Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 30, 1890. by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 30, 1890.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
August 30, 1890.
[Illustration]
"WHY NOT LIVE OUT OF LONDON?"
SIR,--Capital subject recently started _Daily Telegraph_, with
the above title. Just what I've been saying to my wife for
years past. "Why don't _you and the family_ live out of
London," I have asked. And she has invariably replied, "Oh,
yes, and what would _you_ be doing in London?" I impress upon
her that being the "bread-winner" (beautiful word, this!) my
duty is to be on the spot where the bread is won. I prove
to her, in figures, that it is much cheaper for her and the
family to live out of town, and for me to come down and
see them, occasionally. Isn't it cheaper for one to go to a
theatre than four? Well, this applies everywhere all round.
With my Club and a good room I could get on very well and very
reasonably in London, and in the country my wife and family
_would positively save enormously_ by my absence, _as only the
necessaries of life would be required_. Dressing would be next
to nothing, so to speak, and they'd be out of reach of the
temptations which London offers to those who love theatre
entertainments, lunches at pastrycooks', shows, and shopping.
Yes, emphatically, I repeat, "Why not live out of London?"
_But she won't._
Yours,
ONE IN A THOUSAND.
SIR,--"Why not live out of London?" Of course. I _do_ live
"out of London," and make a precious good living too out of
London. My friends the Butcher, the Baker, the Greengrocer
(not a very green grocer either), the Tailor, the Shoemaker,
&c., &c., all say the same as
Yours cheerily,
CHARLES CHEDDAR _(Cheesemonger)._
SIR,--I only wish everybody I don't want to see _in_ London
would live _out of it_. What a thrice blessed time August
would be then! Though indeed I infinitely appreciate small
mercies _now_. At all events, most people are away, my Club is
not closed, and I can enjoy myself pretty thoroughly.
Yours,
_Elbow Room Club_.
BEAU WINDER.
SIR,--"Why not live out of London?" _Because one can't._ Out
of London there is only "existence." Is life worth living
anywhere except in London--and Paris; if you happen to be
there? No, no; those who like living "out of London," had
better not live at all.
Yours,
HIPPY CURE.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
"_Tisn't a part that I_ feel, _and I fear I shall make a failure;"
i.e.,_ "Easy as be blowed, but _I_'m thrown away upon it."
TRADE EMBELLISHMENTS.
"_The Ching-Twangs Central China Tea Company's selected growth of
Early Green Leaf Spring Pickings;" i.e.,_ "A damaged cargo and last
year's rotten sweepings, mingled with chipped broom, dried cabbage,
and other equally suitable and inviting ingredients."
AT LUNCHEON.
"_No more, indeed, really;" i.e.,_ "Had nothing to eat--but more of
_that_ stuff? No, thank you."
ELECTIONEERING.
"_The Leaders to whom the Nation owes its recent period of
prosperity": i.e.,_ "Gentlemen who have unavoidably remained in Office
during the revival of Trade."
"_Having every personal respect for my opponent;" i.e.,_ "I now
proceed to blacken his political character."
IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.
"_You know I always hate long arguments;" i.e.,_ "Don't deprive me of
my pet diversion."
"_No; I don't exactly see what you mean;" i.e.,_ "_You_ don't; but the
admission on my part looks candid."
"_My dear fellow, ask_ anyone _who really knows anything;" i.e._ "You
appear to live among a half-educated set of local faddists."
* * * * *
'ARRY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.
DEAR CHARLIE,--No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways--wus
luck!
At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin'
well struck.
It's hupset all our 'olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a
rise
Wot do _you_ think, old pal? I'm fair flummoxed, and singing, _Oh,
what a surprise!_
These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't,
dear old boy.
They're all over the shop, like Miss ZAEO, wot street-kids seems so
to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be
worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to
be squelched.
'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set
against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national
'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere
bellerers ban.
Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it,
old man?
Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of
St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut
of the 'Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to
the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs
and the boors!
Yet this 'ARRISON he sets _his_ back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle
a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion
of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot _he_
says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise--eh,
old chap?
_Him_ sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather
and fur,
So long as yer never _kills_ nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me
the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things
to be shot?
"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling
old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no
luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton
with shame.
No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE,
this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll
be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with
'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer _may_n't
be a dunce.
My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers
O.K.--
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to
his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour
checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the
primest of pecks.
Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out
Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of
the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames
Street, bit warm
In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good form.
Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis
Big Shoot,
And there _wos_ some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the
good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas
only his play.
Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice
like me.
Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like,
yer see.
A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste.
Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is
this here,
'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty
near,
And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and
strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S wrong!
