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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 93.
AUGUST 27, 1887.
* * * * *
THE PRICE OF SUPPORT.
_A Fragment of a coming Contemporary Romance._
"Is it possible that Mr. GLADSTONE, not content with having allied
himself with the Parnellites, or with having endeavoured to sow
jealousies between the component parts of the United Kingdom, is at
last endeavouring to purchase the parliamentary support of the
South-Eastern Railway? The idea seems almost too humiliating to be
entertained; but it is not easy to place any other interpretation
upon this new and startling announcement. Can it be conceived that
the safety of England ranks as nothing in his estimation when it is
brought into competition with the possibility of winning a few votes
from the interested supporters of a commercial enterprise?"--_Times._
VOL. I.--THE COMPACT.
IT was on a sultry August evening in the memorable year 1887 that a
stranger, whose anxious gaze, now and again fixed on the entrance,
denoted the fact that he was awaiting the arrival of one of the Members,
crossed and re-crossed the pavement of the Hall of the Reform Club with
a step that indicated a high condition of nervous trepidation. To the
casual observer he might have passed for a solicitor in an extreme state
of irritability. The Hall-Porter, however, who had watched him narrowly,
had recognised him for who he was. He knew that the restless interloper,
who had several times peered into his carpet-bag, and examined specimens
of Channel chalk, and had, when he thought no one was looking, hacked a
London, Chatham and Dover trains'-bill with his penknife, was no other
than the famous Sir EDWARD WATKIN, the then Chairman of the
South-Eastern Railway Company. He approached him.
"He won't be long," he said, intuitively guessing the object of his
visit, and addressing him kindly. "Ha! hark! Here he comes!" He had
scarcely spoken, when a roaring cheer, borne on the sweet evening air,
broke the comparative silence of the street outside, and in another
minute a surging and struggling mob, who were shouting themselves
hoarse, had deposited safely from their shoulders, on the door-step of
the Club, their great hero and idol, whom they had thus, as was their
wont, nightly carried in triumph from the House.
The ex-Premier, for indeed the buoyant bearing, the high shirt-collar,
and the contagious enthusiasm of the new arrival proclaimed his identity
at once, dashed up the steps three at a time, and, waving a radiant
farewell of thanks to the crowd, bounded into the Hall, where, seeing
the stranger, he instantly seized him by the arm, and hurriedly led him
to a recess.
"This is very good and genial of you, my dear Sir EDWARD," he commenced.
The other eyed him cautiously. "You wanted to see me?" he rejoined,
sulkily.
"Yes, indeed!" was the brisk reply. "I wished to tell you that, as you
had been wicked enough,--ha! ha!--to conceive the idea of uniting
England and France by a Tunnel, I had been wicked enough also to
determine to help you to do it. Ha! ha!" He laughed long and loud. His
interlocutor stared at him for a few moments aghast. Then he clutched
him.
"You mean this?" he asked, growing pale with excitement as he spoke.
"You mean that you will vote for the Bill?"
"Not only vote for the Bill, but make it a Government measure." As he
spoke he was interrupted by a commotion in Pall Mall. Some Junior
Members of the Carlton were by way of a practical joke, common enough at
this season, dropping a Unionist Liberal out of the first-floor windows
into the area, and their merriment over the exploit resounded loudly
down the street. The ex-Premier heard it and a wonderful smile played
upon his almost beautiful features. "You see, they are going to pieces
next door," he added exultingly, "I shall be in in a few weeks, nothing
can stop me; and then, I give you my word, you shall have your Tunnel."
The other approached him. There was a curious look in his eye. "You have
your price?" he asked. "Name it," he added under his breath, glancing
around him furtively to see they were not overheard.
The great Statesman winked knowingly. "Merely the South-Eastern vote,"
he whispered. "Come, is it a bargain at that?"
"Done!" was the quick rejoinder. They grasped hands.
"Show this gentleman to a four-wheeler," said the ex-Premier.
