Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, July 29th 1893
Author: Various
Editor: F. C. Burnand
Release date: March 30, 2011 [eBook #35713]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Lesley Halamek, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Mr. Punch has much pleasure in recommending the following Prospectus to the notice of parents desirous of finding a thoroughly practical school where boys are educated according to the real requirements of modern life.
Mr. J. Pen-Rullox, M.A. Cambs., and the Rev. Wilfrid Bails, B.A. Oxon, receive pupils to prepare for the great public schools and universities.
The well-known qualifications of Mr. Pen-Rullox, who rowed stroke in his university boat in the celebrated race at Amwell in 1878, and of the Rev. Mr. Bails, who played for Oxford in the famous university match in the Common Fields in 1882, will be sufficient guarantee that the boys will be thoroughly well instructed.
Besides Rowing, Cricket, and Football; Swimming, Racquets, Boxing, and Hockey, are specially attended to by competent Assistant-Masters, under the personal supervision of the Principals.
Billiards, Lawn-tennis, Poker, Nurr and Spell, and some other minor games, now too frequently neglected in the education of youth, will find their due place in the curriculum of Cloanthus House.
It is in contemplation, should a sufficient number of boys show a marked inclination for such studies, to engage a Board-school Master, of approved competence, to direct literary and scientific work.
Terms, inclusive, £250 per annum, payable in advance: the only extras at present being Reading, Writing, Polo, and Arithmetic.
Reference is kindly permitted to the following:—The Right Rev. the Bishop of Isthmia; the Editor of the Sporting Life; the Rev. R. E. D. Horgan, M.A., Jesurum Col., Cambs; the Sports Editor of the Field; the Warden of Mortlake College, Putney; Dr. S. A. Grace, LL.D.; the Hon. and Rev. Hurlingham Peel.
Break, break, break,
O voice on that clear top C!
And I would that my throat could utter
High notes as they used to be.
O well for old Bundlecoop's boy
That he still shouts his full round A!
O well for that tow-headed lad
That he sings in his old clear way.
And the anthems still go on
With boy-trebles sharp and shrill;
But O for my "compass," so high and grand,
And the voice that I used to trill!
Break, break, break,
Like a creaky old gate, top C!
But the high treble notes of a voice that is cracked,
Will never come back to me!
The White Currency Question.—Can nothing be done to prevent the Indian Viceroy from carrying out his monstrous proposal about the Rupee? I was just off to Bombay (having recently completed a period of enforced seclusion in Devonshire, occasioned by a too successful competition with a monopolist Mint) on the strength of a newspaper paragraph that "Free Coining of Silver" was permitted in that happy land. Free Coining! In my opinion it beats "Free Education" hollow, and is just what I have always wanted. I felt that my fortune was made, when suddenly the news comes that the free coinage business is stopped. What an injustice! In the name of the down-trodden Hindoo, to whom my specially manufactured nickel-and-tin Rupee would have been quite a new revelation, I protest against this interference with the immemorial customs of our Oriental fellow-subjects.—Jeremiah D'Iddla.
Contributed by Our Own Welsh-Harper's Magazine.—With the Ap Morgans, Ap Rhys, Ap Jones, and many others, Wales is the ideal "'Appy Land."
The close of the season, the close of the season,
It leaves a man rifled of rhino and reason;
And now, with hot rain and a westerly breeze on,
I don't opine racketing London agrees on
The whole with Society. "Kyrie Eleison"
I'll chaunt when I stand with my wife and my wee son
Some windy "Parade" or exuberant "Lees" on,
In the splash of the salt and the flash of the free sun,
And am garbed in a fashion that, sure, would be treason
To Bond Street; and ruminate, sprawling at ease on
The sands with their bands and extempore sprees on.—
"Table d'Hôte-ards," repair to your Homburgs or freeze on
Cosmopolitan Alps, and eat kickshaws to tease one;
But me let the niggers marine and the sea's un-
Translateable sing-song, and bathers with d——s on,
Delight, and bare children, their noses and knees on,
Till quite I forget Messrs. Welby and Meeson
(Those despots of law) and my failures, and fees un-
Liquidated as yet, and myself—and the season!
Production of new Opera, Amy Robsart, arranged (and very well arranged, too) from Sir Walter Scott's novel, by Sir Augustus Harris and Paul Milliet, the English adaptation by Frederic Weatherly, and music by Isidore de Lara. Calvé in the title rôle, splendid; going through everything—three rather lengthy Acts, two impassioned love-duets, and the trap-door in the bridge—with unflagging spirit and charm.
