PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
November 29, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. VIII--JONNIE.
(_Par_ DICK DODY, _Auteur de "Le Nabab Boffin-Newcome,"
"Madame de Marneffe Jeune et Rawdon Crawley Commerçant,"
"Trente Ans à prendre mon bien partout," "La Lie de mon
Encrier," "Raclure des Petits Journaux," &c, &c._)
I.--LE HIGLIFE SCOLASTIQUE.
Le recteur regardait avec un air égrillard le museau chiffonné de la
jolie Madame COPPERFIELD, qui désirait lui confier son petit garçon
comme élève dans l'institution la plus distinguée de tout Paris, une
maison où chaque enfant devait apporter dans sa petite malle trois
couverts en vermeille, et un trousseau de six douzaines de chemises
en batiste fine; une maison où les extras, les vin d'oporto, les
beef-tea, les sandwich, souvent dépassaient la pension.
"Voyons, ma belle dame," dit le recteur, "comment s'appelle-t'il--ce
petit mome--pardon--ce cher enfant?"
"DOMBEY, Monsieur, JONNIE DOMBEY. JONNIE sans l'H."
"Il est noble?"
"Mais, non, Monsieur. Son père était banquier, financier, que sais-je!
Il faisait des affaires énormes--gigantesques! Il regardait les
ROTHSCHILD comme de nouveaux venus--il--" et la gentille petite
COPPERFIELD se perdait dans un labyrinthe de phrases, et se réfugiait
dans une énorme houppe à poudre-Sarah, qu'elle portait toujours dans
son manchon.
[Illustration: JACK CUIVRECHAMP SE FAIT RECONNAITRE PAR MLLE.
ELISABETH TROTTEBOIS.]
"Mais il n'était pas noble," dit le recteur, avec dureté; "je
regrette fort, Madame, de ne pouvoir accepter votre petit gosse--votre
fils--comme élève; mais cette institution scolastique est des plus
_fashionables_ de Paris. Si vous aviez une petite couronne de Marquise
sur votre carte de visite, si vous étiez descendue d'une voiture
blasonnée aux chevaux fringants, avec cocher en perruque spun-glass,
mes bras de père spirituel se seraient ouverts avec effusion pour
accueillir cet enfant. Mais vous portez sur votre oarte un nom
suspect, et vous êtes arrivée en voiture de place. Ainsi avec la
plus haute considération je dois vous prier de prendre la peine
de débarrasser le plancher. Adieu, mon petit bonhomme. Tu as l'air
scrofuleux mais charmant."
Madame COPPERFIELD, qui était entrée comme Zéphire partit comme Borée.
Sa robe de soie faisait un frou-frou prodigieux dans le vestibule.
Elle monta dans la voiture au cheval étique, aux coussins moisis,
tirant le petit JONNIE avec une violence hystérique.
"Parceque tu n'est pas fils de Marquis on m'outrage," elle dit,
fondant en larmes. "Et pourquoi n'est-tu pas fils de Marquis, petite
brute? Moi, je ne sais pas."
Le petit DOMBEY sautait sur les genoux de sa mère; il la consolait,
et quelques instants plus tard mère et fils suçaient emsemble un grand
morceau de butter-scotch, pendant que la petite écervelée considérait
le costume qu'elle devait porter le soir au Bal Bullier.
II.--UN GYMNASE À TOUTES LES COULEURS.
MADAME COPPERFIELD ne se tenait pas pour vaincue sur cette question
d'une pension pour le petit. Sa cuisinière lui soufflait le nom d'un
Monsieur SQUEERS qui habitait dans les environs de Clichy, et cette
fois c'était la cuisinière qui conduisait le petit JONNNIE chez son
alumnus; et la cuisinière ne faisait pas de façons; c'était à prendre
ou à laisser.
