Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 2

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 (I have sent some
to the KAISER at Berlin) 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,
"Maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt."
He was "in liquor" with a vengeance. But less lucky wine-bibbers need
not be illogical as well as inebriate.
* * * * *
MR. GOSCHEN'S BUDGET.--"From a fiscal point of view, the
Tobacco receipts are extremely good." So unlike JOKIM. Of course, as
he never loses a chance of a _jeu de mot_, what he must have said was,
that "the Tobacco 'returns' are extremely good." "A birthday
Budget,--many happy 'returns,'" he observed jocosely to PRINCE
ARTHUR, "quite japing times!" And off he went for his holiday; and,
weather permitting, as he reclines in his funny among the weeds, he
will gently murmur, "Dulce est desipere in smoko."
* * * * *
THE NEWEST NARCISSUS;
OR, THE HERO OF OUR DAYS.

["--The curious tendency towards imitation which is observed
whenever some specially sensational crime is brought into the light of
publicity."--Morning Post.']
NARCISSUS? _He_, that foul ill-favoured brute, A fevered age's most
repulsive fruit, The murderous coxcomb, the assassin sleek? Stranger
comparison could fancy seek?
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.
And whose the fault? Sensation it is thine! The garrulous paragraph, the
graphic line, Poster and portrait, telegram and tale, Make shopboy
eager and domestics pale. Over the morbid details workmen pore, Toil's
favourite pabulum and chosen lore, Penny-a-liners pile the horrors up,
On which the cockney _gobe-mouche_ loves to sup, And paragraph
and picture feed the clown With the foul garbage that has gorged the
town. "Vice is a monster of such hideous mien As to be hated needs but
to be seen." So sang the waspish satirist long ago. Now Vice is
sketched and Crime is made a show. A hundred eager scribes are at
their heel To tell the public how they look and feel, How eat and drink,
how sleep and smoke and play. Murder's itinerary for a day, Set forth in
graphic phrase by skilful pens, With pictures of its face, its favourite
dens, Its knife or bludgeon, pistol, paramour, Will swell the swift
editions hour by hour, More than high news of war or of debate, The
death of heroes or the throes of state. From club-room to street-corner
runs the cry After the newest fact, or latest lie: The hurrying throng
unfolded broad-sheets grasp, And read with goggled eyes and lips
a-gasp, Blood! Blood! More Blood! It makes hot lips go pale, But gives

the sweetest zest to the unholy tale.
What wonder if the Horror, homaged thus By frenzied eagerness and
foolish fuss, Swells to a hideous self-importance, struts In conscious
dignity, and gladly gluts With vanity's fantastic tricks the herd Whose
pulses first by murderous crime it stirred. Narcissus-like, the slayer
bends to trace Within Sensation's flowing stream its face, And,
self-enamoured, smiles a loathsome smile Of fatuous conceit and
gloating guile; Laughs at the shadow of the lifted knife, And thinks of
all things save its victim's life. The "Noisy Nymph," the Echo of our
times, The gossip, with an eager ear for crimes, Lurks, half-admiring,
all-recording there, Watching Narcissus with persistent stare, And
ready note-book. Nothing but a Voice? No, but its babblings travel, and
rejoice A myriad prurient ears with noisome