PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
March 7, 1891.
VOCES POPULI.
IN A FOG.--A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST MONTH.
SCENE--_Main Thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Time 8 P.M. Nothing
visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and
plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she
is spoke on such occasions._
_Mrs. Flusters_ (_who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on
their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road_). We shall be
dreadfully late, I know we shall! I'm sure PEACOCK could go faster
than this if he liked--he always loses his head when there's much
traffic. Do tell him to make haste!
_Mr. F._ Better let him alone--he knows what he's doing.
_Mrs. F._ I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't dawdle like this. If
you won't speak to him, I must. (_Lets down the glass and puts out her
head._) PEACOCK!
_A Blurred Shadow on the Box._ Yes, M'm.
_Mrs. F._. What are we stopping for like this?
_The Shadow_. Fog very thick just 'ere, M'm. Can't see what's in front
of us, M'm.
_Mrs. F._ It's just as safe to keep moving as to stand still--go on at
once.
_The S._ Very good, M'm. (_To horse._) Pull urp! [_Crash!_
_Voice from the Unseen_. What the blanky blank, &c.
_Peacock_. There _is_ suthin in front, M'm. A van, from 'is langwich,
M'm.
_Mrs. F._ (_sinking back_). MARMADUKE, this is awful. I'd no idea the
fog was like this--or I should never have--(_With temper._) Really,
people have no _right_ to ask one out on such a night.
_Mr. F._ (_with the common-sense that makes him "so aggravating at
times."_) Well, FANNY, you could hardly expect 'em to foresee the
weather three weeks ahead!
_Mrs. F._ At all events, _you_ might have seen what it was going to be
as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram!
_Mr. F._ It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I--ah--regard a
dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be
broken except under pressing necessity.
_Mrs. F._ You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold
meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the
CORDON-BLEWITTS,--not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have
you any idea whereabouts we are?
_Mr. F._ (_calmly_). None whatever.
_Mrs. F._ Then ask PEACOCK.
_Mr. F._ (_lets down his window, and leans out_). PEACOCK!
_The Shadow_. Sir?
_Mr. F._ Where have we got to now?
_Peacock_. I ain't rightly sure, Sir.
_Mrs. F._ Tell him to turn round, and go home.
_Mr. F._ It's no use going on like this. Turn back.
_Peacock_. I dursn't leave the kerb--all I got to go by, Sir.
_Mr. F._ Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse.
_Peacock_. It's the _young_ 'orse, Sir.
_Mr. F._ (_sinking back_). We must put up with it, I suppose.
[_A smart crack is heard at the back of the carriage._
_More Voices_. Now, then, why the blanky dash, &c., &c.
_Mrs. F._ MARMADUKE, I can't sit here, and know that a bus-pole may
come between us at any moment. Let us get out, and take a cab home at
once.
_Mr. F._ There's only one objection to that suggestion--viz., that
it's perfectly impossible to tell a cab from a piano-organ. We must
find out where we are first, and then turn. PEACOCK, drive on as well
as you can, and stop when you come to a shop.
_Mrs. F._ What do you want to stop at a shop for?
_Mr. F._ Why, then I can go in, and ask where we _are_.
_Mrs. F._ And how do you expect _them_ to know where we are! (_She
sees a smear of light in the distance._) MARMADUKE, there's a linkman.
Get out quick, and hire him to lead the way.
_Mr. F._ (_who gets out, and follows in the direction of the light,
grumbling to himself_). Hallo!--not past the Park yet--here's the
railings! Well, if I keep close to them, I shall--(_He suddenly
collides with a bench._) Phew! Oh, confound it! (_He rubs his shins._)
Now, if it hadn't been for FANNY, I--Where's that linkman? Hi!--you
there!--stop! (_The light stops._) Look here--I want you to come to my
carriage, and show my man the way out of this!
_Voice from behind the Railings_. We got to find our _own_ way out
fust, Guv'nor. We're _inside_!
_A Belated Reveller_ (_lurching up to Mr. F._) Beg your pardon, bur
cou' you dreck me nearesht way--er--Dawshon Plashe?
_Mr. F._ (_savagely_). First turning to the right, third to the left,
and then straight on till you come to it!
_The B.R._. I'm exsheedingly 'blished; (_confidentially_) fact ish,
I'm shuffrin' shli' 'fection eyeshi', an' I 'shure you, can't shee
anyshing dishtingly to-ni'. (_He cannons against a lamp-post, to which
he clings affectionately, as a Policeman emerges from the gloom._)
_Policeman_. Now then, what are you doing 'ere, eh?
