Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 103 November 26 1892 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Editor: Francis Burnand

PUNCH,

VOL. 103.

November 26, 1892.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

A Philosopher has deigned to address to me a letter. "Sir," writes my venerable correspondent, "I have been reading your open letters to Abstractions with some interest. You will, however, perhaps permit me to observe that amongst those to whom you have written are not a few who have no right whatever to be numbered amongst Abstractions. Laziness, for instance, and Crookedness, and Irritation--not to mention others--how is it possible to say that these are Abstractions? They are concrete qualities and nothing else. Forgive me for making this correction, and believe me yours, &c. A PLATONIST."--To which I merely reply, with all possible respect, "Stuff and nonsense!" I know my letters have reached those to whom they were addressed, no single one has come back through the Dead-letter Office, and that is enough for me. Besides, there are thousands of Abstractions that the mind of "A PLATONIST" has never conceived. Somewhere I know, there is an abstract Boot, a perfect and ideal combination of all the qualities that ever were or will be connected with boots, a grand exemplar to which all material boots, more or less, nearly approach; and by their likeness to which they are recognised as boots by all who in a previous existence have seen the ideal Boot. Sandals, mocassins, butcher-boots, jack-boots, these are but emanations from the great original. Similarly, there must be an abstract Dog, to the likeness of which, in one respect or another, both the Yorkshire Terrier and the St. Bernard conform. So much then for "A PLATONIST." And now to the matter in hand.

My dear FAILURE, there exists amongst us, as, indeed, there has always existed, an innumerable body of those upon whom you have cast your melancholy blight. Amongst their friends and acquaintances they are known by the name you yourself bear. They are the great army of failures. But there must be no mistake. Because a man has had high aspirations, has tried with all the energy of his body and soul to realise them, and has, in the end, fallen short of his exalted aim, he is not, therefore, to be called a failure. MOSES, I may remind you, was suffered only to look upon the Promised Land from a mountain-top. Patriots without number--KOSSUTH shall be my example--have fought and bled, and have been thrust into exile, only to see their objects gained by others in the end. But the final triumph was theirs surely almost as much as if they themselves had gained it. On the other hand there are those who march from disappointment to disappointment, but remain serenely unconscious of it all the time. These are not genuine failures. There is CHARSLEY, for instance, journalist, dramatist, novelist--Heaven knows what besides. His plays have run, on an average, about six nights; his books, published mostly at his own expense, are a drug in the market; but the little creature is as vain, as proud, and, it must be added, as contented, as though Fame had set him, with a blast of her golden trumpet, amongst the mighty Immortals. What lot can be happier than his? Secure in his impregnable egotism, ramparted about with mighty walls of conceit, he bids defiance to attack, and lives an enviable life of self-centred pleasure.

Then, again, there was JOHNNIE TRUEBRIDGE. I do not mean to liken him to CHARSLEY, for no more unselfish and kind-hearted being than JOHNNIE ever breathed. But was there ever a stone that rolled more constantly and gathered less moss? Yet no stroke could subdue his inconquerable cheerfulness. Time after time he got his head above the waters; time after time, some malignant emissary of fate sent him bubbling and gasping down into the depths. He was up again in a moment, striving, battling, buffeting. Nothing could make JOHNNIE despair, no disappointment could warp the simple straightforward sincerity, the loyal and almost childlike honesty of his nature. And if here and there, for a short time, fortune seemed to shine upon him, you may be sure that there was no single friend whom he did not call upon to bask with him in these fleeting rays. And what a glorious laugh he had; not a loud guffaw that splits your tympanum and crushes merriment flat, but an irrepressible, helpless, irresistible infectious laugh, in which his whole body became involved. I have seen a whole roomful of strangers rolling on their chairs without in the least knowing why, while JOHNNIE, with his head thrown back, his jolly face puckered into a thousand wrinkles of hearty delight, and his hands pressed to his sides, was shouting with laughter at some joke made, as most of his jokes were, at his own expense.

