DOI issue:
March 26, 1892
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0158
March 26, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. H9
Djakketch {the Court Executioner). Can you see anything through
the loop ?
Ponsch. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere.
Djak. No ; we are probably aboye the heads of the audience. But
can't you distinguish Mr. William Shakspea.ee ?
Ponsch. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. Shakspeare
anywhere.
Djak. Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can
you see nothing ?
Ponsch. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green.
Djak. Ay, ay ! A Bayswater 'bus. They are green. But don't
you see any of the general public ?
Ponsch. I can see Mr. William Archer, and some new Critics,
and unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with
books of the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets.
Djak. This is wonderful. . No more errand-boys with baskets ?
Ponsch. No more small children with babies!
Djak. No more small children P Do pray let me look. (Ponsch
retires, and Djakketch puts his head through the loop.) Oh, I can
see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have
all been bored to death !
Ponsch. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little,
and I will fondle you. [Pulls the cord towards himself.
Djak. Oh, what have you put round my neck ? Oh me! You
are going to . . . oh, you are !
Ponsch. Oh, I am!
Djak. Then—oh!
Ponsch. Oh!
[Exeunt all, except Djakketch, who ceases kicking gradually.
A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the corner ;
a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows.
finis.
HORACE IN LONDON.
To a Crusted Old PoPvT. {Ad Amphoram.)
Why, Eldon, that dragon
of virtue,
Never imagined its vintage
could hurt you.
Liquor like this from a bottle
Old liquor born on my birthday, whose crust is whole,
a twin to me, Liquor like this rubs the rust
Whether ordained wit and mirth from the rusty soul;
to put into me,_ The faddist it mellows: the
Or passions that witch and private
defy us, Secrets of State it can some-
Or, peradventure, the sleep j how arrive at.
of the pious.
; Under its spell frolics Hypochon-
Yaunt not its shippers, my friend, ' driasis; [naire's bias is,
but produce it—an j Poverty learns what a million-
Actual, '' forty-five," languorous \ Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,
Lusitan,
Befitting, whate'er be its
label,
You, my good host, and the
guest at your table.
Steeped though you frown in this
dryasdust clever age,
Dare you presume to resist such
a beverage ?
Laughs at the County Court's
impotent thunder.
Fill, then ! A bumper we '11
empty between us to
Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces,
and Yenus too, [man—
With all of that classical ilk,
Till the stars fade with the
morn and the milkman.
THE "TA-RA-RA" BOOM.
{By Our Own Melancholy Muser.)
I am shrouded in impenetrable gloom-de-ay,
For I feel I'm being driven to my doom-de-ay,
By an aggravating ditty
Which I don't consider witty ;
And they call the horrid thing, " Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.' "
Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and groom-de-ay,
City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with broom-de-ay
Makes my nervous system bristle
As he tries to sing or whistle
That atrocious and absurd Ta-ra-ra-Soom-de-ay ! "
So I sit in the seclusion of my room-de-ay,
And deny myself to all—no matter whom-de-ay—
For I dread a creature coming
Whose involuntary humming
May assume the fatal form, Ta-ra-ra-ooom-de-ay ! "
Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses bloom-de-ay,
You will read upon a well-appointed tomb-de ay:—•
" Influenza never Kck'd him,
But he fell an easy victim
To that universal scourge—' Ta-ra-ra-ooo»i-de-ay!' "
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
One of the Baron's Assistant Headers has been reading a really
interesting, well written novel in two volumes, by Mart Bradford-
Whiting. It is called Denis O'Neil, and tells of the adventures of
a young Irish Doctor who gets entangled in the plots of one of those
Secret Societies that used to exist in " the most distressful country
that ever yet was seen," some twenty years ago. The romance con-
tains some clever sketches of character. The story (published by
Bentley) ends sadly, and those who want to find fault with it will
say it is too short.