_The B.R._ Itsh all ri', P'lishman, thish gerrilman--(_patting
lamp-post affectionately_)--has kindly promished shee me home.
_Mr. F._ Hang it! Where's PEACOCK and the brougham? (_He discovers a
phantom vehicle by the kerb, and gets in angrily._) Now, look here, my
dear, it's no earthly good--!
_Occupant of the Brougham_ (_who is_ not FANNY). Coward, touch a
defenceless woman if you dare! I have nothing on me of any value.
Help! Police!
[_Mr. F., seeing that explanation is useless, lets himself
out again, precipitately, dodges the Policeman, and bolts,
favoured by the fog, until all danger of pursuit is passed,
at the end of which time he suddenly realises that it is
perfectly hopeless to attempt to find his own carriage
again. He gropes his way home, and some hours later, after
an extemporised cold supper, is rejoined by his Wife._
_Mrs. F._ (_cheerfully_). So there you are, MARMADUKE! I wasn't
anxious--I felt sure you'd find your way back somehow!
_Mr. F._ (_not in the best of tempers_). Find my way back! It was the
only thing I could do. But where have _you_ been all this time, FANNY?
_Mrs. F._ Where? Why, at the BLEWITTS, to be sure! You see, after you
got out, we had to keep moving on, and by-and-by the fog got better,
and we could see where we were going to,--and the BLEWITTS had put
off dinner half an hour, so I was not so _very_ late. Such a _nice_
dinner! Everybody turned up except _you_, MARMADUKE--but I _told_ them
how it was. Oh, and old Lady HOREHOUND was there, and said a man had
actually got into her brougham, and tried to wrench off one of her
bracelets!--only she spoke to him so severely that he was struck with
remorse, or something, and got out again! And it was by the Park,
_close_ to where you left me. Just fancy, MARMADUKE, he might have got
into the carriage with _me_, instead!
_Mr. F._ (_gloomily_). Yes, he _might_--only, he--er--_didn't_, you
know!
* * * * *
[Illustration: BITING SARCASM.
_Gentleman with the Broom_ (_who has inadvertently splashed the
Artist's favourite Shipwreck_). "OW YUS! I SUPPOSE YER THINK YE'RE
THE PRESIDENT O' THE ROY'L ACADERMY! A SETTIN THERE IN THE LAP ER
LUXURY!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A GOOD LITTLE 'UN IS BETTER THAN A BAD BIG
'UN."--(_P.R. Maxim._)
A BIT OF MODERN BOXIANA.]
"110-Ton Guns do not count for any practical purpose.... These
monsters are the laughing-stock of everyone who takes the
smallest interest in the subject. They are quite indefensible,
and not worth making, even if they were unobjectionable, for
the simple reason that everything we require can be done by
smaller weapons.... It is believed that more of these useless
monsters are to be made by way of reserve. It is an insane
policy, designed simply to save somebody's _amour propre_, and
we still hope to hear from Lord GEORGE HAMILTON that it has
been abandoned."--"_The Times" on the Naval Estimates_.
"That a good little 'un is better than a bad big 'un," is an old and
accepted maxim amongst the really knowing ones of the P.R. It is one,
however, that now, as of yore, swell backers, self-conceited amateurs,
and other pugilistic jugginses ore apt to ignore or forget.
Where, we wonder, would the slab-sided "Sprawleybridge Babe" or
the shambling "Baldnob the Titan" have been in front of the small
but active and accomplished "Duodecimo Dumps"? Why, where the
vaunted "Benicia Boy" would have been after fifty rounds with TOM
SAYERS--_with_ his "Auctioneer" in full play. In fact, when a good
little 'un meets a bad big 'un, it is very soon a case--with the
latter--of "bellows to mend," or "there he goes; with his eye out!"
These remarks have been suggested by recent revelations concerning
that much over-rated pet of the mugs--the "Woolwich Whopper," _alias_
the "Elswick Folly," _alias_ HAMILTON's "Novice."
The "W.W." always _was_ a fraud, and, for all his lumbering bulk and
"MOLINEAUX-like" capacity of "tatur-trap," never _could_ train-on
soundly, or--figuratively speaking--"spank a hole in a pound of
butter." Many cleverish trainers, and still more ambitious backers
of the "Corinthian Jay" species, have had a shy, professionally or
monetarily, at the "Woolwich Whopper," and invariably with disastrous
results. The "W.W.," though big enough in all conscience, is not
of sound constitution, nor of the true wear-and-tear sort, is very
difficult (_and_ expensive) to train, and when brought fairly up
to the scratch is certain to go bang to pieces after the first few
rounds, if these are at all of a hot-and-hot character.