In the Second Act, Kenilworth shown illuminated for the reception of Elizabeth—Leicester having evidently borrowed one of the band kiosks from Earl's Court. Elizabeth, according to stage directions, should have entered "seated upon a magnificent white horse," but preferred to walk in. Possibly her steed detained by business engagements. As represented by Madame Armand, an easy-going, sunny-tempered sovereign, with an amiable dislike of any "unpleasantness" among her courtiers. The Earl of Sussex the most impressive mute (next to his contemporary the Earl of Burleigh in The Critic) on the boards,—nothing to do but look haughty, and at last, at the Queen's command, consent to become reconciled to Leicester,—but the subtle suggestion in his "shake-hands" that he did so on compulsion, and reserved himself the right of punching Leicester's head at the first convenient opportunity, very artistically conveyed. Part most carefully thought out. The Revels cut short by the inconsiderate appearance of Amy Robsart when they were just beginning, which must have been annoying for the Lady of the Lake, who had just arrived to pay homage to the Queen, and found herself obliged to get upon her floating island again, and go home in the most ignominious manner, without waiting even for the "shower of stars," which were to have fallen over the water. Elizabeth, however, seemed quite unruffled by the interruption, perhaps thinking that anything was a relief which put an end to the revels. Finale to this Act dramatic, and well worked up. Third Act in two short tableaux, concluding with a duel and explanation (in two lines) between Leicester and Tressilian, after which the opera ends abruptly with Varney's highly ungentlemanly practical joke upon poor Amy Robsart, and Leicester's request to Tressilian to take his sword and run him through—which, however, he had no time to grant, as the curtain fell at that moment. After that, well-deserved floral tributes to Madame Calvé, and enthusiastic calls for singers, composer, manager, and carriages.
First Voice. Come follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow on!
Second Voice. Why then should I follow, follow, follow, why then must I follow, follow on?
Third Voice. When you're Eighty runs or more behind our score you follow on!
G. O. M. (to Radical Member). My dear Sir, will you vote for this clause?
Rad. Mem. I will, Sir. What is it?
John Bull, A.B. "The Man who lays his hand upon a Woman——"
Jacques Bonhomme. "Pardon, mon ami! 'Save in the way of
Kindness——'"
Mamma (severely). "Don't Squint, Effie, my dear!"
Effie. "I wasn't Squinting, Mamma. I was only making 'Dinner Eyes' at Major Stuffam. I hear he gives such charming Dinner Parties, and I should so much like to be asked!"
["The independence and integrity of Siam ... is a subject of great importance to the British, and more especially to the British Indian Empire."—Lord Rosebery. "We have in no way any intention of threatening the independence of Siam."—M. Develle.]
"By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a settin'," an' she takes 'er time from me.
But this Siam puss looks pooty, and I'm sorter bound to say
"You stand back, you sailor Frenchy! that's a game as two can play!"
'Twas my game at Mandalay,
And you seem on the same lay:
You can twig my Jack a-flaunting from the Nile to Mandalay;
But this I've got to say,
If your 'and on 'er you lay,
I shall ask you to take a 'and in a game as men can play!
'Er petticoat is yaller, and 'er little cap is green,
And—I shouldn't half object to interjuce 'er to my Queen!
I don't want to see 'er suckin' of a Paris cigarette,
And a-wastin' purchased kisses on French Bullyvards—you bet!
No, I wouldn't shed no blood,
But by Mekon's yaller mud,
I 'ave always felt it "bizness" to take care no rival stud
On my road to "far Cathay."
Wot? She's fired upon your gunboats? Well, I'd like to know, yer see,
If them gunboats wos cavortin' where they didn't ought to be.
Your clutch upon 'er wrist, eh? Well, that's like your bloomin' cheek!
She shrinks from you, my Frenchy. No, yer know if she should squeak—
Give a reglar woman's squeak,
Though she looks carved out o' teak—
I should think o' my own womankind, my friend, and I should—speak
In the British sailor's way!
You'll "respect 'er Independence and Integrity," you say?
Well, a man who on a woman 'is 'and would dare to lay—
Hay? Save in the way o' kyindness! Why, you've capped me there, I own,
Which I didn't think that sentiment to Frenchies was beknown.
It's a bit o' good old Vic.!
But you've nicked it quick and slick.
Well, I 'ope you'll square it fairly, and not lay it on too thick,
In the brave old Bismarck way!
The idea o' wasting ivory, silk, and peacocks' tails, and such,
Upon merchants who're a trifle too much like George Canning's "Dutch."*
When a fair and square Free Trader, like—well, not unlike myself,
Could stand by for to purtect 'er, and 'elp 'er—and 'im—pile pelf,
Well—I can quite understand
She may find your 'eavy 'and
Too kyind by half, my Frenchy, and prefer the British land,
And the British Tar's old way.
Yes; our Rosebery and your Develle do agree—in words, no doubt,
But, yer see, the Ten Commandments, in Bangkok, git turned about!
"Independence and Integrity" for pooty dear Miss Siam,
Is wot you're "interested in" my Frenchy,—and so I am!
Only—in the game we play,
Cards do turn up in a way
That would stagger sly Ah Sin himself. If you git in my way
On my road to "Old Cathay,"
Or my aid this gyurl should pray,
I might p'raps come down like thunder,—as I did in Mandalay!
* "In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch
Is giving too little and asking too much."
