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diff --git a/15332-h/15332-h.htm b/15332-h/15332-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d92f9da --- /dev/null +++ b/15332-h/15332-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1878 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 17, 1892, by Various</title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + + .note, .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt; text-indent: 0;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + .drama {margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .drama p {margin: 1em 0em 0em 0em;; padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;} + .drama p.i2 {margin: 0; margin-left: 1em;} + .drama p.i4 {margin: 0; margin-left: 2em;} + .drama p.i6 {margin: 0; margin-left: 3em;} + .drama p.i8 {margin: 0; margin-left: 4em;} + .drama p.i10 {margin: 0; margin-left: 5em;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + .figleft {float: left;} + + p.author {text-align: right;} + --> + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, +September 17, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 17, 1892</p> +<p>Author: Various</p> +<p>Release Date: March 12, 2005 [eBook #15332]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 103, SEPTEMBER 17, 1892***</p> +<br /><br /><h3>E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team</h3><br /><br /> +<hr class="full" /> + <h1>PUNCH,<br /> + OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> + + <h2>Vol. 103.</h2> + <hr class="full" /> + + <h2>September 17, 1892.</h2> + <hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>[pg 121]</span> +<h2>HEARING HIMSELF.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>Mysterious Mem. from a Hawarden Note-Book.</i>)</h4> + +<p>Exceedingly kind and flattering of MAX MÜLLER! "I hope there +are but few here present who have never enjoyed the privilege of +listening to Mr. GLADSTONE." Ha! ha! He little thought there +was <i>one</i> there who had <i>not</i> "enjoyed that privilege." Have enjoyed +most privileges in my time, but never that of "hearing myself as +others hear me"—more or less. "Unavoidable absence of Mr. +GLADSTONE!" Ho! ho! Then my disguise <i>was</i> perfect. Get myself +up as a Liberal Unionist, with wig and eye-glass. Not likely anybody would recognise +me in <i>that</i> rig.</p> + +<p>Rather enjoyed myself—and my paper, "Phœnician Elements in the Homeric +Poems." Most seductive title! Such a <i>popular</i> touch about +it! Think I shall have it printed as a "leaflet" for distribution among Workmen's +Clubs and Radical Associations. Might conciliate those well-meaning but illogical +Eight-Hour Men. Wonder if KEIRHARDIE would like a copy. What more +nicely calculated to cheer the scant leisure of Labour?</p> + +<p>Funny to hear my own sinuous sentences coming back to me from mouth of another. +Not quite sure MAX is so "fascinating in his voice, and so persuasive +in his delivery" as—but no matter. Can't say—as MAX did—"I felt myself +carried away, and convinced almost against my will." Not at all! Wonder what he +meant by that? Why "against his will"? That's what Liberal Unionists, and other +preposterous and illogical opponents of mine say in House, when they compliment +me on my "eloquence," <i>and then vote against me!</i> Absurd! Wish they'd +drop their compliments and vote straight.</p> + +<p>"Small and exotic contribution" to Oriental Congress! Neat description of paper +running to nearly four +columns of <i>Times</i>. "Intense sentiment of nationality, which led +the Greeks of later days to covet the title of Autochthones." Wonder +if that reminded MAX, or anyone else, of <i>another</i> race with "an +intense sentiment of nationality," and a passionate love of the land +from which they sprang. Wonder whether, if Nationalists were +to call themselves "Auctochthones" instead of Home-Rulers, we +should get along better? Must consult JUSTIN on this point. +Should have to teach some of them to <i>pronounce</i> their new name, +though. "Autochthones," spoken in wrath, with a rich brogue, after +dinner, would, I should think, beat Phillippopolis, or "Ri' l'il, ti' +li'l Isl'l" hollow.</p> + +<p><i>Anax andrōn</i>, too, might be useful. Say, as substitute for that +everlasting G.O.M., of which I admit I'm heartily sick, Lord of +Men! <i>Not</i> King of Men, of course. LABBY might kick at latter. +"Nothing can be simpler than the meaning of the two words." +Exactly. Must get HARCOURT to popularise these. Applied to +AGAMEMNON. Why not to "strong men" who live <i>after</i> AGAMEMNON? +"Evidence from extraneous sources of connection between +title of <i>Anax andrōn</i> and great Egyptian Empire." Aha! I may yet +have to play the <i>Anax andrōn</i> in Egypt as before. Allegory—I mean +<i>Anax andrōn</i> on banks of Nile! Good—and not a Malapropism, +whatever WOLSELEY may say. "Title of <i>Anax andrōn</i> descendible" +(good word, "descendible") "from father to son, and accorded in +the poems to personages altogether secondary, <i>viz.</i>, EUMELOS and +EUPHETES." Wonder what my EUMELOS—HERBERT—will say to that!</p> + +<p>Enjoyed it much whilst MAX was "mouthing out" (as Mrs. +BROWNING says) my eulogy of that man of "Phœnician stamp," +the "universal ODYSSEUS," who expressed the many-sided, the all-accomplished man; +the <i>polutropos</i>, the +<i>polumetis</i>, the <i>tlemon</i>, +the <i>polutlas</i>, the <i>polumekanos</i>, the <i>poikilometis</i>, +the <i>poluphron</i>, +the <i>daïphron</i>, the <i>talasiphron.</i> (What a peck of p's!) In battle +never foiled! In council supreme! His oratory like the snow-flakes of the winter +storm. Superbly representative Phœnician! "But over and above this universality +of ODYSSEUS in the arts of life, he bears the Phœnician stamp +in what may be termed his craft." Aha! The "Old Parliamentary Hand" of his period +plainly. Wonder if MAX thought of <i>that</i>! Hellas and Phœnicia combined! As a +Statesman of classical culture, commercial instincts <i>and</i> craft, +what a shining success ODYSSEUS might have been in these days!</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>He went into the Cyclops' cave</p> +<p class="i2">To see what he could spy out;</p> +<p>He slew his oxen, stole his sheep,</p> +<p class="i2">And then he poked his eye out,</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>as the ribald doggerelist has it. Sounds a little "predatory," perhaps, as SALISBURY +would say. But quite capable of being "spiritualised" into a sound Liberal policy, +directed against the purblind Poluphemos of Property and Privilege.</p> + +<p>On the whole, I had a high old time among +the Orientalists. But when discussion ensued, I longed to throw off +my disguise and rush, Achilles-like, into the fray. But MAX might +have thought that inconsistent with my "colossal humanity;" so, +very unwillingly, I refrained.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>UP ALOFT.—The most elevated title in the Peerage, and belonging +to the upperest part of the Upper House, is "Lord MOUNTGARRET." +There can be but one higher, and that will have to be created in the +person of a future "Lord TOPOCHIMNEPOT." Though, perhaps, the +title of "Lord COWLEY," if it were altered into Lord CHIMNEPOT-COWL-Y, +would be the highest of all.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>ANGLICE-FRENCHIE EXCLAMATION (<i>on any of the recent many +showery days when, after an interval of ten minutes, the next bucketful +descended</i>).—"<i>POUR une autre fois!</i>"</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:70%;"><a href="images/121.png"><img width="100%" src="images/121.png" alt="NATURE'S SECRETS." /></a><h3>NATURE'S SECRETS.</h3> + +<p>"HERE ARE SOME NEW LAID EGGS FOR YOU, GEORGIE!"</p> + +<p>"OH, THANKS! HOW NICE! I HAVEN'T SEEN A NEW LAID EGG FOR WEEKS! HOW +DO YOU MANAGE TO GET THEM? OH, OF COURSE—YOU'VE GOT <i>AN INCUBATOR</i>!"</p></div> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>[pg 122]</span> + +<h2>INNS AND OUTS.</h2> + +<h3 class="sc">No. III.—The Porter.</h3> + +<p>I had intended to have written, this week about "Loggosh"—including that mysterious +canvass hand-box which contains all that a foreigner cares to carry about with +him by day, and often pillows him when travelling by night; but the very +mention of luggage brings me back to the Porter. I abominate him. I am "one +who has suffered." So here goes!</p> + +<p>"Imposing," best describes the Hôtel porter; a very Grand Hôtel has at +least two of these impositions—the House Porter and the Omnibus Porter. The +latter you only see twice in your Hôtel existence, but he is the most futile and the +deadliest fraud of the two.