Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, August 29, 1891 written by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, August 29, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 101.
August 29, 1891.
STORICULES.
I.--THE SUICIDE-ADVERTISEMENT.
[Illustration]
As you stood before the automatic machine on the station platform,
making an imbecile choice between a packet of gooseberry nougat and
a slab of the gum caramel, you could not help seeing on the level of
your eye this notice:--"BLACKING-CREAM. ASK FOR HIGLINSON'S, AND TAKE
NO OTHER."
Similar announcements met you on every hoarding, in almost every paper
and magazine, on every omnibus. Neat little packets of HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream were dropped through your letter-box, with a printed
request that you would honour Mr. HIGLINSON by trying it. Leaflets
were handed you in the street to tell you what public analysts
said about it, and in what great hotels it was the only blacking
used. Importunity pays. Sooner or later you bought HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream. You then found out that it was just about as good as
any other, and went on buying it.
In one way this was very good for Mr. HIGLINSON, because he became
very rich; in other ways it was not so good for him. For a long time
he had nothing to do with public life; the public never thought about
his existence; to the public he was not a man at all--he was only
part of the name of the stuff they used for their boots. If he had
introduced himself to a stranger, giving the name of HIGLINSON, it is
probable that the stranger would have remarked jocularly, "No relation
to the Blacking-cream, I presume?" HIGLINSON knew this, and it pained
him deeply, for he was a sensitive man.
Because he was sensitive and felt things so much, he wrote a volume of
very melancholy verses. He was unmarried and lonely, and he wanted to
lead a high life. He said as much in his verses. But what comes well
from Sir GALAHAD comes ill from the proprietor of a Blacking-cream;
and--from idiotic notions about pluck and honesty--he had put his own
name to his book. Unfortunately, those who feel much are not always
those who can express much; and HIGLINSON could not express anything.
So critics with a light mind had a very fine time with these
verses. They quoted them, with the prefatory remark:--"The cream
of the collection--perhaps we might say the Blacking-cream of the
collection--is the following," and they wound up their criticism
with saying that the book must have been simply published as an
advertisement. Mr. HIGLINSON could hardly have been mad enough to
have printed such stuff from any other motive.
Of course HIGLINSON should have changed his name, and should have
married. But the idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from
changing his name; and he would not marry a woman who accepted him
from only mercenary motives. He was so unattractive that he did
not think it possible a woman would marry him for any other reason.
However, he could not always be superintending the manufacture of
Blacking-cream; and it was obvious to him that he could publish no
more verses. So he devoted himself to philanthropy in a quiet and
unostentatious way. He attempted the reclamation of street-arabs.
He worked among them. He spent vast sums on providing education,
training, and decent pleasures for them. A man who wrote for _The
Scalpel_ found him out at last. Next day there was a pretty little
paragraph in _The Scalpel_, showing Mr. HIGLINSON up, and suggesting
that this was a clever attempt to get the London shoe-blacks to use
HIGLINSON's Blacking-cream. The Blacking-cream, by the way, had never
been advertised in _The Scalpel_.
HIGLINSON was furious. He spent a little money in finding out who had
written the paragraph. Then he walked up to the writer in a public
street, with raised walking-stick. "Now, Sir," he said, "you shall
have the thrashing that you deserve."
[Illustration]
But it happened that the writer was physically superior to HIGLINSON;
so it was the writer who did the thrashing, and HIGLINSON who took it.
Next day, _The Scalpel_ amused itself with HIGLINSON to the extent of
half a column. The notice was headed:--
"MR. HIGLINSON ADVERTISES HIMSELF AGAIN."
Other newspapers also amused themselves, and HIGLINSON became
notorious. The Blacking-cream sold better than ever, and brought him
enormous profits. But if he attempted to spend those profits on any
object, good or bad, it was always insisted that he was simply doing
it for advertisement. The public became interested in HIGLINSON; and
untrue stories about his private life appeared freely in personal
columns. He was rich enough now to have relinquished his business, but
those idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from doing this. He
meant to go through with it, and to make the public believe in him
just as much as they believed in the Blacking-cream. He found about
this time someone who did believe in him; he began to change his views
about marriage; he was to some extent consoled.
He was passing over the bridge one night, and had just bought
an evening paper. His own name caught his eye. It was the usual
paragraph, not more hateful to him than others that had appeared, as
far as he himself was concerned; but her name was in it as well, and
he imagined to himself just how she would feel when she read it. He
walked on a few paces, and then his pluck all vanished suddenly, as
if it had been blown away into space, and it did not seem to be worth
while to stop in such a world any longer.
