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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 102

April 23, 1892

TOWN THOUGHTS FROM THE COUNTRY.

A WANT.--"There is only one thing," a visitor writes to us, "that I missed at Venice, S.W. I've never been to the real place, which is the Bride, or Pride, of the Sea, I forget which, but, as I was saying, there's only one thing I miss, and that is the heather. Who has not heard of 'the moor of Venice'? And I daresay good shooting there too, with black game and such like. I only saw pigeons flying, who some one informed me are the pigeons of SAM MARK. Next time I go, I shall inquire at the Restaurant for fresh Pigeon Pie. However, if Mr. KIRALFY will take a hint, he will, in August provide a moor. It will add to the gaiety of the show. 'The moor the merrier,' eh?"

NEO-DRAMATIC NURSERY RHYME.

MRS. GRUNDY, good woman, scarce knew what to think About the relation 'twixt Drama and Drink. Well, give Hall--and Theatre--good wholesome diet, And all who attend will be sober and quiet!

MY SOAP.

I'm the maker of a Soap, which I confidently hope In the advertising tournament will win, And remain the fit survival, having vanquished every rival Which is very detrimental to the skin.

I will now proceed to show, what the public ought to know, Unless they would be blindly taken in. How in every soap but mine certain qualities combine To make it detrimental to the skin.

But surely at this date it is needless I should state That the cheaper soaps are barely worth a pin, For they all contain a mixture, either free or as a fixture, Which is very detrimental to the skin.

And every cake you buy is so charged with alkali, To soda more than soap it is akin; It is really dear at last, for it wastes away so fast. And is very detrimental to the skin.

The public I must warn of the colours that adorn The soaps ambitious foreigners bring in; They are often very pretty, but to use them is a pity, For they're very detrimental to the skin.

There are soaps which you can see through. I ask, What can it be through? Is it resin, or some other form of sin? There are soaps which smell too strong, and of course that must be wrong, And extremely detrimental to the skin.

And too much fat's injurious, and so are soaps sulphureous, Though they say they keep the hair from growing thin; They may keep a person's hair on, like the precious oil of AARON, And yet be detrimental to his skin.

In short, the only soap which is fit for Prince or Pope Is the article I sell you. Don't believe the firms who tell you It is very detrimental to the skin.

A LIQUOR QUESTION.--Why does a toper--especially when "before the beak"--always say that he was "in drink," when he evidently means that the drink was in him? The only soaker on record who could rightly be said to be "in drink" was,

He was "in liquor" with a vengeance. But less lucky wine-bibbers need not be illogical as well as inebriate.

THE NEWEST NARCISSUS;

OR, THE HERO OF OUR DAYS.

Truly 'tis not the self-admiring boy Nymph Echo longed so vainly to enjoy; Yet the old classic fable hath a phase Which seems to fit the opprobrium of our days. Criminal-worship seems our latest cult, And this strange figure is its last result. Self-conscious, self-admiring, Crime parades Its loathly features, not in slumdom's shades, Or in Alsatian sanctuaries vile. No; peacock-posing and complacent smile Pervade the common air, and take the town. The glory of a scandalous renown Lures the vain villain more than wrath or gain, And cancels all the shame that should restrain: Makes murder half-heroic in his sight, And gilds the gallows with factitious light.

Narcissus is a danger to the State, And Echo hardly less. Vain-glorious crime; That pestilent portent of a morbid time, Would flourish less could sense or law avail To strangle coarse Sensation's clamorous tale, Silence the "Noisy Nymph," for half crime's ill Would end were babbling Echo's voice but still.

FETTERED.--In reply to the Unemployed Deputation which found employment in paying a visit to the L.C.C. at Spring Gardens, Messrs. BURNS and BEN TILLETT intimated that as Mr. POWER, the U.D.'s spokesman, was not a member of the L.C.C., that body was Power-less to assist them in their trouble. A nasty time of it had the Labour Candidates on this occasion. Nothing like putting men of Radical revolutionary tendencies into responsible positions.

IN FANCY DRESS.

A SKETCH AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

THE BENEFICENT BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

APRIL SHOWERS;

OR, A SPOILED EASTER HOLIDAY.

TO MY COOK.

Oh, hard of favour, fat of form, How fairer art thou than thy looks, Whose heart with kitchen fires is warm, Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

Low down upon thy forehead grows Thick hair of no conducive dye; Short and aspiring is thy nose, Watched ever by a furtive eye.

In shy defiance rarely seen Where kitchen stairways darkly tend, A foe to judge thee by thy mien, Proclaimed in every act a friend!

I know thee little; not thy views On public or on private life, Whether a single lot thou'dst choose, Or fain would'st be a Guardsman's wife;

For who can rightly read the change When, still'd the work-day traffic's din, In best apparel, rich and strange, Thou passest weekly to thy kin!

A silken gown, that bravely stands Environing thy form, or no; Stout gloves upon thy straining hands, For brooch, the breastplate cameo.

Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell Afar along the pavement sounds, Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell, Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.

But common objects by thy art Some proper beauty seem to own; Thy chop is as a chop apart, Fraught with a grace before unknown;

From thee no pale and wilted ghost, Or branded by the blackening bar, But crisp and cheery comes the toast, And brown as ripening hazels are.

Thy butter has not lost the voice Of English meads, where cowslips grow, And oh, the bacon of thy choice-- Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!

And mutton, colder than the kiss Of formal love, where loathing lurks Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss, Fired with the spirit of thy works.

To true occasion thou art true, As upon great occasions great; Doing whatever Cook may do When PHYLLIS, neat, alone will wait,

Though thou art more than plain in look, Thou wieldest charms that never tire-- O Cook--we will not call thee Cook, Thou Priestess of the Genial Fire.

LAYING A GHOST!

In the morning, I had some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet or wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them, whatever that may mean, till my head ached. I can't quite understand all this now, but it seemed a very picturesque, impressionist description when I wrote it. Then I went for a walk down Main Street. I think it is about 400 miles long, for I got nowhere near the end, but this was perhaps owing to my uncertainty as to which side was the pleasanter to walk on. At last I gave it up, and sat down on the side-walk. Now, the wisdom of Vermont, not being at all times equal to grasping all the problems of everybody else's life with delicacy, sometimes makes pathetic mistakes, and it did so in my ease. I explained to the policeman that I had been sitting up half the night on a wild horse in New Zealand, and had only just come over for the day, but it was all in vain.

The cell at Vermont was horribly uncomfortable. I dreamt that I was trying to boil snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and to swim on my head in deep water, with a life-belt tied to my ankles. There was another man there, and in the early morning he told me about Mastodons and Plesiosauri in a wood near the town, and how he caught them by the tails and photographed them; and also that Ringandknock, a mountain near, was mentioned by EMERSON in a verse, which I remembered, because he made "co-eval" rhyme with "extended." Only a truly great Philosopher could have done that.

It was all new and delightful; and it must have been true, because my informant was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who refrained from laughing at me. I have met very few people who could do that. Next day all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends conveyed me back to New York.

EPITAPH ON A DYER.

This Dyer with a dire liver tried To earn a living dyeing, and he died.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them. But suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that is worse than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. and his wife, who talks about her children. An old school-fellow, who has no conversation that does not begin, "I say, do you remember old JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty, who sits next him.

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