Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 103.
September 24, 1892.
'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.
[Illustration]
DEAR CHARLIE,--Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know _wot_'ll
come next!
Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my
text;
But really life's turn-ups are twisters. You lay out for larks,
'ealth, and tin,
But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected,"
romps in.
Who'd ha' thought of _me_ jacking up suddent, and giving the
Sawbones a turn?
Who'd ha' pictered _me_ "Taking the Waters"? Ah! CHARLIE, 'twos
hodds on the Urn
With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as
Tot'nam-Court Road
Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos
full growed.
_Bad_, CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill-box
declared.
Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I
felt a bit scared,
And it left me a yaller-skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus,
stoney-broke.
If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a
croak.
Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way,
and struck ile,
Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but _he_'s
made his pile.
Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd
ghost
A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it--a'most.
Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh,
fudge!
He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if _I_'m
any judge.
I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set
_me_ up.
Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young
pup.
"Carn't _afford_ it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but--thanks be to
'orse-flesh--_I_ can--"
Well, he tipped us a fifty-quid crisp 'un--and ROOSE sent me 'ere;
he's _my_ Man!
Three weeks' "treatment"! Well, threes into fifty means cutting a
bit of a dash;
Good grub, nobby togs, local doctor, baths, waters, and everythink
flash.
"'Appy 'ARRY!" sez you. But way-oh, CHARLIE! 'Arrygate isn't all
jam.
_Me_ jolly? Well, mate, if you arsk me, I carn't 'ardly say as I
ham.
To spread myself out with the toppers is proper, no doubt, bonny
boy;
But--I wish it wos Brighton, or Margit, or somewheres a chap could
_enjoy_.
Oh, them "Waters," old man!!! S'elp me never! yer don't kow wot
nastyness _is_
Till you've tried "Sulphur 'ot and strong," fasting. The Kissing
Gin, taken a-fizz,
Isn't _wus_ than ditch-water and sherbet; but Sulphur!!! It's
eased my game leg;
But I go with my heart in my mouth, and I feel like a blooming bad
hegg.
B-r-r-r-r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out
of it, slap.
When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy
white cap,
And cheeks like a blush-rose for bloominess--well, I'm a gent,
but, yah-hah!
I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta-ta!
Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't
'ave a _wus_ smell.
Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water.
Eugh! Old Pump Well?
Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be,
I'm sure,
But for BLACK--local doctor, a stunner!--who's got me in 'and for
a cure.
I'm not nuts on baths took _too_ reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't
'arf bad,
When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust
off, dear old lad!
They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a
feller about
Don't come nicer for calling it _massage_. But there, it's O.K.
I've no doubt.
They squat you upon a low shelf, with a sort of a water-can "rose"
At the nape of yer neck, while a feller in front squirts yer down
with a 'ose.
He slaps you as though you wos batter, he kneads you as if you wos
dough,
And gives yer wot for on the spine, till you git in a doose of a
glow.
Then you're popped in a big iron cage, where the 'ose plays upon
you like fun;
A lawn, or a house a-fire, CHARLIE, could not be more thoroughly
done.
Sez I, "I'm _insured_, dontcher know, mate; so don't _waste_ the
water, d'ye 'ear?"
But he didn't appear to arf twig. He seemed jest a bit thick in
the clear.
Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings
a-play--
'Taint _oder colong_, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the
local _bokay_.
They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give _me_ the needle
fust off;
'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me
sputter and cough.
Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five
minutes to bake,
And that's the "_Aix Douche_," as they call it. _I_ call it the
funniest fake
In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes
the time,
And _I_ shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old
Babbylon's grime.
Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun _I_ can
find
Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it
blind.
Oh, the sniffs and sour faces, old fellow, the shudders and
shivers, and sighs;
The white lips a-working like rabbits', the sheepish blue-funk in
their eyes!
Old Pump Room's a hoctygon building, rum blend like of chapel and
bar,
With a big stained-glass winder one side, hallygorical subject! So
far
As I've yet made it out, it's a hangel a-stirring up somethink
like suds.
"A-troubling the waters," I 'eard from a party in clerical duds.
You arsk, like you do at a bar, for the speeches of lotion you want.
_Some_ say; you git used to the flaviour, and _like it_! Bet long
hodds _I_ shan't.
I've sampled the lot, my dear CHARLIE, Strong Sulphur and Mild,
Cold _and_ 'Ot;
And all I can say is, the jossers who say it ain't beastly talk rot.
You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy
sort of sniff,
Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their
hupper lips stiff;
Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort
of bounce,
And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot
sixteen hounce.
When they git it, a-fume in a tumbler, a-smelling like hegg-chests
gone wrong,
They squirm, ask the snowy-capped gurl, "Is _this_ right?"--"Yes,
Sir. Sixteen ounce, strong!"
Sez the minx with a cold kind o' smile. "Ah--h--h! _per_cisely!"
they smirks, and walks round,
With this "Yorkshire Stinko" in their 'ands--and their 'earts in
their mouths I'll be bound.
Then--Gulp! Oh Gewillikins, CHARLIE! it gives yer the ditherums,
it do.
Bad enough if you 'ave to wolf _one_, but it fair gives yer beans
when 'tis _two_.
The wictims waltz round, looking white, wishing someone would just
spill _their_ wet,
And--there's 'ardly a glass "returned empty" but wot shows its
'eel-taps, you bet!
This is "Taking the Waters" at 'Arrygate! Well, I shall soon take
my 'ook.
