Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 17, 1891

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 17, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 17, 1891" ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

October 17, 1891.

THE AUTOMATIC PHYSIOGNOMIST.

SCENE--_The German Exhibition, near an ingenious machine
constructed to reveal the character and future of a person
according to the colour of his or her hair, for the small
consideration of one penny. A party of Pleasure-seekers are
examining it._

_First Pleasure-seeker_ (_a sprightly young lady of the name of
LOTTIE_). "Put in a penny and get a summary of your character from the
colour of your 'air." I wonder what they'll 'ave _next_!

_Second Pl.-s._ (_her admirer, a porridge-faced young man with pink
eyelids and faming hair, addressed as 'ECTOR by his intimates_). Ah,
it's surprising how far they've got, it reelly is. And beginning with
butter-scotch, too!

_Aunt Maria_. Come on, do--you don't want to waste no more time over
that rubbidge!

_Fourth Pl.-s._ (_a lanky youth, with pale hair and a receding chin,
to his fiancée_). Hadn't we better be making a move if we're going to
'ear the band, CARRIE?

_Carrie_. I shall move on when I _like_, without your leave, FREDDY;
so make no mistake.

_Freddy_. Oh, _I_'m in no 'urry. I only thought your Aunt was
getting--but don't mind me. [CARRIE _does not mind him._

_Dolph_. (_the funny man of the party_). 'Old on a bit! I've got some
coppers. I'm going to sample this concern. I'll put in for all of
you--it's _my_ treat, this is. We'll begin with Aunt MARIA. What
colour do you call _your_ 'air now? I don't see any slot marked
"cawfy-colour."

_Aunt Maria_. Never _you_ mind what colour my 'air is--it's a pity you
can't find a better use for your pennies.

_Dolph_. (_inserting a penny in a slot marked "Light Brown"_). 'Ere
goes, the oracle's working. (_The machine emits a coloured card._)
Listen to what it says about Aunt MARIA. She is--"tender-'arted." Jest
what I've always said of her! "A little 'asty in her temper"--'ullo,
must be a 'itch in the machinery, _there_!--"neither obstinate nor
'aughty"--(_A snort from Aunt MARIA at this_)--"her inclination to
love never unreasonable." 'Ow _like_ her! "Frolicsome, inclined to
flirt and sometimes mischievous." You _giddy_ little thing! Up to
all your little tricks, this machine is! "Fertile in imagination,
domesticated, thoughtful and persevering"--There's Aunt MARIA for yer!

_General Chorus_. Good old Aunt MARIA!

_Dolph_. There's a prophecy on blue paper from _Napoleon's Book of
Fate_, gratis. (_Reads._) "Thy 'oroscope forewarns thee of a loss if
thou lendest thy money." Just when I was going to borrow arf-a-crown
off of her too!

_Aunt Maria_. Ah, I didn't want no machine for _that_. 'Ow you can
patronise such rubbidge, _I_ don't know! Tellin' characters by the
colour of your 'air, indeed--it's told _mine_ all wrong, anyhow!

_Dolph_. Well, you see, your 'air's so natural it would deceive _any_
machine! [_Movement on part of Aunt MARIA._

_Lottie_. Put in for 'ECTOR next, DOLPH, do. I want to hear what it
says about him.

_Dolph_. They don't keep _his_ colour in stock--afraid o' losing their
insurance policy. "Red or orbun's" the nearest they can get to
it. (_He puts in a penny in the "Red" slot._) Here's old 'ECTOR.
(_Reads._) "The Gentleman with long red hair is of a restless
disposition, constantly roving." Keep your eye on him, LOTTIE!
"Impatient and fiery in temper"--_'Old_ 'im, two of yer?--"but for all
that, is kind and loving." You _needn't_ 'old him--it's all right. "He
is passionately fond of the fair sex." What _all_ of 'em, 'ECTOR?
I'm ashamed of yer! "He is inclined to timidity"--Oo'd ha' thought
it?--"but by reflection may correct it and pass for a man of courage."
You start reflecting at _once_, old chap!

