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Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, October 21st 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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[Illustration: THE SHAFTESBURY FOUNTAIN AGAIN.

SENSATIONAL INCIDENT IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS, AS SEEN BY OUR ARTIST.]

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THE WAR IN SOUTH AMERICA.

(_From our Correspondent on the Spot._)

  _There or Thereabouts, Saturday._

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 (caused by the explosion) 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 (as a body) 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.

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[Illustration: WASTED SWEETNESS.

A HEARTRENDING STUDY OF SHADOW ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY!]

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The _P. M. Magazine_ goes in for discussion of Bi-metallism. Sir JOHN
LUBBOCK writes about "The Case for Gold," and Mr. VICARY GIBBS, M.P.,
about "The Case for Silver." Considering the relative value of the
metals, the case for gold ought to be out and away the stronger of the
two, impregnable, and burglar-proof, so that it could be advertised
thus: "It's no use having gold unless you have Sir JOHN LUBBOCK'S
'case for gold' to keep it in."

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[Illustration: BEHEMOTH AND THE LION; OR, SPEARS AND QUILLS.

_A Fable for Pseudo-Philanthropists._

_Philanthropist Press-Man._ "OH STOP, STOP, MISTER LION! WAIT A BIT!
PERHAPS THE PRETTY CREATURE MEANS NO HARM!"

_Leo (curtly)._ "_LOOK AT HIS TEETH!_"]

[Mr. RIDER HAGGARD (writing to the _Times_) remarks that a
considerable section of the English Press seems to be of opinion that
LOBENGULA is an innocent and worthy savage, on whom a quarrel is
being forced by the Chartered Company for its own mercenary ends.
He suggests that the appearance of an armed Matabele impi in Mayfair
might alter their views.]

  "Behemoth is big and black, and monstrous-mouthed and toothfull,
  But to say he is carnivorous were cruelly untruthful!"
  So quoth the Querulous Quillman, or Pen-armed Philanthropist,
  Whose intellect seems ever in a sentimental mist.
  Now Leo, little given to read books on Natural History,
  Was watchful of Dame Nature's _facts_. "It seems to me a mystery
  My querulous Press Porcupine," observed the wary Lion,
  "That what you've set your heart on, you can never keep clear eye
          on.
  _Look at his teeth!_" "Oh, nonsense!" cried the Querulous
          Quillman, quoting
  From a book on Big Mammalia, to which he'd been devoting
  All his odd moments recently. "Those tusks may look terrific,
  But the monster's graminivorous, and pleasant, and pacific.
  They're solely meant for cutting grass! Huge uppers and big lowers,
  Though threatening as ripping-saws, are harmless as lawn-mowers.
  As weapons of offence they're seldom used, so here 'tis stated,
  'Unless the creature's wounded sore, or greatly irritated.'
  He is innocent and worthy, this Titanic-jawed Colossus.
  Those gleaming tusks won't 'chump' you, he won't trample us, or
          toss us,
  Unless we interfere with him. He likes to stand there grinning,
  With those terrible incisors, in a way which mayn't be winning,
  Still, _'tis but his style of smiling_, and it's not his fault,
          poor fellow!
  If his maw's a crimson cavern, and his tusks are huge and yellow."

  Behemoth meanwhile snorted in his own earthquaky fashion,
  And yawned, and lashed and trampled like a tiger in a passion.
  By the gleaming of his optics, and the clashing of his tushes,
  He _seemed_ to be preparing for the Ugliest of Rushes.
  Quoth Leo, "Good friend Porcupine, you _may_ be quite prophetic,
  And I a bit 'too previous.' Your picture's most pathetic;
  But I've seen your pachydermatous Poor Innocent when furious,
  And for a gentle graminivorous creature, it is curious
  How he'll run amuck like a Malay, and crunch canoes and foes up,
  With those same tusks, which might have made a Mammoth turn his
          toes up.
  So if you please, friend Porcupine, your quills I shall not trust
          again
  To meet those spears, which hate would wash--in blood, 'ere they
          should rust again.
  Mere quills won't quell an Impi, or make Behemoth good-neighbourly.
  Leo must guard this spot, where British enterprise and labour lie,
  The Monster seems to meditate attack, if _I_ may judge of him,
  So let _me_ have the first slap at, whilst you keep on scribbling
          fudge of him!

