Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, November 14th, 1891 by Mr. Various (best ebook reader for laptop TXT) 📕

   probited in Constanple though it has reachd its tetenth edition, at

   least the ninth is neraly all shrubshcribed bedfore it isrereaddy. If

   my pullisher is not sasfide oughtbe. Never use pen now only typwritr so

   much quickerin tellgible convenent an leshble

     Yours

     S SMUGGYNS

It strikes us that either the machine stammers, or that it was, at the time

of writing, somewhat the worse for liquor, or that it is a very truthfully

phonetic-writing but somewhat indiscreet amanuensis. At the same time

herewith and hereby every success to our friend SMUGGYNS'S new book.

HARD LINES FOR HIM.--When the first stone of a new theatre in Cranbourne

Street was laid the other day by some Magnates of the Theatrical

Profession--beg pardon, "_the_ Profession," we should have said--Mrs.

BANCROFT made a telling impromptu speech, and then Mr. YARDLEY, ancient

Cricketer and Modern Dramatist, was hit on the head--accidentally, of

course--by the bottle which is in use on these occasions. "Very YARDLEY

treated," observed Sir DRURIOLANUS, in his happiest vein. Not the first

literary gent who, according to the ancient slang of the Tom-and-Jerry

period, has been "cut" by ill-use of the bottle. But the unfortunate

author's sorrows did not end with this sad blow, as, very soon afterwards,

his dear friends the Critics, with profuse apologies for being compelled to

handle him so severely, were down upon him for his new version of a French

piece, entitled _The Planter_. So the logical sequence of events was, that

first a blow was planted, and then appeared _The Planter_.

ECCLESIASTICAL LAYMAN.--At a meeting in Rome, the "Duke di SERMONETA" took

the chair. If ever there were a staunch Churchman, this by his name,

rendered in English as "Sermon-devourer," should be he.

OUR OWN FINANCIAL COLUMN.

_Telegraphic Address_--"_Croesus, E.C._"

Sir,--Let me first express my financial acknowledgments to the teeming

millions who have honoured me, and benefited themselves by seeking my

advice since my first letter appeared last week. Communications containing

cheques, postal orders, and stamps, have poured in upon me in one unceasing

torrent. The consignors have, in every case, been good enough to say that

they handed all they possessed over to me, in the full confidence that I

would invest the proceeds to the best advantage in some of the countless

undertakings in which I wield a paramount influence. Their trust is fully

deserved.

Investors will remember that, in the course of the last German Expedition

to Central Africa, a tract of country, rich in every mineral deposit, and

admirably fitted for the operations of husbandry, was discovered in lat.

42°, long. 65°. The Germans at that time had not a single handkerchief

left, and were unable, therefore to hoist the German flag over the palace

of the native king, GUL-GULL. Private information of this was conveyed to

at the head of it, and after terrible hardships, in the course of which no

less than two hundred of my comrades either succumbed outright to the bite

of the poisonous _contango_ fly, or had to be mercifully dispatched by the

hammer (a painless native form of death), in order to end their tortures, I

succeeded in reaching the capital, where I was hospitably received by the

king. After a negotiation of three weeks, His Majesty agreed, in the

kindest and most affable manner, to concede to me his whole country

together with all its revenues, minerals, royalties, timber, water-power,

lakes, farm-houses, stock and manor-houses, the whole beautifully situated

in the heart of a first-class sporting country, within easy reach of ten

packs of hounds; the old residential palace replete with every modern

comfort, and admirably adapted for the purposes of a gentleman desiring to

set up in the business of kingship. It matters not what I had to pay for

this. The secret is my own, and shall go to Westminster Abbey with me. The

point is, that with the funds entrusted to me, I have formed the

Cent-per-Central African Exploration and Investment Syndicate, and have

allotted shares to all those whose contributions have come to hand. As to

profit, I have calculated it on the strictest actuarial principles, and

find it cannot be less than £100 for every £100 invested. This may seem

small, but in these matters moderation is the soul of business. I shall

have more to say on this subject next week.

_Answers to Correspondents_.

DISMAL JEMMY.--Why do you suggest that the motto of my new company should

be, "_Stealer et fraudax_"? Is it a Latin joke? If so, don't write to me

any more. Those who deal with _me_ must be British to the backbone.