_'Ector_ (_ominously, to LOTTIE_). If DOLPH don't mind what he's
about, he'll go too far some day!

[_He breathes hard, then thinks better of it._

_Dolph_. Now it's CARRIE's turn. "Leave you out?" Couldn't think of
it. Brown 'air, CARRIE's is. (_He puts in a penny._) "A Lady with
'air of a medium brown colour, long and smooth"--_Is_ your 'air long
though, CARRIE?

_Carrie_ (_with pride_). I should hope so--I can set on it.

_Dolph_. That's nothing! So can Aunt MARIA set on _hers_! (_With a
glance at that Lady's very candid "front."_) _Can't_ you, Auntie,
eh? If you make a effort?

_Aunt Maria_ (_with dignity_). I'll thank you to 'ave the goodness
to drop your sauce, Mr. ADOLPHUS GAGGS; it's out of place and not
appreciated, I can assure you! [_She walks away._

_Dolph_. (_surprised_). Why, there's Aunt MARIA got the 'ump--for a
little thing like _that_! Let me finish with CARRIE. (_Reads._) "She
is of an intellectual turn of mind." (_"'Ear, 'ear!" from FREDDY._)
"Very fond of reading." Takes in _Sloper's 'Alf 'Oliday_ regular!
"Steadfast in her engagements." 'Ullo, CARRIE!

_Carrie_ (_firing up_). Well, have you anything to say against that?
You'd better take care, Mr. GAGGS!

_Dolph_. I was only thinking. Sure you haven't been squaring this
machine? Ah, it tells you some 'ome truths here--"Although inquisitive
and fond of prying into the secrets of others--" Now however did it
know _that_?

_Carrie_. It isn't there--you're making it up!

[_She snatches the card, reads it, and tears it up._

_Dolph_. Temper--temper! Never mind. Now we'll try FREDDY. What's his
shade of 'air? I should say about the colour of spoilt 'ay, if I was
asked.

_Carrie_ (_with temper_). You're _not_ asked, so you needn't give your
opinion!

_Dolph_. Well, keep _your_ 'air on, my dear girl, and we'll call
FREDDY's "Fair." (_Reading card._) "A gentleman with this colour of
hair will be assiduous in his occupation--"

_Carrie_ (_warmly_). What a shame! I'm _sure_ he isn't. _Are_ you,
FREDDY? [_FREDDY smiles vaguely._

_Dolph_. "Not given to rambling,"--Except in his 'ed,--"very moderate
in his amorous wishes, his mind much given to reflection, inclined to
be 'asty-tempered, and, when aroused,"--'Ere, somebody, rouse FREDDY,
quick!--"to use adjectives." Mustn't use 'em _'ere_, FREDDY! "But if
reasonably dealt with, is soon appeased." Pat his 'ed, CARRIE, will
yer? "Has plenty of bantering humour." (_Here FREDDY grins feebly._)
Don't he _look_ it too! "Should study his diet." That means his
grub, and he works 'ard enough at that! "He has a combination of good
commercial talents, which, if directed according to the reflection
of the sentiments, will make him tolerably well off in this world's
goods."

_Carrie_ (_puzzled_). What's it torking about _now_?

_Dolph_. Oh, it on'y means he's likely to do well in the cat's-meat
line. Now for your fortune, FREDDY. "It will be through marriage that
your future will be brightened."

_Carrie_ (_pleased_). Lor, FREDDY, think o' that!

_Dolph_. Think _twice_ of it, FREDDY, my boy. Now we'll be off and get
a drink.

_Carrie_. Wait. We haven't got _your_ character yet, Mr. GAGGS!

_Dolph_. Oh, mine--they couldn't give that for a penny. Too good, yer
know!