Le bon SQUEERS, qui avait habité auparavant le Yorkshire, avait
developpé une goutte de sang nègre, et s'était établi avec la seconde
Madame SQUEERS (soeur cadette de la respectable Madame MICAWBER) dans
les environs de Clichy. Malheureusement il n'avait pas oublié son
système anglais, et quoiqu'il faisait bien des raffinements sur les
rudes et franches pratiques de Dotheboys, le système était au fond le
même. Il lui fallait toujours sa victime--son SMIKE. À Dotheboys le
SMIKE était blanc, et s'attachait à NICHOLAS, le pion; à Clichy le
SMIKE était noir, mais c'était toujours bien SMIKE, qui entrait dans
la pension bien vêtu, ses frais payés ponctuellement, et qui tombait
bien bas, jusqu'à balayer le plancher, et à servir à table. Et plus
tard le SMIKE noir devait mourir accablé de cruautés, d'une mort
encore plus larmoyante et plus terrible que la douce phthisie du
SMIKE blanc. Il est mort dans la seconde manière de DICKENS, plus
travaillée, plus tendue que le style jeune et fort de NICKLEBY.
III.--CE QU'ON APPELLE UN BEAU-PÈRE.
Il n'y a pas loin du premier chapitre dans la vie de JONNIE jusqu'à
l'entrée de MURDSTONE--le MURDSTONE français, dur, mais poète, ainsi
plus frivole que le MURDSTONE anglais. Mais, puisque pour le petit
ARRIE tout ce qu'il y a de pénible dans l'histoire de son petit cousin
anglais doit s'augmenter, le MURDSTONE français a des traits des
NÉRON et des CALIGULA. Naturellement le jeune DOMBEY, se souvenant
des escapades du cousin, fait son petit voyage d'enfant--une fuite
de la pension jusqu'à la maison maternelle où la petite dame s'est
installée en secondes noces avec MURDSTONE D'ARGENTON, le poète. Alors
commencent l'éducation de l'enfant par le beau-père, les larmes de la
mère, le martyre du petit. Que de gifles; que de dictionnaires lancés
à la tête du chétif bambin!
"Faut qu'il aille quelque part gagner sa vie," dit MURDSTONE, qui
s'enrageait de plus en plus, à cause de deux incommodités dans leur
vie de famille, la première que lui, MURDSTONE, n'avait pas le génie
d'ALFRED DE MUSSET, la seconde que l'enfant avait un rhume de cerveau
incurable. "Envoyez-le laver les bouteilles chez un marchand de vins,"
proposait un ami de la maison.
"Mais, non, cela ne serait pas assez dur," repondit le poète. "Je suis
fâché qu'il n'y ait plus à Londres ce bon système de ramoneurs-garçons
qu'on faisait brûler vifs quelquefois dans les cheminées. Faute de
cela je le mettrai sur la voie ferrée, à graisser les roues avec son
petit pot de pommade jaune--et si par hasard il se faisait écraser par
un train--tant pis pour lui."
Il était grand garçon maintenant, ce joli petit JONNIE du premier
chapitre, et avant de partir pour se perdre entre les Parias du pot à
graisse sur la ligne d'Est, il s'enhardit jusqu'à questionner sa mère
sur un sujet qu'elle avait approché de temps en temps gentillement du
bout des lèvres, en lui soufflant des idées romanesques, des visions
de ducs espagnols et de millionnaires anglais.
"Dis done, p'tite Maman, comment s'appelait-il, mon père?"
"Mais, mon cheri, naturellement, il s'appelait COPPERFIELD."
"Mais, Maman, tu me disais autrefois qu'il était DOMBEY, un grand
financier, riche à millions. Se peut-il que de DOMBEY je sois devenu
COPPERFIELD?"
La pauvre inconséquente sanglotait avec véhémence--"Mon JONNIE, je
te trompais. DOMBEY, le financier raide et hautain, n'a jamais existé
dans la vie réelle. C'était un mannequin en bois. Ton père était
DICKENS, le grand romancier anglais. Il est mort avant ta naissance.