Speshal Scotch, at my favourite pub, from that sparkling young
dona, NELL COOK,
Will do me a treat arter this, mate, and come most pertikler A 1.
'Ow I long to be back in "The Village," dear boy, with its bustle
and fun!
Still, the air 'ere's as fresh as they make it, and gives yer a
doose of a peck,
And DUNSING, the Boss at "The Crown," does yer proper. I came 'ere
a wreck;
But sulphur, sound sleep, and cool breezes, prime prog, and good
company tells;
So 'ere's bully for 'Arrygate, CHARLIE, in spite of rum baths and
bad smells.
That Fifty is nearly played out, and my slap at the Ebor went
wrong--
I'd a Yorkshire tyke's tip, too, old man; but I'm stoney, though
still "going strong"
(As _Lord Arthur_ remarks in the play), so no more at "The Crown"
I must tarry,
But if 'Arrygate wants a good word--as to 'ealth--it shall 'ave it
from
'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TWO'S COMPANY."
_Newspaper Boy_ (_suddenly, at window_). "WANT AN _OBSERVER_,
CAPTAIN?"
_Mathilde_ (_on Honeymoon Trip_). "OH, FREDDIE, DEAR! NO! NO!! _DO_
LET US BE QUITE ALONE!"]
* * * * *
THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT"
BEING TUGGED TO ITS LAST BERTH--IN A SHIPBREAKER'S YARD.
(_A THEME FROM TURNER TREATED IN MODERN BRITISH STYLE, WITH APOLOGIES
TO THE PATRIOTIC PAINTER OF "THE FIGHTING 'TÉMÉRAIRE.'"_)
"Mayhap you have heard, that as dear as their lives,
All true-hearted Tars love their ships and their wives."
So DIBDIN declared, and he spoke for the Tar;
He knew Jack so well, both in peace and in war!
But hang it! times change, and 'tis sad to relate,
The old Dibdinish morals seem quite out of date;
Stick close to your ship, lads, like pitch till you die?--
That sounds nonsense to-day, and I'll tell ye for why.
The good old _Foudroyant_--how memory dwells on
Those brave fighting names!--was once flag-ship to NELSON.
But NELSON, you know, died a good while ago,
And his flag-ship has gone a bit shaky, and so
JOHN BULL, who's now full of low shopkeeping cares,
And thinks more of the Stocks than of naval affairs,
Regards not "Old Memories," that "eat off their head."
Turn old cracks out to grass? No, let's sell 'em instead!
A ship's like the high-mettled racer once sung
By that same dashing DIBDIN of patriot tongue,
Grown aged, used up, is he honoured? No, zounds!
"The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds!"
And so with a barky of glorious name,
(It is business, of course--_and a Thundering Shame!_)
Worn out, she is nought but spars, timbers and logs,
And so, like the horse, should be sold--to the dogs!
As for the _Foudroyant_, the vessel was trim
When it fought with the French, for JOHN BULL, under _Him_,
The Star of the Nile. Yes, it carried _his_ flag,
When it captured the Frenchman. There's no need to brag,
Or to say swagger things of a generous foe.
Besides, things have doosedly altered, you know.
_We_'re no more like NELSON than I to a Merman;
_We_ can sell his flag-ship for firewood, to the German!
Sounds nice, does it not? If that great one-armed Shade
Could look down on the bargain he'd--swear, I'm afraid
(If his death-purged bold spirit held yet ought of earth).
And I fancy 'twill move the gay Frenchman to mirth
To hear this last story of shop-keeping JOHN--
Or his huckster officials. The Frenchman, the Don,
The Dutchman, all foes we have licked,--may wax bold
When they hear that the brave old _Foudroyant_ is--Sold!!!
Great TURNER has pictured the old _Téméraire_
Tugged to _her_ last berth. Why the sun and the air
In that soul-stirring canvas, seem fired with the glory
Of such a brave ship, with so splendid a story!
Well, look on that picture, my lads, and on _this_!
And--no, do not crack out a curse like a hiss,
But with stout CONAN DOYLE--_he_ has passion and grip!--
Demand that they give us back NELSON's old Ship!
British hands from protecting her who shall debar?
Ne'er ingratitude lurked in the heart of a Tar.
"(Sings DIBDIN) That Ship from the breakers to save"
Is the plainest of duties e'er put on the brave.
While a rag, or a timber, or spar, she can boast,
A place of prime honour on Albion's coast
Should be hers and the _Victory's!_ Let us not say,
Like the fish-hucksters, "_Memories_ are cheap, Sir, to-day!"
* * * * *
ECCLESIASTICAL TASTE.--A condiment not much in favour with High
Churchmen just now, must be "Worcester Sauce." It is warranted to
neutralise the very highest flavour.
* * * * *
IMPROMPTU.
Of "garnered leaves"
And "garnered sheaves"
Sing sentimental donkeys.
Perhaps e'er long
Their simple song
Will be of Garnered Monkeys!
* * * * *
"A railway from Joppa to Jerusalem" sounds like a Scriptural Line. In
future, "going to Jericho" will not imply social banishment, as the
party sent thither will be able to take a return-ticket.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OF MALICE AFORETHOUGHT.
_Cheery Official._ "ALL FIRST CLASS 'ERE, PLEASE?"
_Degenerate Son of the Vikings_ (_in a feeble voice_). "_FIRST CLASS?_
NOW DO I _LOOK IT_?"]
* * * * *
THE LAY OF THE LAST KNIGHT.