So they parted. But as the Grand Old Politician turned towards the
supper-room there was a fine triumphant lustre beaming in his eye, for
he knew, that if he had possibly betrayed his country, he had at least
squared the Railway Company. He had made the _compact_!
VOL. II.--PAID IN FULL.
The country was about to face a great crisis in its history. Yet, as the
year 1894 opened, there were little evidences of the approaching storm.
It is true that the Gladstone Cabinet were still in power, and were
passing exasperating measures. But this was nothing new. Last year they
had abolished Compulsory Vaccination, and had passed the Country Estates
Popular Appropriation Act. They had inaugurated the first Session of the
present one by suppressing the Volunteer Movement, and cutting down the
Naval and Military votes respectively to the modest figure of L2,000,000
a year; and they pointed to the Channel Tunnel, now opened about sixteen
months, for a triumphant vindication of these Imperial economies. They
argued that a country that could pour a perpetual stream of Cook's
Tourists night and day over to the Continent, had given a guarantee for
preserving International peace such as would warrant it in reducing the
expense for its defences to a pecuniary minimum; and, though they met
with some opposition from the Permanent Departments, and were hotly
criticised by an angry mob of naval and military men, who found
themselves, at a moment's notice, both thrown out of work, and deprived
of their pay, they, nevertheless, carried their point, and effected the
proposed reductions. But a thunder-clap was about to fall upon the
unsuspecting country from a blue sky, and the Channel Tunnel, which had
inspired its misguided leaders with a baseless confidence, was destined
to inflict the shock.
It became known in London suddenly on the morning of the Tuesday in the
Easter Recess that the approaches to the Tunnel had been suddenly seized
by a hostile French force that had landed by the night-mail disguised as
tourists, and that the key of the apparatus destined to flood it in any
case of emergency, was not forthcoming, the Chairman of the Company, who
had charge of it, having suddenly disappeared without leaving his
address. It was also further rumoured that the guns commanding the
shore-exit had been spiked by active Shareholders anxious to protect
their property from destruction at all hazards, and were useless. When,
therefore at eleven o'clock, the second edition of the morning papers
announced that a French army was pouring through the Tunnel, and
occupying the neighbouring heights, at the rate of ten thousand men an
hour, the panic became indescribable. Nor did it diminish when it was
further known that the French Ambassador, leaving a threatening
ultimatum behind him, had that afternoon taken his departure for Paris.
The country flew to arms. Sir ARCHIBALD HARRISON hastily collected the
available force at Aldershot, and took up his position on the Hog's
Back, and awaited the approach of the enemy with 213 men, all told, and
three guns. They took no notice of him. At twelve the following day it
was known that the Duke of CAMBRIDGE, falling back on Sydenham, in
command of a handful of Volunteers and a squadron of the Household
Cavalry hurriedly got together, had capitulated in the Refreshment
Department.
The details of the disaster spread like wildfire. The consternation was
terrific. The LORD MAYOR went into hysterics, and was, by common
consent, removed to Colney Hatch, while an angry mob invaded the War
Office, and seizing any members of the Ordnance Committee they could lay
hold of, forthwith dragged them out, and lynched them in Pall Mall. That
same evening a French army, 350,000 strong, entered London in triumph.
A few outrages marked this occupation. The Nelson Column was thrown
down, Waterloo Bridge blown up, Piccadilly re-christened the Rue
Boulanger, and the whole of Madame TUSSAUD'S Collection seized as
National property.
So matters stood, but the cutting off of the food supply, thirty
shillings being charged at a West-End Club for a plate of indifferent
tinned-rabbit, soon brought matters to a crisis. The Cabinet that at the
first approach of the enemy, had instantly retired to the Island of
Lewis, came cautiously up to town and opening negotiations for peace
with the French Government, finally signed the Tottenham Court Road
treaty, and provided for the evacuation of the country by the invader.