Sans lui tu ne serais pas."
* * * * *
TO A CORRESPONDENT.--We do not think you are wise to have asked a
large circle of distinguished French sporting friends to bring their
rods over with a view to salmon-fishing in the Serpentine. Trout,
there may be; no doubt, there are, but we have some doubts about
salmon. Your suggestion that if you can't get a rise you might perhaps
"bang away" at the waterfowl, certainly has a more promising sound,
but we would advise you to commence your sport early, for fear of
hitting the bathers. You will require the permission of the Duke of
CAMBRIDGE. This you will get through any Park-keeper.
* * * * *
MR. MANTALINI ON THE LINCOLN CASE.--"And both were right, and neither
wrong, upon my life and soul, O demmit!"--_Nicholas Nickleby_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FINAL TEST.
_Bellona_ (_to the "Times" and Mr. Stanhope_). "I SUPPOSE,
GENTLEMEN, YOU DON'T WANT TO WAIT FOR _ME_ TO SETTLE THE
QUESTION!"
TOMMY ATKINS, _loquitur_:--
Oh, where and _wot_ am I? A spindle-shank'd stripling,
As blue-gilled old Tory ex-Colonels protest?
Or a 'ero, as pictured by young RUDYARD KIPLING,
Six foot in my socks, forty-inch round the chest?
I'm blowed if _I_ know arter all the discussion.
But if I'm the cove as they're going to trust,
To give good account of yer Frenchy or Russian,
At least they'd best give me a gun as won't _bust_.
They've bin fighting this battle of barrels and breeches,--
Ah yus, from the days of our poor old Brown Bess,
And wot's the result as their 'speriments teaches?
They'd better jest settle it sharp-like, I guess.
If once of a rattlin' good rifle I'm owner,
A thing as won't jack-up or jam, I don't care.
But if they stand squabblin' till Missis BELLONER
Puts in _'er_ appearance, there'll be a big scare.
Ah, she's the true "Expert"; wuth fifty Committees!
But then '_er_ decision means money--and blood.
Wot price TOMMY ATKINS, _then_? Everyone pities
His fate, when he's snuffed it, and pity's no good.
Whether STANHOPE is right, or the _Times_, I ain't sayin';
But here Marm BELLONER gives both a big hint,
As it's rayther a touch-and-go game they are playin',
And TOMMY, he thinks she is right,--plain as print!]
* * * * *
"SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!"
Look out for _Mr. Punch Among the Planets_! He is a Star of the
first magnitude, and the above is the title of his Christmas Number.
It will issue from, to use astrological language, the House of
BRADBURY-AGNEW-&-CO., although the sidereal and celestial subjects
of the forthcoming Christmas Number are suggestive of the old days
of "BRADBURY and Heavens."
* * * * *
THREE TASTES.
I.
My pipe, he tastes of turpentine--
He is a penny pipe--
A taste that every pipe of mine
Has when he is not ripe.
I bought him at a little shop
Where they sell fruit and cheese,
Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop,
And said, "A _cheap_ pipe, please."
It was a maiden sold him me,
And she was proud and cold;
She'd briar pipes at two-and-three
For them that squandered gold;
She'd one that had a leather case.
Item, a curly stem;
And cheap pipes make her shrug her face,
She had such scorn of them.
II.
My pipe he tastes of cherry now;
Gone, like the foam of wine,
Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow,
Gone is that turpentine.
With the pure herb I feel it blend--
That charm of cherry-wood,
And smoke him six times straight on end,
Because he is so good.
And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs,
And therewith wags her head;
And warns me in between the whiffs
That I shall soon be dead;
And says excessive smoking must
Debase and bring me low,
She makes herself offensive, just
Because she loves me so.
III.
My pipe, he tastes of chocolate,
And he has grown so dear so dear,
That I get up at half-past eight
And smoke till night is here.
My aunt informs me that the smell
Is ranker than before--
I could not love her half so well
Loved I not baccy more.