</p> + +<p>This Porter is part and +parcel of that horrible deep-red-plush nuisance, the Hôtel-omnibus. He and it +are inseparables, and make up a sort of Centaur between them. Once outside the +Railway-station, I am besieged by a babel of these Porter-omnibuses—"Bear +Hôtel, Sor;" "Grand Hôtel, Sor!"—This, from a very dilapidated specimen, which, +on inspection, turns out to be "Grand Hôtel Du Lac;" a pirate porter-omnibus in +fact; at last I find <i>The</i> Grand Hôtel vehicle, and functionary. The latter is +of gigantic stature; quite a +"chucker-out;" in a uniform between that of a German bandsman +and a Salvation Captain—"Certinly, Sar. Dis Grand Hôtel; I see +your Loggosh, Sar; gif me se empfangschein." "Do you speak +English?" I retort.—"Certinly; spik Ingleese—empfangschein!"—"Empfangschein" +baffles me, and I am about to hand my keys to +the monster, when a good-natured Courier explains that it signifies +the luggage-receipt.</p> + +<p>Away ambles the Porter, leaving me with that orphaned sort of +feeling which a luggageless Englishman experiences; it is pouring +cats and dogs; I am dead beat; I creep into the dark omnibus. I +find myself quite alone. I wait impatiently—a quarter of an hour—twenty-five +minutes—still no Porter; I am famished; to distract +myself, I peer through the door, whence I can discern the messy +vista of the railway-station in the rain; it's lucky I do so; for there +I behold my own portmanteau, with its huge purple stripe, being +hauled away on the back of a railway-man, followed by an alien +Hôtel Porter, <i>not mine</i>, doing nothing: they are always doing +nothing. To rush out indignantly, seize my box, defy the brigands, +and carry it back myself, seemed the work of an instant. Drenched +and gasping, I find myself once more outside; the Porter of the +Grand Hôtel Du Lac is at my heels, furious and impertinent. "Dis, +<i>not</i> your loggosh: other shentleman's loggosh." He seized the portmanteau, +and a struggle would certainly have ensued, when my own +Hôtel Porter appeared on the scene triumphant, with a regiment of +station-men carrying one small tin box. "What you do, Sar; see +<i>here</i>, your loggosh!" The tin box belonged to a commercial-traveller, +who was bound for the Hôtel Du Lac.</p> + +<p>I am too exhausted to curse, and leave the rival Porters to +fight it out themselves, after paying off the ragged regiment of +Station-men. On the drive to the Hôtel, the Porter tries to propitiate me.</p> + +<p>"Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, fetch de loggosh. I tell you, +better leave it to me, Sar. You see, <i>I</i> get your loggosh. Dat bizley +Porter of De Hôtel Du Lac, he change de empfangschein; but I +sweep it from him, and bring to de 'Bus"—"'Bus" was good—and then he laughed!</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:55%;"><a href="images/122.png"><img width="100%" src="images/122.png" alt="'Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh.'" /></a>"Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh."</div> + +<p>I never saw the brute again until the time of my departure; +I had taken a carriage to the Station this time, thinking thereby to +avoid the Porter-omnibus. I had registered my traps myself, and +was looking out for some one to carry them to the den in which +you are penned till the train arrives, when, lo! the chucker-out! +smiling and bowing as if he had never seen me before—"Is +better I retchistar de loggosh, Sar; pity shentlemans like you, Sar, +retchistar de loggosh."</p> + +<p>I turn on my heel with +an imprecation which "Ingleese-spikers" understand. But he still waits there, +smiling, and expecting to be tipped, Let him wait. So much for the Omnibus-Porter—at +once the Gamp and Undertaker of my Grand Hôtel existence.</p> + +<p>The House-Porter is of equal size, and equal uselessness. He sits in the +hall, and always rises and salutes when you pass. If you want anything, he +waits till you have got it, and then offers to procure it for you. If you ask to +be called early, he chalks something on a slate, and you are safe not to be disturbed +until you rise in your wrath and ring violently. Should you be in +a town, and wish to secure theatre-tickets, he becomes more active; he implores +you not to resort to "De Boxing Office, vare you pay premiums, you see;" but +he has one or two left for sale. Should you be weak enough to yield, you will +find that the worst seats at the highest prices are yours; and, if you remonstrate +next day, he will sigh wearily, and remark,—"Is acheslant places, Sar; but +was Gala Night, you see,"—an enigma, which those +who run may read. He is always offering to do something, and +doing <i>you</i> instead. He is absolutely unnecessary, for there is +seldom anyone in a Grand Hôtel to "chuck out," and this would +be his only justification.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE "BLOWER" BURST UP!</h2> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>The "Blower" came down, like the braggart he was,</p> +<p>And of winning the fight was peculiarly "poz;"</p> +<p>And the voice of his backers was loud in their glee;—</p> +<p>"We shall lick him in two rounds—or certainly three!"</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Like the "Champion Slugger," in trunks of bright green,</p> +<p>The "Big Fellow" at Eight fifty-two might be seen:</p> +<p>Like a truculent Titan, blind, baffled, and blown,</p> +<p>At Ten thirty-seven the brute was o'erthrown.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>For CORBETT smote fiercely, and CORBETT fought fast,</p> +<p>And the bullying bounder was beaten at last;</p> +<p>And the cheeks of the coarse woman-puncher were chill,</p> +<p>He rolled over, and struggled to rise, and lay still.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And there stood his foe with his nostrils all wide,</p> +<p>And the shouts of his backers rolled on in their pride.</p> +<p>The swells of the Ring and the stars of the Turf</p> +<p>Surged round like the waves of the storm-beaten surf.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And there lay the "Blower," distorted and pale,</p> +<p>With the blood on his brow where the blows fell like hail.</p> +<p><i>His</i> backers were silent, he lay there alone,</p> +<p>His mawleys unlifted, his trumpet unblown.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And the "Sports" of the South are all loud in their wail.</p> +<p>But <i>Punch</i>, who hates bullying brutes, can but hail</p> +<p>That smart Californian's pluck, skill, and strength,</p> +<p>Who has pricked the big SULLIVAN bladder—at length!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"FONS ET ORIGO."—As to London Water "seek Wells," that is +if you wish to avoid unpleasant seq-uels. "<i>Don't</i> leave Wells +alone" is our motto, meaning "Sir SPENCER" of that ilk, who has a +deal worth hearing to say on this subject.</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>[pg 123]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href="images/123.png"><img width="100%" src="images/123.png" alt="TWO SIDES TO A QUESTION." /></a><h3>TWO SIDES TO A QUESTION.</h3> + +<p><i>Major Podmore</i>. "CONGRATULATE YOU, DEAR BOY!"</p> + +<p><i>Disappointed Cricketer</i>. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? BOWLED FIRST BALL—NEVER GOT A RUN!"</p> + +<p><i>Major Podmore</i>. "QUITE SO, DEAR BOY. BUT IN THIS HOT WEATHER—80° IN THE +SHADE—SO MUCH BETTER, IF YOU CAN, TO TAKE THINGS COOLLY!"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A ROUNDABOUT RAMBLE.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>A Fact Founded on Fiction.</i>)</h4> + +<p>The sharp, bright little Traveller made his way to the Cabinet of +M. CARNOT, and disturbed him at work.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, M. Le Président," said he, "that the Russians +are in secret treaty with the English, and the Russo-French Alliance +is all nonsense—the most unreliable of broken reeds?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no," replied CARNOT, "I have not heard anything of the +sort; and, if anyone should be up in it—"</p> + +<p>But the Traveller did not want to hear the rest, for he was once +again on his road, telling everyone he met the disquieting intelligence, +and, consequently, the French people were greatly troubled.</p> + +<p>He was soon in Berlin. He did not ask for an interview with the KAISER, but took one.</p> + +<p>"Your Royal and Imperial Majesty," said he, "are you aware +that Italy is in secret accord with France, and that the Triple Alliance +is a sham, and that the cry <i>À Berlin!</i> may be renewed at any moment?