The jury returned the usual verdict; but _The Scalpel_ did not
hesitate to hint that this suicide had simply been intended as an
advertisement, and that HIGLINSON had always supposed that his rescue
would be a certainty.
He might have saved himself all this, of course, by a few full-page
advertisements in _The Scalpel_. But then he had those idiotic notions
about pluck, and he was reluctant to bribe his enemies. It is a very
dangerous thing to have notions about anything.
* * * * *
WANTED, A WORD-SLAYER.
_Fin de Siecle!_ Ah, that phrase, though taste spurn it, I
Fear, threatens staying with us to eternity.
Who _will_ deliver
Our nerves, all a-quiver,
From that pest-term, and its fellow "modernity"?
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE YOUNG SPARK.
_Electric Light_. "WHAT, WON'T YOU LET ME IN--A DEAR LITTLE CHAP LIKE
ME?"
_Householder_. "AH! YOU'RE A LITTLE TOO DEAR FOR ME--AT PRESENT."]
* * * * *
AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE YOUNG SPARK.
(_AN ELECTRICAL ECLOGUE._)
["The cost is still heavy, no doubt, and the electric light
still stands in the category of luxuries which are almost
beyond the reach of average middle-class incomes."--_The
"Times" on the growth of Electric Lighting in London._]
_ELECTRIC SPRITE._
Old boy, let me in! Come, now, don't you be stupid!
Why stand at your door in that dubious way?
Like the classical girl who was called on by Cupid,
You seem half alarmed at the thought of my stay.
With meanings of mischief _my_ mind is not laden;
Be sure, my dear friend, that _I_ shall not sell _you_,
As the artful young archer-god did the poor maiden,
Who let him in only his visit to rue.
I hope you've not listened to enemies' strictures,
They've warned you, perhaps, against letting me pass,
_I_ shan't soil your ceiling, _I_ shan't spoil your pictures,
Or make nasty smells like that dirty imp, Gas!
You're prejudiced clearly, and that is a pity,
Why, bless you, I'm spreading all over the place!
My spark is pervading the whole of the City;
The dingy old Gas-flame must soon hide its face.
I'm brilliant, and clean, and delightfully larky;
Just look at my glow and examine my arc!
_Fwizz!_ How's _that_ for high, and for vivid and sparky!
I obviate dirt, and I dissipate dark.
You just let me in; the result you'll be charmed at.
Objections, Old Boy, are all fiddle-de-dee.
Come now! I'm sure you cannot be alarmed at
A dear little chap like me!
_PATERFAMILIAS._
A dear little chap! Very true; but I'm thinking
That you're just a little _too_ "dear" for me--yet!
Ah, yes! it's no use to stand smiling and winking;
I like the bright ways of you, youngster,--you bet!
You're white as the moon, and as spry as a rocket;
No doubt all you say in self-praise is quite true,
But you see, boy, I _must_ keep an eye to my pocket!
The Renters and Raters so put on the screw,
That a "middle-class income" won't stand much more squeezing,
And Forty or Fifty Pounds more in the year.
For _your_ bright companionship, albeit pleasing,
Would come pretty stiff, my boy. _That_ is my fear.
Just cheapen yourself, in supply and in fitting,
To something that fits with my limited "screw,"
And you will not find me shrink long from admitting
A dear little chap like you!
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
The Baron's Assistant Reader reports as follows to his chief--If you
want a really refreshing book, a book whose piquant savour and quaint
originality of style are good for jaded brains, buy and read _In a
Canadian Canoe_ by BARRY PAIN, the sixth volume of the Whitefriars
Library of Wit and Humour (HENRY & Co.). Most of the stories and, I
think, the best that go to make up this delightful volume have already
appeared in _The Granta_, a Cambridge magazine, which London papers
are accustomed to speak of as "our sprightly contemporary." They now
seek and are sure to obtain a wider public and a more extended fame.
There is in these stories a curious mixture of humour, insight and
pathos, with here and there a dash of grimness and a sprinkling of
that charming irrelevancy which is of the essence of true humour.
