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Editor: Sir Francis Burnand

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, October 21st 1893

THE WAR IN SOUTH AMERICA.

I hope you will not believe all you hear. I am told that the messages are tampered with, but this I trust to get through the lines without difficulty. It is being carried by a professional brigand disguised as a monk.

First let me disabuse the minds of your readers about the blowing up of the hospital. It is quite true that the place was sent spinning into the air. But the patients were put to the minimum of inconvenience. They were removed from the wards without being called upon to quit their beds. They went somewhere after returning to the ground, but where I do not know. Some of the local doctors say that the change of air may have done them good. It is not impossible.

I am glad to be able to contradict the report that the Stock Exchange and the apple-stall at the corner were both bombarded. This is a deliberate falsehood. The Stock Exchange, it is true, was razed to the ground, but the apple-stall escaped uninjured. This is an example of the reckless fashion in which reports are circulated.

Then about the burning of the city. It is certainly true that the place was set alight in two hundred places at once. But the day was cold, and I think it was only done because the troops wanted to warm their hands. You must not believe all you hear, and it is unwise to impute motives before receiving explanations. The people here are warm-hearted and sympathetic, and the soldiers are the mildest-mannered persons imaginable.

And the report about the blowing-up of the bridges. Here again there has been gross exaggeration. The bed of the river, in spite of reports to the contrary, was left undisturbed. Only the stone-work was sent spinning, and yet some reporters insist that everything was blown into smithereens! Reporters really should be more careful.

And now I must conclude, as my brigand, disguised as a priest, is just off.

As a parting request, I would urge upon my stockbrokers to buy. We are sure to have a rise presently, and I predict this with the greater confidence as I know that the house in which I am writing is undermined.

MORAL.

It may appear superfluous to point this fable's moral; But--teeth that could crush chain-mail seem scarce shaped for mumbling coral!

A LETTER HOME.

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--This is about the last letter you will receive from me. I know it is, as all will soon be over! And I shall be glad of it. I can't last out until the Christmas holidays. Who could with such food? Why, it would make a dog cough!

It's no use learning anything. Why should I, when it will be all over almost directly? What's the good of Latin and Greek if you are going to chuck it almost at once? And mathematics, too! What use are they if the end is near? It's all very well to cram, but what's the good of it when you know you won't survive to eat the plum pudding?

There's no news. There's never any news. SMITH Minor has got his cap for football, and SNOOKS Major is going up to Oxford instead of Cambridge. What does it matter when the beef is so tough that you might sole your boots with it? And as for the mutton! Well, all I can say is, that it isn't fit for human food, and the authorities should be told about it. As for me, I am passing away. No one will ever see me more. For all that, you might send me a hamper. Your affectionate friend,

JACKY.

STAR-GAZING.

My love is an astronomer, Whose knowledge I rely on, She'll talk about, as I prefer, The satellites of Jupiter, The nebulous Orion.

When evening shades about us fall Each hour too quickly passes. We take no heed of time at all, When studying celestial Phenomena through glasses.

The salient features we descry Of all the starry pattern; To see with telescopic eye The citizens of Mars we try, Or speculate on Saturn.

To find another planet still If ever we're enabled, The world discovered by her skill As "ANGELINA TOMKYNS" will Triumphantly be labelled.

In fact, the editorial note Above, which is of course meant To lead more ladies to devote Attention to the stars, I quote With cordial endorsement!

UNDER THE ROSE.

Over these difficulties Mr. GRUNDY has triumphed, and with him triumph the actors and the stage-manager; as, for the most part, except when there is a needless conventional "taking the centre" for supposed effect, the stage management is as admirable as the acting and the dialogue, which is saying a great deal, but not a bit too much.