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no," said the Emperor, "I have not heard this; and if +anyone should know anything about it, I fancy—"</p> + +<p>But the Traveller did not wait for the KAISER to finish the sentence, +but was off again, telling everyone he met the disquieting +intelligence. And, consequently, the German people were greatly troubled.</p> + +<p>Then the Traveller obtained admission, in the same unceremonious +fashion, to the apartment occupied by the Emperor of AUSTRIA.</p> + +<p>"King of HUNGARY," said he, "are you aware that you cannot +possibly rely upon your German neighbour, because the KAISER has +a secret understanding with the CZAR, by which the Principalities +will be included in Russian territory, and the Rhine secured from French invasion?"</p> + +<p>"No, I have not heard it," was the answer; "and, if it had +been the case, I imagine that—"</p> + +<p>But again the Traveller left without waiting for the completion of +the sentence, and went his way telling everyone he met the disquieting +intelligence. And consequently, the Austro-Hungarian peoples were greatly troubled.</p> + +<p>And now the Traveller was in the presence of the Emperor of ALL +THE RUSSIAS. Again he had obtained admission without the preliminary +of an official introduction.</p> + +<p>"Little Father," said the Traveller, "are you aware that your +youthful relative in Berlin is coquetting with France and England, +and you may find the whole of Europe marshalled against you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no I have not heard it," returned the CZAR; "and I really think—"</p> + +<p>But the Traveller never learned what the CZAR really thought, for +he was away before His Imperial Majesty had completed the sentence. +And as he went away, after his usual fashion, he spread the +disquieting intelligence, and consequently the Russian people were greatly troubled.</p> + +<p>And now the Traveller was in Cairo. He presented himself before +the KHEDIVE without waiting for the English adviser.</p> + +<p>"Your Highness, do you know that the British Army of occupation +is on the eve of departure?" said he.</p> + +<p>"What, in spite of Lord ROSEBERY going to the Foreign Office!" +exclaimed the SULTAN's vassal, in a tone of considerable astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Of course," replied the visitor. "Everything was settled long +ago, and before Christmas there won't be a red-coat in Egypt!"</p> + +<p>"Indeed," returned His Highness, "I certainly have not heard it, and I fancy—"</p> + +<p>But the Traveller departed without ascertaining the drift of the +KHEDIVE's fancies, and on his road, strictly according to precedent, +spread the disquieting intelligence, and consequently the Egyptian +people were greatly troubled.</p> + +<p>And now the Traveller was once more back in London. He entered +Capel Court and rested himself. He said nothing. It was unnecessary, +for he was well known, and his stories had already been discounted.</p> + +<p>"Ah, my little friend RUMOUR," said Mr. BULLBEAR; "you have +come back again! And now you can rest for awhile, until we want +you after the next account."</p> + +<p>So RUMOUR is waiting in the Stock Exchange until he is wanted after the next account!</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>[pg 124]</span> + +<h2>LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.</h2> + +<h3>No. XIV.—TO SWAGGER.</h3> + +<p>I approach you with fear and trembling. Somewhere in the Cave +of the Winds you have your home. The ancient Authors, to their +discredit, make no mention of your existence there, but the fact is +as I have stated it. The East wind blows into your gaping mouth, +and forth you go, puffing and swelling with an alien importance, to +do your hateful work. You hover over a second-rate Statesman, +who has attracted the applause of a Party by an opportune speech, +compiled by the industry of a humble Secretary. From that +moment his nature changes. Though he may have been simple and +beloved, yet, through you, he shall become pompous, and abhorred. +His fellow-creatures are thenceforth mere material for his trampling +feet; he swells into regions to which no criticism can reach; he +covers himself in a triple hide of vanity, ostentation, +and disdain; he hails himself continually +as the unaided Saviour of his country, and +dies in the odour of braggadocio, without a genuine friend to mourn his loss.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:28%;"><a href="images/124.png"><img width="100%" src="images/124.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<p>Or, again, you select some common, smug-faced +Clergyman, capable, no doubt, if he were left +alone, of guiding his flock quietly into the strait +paths of goodness and humility. You turn him +into a loud-voiced Clerical quack, vending his +wretched patent medicines of salvation in a +style of offensive denunciation that would have +ruined a host of Dulcamaras, trained in the +insinuating methods of the ordinary trade. But +on this the Clergyman thrives, and weak women +fall prostrate before his roaring insincerity.</p> + +<p>Nor do you neglect the young. Heavens! I +remember I was once favoured with the confidences +of WILLIAM JOSKINS BACON, an Undergraduate, +generally known to his intimates as +"Side of Bacon." I shudder to recollect how +that amazing creature discoursed to me about +his popularity, his influence, his surprising +deeds both of valour and of discretion. With +one nod—and, as he spoke, he gave me an illustration +of his Olympian method—he had awed +his Head-master—a present ornament of the +Bench of Bishops—into a terrified silence, from +which he recovered only to bless the name of +JOSKINS, and hold him up as a pattern to his +schoolfellows. At a single phrase of scorn from +those redoubtable lips, his College Tutor had +withered into acquiescence, and had never dared +to refuse him an <i>exeat</i> from that day forth. "I +can't help pitying the beggar," said JOSKINS—"but +I had to do it. You must make these +fellows feel you're their master, or they'll never +give you a moment's peace. Halloa!" he +continued, as a brawny athlete sauntered into the room, "how's +the boat going, BULLEN? Not very well, eh? Well, remember I'm +ready to lend you a hand, and pull you through when things get +desperate." The smile with which this offer was received had no +effect upon my companion. He took it rather as a tribute to the +subtle humour which, as he believed, lay lurking in his simplest +utterances. "Always make 'em laugh," he observed, with pride. +"It keeps up the spirits of these poor devils of rowing-men; and old +BULLEN knows I'm all there when I'm wanted." But I had heard +enough, and departed from him, feeling as though a steam-roller +had passed over my moral nature, and flattened out my self-respect.</p> + +<p>Then there was CHEPSTOWE, the poet. I am old enough to remember +him; and it pleases me sometimes to call back to my mind +this paltry and forgotten little literary <i>Bombastes</i>. As I write, I +have before me some of the reviews that greeted his boisterous invasion +of the regions of song. "Mr. CHEPSTOWE," said one, "has +struck a note which is destined to vibrate so long as the English +language is spoken in civilised lands. He is no ordinary rhymester, +struggling feebly in the bonds of convention. With a bold and +masterful on-rush, he cleaves his way unhesitatingly to the very +heart of things, tears it out, and lays it, palpitating and bleeding, +before the eyes of humanity. We have only space for a few lines +from the magnificent <i>Ode to Actuality</i>:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"'Prone in the caverns of the vasty deep</p> +<p class="i10">I lay,</p> +<p>And slept not, though I seemed to sleep.</p> +<p class="i10">The day</p> +<p>Pierced not with sullen eyes of pallid scorn</p> +<p class="i10">The dark,</p> +<p>Unplumbed abyss, where, girt with red limbs torn.</p> +<p class="i10">The shark</p> +<p>Sported, and eyeless monsters crawled in slime—'</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>"No extract can, however, convey an adequate idea of this grand +poem, on which, as on the bed rock, Mr. CHEPSTOWE's fame is +established for ever, SHAKSPEARE himself might have been proud +to have written it." I may remark, parenthetically, that in +his "Ode" CHEPSTOWE pictured himself as a sort of animate skeleton:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"Sockets where light once shone grinned emptiness;</p> +<p class="i10">The teeth</p> +<p>Were fallen from the gaping, gumless jaws; nathless</p> +<p class="i10">Beneath</p> +<p>The cold smooth skull, the brain retained her throne."