English wit and humor — Periodicals
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, August 13, 1887
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
AUGUST 13, 1887.
AT THE OVAL.
Surrey versus Notts. August 1st, 2nd, and 3rd 1887.
(By One of the Fifty Thousand.)
Enthusiastic Surreyite loquitur:—
Hooray! Oh, you must let me holloa. I’m one of the famed “Surrey Crowd,”
And a roar for a win such as this is, cannot be too long or too loud.
Won by four wickets! As good as though Walter had scored half a million,
Great Scott! what a rush from the ring! what a crowd round the crowded Pavilion!
Lohmann! Maurice Read!! Shuter!!! they shouted. Key!!! Key!!! Lohmann!!! Lohmann!!!
“Took down the number” of Notts, Sir, and she’s a redoubtable foeman.
We haven’t licked her for years, and she crowed, Sir, and not without reason;
And now, under Shuter, we’ve done it at last, Sir, and twice in one season!
After a terrible tussle; how oft was my heart in my mouth, Sir.
Luck now seemed to lean to the North, and anon would incline to the South, Sir.
Game wasn’t won till ’twas lost. Hooray, though, for Surrey! ‘Twas her win.
We missed our Wood at the wicket, Notts squared it by missing her Sherwin,
Both with smashed fingers! Rum luck! But then cricketing luck is a twister.
And Sherwin turned up second innings. Did you twig his face when he missed her,
That ball from J. Shuter, our Captain? It ranked pretty high among matches,
But Surrey did make some mistakes, Sir, and Notts——well, they couldn’t hold catches.
Shuter shone up, did he not? Forty-four, fifty-three, and such cutting!
Hooray! Here’s his jolly good health, and look sharp, for they’re close upon shutting.
Partial be blowed! I’m a Surreyite down to my socks, that’s a fact, Sir.
Must shout when my countymen score, and don’t mind being caught in the act, Sir.
Cracks didn’t somehow come off. Arthur Shrewsbury, Notts’ great nonsuch,
Didn’t make fifty all told, and our Walter—the world holds but one such—
A poor twenty-five and eighteen—a mere fleabite for W. W.
Still, he’s our glory; and if you can spot such another, I’ll trouble you.
Grace? Why, of course, in his day he was cock of the walk—that’s a moral.
I won’t say a word against him; but our Walter!—well, there, we won’t quarrel.
I’m Surrey, you know, as I said. I remember Jupp, Humphry, and Stevenson,
Burly Ben Griffith, and Southerton! Well, if it ever was evens on
Match, it was surely on this one. Oh, yes, I gave points, six to five, Sir,
But then I have always backed Surrey, and will do so whilst I’m alive, Sir.
And t’other was Notts, don’t you see, so I couldn’t well show the white feather.
Ah! well, ’twas a wonderful match; such a crowd, such a game, and such weather!
K. J. K. (that’s Mr. Key) showed remarkably promising cricket—
I did feel a little bit quisby when Sherwin snapped him at the wicket.
Gunn and Barnes.
‘Twas getting too close, Sir, for comfort; two hundred and five takes some making—
When Barnes nicked Read, Shuter, and Henderson, ‘gad, there were lots of hearts quaking.
Seventy-eight for a win, Sir, and five of our best wickets levelled.
Notts then began to pick up, and I own I felt rather blue-devilled;
But Surrey has got a rare team, and you see, when the toppers do fail, Sir,
They look at it this way, my boy,—there is all the more chance for the “tail,” Sir.
That’s what I call true cricket pluck, and so, even when Maurice Read quitted him,
That’s what young Lohmann perceived; the place wanted cool grit—and it fitted him.
His thirty-five, and not out, was worth more, Sir, than many a “Century.”
Played like an iceberg, he did; style neither too tame nor too venture-y.
Poor crippled Wood backed him bravely, and he made the winning hit, he did.
Won by four wickets! Hooray! Gallant Surrey at last has succeeded
In knocking the dust out of Notts. I’ve hoorayed till my tongue feels quite furry.
Yes, I like the best side to win,—but I’m thundering glad, though, it’s Surrey!!!
“Over the Water With Lawson” (Change of Name).—Jack Tar to be known in future as Tom Fool.
House of Commons for August.