The Leadenhall Press,—immortalised by its invention of that in-
valuable work of art, "The Hairless Author's Paper Pad," which
the Baron herewith and hereby strongly recommends to Mr. Glad-
stone, who has s© much writing to do with a pad on his knee, and
for this purpose Mr. Or. would find this the knee plus tdtra" of
inventions,—this same Leadenhall Press has recently published a
story without a title, offer- .. .• ,. .. .
ing a reward of £100 to any A , iiLiIji, / ^'A' 1:1 [j
individual, or to be divided (y fj 1 /.f. jWTy
between such individuals, as A= ' if f 7$^
may guess it. The story is i^^%'''^S^\^j^S^0^Qm^
in effect about a youth who ^fft^i^
lost his right eye infighting % W^&^^J{fk Wk
another boy, and who sub- \ ^^^^^B^^-^S^^^^^%^'J% Jy
sequently revenged himself A^ai^P^W /^s^JmRmi
by depriving his antagonist "j. j^^^^^^W
of an eye by a violent stroke ^ ^H^llls^J*
at Lawn-tennis. What can j^^^Kl^t^I-
be the title ? The Baron 'kM^S^^^S^k
has had the following sug- ^t^^^^^P'l,,,,,
gestions made to him:—■ n n .... M , n ...
V< a -d„ j; TTi ii Our Competition JNovei.—Competitors
An Eye for an Eye," 1 at Work
"TheEgotist," "MyEye!" VV
"Aye! aye!" "Ocular Demonstration," "A Man of One Eve-
dear!" "Eyes Righted," "One Left," "The Other Eye," "Two
Pupils and One Eye," "You and Eye," "The Eyes Have It."
The Baron "winks the other eye," and will be very glad should
any hint of his have assisted a deserving person to gain the reward
offered by Mr. Tuer. En attendant the Baron has hit upon a still
more novel idea. He will write some contributions towards short
stories, and his readers shall finish them. The terms will be
these:—The Baron commences a chapter, or a few lines of it, and
leaves it unfinished, then his readers shall finish the sentence, and
sometimes the chapter, for themselves. If the sentence, or the
chapter, as the ease may be, shall turn out to be exactly what the
Baron would have written had he continued it, then he, the Baron,
will award £100 to the successful candidate, or will award a division
of that sum among the successful candidates. Every competitor shall
pay the Baron £50. And to insure such payment, each competitor's
cheque for this amount must accompany his or her contribution.
Example.—CHAPTER I.—The harvest-moon was slowly rising.
The heather, dried and burnt by the mid-day sun, appeared, to the
eye unaccustomed to this aspect of the country, to be merely a rugged
divergence from the main road. Descending carefullyfrom his dog-cart,
a small man in a big coat, muffled up to the eyes,proceeded leisurely to-
Now, then, what did he leisurely proceed to do P There's a fortune
in it!—somewhere!—says The Baron de Book-Worms.
Djakketch {the Court Executioner). Can you see anything through
the loop ?
Ponsch. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere.
Djak. No ; we are probably aboye the heads of the audience. But
can't you distinguish Mr. William Shakspea.ee ?
Ponsch. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. Shakspeare
anywhere.
Djak. Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can
you see nothing ?
Ponsch. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green.
Djak. Ay, ay ! A Bayswater 'bus. They are green. But don't
you see any of the general public ?
Ponsch. I can see Mr. William Archer, and some new Critics,
and unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with
books of the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets.
Djak. This is wonderful. . No more errand-boys with baskets ?
Ponsch. No more small children with babies!
Djak. No more small children P Do pray let me look. (Ponsch
retires, and Djakketch puts his head through the loop.) Oh, I can
see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have
all been bored to death !
Ponsch. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little,
and I will fondle you. [Pulls the cord towards himself.
Djak. Oh, what have you put round my neck ? Oh me! You
are going to . . . oh, you are !
Ponsch. Oh, I am!
Djak. Then—oh!
Ponsch. Oh!
[Exeunt all, except Djakketch, who ceases kicking gradually.
A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the corner ;
a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows.
finis.
HORACE IN LONDON.
To a Crusted Old PoPvT. {Ad Amphoram.)
Why, Eldon, that dragon
of virtue,
Never imagined its vintage
could hurt you.
Liquor like this from a bottle
Old liquor born on my birthday, whose crust is whole,
a twin to me, Liquor like this rubs the rust
Whether ordained wit and mirth from the rusty soul;
to put into me,_ The faddist it mellows: the
Or passions that witch and private
defy us, Secrets of State it can some-
Or, peradventure, the sleep j how arrive at.
of the pious.
; Under its spell frolics Hypochon-
Yaunt not its shippers, my friend, ' driasis; [naire's bias is,
but produce it—an j Poverty learns what a million-
Actual, '' forty-five," languorous \ Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,
Lusitan,
Befitting, whate'er be its
label,
You, my good host, and the
guest at your table.
Steeped though you frown in this
dryasdust clever age,
Dare you presume to resist such
a beverage ?
Laughs at the County Court's
impotent thunder.