My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART--
Ah! happy augury. Would I could
Leave it so. But 'twill not do.
Like soap of Monkey brand,
It will not wash clothes,
Or, in truth, ought else.
'Tis but an accident of rhythm
Born of the imperative mood that makes one
Start a poem of this kind on ten feet,
Howe'er it may thereafter crawl or soar.
What I really was about to remark was that
My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART-
LETT, Knight; late Civil Lord of Admiralty
You know me. I come from Sheffield; at least
I did on my return thence
Upon re-election.
II.
A sad world this, my masters, as someone--
Was it my friend SHAKSPEARE?--
Says. The sadness arises upon reflection, not
That I'm a Knight, but that I am, so to speak,
A Knight of only two letters.
As thus--Kt. 'Tis but a glimmer of a night,
If I, though sore at heart, may dally with
The English tongue
And make a pensive pun.
III.
Of course I expected different things from
The MARKISS.
What's the use, what's the purpose,
Of what avail, wherefore,
That a man should descend from the
Spacious times of ELIZABETH with nothing
In his hand other than a simple Knighthood?
Anyone could do that.
It might be done to anyone.
He, him, all, any, both, certain, few,
Many, much, none, one, other, another.
One another, several, some, such and whole.
Why, he made a Knight
At the same time,
In the same manner,
Of
MAPLE
BLUNDELL!
IV.
Look here, MARKISS, you know,
This won't do.
It may pass in a crowd, but not with
ELLIS ASHMEAD BART--
(There it is again. Evidently doesn't matter
About the feet)
LETT.
V.
And yet MARKISS, mine,
I shall not despair.
You are somewhat out of it
At the present moment.
And I am not sure--
Not gorged with certainty--
That Mr. G. would be
Inclined to make amends.
He is old; he is agëd.
Prejudice lurks amid
His scant white locks,
And forbids the stretch-
Ing forth of generous hand in whose
Recesses coyly glint
The Bart. or K.C.B.
VI.
But you are not everyone;
Nor is he. Nor do both together
In the aggregate
Compose the great globe
And all that therein is.
I'll wait awhile, possessing my soul in
Patience.
Everything comes to the man who waits.
(Sometimes, 'tis true, 'tis the bobby
Who asks what he's loafing there for,
And bids him
Move on.
That is a chance the brave resolute soul
Faces.) The pity of it is
That you, MARKISS, having so much to give,
So little gave
To
Me.
VII.
Oh, MARKISS! MARKISS!
Had I but served my GLADSTONE
As I have served thee,
He would not have forsak--
But that's another story.
* * * * *
THE NEW HOPERA OF 'ADDON 'ALL.--The title finally decided upon for the
SULLIVAN-GRUNDY Opera is _Haddon Hall_. Lovely for 'ARRY! "'Ave you
seen _'Addon 'All_?" Then the 'ARRY who 'as only 'eard a portion of
it, will say, "I _'addn_'t 'eard _'all._" As a Cockney title, it's
perfect. Successful or not, Author and Composer will congratulate
themselves that, to deserve, if not command success, they _'ad don
all_ they knew. If successful, they'll replace the aspirates, and it
will be some time before they recover the exact date when they Had-don
Hauling in the coin. _Prosit!_
* * * * *
MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.--Says the _Pall Mall Gazette_:--"For knocking
over a man selling watercress, with fatal results, a Hammersmith
cabman has been committed for trial for manslaughter." If this is
true, the HOME SECRETARY should immediately interpose. The action
of knocking a man over is hasty, and may be indefensible. But if
the Hammersmith Cabman had just grounds for belief that the man
was "selling watercresses with fatal results," he should rather be
commended than committed for trial.
* * * * *
"KEEPING-UP THE CHRISTOPHER."--(_A Note from an Old
Friend_).--"CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS" indeed! As years ago I told _Sairey
Gamp_ about her bothering _Mrs. Harris_, "I don't believe there's no
sich a person." That's what I says, says I, about COLUMBUS, wich ain't
like any other sort of "bus" as I see before my blessed eyes every
day.
Yours, ELIZABETH PRIG.
P.S.--Mr. EDWIN JOHNSON, him as wrote to the _Times_ last Saturday, is
of my opinion. Good Old JOHNSON!
* * * * *
"HONORIS CAUSÂ."--To Mr. GRANVILLE MONEY, son of the Rector of
Weybridge, whose gallant rescue of a lady from drowning has recently
been recorded, _Mr. Punch_ grants the style and title of "Ready
MONEY."
* * * * *
QUESTION AND ANSWER.--"Why don't I write Plays?" Why should I?
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XV.--TO SWAGGER.
[Illustration]
Not long ago I reminded you of CHEPSTOWE, the incomparable poet who
was at one time supposed to have revolutionised the art of verse.
Now he is forgotten, the rushlight which he never attempted to
hide under the semblance of a bushel, has long since nickered its
last, his boasts, his swelling literary port, his quarrels, his
affectations--over all of them the dark waves of oblivion have passed
and blotted them from the sand on which he had traced them. But in his
day, as you remember, while yet he held his head high and strutted
in his panoply, he was a man of no small consequence. Quite an army
of satellites moved with him, and did his bidding. To one of them
he would say, "Praise me this author," and straightway the fire of
eulogy would begin. To another he would declare--and this was his more
frequent course--"So-and-so has dared to hint a fault in one of us;
he has hesitated an offensive dislike. Let him be scarified," and
forthwith the painted and feathered young braves drew forth their axes
and scalping-knives, and the work of slaughter went merrily forward.
