Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 7

GORDON's name Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England's fame; And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!
Fit task for patriot poet, this! TYRT?US never stood More worthily for heroic hearts or his home-land's highest good. Give! give! and with free hands! His spirit's poor, his soul is hard, Who heeds not our noblest Hero's appeal through the lips of our noblest Bard!
* * * * *
A REMINISCENCE AND A QUOTATION.--It is reported that two Gaiety burlesque-writers are about to re-do _Black-Eye'd Susan_ "up to date," of course, as is now the fashion. As the typical melodramatic tragedian observes, "'Tis now some twenty-five years ago" that FRED DEWAR strutted the first of his five hundred nights or so on the stage as Captain Crosstree, that PATTY OLIVER sang with trilling effect her "Pretty Seeusan," and that DANVERS, as Dame Hatly, danced like a rag-doll in a fantoccini-show. To quote the Poet CRABBE, and to go some way back in doing so,--
"I see no more within our borough's bound The name of DANVERS!"
Which lines will be found in No. XVII. of the Poet's "Posthumous Tales."
* * * * *
THE MODERN TRAVELLER.
In a restaurant-Pullman he books His seat, a luxurious craze. Most travellers now take their Cooks, And everyone's going to Gaze.
* * * * *
IBERIAN-HIBERNIAN.--Sir,--In Ireland since the time when the Armada came to grief on its coasts, there have always existed Spanish names, either pure, as in the instance of Valencia, or slightly mixed. In Spain the Celtic names are found in the same way, and an instance occurs on the border-land of Spain and Southern France, in the name of the place to which the Spanish Premier has gone for his holiday, viz., Bagnères-de-Bigorre. If "Bigorre" isn't "Begorra," what is it? DON PATRICK DE CORQUEZ.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"]
* * * * *
A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.
(_THOROUGHLY NEW STYLE._)
[Illustration]
Belinda dear, once on a time I doted on your every feature, I wrote you billets doux in rhyme In which I called you "charming creature." No lover half so keen as I, Than mine no ardent passion stronger, So I should like to tell you why I cannot love you any longer.
When I was yours and you were mine, Your hair, I thought, was most delightful, But now, through Fashion's last design, It looks, to my taste, simply frightful! Though why this should be I don't know, For I can think of nothing madder Than hair decked out in coils that go To make what seems to be a ladder.
Unhappy day, when first you dressed Your tresses thus--how you must rue it! For you yourself, you know, confessed It took you several hours to do it. Oh, tell me, is it but a snare Designed to captivate another, Or do you merely bind your hair Because you're bidden by your mother?
Again--you will not take it ill-- You are, my dear, distinctly dumpy: A flowing cape it's certain will Well--not become one short and stumpy. Yet since, although you are not tall, You wear a cape, you may take my word That in the mouths of one and all You have become a very byword.
So this is why my love has fled-- If ever there should come a season When you shall show some sense instead Of such an utter lack of reason, If I should still be fancy free, Why then it's only right to mention That, if you care to write to me, I'll give your claims my best attention.
* * * * *
A NOTE.--In Black and White for August 8 there is a large picture representing a group of English Dramatists, amongst whom please specially notice a figure intended for Mr. W.S. GILBERT (it was thoughtful and kind of the artist to put the names below), who is apparently explaining to a select few why he has been compelled to come out in this strange old coat and these queer collars. All the Dramatists look as cheerful as mutes at a funeral, their troubled expression of countenance probably arising from the knowledge that somewhere hidden away is a certain eminently unbiassed Ibsenitish critic who has been engaged to do the lot in a lump. From this exhibition of collective wisdom turn to p. 203, and observe the single figure of a cabman, drawn by an artist who certainly has a Keene appreciation of the style of _Mr. Punch's_ inimitable "C.K."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "BURYING THE HATCHET".
(_Vide Report of the L.C. & D. Chairman's Speech, "Times," August 6._)]
* * * * *
A LESSON FROM THE R.N.E.
(_FOR THE USE OF SAILORS PROPOSING TO JOIN THE ROYAL NAVY._)
[Illustration: Boxing the Compass.]
Question. I think you have been