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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890
    Ebook89 pages43 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890

    By F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890 - F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98,

      January 25th, 1890, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, January 25th, 1890

      Author: Various

      Editor: Francis Cowley Burnand

      Release Date: December 31, 2009 [EBook #30818]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      VOLUME 98.

      January 25, 1890.

      UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

      Très volontiers, repartit le démon. Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter.

      Le Diable Boiteux.

      XVII.

      "'The Humours of the Town!' Archaic phrase,

      Breathing of Brummel and the dandy days

      Of curly hats and gaiters!

      'Humours' seem rarer now, at least by night,

      In this strange world of gilt and garish light,

      And bibulous wits and waiters."

      So I. The Shadow smiled. "There's food for mirth

      In every nook of the sun-circling earth

      That human foot hath trodden.

      Man, the great mime, must move the Momus vein,

      Whether he follow fashion or the wain,

      In ermine or in hodden.

      "A City of Strange Meetings! Motives strong

      Why men in well-dressed multitudes should throng,

      Abundant are and various.

      Strongest, perhaps, the vague desire to meet;

      No animal as Man so quick to greet,

      So aimlessly gregarious.

      "In Council, Caucus, Causerie, there's an aim

      Which many know and some might even name;

      But see yon motley muster,

      Like shades in Eblis wandering up and down!

      Types there of every 'Show Class' in the Town

      Elbow and glide and cluster."

      I see long rooms, en suite, with lofty walls,

      And portières sombre as Egyptian palls;

      I hear the ceaseless scuffle

      Of many trim-shod feet; the thin sweet sound

      Of stricken strings which faintly echoes round

      Those draperied vistas muffle.

      Susurrus of a hundred voices blent

      In the bland buzz of cultured chat; intent

      Set faces mutely watching

      From cushioned corner or from curtained nook;

      Hands that about old ears attentive crook,

      The latest scandal catching.

      Cold rock-hewn countenances, shaven clean,

      Hard lips, and eyes alert with strength and spleen;

      Visages vain and vapid,

      All wreathed with the conventional bland smile

      That covers weary scorn or watchful guile,

      Shift here in sequence rapid.

      Why is this well-dressed mob thus mustered here?

      I asked my guide. "On every face a sneer

      "Curls—when it is not smirking.

      Scorn of each other seems the one sole thing

      In which they sympathise, the asp whose sting

      Midst flowery talk is lurking."

      "Friend, mutual mockery, masked as mutual praise,

      Is a great social bond in these strange days.

      Rochefoucauld here might gather

      Material for new maxims keen and cold.

      They meet, these convives, if the truth be told,

      For boredom and bland blather.

      "Royston's Reception,—ah! yes; beastly bore!

      But must drop in for half an hour, no more.

      The usual cram,—one knows it.

      Big pudding with a few peculiar plums.

      Everyone kicks, but everybody comes.

      Don't quite know how he does it!'

      "So Snaggs, the slangy cynic. See him there

      With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair,

      Talking to Cramp the sturdy,

      Irreverent R. A. And he,—that's Joyce,

      The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice

      Much like a hurdy-gurdy.

      "You see him everywhere, though none knows why;

      Every hand meets his grip, though every eye

      Furtively hints abhorrence.

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