_He_ would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,--so the mug tells
us--than birds.
Well, they're more in his line very likely; that means, in his own
chosen words,
He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of
our land,
A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I _carnt_
understand.
Fact is this here FRED is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that.
There's the nick o' the matter, the reason of all this un-English
wild chat.
He is down on the Aristos, CHARLIE, this 'ARRISON is. It's the Court
And the pick o' the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that's wy he sputters
at Sport.
All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble and
rich.
"Smart people" are "Sports," mostly always, and 'ARRISON slates
them as sich.
'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel
in spate"
With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? _That_'s not wot
sich slab-dabbers 'ate.
It's "Privileged Classes," my pippin, they loathes. Yer can't own a
big Moor,
Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer 'umble and poor.
Don't 'ARRISON never _eat_ grouse? Ah, you bet, much as ever he'll
carry.
There's "poz" for a Posit'vist, mate, there's 'ARRISON kiboshed
by 'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR YOTTING YORICK.
YOTTING JOTTINGS.]
Oh dear! oh dear! What perils I have been through! You'll see me again
shortly; but there have been _momentums_ in my career when I said
to myself, "Shall I ever _aller_ out of this alive!" I escaped the
Petersburg police; they punched out your Cartoon, and all the lines
about the Czar and the Jews; that's why I was so persecuted, and why
I was watched. I wish to Heaven you wouldn't have Cartoons about Czars
and Jews just when I'm at Peterborough, I mean Petersburg; same name,
different place. But there, that's all over now, and _jamais_ will I
go and put myself within the clutches of the Russian Bear again. The
midnight sun must do without _me_ in future. I send you a sketch
I made of a gargle--I think that's the name--on a church-door in
Lapland. Isn't it really droll? You're always bothering me for
something droll, and _now you've got it_. Then, _Mr. Punch_, riding
a reindeer at half-a-crown an hour. Then here are the little Lapps
offering our sailors a lap of liquor; and I said to myself, "One touch
of Nature," which struck me as just the very motto for the picture. I
roared with laughter at it. "This'll do for 'em at home," I said, and
so here it is. And look at the "Lapps of Luxury"! You know that "Lap
of Luxury" is a proverbial phrase; and, as you told me to make some
comic sketches of the manners and customs of the country, why, I've
done so; and, if they ain't funny, I don't know what humour is.
_Voila!_
But you really must not expect me to grimace and buffoon. You must
take me _seriatim_ or not at all. I can't stand on my head to sketch.
I can't do it. I nearly _did_ do it, though, for when I had my
sketching-book in my hand on board, the spanker-boom, or some such
thing, came over suddenly and hit me such a whack on the head, that
for two minutes I lay insensible, and thought I should never become
sensible again. Rightly is it called "spanker-boom,"--that is if it
_is_ called so, or some name very like it,--for I never got such a
whack on the head in all my life before. I hear the Booming still in
my ears.
You can't expect a fellow to be funny, however funny he may _feel_
(and I _did_ feel uncommonly funny, you may take your oath!), under
such circumstances. However, as the song says, "Home once more,"
and many a yarn shall I have to tell when I gather myself round the
fireside, pipe all hands for grog, and sing you an old Norse song
with real humour in it--though I dare say _you'll_ say you don't see
it--and so no more _a present_ from yours seasickly (I am quite well,
but I mean I'm sick of the sea),
FLOTSAM, Y.A.
* * * * *
JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.
FIFTH ENTRY.
Curious thing that to-day--after disappointment of failure for the
Bar--letter comes from President of my old College, asking me "if I
would accept a nice Tutorship for a time?" If so, "I had better come
down and talk to him about it."
Decided a little time ago not to try "Scholastic Profession"--thought
it would try _me_ too much. Feel tempted now. _Query_--am I losing my
old pluck? In consequence of my new "pluck,"--in the Bar Exam?
"Um!" remarks the President (I _have_ run down and got a vacant
bed-room in College). "Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that tutorship.
Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the county
apologetically, as if he expected me to reply--"Oh, Somerset! Couldn't
dream of going _there_. Not very particular, but must have a place
within ten miles of Charing Cross." As I don't object to Somerset, at
least audibly, he goes on more cheerfully--
"Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit
you."--(_Query_--is this insulting?)--"He wants a companion
more--somebody to keep him steady, have a good influence and all that,
and give him a little classics and so on for about an hour a day."
It did not sound as bad as I expected.
"Rich people--um--merchants at Bristol, I think. Not very cultivated,
though." Here President pauses again, and looks as if he would not be
at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put on my hat, and said,
"Not very cultivated! That won't suit _me_! You see how tremendously
cultivated _I_ am." But I don't, and he proceeds calmly to another
head of his discourse.