</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>Amid these uncomfortable surroundings CHEPSTOWE described +himself as penetrated with raptures of fierce joy at having shaken +himself free from the world and its puling insincerities to dwell +amid "Unpitying shapes of death's dread twin despair," where +"Rapine and slaughter raged, and none rebuked." Another reviewer +observed that "The soul of ARCHER's, +the tavern-brawler's glorious victim, KIT MARLOWE, +has taken again a habitation of clay. +She speaks trumpet-tongued by the mouth of +Mr. CHEPSTOWE. We note in these outpourings +of dramatic passion an audacity, an energy, +an enthusiasm, that are calculated to shake +Peckham Rye to its centre, and make Balham +tremble in its ridiculous carpet slippers. Who—to +take only one example—but Mr. CHEPSTOWE or MARLOWE could have written thus +of 'Rapture'?—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>'Not in the mouths of prating men who deem</p> +<p>That God dwells in the senseless clay they mould,</p> +<p>Who live their little lives and die their deaths,</p> +<p>Lapped in a smug respectability;</p> +<p>Who never dreamt of breaking puny laws</p> +<p>Formed for a puny race of grovellers;</p> +<p>But in the blood-stained track of flaming swords,</p> +<p>Wielded by knotty arms in Man's despite,</p> +<p>Or on the wings of crashing battle-balls,</p> +<p>Bone-shattering dealers of a thousand wounds,</p> +<p>The roaring heralds of indignant God,</p> +<p>There rapture dwells, and there I too would dwell.'</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>"Here is power that would furnish forth a whole +legion of the poetasters who crawl through our +effete literature!" But I cannot pursue these +memories. They are too painful. For who +speaks of CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to +cumber his bookshelves with the volumes in +which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the +tin pots delivered his shrieking message? His +very name has flickered out; and when I spoke +of him the other day, I was asked, by a person +of some intelligence, if I referred to CHEPSTOWE +who had just made 166 playing cricket for the +Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the +lion and the lizard keep his courts, and yet +JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in his day. He blustered +through many editions, he bellowed his contempt at a shrinking +world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by the aid of +newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and to-day +the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded with +that of an eminent cricket-player!</p> + +<p>My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to +wipe him out so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?</p> + +<p>Farewell for a space. I may have to write to you again.</p> + +<p class="author">Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"USED UP."—Lord BRASSEY requested several papers last week +to publish his denial as to having the finest collection of stamps in +the world. His Lordship, it appears, "doesn't take the smallest interest +in foreign stamps." Fortunate for Lord BRASSEY. There are +some excellent people who can't get up any interest, or capital either, +at all without a stamp of some sort. Lord BRASSEY wished it further +known, that he was not a collector of curios, and had no curiosity of +any kind. Lord BRASSEY must be a later edition of <i>L'Homme Blasé</i>, +to whom the world was round like an indiarubber-ball and "nothing in it."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"IN NUBIBUS."—If the new Sky-signs with which we are threatened, +<i>viz.</i>, advertisements reflected in the clouds, become the fashion, +the aspect of the heavens by daylight will be as delightful and +artistic as are the walls of our hoardings and Railway-stations. +The anthem of "<i>The Heavens are Telling</i>" will have to be adapted +for large towns. Perhaps pictures may be projected on the nebulous +back-ground. If so, some of our best Artists may not object to +taking a good sum, and then having their work "Sky'd."</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>[pg 125]</span> + +<h2>PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!</h2> + +<h4><i>Picturing the Various Modes of Melodramatic Murder</i>. (<i>By Our "Off-his"-Head Poet</i>.)</h4> + +<h3>No. I.—THE DAGGER MURDER.</h3> + +<div class="figright" style="width:30%;"><a href="images/125-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/125-1.png" alt="The Dagger Murder." /></a></div> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>They stand alone on the moonlit spot,—</p> +<p class="i2">Sing Ho—ho! and Ha—ha! there!</p> +<p>One is the villain, and one is not,</p> +<p class="i2">But the heroine's father.</p> +<p>They stand alone on the patch of light</p> +<p>(Which comes from the left as well as right)—</p> +<p>Oh, 'tis a glorious place and night</p> +<p class="i2">For a Murder Scene! Rather!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>They talk of deeds (of the parchment kind)—</p> +<p class="i2">Sing Ha—ha! and Ho-ho! there!</p> +<p>The heavy father, to reason blind,</p> +<p class="i2">Has them with him to show there!</p> +<p>The deeds relate to the old man's will;</p> +<p>The villain wants them to pay a bill!</p> +<p>The night is cold, and the night is still</p> +<p class="i2">Let the music be slow there!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>They stand alone in the pale-green light—</p> +<p class="i2">Sing Hey—hey! and he—he! there!</p> +<p>What is this flashing so keen and bright?</p> +<p class="i2">What is this that I see there?</p> +<p>Oh! deed of darkness in light descried!</p> +<p>Oh! villain thrice damn'd that blade to hide,</p> +<p>Right 'tween the arm on <i>the farther</i> side—</p> +<p class="i2">Certain death when it be there!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>They're still alone on the moonlit spot—</p> +<p class="i2">Sing He—he! and Hey—hey! there!</p> +<p>Though one is Standing,<a id="footnotetag1" name="footnotetag1"></a><a href="#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a> and one is not,</p> +<p class="i2">For <i>one's</i> cold as the clay there!</p> +<p>The villain covers the dead man's stare—</p> +<p>The corpse lies stiff in the limelight's glare!</p> +<p>The act is done!—and for all I care,</p> +<p class="i2">The dead body can stay there!</p> + </div> </div> + +<blockquote class="footnote"><a id="footnote1" name="footnote1"></a><b>Footnote 1:</b><a href="#footnotetag1"> (return) </a><p>HERBERT.</p></blockquote> + +<hr /> + +<h2>TO MY LUGGAGE-LABELS.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Wonderful pictures of purple and gold,</p> +<p class="i2">Ultramarine, and vermilion, and bistre;</p> +<p>Splendid inscriptions of hostels untold,</p> +<p class="i2">Touching memorials breathing of "Mr.;"</p> +<p>"Schweizerhof," "Bernerhof," "Hofs" by the score;</p> +<p class="i2">Signs of the Bear and the Swan, and the Bellevue,</p> +<p>Gasthaus, Albergo, Posada, galore—</p> +<p class="i2">Beautiful wrecks, how I wish I could shelve you!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Visions of Venice—her stones and her smells!</p> +<p class="i2">Whiffs of Cologne—aromatic mementos;</p> +<p>Visiting cards, so to speak, of hotels;</p> +<p class="i2">Como's, Granada's, Zermatt's and Sorrento's</p> +<p>Ah! how ye cling to my boxes and bags,</p> +<p class="i2">Glued with a pigment that baffles removal;</p> +<p>Dogged adherents in dirt and in rags;</p> +<p class="i2">Labels, receive my profane disapproval!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Much as I prized you, when roaming afield,</p> +<p class="i2">Loved you, when Life was metheglyn and skittles,</p> +<p>Wished you the spell of remembrance to wield,</p> +<p class="i2">Calling the scenery back and the victuals;</p> +<p>Still, when it blows and it rains, and it irks,</p> +<p class="i2">Here in apartments adjoining a seaview,</p> +<p>After a meal that would terrify Turks,</p> +<p class="i2">Somehow I feel I can scarcely believe you.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes! It's too much to remember the past—</p> +<p class="i2">Here, amid shrimps, and agilities nameless;</p> +<p>Glaciers gigantic, and Restaurants vast</p> +<p class="i2">Chime not with sands and a tablecloth shameless;</p> +<p>Smoking a pestilent, sea-side cigar,</p> +<p class="i2">Mewed in a lodging with children and nurses,</p> +<p>Epitaphs gorgeous of far "<i>Dolce far</i>,"</p> +<p class="i2">Curse you with paterfamiliar curses!