About a week after this, the usual crash came. A relative of JOHNNIE was in difficulties. JOHNNIE, with his wonted chivalry, came to his help with the few thousands that he had lately put by, and, in a day or two, he was on his beam-ends once more. And so the story went on. Money slipped through his fingers like water--prosperity tweaked him by the nose, and fled from him, whilst friends, not a whit more deserving, amassed fortunes, and became sleek. But he was never daunted. With inexhaustible courage and resource, he set to work again to rebuild his shattered edifice, confident that luck would, some day, stay with him for good. But it never did. At last he threw in his lot with a band of adventurers, who proposed to plant the British flag in some hitherto unexplored regions of South or Central Africa. I dined with JOHNNIE the evening before he left England. He was in the highest spirits. His talk was of rich farms, of immense gold-mines. He was off to make his pile, and would then come home, buy an estate in the country--he had one in his eye--and live a life of sport, surrounded by all the comforts, and by all his friends. And so we parted, never to meet again. He was lost while making his way back to the coast with a small party, and no trace of him has ever since been discovered. But to his friends he has left a memory and an example of invincible courage, and unceasing cheerfulness in the face of misfortune, of constant helpfulness, and unflinching staunchness. Can it be said that such a man was a failure? I don't think so. I must write again. In the meantime I remain, as usual,

D.R.

MOTTO FOR THE LABOUR COMMISSION.--"The proper study of mankind is--MANN!"

THE NEW EMPLOYMENT.--Being "Unemployed."

CABBIN' IT COUNCIL.

LADY GAY'S GHOST.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

LADY GAY.

ALL ROUND THE FAIR.

INSIDE THE "QUEEN'S GRAND COLLECTION OF MOVING WAXWORKS AND LIONS, AND MUSEUM DEPARTMENT OF FOREIGN WONDERS AND NOVELTIES."

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

THE SMOKING-ROOM.

The subject of the Smoking-room would seem to be intimately and necessarily connected with the subject of smoke, which was dealt with in our last Chapter. A very good friend of mine, Captain SHABRACK of the 55th Hussars, was good enough to favour me with his views the other day. I met the gallant officer, who is, as all the world knows, one of the safest and best shots of the day, in Pall Mall. He had just stepped out of his Club--the luxurious and splendid Tatterdemalion, or, as it is familiarly called, "the Tat"--where, to use his own graphic language, he had been "killing the worm with a nip of Scotch."

"Early Scotch woodcock, I suppose," says I, sportively alluding to the proverb.

"Scotch woodcock be blowed," says the Captain, who, it must be confessed, does not include an appreciation of delicate humour amongst his numerous merits; "Scotch, real Scotch, a noggin of it, my boy, with soda in a long glass; glug, glug, down it goes, hissin' over the hot coppers. You know the trick, my son, it's no use pretendin' you don't"--and thereupon the high-spirited warrior dug me good-humouredly in the ribs, and winked at me with an eye which, if the truth must be told, was bloodshot to the very verge of ferocity.

"Talkin' of woodcock," he continued--we were now walking along Pall Mall together--"they tell me you're writin' some gas or other about shootin'. Well, if you want a tip from me, just you let into the smokin' room shots a bit; you know the sort I mean, fellows who are reg'lar devils at killin' birds when they haven't got a gun in their hands. Why, there's that little son of a corn-crake, FLICKERS--when once he gets talkin' in a smokin' room nothing can hold him. He'd talk the hind leg off a donkey. I know he jolly nearly laid me out the last time I met him with all his talk--No, you don't," continued the Captain, imagining, perhaps, that I was going to rally him on his implied connection of himself with the three-legged animal he had mentioned, "no you don't--it wouldn't be funny; and besides, I'm not donkey enough to stand much of that ass FLICKERS. So just you pitch into him, and the rest of 'em, my bonny boy, next time you put pen to paper." At this moment my cheerful friend observed a hansom that took his fancy. "Gad!" he said, "I never can resist one of those india-rubber tires. Ta, ta, old cock--keep your pecker up. Never forget your goloshes when it rains, and always wear flannel next your skin," and, with that, he sprang into his hansom, ordered the cabman to drive him round the town as long as a florin would last, and was gone.

Wherefore, my gay young shooters, you who week by week suck wisdom and conversational ability from these columns, it is borne in upon me that for your benefit I must treat of the Smoking-room in its connection with shooting-parties. Thus, perhaps, you may learn not so much what you ought to say, as what you ought not to say, and your discretion shall be the admiration of a whole country-side. "The Smoking-room: with which is incorporated 'Anecdotes.'" What a rollicking, cheerful, after-dinner sound there is about it. SHABRACK might say it was like the title of a cheap weekly, which as a matter of fact, it does resemble. But what of that? Next week we will begin upon it in good earnest.

"LE GRAND FRAN?AIS."

