Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 98 January 4 1890 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Then suddenly the sombre way Rock'd like the darkness struck by day, The endless houses reel'd from sight, And all romance and all delight Came thronging in a glorious crowd. So, when the drums are beating loud, The mob comes sweeping down the Mall, Far heralding the bear-skins tall. Glorious in golden clothing comes The great drum-major with his drums And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then The scarlet wall of marching men, Midmost of which great Mavors sets The colours girt with bayonets. Yes, there were you--and there was I, Unshaved, and with erratic tie, And for that once I yearn'd to shun My social system's central sun. How could a sloven slave express The frank, the manly tenderness That wraps you round from common thought, And does not ask that you should know The love that consecrates you so. No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold, I basely seemed to set at naught That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought. What must she think, my girl of gold? I dare not ask; and baffled wit Droops--till sweet hopes begin to flit-- Like butterflies that brave the cold-- Perhaps she didn't notice it.

"JUST TO OBLIGE BENSON."

The mounting is excellent. Nothing better than "a Wood near Athens," painted by Mr. HEMSLEY, has been seen since Professor HERKOMER startled the world with his representation of village life at Bushey. The music, too , is always charming, and frequently appropriate. Moreover, Mr. BENSON, no doubt feeling that his author required every possible support, has introduced a number of pretty dances, executed by comely maidens of ages varying from seven to seven-and-twenty.

YOUR UNPREJUDICED CONTRIBUTOR.

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Whatever the piece may be, it is always a pleasure to see how thoroughly the old hands at the Savoy enter into "the fun of the thing," and, as in the case of Miss JESSIE BOND and Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON, absolutely carry the audience with them by sheer exuberance of spirits.

A fantastically and humorous peculiarly Gilbertian idea is the comparison between a visit to the dentist's, and an interview with the questioners by the rack, suggested by the Grand Inquisitor Don ALHAMBRA who says that the nurse is waiting in the torture-chamber, but that there is no hurry for him to go and examine her, as she is all right and "has all the illustrated papers."

RUSSIAN ART.

THE START.

Off! Yes; but inexperienced feet, With pace that's fast and a style that's neat, At first can scarcely be expected O'er frozen waters to glide and fleet.

How many a novice that Skate-man old Has helped to onset alert and bold! How many a veteran worn seen vanish, Aching with effort and pinched with cold!

And you, young novice, 'tis now your turn Your skates to try and your steps to learn. You long to fly like the skimming swallow, To brave the breathless "scurry" you burn.

He knows, he knows, your aged guide! The screws are fixed, and the straps are tied, And he looks sharp out for the shambling stagger, The elbows wobbling, the knees too wide.

He too has seen some novices start, And knows, however you play your part, The "outside edge," and attendant perils, Will tax your sinews and test your heart.

Bravo, youngster! Steady! Strike out! Caution, yes, but not palsying doubt. Courage! and you--ere your course you finish-- May beat "Fish" SMART at a flying bout!

ROBERT'S KRISMUS HIM.

How werry warious is the reasons why We welcoms Crismus with a ringing cheer! The Skoolboy nos his hollidays is nigh, And treats the hale stout Porter to sum Beer.

The Cook and Ousemaid smiles upon the Baker, Who takes his little fee without no blush, Likewise upon the Butcher and Shoo Maker Who makes their calls dispite the Sno or Slush.

The Dustman cums a crying out for "Dust," But nos full well that isn't wot he seeks, And gits his well-earned shilling with the fust, And smiles on Mary as his thanks he speaks.

The Groser smart, as likewise his Green Brother, In their best close cums with a modest ring, And having got their orders, one and tother, Smilingly asks for jest one other thing.

The Postman's dubbel nock cums to each door, Whether he has a Letter got or no, The stingy Master thinks his call a bore, And gives his paltry shilling werry slow.

Why are not all men like the jowial Waiter, Allers content with what kind Fortune brings, Whether it's Turtel Soop or a meer tater, He sets a pattern to Lord Mares and Kings.

Then let us all while Crismus time we're keeping, Whether we barsks in fortune's smile or frown, Be thankful for the harwest we are reaping, And give a thort to them whose luck is down.

ROBERT.

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

"Tr?s volontiers," repartit le d?mon.

"Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

Down through the night we drifted slow, the rays From London's countless gas-jets starred the haze O'er which we darkly hovered. Broad loomed the bulk of WREN'S colossal dome Through the grey mist, which, like a sea of foam, The sleeping city covered.

"The year," the Shadow murmured, "nears its close. Lo! how they swarm in slumber, friends and foes, Kindred and utter strangers, The millions of this Babylon, stretched beneath The shroud of night, and drawing peaceful breath, Unstirred by dreads and dangers."