Canning's "A Political Despatch."
The Battle of the Sexes.—Middlesex v. Sussex.
The performance has begun. Captain Boyton has just descended the Chute in a boat, with a bevy of lightly-clad young ladies waving flags with shrill enthusiasm. Canadians, Indians, and Negroes row various craft containing Beauties of the Ballet about the Lake. An elderly Negress stands on an island, and waves a towel encouragingly at things in general. Two Clowns, accompanied by a futile individual disguised as a Frog, start to run round the margin of the Lake with a gallant determination to be funny, but abandon the attempt after making a quarter of the distance, and complete the circuit with a subdued and chastened demeanour.
Mr. Bravo (to Mr. Blazzey, enthusiastically). Capital show this—wonderfully well arranged!
Mr. Blazzey (screwing up his eyes). Y—yes. Better if they'd had water running down the incline, though, and sent all the boats in that way.
Mr. Bravo. Don't see how they could pump up water enough for that, myself; and if they did, it would all run through at the sides!
Mr. Blazz. (ignoring any hydraulic difficulties). Oh, they could have dodged that if they chose; anyway, that's how it ought to have been managed!
Miss Frivell (to Mr. Hoplight). I can hardly believe this is the same place where Buffalo Bill gave his performance only last year, can you? It all looks so different!
Mr. Hopl. (after ponderous consideration.) I find no difficulty in recognising it, myself. The difference you observe is due to the fact that the arena which was originally constructed for—er—displays of horsemanship requires to undergo some considerable—er—structural alterations before being equally well adapted to a performance in which—er—boating and swimming form the—er—principal features.
Miss Friv. (with exemplary gravity). I see. You mean there must be water?
Mr. Hopl. Water is undoubtedly an—er—indispensable element in such an exhibition.
Miss Friv. How clever of you to know that! But perhaps someone told you?
Mr. Hopl. (modestly). I arrived at it by the—er—light of my own unassisted intelligence.
Miss Friv. Did you? Not really! "How far that little candle throws his beams!" (To herself.) I didn't mean to be so rude as that! But he's no business to be such a bore!
Mr. Bravo (after the Sculling-race between Ross and Bubear). That was a good race, eh? They're the champion scullers, you know.
Mr. Blazz. Don't see the point of setting 'em to race here, though. Rather like running the Derby in a riding-school!
A Sympathetic Lady (during the Swimming-race). How well those girls do swim! I suppose they go under first, and then come up again. But how damp they must get, to be sure, doing that twice a day! I daresay they never get their hair properly dry from one week's end to another. I should think that must be so uncomfortable for them, you know. However, they seem to be having plenty of fun among themselves. I wish we could hear what they are saying; but there's so much to look at, that one misses most of it!
[A Pontoon is moved out into the centre of the Lake, and three "Rocky Mountain Wonders" give an entertainment on board. The first Wonder constructs the letter A with himself and two high ladders, up which the other two run nimbly. They meet at the top with mutual surprise, and a touch of resentment, as if each had expected at least to find solitude there. The Second Wonder lies down on his back resignedly, and the Third, meanly availing himself of the opportunity, stands on his friend's stomach, and strikes an attitude. Both descend and bow, in recognition of applause, and then each starts up his ladder again—only to meet once more at the top, more surprised and annoyed than ever. The Third Wonder refuses to be appeased unless he is allowed to hold the Second head downwards by the ankles. After further amenities of this kind they come down, apparently reconciled, and are towed back to the shore.
Miss Friv. Is that supposed to be an illustration of life on the Rocky Mountains?
Mr. Hopl. (bringing the full powers of his mind to bear on the subject). I should be inclined to doubt myself whether it afforded any accurate idea of either the industry or the—er—relaxations peculiar to that region, which can hardly be favourable to such pursuits.
Miss Friv. They might find it useful for escaping from a grizzly, mightn't they?
Mr. Hopl. Hardly, if, as I have always been given to understand, the grizzly bear is an equally expert climber. I imagine their title of "Rocky Mountain Wonders" is merely indicative of their—er—origin, and that their performances would indeed excite more wonder in their native country than anywhere else. One should always guard against taking these things in too literal a spirit.
[Miss F. assents demurely, and is suddenly moved to mirth, as she is careful to explain, by the sight of a Nigger, which, Mr. H. very justly remarks, is scarcely a subject for so much amusement.
Mr. Bravo (after the Corps de Ballet have performed various evolutions on a large raft). I call that uncommonly pretty, all those girls dancing there in the sunlight, eh?
Mr. Blazz. Pretty enough—in its proper place.
Mr. Bravo (losing his patience at last). Why, hang it all, you wouldn't have the Ballet danced under water, would you?
Mr. Blazz. Well, it would be more of a novelty, at any rate.
[Mr. Bravo decides that "it was a mistake to come out with a chap like Blazzey."
