Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 105 October 14th 1893 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Ebook has 84 lines and 13495 words, and 2 pages

Editor: Sir Francis Burnand

"DUE SOUTH."

Opposite Freshwater it very naturally commences to be a bit freshish; some people in the forepart are getting very wet; there is a stampede; it is still fresher and rougher; but I have every confidence in the Captain, who, as I observe, is negligently standing on the bridge, deliberately cracking specimens of that great delicacy the early filbert, or it may be the still earlier walnut.

Splashing and ducking have commenced freely. The waves do the splashing, and the people on board do the ducking.

There are those who look ill and keep well; and others who look well at first, but who turn all sorts of colours within a quarter of an hour, struggle gallantly, and succumb; children lively, but gradually collapsing, lying about doubled up helplessly; comfortable, comely matrons who came on board neat and tidy, now horridly uncomfortable, and quite reckless of appearance. Here, too, is the uncertain sailor, who considers it safer to remain seated, and who, at the end of the voyage, is surprised to find himself in perfect health.

More shower-bathing; the fore-part of the vessel quite cleared by the attacking waves.

However, "it soon dries off," says a jolly middle-aged gentleman in a summer suit, drenched from tip of collar to toe of boot.

Passing Sandown. Of course the well-informed person says, "This is where the races are," and equally of course he is immediately contradicted by a reduced chorus of bystanders, who pity his deplorable ignorance. Total discomfiture of well-informed person. He disappears. "Gone below," like a Demon in a pantomime at the appearance of the Good Fairy.

Nice place Sandown apparently, where, it being 1.30, the happy Wight-islanders are probably sitting down in comfort to a nice hot lunch, while we, the jovial mariners--well, no matter. I shall wait till I can lunch ashore.

Our arrangements are to land at Southsea, where we ought to be at 2 P.M. But already it is 2 P.M., and I dive into my provision-pocket for a broken biscuit. ... An interior voice whispers that the broken biscuit was a mistake. I tremble. False alarm. Southsea!! Saved!! But we are forty minutes late, and our time for refreshment is considerably curtailed.

We crowd off through a sort of black-hole passage. Debarking and re-embarking might be very easily managed on a much more comfortable plan. We pay one penny for the pier-toll, and we make for the hotel at the entrance to the pier. Any port in a storm. Cold luncheon is ready for those who can take it, that is, one in six.

There are some persons of whom I would make short work were I a Captain on board, with power to order into irons anyone whose presence was objectionable. And these persons are, Firstly, stout greasy women, with damp, dirty little children. Secondly, fat old men and women eating green, juicy pears with pocket knives. Thirdly, smokers of strong pipes. Fourthly, smokers of cigars. Fifthly , for smokers of bad cigars. Sixthly, people who will persist in attempting to walk about and who, in order to preserve their perpendicular, are perpetually making grabs at everything and everybody. Seventhly, aimless wanderers, who seem unable to remain in one place for five minutes at a time.

Strong men "out of work," weak women as "out of heart," Factory gates unopened, and Workhouse gates fast shut. Traffic hampered, arrested, piled trains unable to start. Famine in homes and hearths, trade dead-lock and market-glut! The coal lies there in the mine, untouched of hammer and pick, While yon pale widow-woman must haggle in vain for enough To charge her tiny grate! Faith! the heart that turns not sick Is tough!

RIPPIN'.

Oh! other centuries have had their blades, their bucks, their dandies, Who had redeeming qualities, but what no man can stand is The up-to-date variety, that miserable nonny, The self-conceited jackanapes who calls himself a "Johnny." He hasn't got the brawn or brains to go in for excesses, His faults are feeble--like himself,--he dawdles, dines, and dresses, His words, his hair, his silly speech to sheer negation clippin', And when he wants to praise a thing, his only word is "Rippin'."

Oh! he's rippin', rippin'! A tailor's block set skippin', He's all bad debts and cigarettes and bets and k?mmel-nippin', His head's without a grain of sense, his hand he's got no grip in, He drags his walk and tags his talk with "Rippin', rippin', rippin'"!

His faultless dress is the result of unremitting study, He's quite the perfect "Johnny," never messed and never muddy, His coat is always baggy and his hat is always shiny, His boots are always varnished to their pointed toes so tiny. His shirts, his ties, his walking-sticks are marvels to remember, And with the seasons change from January to December. He always wears a "buttonhole," and in a huge carnation Of hideous hue 'twixt green and blue finds special delectation.

He dawdles dully through his day in quite the latest fashion-- A round of folly minus wit, and vice without its passion. At five he walks "the Burlington," in which esteemed Arcade he Meets various of his chosen chums--the silly and the shady; Then to the Berkeley or Savoy at eight o'clock or later, Much over-dressed, to over-dine, and over-tip the waiter. The theatre next, and last his club , To prove his pluck by "lookin' on at other Johnnies fightin'."

Oh! Whippin', whippin', I'd like to set him skippin', To end his bets and cigarettes and stop his k?mmel-nippin', With cure in kind his flabby mind to put a little grip in, To brisk his walk and sense his talk with whippin', whippin', whippin'!

UNDER THE ROSE.

HYDE PARK AND KENSINGTON GARDENS. ONCE AGAIN!--M. ZOLA said "he would give forty Hyde Parks for one Bois de Boulogne." Bravo! So would all Londoners, especially equestrians, who year after year quietly put up with that one Rotten Row ride, and do not unite in their hundreds to petition "the authorities" for the opening of a ride through Kensington Gardens from south to north, and for a few "alleys" under the broad spreading trees, where now sometimes a few sheep, and sometimes a nursery maid and her charge, do stray. A "proposition" logically precedes a "rider;" in this case the proposition should come from the riders.

