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|
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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105,
September 16th, 1893, by Various
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 www.gutenberg.org
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 16th, 1893
Author: Various
Editor: Sir Francis Burnand
Release Date: September 30, 2011 [EBook #37575]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***
Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>[pg 121]</span>
<h1>Punch, or the London Charivari</h1>
<h2>Volume 105, September 16th 1893</h2>
<h4><i>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</i></h4>
<hr class="full" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/121-800.png"><img src="images/121-400.png" width="400" height="476" alt="A CROWDED HOUSE." /></a>
<h2 class="sans">A CROWDED HOUSE.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>Angry Voice (from a backseat).</i> "<span class="sc">Ears off in Front there,
please!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>THE STRIKER'S VADE MECUM.</h2>
<div class="ind2">
<p><i>Question.</i> You think it is a good thing to strike?</p>
<p><i>Answer.</i> Yes, when there is no other remedy.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> Is there ever any other remedy?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Never. At least, so say the secretaries.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> Then you stand by the opinions of the officials?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Why, of course; because they are paid to give them.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But have not the employers any interests?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Lots, but they are not worthy the working-man's consideration.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But are not their interests yours?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Yes, and that is the way we guard over them.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But surely it is the case of cutting off the nose to spite
the mouth?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> And why not, if the mouth is too well fed.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But are not arguments better than bludgeons?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> No, and bludgeons are less effective than revolvers.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But may not the use of revolvers produce the military?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Yes, but they can do nothing without a magistrate reading
the Riot Act.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But, the Riot Act read, does not the work become serious?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Probably. But at any rate the work is lawful, because
unremunerative.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But how are the wives and children of strikers to live if
their husbands and fathers earn no wages?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> On strike money.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But does all the strike money go to the maintenance of
the hearth and the home?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Of course not, for a good share of it is wanted for the
baccy-shop and the public-house.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But if strikes continue will not trade suffer?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Very likely, but trade represents the masters.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> And if trade is driven away from the country will it
come back?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Most likely not, but that is a matter for the future.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> But is not the future of equal importance to the present?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Not at all, for a day's thought is quite enough for a
day's work.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> Then a strike represents either nothing or idleness?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Yes, bludgeons or beer.</p>
<p><i>Q.</i> And what is the value of reason?</p>
<p><i>A.</i> Why, something less than smoke.</p>
</div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>A NOVEL SHOW.</h3>
<p class="center1">["A popular place of entertainment is arranging
a Burglars' Exhibition."—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i>]
</p>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, gladly will the public pay</p>
<p class="i2">Its shillings for admission,</p>
<p>To study in a careful way</p>
<p>This most original display,</p>
<p class="i2">The Burglars' Exhibition.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Professor <span class="sc">Sikes</span> will here explain,</p>
<p class="i2">With practical instruction,</p>
<p>How best to break a window-pane,</p>
<p>Through which his classic form may gain</p>
<p class="i2">Judicious introduction.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The jemmies, and revolvers, too,</p>
<p class="i2">Will doubtless prove enthralling,</p>
<p>And all the implements we'll view</p>
<p>With which these scientists pursue</p>
<p class="i2">Their fascinating calling;</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The most efficient type of gag</p>
<p class="i2">To silence all intrusion,</p>
<p>The latest kind of carpet-bag</p>
<p>Wherein to bear the bulky "swag"</p>
<p class="i2">To some remote seclusion.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Then, by this exhibition's aid,</p>
<p class="i2">The art will spread to others,</p>
<p>And those who ply this busy trade</p>
<p>Will, in a year or two, be made</p>
<p class="i2">A noble band of brothers.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The thief of olden time we'll see</p>
<p class="i2">As seldom as the dodo;</p>
<p>The burglar's future aim will be</p>
<p>To join the <i>fortiter in re</i></p>
<p class="i2">And <i>suaviter in modo</i>!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">The Most Unpardonable "Misuse of
Words."</span>—Making after-dinner speeches.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>CONVERSION À LA MODE.</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Scene</span>—<i>A Government Office. A</i> Government
Official <i>discovered</i>.</p>
<div class="ind1">
<p><i>To him enter a</i> Petitioner.</p>
<p><i>Petitioner.</i> I really think, Sir, that the
time has arrived for a grant.</p>
<p><i>Official.</i> Impossible, my dear Sir, impossible.
I can assure you the reports are
greatly exaggerated.</p>
<p><i>Pet.</i> But do you know that the ports cannot
properly be guarded without further
financial assistance?</p>
<p><i>Off.</i> Very likely; at least, that may be the
general opinion.</p>
<p><span class="sc">Pet.</span> And Science could be far more certain
did the funds permit—you are aware of that?</p>
<p><i>Off.</i> Faddists never consider the cost of
anything.</p>
<p><i>Pet.</i> And I suppose you are aware that
it is marching towards the metropolis?</p>
<p><i>Off.</i> When it gets there it will be time to
consider the situation.</p>
<p><i>Pet.</i> Then you have not heard of the recent
affair in Westminster?</p>
<p><i>Off.</i> In Westminster! Why that is close
to the Houses of Parliament!</p>
<p><i>Pet.</i> And if I tell you that it has been
traced to the Lobby of the Commons.</p>
<p><i>Off.</i> Don't say another word, my dear Sir,
not another word. What, appeared in the
House of Commons! Why, several millions
shall be granted at once!</p>
<p class="ind">[<i>Scene closes in upon preparations of the
most active character.</i></p>
</div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">Announcement.</span>—<i>The Heavenly Twins</i>
has had a success. It will be followed by a
treatise on gout by Mrs. <span class="sc">Sarah Gamp</span>, M.D.,
to be entitled <i>The Uneavenly Twinge.</i></p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>"SOCIAL TEST-WORDS."</h2>
<p class="center1">
[An American writer in <i>The Critic</i> has an article
on this subject.]