Occasionally Mr. BARRY PAIN wings a shaft against the comfortably
brutal doctrines of the average and orthodox householder, male or
female. But on these occasions he uses the classical fables and the
pagan deities as his bow, and the twang of his shot cannot offend
those who play the part of target and are pierced. Read the four
stories from the "Entertainments of Kapnides" in the "Canadian Canoe"
series, or, "An Hour of Death," "The Last Straw," and "Number One
Hundred and Three" in "The Nine Muses Minus One," and you will see
at once what I mean. Then for run-away, topsy-turvey wit I think I
would back "The Story of the Tin Heart" and "The Camel who never
got Started," against most stories I know. Mr. BARRY PAIN's stories
sometimes make me feel as if I had got hold of the key-handle of
things which have hitherto been puzzles to me. I turn it, open the
door ever so little to peep inside, and before I have taken a good
square look, Mr. BARRY PAIN slams the door in my face, and I think I
can hear him laughing on the other side at the bruise on my forehead.
That's not kind treatment, but it promotes curiosity. As for "The
Celestial Grocery," I can only say of it that it is in its way
a masterpiece. Mr. PAIN sometimes gives way to a touch or two of
sentiment, but he abstains from sloppiness. His book is not only witty
and humorous but fresh and original in style. It is admirably written.
His prose is good,--which is moderate praise, striking a balance
between the _pros_ and _cons_ of criticism. _Prosit!_ To all
holiday-makers who like quaintness and fun touched with pathos and
refinement, I say again, buy and read _In a Canadian Canoe_.
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF FASTIDIOUSNESS.
_Elder Brother_. "HULLO, FRANK! HOW IS IT YOU'RE NOT IN MOURNING FOR
POOR AUNT GRACE?"
_Frank_. "AH--WELL--FACT IS, I TRIED ON SIXTEEN OR SEVENTEEN
HAT-BANDS, AND COULDN'T _GET ONE TO SUIT ME!_"]
* * * * *
"PUGS" AND "MUGS."
(_A QUOTATION WITH A COMMENT._)
"The faithful study of the fistic art
From mawkish softness guards the British heart."
The study of the betting British curse
From swift depletion guards the British purse!
* * * * *
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
NO. IV.
SCENE--_The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and
well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated
Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to
the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter CULCHARD, who seats
himself on a central ottoman._
_Culchard_ (_to himself_). If PODBURY won't come down to breakfast
at a decent hour, he can't complain if I--I wonder if he heard Miss
TROTTER say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow,
I _should_ like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of
my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and
exclusive. I daresay I _am_--but I _do_ object to being made out a
hopeless melancholiac! (_He looks round the walls._) So these are
WIERTZ's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous,--a trifle
crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during
his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with
applications for the one opposite. (_He regards an enormous canvas,
representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan
with a small mast._) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his
independence--work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (_He takes
out note-book and scribbles._) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush
for hire." Now if I read that to PODBURY, he'd pretend to think I was
treating of a Shoe-black on strike! PODBURY is utterly deficient in
reverence.
[Illustration: "I presume, though, he slept bad, nights."]
[_Close by is a party of three Tourists--a Father and Mother,
and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat
effusive Official Catalogue; the Education of all three
appears to have been elementary._
_The Daughter_ (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could
not 'elp fancying this was the artist's por-portrait? portent? no,
_protest_ against des-des (_recklessly_) despoticism, and tyranny,
but I see it is only--Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of
Ulyces."
_Her Male Parent._ Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be
a' doin' of in the middle of 'em?
_Daughter_ (_stolidly_). Don't you be in a nurry, Father
(_continuing_) "in the midst of some colonial? _That_ ain't
it--_colossial_ animiles fanatically--fan-tasty-cally--" why, this
catalogue is 'alf foreign!
_Female P._ Never mind, say Peterborough at the 'ard words--_we_
shan't be none the wiser!
_Daughter_. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave
'is Peterborough grotter--"
_Male P._ That'll do--read what it says about the next one.
_Daughter_ (_reading_). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere.
Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it."
_Both Parents_ (_impressed_). Lor!
[_They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the
Gallery._
_Culch._ (_rising and going to meet her_). Good morning, Miss TROTTER.
We--ah--meet again.
_Miss T._ That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa
restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can--says he doesn't seem
to mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too.
Where've you hitched your friend up?
_Culch._ My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me.
And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this opportunity
of disabusing your mind of the--er--totally false impression--
_Miss T._ Oh, _that's_ all right. I told him he needn't try to give me
away, for I could see you weren't _that_ kind of man!
_Culch._ (_gratefully_). Your instinct was correct--perfectly
correct. When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the
description my--er--friend considered it humorous to give of me as an
unsociable hypochondriac?
_Miss T._ Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as
one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled
folks to death almost.