_Carrie_. If they haven't got it, it's more likely they're afraid it
would break the machine. I'm going to put in for you under "Black."
(_She does._) Here we are. (_Reads._) "The gentleman will be much
given to liquor." Found out first time, you see, Mr. GAGGS!

_Dolph_. (_annoyed_). Come, no personalities now. Drop all that!

_Carrie_. "Somewhat quarrelsome and of an unsettled temper; more
decorous and less attentive in his undertakings, and consequently
meets with many disappointments. Such gentlemen"--now you listen to
this, Mr. GAGGS!--"will now know their weaknesses, which should induce
them to take steps to improve themselves." (_"'Ear, 'ear!" from the
rest of the party._) "Knowledge is power, and enables us to overcome
many obstacles we otherwise should have fallen prey to." This is your
fortune. "Thou art warned to be careful what thou drinkest!" Well,
they do seem to _know_ you, I must say!

_Dolph_. (_in a white rage_). I tell you what it is, Miss CARRIE
BICKERTON, you appear to me to be turning a 'armless joke into a
mejium for making nasty spiteful insinuations, and I, for one, am not
going to put up with it, whatever others may! So, not being partial
to being turned into redicule and made to look a fool in company, I'll
leave you to spend the rest of the evening by yourselves, and wish you
a very good-night!

[_He turns majestically upon his heel and leaves the party
stupefied._

_'Ector_. (_with mild regret_). It do seem a pity though, so pleasant
as we were together, till this come up!

_Freddy_. And CARRIE's Aunt MARIA. gone off in a tantrum, too. We
shall have a job to find _'er_ now!

_Lottie and Carrie_. Oh, _do_ hold your tongues, both of you. You and
your automatic machines!

_'Ector and Freddy_. _Our_ automatic machines! Why, we never--

_Lottie and Carrie_. If you say one word more, either of you, we'll
go home! [_FREDDY and 'ECTOR follow them meekly in search of Aunt
MARIA as the Scene closes in._

* * * * *

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

(_IN FLEET STREET._)

Oh raucous street--"_Echo_," whose vile _vox clamantis_
Is, like the Salvationist's shout, heard a mile hence,
I wish, _how_ I wish,--ah! yes, that what we want is!--
Some Cockney Narcissus could charm you to silence.
Ah, me! no such luck; in the clear autumn twilight
Your shriek on my tympanum stridently jars.
"_Echo_" murders repose, mars the daffodil sky light;
And if one thing sounds worse 'tis "the Voice of the _Stars_"!

* * * * *

[Illustration: JUST CAUGHT THE POST!]

_Sir J-m-s F-rg-ss-n loquitur_:--

Just in time to catch the Post!
Pheugh! But the Pats would have "had me on toast"
(As 'ARRY would say in his odious slang),
If I had been but a little bit later.
Out o' breath as it is. Ah, hang
This hurrying business! My mouth's like a crater,
Dreadfully dry, and doosedly hot.
Rather a downer, this is, for SCOTT's lot!
Feared Mrs. Manchester _might_ just say
(In the popular patter of my young day)
"_It is all very well_ (with a wink and a jeer),
_But you_, Master FERGUSSON, _don't lodge here!_"
All right now, though! Saved my bacon.
My defeat might the Cause have shaken.
Just in time. There! Popped it in!
Awfully glad it conveys a Win;
Although One Fifty ain't _much_ to boast,--
'Twixt you and me and the (General) Post!

* * * * *

WILLIAM HENRY SMITH.

BORN, JUNE 24, 1825. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1891.

O'er-busy Death, your scythe of late seems reaping
Swiftly our heads of State;
The wise who hold our England's weal in keeping,
The gentle and the great.

GRANVILLE is gone; and now another Warden
Falls with the fading leaf,
Leaving at Hatfield sorrow, and at Hawarden
Scarcely less earnest grief.

All mourn the Man whose simple steadfast spirit
Made hearty friends of all.
Whilst manhood like to his her sons inherit
England need fear no fall.

