Punch (79.1880)

PUNCH, OH THE LONDON CHAHIVaKJ. October 30, 1880.

THE SIX-MARK TEA-POT.

Aesthetic Bridegroom. “It is quite consummate, is it not?”

Intense Bride. “ It is, indeed ! Oh, Algernon, let us live up ro 11 !

BY SPECIAL PHOTOPHONE.

{Bay-reported from Olympus.)

Mercury. “Nothin? new under the sun,” eh, Phoebus ? What do you think of this. ?
Phoebus {screwing up his treble string). Pooh! Mole-eyed mortals overlook a plain tact
t a few thousand years, and then, accidentally stumbling over it, crow^ loudly a ou
progress ” and “ novelty.” A snail, slowly and slimily trailing over a garden, blundered,
iwittingly against a strawberry. “ Heayens! how clever am I! ” cried the snail, lou can

ake the application for yourself. , ait oo-rr

Mercury. Well, 1 know Prometheus is getting proud ot his proteges. And i say,

boebus, aren’t they just making use of you ?

Venus. Disgusting ! The preposterous parvenu, Man, is getting too impertinent, iirst
i makes you take portraits of terrestrial tag-rag, from professional beauties to endimanche
>rk-butchers now, forsooth, you ’re to carry messages for traders and those solemn idiots

.lied—what is it—diplunatics ? „ ...

Mercury. Diplomatists, my dear Goddess, lou are confounding deliberate burle q

with that which is unconscious. The latter
is far the funnier.

Venus (crushing an unoffending amaranth
blossom with a rosy but restless foot). To
you, cynic, not to me. Too heavy! I can
! stand Offenbach’s souffl.ee, but not Bis-
marck's “stodge,” or Gladstone’s Cabinet-
pudding. But, Phoebus, ires clier, why do
you let the mannikins make a sort of tenth-
rate Mercury of you? Why don’t you
serve them as Jupiter did that forward
minx Semele ?

Phoebus (twangling the air of “ I am an
Artless Thing ”). Humph ! It amuses them,
and doesn’t hurt me, you know.

{Sings.) Let Edison and Bell

Do as they will, badly or well,

I am a genial God !

I am a genial God!

Mafoi! lejeu ne vaut
Pas la cliandelle, pas la ckandelle,
Although “tapping” Phoebus de omnibus
rebus

Perchance seem odd.

Man’s proud of his Photophone ;

Let the poor little midget alone.

To coil and reflector I’m not an objector—

I am such a genial God !

Mercury. Doubtless. But that’s hardly
the prevailing opinion among your “mid-
gets” just at present. On the contrary,
they think you get less and less genial
every season — in London at least,
where indeed they see
little of you in the
summer (?), and no-
thing at all in the
winter.

Phoebus. Bah! The
latter loss at least is
mainly the fools’ own
fault. “Against dul-
ness ’’—especially in
the form of London
fog—“even the Gods
fight in vain! ” Let
Prometheus’s latter-
day pet, Science, teach
them to make a better use of their stolen fire>

and banish darkness as well as utilise light-
Venus. Pooh! Men are born Cimmerii,
all of them, and fog is their native element,
ne'est-ce pas ? I once saw a London
“ Beauty” in November, with red eyes and
a smut on her nose ! Eugh !

[Rubs her oivn tenderly tip-tilted organ
in unconscious sympathy.

Phoebus. Well, if the Cockneys don’t soon
set themselves seriously to the task of
banishing the Smoke Fiend, I shall not he
of much more service to them.

Mercury. They may light, they may
lighten the town as they will,
But the pea-soupy fog-pall will
bang o’er it still.

Phoebus. Precisely. {Sings.)

I really don’t desire
Their stolen fire should light their pyre,
I am a genial God, &c.

But ’neath the yoke of smoke
If they will choke—nor Science invoke,
It’s no use to halloo for help to Apollo,

Or ask Jove’s nod.

I ’m willing quite my light
Should carry their messages right,

If they only won’t clog up its pathway with
fog—

I am such a genial God !

BY JOB TROTTER’S BROTHER.

When is it possible to mistake a horse for
a hypocrite ?

When you take him for a canter.