</p>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Two "social questions" soon, we may expect.</p>
<p class="i2">Will, in two continents, raise a social storm:—</p>
<p>"Is it <i>correct</i> to say a thing's 'correct'"?</p>
<p class="i2">"Is it <i>good form</i> to use the phrase 'good form'"?</p>
<p>Or will both go, with those who finely feel,</p>
<p>The way of "gentlemanly," and "genteel"?</p>
<p>Shall <i>Punch</i> attempt to settle it? No, thankee!</p>
<p>He rather thinks he'll leave it to the Yankee.</p>
<p>What matters it about <i>our</i> played-out tongue?</p>
<p>(In which some good things <i>have</i> been said and sung.)</p>
<p>Let those the war of "Saxon <i>versus</i> Slang" wage,</p>
<p>Who have the charge of "the American Language."</p>
<p>That <i>has</i> a future (<span class="sc">Howell's</span> law, and Fate's!)</p>
<p>"The language of the Great United States"</p>
<p>(Unless through cant and coarseness it goes rotten)</p>
<p>The world will speak when "English" is forgotten.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>The Coming Fall.</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>The Autumn comes. We welcome it—</p>
<p class="i2">A change from Summer heat appalling.</p>
<p>The birds once more begin to flit</p>
<p class="i2">To warmer climes, the leaves are falling.</p>
<p>But portent clear as clear can be,</p>
<p class="i2">We know that Autumn comes by reasoning</p>
<p>"Look all the papers that we see</p>
<p class="i2">Are daily stuffed with silly seasoning."</p>
</div> </div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>[pg 122]</span>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">"A QUIET PIPE."</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 440px;"><a href="images/122-1000.png"><img src="images/122-440.png" width="440" height="490" alt="" /></a></div>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>"One touch of nature" kins To-day</p>
<p>With classical Arcadia.</p>
<p class="i2">This faun-like "nipper,"</p>
<p>Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on,</p>
<p>Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone,</p>
<p>And wild "Kazoos" are played upon</p>
<p class="i2">By the cheap tripper.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Half imp, half animal, behold</p>
<p>The <span class="sc">'Arry</span> of the Age of Gold</p>
<p class="i2">In this young satyr!</p>
<p>Lover of pleasure and of "lush"</p>
<p>(Silenus at the slang might blush),</p>
<p>Of haunted Nature's holy hush</p>
<p class="i2">Irreverent hater.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Mischief and music, mockery,</p>
<p>Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee,</p>
<p class="i2">And nimble finger;</p>
<p>Sardonic lips that slide with speed</p>
<p>Athwart the rangéd pastoral reed;</p>
<p>Upon these things will fancy feed,</p>
<p class="i2">And memory linger.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Imp-urchin of the budding horn,</p>
<p>Native to Nature's nascent morn,</p>
<p class="i2">The same quaint pranks</p>
<p>You played 'midst the Arcadian shade,</p>
<p>By satyrs of to-day are played;</p>
<p>Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed</p>
<p class="i8">Not shaggy shanks.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Not cheap tan kids and <span class="sc">Kino's</span> best</p>
<p>Can hide the frolic faun confest,</p>
<p class="i8">Or coarse Silenus;</p>
<p>Like <span class="sc">Spenser's</span> satyrs, they attack us,</p>
<p>With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,</p>
<p>Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,</p>
<p class="i8">And vulgar Venus.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">'Arry's</span> mouth-organ is, indeed,</p>
<p>Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,</p>
<p class="i8">Pan-fathered piper;</p>
<p>While his tin-whistle!—a wood-god,</p>
<p>Whose tympanum <i>that</i> sound should prod,</p>
<p>Would start, and shriek, as though he trod</p>
<p class="i2">Upon a viper.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend,</p>
<p>Better Arcadia than Southend</p>
<p class="i2">On a Bank-Holiday!</p>
<p>You and your Pan-pipe <i>might</i> appear,</p>
<p>And tootle, yet not rend my ear.</p>
<p>Or with a novel Panic fear</p>
<p class="i2">Upset a jolly day.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Aperch upon your branch, you carry</p>
<p>A certain likeness to our <span class="sc">'Arry</span>,</p>
<p class="i2">Yet 'tis but slight.</p>
<p>He could not sit, the noisy brute!</p>
<p>And natural music mildly flute,</p>
<p>Till the assembled nymphs were mute</p>
<p class="i2">With sheer delight.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>He'd want the banjo and the bones,</p>
<p>And rowdy words, and raucous tones,</p>
<p class="i2">And roaring chorus.</p>
<p>Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!</p>
<p>No echoes of Arcadian song</p>
<p>Sound in the screech the holiday throng</p>
<p class="i2">Rattle and roar us.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>To your shrill flutings I could listen</p>
<p>When on the grass-blades dewdrops glisten,</p>
<p class="i8">And morn is ripe.</p>
<p>Could sit and hear your pastoral reed,</p>
<p>In peace, and do myself, indeed</p>
<p>(Fair laden with "the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'fragant'">fragrant</ins> weed"),</p>
<p class="i8">"A Quiet Pipe!"</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>THE HIGHLAND "CADDIE."</h3>
<p class="center1">
[There has been a strike among the Golf Caddies.]
</p>
<h4><span class="sc">Air</span>—"<i>The Blue Bells of Scotland.</i>"</h4>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Oh! where, and oh! where is your Highland "Caddie" gone?</p>
<p>He's gone to join the Strike, and now "Caddie" I have none;</p>
<p>And it's oh! in my heart that I wish the Strike were done!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Oh! what, and oh! what does your Highland "Caddie" claim?</p>
<p>He wants sixpence for a round of nine holes. It is a shame,</p>
<p>And it's oh! in my heart that I fear 'twill spoil the game.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And what, tell me what, are your Highland Caddie's tricks?</p>
<p>He has "picketed the links" just to keep out all "knobsticks,"</p>
<p>And it's oh! in my heart, that I feel I'm in a fix!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Suppose, oh! suppose that all Highland Caddies strike!</p>
<p>I might have to turn up golf, and to tennis take, or "bike,"</p>
<p>But it's oh! in my heart that I do not think 'tis like!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p>"<span class="sc">Name! Name!</span>"—In a recent report from the East occurs the
delightfully-suggestive name of "<span class="sc">Seyd Bin Abed</span>." Of course he
is a relative to "<span class="sc">Seyd im Gotup Agen</span>." Or perhaps he has
changed his name from "<span class="sc">Seyd uad Bin Abed</span>" to "<span class="sc">Seyd Imon
Sopha</span>." If "Seyd" be not pronounced as "Seed" but as "Said,"
the above titles can be altered to match. True or not, yet "so it is
Seyd." The news in which this name occurs appears to have reached
the correspondent through a person called "<span class="sc">Rumaliza</span>." Can anything
coming from a female styled "<span class="sc">Rum Eliza</span>" be credible?</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl"><span class="sc">Out of Court.</span>—A sharp young lady listening to a conversation
about witnesses being sworn in Court, interrupted with "I don't
know much about kissing the book, but if I didn't like him, I'd soon
bring the kisser to book."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>AT THE SHAFTESBURY.</h2>
<p>The few theatres now open seem to be doing uncommonly good
business. The Shaftesbury, with <i>Morocco Bound</i>, was as nearly full
as it could be in the first week of September, when the cry is not
yet "They are coming back," but they are remaining away. Another
week will make all the difference. <i>Morocco Bound</i> is not a piece at
all, but a sort of variety show, just held together by the thinnest
thread of what, for want of a better word, may be temporarily dignified
as "plot." Mr. <span class="sc">Charles Danby</span> is decidedly funny in it. Mr.
<span class="sc">Templar Saxe</span> is a pretty singer. Mr. <span class="sc">George Grossmith</span> well
sustains the eccentric reputation of his family name; and, if any
opposition manager could induce the present representative of
<i>Spoofah Bey</i> to appear at another house, it would be "all up"
with <i>Morocco Bound</i>, as such a transfer would entirely take
"the Shine" out of <i>this</i> piece. Miss <span class="sc">Jennie McNulty</span> does nothing
in particular admirably; and Miss <span class="sc">Letty Lind</span>, charming in her
<i>entr'acte</i> of skirt-dancing, is still better in her really capital dance
with the agile <span class="sc">Charles Danby</span>. This entertainment has reached
its hundred and fiftieth night (!!!), and all those who are prevented
from going North to stalk the wily grouse may do worse
than spend a night among the Moors in <i>Morocco Bound</i>. Oddly
enough, but quite appropriately, the acting-manager in front, who
looks after the fortunes of Morocco and its Moors, is Mr. <span class="sc">A. Blackmore</span>.
Out of compliment he might have let in an "a" after the
"k," dropped the final "e," and given himself a second "o." Still,
in keeping with the fitness of things, he has done well in being there.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>ANCIENT SAWS RESET.</h3>
<p class="ind2">"All work and no pay makes <span class="sc">Jack</span> a striking boy."</p>
<p class="ind2">"All pay and no work makes <span class="sc">Jack's</span> employer go without a shirt."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind">During the recent tropical weather, Mrs. R. observed that it was
the only time in her life when she would have given anything "just
to have got a little cold."</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>[pg 123]</span>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 650px;"><a href="images/123-1500.png"><img src="images/123-600.png" width="600" height="384" alt="ON HIS HONEYMOON TOO!" /></a>
<h2 class="sans">ON HIS HONEYMOON TOO!</h2>
<p><i>Man with Sand Ponies.</i> "<span class="sc">Now then, Mister, you an' the Young Lady, a
Pony apiece? 'Ere y'are!</span>"</p>
<p><i>Snobley (loftily).</i> "<span class="sc">Aw—I'm not accustomed to that Class of
Animal.</span>"</p>
<p><i>Man (readily).</i> "<span class="sc">Ain't yer, Sir? Ne' mind.</span>" (<i>To Boy.</i>)
"<span class="sc">'Ere, Bill, look sharp! Gent'll have a Donkey!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>"THE BOOK THAT FAILED."</h2>
<blockquote><p>
[A publisher writes to <i>The Author</i> to say that, for the first time in his
experience, the writer of a book which was not a success has sent him an
unsolicited cheque to compensate him for the loss he has sustained by
producing it.]
