Punch (102.1892)

162 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI] [April 2, 1892.

■ W <:

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNSAID.

Little Jones. "You'll give me a Dance to-morrow night, won't you, Mrs. Foote?"
Mrs. Foote {who is anxious to show her matronly consideration for Unmarried Girls). " Well
I can't promise, and if the Men run short, you know, I shan't Dance at all ?"

THE TELEPHONE CINDERELLA;

Or, "Wanted a Godmother.

[" Far from taking up and developing the new-
mode of communication thus given into its hands,
it (the Post Office) could not forget its attitude of
hostility to the innovation, or conceive any larger
policy than one of repressing the telephone in order
to make people stick to the telegraph . . . The re-
sult is that England lags far behind all other civilised
countries in the use of the telephone."—Times.']

Air—" Ulalume."

Cinderella, you sit and look sober,
Cinderella, you mope and look queer—
You mope, and look dolefully queer ;

As chill as John Millajs' " October"
As you have done, this many a year.

t is hard on you ; Mozart or Auber
Might fail your depression to cheer—
Had you taken the draught named \ol
Glauber,

You could scarce look duller, my dear

n.

Our times, dear, are truly Titanic,
Perfection seems Science's goal—
Dim, distant, dark Science's goal —

But we 're still a bit given to panic.
Monopolies moodily roll—
Monopolies restlessly roll—

That's why there's a movement volcanic
That stirs us from pole unto pole—

A moaning that's vainly volcanic,
In the realms of the (Telegraph) pole.

in.

Deputations are serious and sober,
Officials look palsied and sere—
They indulge in rhetoric small-beer

(Instead of sound sparkling October)
They 're frightened about you, my dear—
(You, at present in two senses, dear !)

They would scan the far future, and probe her,
But can't—and it makes them feel queer,;

As you sit by the fire, looking sober,
You make them sit up and feel queer.

iv.

Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant,

llegard you with arrogant scorn—

With arrogant, uneasy scorn—
True, they have the pull, for the present,

But fear you, the fair youngest born.
They know that your glory is crescent,

And, though each uplifteth her horn,
Each feels that her glory's senescent,

In spite of their duplicate scorn.

v.

Miss Telegraph, lifting her finger,
Says—" Sadly this minx I mistrust—■
Her manners I strangely mistrust—

She '11 distance us, dear, if we linger!
Ah, haste !—let us haste!—for we must!

She '11 eclipse us—that ivould be a stinger !
She '11 rise, and our business is " bust"—

My dear, we must snub her, and bring her
Presumptuous pride to the dust—
Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust "

vi.

Post replies—'' Oh, it's nothing but dreaming,
Her hoping to put out our light!—
Our brilliant and duplicate light!

What did Fergusson say, blandly beaming
Upon the tired House t'other night ?
He said he would make it all right._

Ah, we safely may trust to his scheming—■
Be sure he will lead us aright—

He won't let the damsel there dreaming
Despoil us of what is our right—
The monopoly plainly our right I "j

vii.

Yet watch Cinderella, and list her !
She yet will emerge from her gloom—
Time will conquer her fears and her gloom.

Before her she hath a bright vista.*
The fairy Godmother will come !
liedtape shall not long seal her doom.

What is written is written! No " sister,'
(Though scorning her beauty, and broom)
Shall shroud her bright light in the tomb
Which yet the whole land shall illume '

viii.

She's "some pumpkins"—though now she
looks sober—

She's brilliant; she is " no small beer."

No, no, Cinderella, my dear!

Your envious " sisters " may jeer,

And sit on you yet, for a year;

Redtape your advancement may fear,

And Monopoly's patrons look queer ;
But, as sure as the month of October

Is famous for sound British beer,
Vested Interest time shall prove no bar

To your final triumph, my dear !

* Poe, not Mr. Punch, should have the credit
of this and certain other Cockney rhymes.

"Honi Soit qui Mal y Pense."—"The
competition for the Evill Prize also took place
yesterday" {i.e., last Thursday. Vide Tnnes).
The prize so Evilly named was won by Mr.
Philip Brozel, of the lloyal Academy of
Music, who must have expressed himself as
being at least deucedly delighted, even if
he did not use some much stronger and
wronger expression. Henceforth Philip
Brozel has an Evill reputation. Let us
hope he will live up to it, and so live it down.