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE UGLY FACE: A MORAL DUTY</h2> + +<div class="figright" style="width:20%;"><a href="images/125-2.png"><img width="100%" src="images/125-2.png" alt="'A ready-made Comedian with fifty quid a week.'" /></a>"A ready-made Comedian with fifty quid a week."</div> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Some years ago a babe was born—I need not name the place—</p> +<p>With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face,</p> +<p>Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits,</p> +<p>While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort,</p> +<p>His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short;</p> +<p>That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear,</p> +<p>When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch,</p> +<p>For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch;</p> +<p>And in course of time he grew up—though a loving mother's joy—</p> +<p>Into quite a champion specimen of the genius "ugly boy."</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>At school his teasing comrades gave him many comic names,</p> +<p>And he became the victim of all sorts of naughty games;</p> +<p>Nor did the master like him, for he felt that such a face,</p> +<p>Mid a row of ruddy youngsters, was extremely out of place.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>In time, his father placed him in the City—as a clerk—</p> +<p>Where his personal appearance excited much remark;</p> +<p>But he fell out with his principal, whose customers complained,</p> +<p>That his clerk was making faces, and said "Bosh!" when he explained.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>On perceiving from the office that he never would be missed,</p> +<p>As Mr. GILBERT puts it, he determined to enlist;</p> +<p>And so one summer afternoon he started forth in search</p> +<p>Of a Sergeant who perambulates close by St. Martin's Church.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>The Sergeant burst out laughing when he'd uttered his request,</p> +<p>And declared that, of a batch of jokes he knew, this was the best;</p> +<p>"'Tis a pity you're too short, my lad," he then went on to say,</p> +<p>"For wid <i>that</i> face ye'd froighten ivery inimy away!"</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>In a fountain which played handy—it was near Trafalgar Square—</p> +<p>He was rushing off to drown himself, the victim of despair,</p> +<p>When he knocked against a person he'd not seen for quite an age,</p> +<p>Who had left his home some years before, and gone upon the Stage.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>To this friend he soon narrated his distressing tale of woe,</p> +<p>And declared his case was hopeless. But the actor said, "Not so.</p> +<p>There's <i>one</i> thing, my fine fellow, that as yet you haven't tried,</p> +<p>Where your face will be your fortune, and a pound or two beside.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"With a mouth like yours to grin with, and your too delicious squint,</p> +<p>And the ears that Nature's given you with such a lack of stint,—</p> +<p>No matter what an author may provide you with to speak,</p> +<p>You're a ready-made Comedian—with your fifty quid a week."</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And it was so. Though he started at a figure rather less</p> +<p>Than the one that I have mentioned, still the truth I but express</p> +<p>When I say he now is earning such a wage as wouldn't shock</p> +<p>A respectable Archbishop or a fashionable jock.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And the face that all men sneered at, now is very much admired,</p> +<p>And the public ne'er, apparently, of watching it grows tired,</p> +<p>And the Merchant who dismissed him, in the Stalls is wont to sit,</p> +<p>While the Sergeant and his sweetheart are applauding from the Pit.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>The moral of my narrative is easy to espy.</p> +<p>But still I'd better mention it, lest some should pass it by:</p> +<p>"Though it's often very troublesome indeed to find it out—</p> +<p>There's a proper sphere for <i>everyone</i>, beyond the slightest doubt."</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>[pg 126]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href="images/126.png"><img width="100%" src="images/126.png" alt="TECHNICALITIES." /></a><h3>TECHNICALITIES.</h3> + +<p><i>First Amateur Water-Colourist.</i> "DO YOU <i>WASH</i> MUCH?"</p> + +<p><i>Second Ditto Ditto</i>. "NO; I <i>SCRATCH</i> A GOOD DEAL!"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>"PUTTING ON THE HUG."</h2> + +<blockquote class="note"><p> +[During President CARNOT's tour he received at +Aix-les-Bains "a delegation of children." One +of these, clad in a Russian dress, offered him a +bunch of flowers, repeating a stanza written for +the occasion. M. CARNOT, amid cries of "<i>Vive la +France!</i>" "<i>Vive la Russie!</i>" "<i>Vive Carnot!</i>" +"<i>Vive la République!</i>" kissed the little girl, +saying, "<i>J'embrasse la Russie!</i>"] +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes—"<i>Vive la France!</i>"—and "<i>Vive la Russie!</i>" too.</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Vive</i>—why not?—everybody!</p> +<p>Called once, "<i>Monsieur le Président Faute-de-Mieux</i>"<a id="footnotetag2" name="footnotetag2"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a></p> +<p class="i2">(By <i>Punch</i>, that foe of shoddy).</p> +<p>I fancy I have justified the name,</p> +<p class="i2">Ay, to the very letter.</p> +<p>I may not be a THIERS, but all the same,</p> +<p class="i2">France has not found a better.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Tall-talk is tedious, but one must not flinch</p> +<p class="i2">When asked the task to tackle;</p> +<p>And he's no Frenchman true who, at a pinch,</p> +<p class="i2">Cannot both crow and cackle.</p> +<p>Ah, <i>Vive</i>, once more, the Gallic Cock—and hen!</p> +<p class="i2">These Talking-Tours are trying,</p> +<p>But 'tis with windy flouts of tongue or pen,</p> +<p class="i2">We keep the French flag flying.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>A sop for SAVOY neatly put, elicits</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Such</i> "double rounds of cheering."</p> +<p>"<i>Vive CARNOT!</i>" To be sure! My annual visits,</p> +<p class="i2">France to the Flag endearing</p> +<p>By sweet-phrased flattery of the Fatherland,</p> +<p class="i2">Are sure to swell our legions.</p> +<p>"I wish, France, to be <i>thine</i>!" The effect was grand,</p> +<p class="i2">In "Allobrogian" regions.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Vive</i> Everything—especially <i>la Blague!</i></p> +<p class="i2">(What <i>should</i> we do without it?)</p> +<p>Fraternity! the Fatherland! the Flag!—</p> +<p class="i2"><i>I</i> work them—never doubt it!</p> +<p>Then "<i>La République</i>" and "<i>La Russie</i>," linked,</p> +<p class="i2">Pair off, 'midst acclamations:</p> +<p>Yes, I proclaimed—and never winced or winked—</p> +<p class="i2"><i>That</i> "brotherhood of nations!"</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"A delegation of young children," Ah!</p> +<p class="i2">And they were not the only ones.</p> +<p>"Men are but children of a larger—" Bah!</p> +<p class="i2">Wise and strong <i>men</i> are—lonely ones.</p> +<p>Most men—French-men—have touches of the child,</p> +<p class="i2">Fondness for show, fine phrases—</p> +<p>Pst! Here my <i>rôle</i>'s not cynical, but mild,</p> +<p class="i2">And open as dawn-daisies.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"<i>J'embrasse la Russie!</i>" That was rather neat</p> +<p class="i2">For "<i>Faute-de-Mieux</i>," at any rate.</p> +<p>Wondrous the magic power of <i>blague</i>, and "bleat"</p> +<p class="i2">On Man—<i>mouton</i> degenerate!</p> +<p>That "<i>Bête Humaine</i>," as ZOLA dubs him. Gr—r—r!</p> +<p class="i2">The real brutes are braver;</p> +<p>The tiger, when in chase of prey, won't purr,</p> +<p class="i2">Nor will the Bear, then, slaver.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>The Bear! Reminds me of a horrid dream</p> +<p class="i2">I had that night. A funny one,</p> +<p>But startling! I awoke with such a scream!</p> +<p class="i2">I dreamt some link (a money one?)</p> +<p>Bound me to a big Bruin, rampant, tall,</p> +<p class="i2">A regular Russian Shagbag,</p> +<p>In whose close hug I felt extremely small,</p> +<p class="i2">And squeezable as a rag-bag.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>I, CARNOT, squeezable! 'Tis too absurd!</p> +<p class="i2">A President, and pliant!