_Culch._ (_annoyed_). Really, this is _most_ unpardonable of Mr.
PODBURY! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind
one's back is simply too--I do _not_ aspire to--ah--to tickle folks to
death!
_Miss T._ (_soothingly_). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't
feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your
society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's
better than tickling; every time. And I want you to show me round
this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was
considerable sand in WIERTZ; sort of spread himself around a good
deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.
(_She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by CULCHARD, who
admires her, against his better judgment, more and more._) ... I
declare if that isn't your friend Mr. PODBURY just come in! I believe
I'll have to give you up to him.
_Culch._ (_eagerly_). I beg you will not think it necessary. He--he
has a guide already. _He_ does not require my services. And, to
be plain, my poor friend--though, an excellent fellow according to
his--ah--lights--is a companion whose society occasionally amounts to
a positive infliction.
_Miss T._ Well, I find him too chinny myself, times. Likely he won't
notice us if we don't seem to be aware of him.
[_They continue to inspect the canvases._
_A Belgian Guide_ (_who has made an easy capture of PODBURY at the
Hotel entrance_). Hier now is a shdrainch beecture. "De toughts and
veesions of a saivered haid." Fairsst meenut afder degapitation; de
zagonde; de tirt. Hier de haid tink dey vant to poot him in a goffin.
Dere are _two_ haids--von goes op, de udder down. Haf you got de two?
Nod yet? No?
_Podbury_ (_shaking his head sagaciously_). Oh, ah, yes. Capital! Rum
subject, though.
_Guide._ Yais, vary magnifique, vary grandt, and--and rom also! Dees
von rebresents Napoleon in hail. De modders show him de laigs and
ahums of dair sons keeled in de vars, and invide him to drink a cop of
bloodt.
_Podb._ Ha, cheery picture that!
_Guide._ Cheery, oh, yais! Now com and beep troo dis 'ole. (_PODBURY
obeys with docility._) You see? A Mad Voman cooking her shildt in a
gettle. Hier again, dey haf puried a man viz de golera pefore he is
daid, he dries to purst de goffin, you see only de handt shdicking
oudt.
_Podb._ The old Johnny seems full of pretty fancies. (_He looks
through another peephole._) Girl looking at skeleton. Any other
domestic subjects on view? (_He suddenly sees Miss TROTTER and
CULCHARD with their backs to him._) Hal--lo, this _is_ luck! I must
go to the rescue, or that beggar CULCHARD will bore her to death in
no time. (_To Guide._) Here, hold on a minute. (_Crosses to CULCHARD,
followed by Guide._) How d'ye do, Miss TROTTER? Doing the Wild
Wiertz Show, I see. Ah, CULCHARD, why didn't you tell me you were
going--might have gone together. I say, I've got a guide here.
_Culch._ (_drily_). So we perceive--a very sensible plan, no doubt, in
some cases, my dear fellow.
_Podb._ (_to Miss T._). Do come and listen to him, most intelligent
chap--great fun. Mr. CULCHARD is above that sort of thing, I dare say.
_Guide._ Your vriendts laike to choin, yais? Same for tree as for von.
I exblain all de beecture.
_Miss T._ You're vurry obliging, Mr. PODBURY, but your friend is
explaining it all just splendidly.
_Podb._ (_piqued_). Perhaps I had better dismiss my chap, and take on
CULCHARD, too?
_Miss T._ No, I'd just hate to have you do that. Keep on going round.
You mustn't mind us, indeed!
_Podb._ Oh, if you'd rather! (_Gloomily, to Guide._) They can do
without _us_. Just show me something more in the blood-and-thunder
line--no, at the other end of the room. [_They withdraw._
_Guide._ Hier is von dat is vary amusant. You know de schtory of de
Tree Vishes, eh?
_Podb._ _Macbeth_, eh? oh, I see--_Wishes!_ No, what was that?
_Guide_. I dell it you. (_He tells it; PODBURY falls into gloomy
abstraction._) ... And inschdantly she vind a grade pig soasage at de
end of her noase. So de ole voman--
_Podb._ (_wearily_). Oh, I've heard all _that_. What's this one about?
_Guide_. Dis is galled "De lasht Gannon." You see de vigure of
Ceevilization flodderin op viz de vings, vile Brogress preaks asonder
de lasht gon, and in a gorner a Genius purns de vrontier bost.
_Podb._ (_captiously_). What's he doing _that_ for?
_Guide_. I tont know. I subbose begause dey are bosts, or
(_dubiously_) begause he is a Genius.