Disorders of the Day.
Legalised Duels (England) Bill—Report.
Shillelagh (Irish) Supply Bill—Second Reading.
Ways and Means (Assaults)—Committee.
Speaker’s Wig Destruction Bill—As amended to be considered.
Mr. Dillon.—Whether Her Majesty’s Government contemplate allowing Mr. De Lisle to smile, and if so, whether any precautions will be taken to prevent his receiving a thrashing.
Dr. Tanner.—To ask the Chief Secretary of the Lord-Lieutenant whether he has any objection to tread upon the tail of his coat.
Colonel Saunderson.—To ask the First Lord of the Treasury as to the condition of the eyes and noses of certain Members of the Nationalist Party.
Notice of Motion.
Mr. T. Healy.—Physical Force, House of Commons (England)—Bill to facilitate the establishment of a Bear Garden in St. Stephen’s.
In wrath redundant Swinburne turns and rends
The “good grey” bard. Alack for Swinburne’s “friends”!
He worshipped once at thy red shine, Revolt,
Now thou’rt a mark for his Olympian bolt;
But when he rounds on poor barbaric Walt,
One can but gasp, and wonder where he’ll halt.
Coupled with Byron in one furious “slate”?
O poor Manhattan mouther, what a fate!
Algernon’s blunderbuss is double-barrelled;
Down at one shot go “Drum Taps” and “Childe Harold.”
Just fancy being levelled down to—Byron!
Alas! what woes the poet’s path environ.
What next, and next? Byron called Southey “gander.”
But then the lordly rhymester railed at Landor,
One of the Swinburne fetishes, enough
To prove that all he wrote was soulless stuff—
But stop! Who knows that Swinburne, on the ravage,
May not, next time, pitch into Walter Savage?
The idols he once worshipped now he’d burn,
So e’en Mazzini yet may have his turn—
Nay, since the hour for palinodes has struck,
At Hugomania he may run amuck;
And, Victor being laid upon the shelf,
There’ll be but one to round upon—himself.
ELEGANT EXTRACTS BY EMINENT MEN.
A very interesting article appears in the current number of the Fortnightly Magazine, in which the favourite “quotations” of many celebrated persons are introduced with much effect. Always ready to take a hint, Mr. Punch has asked everyone he knows to furnish him with his predilections. The following is the result:—
Mr. Briefless, Junior, of Pump-handle Court writes, “I have carefully considered the circular you have forwarded to me, and am distinctly of opinion that my favourite reading is, ‘With you the Attorney-General.'”
“Robert” says that his favourite phrase is, “‘Ere’s ‘alf a sovereign for yourself, but you deserves more!”
“‘Arry” says he can’t think of anything more “fust class” than, “The ‘orn of the ‘unter is ‘eard on the ‘ill.”
And (more or less) the whole world declares that there is no pleasanter announcement than “Punch, or the London Charivari, is published every Wednesday.”
Mem. for Our Muddlers.
It cannot be in the interests of peace that we turn our swords into—corkscrews, and our bayonets into—button-hooks. That extremely secular reading of a sacred passage, appears to be the accepted one, however, in Ordnance Departments, and other places where they play the fool.
German Belle. “Ach! you are font of Yachting! Zen I zuppose you are a goot Salesman?”
THE END OF THE JUBILEE.
I’ve been to the Abbey, the Naval Review,
The Maske at Gray’s Inn and the Institute too;
In fact I feel just like the Wandering Jew,
Or other historical rover:
I’ve turned day into night and the night into day,
In a regular rollicking Jubilee way,
And now I can truly and thankfully say,
I’m uncommonly glad that it’s over.
I’ve been to a number of Jubilee balls,
And I’m really worn out by the parties and calls;
I’ve fed in the City ‘neath shade of St. Paul’s,
And ate little fish by the river:
I’ve been to big picnics both up and down stream,
I’ve wallowed in strawberries smothered in cream,
Which, following lobster, most doctors would deem
Was remarkably bad for the liver.
I’ve read all the Jubilee articles, loads
Of Jubilee leaders and Jubilee odes,
And seen how each poet his Pegasus goads,
Though gaining but slight inspiration;
A chaos of Jubilee Numbers I’ve seen,
And Jubilee pictures and lives of the Queen,
And the Jubilee coinage that’s greeted, I ween,
With anything but jubilation.