</p></blockquote>
<h3><span class="sc">As Things are To-day.</span></h3>
<p><i>Publisher (nastily).</i> I tell you that it's no earthly use your asking
about profits, because there are none.</p>
<p><i>Author (amazed).</i> No profits! And you really mean to tell me
that the public has not thought fit to purchase my shilling work of
genius—<i>The Maiming of Mendoza?</i> By our agreement only a
paltry six thousand copies of the work had to be bought before my
royalty of a penny a volume began.</p>
<p><i>Publisher.</i> I am quite aware of it. The sale of the six thousand
copies would just about have repaid us for cost of production.
As a matter of fact, only three thousand have been sold. We've lost
heavily, and very much regret we were ever induced to accept
the work.</p>
<p><i>Author.</i> And you really ask me to believe that after such a sale as
that a loss on your part is possible? Why, if you take price of
printing at——</p> <p class="right">[<i>Goes elaborately into cost of production.</i></p>
<p><i>Publisher.</i> Yes, but you see the price of everything has gone up
in our trade. Binding is now ten per cent. dearer, composing is——</p>
<p class="right">[<i>Also goes into precise and prolonged details.</i></p>
<p><i>Author (turning desperate at last).</i> Oh, let us end this chatter!
You really say that no cheque whatever is due to me for all my
labours?</p>
<p><i>Publisher.</i> Not a single penny. It's the other way about.</p>
<p><i>Author (leaving).</i> And you call this "the beneficial system of
royalties," do you? Good day! And if I don't set the Society of
Authors at you before I am a day older, then my name's not <span class="sc">Bulwer
Makepeace Defoe Smith</span>!</p> <p class="right">[<i>Exit tempestuously.</i></p>
<h3><span class="sc">As They may be To-morrow.</span></h3>
<p><i>Utterly Unknown Novelist.</i> Then I am afraid that my last three-volumed
work of fiction, in spite of the cordial way in which it was
reviewed by my brother-in-law in the <i>Weekly Dotard</i>, my maternal
uncle in the <i>Literary Spy</i>, and a few other relatives on the daily
press, has not upon the whole been a decided success?</p>
<p><i>Publisher.</i> Well, it's useless to conceal the fact, that from a mere
base material point of view, the publication of <i>The Boiling of
Benjamin</i> has not quite answered our expectations. In fact, we
have lost a couple of thousand pounds over it. But (<i>more
cheerfully</i>) what of that? It is a pleasure to lose money over
introducing good work to the public; a positive privilege to be
sacrificed on such an altar as <i>The Boiling of Benjamin</i>. So say no
more on <i>that</i> head!</p>
<p><i>U. U. Novelist (enthusiastically).</i> Good and generous man! But I
will say more! You recollect that the terms you made with me
were a thousand pounds down, and a hundred pounds a month for
life or until the copyright expired?</p>
<p><i>Publisher (groaning slightly).</i> Oh, yes! I remember it very well.</p>
<p><i>U. U. Novelist.</i> And that I have already received cheques for
one thousand and five hundred pounds, without your mentioning a
word about the loss you have been nobly and silently enduring?</p>
<p><i>Publisher.</i> An agreement's an agreement, and you are only experiencing
one result of the beneficial system of royalties.</p>
<p><i>U. U. Novelist.</i> Quite so! But if there is to be division of profits,
there should be division of losses as well. So (<i>taking out chequebook,
and hurriedly writing in it</i>) there! Not a word of thanks!
It's merely repaying you the fifteen hundred I've received, with
another thousand to compensate you for the loss on production.</p>
<p><i>Publisher (melted into tears).</i> Oh, thanks, thanks! You have
averted ruin from my starving little ones! And if you <i>should</i> wish
to bring out any other work of ——. He is gone, to escape my
gratitude! (<i>Takes up cheque.</i>) By far the best thing he ever
wrote!</p> <p class="center">(<i>Curtain.</i>)</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">Political Parallel.</span>—Mr. <span class="sc">Chamberlain</span> declared the other day
the Government were in a hole. Was it in reference to this that the
Duke of <span class="sc">Argyll</span> spoke in the Lords of Lord <span class="sc">Rosebery's</span> "Pitt"?</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">A Glass too Much (for Outsiders last Wednesday).</span>—<i>Isinglass.</i></p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>[pg 124]</span>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">UNDER THE ROSE.</h2>
<h4>(<i>A Story in Scenes.</i>)</h4>
<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Scene II.</span>—<i>Same as preceding.</i> Mr. <span class="sc">Toovey</span> <i>is slowly
recovering from the mental collapse produced by the mention of the word "Eldorado."</i></p>
<p><i>Mrs. Toovey.</i> <span class="sc">Althea</span> is out of the room, Pa, so there is no
reason why you should not speak out plainly.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Toovey (to himself).</i> No reason—oh! But I must say <i>something</i>.
If only I knew whether it was my Eldorado—but, no, it's a
mere coincidence! (<i>Aloud—shakily.</i>) <span class="sc">Charles</span>, my boy, you—you've
shocked me very much indeed, as you can see. But, about the
name of this establishment, now—isn't it a curious one for—for
a <i>music-hall</i>, <span class="sc">Charles</span>? M—mightn't it be confused
with—well—say
a <i>mine</i>, now?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T.</i> <span class="sc">Theophilus</span>, this is scarcely the tone——. I expected
you to give this misguided boy a solemn warning of the ruin he may incur by having anything to do with such a haunt.</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (to himself).</i> Ah, I'm afraid I'm only too well qualified
to do that. (<i>Aloud.</i>) I do,
<span class="sc">Charles</span>, I <i>do</i>—though at the
same time, I can quite understand
how one may, unwittingly—I
mean, you might not be
aware of——</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T.</i> You, Pa, of all people in the world, trying to find excuses
for his depravity! The very name of the place is enough to indicate its nature!</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (hastily).</i> No, my love, surely not. <i>There</i> I think you go
too far—too far altogether!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T.</i> I appeal to Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span>
to say whether such a place is a proper resort for <i>any</i>
young man.</p>
<p><i>Curphew (to himself).</i> Wish I
was well out of this! (<i>Aloud.</i>)
I—I really don't feel qualified to
give an opinion, Mrs. <span class="sc">Toovey</span>.
Many young men <i>do</i> go to them,
I believe.</p>
<p><i>Charles (to himself).</i> Is this
chap a prig, or a humbug? I'll
draw him. (<i>Aloud.</i>) I suppose,
from that, you never think of
going yourself?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T.</i> Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew's</span> tastes
are rather different from yours,
<span class="sc">Charles</span>. I am very sure that
he is never to be seen among the
audience at any music-hall, are
you, Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span>?</p>
<p><i>Curph. (to himself).</i> Could I
break it to her gently, I wonder.
(<i>Aloud.</i>) Never—my professional
duties make that impossible.</p>
<p><i>Charles (to himself).</i> I knew
he was a muff! (<i>Aloud.</i>) I
should have thought you could
easily get a pass to any place you wanted to go—in your profession.</p>
<p><i>Curph. (to himself).</i> He suspects something. (<i>Aloud.</i>) Should
you? Why?</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Oh, as you're on a newspaper, you know. Don't they
always have a free pass for everywhere?</p>
<p><i>Curph.</i> If they have, I have never had occasion to make use of it.</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Well, of course you may turn up your nose at music-halls,
and say they're not intellectual enough for you.</p>
<p><i>Curph.</i> Pardon me, I never said I turned up my nose at them,
though you'll admit they don't profess to make a strong appeal to
the intellect.</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> If they did, you wouldn't catch <i>me</i> there. But I can tell
you, it's not so bad as you seem to think; every now and then they
get hold of a really good thing. You might do worse than drop into
the El. or the Val., the Valhalla, you know, some evening—just
to hear <span class="sc">Walter Wildfire</span>.</p>
<p><i>Curph.</i> Much obliged; but I can't imagine myself going there
for such a purpose.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T.</i> <span class="sc">Charles</span>, if you suppose Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span> would allow
himself
to be corrupted by a boy like you——</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> But look here, Aunt. <span class="sc">Walter Wildfire's</span> all right—he
is <i>really</i>; he was a gentleman, and all that, before he took to
this sort of thing, and he writes all his own songs—and ripping they
are, too! His line is the Broken-down Plunger, you know.
