



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Lisa Tang,
Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net





PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

Volume 108, February 9th, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




TO LUCENDA.

(_Who had made "Copy" of Me._)

  The bright September when we met
    My prospects were _not_ over healthy,
  Though you were, I do _not_ forget,
          Extremely wealthy.

  I know not why it chanced to be,
    But this I recollect most clearly--
  It never once occurred to me
          To love you dearly.

  'Twas not your fault, so do not vex
    Yourself, for I admired your beauty,
  Since admiration of your sex
          Is Man's Whole Duty.

  And thus it came to be our lot
    To part without a sign or token;
  I went upon my way, but not
          The least heart-broken.

  My "fatal pride" does not object
    At your fair hands to be made verse on;
  But p'raps next time you will select--
          Some other person!

       *       *       *       *       *

UNANSWERABLE.--The Archbishop of CANTERBURY, speaking at Folkestone
last week, said that "The Disestablishment Bill does not need any
answering: it answers itself." An' it please your Grace, if it does
"answer," and answers its purpose, what more can be required of this
Bill or any other?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW WEATHER PROVERB.--It never rains--but it snows!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BRAVE GIRL!

_Millicent_ (_from the country_). "_NOW_, MABEL! LET'S MAKE A DASH!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.

FREEZING THE VERTEBRAE.--I am in the last stage of bronchitis,
complicated with pneumonia, influenza, and asthma, and a friend has
advised me to try the new French cure of applying ice to the spine.
Will some obliging physician tell me whether he considers such a
course safe? None but a recognised specialist need trouble to reply;
and if he does so, I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that I
have saved his fee, as well as my own life. My boy advises me to go
skating, and "I shall be sure then to have my back applied to the
ice," which he says is the same thing as applying ice to my back. But
is it? A nephew who is staying in the house also kindly offers to "shy
hard snow-balls at my spine," if that would help me in any way. It is
a pity that the newspaper (from which I derived this medical hint) was
not clear as to details; for instance, when I _have_ applied the ice,
what is to prevent its melting and trickling all over me?--NON-PAYING
PATIENT.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meteorological Moralising.

  'Tis an ill-wind which blows nobody good,
    And one man's meat another's poison is.
  What is disaster to one man or mood,
    Is to another mood or man "good biz."
  What to your dramatist means love's labour's lost,
  Your would-be skater craves--"a perfect frost!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

By the publication of _The Play Actress_ (S. R. CROCKETT) Mr. FISHER
UNWIN fully maintains the success attained by his Autonym Library. My
Baronite is least attracted by the scenes which possibly pleased the
author most--those in which he describes life in the purlieus of
London theatres. Mr. CROCKETT is much more at home in Galloway, and
with the people who sparsely populate it. The opening chapter,
describing Sabbath day in the Kirk of the Hill is in his best style,
as are others describing the Great Preacher's tender caring for his
little grand-daughter. _The Play Actress_ is just the sort of thing to
buy at a bookstall on starting for a journey. It will be felt to be a
matter of regret if the journey isn't quite long enough to finish it
at a sitting.

In _The Worst Woman in London_ ("and other stories," a subtitle
craftily suppressed on the outside of the book by F. C. PHILIPS) the
author gives us a number of capital detached stories of a most
irritating abruptness. Almost every one of these stories is a novel
thrown away; that is, every story is in itself the germ of what might
have been a good novel. They are little more than "jottings for
plottings." Yet, to be read with a pipe or small cigar, they just
suffice to wile away time and obviate conversation. They are dedicated
to Mr. WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK, who has on more than one occasion shown
himself an adept at real good short stories--not merely as plots, but
genuinely complete in themselves and full of humour--and from whom the
Baron expects something more in the same line, or, rather, on the same
lines.

    The BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MODERN ECLOGUE.

    SCENE--_A Crowded Thoroughfare._ _Enter_ STRE