Too sanguine? Too seductive? Yes! But was it not such hopeful charming That led him to his old success? The thought is softening, and disarming; O'er Suez and the Red Sea glance, And see what he has done for France!

SHORT AND SWEET.

Ye pretty girls of England, So famous for your looks, Whose sense has braved a thousand fads Of foolish fashion-books, Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And refrain From the train While the stormy tempests blow, While the sodden streets are thick with mud, And the stormy tempests blow!

See how the girls of Nottingham Inaugurate a League For skirts five inches from the ground; They'll walk without fatigue, No longer plagued with trains to lift Above the slush or snow; They'll not sweep Mud that's deep While the stormy tempests blow; Long dresses do the Vestry's work, While stormy tempests blow.

O pretty girls of Nottingham, If you could save us men From our frightful clothing, How we should love you then! We'd shorten turned-up trouser, And widen pointed toe, Leave off that Vile silk hat, When the stormy tempests blow-- Wretched hat that stands not wind or rain When the stormy tempests blow.

FAULTS O' BOTH SIDES.--Ardent Radicals grumbled at the Government for not holding an Autumn Session. That was a fault of omission. Now touchy Tories are angry with it for showing too strong a tendency to what Mr. GLADSTONE once sarcastically called "a policy of examination and inquiry"--into the case of Evicted Tenants, Poor-Law Relief, &c. This is a fault of Commission. Luckless Government! The verdict upon it seems to be that it

NOTICE.--The Twin Fountains of Trafalgar Square regret to inform the British Public that, although they have performed gratuitously and continuously for a number of years, they are compelled to retire from business, as they cannot compete with the State-aided spouting which takes place in their Square.

A GREAT "TREAT."--Public-house Politics at Election time.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

CLASSICAL QUESTION.--If some schoolboys, home for Christmas holidays, wanted Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS to give them a Christmas Box , what Ancient Philosopher would they mention? Why--of course--"ARISTIPPUS."

LOCAL COLOUR.

This opens a polychromatic vista to the New Poetry. Technical Art comes to the aid of the elder Muses. The products of gas-tar alone should greatly regenerate a something time-worn poetic phraseology. As thus:--

Verily , "I'll rhyme you so, eight years together, dinners and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted." And if it is "the right butterwoman's rate to market," or "the very false gallop of verses," it is at any rate good enough for a long-eared public or a postulant for the Laureateship.

WAR ON A LARGE SCALE.

REAL AND IDEAL.--"A Really Hard-Headed Man"--the Iron-skulled individual now exhibiting at the Aquarium. If his will is as iron as his head, what a despot he would be! If France is tired of her Republic, she might try the Iron-Headed Man as a ruler. There is the chance, of course, that he might turn out a numskull, and be only King Log, after all.

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

Yus, there's two sides to heverythink, wus luck! That's where we're fogged. Passiges like foul pigstyes, gents, and backyards like black bogs, Banisters broke for firewood, and smashed winders stuffed with rags, These make the sniffers slate the poor, Perticular if they're wags.

Emagine, if yer washups can, some ten foot square o' room, With a stror-heap in one corner, and a "dip" to light the gloom; With the walls dirt-streaked with damp-lines, outside, a drunken din, And hinside, a whiff of sewer-gas in a hatmosphere of gin.

Wot yer washups don't quite tumble to's the fack as like breeds like. If you would himprove Slum-dwellers, at the Slum you fust must strike. Give us small dark 'oles to dwell in, and you must be jolly green If you think folks bred in dirt like, are a-going to keep 'em clean.

THE LAST DISCOVERY.

The enormous crowd cheered again and again. It was furious. The enthusiasm spread from throng to throng, until a mighty chorus filled every portion of the land. And there was indeed reason for the rejoicing. Had not the great Arctic Explorer come home? Had he not been to the North Pole and back? At that very moment were not a couple of steam-tugs drawing his wooden vessel towards his native shore? It was indeed a moment for congratulation--not only personal but national, nay cosmopolitan. The victory of art over nature belonged to more than a country, it belonged to the world!

And the tugs came closer and closer, and the cheers grew louder and louder. Then the vessel bearing the Explorer was near at hand. The crowd joyously jumped into the water, and raising him on their shoulders, bore him triumphantly to land.

How they welcomed him! How they seized his hands and kissed them! How they cried and called him "Master," and "Victor," and "Hero!" It was a scene never to be forgotten!

When the excitement had somewhat subsided, they began to ask him questions. At last one of them wished to know how he contrived to find the North Pole and get back in safety?

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