(Mrs. T. <i>repudiates any knowledge of this type</i>.) He's got one song
about a Hansom Cabby who has to drive the girl he was engaged to
before he was broke, and she's married some other fellow since, and
has got her little daughter with her, and the child gives him his
fare, and—well, somehow it makes you feel choky when he sings it.
Even Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span> couldn't find anything to complain of in <span class="sc">Walter
Wildfire</span>!</p>
<p><i>Althea (who has entered during this speech).</i> Mamma, I can't find
your spectacles anywhere. Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span>, who is this <span class="sc">Walter
Wildfire</span> <span class="sc">Charles</span> is so enthusiastic about?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. T. (hastily).</i> No one that Mr. <span class="sc">Curphew</span> knows anything
of—and
certainly not a fit person to be mentioned in <i>your</i> hearing, my
dear, so let us say no more about it. Supper must be on the table
by this time; we had better go in, and try to find a more befitting
topic for conversation. <span class="sc">Charles</span>, have the goodness to put this—this
<i>disgraceful</i> paper in your pocket, and let me see no more of it.
I shall get your Uncle to speak to you seriously after supper.</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (aloud, with alacrity).</i> Yes, my love, I shall certainly
speak to <span class="sc">Charles</span> after supper—very seriously. (<i>To himself.</i>) And
end this awful uncertainty!</p>
<p><i>Curph. (to himself, as he follows
to the Dining-room).</i> "Not
a fit person to be mentioned in
her hearing!" I wonder. Would
<i>she</i> say the same if she knew?
When shall I be able to tell her?
It would be madness as yet.</p>
<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Scene III.</span>—<i>The Study.</i> Mr.
<span class="sc">Toovey</span> and <span class="sc">Charles</span> <i>are alone
together</i>. Mr. <span class="sc">Toovey</span> <i>has
found it impossible to come to
the point</i>.</p>
<p><i>Charles (looking at his watch).</i>
I say, Uncle, I'm afraid I must
trouble you for that wigging at
once, if I'm going to catch my
train back. You've only seven-and-a-half
minutes left to exhort
me in, so make the most of it.</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (with embarrassment).</i>
Yes, <span class="sc">Charles</span>, but—I don't wish
to be hard on you, my boy—we
are all liable to err, and—and, in
point of fact, the reason I was
a little upset at the mention of
the Eldorado is, that a very dear
old friend of mine, <span class="sc">Charles</span>,
has lately lost a considerable sum
through investing in a Company
of the same name—and, just for
the moment, it struck me that
it might have been the music-hall—which
of course is absurd,
eh?</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Rather! He couldn't
possibly have lost it in the <i>music-hall</i>,
Uncle; it's ridiculous!</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (relieved).</i> Just what I
thought. A man in his—ah—responsible
position—oh no. But
he's lost it in this other Company.
And they've demanded a hundred and seventy-five pounds over
and above the five hundred he paid on his shares. Now <i>you</i> know
the law. Can they <i>do</i> that, <span class="sc">Charles</span>? Is he legally liable to pay?</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Couldn't possibly say without knowing all the facts.
It's a Limited Company, I suppose?</p>
<p><i>Mr. T.</i> I—I don't know, <span class="sc">Charles</span>, but I can show you the
official document which—ah—happens to be in my hands. I'm
afraid I didn't examine it very carefully—I was too upset. (<i>He
goes to his secrétaire, and returns with a paper, which he offers
for</i> <span class="sc">Charles's</span> <i>inspection</i>.) You won't mind my covering up the
name? My—my friend wouldn't care for it to be seen—I'm
sure.</p>
<p><i>Charles (glances at the top of the paper, and roars with
laughter).</i> I say, Uncle, your friend <i>must</i> be a jolly old juggins!</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (miserably).</i> I don't think he could be described as <i>jolly</i>
just now, <span class="sc">Charles</span>.</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> No, but I mean, not all there, you know—trifle weak
in the upper story.</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (with dignity).</i> He never professed to be a man of business,
<span class="sc">Charles</span>, any more than myself, and his inexperience was
shamefully abused—<i>most</i> shamefully!</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Abused! But look here, Uncle, do you mean to say you
don't see that this is a dividend warrant!</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>[pg 125]</span>
<p><i>Mr. T.</i> I believe that is
what they call it. And—and
is he bound to send them a cheque for it at once, <span class="sc">Charles</span>?</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Send them a
cheque? Great <span class="sc">Scott</span>! Why
it <i>is</i> a cheque! They're paying
<i>him</i>. It's the half-yearly
dividend on his five hundred,
at the rate of seventy per cent.
And he was going to——Oh,
Lord!</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 300px;"><a href="images/124-1000.png"><img src="images/124-300.png" width="300" height="372" alt="'If I were you, I wouldn't mention this to Aunt.'" /></a>
<p class="center">"If I were you, I wouldn't mention this to Aunt."</p></div>
<p><i>Mr. T. (rising, and shaking
C.'s hands with effusion).</i> My
<i>dear</i> <span class="sc">Charles</span>; how can I
thank you? If you <i>knew</i>
what a load you've taken off
my mind! Then the Company
<i>isn't</i> bankrupt—it's
paying seventy per cent.!
Why, I needn't mind telling
your Aunt. (<i>With restored
complacency.</i>) Of course, my
boy, I have never occupied
myself with City matters—but,
none the less, I believe
I can trust my natural
shrewdness—I had a sort of
instinct, <span class="sc">Charles</span>, from the
first, that that mine was
perfectly sound. I knew I
could trust <span class="sc">Larkins</span>.</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> <i>You</i>, Uncle! Then
it was <i>you</i> who was your
friend all the time? Oh,
you're really <i>too</i> rich, you
know!</p>
<p><i>Mr. T.</i> I have never desired
it; but it will certainly be a
very useful addition to our—ah—modest
income, <span class="sc">Charles</span>.