Fill, then ! A bumper we '11
empty between us to
Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces,
and Yenus too, [man—
With all of that classical ilk,
Till the stars fade with the
morn and the milkman.
THE "TA-RA-RA" BOOM.
{By Our Own Melancholy Muser.)
I am shrouded in impenetrable gloom-de-ay,
For I feel I'm being driven to my doom-de-ay,
By an aggravating ditty
Which I don't consider witty ;
And they call the horrid thing, " Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.' "
Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and groom-de-ay,
City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with broom-de-ay
Makes my nervous system bristle
As he tries to sing or whistle
That atrocious and absurd Ta-ra-ra-Soom-de-ay ! "
So I sit in the seclusion of my room-de-ay,
And deny myself to all—no matter whom-de-ay—
For I dread a creature coming
Whose involuntary humming
May assume the fatal form, Ta-ra-ra-ooom-de-ay ! "
Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses bloom-de-ay,
You will read upon a well-appointed tomb-de ay:—•
" Influenza never Kck'd him,
But he fell an easy victim
To that universal scourge—' Ta-ra-ra-ooo»i-de-ay!' "
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
One of the Baron's Assistant Headers has been reading a really
interesting, well written novel in two volumes, by Mart Bradford-
Whiting. It is called Denis O'Neil, and tells of the adventures of
a young Irish Doctor who gets entangled in the plots of one of those
Secret Societies that used to exist in " the most distressful country
that ever yet was seen," some twenty years ago. The romance con-
tains some clever sketches of character. The story (published by
Bentley) ends sadly, and those who want to find fault with it will
say it is too short.
The Leadenhall Press,—immortalised by its invention of that in-
valuable work of art, "The Hairless Author's Paper Pad," which
the Baron herewith and hereby strongly recommends to Mr. Glad-
stone, who has s© much writing to do with a pad on his knee, and
for this purpose Mr. Or. would find this the knee plus tdtra" of
inventions,—this same Leadenhall Press has recently published a
story without a title, offer- .. .• ,. .. .
ing a reward of £100 to any A , iiLiIji, / ^'A' 1:1 [j
individual, or to be divided (y fj 1 /.f. jWTy
between such individuals, as A= ' if f 7$^
may guess it. The story is i^^%'''^S^\^j^S^0^Qm^
in effect about a youth who ^fft^i^
lost his right eye infighting % W^&^^J{fk Wk
another boy, and who sub- \ ^^^^^B^^-^S^^^^^%^'J% Jy
sequently revenged himself A^ai^P^W /^s^JmRmi
by depriving his antagonist "j. j^^^^^^W
of an eye by a violent stroke ^ ^H^llls^J*
at Lawn-tennis. What can j^^^Kl^t^I-
be the title ? The Baron 'kM^S^^^S^k
has had the following sug- ^t^^^^^P'l,,,,,
gestions made to him:—■ n n .... M , n ...
V< a -d„ j; TTi ii Our Competition JNovei.—Competitors
An Eye for an Eye," 1 at Work
"TheEgotist," "MyEye!" VV
"Aye! aye!" "Ocular Demonstration," "A Man of One Eve-
dear!" "Eyes Righted," "One Left," "The Other Eye," "Two
Pupils and One Eye," "You and Eye," "The Eyes Have It."
The Baron "winks the other eye," and will be very glad should
any hint of his have assisted a deserving person to gain the reward
offered by Mr. Tuer. En attendant the Baron has hit upon a still
more novel idea. He will write some contributions towards short
stories, and his readers shall finish them. The terms will be
these:—The Baron commences a chapter, or a few lines of it, and
leaves it unfinished, then his readers shall finish the sentence, and
sometimes the chapter, for themselves. If the sentence, or the
chapter, as the ease may be, shall turn out to be exactly what the
Baron would have written had he continued it, then he, the Baron,
will award £100 to the successful candidate, or will award a division
of that sum among the successful candidates. Every competitor shall
pay the Baron £50. And to insure such payment, each competitor's
cheque for this amount must accompany his or her contribution.
Example.—CHAPTER I.—The harvest-moon was slowly rising.
The heather, dried and burnt by the mid-day sun, appeared, to the
eye unaccustomed to this aspect of the country, to be merely a rugged
divergence from the main road. Descending carefullyfrom his dog-cart,
a small man in a big coat, muffled up to the eyes,proceeded leisurely to-
Now, then, what did he leisurely proceed to do P There's a fortune
in it!—somewhere!—says The Baron de Book-Worms.