suggested the land renowned
equally for mountains and merry juveniles. I did not notice any shops,
although I fancy, from the appearance of a small barber's pole that I
found in front of a cottage, that the hair-dressing interest must have
had a local representative. For the rest, an air of hopefulness, if
not precisely cheerfulness, was given to the place by the presence
of a Convalescent Hospital. Leaving the village behind me, I
came, footsore and staggering, at length to the Bay. I was cruelly
disappointed. Below me was what appeared to be a small portion of
Rosherville, augmented with two bathing-machines, and a residence
for the Coast-guard. There was a hotel, (with a lawn-tennis ground),
and several placards, telling of land to let. The descent to the sea
was very steep, and, on the high road above it, painfully modern
villas were putting in a disfiguring appearance. On the beach was a
melancholy pic-nic party, engaged in a mild carouse. In the gloaming
was a light-ship, marking the end of the Goodwin Sands.
On a beautiful day no doubt St. Margaret's Bay would look quite
as lovely as Gravesend, but when it rained I question whether it
would compare favourably with Southend under similar atmospheric
circumstances. There was some shrubbery creeping up the white
hill-side that may have been considered artistic, and possibly the
great expanse of ocean (when completely free from mist) had to a
certain extent a sort of charm. As I looked towards the coast of
France I had an excellent view of a steamer, crammed with (presumably)
noisy excursionists, coming from Margate. But when I have said this I
have nothing more to add, save that you can get from Martin's Mill
to St. Margaret's Bay by an omnibus. By catching this conveyance you
avoid a tedious walk, which puts you out of temper for the rest of the
day.
P.S.--I missed the omnibus!
* * * * *
GOOD YOUNG "ZUMMERSET!"
(_CHAMPION IN CRICKET OF THE SECOND-CLASS COUNTIES._)
Eight matches played, and eight matches won!
_That_'s what none of the First-class Counties have done.
'Tis clear that Young Zummerset knows "how to do it."
Bravo, PALAIRET, WOODS, TYLER, ROE, HEWITT!
Go on in this fashion, and soon you'll be reckoned
Among the First-Classers, instead of the Second.
Wet wickets this season, boys, seldom a rummer set,
But they anyhow seem to have suited Young Zummerset!
* * * * *
THE REAL GRIEVANCE OFFICE.
(_BEFORE_ MR. COMMISSIONER PUNCH.)
_A Medical Officer (with martial manner, and well set up)
introduced._
_The Commissioner_. Well, Sir--may I call you Colonel?--what can I do
for you?
_Medical Officer_ (_smiling_). I am afraid, Sir, you may give me no
military rank, as it would be contrary to the Regulations.
_The Com._ Have I not the pleasure of addressing a soldier?
[Illustration]
_Med. Off._ Well, yes, Sir, I suppose I may claim that title. I
am an Army Surgeon, and in that capacity have not only to risk my
life equally with my comrades in the field, but have to brave the
additional danger inseparable from the fever-wards of a hospital. As
a matter of fact many of my colleagues have earned the V.C., and not
a few taken command when their aid was needed. I hope you have not
forgotten ANTHONY HOME WYLIE and MACKINNON.
_The Com._ Certainly not--they are gallant fellows. Well, I am sorry
to see you here, Doctor--what can I do for you?
_Med. Off._ I would ask your good services, Sir, to get us greater
recognition in the Army. Pray understand we do not wish to be called
Captain, Major, or Colonel, merely to "peacock" before civilians,
but because, without official recognition of our true status, we are
treated as inferior beings by the youngest subaltern in any battalion
to which we may be attached.
_The Com._ Surely, Doctor, the title you have secured by scientific
attainments, takes precedence of all others more easily obtained?
_Med. Off._ Possibly, in a College common-room, but not at a
mess-table of a _depot_ centre. That I express the general opinion of
members of my profession is proved by the fact that it is shared by
Sir ANDREW CLARK, the President of the Royal College of Physicians.
_The Com._ Well, what would you propose?
_Med. Off._ That we should be put on the same footing so far as
rank is concerned, with officers in the Commissariat and other
non-actively-combatant branches of the Army. We are merely fighting
the fight fought years ago by another scientific corps, the Royal
Engineers.
_The Com._ But surely, Doctor, the officers you have mentioned know
something of their drill?