But you should check yourself,
my boy, in this—ah—immoderate
laughter. There is nothing that I can see to cause
such mirth in the fact of your
Uncle's having made a fortunate
investment in a gold-mine.</p>
<p><i>Charles (as soon as he can
speak).</i> But it <i>ain't</i> a mine,
Uncle, it—it's the music-hall! Give you my word it is. If you
don't believe me, look at the address on the warrant, and you'll see
it's the same as on this programme. You're a shareholder in the
Eldorado Palace of Varieties, Piccadilly!</p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (falling back).</i> No, <span class="sc">Charles</span>! I—I acquired them in the
most perfect innocence!</p>
<p><i>Charles.</i> Innocence! I'd back you for that against an entire
Infant School, Uncle. But I say, I must be off now. If I were you,
I <i>wouldn't</i> mention this to Aunt. And look here. I'd better leave
you this. (<i>He hands him the Eldorado programme.</i>) It's more in
your line than mine now.</p> <p class="ind2">[<i>He goes out, and is heard chuckling in
the hall and down to the front gate.</i></p>
<p><i>Mr. T. (alone).</i> That ribald, unfeeling boy! <i>What</i> a Sunday
I've had! And how am I ever to tell <span class="sc">Cornelia</span> now? (<i>A bell rings.</i>)
That's to call the servants up to prayers. (<i>He stuffs the programme
into his pocket hastily, and rises.</i>) No, I can't. I <i>can't</i> conduct
family prayers with the knowledge that I'm a shareholder in—in a Palace
of Varieties! I shall slip quietly off to bed.</p>
<p><i>Phœbe (entering).</i> Missus wished me to tell you she was only waiting
for you, Sir.</p>
<p><i>Mr. T.</i> <span class="sc">Phœbe</span>, tell your mistress I'm feeling poorly again,
and have gone to bed. (<i>To himself.</i>) If I could only be sure I don't talk
in my sleep!</p> <p class="ind2">[<i>He shuffles upstairs.</i></p>
<p class="center"><span class="sc">End of Scene III.</span></p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl"><span class="sc">A (Frequently) Rising M.P.</span>—Mr. <span class="sc">T. G. Bowles</span> is quite "a
new boy" in the House, yet has he none of the diffidence of most
other new boys. His continuous questions and his easy oratory will
win for him the styles and titles of "The Flowing <span class="sc">Bowles</span>" and
"The Sparkling <span class="sc">Bowles</span>." If <i>Mr. P.</i> adopts him as a frequent and
favourite subject for an object lesson, such as were <span class="sc">Sibthorpe</span> and
some others in past times, he may attain the very highest position as
"<span class="sc">Bowles</span> of <i>Punch</i>."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"><a href="images/125-800.png"><img src="images/125-350.png" width="350" height="486" alt="BREAKING IT GENTLY." /></a>
<h2 class="sans">BREAKING IT GENTLY.</h2>
<p><i>Son of the House (who wishes to say something polite about our friend's
astounding shooting, but who cannot palter with the truth).</i> "<span class="sc">I should
think you were awfully clever at Books, Sir!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">POLITICS IN SOUTH AMERICA.</h2>
<h4>(<i>From our Special Correspondent on the Spot.</i>)</h4>
<p><i>Monday.</i>—Everyone is
afraid that the action of the
Government in imposing a tax
upon cycles will have serious
effects. Although the fleet do
not use the carriages thus surcharged,
it is not unlikely the
armour-plated <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'cruised'">cruiser</ins> <i>Impartial</i>
may threaten to bombard
the capital. Altogether the
situation is critical.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—My fears were
well-founded. The capital has
been bombarded, but not on
account of the cycle tax, but
to show that the commander
of the armour-plated cruiser
<i>Impartial</i> objects to the proposed
equalisation of Poor
Rates. Fortunately the Government
torpedo-catcher
<i>Cupid</i> was able to beat off the
<i>Impartial</i> before serious damage
could be done. Still, the
question of the acquisition of
the telegraphs is causing
much excitement amongst the
army.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—My worst
fears are realised. The General
in command of the garrison
has made the Church Tithes
question a <i>casus belli</i>. As the
Government insisted upon proceeding
with the second reading,
the General thought it his
duty to set fire to all the public
offices. This is considered to
be an extreme step by many
important members of the
Opposition.</p>
<p><i>Thursday.</i>—This morning
dense bodies of troops arrived
opposite the House of Representatives,
with a view to bringing pressure to bear upon
the opponents to the Public Baths and Wash-house Bill, which it
will be remembered passed through the Committee stage with the
assistance of a cavalry regiment and three batteries of artillery.</p>
<p><i>Friday.</i>—The Budget has disappointed both the fleet and the
army, the combined forces have taken possession of the capital, and
the Government is practically overturned.</p>
<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Matters are still unsettled. The capital is still in
possession of the insurgents. The Premier has been released on condition
that he promises to bring in a Bill for the improvement of the
Law of Bankruptcy early next Session. It is rumoured that a body
of fresh troops are on their way to the metropolis in charge of a
measure for the Abolition of Tithes, which they desire to carry
through the Upper House at the point of the bayonet.</p>
<p><i>Sunday.</i>—The Admiral commanding the fleet, having proclaimed
himself Dictator, attended church in state. On his way back to his
palace he was surrounded by the troops, and, after a tough engagement,
was forced to retire to his flag-ship with heavy loss. The garrison
would have attended the afternoon service <i>en grande tenue</i> had
not the fleet opened fire upon the recently evacuated cathedral. In
spite of recent events the populace still exhibit uneasiness.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">Fine Subject for Heroic Historical Cartoon.</span>—"<span class="sc">'Tommy'
Bowles</span> challenging a division." Imagine it! Grand! but unfortunately
the subject too late for pictorial treatment by one of
<i>Mr. P.'s</i> young men this week. Think how many would go to make
up a "Division"!! Remember that <span class="sc">Tommy</span> is but a Unit. "Unit
is strength," says T. G. B.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">The Unexpected.</span>—<i>Youthful Hereditary Legislator (seen for the
first time in the neighbourhood of Westminster last week, inquires of
Policeman).</i> "Aw—can you—ar—direct me to the—aw—House of
Lords?"</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>[pg 126]</span>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/126-1500.png"><img src="images/126-600.png" width="600" height="370" alt="SEA-SIDE STUDIES." /></a>
<h2 class="sans">SEA-SIDE STUDIES.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>Wandering Minstrel.</i> "<span class="sc">Gurls! I'm a doocid fine Cha-appie!</span>" &c.,
&c.</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">"OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!"</h2>
<blockquote><p>
[Mr. <span class="sc">Gladstone</span> has gone on a visit to Mr.
<span class="sc">George Armitstead</span>, at Black Craig Castle,
Perthshire. Mr. <span class="sc">Henry Gladstone</span> stated that
the Prime Minister would receive no deputations,
and that the holiday would be purely recuperative.]
</p></blockquote>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p class="i6"><i>Pensive Premier museth</i>:—</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Purely recuperative! Ah! precisely.</p>
<p>Leave me alone, and I shall manage nicely.</p>
<p>How the bees boom amidst the purple heather!</p>
<p>Better than <span class="sc">Bowles</span> and <span class="sc">Bartley</span>! (<i>Yawn.</i>) Wonder whether</p>
<p><i>They</i>'re "booming" still about Sir <span class="sc">William's</span> head;</p>
<p>Buz-wuz! Buz-wuz! And raspy Russell, red</p>
<p>With Orange rage, shakes he a towzled crest?</p>
<p>Creaks he continual challenge, spear in rest?</p>
<p>Wags he a menacing fore-finger still</p>
<p>At me through stout Sir <span class="sc">William</span>? Poor Sir <span class="sc">Will</span>!</p>
<p>How he'd like <i>this</i>! How little he likes <i>that</i>!</p>
<p>Purely recuperative! Here I've sat</p>
<p>Since luncheon—ruminating, reading, napping,</p>
<p>Thank heaven I cannot hear Lord <span class="sc">Kelvin</span> clapping</p>
<p><span class="sc">Castletown's</span> callow clap-trap. All is still.</p>
<p>There's nothing near I wish to stalk or kill.</p>
<p>Like Melancholy <i>Jaques</i>, I can note</p>
<p>The branchy antlers and the dappled coat</p>
<p>Of "poor sequestered stag," and yet not yearn</p>
<p>To—make him venison. Yon brabbling burn</p>
<p>Makes mellower music in my Scottish ears.</p>
<p>Then the <span class="sc">Macallum's</span> slogan. How the cheers</p>
<p>Of <span class="sc">Salisbury</span> must have fired him as he smote;</p>
<p>Hacked at my character, hewed at my throat</p>
<p>Like "sullen spearsman" upon Flodden field.</p>
<p>The claymore, like his sires, he loved to wield.</p>
<p>They lost their heads he says, for England's weal,</p>
<p>And he—well, has he not lost <i>his</i>?</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i26"> I feel</p>
<p>The mellow moorland air, gorse-scented, bland</p>
<p>With heather odour, soothes me, like the hand</p>
<p>Of gentle woman on an angry brow.</p>
<p>Were the great-little Scotsman with me now,</p>
<p>Like proud <span class="sc">McGregor</span> on his native heath,</p>
<p>Breathing pure-scented, honey-laden breath,</p>
<p>How his cock-nose would drop, his flaming crest</p>
<p>Droop and unruffle! He's a scold confest,</p>
<p>A pedagogue incarnate; horn-book, tawse.</p>
<p>Cramming and chastisement, not making laws,</p>
<p>His talent and his temperament best befit.</p>
<p>Yet—once he lent his eloquence and wit</p>
<p>To aid the man he now maligns. Ah, me!</p>
<p>"Tricky!"—"corrupt!" What arrant fiddle-de-dee</p>
<p>It sounds—upon these moors, beneath the blue</p>
<p>Of unpolluted skies!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i18"> <span class="sc">Homer</span>, to you</p>
<p>I turn. <span class="sc">Achilles</span> in his wrath could rage,</p>
<p>But scarce would stoop the wordy war to wage</p>
<p>With poisoned epithet and shrewish flout</p>
<p>Like scorpion-tongued <span class="sc">Thersites</span>.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i18"> Here, no doubt,</p>
<p>By Black Craig Castle party wasps would turn</p>
<p>To honey-hiving bees. Oh, tinkling burn,</p>
<p>You set my soul to music. <span class="sc">Honest John</span>,</p>
<p>Valiant Sir <span class="sc">William</span>, you must still fight on</p>
<p>A little longer. Would ye both were here.</p>
<p><span class="sc">Armitstead's</span> guests, like me, like me with cheer</p>
<p>"Purely recuperative" holiday</p>
<p>To take—"Over the Hills and Far Away!"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i10">[<i>Left lolling like a Lotus-eater.</i></p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>AN OLD FRIEND DUE NORTH.</h2>
<p>For a really humorous drawing commend
me to the picture in the <i>Daily Graphic</i> of
Saturday, September 9, representing "the
civic procession to the luncheon given to Lord
and Lady <span class="sc">Aberdeen</span> by the Lord Mayor of
Liverpool." The stately party is preceded
by a Piper—of course, it is his worship the
Mayor and common councillors who pay the
piper and call the tune on this occasion—who
is stepping out jauntily. But notice his
glance; notice the Mayor's expression as he
tries to prevent himself laughing, and hides
one eye with the sword of State; notice Lord
and Lady <span class="sc">Aberdeen</span>, the latter looking a
trifle annoyed, while his Lordship is struggling
with painfully suppressed merriment. What
is it that has nearly upset their gravity and
spoilt the procession? The explanation is at
hand. On the left of the picture in the
foreground stands, <i>en evidence</i> it is true, but
with a reverential air as of one who knows
his place in society and keeps it, our old
friend and contributor, <i>Robert the Waiter</i>!!