_Culch._ (_touching PODBURY's arm as he goes out_). Oh--er--PODBURY,
I'm off. Going to lunch somewhere with the--ah--TROTTERS. See you at
_table d'hote_ this evening, I suppose? Good-bye.
_Podb._ (_savagely_). Oh, ta-ta! (_To himself_.). And that's the
fellow who said he wanted to keep out of making friends! How the
dickens am I going to get through the time by myself? (_To Guide_.)
Here, that's enough for one day. When I want you again, I'll let you
know.
[_He dismisses him, and stands forlornly in the Gallery, while
the Imperfectly Educated Daughter goes on spelling out the
Catalogue for her Parents' edification._
* * * * *
A STORY--OUT OF SEASON.
[Illustration]
So she's married to _him_! Whilst I travelled and wandered
Far away, for the lack of aught better to do;
Whilst my time and my money I recklessly squandered
In a hunt for big game--she was doing it too!
And I am not surprised he has fallen a prey to
The graces and wiles of a maiden so fair;
I must take a back seat as I humbly give way to
The Earl and the Countess of Hanover Square.
What a stroke of good luck! For, like little Jack Horner,
She put in her finger and pulled out a plum;
Yet there once was a time when _we_ sat in a corner--
AMARYLLIS and I--though her mother looked glum.
If I do not forget, it took place in December,
But I recollect better one evening in June,
And, for all that has happened, I like to remember
What we whispered and said by the light of the moon.
But a truce to such thoughts, she has married another,
I must tidy away all the memories of yore.
There's a smile on the face of her match-making mother,
And her family rejoice as they ne'er have before.
It has happened. Her mother, I know, always said it
Would prove to be so with her beautiful girl,
And the fair AMARYLLIS has done herself credit
Now she's married the catch of the season--an Earl.
What she did, after all, was perhaps for the best meant.
She may even be fond of her Earl--who can tell?
In the business of Life she has made her investment,
Which I trust most sincerely she will find pay her well.
And as for myself my ambition just _nil_ is,
With my pipe and my dog I shall stay on the shelf,
Though allow me to tell you, my dear AMARYLLIS,
I'd have made you an excellent husband myself.
* * * * *
[Illustration: What will he do with it?]
A PUZZLER, FOR EVEN SIR ANDR-W CL-RK, BART. M.D.--Case of dyspepsia.
What ought to be prescribed for a patient suffering from severe
indigestion, caused _by having eaten his own words?_ Perhaps one of
the most distinguished members of the Medical Congress, possessing
a great experience among Cabinet Ministers and other Parliamentary
celebrities, will oblige with "a solution"? And this is a perfectly
serious question, although it certainly sounds as if it were only
intended for a Roose.
* * * * *
MR. CLIP'S APPEAL.
[The Hairdressers' Early Closing Association of London
(whose Central Office is at 6, Swallow Street, Piccadilly,
W., and whose President is Mr. W.J. REED, and Hon. Sec., Mr.
A.M. SUTTON), has for object "to secure and maintain one
early-closing day per week, suitable to the neighbourhood,
and to generally assist in obtaining time for rest and
recreation, and promote better and healthier conditions for
hairdressers."]
[Illustration: HAIR AND HEXERCISE; OR, TAKING THE HAIR ON A 'OLE
'OLIDAY.]
Dear BOB,--There's a stir in our noble Profession.
The hope of the Hairdresser, silent so long,
At last, like most others, is finding expression.
We've started, dear BOB, and are now going strong.
Early Closing's our object, which means that on _one_ day
We want to shut up shops and scissors at five!
Perhaps Saturday's best, BOB, as coming next Sunday--
Don't seem asking _much_, if they'd keep us alive.
You cannot imagine how grinding our trade is--
Long hours, and long waits, BOB, when custom is slack!
When the premises hold one old gent and two ladies,
'Tis hard for twelve chaps to be kept on the rack.
To knock off at five on a Saturday eases
Our week's work a little. One evening in six
Ain't more than the Public can spare--if it pleases--
If only its hours 'twill conveniently fix.
When a swell wants a shave, a shampoo, or a clipping,
He likes to drop in at _his_ pleasure, no doubt;
But surely he'd not keep us scraping and snipping
To save him from being a trifle put out!
If he'll but get fixed before five on a Saturday,
We poor Hairdressers may get just a chance
Of an hour or two's pleasure or rest on the latter day;
Prospect to make many dreary eyes dance!