A Small Sharp Boy (with an admiring Father, Mother, and Grandmother). Father, why ha' them Injuns all got feathers stuck round their 'eds like shuttlecocks, eh? Is it to show as they're in the terbaccer line, eh, Father? Is the gentleman on the bicycle a real demon, eh, Father? Ain't he like what a real demon is? Why ain't you never seen one, Father? Think you'll ever see one, eh? Why's that man going right up atop of that pole for? Why is he goin' to jump off? Will he git drownded, eh, Father? Don't he ever git drownded? Could you dive off from as 'igh as that with your legs tied? Could Uncle Bill? Could Gran'ma, with 'er legs tied?
[&c., &c.
Shilling and Sixpenny Spectators. That's the police station on that boat where the two Bobbies are.... 'Ere's a rummy couple coming along in this boat! See the bloke with the bald 'ed, and the ole girl in a pink bonnet?... There, they've run slap into them others, and the ole bloke's got his 'eels in the air. Oh, dear, oh, dear!... Look at the bobbies tryin' to run 'em in. Lor, they're all pourin' water on to each other's 'eds as 'ard as they can go! 'Ere's the ole walrus swimmin' up now, d'ye see? And the ole Clown a fishin' for 'im. 'E's bin an' dragged 'im 'in 'ed foremost! Look at the walrus a duckin' o' the ole woman. Hor, hor, if ever I see the like o' that! Is that like 'ow they 'unt walruses, Father, eh? Blest if the ole walrus ain't got into the station 'ouse after 'em. Look at 'em all gittin' out on the roof—in they jump! And the ole girl goin' in backards, hor, hor! And the other bloke any'ow. See the 'ole admiral in the cocked 'at a takin' sights through 'is spy-glorss! Now they're gittin' the 'arpoon ready. There, they've copped 'im—it's all over! Well, that was a good lark, and no mistake!
Oh, it was perfectly splendid! We put the rugs right over our heads, and didn't get wet a bit!... I don't know if you're aware of it, my dear, but you've got black streaks all down your face. Gracious! it's the dye from my veil. Do I look very dreadful, dear? Well, it shows, of course—but I wouldn't touch it, or you'll make it worse.... This lot got a ducking, and no mistake—look at 'em—ho, ho!... I say, dear old chap, you ought to have come too—it was ripping! Splashed? No, nothing to speak of. Eh? "My hat?" What's wrong with it? Oh, confound it all! I only took a front seat to oblige those two girls. Yes, I can see they're giggling at me as well as you can. Look here, old fellow, do you know if there's a place here where I can get my hat ironed, and buy a collar and tie? Because I've got to meet the Chaffingtons here, and dine with 'em and that. "So have you?" Then that's why you backed out of going down the Chute! Why the deuce didn't you say so? Oh, if you're going to stand there laughing like a fool, I'm off! I may just have time to—— Hang it; there are the Chaffington girls! Is my collar too beastly limp? you might tell a fellow!
Here's a health to you, Gospodin Ivánoff—
Or whatever your name may chance to be—
Of vodka I'll toss you a full stakán off
(A tumbler, I mean, of eau de vie);
And I'll sing you fortissimo con furore
Your national hymn, in a cheerful key,
('Twill colour with local tone my story,
To start with your "Bozhe Tsaryá khrani").
'Twas a lively morning, my hirsute Jehu,
In Petersburg once we together spent;
And now in my sketch-book I still can see you
(The annexed for your portrait's humbly meant).
Your costume resembled in part a butcher's—
A dull blue gown of a vast extent,
With top-boots, like each of the other kutschers
And shocking bad hat, all "bashed" and bent.
Ere long you called me your "little brother,"
Or else—your knowledge of Court to show—
(What one Russian "High Excellence" styles another)
"Vuisókoprevoskhodítelstvo."
You wanted to learn how to greet an acquaintance
In English; I said, to be comme il faut,
That "God save the Queen" was the proper sentence—
I own that my hoax was a trifle low.
A large percentage, my gay izvostchik,
I failed of your jokes to understand;
But I safely say you displayed the most cheek
Of any I've met by sea or land.
When you pitched me clean out on the Nevski pavement,
With syllable brief I loudly banned;
But as dam in your lingo "I'll give" (you knave!) meant,
You grinned, and for "tea-money" held your hand.
I shall never forget that awful jolting
I got as you whirled me round about
In your backless car; for your bumping, bolting,
You really, my Vanka, deserved the knout.
Well, I won't say "Good-bye," but "Do svidanya"—
Though whether we'll meet again I doubt;
If you ever should wander to far Britannia,
I fear you will probably find me "Out."
Motto for Professors of Palmistry.— "Palmam qui meruit ferat." i.e., "Who has paid his money may bare his palm."
It is proposed to establish a fire-station, "with fifty men, on the Thames Embankment." For what purpose? In case of anybody setting the Thames on Fire?
Mrs. R. says she never has toast for breakfast, but always "fresh-airated bread."
Who gets, by hook or crook, from me
Admittance free, though well knows he
That myriads turned away will be?
The Deadhead.
