Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 22nd, 1890

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 22nd, 1890
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en301 downloads on Project Gutenberg

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English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Humour·British Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #30018.

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DEAR CHARLIE,--Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy. I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie of toy Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's me, CHARLIE! My back seemed to open and shut, As the _grippe_-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss with my nut.

Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one. The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's their fun. I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but this weren't no cold, leastways mine. Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.

Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me. When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old D. T. A party named ROBERT BUCHANAN, as always appears on the job, Was a slating a chappie called HUXLEY. Thinks I, I'll take stock of friend BOB.

Well, he ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never wos. Old HUXLEY's wuth ten on him, CHARLIE, though he's rather huppish and poz. Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout. BOB B., he says "Yus;" HUXLEY, "No;" and BOB'S wrong, there's no manner of doubt.

"Free and equal?" Oh, NEBUCHADNEZZAR! how can they talk sech tommy-rot? Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot. Nice hidea, but taint so, that's the wust on it. There's where these dreamers go wrong. Ought's nothink, and that as is, is; all the rest isn't wuth a old Song.

Bad as BUGGINS, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez BUGGINS, sez he, Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me? Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts for us all. It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's Stall.

All I've got to say, CHARLIE, is this. If so be Nature meant all that there, She must be a fair "J." as a mater. I've bin bested out of my share. So has BUGGINS, and nine out o' ten on us. If the few nobble the quids Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.

Poor BUGGINS! He's nuts upon HENERY GEORGE, WILLIAM MORRIS, and such. He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. Him born free and equal? Great Scott! 'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot.

Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't exist, Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist. It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. Is men equal in muscle and pith? Arsk BISMARCK and DERBY, dear boy, or arsk JACKSON the Black and JEM SMITH.

There'd be precious few larks if they wos, CHARLIE--where'd be the chance of a spree If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me? It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun--for the ups. Equal? Yus, as old BARNUM and BUGGINS, or tigers and tarrier pups.

He's a long-winded lot, is BUCHANAN, slops over tremenjous, he do; Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few, Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher know, But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so ROBERT, my nabs, it's no go.

Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up. Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp. 'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me, But to fancy as them as has got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.

Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay they did. Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid! Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish I'd a spanking estate Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the slate.

No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the nobs, Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S. As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy. Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to enjoy.

Life's a great game of grab, fur's I see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well, call it that. If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat. There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each, It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at the peach.

High priori hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot. Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot! "Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's religion and law; Pooty fakes! But when sharing's the word they ain't in it with sheer tooth and claw.

Orful nice to see Science confirming wot I always held. Blow me tight, If I don't rayther cotton to HUXLEY; he's racy, old pal, and he's right. The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream, And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's Dream!

Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs, Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old BUGGINS, he flushes and coughs; Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke, Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or you'll choke.

Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great, As 'cute Bishop MAGEE sez Religion would do--_carried out_--with the State. Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common sense, To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!

All cop and no blue ain't my motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum; And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum. And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there, dontcher know; But shake up the Bag and share round, like good pals a pot-lucking? Oh no!

Wot these jokers call Justice means knocking all 'andicap out of life's race; "Equal chances all round," they declare, wouldn't give equal power and pace! Wy, no; but if things weren't made nice for the few with the power and the tin, The 'andicapped many would be in the 'unt, and some on 'em might win.

Pooty nice state o' things for the perkers! Luck, Law, and the Longheads, dear boy, Have arranged the world so that the many must work that the few may enjoy. These "Equality" jossers would spile it; if arf their reforms they can carry, The enjoyers will 'ave a rough time, and there won't be a look in for 'ARRY.

"BRAVO Monseigneur!" Quite a natural cry, For he looks picturesque, and appears to be plucky, The Roscius rôle the young actor would try; His début "gets a hand," which is certainly lucky. These Infant Phenomena frequently fail To rouse anything more than good-natured derision; But clappings and cheers this boy histrion hail. What then is his Vision?

"The thoughts of youth, they are long, long thoughts;" Exceedingly true, most mellifluous LONGFELLOW! But later come crosses, oft leading to noughts, And "_l'homme nécessaire_" often finds he's the wrong fellow. How many débuts have occurred on the Stage With various set scenes, and with properties varied? Sensationalism, the vice of the age, To extremes has been carried.

A good situation all actors desire, All playrights approve, and all managers glory in. He has struck out his own with decision and fire. What part will he play a more serious story in? Who knows? For the moment the cue is applause. "_Vive_, ROSCIUS!" It may mean mere claque, empty chatter. And whether the youngster will further the Cause Is a different matter.

A coup de théâtre is not everything, As well he's aware, that tragedian troubled Who is gliding so gloomily off at the wing. Hope's cup at his lips lately brimmingly bubbled, Now "foiled by a novice, eclipsed by a boy!" Is the thought in his mind. The reflection is bitter-- Theatrical taste often craves a fresh toy, And is captured by glitter.

What thinks Madame France of the attitude struck By this confident slip of good stock histrionic? Though dames swear their dear Petit Duc is a duck, The smile of old stagers is somewhat ironic. But "Bravas!" resound. A lad's "resolute will," The "wisdom of twenty years," stir admiration, The political Café Chantant pluck will thrill In a stage-loving nation.

ROYAL BERKSHIRE.--Go to DOWDESWELL'S, in Bond Street, and they will show you how County-history is written in the present day. It is altogether different to the dull, old, dry volumes, "the musty histories," which our grandfathers exhibited on their shelves, but never took down to read; and these County-historians are of a much more entertaining character. Those who know Royal Berkshire well--as most of us do--will be glad to have their memory refreshed by the fresh, bright, breezy pictures by YEEND KING, JOHN M. BROMLEY, and J. M. MACKINTOSH. KEELEY HALSWELLE'S superb painting of "_Royal Windsor_" occupies the place of honour in the room. It is one of the best pictures--and at the same time one of the most unconventional--ever produced of this oft-painted subject.

My dear LENNOX BROWNE, and my good Dr. SMITH, There is probably truth, there is certainly pith, In your Kensington talk about Rational Dress. Dr. GARSON and Miss LEFFLER-ARNIM also, Talk sound common sense, but they'll find it no go; The Crusade they have started can't meet with success.

No, sage Viscountess HARBERTON, sweet Mrs. STOPES, You had better not nourish ridiculous hopes About "rationalising" our frocks and our shoes. There is just one invincible thing, and that's Fashion! That object of every true woman's chief passion, 'Tis vain to attack, and absurd to abuse.

You may say what you please about feminine "togs," That they're ugly, unhealthy, are burdens or clogs, Too high, or too low, or too loose, or too tight, There is just one reply (but 'tis more than enough) To such "rational," but most irrelevant stuff:-- If not in the Fashion, a Woman's a Fright!!!

FROM THE ZOO.--The Tapir, the Daily Telegraph stated in one of the paragraphs of its useful and amusing diary of "London Day by Day,"--"The Tapir," at the Zoological Gardens, is a specimen of a species now "verging on the brink of extinction. He was an old Tory; the world changes, but change he would not." He should be known as the "Red Tape-ir."

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