Still there are--worse luck!--certain parties connected, more or less,
with the P.R. who--whether from interest, vanity, or sheer cussedness,
still pin their faith to this "huge, lumbering, soft, long-shanked,
top-heavy, shambling, thump-shirking Son of a Gun," as NOBBY NUPKINS,
of the Nautical Division, pithily called him the other day. If some
of these credulous or conceited coves had witnessed the little
trial "scrap" which took place recently (on the strict Q.T.), at
the "Admiral's Head," in the presence of Mr. JOHN B-LL (the famous
P.R. referee), between the vaunted "Whopper" and a smart and handy
light-weight known as "Quickfire," their owl-eyes might, having been
a little opened, and their peacock-strut a bit modified.
The "Woolwich Whopper," for all his height and overwhelming weight,
seemed to toe the scratch with awkward reluctance. He put up his dukes
very fumblingly, and his attitude was decidedly of the "head-over-tip"
character. Young "Quickfire," on the contrary, was erect as a dart,
nimble on his pins as a girl at her first dance, and smart in delivery
as a newly-promoted Postman, or the Parcels Express. He was all over
his man in a brace of shakes, and the "Whopper," who looked as though
he could have knocked holes in him _if_ he could have hit him, could
hardly land a "little one in" once in the course of a round, and then
it was so short that it would hardly have brushed a bumble-bee off a
buttercup.
The respected Referee, who watched the dust-up with careful interest,
was much pleased with the promise of the smart light-weight,
"Quickfire," who seems to have in him the makings of a fine fighter.
Mr. B-LL did not disguise his disgust at the feeble figure cut by
the "Whopper," about whose pretensions to first-class form, let alone
Champion honours, it is to be hoped we shall hear little more for the
future.
[_Mem._--_Mr. Punch_ suspects that the above edifying and
idiomatic homily was intended for some sporting contemporary,
but, with his accustomed courtesy, he gives it for what it is
worth.]
* * * * *
TO A COMPLIMENTARY COUNSEL.
["Here the Plaintiff met the Defendant, who formed a strong
attachment for her, at which he (the learned Counsel), did not
wonder."--_Extract from a recent Report._]
The Plaintiff she was very fair--
I'd very gladly make a verse on
Her face, her smile, her eyes, her hair,
Her comely and attractive person.
Last year a gentleman had stormed
Her heart and swore that nought should sunder
The strong attachment he had formed,
At which you said you "_did not wonder!_"
Oh! tell me was it quite the thing,
Of prudence shamelessly defiant,
In such a pointed way to sing
The praises of your pretty client.
Had she been ugly--yes, or plain,
Would you have reckoned it your duty
To say how much it caused you pain
To look and mark her lack of beauty?
Perhaps you meant the words you said,
'Twould be amusing to discover
If she had really turned your head,
And in her lawyer found a lover.
Yet even should this be the case,
You cannot well escape supporting
This statement--that it's not the place
In open Court to go a-courting.
When next a lady comes to say
That He and She at last have parted,
And that she'll make the villain pay
For having left her broken-hearted,
You'll recollect that in the Breach
Of Promise Case, you must not blunder,
But mention in your opening speech
That at his love you _do not wonder_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RECOGNITION OF MERIT.
_The M Dougall, L.C.C._ (_to Cambridge Don_). "WELL DONE! THE SPINSTER
TO THE SPINNING HOUSE! You ARE INDEED A PROCTOR AND A BROTHER!"]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
_The Quiet Mrs. Fleming_ is very nearly being a good novel of the kind
with which "once upon a time" Mr. F.C. PHILIPS used to delight us. Mr.
RICHARD PRYCE's _Quiet Mrs. F._ might perhaps be placed in the same
category with F.C.P.'s. _Little Mrs. Murray_, which was not by any
means the Author's best. The story, like the Consols, is good enough
for those who don't want much interest for their money. It may be
safely recommended as a pleasant companion during a railway journey.
The Baron does not consider that _The Quiet Mrs. F._ will make much
noise in the novel-reading world.
A coloured leaflet, of autumnal tint, commands me, in the tone of
a Wellington dispatch, to "order early" a new "Family Magazine,"
entitled, _Golden Gates_, edited by JOHN STRANGE WINTER. "I have not
yet seen it," says the Baron, "but wish the adventurous pennyworth
every possible success." Its bill of contents announces "a complete
story," by the editress, and also a "complete novelette," by Mrs.
LOVETT CAMERON. This looks well for the first number; and an editor's
motto must be, "Take care of Number One." I suppose in each number
there will be "A Winter's Tale."
Interesting reading for the Baron and his friends the Public, is Mr.