It must be he. It is the very man, unless
he has a Scotch double, or unless he was born
a twin, and the other <span class="sc">Robert</span> was a Scotchman.
There he is. Get the paper and see.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl"><span class="sc">Noah's Ark Masonry.</span>—For the first
time <i>Mr. Punch</i>, G.A.U.W.G.M., and Past
Grand Everybody, met with mention of the
"Royal Ark Mariners." Do they belong to
an offshoot, or rather an Olive Branch, of
Free-Masonry? "There are 3980 of them,"
says the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. Where do they
meet? In an Ark? Do they enter in pairs?
Of course, <span class="sc">Noah</span> himself was a Mason, seeing
that aboard his own vessel <i>he</i> was Sailing
Master of the Craft.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>[pg 127]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/127-1500.png"><img src="images/127-600.png" width="600" height="456" alt="'OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!'" /></a>
<h2>"OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!"</h2></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>[pg 128]</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>[pg 129]</span>
<h2 class="sans">THE MAN IN THE SOUTH.</h2>
<p>Having on some occasions during, I admit, the spring and autumn,
spent a few days at Pinemouth on the South-Western Coast, and
having had the enormous value of the place as an ultra salubrious
health-restorer most energetically impressed upon me from time to
time by such thoroughly disinterested persons as local members of
the medical profession who, as a rule, took their holiday during the
summer season, merely because they couldn't get the opportunity
at any other time—a fact in itself going a long way (as they themselves
did—to Switzerland
and elsewhere) to prove the
peculiar healthfulness of this
seaside resort, and the place
having been further highly
recommended (by residents
who, having houses to let
for the summer, were quite
disinterested) as quiet and
delightfully refreshing, and
having, in fact, heard all
that could be said in favour
of Pinemouth as a Summer
Resort by those who had
only the welfare of their
dear friends at heart (and
if such interest did put a
little ready capital in their
pockets through taking their
dear friends' houses—where
is the harm?), I, <span class="sc">Robinson
Crusoe</span>, Jun., "The Man
of the First of August"
(that being the beginning of
my tenancy) determined on
trying Pinemouth (a name
that I find spelt with unpardonable
familiarity in some
local guide-books, thus—"P'm'th"—an
abbreviation
leaving the name scarcely a
shred of its original character),
and when I say so
boldly, "<i>I</i> determined," any
other Paterfamilias will at
once know what <i>that</i> means.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/129-800.png"><img src="images/129-500.png" width="500" height="464" alt="Mr. Robinson Crusoe" /></a>
<p class="center">Mr. Robinson Crusoe, Junior, deciding on where to spend his few
weeks' holiday.</p></div>
<p>Of course, directly "P'm'th" was decided upon, some of our
friends shook their heads, others observed dubiously that "they
<i>had</i> heard it wasn't such a <i>very</i> bad place in August," while the
majority bade me farewell with forced cheeriness, expressed the
heartiest hopes for our health and happiness in the new climate we
were going to try, and in a general way our excellent friends and
acquaintances were almost as enthusiastic and hopeful on the score
of our enjoying ourselves and benefiting by the change, as were
the American acquaintances of <i>Martin Chuzzlewit</i> and <i>Mark Tapley</i>
when those two emigrants were starting for the great dismal swamp.</p>
<p>Finding that we had made all our arrangements, and had actually
signed and sealed the bond, and delivered ourselves over into the
hands of the "P'm'thians," our friends, who, as we subsequently
ascertained, had never been near the place, or, if they had, had been
there at a hopelessly wrong time, and had pitched their tents in an
utterly wrong quarter, made ill-disguised attempts at speaking
gently and kindly of "P'm'th," allowing that possibly "it might
not, at this time of year, be so hot as had been represented,"—a
theory which, like one recently put forward by a tender-hearted
theologian, was immediately placed in the <i>Index Expurgatorius</i> by
the Inevitable Uncompromising One who professed a thorough knowledge
of the climate, and who asserted that in this particular year,
when the Summer had been abnormally hot and was going to be
more abnormally hot than ever, we should find "P'm'th" absolutely
unbearable.</p>
<p>But, as the adventurous hero of "<i>Excelsior</i>" would listen to
nobody, so I (representing "we") refused to hear the prognosticators
of woe, and adhered
manfully to my purpose. In
the very hottest season,
when the thermometer in
every London house went
so high that it had to be
deluged with wholesome antiseptic
Condyment, and
doors and windows were
everywhere left open so as
to obtain a through draught,—for
people lived on
draughts of all sorts in those
doggiest of dog-days and
on little else,—we, that is
all the <span class="sc">Crusoes</span>, were seated
in our garden looking on to
the heather and the sea,
open to all the winds of
heaven—and getting one of
them, the south-east, blowing
softly and sweetly across
our south-western height.
Gracefully and gratefully
we arose to play tennis, and
sat down again after the
evening meal to take our
coffee and cigarettes. Bless
thee, P'm'th! thou art
delicious! thou art refreshing!