</p> +<p>But—in my dream—the raucous voice I heard</p> +<p class="i2">Of that grim ursine giant.</p> +<p>"Come to my arms! You'll find them strong and snug.</p> +<p class="i2">The North's <i>so</i> true—and tender!"—</p> +<p>And then that monster huge put on the hug!</p> +<p class="i2">I thought my soul I'd render.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>A bear's embrace, like a prize-fighter's grip,</p> +<p class="i2">Is close as passion's clasping.</p> +<p>"Welcome!" he grunted. "<i>I</i>'ll not let you slip!"</p> +<p class="i2">"Thanks! thanks!" I answered, gasping.</p> +<p>"<i>J'em—brasse—la—Rus—sie!</i>" Here my breath quite failed</p> +<p class="i2">In that prodigious cuddle.</p> +<p>'Twas but a dream—How was it sleep prevailed</p> +<p class="i2">My meaning so to muddle?</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"<i>J'embrasse la Russie!</i>" It was neatly phrased</p> +<p class="i2">As MOHRENHEIM admitted,</p> +<p>A President, in doggerel stanzas praised,</p> +<p class="i2">Must be so ready-witted,</p> +<p>Yet mild Republican and Autocrat,</p> +<p class="i2">Hugging in friendly seeming,</p> +<p>Suggest that <i>Someone</i> may be cuddled <i>flat</i>—</p> +<p class="i2">At least in restless dreaming.</p> + </div> </div> + +<blockquote class="footnote"><a id="footnote2" name="footnote2"></a><b>Footnote 2:</b><a href="#footnotetag2"> (return) </a><p>See Cut so named, p. 279, Vol. 93, Dec. 17, 1887.</p></blockquote> + +<hr /> + +<h3>From the Vale of Llangolflyn.</h3> + +<p>DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I have just seen your +Number with the Song of "The Golf Enthusiast." It occurs to me that no one has +ever mentioned the fact that the Romans +knew the game, for does not VIRGIL sing, +"<i>Tee veniente die—Tee decedente canebat?</i>" +I have not the book, and therefore can't give +you the reference—but I know I am right, as I am </p> + +<p class="author">A WELSH GOLFER.</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>[pg 127]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href="images/127.png"><img width="100%" src="images/127.png" alt="'PUTTING ON THE HUG!'" /></a><h3>"PUTTING ON THE HUG!"</h3> + +M. LE PRÉSIDENT (<i>breathlessly</i>). "J'EM—BRASSE—LA RUSSIE!!" + +<blockquote class="note"><p> +["An interesting incident occurred during the official reception held by M. CARNOT +at the Mairie. A child dressed in the Russian national costume +presented the President with a bouquet, at the same time reciting a brief +complimentary speech. M. CARNOT smilingly embraced the child, saying, 'I +embrace Russia.'"—<i>Quoted from Daily Papers</i>.] +</p></blockquote></div> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>[pg 129]</span> + +<h2>WHY YOUNG MEN DON'T MARRY.</h2> + +<p>DEAR MR. PUNCH,—The reason is obvious. It is entirely owing to your advice +to those about to marry—Don't! I myself have been on the brink of proposing +to several thousand delightful girls, a large per centage of which, I am +convinced, would have gladly accepted me. I have in every case been +restrained by the recollection of your advice.—Your obedient and obliged Servant,</p> + +<p class="author">HUGH ADOLPHUS LATCH-KEY.</p> + +<p><i>Sept</i>. 5, 1892.</p> + +<p>DEAR MR. PUNCH,—The reason (which I confide to your ear, and yours alone) +is obvious—the girls don't, +and apparently <i>won't</i> propose. +Of course they ought—what else do we have Leap Year for? Take my +own case. I am genuinely in love with ETHEL TRINKERTON, who has just been +staying with us in the country for three weeks. She has paid me every kind +of attention. In our neighbourhood, if A. carries B.'s umbrella, where A. and B. +are of opposite sexes, it is regarded as an informal, though perfectly definite +way of announcing an approaching engagement. She knew the custom, and <i>carried +mine on no less than three occasions</i>. (It is entirely beside the point +that it rained heavily each time.) Yet she left us yesterday without an approach +to a proposal. She's fair enough herself, but is her conduct? It isn't +as if I hadn't given her enough chances. It cost me a small fortune +to bribe my small brother to keep away; and, time after time, I've +consented to sit alone with her in the summer-house. It isn't as if +she couldn't afford it. They tell me she has at least a thousand +a-year in her own right (whatever that may be), which would do +capitally. I happen to be penniless myself; but, as I heard her +say, her idea of marriage was the union of "soul to soul," my +want of a few paltry pence could hardly matter. It's particularly +humiliating for me, as, after the repeated umbrella-carrying, +everybody here thinks it's all settled. That, <i>Mr. Punch</i>, is the +reason why, at any rate, <i>one</i> young man doesn't marry.</p> + +<p class="author">Yours, thoroughly aggrieved,<br /> +BERTIE COOL-CHEEK,</p> + +<p><i>Pickleton-in-the-Marsh, Kent</i>.</p> + +<p>P.S.—If ETHEL really didn't understand her position, and would +like to reopen the matter, I would not be haughty about it.—B. C-C.</p> + +<p>DEAR, KIND, GOOD MR. PUNCH,—The reason is obvious—the men +don't and won't propose to the right girls. Take my own case. I've +just stayed three weeks with the COOL-CHEEKS, and felt quite certain +BERTIE would have proposed. He had all the symptoms badly. I +saw him give his little brother half-a-crown to go indoors for ten +minutes, and the way he <i>would</i> go in the summer-house and for long +walks—with <i>me</i>—made it quite clear (as I thought) what was going +to happen. Yet, he let me come away without a word! I'm sure <i>I</i> +don't want to run after him (or anybody else), but I <i>did</i> think he +meant something. We suited one another admirably. In fact, if he +doesn't ask <i>me</i> with all the opportunities he had, he'd ask no one.</p> + +<p class="author">Yours, just-a-little-disappointed,<br /> +ETHEL TRINKERTON,</p> + +<p><i>The Thorns, Bayswater.</i></p> + +<p>P.S.—He carried my umbrella almost hourly—and you know what +<i>that</i> means. If BERTIE was only nervous, and would like another +chance—well, we are always at home on Sunday afternoons.—E.T.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:65%;"><a href="images/129.png"><img width="100%" src="images/129.png" alt="A REAL CONVERT." /></a><h3>A REAL CONVERT.</h3> + +<p><i>Local Preacher</i> (<i>giving an account to the Vicar of the Parish of a dispute he has +had with the Leading Lights of his Sect</i>). "YES, SIR, AFTER TREATMENT THE LIKES +O' THAT, I SAYS TO 'EM, 'FOR THE FUTURE,' SAYS I, 'I CHUCKS UP ALL RELIGION, +AND I GOES TO CHURCH!'"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A HINT TO EDITORS.</h2> + +<blockquote><p> +SCENE—<i>The Sanctum of a Newspaper Office.</i> Editor +<i>discovered (by</i> Obtrusive Visitor) <i>hard at work.</i> +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="drama"> +<p><i>Obtrusive Visitor</i>. I trust that I have not come at an unfortunate moment?</p> + +<p><i>Editor</i> (<i>looking up from his desk</i>). Dear me! You here! Delighted to see you. +But don't let me disturb you. Good-bye!</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> (<i>seating himself</i>). No; I am afraid it is the other way. I know +at this time of the week you must be exceptionally busy.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> (<i>with courteous impatience</i>). Not at all, but—</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Oh! thank you so much. Because it is the very last thing in the +world I would like to do—to disturb you. And now, how are you?</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Quite well, thanks. But now, if you don't mind, I will just finish.</p> +</div> + +<blockquote><p> +[<i>Turns to go on with his article.</i> +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="drama"> +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> (<i>rejecting the hint</i>). I said to myself as I came along, Now I will +look him up.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Very kind of you, but—</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Oh, not in the least; and you know, my dear fellow, how I enjoy a +chat.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Yes,—and I, too. But just now—</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Quite so. You want me to do all the talking, as we haven't met +for the last three weeks. Well, you must know we have been to Herne Bay, and—</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Yes; charming place. But just now I am—</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Quite so. But I didn't come to tell you about Herne +Bay, although it is really a delightful spot. The air—</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Yes, I know all about it. First-rate, most salubrious, and +the rest of it. But, my dear friend, you really must—</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Quite so! Yes, everyone knows all about Herne Bay; +and I really came to ask you if you had any room for an article.