ANXIOUS.--You can't do better than send me those £50,000. I guarantee

secrecy and quick returns. The Eyeoyu Land Trust is best for your purposes

(Pref. deb. 492; stk. 18. 2. 3). Send money at once to CROESUS, E.C. Delay

might be fatal.

CAPITALIST.--No doubt, as you say, Consols are Consols; but take my advice

and don't give GOSCHEN your money. Why not try the _United Bladder Mortgage

Company_? Bladders are bound to go up. They were floated at 10 and are now

at 96. _Verb. sap._ No; £20,000 would not be too much.

"POTTER."--Something good may he done in Land Rails, if you can get near

enough. Have a shot at them by all means.

"PRACTICAL JOKER."--Quite right. Sell them.

"ANXIOUS INQUIRER" wishes to be informed what is the difference between

Preferred and Deferred. If he will tell us how much he expects to receive

in each case, the mere calculation of the difference will be an easy

matter; but to receive it is quite another affair. If he wishes to know the

"distinction" between these two classes of "securities," it may be summed

up in the answer to the question, "Will you have it now, or wait till you

get it?"

"A PUZZLED ONE."--Sell everything.

"MEET ME BY MIDNIGHT."--Yes. A Loan.

"LAMBKIN."--Part with No. 2, &c., but take care of No. 1.

"INSIDER."--Get out.

"TOTTIE TOTTS."--Here for private consultation from 5 to 7 P.M.

"RICHARD."--_Buy_ Bizzy B's, _Sell_ Early P's, and Spoiled Fives. _Buy_

Jingoes.

"BRUNO."--"Bear" your burdens.

"ADA WITH THE GOLDENHAIR."--Send photo at once. Cannot advise until we know

your figure.

"CROESUS,

E.C."

A JUBILEE GREETING!

(_Set to a Song from Sir Walter Scott._)

NOVEMBER 9, 1891.

_Mr. Punch (for self and everybody) loquitur_:--

My Prince, 'tis for our coming King

   We all lift glass in hand;

For him that loud hurrahs do ring

   To-day all round the land,

                 My Prince,

   All round a loyal land!

Let sycophantish slave kotoo;

   You love not such display;

Let courtiers cringe and creatures "boo."

   'Tis not our English way,

                 My Prince,

   'Tis not our English way.

As FLORA to Prince CHARLIE bent

   It is no shame to bow;

And you're a man to be content

   With man's respect, I trow,

                 My Prince,

   With man's respect, I trow.

For Fifty Years we've known you, Sir,

   And liked you. Love is free!

That's why the land is all astir,

   To hail your Jubilee,

                 My Prince,

   To hail your Jubilee.

In Forty-Six _Punch_ pictured you,

   "A Sailor every inch,"[A]

Toasting "Mamma!" in a stiff brew

   Without a sign of flinch,

                 My Prince,

   Without one sign of flinch.

In Seventy-One he stood beside

   Your door in sad "Suspense."[B]

We saw the turn in that dark tide

   With thankfulness intense,

                 My Prince,

   With gratitude intense.

From stage to stage your course he's marked

   Abroad as eke at home;

Where'er you've travelled, toiled, skylarked;

   And now mid-age has come,

                 My Prince,

   And now mid-age has come.

Come as it comes to all. Most true!

   But, "let the galled jade wince,"

Still _Punch's_ pencil pictures you

   As every inch a Prince,

                 My Prince,

   Yes, every inch a Prince!

And now your Jubilee we greet,

   With hearty English joy,

Who, as those Fifty Years did fleet,

   Have watched you, man and boy,

                 My Prince,

   Have watched you, man and boy.

When all is done that Prince can do,

   All is _not_ done in vain.

That's why we drink Good Health to you

   Again and eke again,

                 My Prince,

   Again and eke again!

_Punch_ turns him round and right about,

   And leads the British roar

Which rises in one loyal shout,

   "Health to the Prince once more!

                 My Prince,

   Health to him evermore!"

And health to her, the unfading flower

   From Denmark, o'er the foam.

_Ad multos annos_, grace, and power,

   Love, and a Happy Home,

                 My Prince,

   Love, and a Happy Home!