_Med. Off._ If that is the difficulty, let us make ourselves equally
proficient. The more we are in touch with the so-called combatant
officers the better.
_The Com._ Well, certainly, if you are good drills (and have some
knowledge of the internal economy of a regiment, and the rudiments
of military law) I cannot see why you should not enjoy the rank to
which you aspire. I wish you every success in your application. After
all, you are masters of the situation. If your superior officers are
unreasonable--physic them!
[_The Witness after returning thanks, then withdrew._
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
AT A COUNTRY HOUSE.
"_So glad you have a fine day for your garden-party. Was quite anxious
about the weather;_" i.e., "Hoped sincerely it would rain hard--hate
garden-parties--can't think why I'm here."
"_How good of you to undertake such a long drive!_" i.e., "hoped it
would choke her off."
"_So sweet of you to have brought your dear children;_" i.e., "Greedy
little pigs!--gobble up everything before the real guests arrive."
"_Must you_ really _go?_" i.e., "About time--you're the last but one."
"_Now mind--this is Liberty Hall--I always think true hospitality is,
letting people do just what they like;_" i.e., "_If_ he's late for
breakfast--and IF he shirks driving with Mrs. MORSON!"
"_We lunch at half-past one. But don't trouble to be punctual. Quite a
moveable feast;_" i.e., "If he's unpunctual, he won't forget it."
"_Such a lovely drive I want to take you this afternoon;_" i.e.,
"_Must_ pay that call to-day."
"_Going to-morrow? Oh_, do _stay--we had looked forward to quite a
week more._ Can't _you alter it?_" i.e., "Quite safe. Know he's _got_
to go."
"_Such a sweet girl to have in the house!_" i.e., "Slaves for her from
morning till night."
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SEASIDE REGATTA.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT.--DAVID COX REDIVIVUS!]
* * * * *
ALL THE YEAR ROUND;
_OR, KEEPING UP THE BALL._
When September soaks the fields,
And the leaves begin to fall,
Cricket unto Football yields,--
That is all!
Yes--in hot or humid weather,
At all seasons of the year,
Life is little without leather
In a sphere.
In the scrimmage, at the stumps,
'Neath the goal, behind the sticks,
Life's a ball, which Summer thumps,
Winter kicks.
From NAUSICAA--classic girl!
Unto RENSHAW, GUNN, and GRACE,
Balls mankind _must_ kick or hurl,
"Slog" or "place."
Our "terrestrial ball" is round,
(Is it an idea chimerical?)
Man, by hidden instincts bound,
Loves the spherical.
In rotund, elastic bounders,
Plainly the great joy of men is,
Witness cricket, billiards, rounders,
And lawn-tennis.
Now the championship is fixed,
Now the averages are settled,
Spite of critics rather mixed,
Slightly nettled.
Now the heroes of the Goal
Brace themselves for kick and scrummage,
Verily, upon the whole,
'Tis a "rum" age!
Wane the joys of Love, Art, Faction,
Parties rise and Parties fall,
The world's sure centre of attraction
Is a Ball!
* * * * *
WARE SNAKE!
Says Professor Alfred Marshall, of Cambridge, the great English
Economist, in his luminous Address at the British Association
meeting:--
"Every year economic problems become more difficult, every
year it is more manifest that we need to have more knowledge
and to get it soon, in order to escape, on the one hand, from
the cruelty and waste of irresponsible competition and the
licentious use of wealth, and, on the other, from the tyranny
and the spiritual death of an iron-bound Socialism."
Here be judicial truths, skilfully _Marshalled_ into clear order,
which may profitably be noted by the angry sciolistic skirmishers on
one side and the other in the great Social War now raging.
The sniffing _Laissez-faire_ man, the high and dry Economist, shrieks
at the enthusiastic humanitarian Socialist, whom he would fain send
to Anticyra,--or further; the headlong humanitarian Socialist howls at
the high and dry Economist, whom he would like to despatch finally to
Saturn, or "haply to some lower level," as BOB LOWE's epitaph had it.
The result is cantankerous charivari!
Marshall does more and better. He emphasises "the cruelty and waste of
irresponsible competition," he admits "the licentious use of wealth,"
but he also recognises "the tyranny and the spiritual death of an
iron-bound Socialism," that violent and venomous form of Socialism,
which _Mr. Punch_ this week has represented under the apt symbol of a
clinging, hampering, and suffocating Serpent.