Who, while he for his programme pays
The smallest silver coin, inveighs
Against such fraud with eyes ablaze?
The Deadhead.
Who to his neighbour spins harangues,
On how he views with grievous pangs
The dust that on our hangings hangs?
The Deadhead.
Who, in a voice which rings afar,
Declares, while standing at the bar,
Our drinks most deleterious are?
The Deadhead.
Who aye withholds the claps and cheers
That others give? Who jeers and sneers
At all he sees and all he hears?
The Deadhead.
Who loudly, as the drama's plot
Unfolds, declares the tale a lot
Of balderdash and tommy-rot?
The Deadhead.
Who dubs the actors boorish hinds?
Who fault with all the scenery finds?
Who with disgust his molars grinds?
The Deadhead.
Who spreads dissatisfaction wide
'Mongst those who else with all they spied
Had been extremely satisfied?
The Deadhead.
Who runs us down for many a day,
And keeps no end of folks away
That else would for admittance pay?
The Deadhead.
Who keeps his reputation still,
For recompensing good with ill
With more than Pandemonium's skill?
The Deadhead.
Who makes the bankrupt's doleful doom
In all its blackness o'er me loom?
Who'll bring my grey head to the tomb?
The Deadhead.
"There was no doubt about it," queried the Quartermaster to the Adjutant, "the Chief certainly desired me to execute him?"
"That is unquestionably my impression," replied the Adjutant.
"Yes, and it never does to question his orders," continued the Quartermaster; "it makes him so wild if he fancies that you are disobeying his commands."
"Quite so," admitted the Adjutant; "and so the best thing is to carry them out. As you know, obedience is 'the first law of a soldier.'"
"Still, to shoot a man for nothing, does seem a little hard."
"How do we know it's for nothing? You may be sure the Chief has his own reasons for everything."
And so the two warriors walked to the barrack square and sent for the unfortunate Private Thomas Atkins. As the order was conveyed to the quarters of the rank and file, men lounged out of the mess-room, and discussed the Colonel's orders. It seemed "a bit strange," but it was not for them to dispute the chief's command. And, as they spoke, Private Thomas Atkins was produced. He had a clean defaulter's sheet.
"On my word, I really trust that there may be some mistake," said a Brigade-Surgeon-Lieutenant-Colonel M.D. "But, as I am not now attached to the battalion, I have no right to interfere."
Private Thomas Atkins was marched to a wall, ordered to right-about turn, and then (under the command of the Quartermaster) shot.
Then the civil power, in the person of a police-constable, thought it time to interfere, and arrested the officer immediately in command.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Colonel, subsequently; "how exceedingly absurd! I wanted the Quartermaster to give him a new suit, and he thought I asked him to shoot him! You fellows really ought to be more careful!"
But nothing could be done, because the matter had passed into the hands of the civil power.
And, all things taken into consideration, it was just as well that they had.
Tell me, now, where has it departed,
That fine old apple, the Ribstone Pippin,
The rosy-coated, and juicy-hearted,
I loved, when a "nipper," my teeth to slip in?
Where is the Russet we boys thought rippin'?
(Though its sharpness sometimes started the tears?)
Oh! such-like often I've spent my "tip" in—
But where are the apples of earlier years?
Where's the King Pippin, the sun-brown one?
And where is the Catshead, light Spring green?
(Which gave, while eating, such glorious fun,
If—after munching—some dule and teen)?
And where is the Golden Knob, whose sheen
Would draw the wasps all about our ears?
(Sometimes in our mouths, if they were not seen)—
But where are the apples of earlier years?
White watery things from the land of the Yankee,
And sugary shams from the Austral seas,
They sell us—at sixpence per pound! No, thankee!
I have no palate for frauds like these.
There's not an apple that now could please
Poor Eve so much as to waken fears.
Ah, the luscious Pippins youth crunched at ease!
But where are the apples of earlier years?
Nay, never ask if your fruiterer's heard
Of "a decent pippin" (the huckster sneers!)
Except with this for, an overword—
But where are the apples of earlier years?
Rather Mixed.—In the sale of wines at Christie's last week, Lot 136 is described as "3 dozen of sherry, 1842, been to West Indies, more or less." Now, why this mystery? Why not make a clean breast of it? Is it meant that the sherry called in at only one or two of the Indies? or did it only set half way on the voyage to the group? We should learn more or be told less.
Fair Visitor. "Do Play something, Dear! I love to hear your Music!"
Fair Hostess. "Sorry, Dear, but this Piano is so dreadfully out of tune! That's the worst of living in Apartments! My Music-Master says that to use such a Piano as that is fatal to real Playing! But won't you play something, Dear?"
"Lock! Lock! Lock!"
Heaven be thanked, we're through it!
Spite of crush, and jam, and shock,
That's the way to do it!
Now for a fair "flowing tide,"
Verdurous banks and shady!
Yes, we're through. I'm glad, aren't you,
Eh, my little lady?
"Lock! Lock! Lock!"
Trim the punt, sweet, prythee!