ANDERSON's article, entitled _Studies in Illustrated Journalism_, in
this month's _Magazine of Art_. Mr. ANDERSON is a trifle inaccurate
in some details of his pleasantly-written and generally trustworthy
sketch of the history of _Mr. Punch_, on which it is needless for
the Baron to dwell _hic et nunc_. The Baron remembers the dapper,
sportingly-attired "little HOWARD," who had the reputation of being
"LEECH's only pupil," but who was never one of _Mr. Punch's_ Staff
Officers. In the same number of this Magazine is a brief, but
carefully written notice of the Baron's old friend, _convive_,
and fellow-worker on _Mr. Punch's_ staff, CHARLES KEENE. "A superb
Artist," writes Mr. SPIELMAN, "pure and simple"--true this, in every
sense--"the greatest master of line in black and white that will live
for many years to come." The engraving that accompanies this notice of
our old friend is not a striking likeness of "CARLO," but it exactly
reproduces his thoughtful attitude, with his pipe in his hand, so
familiar to all his associates.
Hereby and herewith thanks-a-many are returned to the "Bibliographer,"
who is also the Secretary of the Sette of Odd Volumes, for his
charming little _brochure_ about _Robert Houdin, his Life and Magical
Deeds_, by his truly,
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
A "STERNE" TRUTH (_as to conviction under The Embezzlement and Larceny
Act, 1861)._--"They order this matter better in France."
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. XV.--SONOGUN.
(_BY_ MISS REDNA TRIAL, _AUTHOR OF "WEE JEW;" "A LARDY HORSEMAN";
"SPUN BY PRATING," &C., &C., &C._)
["I think you will like this book," writes the fair Author;
"its tone is elevated and its intention good. The philosophic
infidel must be battered into belief by the aid of philosophy
mingled with kindness. Take KENAN, HAECKEL, HUXLEY, STRAUSS,
and DRAPER--the names, I mean; it is quite useless and might
do harm to read their books,--shake them up together and make
into a paste, add some poetical excerpts of a moral tendency,
and spread thick over a violent lad smarting under a sense
of demerit justly scorned, Turn him out into the world,
then scrape clean and return him to his true friends. Cards,
race-meetings, and billiards may be introduced _ad lib._, also
passion, prejudice, a faithful dog, and an infant prattler.
Death-scenes form an effective relief. I have several which
only need a touch or two to be complete. That is the way to
please the publishers and capture the public. Try it, and let
me know what you think.--R.T."]
CHAPTER I.
Ah me, how shall we know the true,
How mark the old, how fix the new?
Or teach the babe in arms to say,
"Base, bold, bad boys are cheap to-day"?
NARR. _The White Witch_.
[Illustration]
SONOGUN scarcely knew what to do. He had been up all day, wandering
about the lanes which surrounded the family mansion. A fitful light
blazed in his magnificent eyes, his brow contracted until it assumed
that peculiarly battered expression which is at once characteristic
of a bent penny and consistent with the most sublime beauty. To be
properly appreciated he must be adequately described. Imagine then a
young man of twenty, who was filled with the bitterest hatred of the
world, which he had forsworn two years ago, on being expelled from
school for gambling. There was about him an air of haughty reserve and
of indifference which was equally haughty. This it was his habit to
assume in order to meet any neighbours who happened to meet him, and
the result naturally was that he was not so popular as some inferior
beings who were less haughty. In fact he had a very short way with his
relations, for whose benefit he kept a shell into which he frequently
retired. He was dangerously handsome, in the Italian style, and often
played five bars of music over and over again, with one finger,
to please his mother. Some women thought he was an Apollo, others
described him as an Adonis, but everybody invariably ended or began
by calling him an ancient Roman. He was sarcastic, satiric, and very
strong. Indeed, on one occasion, he absolutely broke the feathers on
a hand-screen, and on another he cracked three walnuts in succession
without looking up. But, oh, the sufferings that young heart had
undergone. Slapped by his nurse, reproved by his mother, expelled by
his schoolmaster, and shunned by the society of the country-side, it
was small wonder that the brave soul revolted against its fellow-men,
and set its jaws in a proud resolve to lash the unfeeling world with
the contempt of a spirit bruised beyond the power of such lotions as
the worldly-wise recommended for the occasion. He whistled to his dog
_Stray_, and clenched his fists in impotent anger. An expression of
gentleness stole over his features. The idea was suggestive. He, too,
the proud, the honourable, the upright would steal, and thus punish
the world. He looked into his make-up box. It contained bitter
defiance, angry scorn, and a card-sharper's pack of cards. He took
them out; and thus SONOGUN, the expelled atheist, made up his mind.