But, now all is over, sincerely I trust
The Nation no longer will kick up a dust,
The Jubilee really has done for me just
As “Commodious” scared Mr. Boffin:
Any more jubilation would finish me quite,
As it is I’ve a horrible dream every night
That a Jubilee demon is screwing me tight
Down into a Jubilee coffin!
The Correct Card.
Mr. Goldwin Smith says:—”The one thing certain about Tory-Democracy, besides its origin, is, that it is the card of a political gamester.” It may perhaps help the ponderous Professor, in a future philippic, to know, in addition, that the associations of Tory-Democracy at once suggest “Clubs,” and the game it is playing, the “deuce.”
THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY.
There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy,
But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me,
He often takes command in a fury-spouting band
Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,
A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly,
It is catching, I’m afraid, for when he is on parade
There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.”
Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,
Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,
Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate
In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control,
Discussion takes a most extinded radius,
It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.”
And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,
That is in being ructious and unruly,
If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,
Faith they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,
Which one and all they do their best to injure;
I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.
The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own
The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,
And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol
The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long,
Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun.
It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,”
As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription.
You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot,
Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly;
For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,
Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
Since you’re kind enough to crave just another little stave,
I’ll explain the furious ferment that now leavens
A tipple once so sound is just Party spite all round,
And of course my Ballyhooly is St. Stephen’s.
‘Twill be very long before you will wish to cry “Encore!”
To the row that makes our Parliament unruly;
For good sense would put a stop on the flow of Party “Pop”
That makes a Donnybrook of “Ballyhooly.”
Whililoo, hi, ho! ‘Tis a huge mistake, ye know,
To let ructions and recriminations charm ye.
If they don’t abate their hate, they’ll bring ruin on the State,
Will the Ballyhooly Parliamentary Army.
Very Like a Wales.
The zeal of the Actor who blacked himself all over to play Othello, is at last outdone—by Mr. Gladstone, who, it is stated, is learning the Welsh language, under the tuition of Mr. Richard, M.P., in order to deliver his speech at the forthcoming Eisteddfod in Taffy’s own tongue. “Not for Cadwallader and all his goats,” as Pistol says, would an ordinary politician go through such an ordeal for such an end. “Gallant Little Wales” will, however, no doubt be duly grateful, and, by lending its support to her adroit flatterer, enable him to say, with Gower, to the opponents of Home-Rule, “Henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition.”
UN DUEL DE CAFÉ-CONCERT.
MM. Boxe et Coxe.
M. le Général Boxe. “Savez-vous vous Battre?”
M. Coxe (homme d’état). “Non!”
M. le Général Boxe. “Eh bien, alors! Allons-y-donc!”
(Translation.—”Can you fight?” “No!” “Then come on!”)
Jest in Earnest.
(What might have happened.)
Monday.—The Fleets started on their manœuvres. Before leaving, the Ironclads ran down, accidentally, all the unarmoured vessels in the harbour.
Tuesday.—Collision. Sinking of the Ajax.
Wednesday.—Mistake in steering. Foundering of the Minotaur.
Thursday.—Error in seamanship. Loss of the Neptune.
Friday.—Misapprehension of signal. Ramming of the Devastation.
Saturday.—Something wrong somewhere. The remainder of the Fleet goes to the bottom.
MR. PUNCH’S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.
It is a charming characteristic of the Young Amateur Entertainer that—whether he possesses or not the smallest acquaintance with any language beyond his own—he is always prepared to impersonate a foreigner of any given nationality at a moment’s notice; and Mr. Punch is confident that the most backward of his Pupils will be perfectly at home (and how his audience will envy him!) with the following Anglo-German recitation, which may be given under the following title:—
Professor Bompp Relates a Little Anecdote.
(To do this effectively, you must assume an air of childlike candour.)
I deach my dong in Engeland for dventy years and more;
And vonce I dvell at Vigmore Shtreet, ubon ze zegond floor—
(Pull yourself up suddenly.)
Bot dat has nodings hier to zay—zo, blease, (professorial air for this) you vill addend!
I gom to dell you gurious dings vat habbened mit a vriend.