The female mind! The female mind!
How beautiful it is!
And yet it has to sit behind
When it's compared with this--
This taste that falls upon my pipe,
That calms when woman clacks,
In the sweet season when he's ripe,
And just before he cracks.
* * * * *
THE MAGIC HORSE.
(_A PARALLEL NOT TO BE PUSHED TOO FAR._)
[Illustration]
["You are likewise to understand that MALAMBRUNO told me that,
whenever fortune should direct me to the knight who was to be
our deliverer, he would send him a steed--not like the vicious
jades let out for hire, for it should be that very wooden
horse upon which PETER of Provence carried off the fair
MAGALONA.... MALAMBRUNO, by his art, has now got possession
of him, and by this means posts about to every port of the
world."
"Hoodwink thyself, _Sancho_," said _Don Quixote_, "and get
up.... And supposing the success of the adventure should not
be equal to our hopes, yet of the glory of so brave an attempt
no malice can deprive us.... The whole company raised their
voices at once, calling out, 'Speed you well, valorous
Knight! heaven guide thee, undaunted Squire! Now you fly
aloft!'"--_Adventures of Don Quixote_.]
Yes, "Speed you well, most valorous Knight!
Heaven guide you!"--and sound sense inspire you!
Small marvel that our land's black blight
Of want and misery should fire you,
Or any man whose heart will mourn
More for wrecked lives than broken crockery.
This picture is not shaped in scorn,
Nor meant in mockery.
La Mancha's Knight, though brave, was blind,
Squire _Sancho_ just a trifle credulous,
But our dear Don was nobly kind,
And in the cause of suffering sedulous.
If, mounting MALAMBRUNO's steed,
He showed more sanguine than sagacious,
He was not moved by huckster greed,
Or pride edacious.
But "with what bridle is he led?
And with what halter is he guided?"
Asked _Sancho_, rubbing his clown's head.
So they who have the least derided
Your plan for floating "the submerged,"
Colossal, costly, wide extending,
Feel some few questions may be urged,
Without offending.
Benevolence the crupper mounts,
His arms, like _Sancho's_, from behind fold;
But it would seem, from all accounts,
He, like _Don Quixote's_ Squire, rides blindfold;
It may be to most glorious ends,
It may be to disastrous spillings.
Sense fain would know before it spends
Its hard-earned shillings.
If all were genuine that is Big,
If all were sound that's well intended,
_Quixote's_ wild jaunt and _Sancho's_ jig
Would very differently have ended.
Zeal boldly mounts the Magic Horse,
Charity on behind holds tightly,
Who will not wish them skill and force
To guide it rightly?
But Human Life's a complex maze,
And Nature's laws are most despotic.
Vice is not killed by kindly craze.
Nor suffering quelled by zeal Quixotic.
Big questions the Big Scheme beset.
Bid Pity _think_, and do not ask it
Too blindly all its eggs to get
In one huge basket.
Philanthropy, which facts will school,
Is not a theme for mocking merriment.
As MORLEY says, he is the fool
Who never ventures bold experiment.
Against the ills our State that shake,
The spectre Vice, Want the pale ogress,
_Punch_ hopes the Magic Horse may make
Practical progress.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS, MARK, BUT I CAN'T HIT A BIRD
TO-DAY!"
"LET'S SEE YOUR GUN, SIR. AH!--WELL, I'D TRY WHAT YOU COULD DO _WITH
SOME CARTRIDGES IN IT_, IF I WAS YOU, SIR!"]
* * * * *
RIGHT-DOING ON THE RIALTO;
OR, THE MODERN SHYLOCK.
(_A SHORT SHAKESPEARIAN SEQUEL._)
_Enter the_ MODERN SHYLOCK _and_ BARINGO BROTHERS.
_Shylock_. Five Millions sterling for three months? And this
You say, they will advance, if you can show
Sufficient guarantee?