"MASTERLY INACTIVITY."

Sturdy assertion on one side that table, While scared acquiescence is seen on the other! Further development of the old fable. Wolf and the Lamb next, as brother with brother, Or new Franco-Siamese twins may appear; Well, I pity the Lamb, but I feel little fear.

It isn't smart Treaties alone secure Trade, And if I keep the Trade they may keep all their Treaties. 'Tis not by mere craft your true Trader is made. The Frank as a diplomat neat and complete is, As Colonist-Trader, at settlement--shipment-- Well, there's something seems wanting about his equipment.

I've had some experience. Far Hindostan, And Canada, Africa, Egypt--ah! pardon! That's just a sore point, and I am not the man A rival of me and my ways to be hard on. No; at a neat "counter" a cur only blubbers; And they who play bowls must expect to have rubbers.

I may have a word to put in by and by; Young ROSEBERY, doubtless, will know how to put it. At present on matters I'll just keep an eye. The World's gate is Trade, and nobody can shut it So tight--by mere Treaties--skill can't turn the handle. One might as well bolt the back door with a candle.

'Tis all Swag and Swagger! I very much fear That's true of us cock-a-whoop "Civilised Races," Who hold that our "Influence" must find its "Sphere,"-- At the cost of the poor yellow-skins or black faces. We are so much alike, 'twere sheer cant to upbraid, So I mean to stand-by--and look after my Trade!

NAMES FOR OTHER NAMES.

The London County Council having considered the propriety of changing the name of Great George Street, Westminster, we append a list of localities that possibly may, later on, attract their attention. In each case we have appended a suggested new name, chosen in the customary arbitrary and meaningless fashion:--

Trafalgar Square--Water-squirt Place. Piccadilly--Snooks' Avenue. Mayfair--Mews' Gardens. Eaton Square--Pimlico Enclosure. Haymarket--Picture-dealers' Row. Charing Cross--Araminta Place East. Covent Garden--Cabbage Buildings. The Strand--Western Central High Street. Buckingham Palace--Guelph House. Pall Mall--Pavement Promenade. Westminster Abbey--Members' Meeting House. St. Paul's Cathedral--Lord Mayor's Church. Temple Bar--Law Courts' Corner. Chancery Lane--Smith Street East. Fleet Street--Pedlington Place. Whitehall--Rosebery Row. and Spring Gardens--County Council Folly.

THE RULES OF THE RUDE.

NOT A FAIR EXCHANGE.

This is a thoroughly British home. I find chairs, sofas, curtains, and carpets. They all seem to be of British manufacture.

No, they are not of British manufacture. On the contrary, they are all made in Germany.

But surely this window is English? No, it is not English; it is put together in Sweden, and erected by Swiss workmen.

But are not these pictures, these fire-irons, these card-tables, of home growth? No, for the pictures come from France, the fire-irons from Belgium, and the card-tables from Austria.

The sofa, however, was surely bought in London? It may have been bought in London, but it was certainly made in Denmark.

But the brass nails mast have arrived from Sheffield? No, they are now received from parts of Portugal, Spain, and Northern Russia.

And the coal-scuttles, surely they are made in Lambeth, Manchester, and Liverpool? They were manufactured in those places for a while, when other branches of trade were lost to the country, but for a long time they have been imported from Constantinople.

It may be assumed that the coals come from Newcastle? Certainly not, considering that they have only just been received from New York.

Are the bread and butter, and the other ingredients of the tea-table, English? Oh dear no; the toast comes from Australia, the tea from Ceylon, the sugar from the South Pole, and the butter from Gibraltar.

It really would appear that there is nothing English about the house; nothing save the rent and taxes, which of course are of home growth? You are correct in your supposition; however, in exchange for these conveniences from abroad, we have made a present to the foreigner of something once held very dear in this country.

And what was that?

Our trade. English trade has left England, probably permanently, for the Continent.

"PICTURES PROM 'PUNCH.'"

BOBO.

"Sling me over a two-eyed steak, BILL," said BOBO.

BILL complied instantly, for he knew the lady's style of conversation; but Lord COKALEEK required to be told that his Marchioness was asking for one of the bloaters in the silver dish in front of his cousin, BILL SPLINTER.

Now, dear reader, I 'm not going to describe Cokaleek House, in the black country, or COKALEEK, or BOBO, or BILL. If you are in smart society you know all about them beforehand; and if you ain't you must puzzle them out the best way you can. The more I don't describe them the more vivid and alive they ought to seem to you. As for BOBO, I shall let her talk. That's enough. In the course of my two volumes--one thick and one thin--which is a new departure, and looks as if my publisher thought that BOBO would stretch to three volumes, and then found she wouldn't--you will be told, 1, that BOBO had brown eyes; 2, that she was five foot eight; and that is all you 'll ever know about the outside of BOBO. But you'll hear her talk, and you'll see her smoke; and if you can't evolve a fascinating personality out of cigarettes, and swears, and skittish conversation, you are not worthy to have known BOBO.

I am told that some people have taken "BOBO" for a vulgar caricature of a real personage. If they have, I can only say I feel flattered by the notion, as it may serve to differentiate me from the vulgar herd of novelists who draw on their imagination for their characters.

BOBO began her bloater.

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