The terms were stringent and somewhat severe. In addition to agreeing to
the cession of India, Australia, the Cape, Canada and all her
Mediterranean possessions, together with the division of her Fleet among
the Navies of Europe, England undertook to pay an indemnity in ready
money at the Bank of England of five-hundred millions sterling.
* * *
As a cordon of French troops was keeping back the sullen crowd that
thronged the space in front of the Royal Exchange and watched the
waggons heavily laden with the bullion that was about to be transferred
to the South-Eastern Railway for transmission to France, a tall, elastic
figure wearing a high shirt-collar, pushed eagerly up the steps of the
Mansion House, and gazed reflectively at the scene that was being
enacted below. Presently some one touched it. It turned.
"Ha! Sir EDWARD," was the bright recognition, "who would ever have
thought of meeting you again, and who would ever have conceived," the
cheery voice continued, "that our little compact should have ended in
this!" The speaker pointed with a significant smile to the waggons of
bullion lumbering beneath. "Well," responded the other with a suggestive
dryness, "my support got you into power at any rate!"
A marvellous brightness overspread the features of his interlocutor.
"Yes, it did," he replied, "and though I am quite confident that
posterity will say it was worth the price, I see," he added airily,
waving his hand in the direction of the Bank, "that at the present
moment it is apparently being _paid in full_!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: REMARKS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNANSWERED.
"WELL, GOOD-BYE, DEAR MRS. JONES. I'M AFRAID I'VE PUT YOU OUT BY CALLING
AT THIS UNEARTHLY HOUR."
"OH, I HOPE I DIDN'T SHOW IT!"]
* * * * *
SALUBRITIES ABROAD.
_Hotel Continental, Royat._--Our party here (which, somehow or another,
PULLER has contrived to get together and introduce to each other by the
simple means of inducing M. HALL to give us a room to ourselves for a
small _table-d'hote_ at the un-Royat-like hour of 7.30) consists of La
Contessa CASANOVA, the English wife of an Italian merchant, the head of
a large house of business in London--she is Marchesa or Contessa, I am
not certain which, but PULLER styles her _Miladi_ and _Madame_. She is
devoted to the serious Drama, and her pet subject is SALVINI in
_Othello_. Her daughter, an elegant young English girl, lively, amusing,
and with a bias in favour of the very lightest forms of theatrical
entertainment.
Then we have Madame METTERBRUN and her daughters, Anglo-Germans,
thorough musicians, with WAGNER at their fingers' ends,--literally, as
they are accomplished pianists. There is Mrs. DINDERLIN, who was here
last year, and is taking the waters seriously, and who knows when to put
in the right word at the right moment. Cousin JANE who is taking the
waters still more seriously and who is an excellent listener: myself an
impartial referee: and PULLER the Solicitor out for a holiday, who is
alternately in the highest of spirits or the lowest depths of
depression, according as the waters and weather affect him. Outside our
party there are others whom I meet occasionally, consisting of the lady
who finds fault with everything French, the gentleman who laughs at
everything French, the grumbler whom nothing satisfies, the contented
man who is pleased with everything, the man who after being here a day
is intensely bored, the man who from the moment of his arrival is always
studying Guide-books and _indicateurs_ to see what is the best and
easiest way of getting away again: the patient who has come all the way
here to see the Doctor and then refuses to do anything he tells him: the
patient who has come to find out what on earth is the matter with him:
the man who doctors himself, and two or three ladies of my acquaintance
of whom I only catch occasional glimpses as they issue from Sedan-chairs
or muffled up like the Turkish women, merely recognise me with their
eyes, incline their heads and pass on their way with a little
drinking-glass in their hands.
To me Royat is an amusing place: it is certainly a pretty one, and its
waters in most cases are decidedly of lasting benefit. What those "most
cases" are, the patients themselves best know.
* * *
For expanse there is nothing like the sea, and for grandeur the snow
mountains. Unless I go up to the Puy de Dome--which I do not mean to do,
for I have been up there once, and never, never, never will go there
again--I cannot see either. And even from the top of the Puy you can
only discern the sea, or Mont Blanc, with a very good glass, on a very
clear day.