  MORAL.

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

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[Illustration: A WEIGHTY PROSPECT.

_The Captain (who has just been giving a spin to his last purchase,
for his Wife's inspection)._ "GOOD GOER, AIN'T HE? AND A FULL
FOURTEEN-STONE HORSE, YOU KNOW!"

_Young Wife (as yet somewhat innocent in horsey matters)._ "OH,
I'M SURE HE'S _MORE_ THAN THAT, DEAR. WHY, _MAMMA_ WEIGHS NEARLY AS
MUCH!"]


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A LETTER HOME.

(_From our Youngest Contributor._)

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.

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STAR-GAZING.

["Astronomy has become a deservedly fashionable hobby with young
ladies."]

  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.

  The likeness of the stars elsewhere
    By day we view between us,
  We recognise the Greater Bear,
  I grieve to say, in TOMKYNS _pere_,
    And close at hand is Venus!

  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!

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"IN THE NAME OF THE PROPHET!"--Which is the right way of spelling the
name of the Prophet of Islam? Is it MOHAMMED? MAHOMET? MUHAMMED?
or MAHOMED? Are his followers Mohammedans? Mahommedans? Mahometans?
Moslems? Mussulmen? or Muslims? Perhaps, to adapt _Mr. Mantalini's_
famous summary, and merely substituting "all" for "both," and "none
of 'em" for "neither," we may say "So all are right, and none of 'em
wrong, upon our life and soul, O demmit!"

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UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

SCENE IX.--CHARLES COLLIMORE'S _Sitting-room at Keppel Street,
Bloomsbury_. TIME--_Saturday afternoon_.

_Mrs. Cagney_ (_the landlady, showing_ Mr. TOOVEY _in_). Oh, I thought
Mr. COLLIMORE had come in, Sir, but I expect him in every minute. Will
you take a seat?

_Mr. Toovey_ (_sitting down_). Thank you, I'm in no hurry--no hurry at
all. (_To himself._) CORNELIA wished me to put a few questions quietly
to the landlady. I suppose I'd better do it while----(_Aloud._) Hem,
I hope, Ma'am, that you find Mr. COLLIMORE a--an unexceptionable
lodger--in all respects?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_crossing her hands stiffly in front of her_). Mr.
COLLIMORE conducks hisself as a gentleman, and treats me as a lady,
which is all _my_ requirements.

_Mr. Toov._ Quite so--very satisfactory, I'm sure, but--does he keep
fairly regular hours? Or is he at all inclined to be--er--fast?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_on her guard_). I can't answer for the time his watch
keeps, myself. I dessay it goes as reg'lar as what most do.

_Mr. Toov._ No, no; I was referring to his habits. I mean--does he
usually spend his evenings quietly at home?

_Mrs. Cagn._ You'll excuse _me_, but if you're arsking me all these
questions out of mere himpertinent curiosity----

_Mr. Toov._ I--I trust I have a higher motive, Ma'am. In fact, I may
as well tell you I am Mr. COLLIMORE'S uncle.

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_to herself_). The old fox! So he's trying to ferret out
something against him, is he? Well, he _won't_--that's all. (_Aloud._)
If you _are_ his huncle, Sir, all I can say is, you've got a nephew to
be proud on. I wouldn't wish to let my first floor to a steadier or
a more industrious young gentleman; comes in punctual to a tick every
night of his life and 'as his dinner, and sets studyin' his book till
'alf-past ten, which is his bed-time. I don't know what more you want.

_Mr. Toov._ (_to himself_). This is really very satisfactory--if I
could only believe it. (_Aloud._) But do I understand you to say that
that is his invariable practice? Occasionally, I suppose, he goes out
to a place of amusement--such as a music-hall, now?

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_to herself_). Well, he may; and why not? He don't get
into no mischief, though light-'earted. _I_ ain't going to give him
a bad name. (_Aloud._) Lor, Sir, don't you go and put such ideas into
his 'ed. Bless your 'art alive, if he knows there _are_ such places,
it's as much as he does know!

_Mr. Toov._ (_testily_). Now, now, my good woman, I'm afraid you're
trying to deceive me. I happen to know more about my nephew's tastes
and pursuits than you imagine.

_Mrs. Cagn._ (_roused_). Then, if you know so much, whatever do you
come 'ere and ask _me