Punch (59.1870)

September 24, 1870.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVAEi.

129

model dairies, model houses, model peasants, model roads, pleasure
grounds, a mermaid, talking mechanical figures, temples, groves, and,
generally speaking, it is a place where, apparently, wonders never
cease.

" Hurrah for Broek ! " we all cry, enthusiastically.

" Jomp," cries Bund ; "isn't Broek well worth seeing ? "

"Veil," returns Jomp, "O yes—um—urn—it is vorth seeing—0
yes! " Then he adds, with his usual profound regard for the truth,
" I'ave never been dere."

A BABOO ON BEAUTY.

S you are duubl.iess aware, my dearest Punch, the
other night, at the Hanover Square Rooms, a farewell soiree was given
to the Baboo Chunder Sen, who, having been going about here
lecturing, is about to return to India. You must have been amused
by reading a speech Mb,. Sen made, in which after having said that
both men and women were liable to commit errors and make mistakes,
he went on to say what I now copy out of a paper :—

"There was, for instance, the Girl of the Period. {Laughter.) He hoped
that she would never make her appearance in India. There were two things
he particularly objected to in the ladies' dresses he saw in England. These
two things were their heads and their tails. {Roars of laughter.) With regard
to the ladies' heads, the women of England and of European countries gene-
rally seemed to have, at first sight, much longer hair than the women of
India. "Why, then, the huge protuberance at the back of the head ? "

So much for our heads; but Mr. Sen omitted to mention his objec-
tion to our tails, by which I suppose he means our skirts ; but he didn't
say what he meant, which people not understanding naturally made
them burst into roars of laughter. We are not mermaids, and have no
more of a tail than a Baboo, nor so much as a Baboon. A. train is the
only sort of tail that any of us ever wear, and no sensible girl, unless
her feet and ankles are exceptionally ugly, now goes about in long
dresses, so as to be draggle-tailed, but she wears short, which do not
sweep the street, and therefore, lasting all the longer, combine economy
with elegance. On the latter point perhaps Mb. Sen has his own
opinions, which may be peculiar, and he can enjoy them if he likes.

As to our heads, it may be true that chignons are rather fantastic,
and to use a man's word, grotesque ; and to hide a good forehead with
ragged hair may be as great a mistake almost, as it is to wear a dress
too long; but how can one alter the fashions? She cannot help
following them, whatever they are, so long as they last. It is quite
true what my Uncle Wink says. We are under a necessity of doing so;
we can no longer change what is worn at the time than a cab can
change its colour. He admits it is no fault of ours. I have heard
him say so—his words were these:—"The persistence of women in
ridiculous or injurious modes of clothing does not, prove that, as a
shallow jester has observed, they are, like facts, stubborn things. To
say it proceeds from a swinish obstinacy would be to use coarse
language in making a mis-statement; its cause is simply a vis inertiee
akin to that of inanimate matter." I like men who speak with consi-
deration of women, as Uncle Wine, does, and not satirical creatures
like that disagreeable Baboo. I am sure the way in which you speak
about us, my dearest Punch, is always most delightful to

Your ever sincerely enthusiastic admirer, Bella

Old Saw Re-set.

"Does your mother know you're out ? " would have more lorce if

THE " CAPTAIN " FOUNDERED

On Wednesday, September 7, 1870.

0 tidings, sad as true,

Of grief, Bhitannia's share,
The Captain and her crew

Gone down off Einisterre !
The finest ship we had,

The finest on the sea,
Which now, strong Ironclad,

Sweeps o'er thee!

'Twas but the other day

When we rejoiced, at length
That England had a stay

Found in that tower of strength,
That matchless turret-ship :

She crossed the salt sea foam,
Ne'er, from her trial-trip,

To come home.

Her consorts, where she rode,

Had marked her overnight.
Returning daybreak showed

No Captain to their sight.
A floating spar her tale

Belated but too well.
The winds they had heard wail

Were her knell.

Some few survivors told

How, from the squall's side-blow,
Her prompt Chief, when she rolled,

Cried " Topsail sheets let go ! "
In vain ; before the blast

She toppled, overthrown,
Sank to the bottom, fast,

Like a stone.

Down with her to tbe deep

Went all the wealth she cost,
A loss which would be cheap

If that were all we lost.
But with her went the brave,

Heaven rest their gallant souls !
Bukgoyne beDeath the wave ;

Cowpeb Coles.

Her Architect went down,

With her his art had planned,
And he, of bright renown,

Who held her in command.
Wreck never yet so sore

This England did betide,
Such treasure ne'er before

Sea did hide.

There's iron enow to close,

The gap in England's wall.
What shall we do for those

Departed past recall ?
Bereaved, we all deplore

Defenders of our coast;
But some, who miss them more,

Mourn them most.

To those we owe a debt,

The due of ample aid,
Which Britons should not let

Bemain a day unpaid.
Their country now, at large,

Stands in their parents' stead :
Her bond she will discharge

To the dead.

From Our Poet.

" ' lis the first fire of winter: "—I can get no further, and so I stop
with a coal on. (If you 're inclined to faint away at this respectable
joke, then revive yourself with a bottle of eau de coal on ! !.')

Explain this to youb Ma' and Sisters.—The best 'Bus for a

set thus—" Does your mother-in-law know you 're out ? "—A Wictim. I Man who ought to take more Exercise—Pedi-his.