"They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be
satisfactory--give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice trait
in their character, this.)--"Now, will you--um--take it? They want
somebody at once."
"Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they got a
billiard-table, do you happen to know?"
The President says, "he doesn't know anything about _that_," and looks
a little surprised, as if I had proposed a game of skittles.
On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to her
first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's like.
Have to drive up in a village fly. _Query_--Oughtn't they to have sent
their carriage for me?
My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with a
strident voice, is presumably Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT.
Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage. Evidently very
"uncultivated."
In my bed-room. Above are the sounds of a small pandemonium,
apparently. Stamping, falling, shouting, bumping, crying. What a lot
of them there must be!
There are! At supper--they appear to have early dinners, which I
detest--three boys and one girl present, as a sample. Eldest a youth
about ten, who puts out his tongue at me, when he thinks I'm not
looking, and kicks his brothers beneath the table to make them cry,
which they do. I begin to wonder when my real pupil will appear.
Governess talks to me as if I were a brother professional.
_Query--infra dig_. again?
Children, being forbidden to talk in anything but French at meals, say
nothing at all; at the end I am astounded at Materfamilias catching
hold of the boy of ten, and bringing him round to me, with the
remark,--
"Perhaps you'd like to talk to ERNIE about lessons."
Heavens! This nursery fledgling to be my pupil! And I am to be his
"companion"! Fledgling, while standing in front of me for inspection,
has the audacity to stretch out his leg, and trip up a little sister
who is passing. Howls ensue.
A nicely-mannered youth!
"You will have to behave yourself with _me_, young man!" I warn him,
in a tone which ought to abash him, but doesn't in the least.
"Ah, but perhaps you won't stay here long," is his rather able
rejoinder. "Our Governesses never--"
"ERNIE!" shrieks his mother, threateningly. ERNIE stops; and I have
time to regret my folly in not inquiring of the President the precise
age of my promising disciple, very likely President didn't know
himself.
The other boys who were at supper are now presented to me. One is
about eight, the other not more than six.
"These are HERBIE and JACK," says their mother, who ought to know.
Thank Heaven, _they_ are not my pupils!
Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT horrifies me by saying--
"I thought it would be so nice, when you were teaching ERNIE, _if_
HERBIE _and_ JACK _could be taught too!_ And after lessons you will
be able to take them such nice long walks in the neighbourhood! It's
really very pretty country, Mr.--I forget your name."
Oh, certainly, the President was quite right. She _is_ very
uncultivated. That ever I was born to cultivate her--or her precious
offspring! But was I? Time must show.
[Illustration: SARTORIAL EUPHUISMS.
"MEASUREMENTS ABOUT THE SAME AS THEY USED TO BE, SNIPPE?"
"YES, SIR. CHEST A TRIFLE _LOWER DOWN_, SIR, THAT'S ALL!"]
* * * * *
AN ARGUMENTUM AD POCKETUM.
[The Rev. B. MEREDYTH-KITSON called the attention of the
London School Board to the action of Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS,
who, being appealed to by "a respectable-looking woman" for
the remission of a fine of five shillings imposed upon her
husband for neglecting to send their children to school, gave
her five shillings out of the poor-box to pay it, on finding
that she had nine children, the eldest fifteen years, the
youngest five months, a husband out of work, and "no boots
for her children to go to school in." The Rev. STEWART HEADLAM
said that in East London they suffered a good deal through
the decisions of Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS, who constantly paid the
fines from the poor-box, or out of his own pocket!]
Oh, MONTAGU, this conduct is nefarious!
_You_ are, indeed, a pretty Magistrate!
Better the judgments, generous, if precarious,
Of the old Cadi at an Eastern gate.
No wonder that you madden MEREDTTH-KITSON,
And stir the bitter bile of STEWART HEADLAM.
When Justice, School-Board ruling simply "sits on,"
School-Boards become a mere annexe of--Bedlam!
Nine children! Husband out of work! No boots!
And do you really think that _these_ are reasons
For fine-remission? This strikes at the roots
Of Law, which ought to rule us at all seasons.
Oh, how shall KITSON educate the "kids,"
Or how shall HEADLAM discipline the mothers,
If you, instead of doing what Law bids,
Pay the poor creatures' fines and raise up bothers?
Law, Sir, is Law, even to Magistrates,
Not a mere chopping-block for maudlin charity.
Fining the impecunious doubtless grates
On feelings such as yours; there's some disparity
'Twixt School-Board Draconism, and regard
For parents penniless, and children bootless;
But pedagogues--ask HEADLAM--must be hard,
Or pedagogy's purposes are fruitless.