Youth, modesty, honest effort, genuine merit, a manifest desire to
range apart from the loud storms of literary controversy, these were
no protection to the selected victim. And of course the operations of
the Chepstowe-ites, like the "plucking" imagined by _Major Pendennis_,
were done in public. For they had their organ. Week by week in _The
Metropolitan Messenger_ they disburdened themselves, each one of his
little load of spite and insolence and vanity, and with much loud
shouting and blare of adulatory trumpets called the attention of the
public to their heap of purchasable rubbish. There lived at this time
a great writer, whose name and fame are still revered by all who love
strong, nervous English, vivid description, and consummate literary
art. He stood too high for attack. Only in one way could the herd
of passionate prigs who waited on CHEPSTOWE do him an injury. They
could attempt, and did, to imitate his style in their own weekly
scribblings. _Corruptio optimi pessima_. There is no other phrase
that describes so well the result of these imitative efforts. All the
little tricks of the great man's humour were reproduced and defaced,
the clear stream of his sentences was diverted into muddy channels,
the airy creatures of his imagination were weighted with lead and made
to perform hideous antics. Never had there been so riotous a jargon
of distorted affectation and ponderous balderdash. Smartness--of a
sort--these gentlemen, no doubt, possessed. It is easy to be accounted
smart in a certain circle, if only you succeed in being insolent.
Merit of this order the band could boast of plenteously.
One peculiarity, too, must be noted in _The Metropolitan Messenger_.
It had a magnetic attraction for all the sour and sorry failures whose
reputation and income, however greatly in excess of their deserts,
had not equalled their expectation. The Cave of Adullam could not have
been more abundantly stocked with discontent. It is the custom of the
_ratés_ everywhere to attempt to prevent, or, if that be impossible,
to decry success in others, in order to exalt themselves. The
"Metropolitans" followed the example of many unillustrious
predecessors, though it must, in justice, be added, that they would
have been shocked to hear anyone impute to them a want of originality
in their curious methods. In the counsels of these literary bravos,
WILLIAM GRUBLET held a high place. At the University, where he had
pursued a dull and dingy career of modified respectability, not much
was thought or spoken of GRUBLET. If he was asked what profession he
proposed to adopt, he would wink knowingly, and reply, "Journalism."
It sounded well--it gave an impression of influence, and future power,
and, moreover, it committed him to nothing. It is just as easy to say
"Journalism," in answer to the stock question, as it is to deliver
yourself over, by anticipation, to the Bar, the Church, or the Stock
Exchange. Hundreds of young men at both our ancient Universities
look upon Journalism as the easiest and most attractive of all the
professions. In the first place there are no Examinations to bar
the way, and your ordinary Undergraduate loathes an Examination as
a rat may be supposed to loathe a terrier. What can be easier--in
imagination--than to dash off a leading article, a biting society
sketch, a scathing review, to overturn ancient idols, to inaugurate
movements, to plan out policies? All this GRUBLET was confident
of being able to do, and he determined, on the strength of a few
successful College Essays, and a reputation for smartness, acquired
at the expense of his dwindling circle of intimates, to do it. He
took his degree, and plunged into London. There, for a time, he was
lost to public sight. But I know that he went through the usual
contest. Rejected manuscripts poured back into his room. Polite,
but unaccommodating Editors, found that they had no use for vapid
imitations of ADDISON, or feeble parodies of CHARLES LAMB. Literary
appreciations, that were to have sent the ball of fame spinning up the
hill of criticism, grew frowsy and dog's-eared with many postages to
and fro.
In this protracted struggle with fate and his own incompetence, the
nature of GRUBLET, never a very amiable one, became fatally soured,
and when he finally managed to secure a humble post on a newspaper, he
was a disappointed man with rage in his heart against his successful
rivals and against the Editors who, as he thought, had maliciously
chilled his glowing aspirations. His vanity, however,--and he was
always a very vain man--had suffered no diminution, and with the
first balmy breezes of success his arrogance grew unbounded. Shortly
afterwards, he chanced to come in the way of CHEPSTOWE; he impressed
the poet favourably, and in the result he was selected for a place
on the staff of _The Metropolitan Messenger_, then striving by every
known method to battle its way into a circulation.
It was at this stage in his career that I met GRUBLET. He was pointed
out to me as a young man of promise who had a trenchant style, and had
lately written an article on "Provincialism in Literature," which had
caused some stir by its bitter and uncompromising attacks upon certain
well-known authors and journalists. I looked at the man with some
interest. I saw a pale-faced, sandy-haired little creature with a
shuffling, weak-kneed gait, who looked as if a touch from a moderately
vigorous arm would have swept him altogether out of existence.
His manner was affected and unpleasant, his conversation the most
disagreeable I ever listened to. He was coarse, not with an ordinary
coarseness, but with a kind of stale, fly-blown coarseness as of
the viands in the window of a cheap restaurant. He assumed a great
reverence for RABELAIS and ARISTOPHANES; he told shady stories,
void of point and humour, which you were to suppose were modelled
on the style of these two masters. And all the time he gave you to
understand, with a blatant self-sufficiency, that he himself was one
of the greatest and most formidable beings in existence. This was
GRUBLET as I first knew him, and so he continued to the end.