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> (<i>roused</i>). My dear fellow, I assure you we are quite full for +months. Any number of excellent things standing over.</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Oh, yes, I know you are always full. You told me so +the last time I called.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Quite so! Very sorry, but it can't be helped. Have to look +so far ahead nowadays, you know.</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> Certainly; and that is why I thought I would just bring +a half-finished article and show you what I had dome, and complete +it if you thought it would do. You can put it in whenever you like; +so it would not hurt for standing over.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> (<i>with inspiration</i>). What is it called?</p> + +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> "Russian Wheat and Chinese Tea or Free Trade in +Australia." The subject is quite novel, and ought to attract considerable attention.</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> Novel! Why, my dear fellow, I do believe I have an article +somewhere in that heap upon the very subject.</p> +</div> + +<blockquote><p> +[<i>Pretends to search pile of MS.</i> +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="drama"> +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> (<i>uneasily</i>). Oh, never mind. I will read you what I have +written, and—</p> + +<p><i>Ed.</i> (<i>genially</i>). Oh, no, I won't give you the trouble. I will read +you what <i>he</i> has written, and then you can see.—Ah, here it is!</p> +</div> + +<blockquote><p> +[<i>Produces enormous pile of MS.</i> +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="drama"> +<p><i>Ob. Vis.</i> (<i>hesitating</i>). Well, perhaps, if you don't mind—</p> +</div> + +<blockquote><p> +[<i>Suddenly remembers +an appointment and exit.</i> Editor <i>resumes +hit work with an air of triumph. Curtain.</i> +</p></blockquote> + +<hr /> + +<center>THE THIEF'S MOTTO.—"Take things quietly."</center> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>[pg 130]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:70%;"><a href="images/130-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/130-1.png" alt="" /></a><p><i>Jones</i>. "HOW IS IT WE SEE YOU SO SELDOM AT THE CLUB NOW?"</p> + +<p><i>Old Member</i>. "AH, WELL, YOU SEE, I'M NOT SO YOUNG AS I WAS; AND I'VE HAD A GOOD +DEAL OF WORRY LATELY; AND SO, WHAT WITH ONE THING AND ANOTHER, I'VE GROWN RATHER FOND +OF MY OWN SOCIETY."</p> + +<p><i>Jones</i>. "EPICURE!"</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>TO A PHEASANT.</h2> + +<h3 class="sc">A Sportsmanlike(?) Song for September.</h3> + +<center>AIR—"<i>You are Queen of my Heart To-night</i>."</center> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">I Stand in the copses sighing</p> +<p class="i4">As the cruel hours creep by,</p> +<p class="i2">And I see you slowly flying</p> +<p class="i4">Above the trees on high.</p> +<p class="i2">Your wondrous wealth, of feather</p> +<p class="i4">Has weaved a subtle spell,</p> +<p class="i2">And I softly wonder whether</p> +<p class="i4">You'd really taste as well.</p> +<p class="i2">For my hand is fairly steady</p> +<p class="i4">Though my heart is beating fast,</p> +<p class="i2">Oh, tell me that you too are ready</p> +<p class="i4">To make this hour your last.</p> +<p>For repentance may come when we're sober,</p> +<p class="i2">Let's seize on the chance while we may;</p> +<p>Then why should we wait till October?</p> +<p class="i2">Oh! Why not be shot to-day?</p> +<p class="i2">Oh! tell me why, why should I remember</p> +<p class="i4">With a thought of wild alarm,</p> +<p class="i2">That all through the month of sweet September</p> +<p class="i4">You should be free from harm.</p> +<p class="i2">Why, why does your beauty enslave me,</p> +<p class="i4">As it does, you're bound to allow</p> +<p class="i2">Oh! say but the word that will save me,</p> +<p class="i4">And tell me to shoot you now.</p> +<p class="i2">For my heart is wildly beating</p> +<p class="i4">(As it's often done before),</p> +<p class="i2">And the moments madly fleeting</p> +<p class="i4">Are going to come never more.</p> +<p>For repentance may come when we're sober,</p> +<p class="i2">Let's seize on the chance while we may,</p> +<p>Then why should we wait till October?</p> +<p class="i2">Oh! Why not be shot to-day?</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>"THE GRATUITOUS OPINION."</h2> + +<h4>(<i>A Story for the Long Vacation</i>.)</h4> + +<p>The Eminent Lawyer was about to return to his private address, +when there was a knock at the door of his Chambers. He attended to +the summons himself, and found facing him an elderly and carefully +dressed individual.</p> + +<p>"That some of my suburban neighbours desire the information, +must be my excuse for troubling you," said the visitor.</p> + +<p>"Nay, do not apologise," returned the Eminent Q.C., "it is my +pleasantest duty to give legal tips or applications to anybody. It is +not altogether lucrative, as I deliver them for nothing, but then on +the other hand, they are suitable for insertion in the papers, and +that is a comforting consideration. What can I do for you?"</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width:40%;"><a href="images/130-2.png"><img width="100%" src="images/130-2.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<p>"I have to ask you on behalf of my suburban neighbours," continued +the visitor, "whether there +is any principle which is accepted by +Judges to regulate their decisions in +cases where drunkenness seems to be the incentive of crime?"</p> + +<p>"I shall only be too glad to find +a solution to a problem which appears one of great difficulty—the +more especially as certain inhabitants of the suburbs are so deeply +interested in the subject. It seems to me that some Judges think one +way and some another."</p> + +<p>"That is strange," murmured the visitor. "Cannot their Lordships +come to a common conclusion?"</p> + +<p>"I fear not," replied the Eminent +Counsel, with a mournful smile. "It is merely a question of opinion. +However, I take it that one +would be perfectly safe to commit a murder under the influence of +<i>delirium tremens</i>."</p> + +<p>"I am infinitely obliged to you for the information," said the +visitor, "as now I know what to do."</p> + +<p>"You are not homicidal, I trust!" exclaimed the Lawyer, jumping +up from his chair, and taking protection behind a desk. +"I have the greatest possible objection to homicidal clients."</p> + +<p>"Be under no apprehension," was the reply. "I have a strong +desire to shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve +to do it. If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?"</p> + +<p>The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied. +"I have no wish to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted +my time for consideration, I would propose that you should try the +matter for yourself. Become intoxicated, put yourself within the +clutches of the law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap."</p> + +<p>"You are very good," returned the would-be homicide, "but I have +one difficulty. When I make up my mind to remove a person by +unconventional means (for choice, a carving-knife), and consume the +necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication—"</p> + +<p>"Yes," interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.</p> + +<p>"I find, on reaching intoxication, that I have entirely forgotten the +identity of the man I have marked for my victim. Then I have got to +grow sober before I can remember who it is. Annoying, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>And, wishing the Eminent Counsel +a pleasant holiday, the visitor disappeared into the Inner Temple.</p> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>[pg 131]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href="images/131.png"><img width="100%" src="images/131.png" alt="AT THE SOUTH SEA-SIDE." /></a><h3>AT THE SOUTH SEA-SIDE.</h3></div> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>[pg 132]</span> + +<h2>THE HAT TO THE PARASOL.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>A Scherzo in Nobs and Sticks.