_Baringo_. Indeed 'tis so.
_Shy._ Well, well! But how comes it about that you
Whose honoured name has so long held the sway
Of all safe dealing, that men only asked,
"If a BARINGO backed it," to take up
Unquestioning the newest stock,--should thus
With sudden flash flare up and set in blaze
The whole commercial world?
_Bar._ Oh! press me not,
Nor question me too closely! "_Argentines_!"
That fatal word sums up the evil spell
That in these latter luckless days has fallen
Upon our swaying House.
_Shy._ I see your case!
A cry for gold finds you all unprepared,
Your capital locked up beyond the seas.
You cannot realise.
_Bar._ Alas! too true!
That is the situation!
_Shy._ Badly done!
Ah! it has been a sorry piece of work,
Your "management."
_Bar._ I bow my head to that!
But you will lend your aid? You'll pull us through?
_Shy._ Listen, BARINGO. Many a time and oft
In this English land men have rated me
About my moneys and my usuries.
But that is long ago; the times have changed,
And feeling in more righteous channel set,
Now turns itself in flood to sweep away
The wrongs of vanished years. Nay, more than this.
But yesterday one of my ancient race,
Filled, with his Christian colleagues' heartiest will,
The civic throne; and at this very hour
A protest from all classes in the land
From low and high, from peasant and from peer,
Goes forth to plead with the despotic power
That 'neath brute persecution's iron heel
Would trample out my brethren's life. So, there,
Which way I look I meet a greeting hand.
So, not repeating here the vengeful plot
Of the old _Shylock_ of the play; without
My pound of flesh or pound of anything,--
But solely for the bond of brotherhood
That should link loyal workers in one field,
Count on my help in this your stress--for I
Will be your guarantee!
_Bar._ You will! Oh, thanks
For such blest help!
_Shy._ Such help is only right,--
So say no more!
_Bar._ (_aside_.) Thank Heaven! _That
Ends our plight!_
[_Dances wild fandango of delight as Curtain descends._
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Here are some regular sea-breezy Nautical stories for our youthful
Islanders. _From Middy to Admiral of the Fleet_, by Dr. MACAULAY,
which is a good long step; but this is the life of Commodore ANSON.
_Up North in a Whaler_, by EDWARD A. RAND; a pleasant little trip
for the Summer holidays--not inviting now--but try it later. Messrs.
HUTCHINSON & Co. also publish "_The Low-Back'd Car_," by SAMUEL
LOVER--an old Song in a fresh setting of charming Illustrations, by W.
MAGRATH. "We don't kill a pig every day!" But just for once and away
get _My Prague Pig_, by S. BARING GOULD. W. CLARK RUSSELL's _Master
Rockafellar's Voyage_, recommended.
To the ambitious young entertainer, _Magic at Home_, translated by
Professor HOFFMAN, will be a source of delight, and if some of the
experiments should lead to slight temporary inconvenience, it will
only help to pass a more cheerful evening than usual.
[Illustration: The Mirror of Justice.]
For drawing-room plays apply to GEORGE ROUTLEDGE, who publishes a set,
one of which, _Acting Charades and Proverbs_, by ANNE BOWMAN, will be
found very useful. A Bowman hits the mark.
Those who know their London _au bout des angles_, can tell you of
many quaint spots of beauty, which may be seen when it is not quite
enveloped in a cheerful fog, though several of the more ancient
landmarks are fast vanishing; yet in _Picturesque London_, by PERCY
FITZGERALD, M.A., F.S.A., will be found a happy collection of all the
most taking parts, both in odd corners, and interesting structures.
Charming illustrations by HUME, NISBET, and HERBERT RAILTON.
Christmas special numbers are not exactly up to date; they are turned
out so early that by the time they ought to be seasonable, they are
almost ancient history. _The Ladies' Pictorial_ is filled with short
stories by popular authors, which are well illustrated.