Hot in the hottest
August ever known thou
certainly art, that is, at midday,
down in your valley and
your town! But up above
on the Western Heights,
looking across an expanse of purple and yellow, uninclosed by
firs, pines, or larches, on to the broad expanse of the deep blue
sea, thou art all my fancy painted thee, thou art cucumbery in thy
coolness! and as I think of Royat and Aix-les-Bains I smile a
smile of gentle pitying wonder, and almost feel inclined to piously
pray for all poor bodies suffering from the canicular heat, whether
London doth still hold them in its toils, or stifling, smelling Continental
cities, are causing them to sigh for the balmy breezes of
Old England.</p>
<p>Thus then is it that "P'm'th"—that is "Pinemouth" in its abbreviated
form—is the place about which, as being comparatively
unknown at this season of the year, I beg to offer to <i>Mr. Punch</i>,
and through him to the world at large, for the ultimate benefit of
way-worn travellers, a few notes representing an uncommonly
pleasant experience, which, by the kind permission of "<i>Mr. P'n'h</i>"
aforesaid, shall be "continued in our next" by</p>
<p class="author1">"<span class="sc">The Man in the South</span>."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>A WORD TO THE WEATHERWISE.</h3>
<blockquote><p>
[<i>Sir John Bridge</i>: Don't you think there is a great deal of chance as to
the weather we are to have to-morrow? <i>Mr. Muir Mackenzie</i>: No. <i>Sir
John Bridge</i>: The mass of mankind think there is. <i>Mr. Muir Mackenzie</i>:
Unfortunately the mass of mankind are very ignorant.—Bow Street Police
Court, Wednesday, September 6.]
</p></blockquote>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, Mr. <span class="sc">Muir Mackenzie</span>! we're right glad</p>
<p class="i2">To hear this news of meteorology.</p>
<p>Farewell to all the many doubts we've had,</p>
<p class="i2">The thing's as easy now as A B C.</p>
<p><i>You</i> know to-morrow's weather at a glance,</p>
<p class="i2">So, though we would not willingly o'ertask you,</p>
<p>When next we seek the weather in advance,</p>
<p class="i2">We'll simply drop a letter-card to ask you.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl"><span class="sc">A Cure.</span>—"No," said Mrs. R., after some consideration, "although
I do feel a touch of rheumatism now and then, yet I do not fancy
going abroad for treatment. There's some place where you drink
waters and take a bath, and then are tucked up in bed for the
remainder of the day. It's in Germany, I fancy, and I think they
call the place <i>Underdelinen</i>."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>A HINT.</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>You read my verse; the praises you bestow</p>
<p class="i2">Can make innocuous the critic's curse,</p>
<p>Vain his attack, unfelt his shrewdest blow,</p>
<p class="i6"><i>You</i> read my verse.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>You like the rhymes; think not their writer worse</p>
<p class="i2">If just one hint he cannot well forego,</p>
<p>The bard, to put it in a manner terse,</p>
<p class="i2">Does not exist on praise alone, you know,</p>
<p>And sympathy can hardly fill his purse;—</p>
<p class="i2">You borrow, and you do not <i>buy</i>, although</p>
<p class="i6">You read my verse!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl">"<span class="sc">Gone Nap!</span>"—It is all up with Mr. G.! The distinguished
M.P. for St. Pancras, in whose lineaments <i>Mr. Punch</i> traced a
marked resemblance to the features of the Great Emperor of the
French, and there and thenceforth raising him from the rank of
Mr. <span class="sc">Pell</span> as he was formerly known, immediately christening him
"<span class="sc">Napoleon Boltonparty</span>" (with likeness drawn by <span class="sc">Lika-Joko</span>),
even he has joined the Unionist Opposition. He is no longer "Going
Nap," he has gone. Doubtless, Conservatives have their eye on
him: but <span class="sc">Napoleon Boltonparty</span> is too wary to be caught
"napping."</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>[pg 130]</span>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;"><a href="images/130-1500.png"><img src="images/130-600.png" width="600" height="430" alt="INEXPENSIVE HOSPITALITY." /></a>
<h2 class="sans">INEXPENSIVE HOSPITALITY.</h2>
<p><i>Fussy Wife.</i> "<span class="sc">My dear, what could have induced you to Invite all those
People? Why, our little Dining-Room
won't hold them! And for a Sunday, too!!</span>"</p>
<p><i>Sagacious Husband.</i> "<span class="sc">My dear, don't fuss yourself! There is a sort of
a '<i>Don't-dine-out-on-a-Sunday</i>' look about
them which made it perfectly safe!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h2>
<h3>EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.</h3>
<p><i>House of Commons, Monday, September 4.</i>—What happened to-night
in connection with the Blameless <span class="sc">Bartley</span>, Bart., should have
useful effect in checking the tendencies of the censorious. Having
settled business arrangements by moving Resolution, Mr. G. skipped
out of House to pack up for his journey to Scotland. No boy at
end of term more eager for holiday; none more thoroughly earned.
In heat of discussion going forward on details of Resolution Mr. G.'s
departure not generally noticed. Only one faithful eye—or, to be
precise, a couple—followed his passage behind <span class="sc">Speaker's</span> chair.
Eyes dimmed with tears. For months, from early February to these
young September days, <span class="sc">Bartley</span>, Bart., has sat opposite Mr. G.,
has, so to speak, lived in his large and magnificent eye. Now association
about to be dissevered by withdrawal of the stately presence
from Treasury Bench. And only the other day he had referred to
<span class="sc">Bartley</span> as "the Hon. Baronet"!</p>
<p>For a while <span class="sc">Bartley</span>, Bart., sat silent and sorrowing. If it had
been the custom to wear sackcloth on the Opposition benches, and
any ashes had been handy, he would undoubtedly have endeavoured
to discover what secret consolation their use conveys. Nothing of
the kind to be had on the premises. After brooding for a while, he
up and spoke. "Where's the <span class="sc">Prime Minister</span>?" he cried aloud.
House hardly recognised in this wailing voice the stern accents
with which it is familiar from the same quarter. "It is not proper
that the House should sit without the <span class="sc">Prime Minister</span>."</p>
<p><span class="sc">Squire of Malwood</span> (after all a kind-hearted man, quick to
sympathy) endeavoured to comfort the Bereaved. "Not proper,"
he exclaimed, "for House to sit without presence of <span class="sc">Prime Minister</span>!
Why, for six years we had no Prime Minister here."</p>
<p>"That's all very well, but," as <span class="sc">Bartley</span>, still weeping for the
<span class="sc">Premier</span> and not to be comforted, subsequently observed to Admiral
<span class="sc">Field</span>, "you can't mend a broken heart by a quip." <span class="sc">Hanbury</span> and
<span class="sc">Tommy Bowles</span> did their best to soothe him; walked him up and
down the Terrace; gave him a cup of tea, a bottle of smelling salts,
and a cabinet portrait of Mr. G. But it was only late at night,
when House had got into Committee, he so far recovered as to move
to reduce a vote by £100, in order to plead for some amelioration of
the lot of the Treasury Valuer.</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Arrangements completed for Autumn Session.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>[pg 131]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 650px;"><a href="images/131-1500.png"><img src="images/131-600.png" width="600" height="437" alt="LAST WEEK." /></a>
<h2 class="sans">LAST WEEK.</h2>
<p><i>Possible but improbable Scene in the Upper House, which perhaps Mr. J-hn
B-rns, M.P., may "regret he did not see.</i>"</p></div>
<p><i>House of Lords, Tuesday.</i>—Remember one night in years gone
by, whilst <span class="sc">Hartington</span> was still with us in the Commons, he
interrupted one of his own speeches by a portentous yawn. Complimented
him on the feat; few men, I said, would have the pluck
to do it; might yawn at other people's speeches, but never at
their own.</p>
<p>"Ah, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," said <span class="sc">County Guy</span>, "you don't know how dem'd
dull the speech was. You only had to listen to some of it. I had to
deliver it all."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/132b-800.png"><img src="images/132b-400.png" width="400" height="312" alt="Supporting the Crown." /></a>
<p class="center">Supporting the Crown.</p></div>
<p>Thought of this to-night listening to old friend in Lords, now
scarcely disguised as Duke of <span class="sc">Devonshire</span>. Spoke for nearly two
hours. Those who read it will find speech admirable; one of the best,
most weighty, indictments of Home Rule and the tactics that have
brought it into position of Ministerial measure. But alack! for those
who heard it, or, at least, sat through the two hours; not many, all
told; an hour enough for <span class="sc">The Macullum More</span>; other Peers on
both sides of House folded their tents like the Arab, and as silently
stole away. The <span class="sc">Markiss</span> gallantly kept his place, sitting for
some time with closed eyes, the better to concentrate his attention.