Let the impetuous zealots who may probably demur to _Mr. Punch's_
symbol--misunderstanding it--ponder Professor MARSHALL's words, and be
not precipitate in judgment. There is Socialism _and_ Socialism. The
sort pictured by Professor MARSHALL, and _Mr. Punch_, is, like the
Serpent of Old Myth, not the would-be friend of labour-cursed mankind,
but a deceiving and glosingly deadly "incarnation of the Enemy."
* * * * *
THE STRAIGHT TIP.
["There is one national duty in this connection, and only one,
that is worth insisting upon for a moment. That duty is to
render it impossible for any enemy or combination of enemies
to interrupt our supply of food or whatever else is necessary
for our well-being."--_The "Times" on Sir George Tryon's
Scheme for National Insurance of Shipping in Time of War_.]
Right, "Thunderer," and tersely put!
Hammer _this_ into BULL's big noddle,
Until he just puts down his foot
On temporising timid twaddle,
And you will do a vast deal more
To keep our drowsy British Lion
In health, and strength and wakeful roar
Than all the schemes Tryon may try on.
Battle's not always to the strong;
The race, though, must be to--the Fleet,
With us at least. We can't go wrong
In making safety there complete.
And by St. George we can't go right
On any other tack whatever,
Until that Fleet is fit to fight
With all our foes though strong and clever.
Insurance may be all serene,
But _the_ insurance JOHN must measure
Is safety on all roads marine
For him, his men, his food, his treasure.
And if our ships don't give us this
On Neptune s high-road wild and wavy,
JOHN BULL his chief straight tip will miss,
And likewise soon may miss--his Navy!
* * * * *
[Illustration: PROFESSOR MARSH'S PRIMEVAL TROUPE.
HE SHOWS HIS PERFECT MASTERY OVER THE CERATOPSIDAE.
(_See Proceedings of the British Association at Leeds._)]
* * * * *
CUPID AND MINERVA.
(_FRAGMENT FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY THAT IT IS HOPED WILL NEVER BE
WRITTEN._)
I was most anxious that my past should be concealed from him, as I
felt that once revealed, it would come between us as a barrier for
ever! So I dissembled. I adapted my conversation to his capabilities.
I learned to talk of lawn tennis, cricket, politics, even cookery.
Only on one occasion did I betray myself. With self-abasement I was
asking for an explanation of the electric telegraph. He gave me a
somewhat faulty definition.
"Dear me!" I cried. "How did they ever come to think of such a clever
thing?"
"_Omne ign[)o]tum pro magnifico_," he replied, with condescension.
I could not bear the false quantity even from _his_ lips, and I asked,
"Would not _ign[=o]tum_ be better, darling?"
I could have bitten out my tongue for such an indiscretion. He looked
at me sharply, with a glance of covert distrust.
"What do _you_ know about it?" he asked, somewhat brusquely.
"Nothing, nothing!" I said, confusedly. "I happened to be looking
through an Explanatory Pronouncing Dictionary of Latin Quotations, and
found the passage."
"Beware of consulting text-books," he returned, sententiously. "A
little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
For the moment I was safe, but I knew that the confidence that
hitherto had existed between us was shaken and lessened. When he left
me that day, he referred once more to the incident.
"Forgive me, SCHOLASTICA, I know I have been disagreeable. But I
confess I am upset--the fact is a man doesn't care to be picked up
sharp in his Latin."
"Forgive me!" I pleaded, "and you will love me?"
"_Ad f[)i]nem_!" he returned, making the first vowel short. I set my
teeth and was silent. He looked at me with a keen glance, as if he
would read my very soul, murmuring under his breath, "if she will
stand _that_, she will stand anything," and we parted! Once alone,
I gave vent to my feelings in a burst of passionate weeping. "_Ad
finem_!" Oh, it was hard to bear!
At length the day arrived for our marriage. Just as I was starting
for the Church a letter was handed to me. I recognised in the
shaky superscription (which seemed to tremble in every stroke) his
handwriting. The envelope contained a printed paper! It was the Oxford
Class List! Then the truth in all its hideousness dawned upon me. He
knew at last that I had taken a Double First!