"But not by dreams," I answered, "Canst reveal, O Shade, the vagrant thoughts that throng and steal About these countless pillows? Or are these sleeping souls as shut to thee As is the unsounded silence of the sea To those who brave its billows?"

"Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering morn Shadow forth truth; these through the Gates of Horn Find passage to the sleeper. Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may read The heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed; What divination deeper?

"Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip, Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip, And lost a great occasion Of self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writhe With hate, on platforms oft so blandly blithe In golden-tongued persuasion!

"He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist, Is a professional philanthropist, Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty. A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deep In jungles of self-interest, where creep Sleuth-hounds of creed and party.

"Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife, And all the hot activities of life; But most the Politician He mocks--for 'meanness.' How the prig would gasp If shown the slime-trail of that wriggling asp In his own haunts Elysian!

"He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise, Is dedicate to calm aesthetic joys, That he is limply lolling Amidst the lilies that toil not nor spin, Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin, And languor, and 'log-rolling.'

"The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow lies Is fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyes Look Dian-pure and saintly. Sure no Aholibah could own those lips, Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slips So fragrantly and faintly.

"That up-curved arm which bears the silken knot Of dusky hair, is it more free from blot Than is her soul who slumbers? Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,' Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's pen In ever-swelling numbers.

"Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a lean And impecunious urchin; lovers mean Gifts, worship, triumph--Money! The Golden Apple is the fruit to witch Our modern Atalantas. To be rich, Live on life's milk and honey;

"Stir crowds, charm royalties,--these are the things Psyche most cares for, not her radiant wings Or Cupid's shy caresses. She dreams of conquests that a world applauds, Or a Stage-wardrobe with a thousand gauds, And half-a-hundred dresses.

"Not so, that other sleeper, stretched at length, A spectre stripped of charm and shorn of strength, In yon dismantled chamber. Dreams she of girlhood's couch, the lavender Of country sheets, a roof where pigeons whirr And creamy roses clamber?

"Of him the red-faced swain whose rounded eyes Dwelt on her charms in moony ecstacies? Of pride, of shame, of sorrow? Nay, of what now seems Nature's crowning good; Hunger-wrought dreams are hers of food--food--food. She'll wake from them to-morrow;

"Wake fiercely famishing, savagely sick, The animal in man is quick, so quick To stir and claim full forage. Let famine parch the hero's pallid lips, Pinch Beauty's breast, then watch the swift eclipse Of virtue, sweetness, courage!

"Cynical? Sense leaves that to callow youth And callous age; plain picturing of the truth Seems cynical,--to folly. Friend, the true cynic is the shallow mime Who paints humanity devoid of crime, And life supremely 'jolly,'

"He dreams of--holly, home, exuberant hearts, Picturesque poverty, the toys and tarts Of childhood's hope?--No, verily! 'Tis a dream-world of pleasure, power, and pelf, Visions of the apocalypse of Self, O'er which his soul laughs merrily."

"Enough!" I cried. "The morning's earliest gleams Will soon dissolve this pageantry of dreams. The New Year's at our portals. Unselfishness, and purity, and hope, Dawn with it through the dream-world's cloudy cope, Even on slumbering mortals."

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

PREPARING TO MEET AN EPIDEMIC.--If you sit all day in your great coat, muffled up to the eyes in a woollen comforter and with your feet in constantly replenished mustard and hot water, as you propose, you will certainly be prepared, when it makes its appearance, to encounter the attack of the Russian Epidemic Influenza, that you so much dread. Your idea of taking a dose of some advertised Patent Medicine every other hour, as a preventive, is by no means a bad one, and your resolution to shut yourself up in your house, see no friends, open no letters, read no newspapers, and live entirely on tinned meats for three months, might possibly secure you from the chances of an attack; but on the whole we should rather advise you to carry out your plan of leaving the country altogether and seeking a temporary asylum in South Central Africa until you are assured that the contagion has blown over, as the preferable one. Anyhow you might try it. Meanwhile, certainly drench your clothes with disinfectants, fill your hat with cotton wool steeped in spirits of camphor, and if you meet any friends in the street, prevent them addressing you, by keeping them at arm's-length with your walking-stick, or, better still, if you have it with you, your opened umbrella. They may or they may not understand your motive, and when they do, though they may not respect you for your conduct, it is just possible that they may not seriously resent it. Your precautionary measures, if scrupulously carried out, should certainly ensure your safety. Put them in hand at once, and be sure you let us hear from you next Spring informing us, on the whole, how you have got on.

WHAT POCKET-BOOKS TO GET.--Mark us; WARD'S.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

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