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="figright" style="width:55%;"><a href="images/132-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/132-1.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Reflection polished of highbred</p> +<p class="i2">And unreflecting graces,</p> +<p>I scintillate o'er STREPHON's head</p> +<p class="i2">At gala, rout or races;</p> +<p>Mine is the black but comely blend,</p> +<p class="i2">And mine the crowning touches</p> +<p>That so demurely recommend</p> +<p class="i2">The dandy to the duchess.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Out on thee, cruel Parasol,</p> +<p class="i2">Of lace, the pearl, and satin;</p> +<p>And glinting like a fairy doll</p> +<p class="i2">With many a burnished patin;</p> +<p>Cool, charming as the dainty dame</p> +<p class="i2">Who twirls thy coromandel;</p> +<p>Thou flauntest proudly since thy name,</p> +<p class="i2">Like hers, can boast its handle!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>The cynosure of wondering <i>beaux</i>,</p> +<p class="i2">I boast a soul above thee;</p> +<p>No fate can mar my calm repose,</p> +<p class="i2">Or make me cease to love thee;</p> +<p>Supreme above the common tile,</p> +<p class="i2">My own affronts unheeding,</p> +<p>I bow and compliment and smile,</p> +<p class="i2">The Chesterfield of breeding.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Out on thee, trinket idly swayed!</p> +<p class="i2">Could any courtier dare see,</p> +<p>Through such perfections so displayed,</p> +<p class="i2">The mere "<i>Belle Dame sans merci</i>"?</p> +<p>Could man believe a thing so soft,</p> +<p class="i2">So framed for gentle passion,</p> +<p>Might wound, and wound not once but oft</p> +<p class="i2">The jaunty glass of fashion?</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Yet sooth it is; and here I stand</p> +<p class="i2">A martyr to my tenets—</p> +<p>That orthodoxy smooth and grand</p> +<p class="i2">Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's;</p> +<p>Unruffled once and unperplexed,</p> +<p class="i2">Collapsing now like jelly,</p> +<p>And but a sermon on the text</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Sic transit lux capelli</i>.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>I who have braved our fitful climes</p> +<p class="i2">And laughed when tempest drenches,</p> +<p>And shaken off the dust that grimes</p> +<p class="i2">Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,</p> +<p>Survived the counterblasting Row,</p> +<p class="i2">And Summer gales that roar so—</p> +<p>I ne'er imagined such a foe</p> +<p class="i2">Could trounce me to a torso.</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>A Sensible Song for the Silly Season.</i>)</h4> + +<blockquote class="note"><p> +["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not +leave us perfectly equipped."—<i>The Daily News +on "Why Young Men Don't Marry."</i>] +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>The Tater and the Heptarchy</p> +<p class="i2">Were walking hand-in-hand;</p> +<p>They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see</p> +<p class="i2">The folly of the land;</p> +<p>"If fools would not talk fiddlededee,"</p> +<p class="i2">They said "it <i>would</i> be grand!"</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"If modest maids with towzled mops</p> +<p class="i2">On <i>you</i> and <i>me</i> were clear,</p> +<p>Do you suppose," the Tater said,</p> +<p class="i2">"More men would wed each year?"</p> +<p>"I doubt it," said the Heptarchy—</p> +<p class="i2">"They only mean to sneer!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!'</p> +<p class="i2">They—shamming love—beseech.</p> +<p>'Oh, tell us about Saxon times!</p> +<p class="i2">The course of history teach!'</p> +<p>But what they really want is 'tin;'</p> +<p class="i2">A thumping share for each.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"A girl may cook like any <i>chef</i>,</p> +<p class="i2">And know all HALLAM through,</p> +<p>May be a dab at darning socks,</p> +<p class="i2">Or making Irish stew;</p> +<p>But what young cubs care for is cash,</p> +<p class="i2">And not for me <i>or</i> you.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"They want to lead an easy life,</p> +<p class="i2">And have good weeds and wine.</p> +<p>Without these luxuries, a wife</p> +<p class="i2">They scornfully decline.</p> +<p>For <i>Benedick's</i> life of manly strife</p> +<p class="i2">The fops are far too fine."</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"The Season's come," the Tater said,</p> +<p class="i2">"To write of many things:</p> +<p>Of frocks—and socks—and needle-work—</p> +<p class="i2">And babes—and bonnet-strings;</p> +<p>But all the lot talk utter rot.</p> +<p class="i2">Let the fools have their flings!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls,</p> +<p class="i2">Their wastefulness, their waist,</p> +<p>Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls,</p> +<p class="i2">Their matrimonial haste,</p> +<p>Are the crude chat of cubs and churls,</p> +<p class="i2">And in the vilest taste.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>"But when they prate of you and me,</p> +<p class="i2">As the two gifts <i>they</i> want,</p> +<p>Say Classic lore and Cookery</p> +<p class="i2">Are things for which <i>they</i> pant;</p> +<p>Believe me, my dear Heptarchy,</p> +<p class="i2">They plumb profoundest Cant!"</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>SEA-SIDE ILLS.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>By Our Man Over-bored.</i>)</h4> + +<h3>SEA-SIDYLL—THE PIER BAND.</h3> + +<div class="figright" style="width:33%;"><a href="images/132-2.png"><img width="100%" src="images/132-2.png" alt="" /></a></div> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>'Tis the Band of the Corporation—</p> +<p>And it plays on that body's pier;</p> +<p class="i2">And one knows by the way</p> +<p class="i2">That the instruments play,</p> +<p>That the talent is not too dear.</p> +<p>And the trombone is not too clear;</p> +<p class="i2">When it has to play quick</p> +<p class="i2">It is moistful and thick,</p> +<p>For the trombone is fond of beer—</p> +<p>It is nurtured on pots of beer.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>'Tis the Band of the Corporation—</p> +<p>And the cornet is fat just here;</p> +<p class="i2">And he's short, and bull-necked.</p> +<p class="i2">When you come to reflect</p> +<p>How he wastes all his wind, 'tis queer</p> +<p>That the man should be stout just here!</p> +<p class="i2">But the noise of the throat</p> +<p class="i2">In the solos denote</p> +<p>That the cornet is fond of beer—</p> +<p>It's been brought up on pots of beer.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>'Tis the Band of the Corporation—</p> +<p>And I know why that Band is queer,</p> +<p class="i2">For I see in the face</p> +<p class="i2">Of the trombone a trace</p> +<p>Of the blackguard who blows it near</p> +<p>Me in Town, at most times of year!</p> +<p class="i2">And I mark, too, the face</p> +<p class="i2">Of that beastly big-bass—</p> +<p>(Which has also been reared on beer)—</p> +<p class="i2">And I know, too, the face</p> +<p class="i2">Of that other disgrace,</p> +<p>The fat cornet! They've come down here—</p> +<p>They've been borrowed, and lent new gear!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">But I know them of old,</p> +<p class="i2">And in spite of the gold</p> +<p>Round the hats, with the peaks just here,</p> +<p>I can see who they are while near.</p> +<p class="i2">They wear bowlers in Town,</p> +<p class="i2">And frock-coats which are brown,</p> +<p>On account of their age—or beer!</p> +<p>For they play to the public for beer;</p> +<p class="i2">For they stand and they blow</p> +<p class="i2">On the kerb in a row,</p> +<p>And then go to the public for beer!</p> +<p>And so this is the Band down here!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"THREE CHOIRS FESTIVAL."—Curious coincidence, +if true, that when Miss JESSIE KING +was charmingly giving the contralto song, +"<i>While my Watch I'm Keeping</i>," a gentleman +in the crowded audience suddenly put his +hand to his waistcoat-pocket and exclaimed, +"Good gracious! it's gone!" He will never +forget the title of that song. The watch was off its guard.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><font size="+1">☞</font> NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed +Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will +in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed +Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. 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