* * *
M. BOISGOBEY'S description of a Parisian Club in his latest book (I
delight in BOISGOBEY now that there is no GABORIAU) called
_Grippe-Soleil_ will amuse London Club members. The only two Clubs in
Paris I ever saw were not a bit like BOISGOBEY'S description.
* * *
When anyone who has been under treatment a week, unexpectedly meets a
friend here, he stops short, stares at him, examines him from head to
foot, and then exclaims, in a tone of utter astonishment, "What!! _you_
here!!" as if the new arrival were either an intruder or a lunatic. The
person thus addressed immediately retorts in an injured tone, "Well,
what on earth are you here for?" and then he adds maliciously, "there
doesn't seem to be much the matter with _you_." Now to say this is to
utter your deliberate opinion that the person you are addressing is at
Royat (or any other Salubrity Abroad wherever it may be) under the false
pretence of being an invalid, and is therefore, to put it plainly, a
shammer, an impostor.
* * *
After this greeting, explanations follow. The first man has to prove his
right to be at Royat, and the second man has to admit the evidence to be
incontestable, on the condition, implied but not expressed, of his own
case being taken as thoroughly warranting his taking the baths and
_traitement_ generally at Royat.
* * *
Then comes the question of Doctors. "Who shall decide when Doctors
disagree?"--but who shall decide when patients disagree about Doctors?
"Whom do you go to?" asks the suffering SMITH of the invalid Brown.
"Well," says BROWN, apologetically,--because he is not sure, this being
his first visit, that he might not have gone to a better man, "I go to
Dr. CHOSE," and noticing the astonishment depicted on his friend's face,
he hastens to explain, "SQUILLS sent me to him." The suffering SMITH
professes himself puzzled to know why on earth SQUILLS always sends his
patients to CHOSE. "Dr. REM'S the man for you, my boy," says SMITH. But
BROWN feels that he is in the toils of SQUILLS, and that it would not be
fair to him or to CHOSE, if he suddenly left the latter and sought the
advice of Dr. REM, on the sole recommendation of SMITH who, after all,
is not a professional.
* * *
Then two _habitues_ meet. "I always go to CHOSE," says eczematic JONES,
dogmatically, "first-rate fellow, CHOSE. All the French go to him.
_They_ know." "Ah!" returns gouty ROBINSON, with conviction, "I never
have been to anyone but REM. He's the chap. All the English go to him.
Best man in Royat." And if it weren't the hour for one of them to go and
drink Eugenie water, and for the other to take his second glass of St.
Mart, they would have a row and come to blows.
* * *
PULLER tells me that there's one London Doctor, describing himself as a
Gynaecologist ("A guinea-cologist," parenthetically remarks PULLER), who
always sends his patients here. I think he says his name is Dr. BARNES.
"He sends so many," says PULLER, "that I propose changing the name of
the place from Royat-les-Bains into Royat-les-Barnes." I see why he
introduced the name of BARNES. Fortunately he is so delighted with this
_jeu de mot_, which I fancy I've heard before, that he is off to tell
his friends in the Parc, and, as I pass a group, I overhear him
explaining the point of it to a French lady and her husband, with whom
he has a speaking acquaintance. For PULLER likes what he calls "airing
his French," and is not a bit shy.
* * *
The Band is performing another new tune! How is this? I can account for
it. It rained nearly all yesterday, and so the musicians didn't come
out. How did they occupy themselves? In rehearsal. Well here's one good
effect of rain at Royat, it brings out the new tunes.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S HISTORICAL PARALLELS. No. 2.
THE LORDLY CECIL ENTERTAINS HIS SOVEREIGN. HATFIELD, 1573 AND 1887.]
* * * * *
A Pretty Plate to Set Before the Queen.
"The Queen's Plates are henceforth to be devoted to improving the
breed of horses."
A MOST wise change that sense for long has wished,
But, Phoebus! how the "Platers" will be dished!