You look nice in your new frock!
Fresh as osier withy.
How they strove your togs to tear;
Hinder, or capsize us!
But, hurroo! we've scrambled through!
Nought need now surprise us!
"Lock! Lock! Lock!"
Faint cry, far before us!
Lot of toffs my efforts mock;
Menace us in chorus.
Swear they'll swamp us at the weir.
Fate there's no controlling,
But the Grand Old River Hand
Puts his faith in pol(l)ing!
Sit tight, my dear, and as we drop down with the tide towards the next lock, I'll sing you a new river-song to an old air. [Sings.
And did you ne'er hear of a jolly old punting man,
Who near Westminster his calling doth ply?
He handles his pole with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each "No" and enchanting each "Aye."
He looks so neat, he steers so steadily,
The ladies all flock to his punt so readily;
And he's so celebrated for courage and care,
That he's seldom in want of a freight or a fare.
But o'er his last passenger rivals made merry.
She did look so feeble, and frightened withal:
"A fair sample this of your fine Irish ladies!
In a Party like yours won't she kick up a squall?"
Thus oft they'd be chaffing, and shouting and jeering,
But 'twas all one to Willy; he stuck to his steering;
For hissing or hooting he little did care,
He handled his pole, and looked after his fare.
And ah! just to think now how strangely things happen!
He poled along, caring for no one at all;
By a crush in the lock, foes his fare meant alarming,
And hoped in deep water she fainting might fall.
But he bade the young damsel to banish all sorrow,
"If they block us to-day, dear, we'll get through to-morrow."
And now the old Puntsman is through! But they swear
They'll yet flummox the future of him and his fare!
Good Gracious!—Mrs. R. went to Lord's the other day, to see Doctor Grace play. She says, "Until then I had no idea he was a man of such splendid physic."
Why are you hoarse, my little lad,
So husky and so hoarse?
Your voice is almost gone! 'Tis sad!
You'll seek advice, of course?
Diphtheria is much about!
And—well you know, there's cancer!!!
Dear me, you're choking now! Don't shout,
But write me down an answer.
Cancer—be blowed!—Cricket—of course!
Harrow—for years—has beaten;
And—I've been howling till I'm hoarse
To see 'em—licked by Eton!!!
Hooray!!!
This (says Mr. James Payn) is what Tom Hood wrote about the treatment meted out to the Minor Poet in his time:—
"What is a Modern Poet's fate?
To write his thoughts upon a slate—
The critic spits on what is done,
Gives it a wipe—and all is gone."
And this (says Mr. Punch) is the Minor Poet's reply to-day:—
I write not on a slate, but foolscap fair:
It falls to the Waste-paper Basket's care.
If not, the Minor Poet's still ill-fated,
'Tis by some Minor Critic now he's "slated."
Far better than that stabber's spiteful lunge,
Were "a clean slate" and kind oblivion's "sponge."
The Rector (returning from day's fishing—in reply to usual question). "Sport? Oh! Wretched!! Wretched!!! Tried every Dodge I could think of, but nothing would tempt 'em."
Canny Scot (who rather suspects the Rector of a fondness for good living). "A—weel Recthor, na doot they set some on us a poorful example i' no givin' way to their Carnal Procleevities, and refusin' to be ta'en in by the fa'se blandishments o' the Deevil, i' the shape o' yer awn Artifeecial Flees."
Leave, dweller in the smoke-bound street,
Your native London's ceaseless noise.
With aching head and weary feet
Turn from the town's delusive joys.
On dusty terrace, grimy square,
A dismal pall seems settling down;
Be not the Season's slave, and dare,
Oh town-bred man, to leave the town.
The town can spare you; it may chance
The Park will fill without your aid;
And still at many a matron's dance
Moist man will whirl with panting maid.
Vast dinners still will be as slow,
The night will still be turned to day,
And all the giddy round will go
As wild and well with you away.
But here the days are passing fair,
The sun shines bright, the leaves are green;
Cool on your forehead breathes the air,
The very smoke seems fresh and clean.
And over all the winding miles,
Where erst his foaming torrents ran,
The clear, calm Thames breaks forth in smiles
Of welcome to the London man.
Bend to your oars, away, away!
Then rest awhile, or deftly steer
Where topped with rainbow clouds of spray
The waters tumble o'er the weir.
Nor scorn the man whom, moored for hours,
Nor failure daunts nor jeers affront,
Who sits, unheeding sun or showers,
A fishless angler in a punt.
Then, when at eve the ringdove's call
Is hushed upon the wooded hill,
And slowly lengthening shadows fall
On field and stream, and all is still,
Drift homewards, thanking Heaven that made
You free to dream awhile your dream
In this fair scene of sun and shade,
On gentle Thames's crystal stream.
Sir Pompey Bedell. "Oh—er—Mossoo le Barrong, esker-voo—er—esker-voo Savvy—er—esker-voo Savvy Ker Voos Avay Le—la—er—er——"
Monsieur le Baron. "Do not Sir Pompey, do not continue to speak French! You speak it so well—ah! But so well—zat you make me feel quite 'Ome-sick!"