The one thing this puny creature could never forgive was that any
of his friends should pass him in the race. There was one whom
GRUBLET--the older of the two--had at one time honoured with his
patronage and approval. No sooner, however, had the younger gained a
literary success, than the sour GRUBLET turned upon him, and rent him.
"This fellow," said GRUBLET, "will get too uppish--I must show up his
trash"; and accordingly he fulminated against his friend in the organ
that he had by that time come to consider as his own. This baseless
sense of proprietorship, in fact, it was that wrecked GRUBLET. In an
evil moment for himself he tried to ride rough-shod over CHEPSTOWE,
and that temporary genius dismissed him with a promptitude that should
stand to his credit against many shortcomings. GRUBLET, I believe,
still exists. Occasionally, in obscure prints, I seem to detect traces
of his style. But no one now pays any attention to him. His claws
are clipped, his teeth have been filed down. He shouts and struts,
unregarded. For we live, of course, in milder and more reasonable
days, and the GRUBLETS can no longer find a popular market for their
wares.
Only one question remains. How in the world can even you, oh respected
SWAGGER, have derived any pleasure from witnessing the performances
that GRUBLET went through, after you had persuaded him that he was
a man of some importance? I do not expect an answer, and remain as
before,
DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
IN BANCO.--The stability of the concern having been effectually proved
by the way in which the Birkbeckers got out of the fire and out of the
trying pan-ic, and the ease with which they were quite at home to the
crowds of callers coming to inquire after their health, should earn
for them the subsidiary title of the Birk-beck-and-call Bank.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A GOOD BEGINNING.
_Uncle Jack_ (_Umpire_). "LOVE ALL!"
_Monsieur le Baron_. "LOVE ALL? PARBLEU! JE CROIS BIEN! ZEY ARE
_ADORABLES_, YOUR NIECES!"]
* * * * *
PAN THE POSTER.
(_A MODERN PERVERSION OF MRS. BROWNING'S POWERFUL POEM, "A MUSICAL
INSTRUMENT."_)
["We are presented just now with two spectacles, which may
help us to take modest and diffident views of the progress of
the species.... At home there is an utterly unreasonable and
unaccountable financial panic among the depositors in the
Birkbeck Bank, while in America the free and enlightened
democracy of a portion of New York State has suddenly relapsed
into primitive barbarism under the influence of fear of
cholera."--_The Times_.]
What is he doing, our new god Pan,
Far from the reeds and the river?
Spreading mischief and scattering ban,
Screening 'neath "knickers" his shanks of a goat,
And setting the wildest rumours afloat,
To set the fool-mob a-shiver.
He frightened the shepherds, the old god Pan,[1]
Him of the reeds by the river;
Afeared of his faun-face, Arcadians ran;
Unsoothed by the pipes he so deftly could play,
The shepherds and travellers scurried away
From his face by forest or river.
And back to us, sure, comes the great god Pan,
With his pipes from the reeds by the river;
Starting a scare, as the goat-god can,
Making a Man a mere wind-swayed reed,
And moving the mob like a leaf indeed
By a chill wind set a-quiver.
He finds it sport, does our new god Pan
(As did he of the reeds by the river),
To take all the pith from the heart of a man,
To make him a sheep--though a tiger in spring,--
A cruel, remorseless, poor, cowardly thing,
With the whitest of cheeks--and liver!
"Who said I was dead?" laughs the new god Pan
(Laughs till his faun-cheeks quiver),
"I'm still at my work, on a new-fangled plan.
Scare is my business; I think I succeed,
When the Mob at my minstrelsy shakes like a reed,
And I mock, as the pale fools shiver."
Shrill, shrill, shrill, O Pan!
Your Panic-pipes, far from the river!
Deafening shrill, O Poster-Pan!
Turning a man to a timorous brute
With irrational fear. From your frantic flute
Good sense our souls deliver!
Men rush like the Gadaree swine, O Pan!
With contagious fear a-shiver,
They flock like _Panurge's_ poor sheep, O Pan!
What, what shall the merest of manhood quicken
In geese gregarious, panic-stricken
Like frighted fish in the river.
You sneer at the shame of them, Poster-Pan,
Poltroons of the pigeon-liver.
Your placards gibbet them, Poster-Pan,
Who crowd like curs in the cowardly crush,
Who flock like sheep in the brainless rush
With fear or greed a-shiver.
You are half a beast, O new god Pan!
To laugh (as you laughed by the river)
Making a brute-beast out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain
Of Civilisation, which seems but vain
When the prey of your Panic shiver!
[Footnote 1: Pan, the Arcadian forest and river-god, was held to
startle travellers by his sudden and terror-striking appearances.
Hence sudden fright, without any visible cause, was ascribed to Pan,
and called a Panic fear.]
* * * * *
SIR GEORGE AND THE DRAG ON.
_BY A WRITER OF BOOKS._
[Sir GEORGE TREVELYAN, speaking to the Institute of
Journalists, said that "No one was under the obligation of
writing books, unless he was absolutely called to do so by a
commanding genius."]
Oh! tell me quickly--not if Planet Mars
Is quite the best for journalistic pars,
Not if the cholera will play Old Harry,
Not why to-day young men don't and won't marry--
For these I do not care. Not to dissemble,
My pen is, as they say, "all of a tremble"--
The pen that once enthralled the myriad crowd,
The pen that critics one and all allowed
Wrote pleasantly and well, was often funny,
The pen that brought renown, and--better--money.
My pen is stilled. That happy time is o'er,
Like that old English King, I smile no more.