The earlier part of _My Life_, by SIDNEY COOPER, R.A., is very
interesting, as must almost always be the story of the early career
of such an ancient mariner as is this well-known animal-painter. There
must be a halo of romance about recollections which no one living can
or cares to contradict. When these biographical reminiscences come
within the memory of middle-aged men, then this said memory doth run
somewhat to the contrary of that of the veteran painter who put the
cart before the horse, so to speak, in his artistic career, seeing
that he commenced with carriages and ended with cows. As far as _Mr.
Punch_ is concerned, the Baron has already denied that DOUGLAS JERROLD
was ever the Editor of _Mr. P.'s_ paper; and Mr. COOPER's account of
the _Punch_ dinners must be taken with the contents of a well-filled
salt-cellar, as Mr. SIDNEY COOPER was never present at any one of
them. Inaccurately he attributes a repartee of THACKERAY's to DOUGLAS
JERROLD; and the well-known retort of JERROLD to ALBERT SMITH he gives
so incorrectly, that in this instance the Attic salt has lost its
savour. There is too much soft-soapiness in his reminiscences of
personal interviews with Royalty to please robust readers. Judging
from the latter portion of the second volume, wherein, as I should
take it, there is considerable "padding," it would seem that "the aged
P." has already secured an excellent position among "the immortals."
Hitherto it was generally supposed that of the arts Music alone would
survive _in sæcula sæculorum_; but perhaps, after all, Painting has a
chance, and especially animal painting, even though the animals may be
allegorical. With its pardonable defects of memory, and its occasional
touch of Royal Windsor Livery complaint, the reminiscences of SIDNEY
COOPER, R.A., are pleasant and, of the first volume especially be it
said, interesting reading.
_The Auld Scotch Songs_, arranged by SINCLAIR DUNN. Well, DUNN, sing
clair!
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.
* * * * *
HOW IT'S DONE.
(_A HANDBOOK TO HONESTY._)
NO. VI.--"AN ALARMING SACRIFICE"--SOMEWHERE!
SCENE I.--_A Suburban Drawing-room, old-fashionedly furnished;
brightly-bound books scattered about a solid, sombre-covered
table; oil portraits of elderly, stiffly attitudinising
couple on the walls; a general atmosphere of simple, pietistic
propriety. Present,_ EDWIN _and_ ANGELINA, _a modest, but
deeply-enamoured pair, shortly about to be married._
_Edwin_ (_after the regulation ceremonial_). My dearest ANGELINA, I
have something here which I think will greatly simplify the business
of house-furnishing, that has so deeply occupied us lately.
[Illustration]
ANGELINA (_flushing tenderly_). Oh, EDWIN, _have_ you? How nice, dear!
And what is it?
_Edwin_ (_eagerly_). Quite providential, I call it. You know, dearest,
I've saved three hundred pounds for the express purpose; and here
is an advertisement, according to which, for about that sum, we can
secure a complete fit-out for our little villa, which, I think, will
exactly suit us. Quite an exceptional chance, as the advertiser
says. A gentleman, lately arrived in this country from India, is
unexpectedly compelled to return immediately. Consequently he
is obliged to dispose _at once_ of his lately-purchased house of
furniture, _at a great sacrifice_. It is as good as new, in fact, has
hardly been used at all; is elegant and substantial, and can be seen
any day at Vamp Villa, Barnsbury, upon presentation of visiting-card.
Suppose, dearest ANGY, we run over to-morrow afternoon, and have a
look at it? Such a chance--in the very nick of time, too--may never
occur again!
_Angelina_. Oh, EDWIN, _how_ fortunate! Should it suit us, what a lot
of trouble it will save!
_Edwin_. And money, too, darling, for the prices seem to be _very_
low. I'm so glad you agree, dear.
_Angelina_ (_with effusion_). Of _course_ I do, EDWIN. And (_with
tender glance at one of the oil pictures_) how delighted dear Mamma
will be! [_Osculation, appointment, and exit_.