Admirable are the quaint sketches of character given by Miss ROSE LECLERCQ and Miss ANNIE HUGHES. Manly and lover-like is Mr. SYDNEY BROUGH. In the dramatic unfolding of the plot, faultlessly acted as it is, the audience from first to last are thoroughly interested. Here and there, speeches and scenes would be all the better for some judicious excision. When you are convinced, further argument weakens the case, and I confess I should like to hear that ten minutes' worth of dialogue had been taken out of the parts played by Mr. BRANDON THOMAS and Miss WINIFRED EMERY. But this is a small matter--a very small matter. To sum up, it is good work and good play, and so the new manager and lessee is at this present moment a Triumphal CARR.

MOTTO FOR LADIES WHO "GRUB SHORT" TO AVOID OBESITY.--Grace before Meat!

Nulli Secundus.

Lyttleton asks--great cricketer, for shame!-- If Golf--Great Scot!!!--is quite "a first-class game." Well, if first-class it cannot quite be reckoned, 'Tis that it stands alone, and hath no second!

"L'UNION FAIT LA--FARCE!"

Autocrat Bruin, can he really relish The larkish high-kick, the tempestuous twirl, That risky Republican dances embellish? And she--a political "Wallflower," poor girl!-- Can she truly like the strange partner that fate Apportions her, lumpish, unlovely, and late?

Like 'Arry and 'Arriet out for a frolic, They've interchanged head-gear, by curious hap! Of what is this strange substitution symbolic? The Autocrat crown and the Phrygian cap They've "swopped," but they both most uneasily sit, And each for the other appears a poor fit.

Is she "soothing the Bear"--with a show of lip-honey? Is he flattering the Bee--with an eye on the hive? Sting hidden, claws sheathed--for how long? Well, 'tis funny, This queer little game, whilst they keep it alive! Dance-partnership is not "for better for worse," And "union of hearts" sometimes smacks of--the purse.

ANGELS.

I wonder if you give your mind At all to angels. "Which?" you say? Why, angels of the hymn-book kind, Not imitation ones in clay.

I often do. They fascinate My fancy to a strange degree; And meditating much of late There came two serious points to me.

And painters paint them girls. And then The question sets one's brains afire-- Why choristers on earth are men, If women form the heavenly choir?

I know the Roman Church decreed "A priest shall wear a shaven face." But what of angels? There indeed Razor and strop seem out of place.

Then why this hairless cheek and chin? I ask, and Echo answers Why? Have angel-cheeks no roots within? --Here comes my keeper. So, good-bye!

MY PRETTY JANE AT A LATER SEASON.

My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane, You still, you still are looking shy! You never met me in the evening When the bloom was on the rye. The year is waning fast, my love; The leaves are in the sere; The fog-horns now are humming, love; And the moonshine's "moonshine," dear. But, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane, I never will "say die";-- Come, meet me, meet me in our parlour, Where the bloom is on the fly.

Just name your day, that mother may Produce her best in china things, And stop yon man in apron white, Whose muffin-bell, whose muffin-bell now rings. The year is waning fast, &c.

"A TRIPLE BILL."--"The Home Rule Bill," said Mr. CHAMBERLAIN to his American friends, "is not scotched. It is killed." Of course our JOE knows that were it "scotched" it would be only "half kilt." But the idea of an Irish Bill being Scotched! Our only JOE might have added that it was "Welsh'd" in the Lords.

PHBUS, WHAT A NAME!--Sir COMER PETHERAM, Chief Justice of Bengal, is coming home. Welcome, Sir HOME-COMER PETHERAM. Or, why not Sir HOMER PETHERAM for short?

TO A YOUNG COUNTRY FRIEND, AGED SEVEN.

UPON JULIA'S MOTHER.

Julia, I deemed that I had wed Not thine, but only thee; A child I wept my mother sped, Thou'st given thine to me.

She came as wandering sea-birds come To rest upon a spar Of ships that trail the lights of home Where homeless billows are.

From Aix-les-Bains to Harrogate, From Bath to Tunbridge Wells, She's sojourned in Imperial state, Yet here content she dwells.

Content--and yet no truce with truth Such Roman mothers know; Quick to detect the faults of youth, And prompt to tell us so.

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