* * * * *
This occurred many years ago. Well, time has brought its compensating
comforts, and I am at least able to exclaim, "_Quum multa injusta ac
prava fiunt moribus!_" without being guilty of using a false quantity!
* * * * *
"IN THE AIR!"
A PARABLE FOR THE PERIOD.
"A course precipitous, of dizzy speed
Suspending thought and breath; a monstrous sight!
For in the air do I behold indeed
An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight.
--SHELLEY's _Revolt of Islam_.
A monstrous sight! Through SHELLEY's vision rare
Of high Revolt one mighty image glows,
This pregnant symbol of the struggling pair,
So strangely matched, and wildly-warring foes,
Filling the startled air with Titan throes.
Interpret as you will that Winged Form,
High-soaring, keen-eyed, of imperial pose,
Or that close-clinging, coiled Colossal Worm;
'Tis an eternal type of strife amidst the storm.
The symbol speaks, though variously applied,
Of snaking sleight that soaring strength assails,
And strives to drag it from its place of pride,
And, after cruel conflict, faints and fails.
Sometimes it seems the air's strong monarch vails
His crest awhile, as, hampering coil on coil,
Insidious knot on pinion proud prevails;
Yet towering greatness crawling hate shall foil,
Nor shall the Bird of Jove be long the Python's spoil.
Strong-winged _this_ Eagle, either wafter ready
To buoy and to upbear that body great.
Potent of beak and claw, of eye-glance steady,
Lord of the air, and master of its fate,
It seems, it seems, sailing in splendid state
Athwart the stretches of the skyey blue.
Yet what might be the fleet-winged wanderer's fate.
Did either pinion fail? Its flight is true
Only when level buoyed upon the plumy two.
"A shaft of light upon its wings descended.
And every golden feather gleamed therein."
Ay! and their fate's inextricably blended;
Let either faint or flag, they shall not win
Athwart the aerial azure clear and thin.
Brothered in use are they, in use and need.
See how the Serpent's many-coloured skin
Writhes hither, thither, with insidious heed,
Striving to maim _one_ pinion. Shall the pest succeed?
Bred far below, in dank malarious slime,
That Serpent hath no power to soar in air,
Save clinging to winged creatures that can climb
The empyrean; yet from its foul lair
It sprang to the broad wings it would ensnare,
Encoil, enshackle, hamper, break, drag down.
How swept the Bird so low that it should dare,
That Worm, to wriggle midst its plumes full grown,
And with the Air's sole monarch thus dispute the crown?
Alas! the Eagle stooped; those well-poised pinions
Faltered, and beat the air unevenly;
Nor shall the Bird maintain its proud dominions
If those wings lapse from rhythm, pulse awry.
Vain power of beak and claw, keenness of eye,
Or pride of crested head, if those broad vanes
Beat without balance true the clouded sky.
The lord of those etherial domains,
Once wing-maimed, pitiless fate to the dull earth enchains.
That Serpent is a sinister birth of time,
The likeness of the light 'twould fain take on,
But 'tis engendered from the poisonous slime
Of hate, and greed, and darkness. Though it don
Apollo's guise, 'tis but Apollyon.
To shackle, poison, palsy is its aim.
Venom and violence never yet have won
A victory truly worthy of the name.
To call this thing Toil's friend is friendship to defame.
"An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight!"
There is the symbol he who runs may read.
The Bird is Trade, with pinions balanced right;
Labour and Capital in love agreed,
All's well; the Serpent shall not then succeed
In shackling that, or in destroying this.
The snake, a venomous worm of poisonous breed,
In vain shall coil and knot, shall strike and hiss.
Mark, Wealth! mark, Toil! The moral's one you scarce can miss!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IN THE AIR!"
"AN EAGLE AND A SERPENT WREATHED IN FIGHT!"
THERE IS THE SYMBOL HE WHO RUNS MAY READ.
THE BIRD IS TRADE, WITH PINIONS BALANCED RIGHT;
LABOUR AND CAPITAL IN LOVE AGREED,
ALL'S WELL; THE SERPENT SHALL NOT THEN SUCCEED
IN SHACKLING THAT, OR IN DESTROYING THIS.
THE SNAKE, A VENOMOUS WORM OF POISONOUS BREED,
IN VAIN SHALL COIL AND KNOT, SHALL STRIKE AND HISS.
