Amid the throng that crowds the shore
I casually met them,
And, though I never see them more,
I never shall forget them!
Dear Sons of Gaul! The one so sleek
And plump, with sea-foam dripping:
The other! Ah! so limp and weak,
Scarce equal to a dipping.
But, as they stand together there,
Half conscious none can match them,
A sight for the admiring fair!--
I seek a phrase to catch them.
And, as one lights his cigarette,
Ho! _presto!_ In completeness
I feel at last that I have met
With living "Light and Sweetness"!
"Just so," observed _Mr. Punch_. "But I must be off."
"Going to Paris by the train _de luxe!_ Ah, how different it used
to be when our fathers were boys together. Do you remember the
old-fashioned diligence? Some day we may travel by train across the
sea."
"Well, I have a still easier mode of travelling. I can beat diligence
and locomotive with a wish. I want to be in Paris!" In a moment, the
Sage found himself seated under the Tour Eiffel amidst the ruins of
the Exhibition. The confusion was indescribable.
"Dear me, I think I've had about enough of this!" said _Mr. Punch_. "I
fancy I should like to be in Switzerland."
_Hey presto!_ and the Sage was in the home of the picturesque--in the
land of _table d'hôtes_ of the first order, and of hotel prices of
nearly the same altitude as the mountains.
"This is very perfect," observed the Sage to his faithful attendant.
TOBY growled. "There is nothing needed to complete my happiness."
"Except me--'scuse me--except me."
"You! And who may you be?"
"Not know _me, Mr. Punch?_ Why, that is a good one!"
Then the First Gentleman in the World, who has appropriately been
called the "pink," not to say the rose (of courtesy), recognised a
well-known contributor to his pages. He gave this admirable type of
a race that has its exponents in every country under the sun some
excellent advice, and suggested that they might part company with
mutual advantage.
"My good friend," said _Mr. Punch_, "I am quite aware that you are in
the habit of corresponding with an intimate known as 'CHARLIE.'
Oblige me with a duplicate of your next letter, and it shall be
immortalised." It will be seen that _Mr. Punch_ has kept his word.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:]
'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND.
Dear CHARLIE,--You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be
bound.
Not for Parry alone, mate, this time--I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss
Round.
Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, CHARLIE--guess it's a sight
you'd enjoy
To see 'ARRY, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy.
'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by
rail,
But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale;
Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old
chap;
And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the
rap.
Talk of hups and downs, CHARLIE! North Devon I found pooty steep, as
you know,
But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed
Young Frow?
I got 'andy with halpenstocks, CHARLIE, and never came _much_ of a
spill;
But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose
'Ill.
But that's _entry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper
out 'ere.
'ARRY never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel,--no fear!
When I slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, I _did_ do a bit of a 'owl,
On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat
on the prowl.
Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, CHARLIE--Guide swore 'twas all
my hown fault,
Cos I would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered a
halt.
Awful gonophs, them Guides, and no herror; they don't know their
place, not a mite,
And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I
looked sich a sight.
Father Chrismas not in it with me, CHARLIE--sort of big snowball on
legs;
And _cold_, CHARLIE? Flasks was no use, could ha' gurgled neat Irish
in kegs.
Still, I wosn't much 'urt, mate, thanks be--only needled a bit in my
pride,
And I soon got upsides with the party, and fair took it hout of that
Guide.
He'd a mash at Chermooney--neat parcel enough, though in course not
_my_ style;
Couldn't patter her lingo--wus luck!--but I _could_ do the lardy, and
smile;
And that Merry Swiss Boy got so jealous, along o' some capers o' mine,
That I'm sure, if he'd twigged arf a chance, he'd a chucked me slap
into the Rhine.
Then I tried Shammy-hunting, old pal, but I didn't make much of a bag,
Stalking curly-'orned goats in a country all precipice, hice-hill,
and crag,
Might suit Mister MANFRED, it may be--he didn't seem nuts on his life;
But give _me_ rabbit-potting in Devon, where rocks is not edged like
a knife.
'Ad a try arter Idlewise, too--sort o' fluffy-leaved, snow-coloured
flower--
'All the mugs seem to set heaps o' store by--I sent a bit on to BELL
BOWER.
Though _she_ would prefer a camelia. BELL calls all them forren gals
"cats";
Wonder what she'd ha' said to see _me_ spooning round 'midst short
skirts and longplaits!
They'd a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite wooden to
kiss;
But a gal's a gal all the world hover. In Switzerland, 'ARRY, is
Swiss.
Yus, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, no
doubt;
But there's larks to be 'ad near Mong Blong, if a party knows what
he's about.
'Ad enough on it arter a fort-nit, though. Scenery's all mighty fine,
But too much of yer Halpine Club bizness is boko, and not in _my_
line.