Now that Sir (Secretary) GEORGE has spoken,
My fortunes (and alas! my heart) are broken;
For though I may not lack all understanding,
My "genius" cannot claim to be "commanding."
* * * * *
FLOWERY, BUT NOT MEALY-MOUTHED.--To those who suggested that sending
troops to compel the barbarous Long-Islanders to be humane would lose
Democratic votes, Governor FLOWER is reported to have replied,--"I
don't care a ---- for votes. I am going to put law-breakers down, and
the State in possession of its property." There was an old song, of
which the refrain was, "I don't care a ---- for the people, But what
will the Governor say?" Now we know what the Governor says. 'Tis well
said. Henceforth he will be known as _The_ FLOWER of Speech.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PAN THE POSTER.
PAN (_chuckling_). "HA! HA! WHO SAID THAT I WAS DEAD, AND PANIC-FEAR A
THING OF THE ARCADIAN PAST?"]
* * * * *
SEA-SIDE ILLS.
(_BY OUR MAN OVER-BORED._)
A SEA S-IDYLL ON "BOARD AND RESIDENCE."
That we hurry out of Town
To the sea,
To be properly done brown,
I'll agree;
But of being nicely done,
There's another way than one--
Viz., the _rays_, besides of sun,
_£_ s. d.!
Now, it may be very cheap
For the chap
Who is rich, to pay a heap
For a nap
On a sofa that is prone
To a prominence of bone,
Or a table undergrown,
With a flap;
But a man who has not much
Of the pelf
To distribute freely, such
As myself,
And who's ordered change and rest,
Doubts the change is for the best
When he has to lie undress'd
On a shelf!
No; to slumber on a slant
Till you're floor'd,
Is a luxury I can't
Well afford;
And I'm sad to a degree
That, in Everywhere-on-Sea,
"Board and Residence" should be
Mostly _board_!
* * * * *
"DISCOVERY OF A NEW SATELLITE TO JUPITER."--Well, why not? Why
announce it as if a noted thief had been arrested? "Discovered! Aha!
Then this to decide"--cries the Melodramatic Satellite. Poor Jupiter
must be uncommonly tired of his old Satellites by this time! How
pleased, how delighted, he must be to welcome a new one!
* * * * *
[Illustration: VIEW OF "MARS" AS SEEN THROUGH MR. PUNCH'S TELESCOPE.]
* * * * *
MORE LIGHTS!
[Illustration: A Straight Tip and a New Sensation.]
When anyone now in town requires a change from the _De_-lights of
Home, let him go to _See Lights of Home_ at the Adelphi. Great scene
of the Wreck not so great perhaps as some previous sensational Adelphi
effects. In such a piece as "the Lights," it is scarcely fair that
"the Heavies" should have it nearly all to themselves, but so it is,
and the two Light Comedy parts capitally played by Miss JECKS and Mr.
LIONEL RIGNOLD, do not get much of a chance against the heartrending
sorrows of Miss EVELYN MILLARD, and of Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL, the
slighted, or sea-lighted heroine, known as "Dave's Daughter" (oh,
how fond Mr. W.A. ELLIOTT must be of _Dave Purvis_, the weakest
sentimentalist-accidental-lunatic-criminal that ever was let off
scot-free at R.H. first entrance before the fall of the Curtain),
and the undaunted heroism and unblushing villany of Messrs. CHARLES
DALTON, COCKBUKN, KINGSTON & Co. The title might well have been, _Good
Lights of Home, and Wicked Livers all Abroad_.
* * * * *
"TOP-DRESSING."--Said Mr. G. to a Welsh audience, "I might as well
address the top of Snowdon on the subject of the Establishment, as
address you on the matter." Flattery! The top of Snowdon, of course,
represented the highest intelligence in Wales.
* * * * *
"I pity the poor Investors!" exclaimed Mrs. R. sympathetically, when
she saw the heading of a paragraph in the _Times_--"Bursting of a
Canal Bank."
* * * * *
A BIG BOOMING CHANCE LOST!--Miss LOTTIE COLLINS, according to the
_Standard's_ report of the proceedings on board the unfortunate
_Cepheus_, said that, on seeing two jeering men rowing out from shore,
holding up bread to the hungry passengers, she, "had she been a
man, would have shot them." She wasn't a man, and so the two brutes
escaped. But what another "_Boom! te-ray,--Ta, ra, ra_," &c., &c.,
this would have been for LA COLLINS!
* * * * *
NOT IMPROBABLE.--Lord ROSEBERY might have ended his diplomatic reply
to Mr. THOMAS GIBSON BOWLES, M.F., who recently sent kind inquiries
to the Foreign Office, as to the Pamirs and Behring Sea, Canadian
Government, &c., &c., with a P.S. to the effect that "his
correspondent probably considered him as a Jack (in office), and
therefore a legitimate object to score off in the game of BOWLES."
* * * * *
_The Prodigal Daughter; or, The Boyne-Water Jump_, by DRURIOLANUS
MAGNUS and PETTITT PARVUS, was produced with greatest success, last
Saturday, at Old Drury. The general recommendation to the authors will
be, as a matter of course, i.e., of race-course, given in the historic
words of DUCROW, "Cut the cackle and come to the 'osses." When this
advice is acted upon, _The Prodigal Daughter_, a very fine young
woman, but not particularly prodigal, will produce receipts beyond all
cacklelation.