No high-perched, privileged and proud possessor
Of lineal vantage he;
Of perorating witchery no professor,
Or casuist subtlety.

A capable, clear-headed, modest toiler,
Touched with no egoist taint,
To Duty sworn, the face of the Despoiler
Made him not fear or faint.

O'erworn, o'erworked, with smiling face, though weary,
The tedious task he plied.
Sagacious, courteous, ever calm and cheery
Unsoured by spleen or pride.

As unprovocative as unpretentious,
Skilful though seeming-slow;
Unmoved by impulse of conceit contentious
To risk success for show.

O rare command of gifts, which, common-branded,
Are yet so strangely rare!
Selflessness patient, judgment even-handed
And spirit calmly fair!

Lost to his friends their worth may now be measured
By the strong sense of loss.
How "OLD MORALITY's" memory will be treasured,
Midst faction's pitch-and-toss.

But England which has instincts above Party
Most mourns the Man, now gone,
Who gave to Duty an allegiance hearty
As that of WELLINGTON.

Sure "the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal"[1]
Would his successor praise;
As modest, as unselfish, as impartial,
Though fallen on calmer days.

No glittering hero, but when England numbers
Patriots of worth and pith,
His name shall sound, who after suffering slumbers,
Plain WILLIAM HENRY SMITH!

[Footnote 1: LONGFELLOW's "_The Warden of the Cinque Ports_."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.

"I WANT A NICE TIE, FOR A WEDDING. CAN YOU RECOMMEND ME ONE?"

"CERTAINLY, SIR. A--ER--_PRINCIPAL_ GUEST, SIR?"]

* * * * *

A ROMANCE IN NUMBERS.

As we announced last week, the _Gentlewoman_ proposes for publication
"the most extraordinary novel of modern times"--a tale which is to be
written chapter by chapter, week after week, by well-known writers of
fiction, without consultation with their collaborateurs. We did the
same thing years ago. However, as the notion is still calculated
to amuse and instruct our readers, we subjoin a short story, which
has been written on the same terms by the entire strength of a
paper--political, sporting, and social. It will be found below.

WHAT? WHO? AND WHICH?

(_A JOINT STOCK MYSTERY._)

_Political Writer commences_.--Yes, EUSTACE entered the House prepared
to vote for the Government. He knew that Lady FLORA had counted upon
his vote in support of her father, the Duke, and the other Members of
the Opposition. But when did love outweigh duty? EUSTACE knew that
the prosperity of the entire country depended upon his views. With
the price of corn falling, with the Russian Bear on the prowl, growing
nearer and nearer to our Afghan frontier, with the unsettled state of
the South American Republics, he knew that only one course was open to
him.

"FLORA, darling," he said to the fair girl, as he paced by her side in
the Lobby, "believe me, I will do anything to help you; but what _can_
I do?"

_Sporting Writer continues_.--"What can you do?" she echoed, with a
hearty laugh, as she struck her riding-habit smartly with her whip;
"why, tell me the horse you fancy for the Cambridgeshire!"

He thought for a moment. He knew the good points of _Bobby_, and was
rather partial to _Rosina_; but nothing wrong with _Snuffbox_, the
stable reports were favourable. Still, you can't always rely upon what
you see, much less what you hear.

"Lady," said he, at length, "if you take my advice, you will back
nothing until they go to the post."

_Continuation by French Correspondent_.--They had no further time for
parley, because the mail train left for Dover within the hour. So they
hurried to Victoria, and in less than eight hours were in the Capital
of the World.

Ah, Paris, beautiful Paris! They enjoyed the balmy air as they drove
through the awaking streets to the Grand Hotel. As they entered the
courtyard they met the President.

"Is it really true that the Germans refuse to take up the Russian
Loan?" asked EUSTACE of the First Frenchman in France.