Poor creatures? Humph! Compassion's mighty fine;
A gentle feeling, who would wish to shock it?
But husbands out of work with children nine,
Should pay their fines themselves--not from _your_ pocket.
* * * * *
KEPT IN TOWN.-A LAMENT.
[Illustration]
The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and few,
And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a screw
By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves are
brown, stagnant sultriness prevails--the very air's gone out of town!
Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to seed;
Street-urchins play in porticoes--no powdered menial there to heed;
Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered omnibus:
Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus.
On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, and sea,
To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town--like me!
Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're off!"
And ask "what _you_ propose to do--yacht, shoot, or fish, or walk,
or golf?"
On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other day,
The knocker basks in calm repose--conscious "the family's away."
I scan the windows--half in hope I may some friendly face detect--
To meet their blank brown-papered stare, depressing as the cut direct!
I pass the house where She is not, to feel an unfamiliar chill;
That door is disenchanted now, that number powerless to thrill!
'Twas there, in yonder balcony, that last July she used to stand;
Upon some balcony, more blest, she's leaning now, in Switzerland,
Her eyes upon rose-tinted peaks--but no, of sense I 'm quite bereft!
The hour is full early yet, and _table d hote_ she'll scarce have left.
Some happy neighbour's handing her the salad--But I'll move, I think;
I see a grim caretaker's eye regard me through the shutter's chink.
Yes, I'll away,--no longer be the sport of sentiment forlorn,
But scale the heights of Primrose Hill, pretending it's the Matterhorn;
Or hie me through the dusk to sit beside the shimmering Serpentine,
And, with a little make-believe, imagine I am up the Rhine.
Alas! the poor device, I know, my restlessness will ne'er assuage:
Still Fanny beats, with pinions clipped, the wires of its Cockney cage!
No inch of turf to prisoned larks can represent the boundless moor;
And neither Hyde nor Regent's Park suggests a Continental Tour!
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
IN AN OMNIBUS.
_The majority of the inside passengers, as usual, sit in solemn
silence, and gaze past their opposite neighbours into vacancy. A
couple of Matrons converse in wheezy whispers._
_First Matron._ Well, I must say a bus is pleasanter riding than what
they used to be not many years back, and then so much cheaper, too.
Why, you can go all the way right from here to Mile End Road for
threepence!
_Second Matron._ What, all that way for threepence--(_with an impulse
of vague humanity_.) The _poor_ 'orses!
_First Matron._ Ah, well, my dear, it's Competition, you know,--it
don't do to think too much of it.
_Conductor (stopping the bus)._ Orchard Street, Lady.
_To_ Second Matron, _who had desired to be put down there._
_Second Matron (to_ Conductor). Just move on a few doors further,
opposite the boot-shop. (_To_ First Matron.) It will save us walking.
_Conductor._ Cert'inly, Mum, we'll drive in and wait while you 're
tryin' 'em on, if you like--_we_ ain't in no 'urry!
_The_ Matrons _get out, and their places are taken by two young girls,
who are in the middle of a conversation of thrilling interest._
_First Girl._ I never liked her myself--ever since the way she behaved
at his Mother's that Sunday.
_Second Girl._ How _did_ she behave?
_[A faint curiosity is discernible amongst the other passengers to
learn how she--whoever she is--behaved that Sunday.
First Girl._ Why, it was you _told_ me! _You_ remember. That night JOE
let out about her and the automatic scent fountain.
_Second Girl._ Oh, yes, I remember now. _(General disappointment. )_ I
couldn't help laughing myself. Joe didn't ought to have told--but she
needn't have got into such a state over it, _need_ she?
_First Girl,_ That was ELIZA all over. If GEORGE had been sensible,
he'd have broken it off then and there--but no, he wouldn't hear a
word against her, not at that time--it was the button-hook opened
_his_ eyes!
_[The other passengers strive to dissemble a frantic desire to know
how and why this delicate operation was performed._ Second Girl
(mysteriously)_. And enough too! But what put GEORGE off most was her
keeping that bag so quiet.
_[The general imagination is once more stirred to its depths by this
mysterious allusion._
_First Girl._ Yes, he did feel that, I know, he used to come and go
on about it to me by the hour together. "I shouldn't have minded so
much," he told me over and over again, with the tears standing in his
eyes,--"if it hadn't been that the bottles was all silver-mounted!"
_Second Girl._ Silver-mounted? I never heard of _that_ before--no
wonder he felt hurt!
_First Girl (impressively)._ Silver tops to everyone of them--and that
girl to turn round as she did, and her with an Uncle in the oil and
colour line, too--it nearly broke GEORGE'S 'art!