* * * * *
FUTURE LEGISLATION FOR NEXT SESSION.--Mr. GLADSTONE will introduce a
Bill to render criminal the keeping of heifers loose in a field.
* * * * *
BY A PARAGRAPHIC JOURNALIST.--Very natural that there should be "pars"
about "Mars."
* * * * *
"SIGNAL FAILURES."--Most Railway Accidents.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CULTURE BY THE SEA.
"HAVE YOU BROWNING'S WORKS?"
"NO, MISS. THEY'RE TOO DIFFICULT. PEOPLE DOWN HERE DON'T UNDERSTAND
THEM."
"HAVE YOU _PRAED_?"
"PRAYED, MISS? OH YES; WE'VE TRIED THAT, BUT IT'S NO USE!"]
* * * * *
THE CHÂTEAU D'"IF."
The Castle that I sing, is not
The strong-hold _près Marseilles_,
Where _Monte Christo_ brewed his plot
For DUMAS' magic tale:
It's one we all inhabit oft,
The residence of most,
And not peculiar to the soft,
Mediterranean coast.
The Castle "If"--If pigs had wings,
If wishes horses were,
If, rather more substantial things,
My Castles in the air;
If balances but grew on Banks,
If Brokers hated "bluff;"
If Editors refrained from thanks
And printed all my stuff.
If holidays were not a time
Beyond a chap's control,
When someone else prescribes how I'm
To bore my selfish soul;
If bags and boxes packed themselves
For one who packing loathes;
If babes, expensive little elves,
Were only born with clothes
If _Bradshaw_ drove me to the train!
Were _mal-de-mer_ a name!
If organ-grinders ground a strain
That never, never came;
If oysters stuck at eighteen pence;
If ladies loathed "The Stores;"
If Tax-collectors had the sense
To overlook my doors!
If sermons stopped themselves to suit
A congregation's pain;
If everyone who played the flute
Were sentenced to be slain;
If larks with truffles sang on trees,
If cooks were made in heaven;
And if, at sea-side spots, the seas
Shut up from nine till seven.
If _I_ might photograph the fiend
Who mauls me with his lens,
If supercilious barbers leaned
Their heads for _me_ to cleanse!
If weather blushed to wreck my plans,
If tops were never twirled;
If "Ifs and ands were pots and pans,"--
'Twould be a pleasant world!
* * * * *
SUMMARY OF RESULT FOR OLD CATHOLIC CONGRESS.--_Lucernâ Lucellum_.
* * * * *
LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I got so wet on the St. Leger day, that I've been in
bed ever since--not because I had to wait till my things were dry--but
because I caught a cold! _What_ a day it was!--I am told that in
addition to the St. Leger, Doncaster is chiefly celebrated for _Butter
Scotch_--if so, I presume they don't make it out-of-doors, or it
would have stood a good chance of being melted--(not in the mouth)--on
Wednesday fortnight! But the excitement of the race fully made
up for the liquid weather, and we all--(except the backers of
_Orme_)--enjoyed ourselves. I was told that the Duke of WESTMINSTER
had "left the Leger at Goodwood," which is simply absurd, as I not
only saw it run for at Doncaster myself, but it is ridiculous to
insinuate that the Duke went there, put the Leger in his pocket--(as
if a Nobleman ever kept books)--walked off quietly to Goodwood and
left it there deliberately!
I conclude it can only be an expression coined to discount--(another
ledger term)--the victory of _La Flèche_,--to which not half enough
attention has been drawn, solely (in my opinion) because _La Flèche_
is of the gentler sex, and men don't like the "horse of the year" to
be a mare.
I still maintain she was unlucky to lose the Derby, as she won
the Oaks two days later in two seconds quicker time:--(which is an
anachronism--as if you win _once_ out of _twice_--how can it be two
_seconds_?)
There was good sport at Yarmouth last week, though owing to the rain
the course must have been on the soft (roe) side,--by the way you can
get them now in bottles, and very good they are. I am glad to see that
staunch supporter of the turf, Lord ELTHAM, winning races again--as
his horses have been much out of form lately, at least so I am told,
but I was not aware that horses were in a "form" at all, unless being
"schooled" over hurdles.
I shall have a word or two to say on the Cesarewitch shortly--having
had some private information calculated to break a ROTHSCHILD if
followed--but for the moment will content myself with scanning the
programme of the Leicester and Manchester Meetings.
There are two races which seem perhaps worth picking up--one at each
place; and, while giving my selection for the Leicestershire race in
the usual verse, I will just mention that I should have given Lord
DUNRAVEN's _Inverness_ for the Manchester race, but that I see his
Lordship has sent it to America--rather foolish, now that winter is
coming on; but perhaps he has another, and may be doing a kindness to
some poor American Cousin! _St. Angelo_ might win this race without an
Inverness, though I presume he will appear in _some_ sort of clothing.
Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.
LEICESTERSHIRE ROYAL HANDICAP SELECTION.
On seeing an awkward, three-cornered affair,
Which I heard was a racer from Fingal,
And hearing him roaring, and whistling an air,
I said, he'll be beaten by _Windgall_.
P.S.--This is _awful_; but _what_ a horse to have to rhyme to!
* * * * *
"SHUT UP!" AT BARMOUTH!--Mr. GLADSTONE having made up his mind not to
utter another syllable during his holiday, selects as an appropriate
resting-place, a charming sea-side spot where he stops himself, and
where there is a "Bar" before the "mouth."
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S FISHING PARTY.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FINDING OF PHARAOH.