O Wise Young Judge!—Mr. Justice Hawkins has scored over and over again during the first act of the Zierenberg v. Labouchere trial. One witness in cross-examination said "he thought he could tell people who were overworked." So Mr. Justice Hawkins asked him, "Do you see anybody in this court who looks like being overworked?" Of course the witness looked straight at the Judge, but Sir Henry was ready with a very practical answer to his own question, as he instantly rose to the occasion and adjourned the case till next day, and from next day till next term.
At the T. R. H.—Mr. Tree substituted Ibsen for Wilde. Some evenings at the T. R. Haymarket may be pleasantly passed, i.e., "Wilde" away.
House of Commons, Monday, July 17.—"Et tu, Bowlsey!" said Grandolph, a tear glistening on his long eyelashes. Of course he should have said "Brute," but that is not Member for King's Lynn's name. Remark followed upon incident that ruffled unusually dull evening. Tommy was making one of his rare speeches; instructing Chief Secretary on intricate point in Home-Rule Bill; complaining of an omission in Amendment under discussion. Grandolph, turning round, explained to him the bearing of things. Audacious, it is true. "The attempt," as Jemmy Lowther said, "to instruct your grandmother in the art of imbibing light but nutritious refreshment a slight thing compared with the temerity of teaching Tommy anything." When he detected Grandolph in attempt, he for moment fixed him with surprised stare. Enough in ordinary circumstances to paralyse a rhinoceros. Grandolph, who from precarious retreat in a tree-top in Central Africa has watched the noon slumbers of a horde of thirty lions, did not flinch. Then through the startled House rang Tommy's withering rebuke: "Pray hold your tongue!" an injunction which drew from Grandolph the pained remark quoted above.
Coming from such a source it was doubly painful. Always understood that Tommy founded his Parliamentary style upon Grandolph's earlier manner. Whispered that Member for King's Lynn had dreamed a dream of a new Fourth Party. He of course would play the part of Grandolph; Hanbury (selected chiefly on account of his height and slimness of his figure) would stand for Arthur Balfour before he came into his Princedom. The glories of Gorst would live again in Bartley; and Tommy had spent sleepless night in doubt as to whether he should enlist Parker Smith or Ambrose in place of Wolffy, who now, in distant Madrid, wears a sombrero, drapes his svelte figure in a cloak, and interlards his conversation with cries of "Carramba!"
This point was decided by curious incident. One afternoon Tommy came upon Parker Smith conversing with Tomlinson.
"Don't you think Parker Smith's getting something of a bore?" Tommy asked, when that eminent statesman moved away.
"Now that's very odd indeed," said Tomlinson. "Just as you came up Parker Smith said to me 'Here comes Tommy Bowles; good fellow; means well; but don't you think he's making himself something of a bore?'"
So Parker Smith lost his chance, and perhaps will never know how or why. Thinking of these things 'tis quaint to find Tommy turning and biting the hand which, so to speak, held for him the Parliamentary bottle. "Et tu, Bowlsey!" Grandolph sighed again, thinking of the days that are no more. "But I ought to have remembered that he who plays at Bowles must expect rubbers."
Business done.—Tommy declines to make room for his Uncle Grandolph; even rudely repulses avuncular advances.
Tuesday.—Sexton magnanimously relieved Mr. G., John Morley, and, by implication, Squire of Malwood and other Members, from embarrassing imputation. Sometimes, when gentlemen in Prince Arthur's suite have nothing nastier to say, they sketch lurid pictures of Mr. G. and the rest drawn at wheels of Sexton's chariot. All very well, they say, to talk of Cabinet Meetings, and statesmanship at Irish Office. The real boss, as Tim would put it, the arbiter of situation, is Sexton. When these things are said, John Morley smiles grimly; Mr. G. pretends not to hear; Squire of Malwood audibly raps fingers on his manly breast; Liberals cheer ironically; Sexton blushes, and looks across to see if John Redmond is listening.
To-night he feels this thing has gone far enough. There may, perhaps, be some smattering of truth in it; but its disclosure cannot be pleasant to his right hon. friends on Treasury Bench. Accordingly Sexton rose, and, taking Mr. G. by the hand, as it were, and giving a finger to John Morley, declared that there was no foundation for the imputation. It was true he had from time to time offered suggestions, the appositeness and value of which it was not for him to determine. Occasionally they might have been accepted by the Government. That was due not to the pressure of dictation, but to the force of reason. Mr. Morley was a statesman not unacquainted with affairs, whilst Mr. G. had reached an age at which he might be trusted with some share in the conduct of a Bill. He could assure the House that he was not, in this matter, dictator. Such a charge was, he added, in burst of uncompromising self-abnegation, "imbecile."
"And they say," cried Webster, for him unusually mixed, "that Irishmen have no sense of humour."
Business done.—Sexton generously puts Mr. G. right in eyes of Universe.