Now youth has gone, and manhood come,

   Your Jubilee we keep,

Good-will shall strike detraction dumb,

   And sound from deep to deep,

                 My Prince,

   From white-cliff'd deep to deep!

[Footnote A: See Cartoon, "Every Inch a Sailor," p. 129, Vol. XI., Sept.

26, 1846.]

[Footnote B: See Cartoon. "Suspense," p. 263, Vol. LXI., Dec. 23, 1871.]

AN APPARENTLY HARD CASE.--Miss Print is responsible for a great deal. The

other day a tender-hearted person read in a daily paper, that a stranger

"arriving in Paris, did not even know where to go and die." How sad! But

the compositor had only omitted the "n" from the last word of the sentence.

So it wasn't so bad after all, though for the stranger bad enough.

"Music's the Food."--At the Savoy Hotel the band of Herr WURMS is

advertised to perform during dinner. The name of the dinner might follow

suit, and be entitled "The Diet of Wurms, for Gentle and Simple." Of course

the band of Herr WURMS is an attraction; "Wurms for bait," eh?

IO TRIUMPHE!

OR, GREEK FOR HEIFER!

(_By an Old Boy._)

Thee, Camus, reverend renown

   Thy grateful votaries seek,

Foil'd are the Vandals who'd "send down"

   The Genius of Greek.

For Culture's jewell'd master-key

   They cupboard pick-locks tend,

And in the cult of Mammon see

   Learning's true aim and end;

Pit shallow youth's impatient fuss

   Against the grit of CATO,

Set IBSEN up for ÆSCHYLUS,

   And OLLENDORFF for PLATO;

For songs august of heroes sung,

   And epic hosts embattled,

Enforce some pidgin-Latin tongue

   By every waiter prattled;

For nymphs, where o'er the fragrant pines

   A sea-bright sun uprises,

Their fancy plays round primmest lines

   Of prigs receiving prizes.

From Sir JOHN CHEKE to Dr. JEBB,

   From CALVERLEY to MILTON,

Clear spirits burst the Sophist-web,

   And rent the rook they built on.

WELLDON is falsely named in this,

   For sure, in slighting Greek, he

Will Learning's final blessing miss,

   Her [Greek: kalôs pepoiêke].

What though the urchin deem it "rot"

   (Such hasty views we stoop'd to,

Not seeing how on earth they got

   _Tetummenos_ from _Tupto_)

Still let us learn, not beastly facts,

   The field of any booby,

But how thought acts and interacts,

   And contraries can true be.

Though on oblivion's barren shores

   He give it quick sepulture,

Still through reluctant passman's pores

   Instil the dew of culture.

Still give us of the rills divine

   That flow from haunted Helicon,

Nor rend thyself to feed the swine,

   Like a perverted Pelican.

Keep far the time when every bee

   That booms in every bonnet,

Shall find a chair of Apiary,

   And drone long lectures on it.

Still the large light and sweetness seek

   Of KEATS'S raptured vision,

(Or KEATE'S)--till Greek at last meets Greek

   In brotherhood Elysian.

A NEW TREASURE FOR. THE TREASURER OF BARTHOLOMEW'S.--_Mr. Punch_, G.P.E.,

General President of Everything, begs to congratulate Professor HUBERT

HERKOMER, R.A.M.A., on his admirable portrait of Sir SYDNEY HEDLEY, and

now, not only HEDLEY, but Full-Lengthly WATERLOW, Bart., of "Bart's," which

H.R.H. correctly described as "a very fine work of Art, painted by one of

our most eminent artists." Such approbation of Sir HUBERT HERKOMER is

praise indeed! _Mr. Punch_, G.P.E., prefixes the "Sir" prophetically. For

the present it may be taken as the last syllable, detached, of "Profes-sir"

"WELLS, I NEVER!"--"Mr. WELLS," says the _Times_ Correspondent, "has made

250,000 francs" (up to now), and "last year he made £20,000." Talk of the

waters at various drinking or health-resorts abroad, why, their fame is as

nothing compared with the unprecedented success of the WELLS of Monte

Carlo. How the other chaps who lose must be like LEECH'S old gent