MARK, WEALTH! MARK, TOIL! THE MORAL'S ONE YOU SCARCE CAN MISS!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SEA ON LAND.
(_A STORY IN SIX CHAPTERS AND TWO VOLUMES._)
VOL. I.--CHAP. I.--Captain Bulkhead (P. & O.), home on leave, buys
a Horse.
CHAP. II.--Which bolts on the first opportunity.
CHAP. III.--"I'll teach him!" said the Captain, taking an anchor
aboard.
VOL. II--CHAP. IV.--Off again! Casting anchor!
CHAP. V.--!!
CHAP. VI.--!!!]
* * * * *
A WORD TO JOHN BURNS.
["He was in the unfortunate position of having probably to go
to Parliament at the next election, but he would rather go
to prison half-a-dozen times than to Parliament once, because
Labour candidates in the past had either been thrown out or
tied to the coat-tail of party politics. He wished it to be
distinctly understood that there must be nothing of this,
but their candidates must go forth as labour candidates, and
labour candidates only. He must know on what terms he must do
the dirty work of going to Parliament."--_Mr. John Burns at
the Trade Union Congress at Liverpool_.]
Good gracious, how awful! The Trades were assembled,
And they all yelled together, and tempers got brittle;
And when Burns rose and thundered, all Liverpool trembled
(Though Burns is perhaps Boanerges spelt little).
And he laid all about him, like mules who can kick hard,
But kick without aim for the pleasure of kicking;
And he trod upon Fenwick, and trampled on Pickard,
And his friends shouted, "Death to political tricking!"
And on one side we heard all the Socialist gang wage
A war against Broadhurst, who carried a hod once.
And Broadhurst retorted on Burns and his language,
That Burns might go back, since he languished in "quod" once.
And Burns ranted back; as the French say, the mustard
Had gone to his nose, which was rather unfortunate.
"St. Stephen's requires me, and I," so he blustered,
"Must needs be a Member, since friends are importunate.
"But I'd rather," he added, "go six times to Holloway"
(Will not language like this of J.B. make _The Star_ lament?)
"Than go (which is dirt) to St. Stephen's, or loll away
My time and the People's as Member of Parliament."
Now, Burns, be advised; that is bunkum--you know it.
You "_must_ be a Member"? Pooh, pooh, John, I doubt you.
Short answers are best, so _Punch_ answers you, "Stow it.
Stay away, and we'll try for salvation without you."
There's no "must" in the matter. The goose, John, who flaps his
Vain wings, though at first very fearful he may be,
If you face him at once, why, he promptly collapses;
He may hiss as he runs, he won't frighten a baby.
Be warned in good time--why there isn't a man, Sir,
Or at most one or two, whom the universe misses.
You strut for a moment, and then, like poor _Anser_,
You vanish, uncared-for, with splutter and hisses.
If a man cares to toil, if, like Broadhurst or Burt, he
Puts his neck to the yoke for the good of his fellows,
He will find work to do (though you scorn it as dirty),
Without all this labour of trumpet and bellows.
Surely butter must cloy, though your friends do the churning--
You are _not_ the whole world, though you did win a tanner;
And _Punch_ thinks it well, when your head has done turning,
You should turn a new leaf, and just soften your manner.
* * * * *
RAILWAY TIME-TABLE. APPLICABLE ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
6 Cabs--full of Passengers = 1 Dawdling Porter.
12 Dawdling Porters = 1 Train's Start.
2 Trains' Starts = 1 Danger Signal.
2 Danger Signals = 1 Stoppage on the Line.
3 Stoppages on the Line = 1 Late Arrival.
24 Late Arrivals = 1 Day's Unpunctuality.
365 Days' Unpunctuality = 1 Patient Public's Useless Grumble.
* * * * *
A Murderous Game.--(_Example of "Beneficent Murder."_)--Taking a Life
at Pool.
* * * * *
[Illustration: INFELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.
"HOW GOOD OF YOU TO COME, DOCTOR. I DIDN'T EXPECT YOU THIS MORNING."
"NO, BUT I WAS CALLED TO YOUR OPPOSITE NEIGHBOUR, POOR MRS. BROWN, AND
THOUGHT I MIGHT AS WELL KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE."]