<span class="sc">Prince Arthur</span> and <span class="sc">Joey C.</span>—lovely in the Commons, in the Lords
not divided—stood sturdily on either side of the Throne. "The Lion
and the Unicorn supporting the Crown," said <span class="sc">Rosebery</span>, glancing
across at them.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>[pg 132]</span>
<div class="figright" style="width: 150px;"><a href="images/132a-400.png"><img src="images/132a-150.png" width="150" height="362" alt="The Devonshire Yawn." /></a>
<p class="center">The Devonshire Yawn.</p></div>
<p>For the ladies in the gallery, mothers and daughters, <span class="sc">Devonshire</span>
not so attractive a <i>parti</i> as was <span class="sc">Hartington</span>. Still, he is a
pillar of
the Union, a brand snatched from the burning pile to which the
wicked hand of Mr. G. applied the traitrous torch. So they sat and
listened—half an hour, three-quarters of an hour, an hour. Then
was heard the light rustle of dainty dresses; doors softly opened
along the Gallery; for a moment a
fair figure stood framed in it, with
guilty glance around to see if she was
observed; then, with winning "back-in-five-minutes"
look on innocent
face, she hastily stepped out.</p>
<p>The Duke saw none of these things
nor cared for them. He had a duty to
perform, and long before <span class="sc">Old Morality</span>
was heard of, the <span class="sc">Cavendishes</span>
did their duty. He plodded on through
the melancholy night; stolidly turning
over the pages of his notes; stubbornly
repressing a growing tendency
to yawn; catching his voice up when
it wearily sank to the level of his
boots; making most pathetic effort to
keep it going. Usually it fell away at
the end of the third or fourth sentence,
to be pulled up with harsh jerk at
commencement of one that followed.
A good man struggling with the adversity
of having to make a speech on
a topic harried to death in the other
House through course of over eighty
days.</p>
<p>"Yes," said the Member for Sark,
waking up from gentle slumber indulged
in in corner seat at end of
Gallery; "but why didn't he halve
his adversity? If he'd been content
with an hour we should all have been
grateful, and he would have been spared a moiety of his anguish."</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Second Reading of Home-Rule Bill moved in
House of Lords.</p>
<p><i>Thursday.</i>—Again a crowded assembly in Lords to-night to hear
its most brilliant Member. The Bishops, in great force, clustered, a
group of fluttering white lawn, on right of Woolsack. "The white
flower of a blameless Parliamentary life," the <span class="sc">Markiss</span> says of them.
Not an inch of red benches visible on Opposition side. Even
Ministerial benches full, though, as was made clear in course of
debate, not all who sit there are Ministerialists. <span class="sc">Rosebery</span>, looking
more boyish than ever, sat amid the elders on Front Bench; makes
no sign of intention to follow <span class="sc">Selborne</span>; takes no note nor betrays
other evidence of uneasiness. <span class="sc">Selborne</span> preaches for hour and half.
Understood to be sermon worthy of his fame; we Commoners in
gallery over bar could hear only fragmentary portions of sentences.
Reported that <span class="sc">Selborne</span> had lost his notes; Member for Sark
recognises
most kindly interposition of Providence.</p>
<p>"If he speaks for hour and half with only recollection of his notes
where would he have been if he had them?" Must get <span class="sc">Weir</span> to put
that conundrum to <span class="sc">Chancellor</span> of the Exchequer.</p>
<p>Grateful to <span class="sc">Rosebery</span>, since at least we can hear him, though he,
too, now and then falls into habit of dropping end of sentence. This
the less excusable, since none of them are heavy. A clever speech,
scarcely obscuring what seems to be difficult position. "Dancing
among the eggs," is <span class="sc">Balfour of Burghley's</span> commentary. Of all
listeners in the brilliant throng none so attentive as the <span class="sc">Markiss</span>.
Seems, on the
whole, to like
speech better than
does <span class="sc">Spencer</span>.</p>
<p>"Reminds me,
<span class="sc">Toby</span>," <span class="sc">Markiss</span>
says, "of what
<span class="sc">Lovelace</span> wrote
to <span class="sc">Lucasta</span>, 'on
going to the wars.'
How does it run?</p>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>I could not love Home Rule so much</p>
<p class="i2">Loved I not <span class="sc">Gladstone</span> more."</p>
</div> </div>
<p>In the Commons
pegging away at
estimates; occasional
explosions;
<span class="sc">Joseph</span>, popping
in from Lords,
said a few genial
words just to keep
matters going, and
disappeared again.
Came back after
midnight in time
to have a round
with <span class="sc">Squire of
Malwood</span>.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 250px;"><a href="images/132c-700.png"><img src="images/132c-250.png" width="250" height="365" alt="'Finished.'" /></a>
<p class="center">"Finished."</p></div>
<p>Uneasy feeling prevalent consequent on announcement made
early in sitting that charwoman employed in service of House has
died of cholera. This regarded as being exceedingly inconsiderate.
Questions usually every day about cholera at Grimsby and Hull.
That all very well; an incident possible to regard with philosophical
mind. But cholera in our own kitchen quite another sort of
microbe.</p>
<p>"I'm a family man," said <span class="sc">Cobb</span>. "It's no use denying it, and
I will not attempt it. Was thinking of staying to see this out;
begin to think the Session unduly prolonged. In short, if I
may quote an old proverb adapted to the occasion, I would
say, When cholera comes in by the window <span class="sc">Cobb</span> goes out by the
door." <i>Business done.</i>—Third night Home-Rule debate in Lords.
Supply in Commons.</p>
<p><i>Saturday</i>, 1 <span class="sc">A.M.</span>—All up with Little Bill-ee. His worst fears
are realised. Whilst Captain <span class="sc">Willyum</span>: has been having a quiet,
restful time among the heather, Guzzling <span class="sc">Bob</span> and Gorging
<span class="sc">Harty</span> have worked their wicked will on the Innocent. Snickersees
have been drawn; blows have been dealt; the hunger of
Ulster has been satisfied; Little Bill-ee has been killed and
eaten.</p>
<p>"Just so," said the <span class="sc">Lord Chancellor</span> from behind his wig;
"a meal eagerly partaken of. Now we've nothing to do but
to wait awhile, and see how it agrees with them. You remember,
<span class="sc">Toby</span>, the letters engraved on the tomb of her late husband
by the sorrowing widow in Ohio?</p>
<p class="center">S. Y. L.</p>
<p>'See you later,' she explained to inquiring friends, was its portent.
S. Y. L., Little Bill-ee, S. Y. L.!"</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Lords throw out Home-Rule Bill by 419 Votes
against 41.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>Sartorial.</h3>
<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza">
<p>"Naked and not ashamed" our "Interests" stand,</p>
<p>"Scourge of our Toil, monopolist of our Land!"</p>
<p>So someone says. But 'twill be found, if tested,</p>
<p>These "naked" interests are mostly <i>vested</i>.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="indrl"><span class="sc">A Real "Mayor's Nest."</span>—The platform (presided over by the
Mayor of Bristol) on the occasion of the opening of the Bristol Fine
Art and Industrial Exhibition. (See Illustrated Papers <i>passim</i>.)</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Motto for a Man Reprieved from the Gallows.</span>—No noose
is good news.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<table align="center" summary="transcriber note" width="auto" style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;">
<tr>
<td class="note">
<h4>Transcriber's Note:</h4>
<p>Sundry damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired.</p>
<p>Corrections are also indicated, in the text, by a dotted line underneath the correction.</p>
<p style="margin-top:-1em;">Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p>
<p>Page 122: 'fragant' corrected to 'fragrant'.
'(Fair laden with "the fragrant weed"),
"A Quiet Pipe!"'</p>
<p>page 125: 'cruised' corrected to 'cruiser'. armour-plated cruiser
<i>Impartial</i></p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<pre>
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105, September 16th, 1893, by Various
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