"He declared that there was no foundation for the imputation."
Thursday Night.—Been remarked of late, in quarter behind Front Opposition Bench, that Theobald has appeared preternaturally preoccupied. Thought he was brooding over the drought, or the prospects of Home Rule. Secret out to-night. Been concocting a joke; taken him some time; but, then, consider the quality. Some weeks ago order issued in Ireland prohibiting hoisting of flags on hotels, and other private buildings. Theobald diligently concentrating his thoughts upon this fresh iniquity, gradually worked out his joke. Appeared on paper to-night in shape of question addressed to John Morley. Supposing (so it runs) Her Majesty should visit Ireland, and stay in an hotel, would the Government take measures to legalise the hoisting of the Royal Standard on the building?
Delightful to watch Theobald when he had fired this bolt; fixed his eye attentively on Mr. G., to see how he took it, the paper in his hand trembling with excitement. Didn't often make a joke; doesn't remember a former occasion. Work somewhat exhausting, especially in hot weather; but when he did take his coat off and set to it must be admitted he turned out a rare article. All very well for John Morley to affect to make light of the business. Not very probable that when the Queen visited Ireland she would put up at an hotel; a hypothetical question; deal with the question when it arises, and all the rest of Ministerial commonplaces. Theobald's shaft had gone home, and when he saw Mr. G. wince, and Squire of Malwood grow pale, he felt that the continuous labour of nights and days was rewarded.
"Didn't think I could do it," he said when I warmly congratulated him. "Not used to that sort of thing, you know. Never know what you can do till you try. A little hard at first. The thing is to keep pegging away. Still, I'm glad it's over. Shan't try another this year. Shall go away now for a bit of a holiday to recruit."
Business done.—Got through Clauses Home-Rule Bill. Shall begin now to pick up dropped threads.
Friday.—Not heard much lately of Henniker-Heaton. Compared with what my dear old friend Raikes used to suffer from this quarter, Arnold Morley's withers are unwrung. "You've not given up the crusade, have you?" I asked Henniker, meeting him in the Lobby just now.
"No," he said; "I do not mean to rest till not only I get Ocean Penny Postage, but have introduced at home a smaller but much-needed reform. Custom here at Christmas is, as I daresay you know, to give postman present. That I hold to be a criminal reversal of natural course of events. It's the Post-Office should give its customers a Christmas-box, as in some places doth the grocer and eke the milkman. This tax upon the general public on behalf of a department of the State is another evidence of the grasping disposition of St. Martin's-le-Grand. I'll be up and at 'em again soon. Fact is, of late I've had my own troubles. Have mentioned them in letter to Times, so don't mind talking to you on a subject that has brought me from unknown admirers many expressions of sympathy, the comfort of which has, it is true, been somewhat lessened by the fact that postage was unpaid. It's this Australian Bank business. You know the proud motto of that great Colony beyond the Sea, 'Advance, Australia!' Well, having lived there sometime, I thought it only polite to fall in with the suggestion. I advanced Australia a good deal of money in the way of purchase of bank stock, which has melted away like snow on the river. Curran's in the same box: but we shall get over this, and you may bet a shilling postage-stamp to a halfpenny newspaper-cover we'll Advance Australia no more."
Business done.—Entered last compartment Home-Rule Bill.
A great crowd of theatrical astronomers and star-gazers assembled at the Lyceum Observatory last Saturday night for the purpose of watching the movements of the brilliant Lyceum group. Henry Irving of the first magnitude, Ellen Terry one of the brightest of the astral bodies, and the Mars-like Terris, with the other lesser brilliancies, all of whom we shall be unable to reckon as among the "Fixed Stars" until next Spring, when they shall have returned from their American tour. Enthusiastic reception from all parts of the House of Irving-Becket's parting address, which he delivered, standing before the Curtain, in his monk's habit (one of the old "Orders," "not admitted after seven"), and wearing the pallium, which is the special and peculiar "property" of the Lyceum See. Mr. Punch wishes them "Bon voyage," and many happy "returns" after every performance, ending with the happiest return of all, their reappearance at the Lyceum.
Q. Why should a Mellor put on a "considering cap"?—A. To keep his head cool. Q. When is a "Chair" not a "Chair"?—A. When it is "sat upon." Q. When does the Closure a Premier surprise?—A. When he finds the "Noes" above the "Ayes." Q. Where was Peel when he put the Sexton out?—A. In a passion. Q. Why does an angry Party "cross" the House?—A. To get on the other side.
That "great conflagration" at "Simmery Axe"
Brings woe to the burthened with Rate and Tax,
For it tells him that Rating must still go higher—
He must "raise the Wind" to keep down the Fire!
Good Legal Securities.—De-Benchers of Lincoln's Inn.
Transcriber's Note:Sundry missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired. Page 41: 'everthing' corrected to 'everything' ... "You may be sure the Chief has his own reasons for everything." The corrections is also indicated in the text by a dashed line under the word: |