* * * * *
AN INVITATION.
(_To a well-known Air._)
"Mr. FREDERICK MAUDE, Honorary Secretary of the 'Liberal Union,' has
resigned that post in consequence of his disapproval of the attitude
taken up by the leaders of the 'Liberal Unionist' party towards the
leaders of the Liberal party, and of his inability to support the
programme of a Tory Government."
COME back to Hawarden, MAUDE,
For the Tory black flag's flown!
Come back to Hawarden, MAUDE,
Leave HARTY and JOE alone;
For the Government plainly is all abroad,
And the Unionist game is blown.
* * * * *
A "CHEF DOUVRES."--The L. C. & D.'s new steamer _Empress_.
* * * * *
ALL IN PLAY.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Town is supposed to be empty, except of the poor
persons who are forced to attend the Houses of Parliament, and the
toiling millions of the East End, who are, however, of no account in the
West. In spite of this dearth of population, the Gaiety (which I
attended on your behalf, looking and feeling as much like you as I
possibly could) was very full on the first night of _Loyal Love_, a play
which has apparently been put upon the stage for the personal and
exclusive benefit of Mrs. BROWN-POTTER.
[Illustration: Saved by the Bottle.]
Certainly this talented lady has vastly improved since she made her
first appearance in _Man and Wife_, and has only to continue at the same
rate of progress to become in a very short time a really admirable
actress. _Loyal Love_ is rather a foolish piece, and reminded me equally
of the _Lady of Lyons_, _Romeo and Juliet_, and _Box and Cox_. The plot
was feeble in the extreme; and had not Mrs. BROWN-POTTER made a decided
point by calling a rude and ancient king, who _would_ wear his hat in
the presence of ladies, "Old Man," I really think the performance would
have fallen rather flat. As it was, the phrase (which was accepted by
the "first-nighters" as a colloquial "Americanism") put everyone in good
humour, and the last Act, with its amusing mock poisonings, and comical
arrests and counter-arrests, went with every token of genial
satisfaction. By the way, the "bottle trick" (by which poison is turned
into wine) should be treated more avowedly in a spirit of burlesque.
Were a decanter of pantomimic proportions introduced, the effect would
be excellent. _Loyal Love_ is not a good name for this funny little--it
is only in four Acts--play. It is a pity, as the hero and heroine are
always declaring that they would like to live and die together on a
desert island, that it was not called _Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Crusoe_,
with an explanatory subtitle of the _Purposeless Plotter, the
Death-Dealing Wine-Cellar, and the Grand Old King_.
[Illustration: Heroic Proportions.]
At the Adelphi a new and original drama called _The Bells of Haslemere_,
has been produced amidst the enthusiastic applause of the entire Press.
I am sorry to say I was a little disappointed. No doubt my expectations
had been unduly raised by the "notices." It appeared to me that there
was nothing absolutely and entirely new and original in the play, save a
series of hats worn by Mr. JOHN BEAUCHAMP in the character of a
fraudulent trustee. However, it is only just to say that the _chapeaux
of Joseph Thorndyke_ were unique. Had they been produced as "exhibits"
to an affidavit read during a summons heard before one of the Chief
Clerks in the Chancery Division of the High Court of Justice, they must
have assisted materially in rendering virtue triumphant, ay, with or
without an appeal to the Judge. One of the authors of the piece, Mr.
SYDNEY GRUNDY, is a well-known barrister, and no doubt the legal
training of this learned gentleman suggested their most appropriate
introduction. _Joseph Thorndyke_ uncovered, might have been faithful to
his _cestui que_ trust, but _in_ his hat he could only have
proved--what, alas! he was--a fraudulent trustee. Mr. TERRISS as _Frank
Beresford_, bore a striking resemblance to the naval lieutenant in the
_Harbour Lights_ whose escape from one action (on board ship) to defend
another (in a police court) roused the enthusiasm of the pit and gallery
for so many hundred nights, and Miss MILLWARD in both pieces was much
about the same individual. But in spite of this conventionality, the
play was decidedly interesting to the audience, who filled the cheaper
parts of the house. In fact I am inclined to believe that the critics
are right, and that _The Bells_ will ring for any number of nights. The
scenery was admirable, and I should like to see it again. I am not quite
so sure that anything else in the drama would induce me to pay the
Adelphi a second visit. Stay, I think I should like to bestow another
glance on Mr. BEAUCHAMP'S hats. I am all but certain, that from a
fraudulent-trustee-point-of-view, they are absolutely faultless,--yes,
absolutely faultless.