He vas a hanzom-headed man, zo like me as a pea,
And eferyveres I valk about he gom along mit me;
Bot all ze efenings, beaceful-quiet, he shtay in-doors and shmoke.
And choggle at himzelf at dimes in hatching out a yoke;
Ontill von day his choggling stobbed—he’d tombled deep in lôf,
And he bassed ze dime vith gissing at a leedle vemale glôf!
Ubon two shpargling eyes he dink, von deligate cock-nose—
Dill zoon his dinkings vork him op mit gourage to bropose.
Zen, ach! zat nose vas dilted more, and gruel vorts she shpoke:
“I vill not dwine aroundt no heart vat shmells zo shtrong mit shmoke!
Vor you yourzelf I might, vith dime, bersuade myzelf to gare—
Bot nevare mit no ogly bipes vill I avection share!”
(Pause, and glance round your audience with a slightly pained air.)
I dink I hear zom laty make a symbathetic shniff—
You Englisch shendlevomens dreats a shmoker var too shtiff!
For look—meinzelf I shmoke a bipe, mit baintings on ze bowl,
I shtoffs him vith dat sheepstabak vat’s dwisted in a roll,
I gif my vort it ton’t daste pad—zough yust a leedle veak—
Shtill, ven I schmokes inzide a drain,—I vinds zom laties seeck!
(Amiable surprise, as you mention this instance of insular intolerance.)
Bot, zere, you makes me chadderbox, and dakes op all my dime!
I vant to dell you how mein vriend behafed himself sooblime:
“If you vill pe mein Braut,” he zaid, “tobaggo I’ll renounce,
And shvear to nefer puy no more von solidary ounce!”
Zo she gif him out her lily hand, and shmile on him zo shveet:
“Vith sodge a sagrifice,” she zaid, “you brove your lôf indeet!
And I dakes you—on your zolem vort mit shmoking to ged rid,
Pe off and purn your bipes and dings!” vich—boor yong man, he—did!
Dree sblendid bipes he sacrificed, in china, glay, and vood,
He vatched zem craggle in ze vlames—I vonder how he could!
And mit zem vent his brime zigars of pest Havana prandt,
Imborted hier vrom Hampurg, in his own dear Vaderlandt!
Henzefort he lif a shmokeless life, vor vear to lose his bride,
And nefer vonce gomblained to her of soferings inzide!
Bot—zough she gif him zentiment and rabdures ven zey met—
Zomdimes he vish she vouldn’t mind von leedle zigarette! [Pause.
Now game along ze night pefore his veddings was to pe—
And he dried to galm his jomping soul mit bonderings and tea—
Ven, zoddenly—he hear a zound, as eef zom barty knock,
And it gom vrom his tobaggo-jar, long embdy of its shtock!
“Gom in! I mean—gom out!” he cried (he was a viddy chap!)
[Here you should be convulsed with inward laughter.
“For nonn of your nockdurnal knocks I do not gare von rap!”
Bot—vile he yoked—ze lid fly off, and sblash into his cop,
And a kind of leedle voman’s form inzide the jar sbring op!
Her face vas yust the golour of a meerschaum nod quide new,
And her hair vas all in ribbling vaves—like long-cut honnydew!
In golden silber she vas roped, all shpangled o’er mit shtars,
For it zeemed as eef she dress herzelf mit baper round zigars,
And like an eel his bagbone squirmed, his hair god up erect,
For beoples in tobaggo-jars is tings you ton’t exbect!
“Bervidious von!” she shpeak at him, zo broud as any queen,
“Pehold your homage-objects vonce—ze goddess Nigodeen!
I galls to know ze reason vy you leafs my aldars cold,
And nefer purns me incense like your bractice vas of old?”
“To bay you more resbects, I must,” he plurted out, “degline,
For I’m vorshibing at bresent mit an obbosition shrine.”
“And zo you makes yourzelf,” she gries, “a dankless renegade
To von who, oftendimes invoked, yet nefer vailed her aid
To charm avay your lonely dimes, and soffogate your care!
If dat’s your leedle games, mein vriend, dake my advice—bevare!”
“I’d gladly zend mein zoul inzide a himmeldinted gloud,
Bot as a Penedick,” he zaid, “I vill not pe allo