I remember them Caffys, dear boy, _Roo der Caire_ and the Tower, so,
thinks I,
Slippin' 'ome I'll take France on the way, and go in for a bit of a
fly.
I done Parry a treat, mate, this time. 'Ad a ride in the Bor der
Boolong;
You may see, by the sketch I've inclosed, as I came out perticular
strong.
It is honly hus English _can_ ride. Frogs ain't in it _ah shovel_,
yer know.
They in fack always fails in _Ler Sport_, though they gives BULL a
lead at _Ler Bo!_
_L'Horloge_ ain't arf bad. Snakes! _sich_ voices! The cackle and gag,
too, fust-rate;
My Parisian pal 'elped me out, but my larf was sometimes a bit late,
And so flummoxed the Frenchies a few; one old chap in blue blouse and
cropped hair
Must ha' thought me a walking conundrum, to judge by his thunderstruck
stare.
I was togged in stror 'at and striped flannels; I'd 'ad the straight
tip from a chum;
I cried, "Beast!"--that's the French for Hangore, quite O. K., though
I own it sounds rum,
I gave mouth to the _Pa-ta-ta_ chorus, I slapped the Garsong on the
back;
And, sez I, "_Say ler_ jolliest lark, _que jay voo poor kelk tom_,
that's a fack!"
[Illustration: 'ARRY ON HORSEBACK.]
Don't fancy he twigged, not percisely. But, lor', them French waiters
_is_ snide,
With their black Heton jackets, white aprons, and trim "mutton
chopper" each side,
At the Caffys, dear boy, 'arter twelve, it's a wonder to see 'em
waltz round
With a tray-full of syrups and strors, with no spillings, and 'ardly
a sound.
Bit confusing at fust, the French lingo; their posters an' cetrer
looks rum,
And you've got to be fly to their meaning afore you can make the
thing hum.
I kep' on button-holing old buffers to find out my way about town,
And sailed briskly along fur as "_Esker--?_" when, 'ang it!--I mostly
broke down.
_Esker voo_, with a gurgle to follow, don't fetch 'em, these
Frenchies, not much;
"_Conny par_" comes a great deal too often, and then a cove feels out
of touch.
If you want to make love, find yer way, or keep check on the nuggets
you spend,
You must put in the patter O. K., mate, or somehow you come out wrong
end.
'Ad a turn at the old _Expersition_, bid one larst good-bye to the
Tower,
And chi-iked _lar Rerpooblick_ a bit for her luck in jest keepin'
in power.
The Bullanger boom was a fizzle. They say he's mopped out; _I_
dunnow;
But it wouldn't surprise _me_, my pippin, to see him yet Bossing the
Show.
I had met _Mister Punch_ at Chermooney--he also was out on the scoop,
On a Trip Round the World, so he told me. Sez I, "I'll pal on to your
troop."
But he gave me a look from his lamps, and somehow I choked off like
a shot,
"Take your own line," sea he, "and _my_ tip; do not swagger, drink
deep, or talk rot!"
Should 'ave like to ha' joined him, in course, but he's _sech_ a 'ot
'and at a 'int,
Still he said if I'd send him a letter to you, mate, he'd put it in
print.
So look hout for the Halmanack, CHARLIE! You saw my last letter from
Parry?
Well this with some picters, I 'ope will bring similar _kudos_ to
'ARRY.
* * *
Having disposed of 'ARRY, _Mr. Punch_ wished himself in the Celestial
Empire. And in China the Sage found himself. Pagodas and pigtails met
him on every side.
"Really, not half bad," murmured the Sage, and then, turning to TOBY,
he was surprised to find his attached attendant trembling from the
tail backwards. "Ah, I see: a Celestial _restaurant!_ No, no, my boy,
don't be alarmed. They shan't eat _you_. If I want any food, it shall
be some light refreshment--say a Feast of Lanterns."
"I'm pleased to see you looking so well, Sir," said a portly person,
with a remarkably florid complexion, and wearing a suit of well-worn
evening clothes, emerging from the _restaurant_. "I've been waiting
for you, Sir, a long time."
"That you have, ROBERT--in the City and elsewhere. But what are _you_
doing in China?"
"It's a long story, _Mr. Punch_; but if you don't mind eating this
bird's-nest soup, which isn't bad, though not a patch upon our dear
tuttle, I will tell you how I came to leave our glorious Corporation,
and got into these outlandish parts."
_Mr. Punch_ bowed, and discarding a pair of chopsticks for a spoon,
toyed with the succulent preparation while he listened to
"ROBERT'S STORY ABOUT CHINA." [Illustration: Finger pointing right.
(see page 10.)]
* * * * *