[Illustration: A Hat(e)ful Character.]
The Crystal Palace, now that the new Bill is on the fair road to become
law, seemingly has taken a fresh lease of popularity. The evening
_fetes_ are a great feature, and jaded Londoners can scarcely do better
than to take a train from Victoria or St. Paul's, and spend a pleasant
couple of twilight hours amidst the lamps and (on Thursdays) the
fireworks. In the daytime there is always an excellent panorama, and
frequently a successful play performed by its original London company.
This last has always a charm for
Yours most truly,
ONE WHO HAS GONE TO PIECES.
* * * * *
ADAM SLAUGHTERMAN.[A]
_By Walker Weird, Author of "Hee Hee," "Solomon's Ewers," &c._
[Illustration: very Sincerely yours Adam Slaughterman]
CHAPTER I.--BLOOD RELATIONS.
"IT is very kind of you to come round," I said, to my two friends, Sir
HARRY and BONG, as they threw themselves violently into two arm-chairs
(which almost broke under the brutal force of their descent), and
emptied two casks of whiskey.
As I looked at Sir HARRY, with his wide shoulders and deeper chest, I
could not help thinking what a curious contrast I was to him, with my
head of grizzled hair cut short and starting up like a half-worn
scrubbing-brush. Then there was BONG, who is not like either of us,
being short, dark, stout,--_very_ stout,--with twinkling black eyes
everlastingly hidden by blue spectacles.
"Look here, old fellow," said Sir HARRY, "why shouldn't we give up
civilisation, and go in for the mud--I mean blood--baths in South
Africa?"
I fairly jumped at his words.
"Nothing I should like better. And you, BONG?"
BONG is so overpoweringly frivolous.
"I'll go, because I am getting fat."
"Shut up, BONG," said Sir HARRY, and then we screamed at the witticism
for three hours. After that we started for Africa, in search of the land
of the White-eyed Kaffirs, which we believed to be somewhere south of
the Westminster Aquarium, the Alhambra, and other Music-Halls in which a
specimen of the race had occasionally been seen.
On our arrival in Africa we found our old friend, UMBUGSOAPYGAS, with
his huge battle-axe (playfully called Kosikutums or "the brain-pricker,"
from a habit he had of chipping life out of a man's cranium), awaiting
us. He was a huge savage, with a large piece of loose skin concealing
the right side of his face, which was absolutely boneless. UMBUGSOAPYGAS
was delighted to see us.
"O cove, O cove-dat-am-cool!"--(Oh individual, oh individual without the
influence of passion!)--"brave one, great one! Let me come with thee to
swim in gore!"
I let him say this, as I saw his enthusiasm was producing a marked
effect upon the minds of some niggers that were listening to him. But
after he had said it, I thought it better to stop his vapouring;
for there is nothing I hate so much, as this Zulu system of extravagant
praising--"zwaggering," as they call it.
"Shut up!" I cried, the more especially as I saw that he was getting the
blood-fever upon him, and savagely destroying with his huge axe a
spider's cobweb.
He gave me a sort of nod, and seized the niggers by their throats until
their eyes cracked. Then, with roars of laughter (for they really looked
most ridiculous), we followed the blacks into the boat, and went to the
Mission House of the Rev. BANG MCSAXPENCE, without any further adventure
than cutting off at the wrist the hand of one of the murderous tribe of
Lorkymussies.