_Interesting Discovery in the Dead Season._]
* * * * *
VERY ENTERTAINING.
Dear MR. PUNCH,--So much is done by the organisers of the Primrose
League in the shape of amusements for the people, that it seems
strange "the other side" should not follow suit. Without having
decided political opinions, I like both the Government and Her
Majesty's Opposition to be on equal terms. Hence my suggestion. I see
that, a few days ago, Mr. GLADSTONE, in speaking to an audience at
Barmouth, made the following remarks. He said--He belonged to almost
every part of the country. A Scotchman by blood, born in Lancashire,
and resident in London, he had become closely attached to Wales by
marriage, and had now become too old to get rid of that inclination.
Surely these admissions conjure up the possibility of a really
excellent entertainment. To show you what I mean, I jot down,
in dramatic form, my notion of the manner in which the PREMIER's
excellent idea should be worked out:--
SCENE--_A large hall, with a platform. On the platform,
Committee and Chairman. In front of the Chairman, large table,
with cloth reaching to the floor. Water-bottle, and tumbler,
and lamp._
_Chairman._ Ladies and Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in
announcing that the Right Hon. W.E. GLADSTONE (_cheers_), will give
his entertainment entitled "The Man of Many Characters" almost
immediately. The PREMIER's train is a little late, but--ah, here
come his fore-runners. (_Enter two Servants in livery with a large
basket-box, which they place under the table and then retire._) And
now we may expect the PREMIER immediately.
[_Enter Mr. GLADSTONE in evening dress hurriedly. He is
received with thunders of applause._
_Mr. Gladstone._ Ladies and Gentlemen! (_Great cheering._) I regret
I have kept you waiting for some quarter of an hour. My excuse must
be that I caused the train to be pulled up, because I noticed at a
wayside station a crowd of villagers who, apparently, were desirous
to hear me speak. You must forgive me, for it was for the good of
the nation. (_Cheers._) And now without preface, I will appear as my
friend Farmer HODGE. (_Loud applause, during which the PREMIER dives
under the table and re-appears in character. Continued applause._) I
be mighty glad to see ye. And now, I'll tell ye what I thinks about
the Eight Hours' Bill. (_Airs his opinions in "Zomerzetshire" for
some twenty minutes. At the conclusion of his performance re-appears
in evening dress-coat. Applause._) Thank you very much. But although
Farmer HODGE is a very good fellow, I think SANDIE MACBAWBEE is even
better. With your permission, I will appear as SANDIE MACBAWBEE.
(_Disappears under table, and re-appears in Highland Costume.
Cheers._) Dinna fash yourselves! Ma gracious! It's ma opinion that
you'll just hear a wee bit about Home Rule for Bonnie Scotland. Well,
ye ken--(_Airs his opinions upon his chosen subject in broad Scotch.
After a quarter of an hour he re-appears, and receives the usual
applause._) Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And now as I have
shown you Scotland and England, I think you would be pleased with
a glimpse of London. (_Cheers._) You all like London, do you not?
(_Applause._) With your kind permission, I will re-appear as a noted
character in the great tragic comedy of the world's Metropolis.
(_Dives down and comes up as a Costermonger. Prolonged applause._)
What cheer! (_Laughter._) Well, you blokes what are you grinning at?
I am a chickaleary cove, that's what I am. But I know what would knock
you! You would like to 'ear about 'Ome Rule. Eh? What cheer! 'Ere
goes. (_Reveals his Home-Rule scheme with a Cockney twang and dialect.
Then disappears and re-appears in his customary evening dress._) Thank
you most earnestly. (_Loud cheers._) And now I am afraid I must bid
you good-bye. But before leaving, I must confess to you that I have
never had the honour of appearing before a juster, more intelligent,
and more appreciative audience. [_Bows and exit._
_Voices._ Encore! Encore! Encore!
_Mr. Gladstone_ (_returning_). I am deeply touched by this sign
of public confidence. I would willingly continue my character
illustrations indefinitely, but, unfortunately, I am required in
another part of the country to repeat the same performances. I have
only just time to catch my special train. Thank you again and again.
[_Exit hurriedly, after kissing his hand. The Footmen
reappear, and take away the large box. Applause, and Curtain._
There, my dear _Mr. Punch_, is the rough idea. I feel sure it could be
carried through with the greatest possible advantage.
Believe me, yours most truly, AN EARNEST PATRIOT.
* * * * *
THE QUEEN OF MAN-O'ER-BOARD.
_A NOVEL IN LITTLE FROM A DRAMA IN FULL._
CHAPTER I.--_LADY VIOLET MALVERN AT HOME._
It was a gorgeous entertainment, consisting chiefly of recitations
and the "_Intermezzo_." Lady VIOLET MALVERN was _the_ life and soul
of the party. But there were lesser lights in a Baron FINOT, an old
diplomatist, and a Major GARRETT, an officer in retreat. Then came
ARMAND SEVARRO. He was an adventurer, and a friend of Baron FINOT, and
had a solitary anecdote.
"I am going to be married to a young lady of the name of DOROTHY
BLAIR, but cannot reveal the secret, because her mother is not well
enough to hear the news."
Then ARMAND met Lady VIOLET.
"I dreamed years ago of going to the City of Manoa to find its queen.
I have found her this evening."
"And she is--?" queried Lady VIOLET.
"You!" hissed the Brazilian (he was a Brazilian), and departed.
"What folly!" murmured Lady VIOLET, in the moonlight.
And many agreed with her.