"I would not say this to anyone but yourself," replied M. CARNOT,
looking round to see that no one was listening; "but those who wait
longest will see best!"

And with his finger to his mouth in token of discretion and silence,
he disappeared. EUSTACE and his fair companion hastened to the
telegraph office.

_Scientific Writer takes it up_.--They were, of course, desirous of
transmitting their important despatch to head-quarters.

"You want to know upon what system the telephone is worked?" queried
the operator, as he prepared a black-board, and took up a piece of
chalk. They bowed acquiescence. "You must know," said he, "that if we
represent the motive-power by _x_, we shall--."

_Lady Correspondent turned on_.--Before he could complete his
sentence, Lady FLORA uttered a cry.

"What a charming gown! Why, it is the prettiest I have seen in my
life!" and she gazed with increasing delight at the lady beneath on
the boulevard. Then she began to explain the costume to her two male
companions. She showed them that an under-skirt of snuff, with a waist
of orange-blue, both made of some soft fluffy material (which can be
obtained, by the way, at Messrs. SOWE AND SOWE), made an admirable
contrast.

_Naval Correspondent puts finishing touch_.--[_Please end up
briskly_.--ED.].--And they left Paris, and embarking on H.M.S.
_Ramrod_, met a gale, and foundered. When they were picked up they
were both dead.--[THE END.]

* * * * *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. IV.--TO POMPOSITY.

YOUR EXCELLENCY,

How difficult it is to succeed in giving pleasure. When I addressed
you recently, I honestly intended to gratify you by the adoption of
a tone of easy familiarity. Surely, I thought to myself, I cannot be
wrong if I address my friend POMPOSITY by his name, and speak to him
in a chatty rather than in an inflated style. If I chose the latter,
might he not think that I was poking fun at him by cheap parody,
and manifest his displeasure by bringing a host of BULMERS about my
ears? These considerations prevailed with me, and the result was the
letter you received. But, _O pectora cæca_! I have learnt from an
authoritative source that you are displeased. You resent, it seems,
what you are pleased to term my affectation of intimacy, and you beg
for a style of greater respect in any future communications. So be it.
I have pondered for hours, and have eventually come to the conclusion
that I shall best consult your wishes by addressing you in a manner
suited to diplomatic personages of importance. I have noticed that
in their official intercourse these gentlemen move on stilts of the
most rigid punctilio, and I have often pictured to myself the glow
of genuine pride which must suffuse the soul of an ambassador or a
foreign Minister when, for the first time, he finds himself styled an
Excellency. It may be of course that he knows himself to be anything
rather than excellent, but he will keep that knowledge to himself,
stowed away in some remote corner of his mind, and never on any
account allowed to interfere with his enjoyment of the ignorant and
empty compliments that others pay him.

[Illustration]

I wish to ask you a simple question. Why do you render those who spend
their lives in your service so extremely ridiculous? That may be just
the fashion of your humour; but is it fair to persist as you do? There
is, for instance, my old friend BENJAMIN CHUMP, little BEN CHUMP as
we used to call him in the irreverent days, before his face had turned
purple or his waistcoat had prevented him from catching stray glimpses
of his patent-leathered toes. Little BEN was not made for the country,
that was certain. A life of Clubs and dinner-parties would have suited
him to perfection. In his Club he could always pose before a select
and, it must be added, a dwindling circle as a man of influence.
"There is no Club, however watched and tended, but one dread bore
is there." BEN might have developed into a prime bore, but as he was
plentifully supplied with money and had a good cook and a pleasant
wife, he would always have managed to gather round him plenty of
guests who would have forgiven him his elaborate platitudes, for the
sake of his admirable made-dishes. Suddenly, however, he resolved to
become a country gentleman. As there is no law to prevent a CHUMP
from turning into a squire, BEN had not to wait very long before he
was able to put his fatal resolve into execution. He purchased an
Elizabethan mansion, and descended with all his airs and belongings
upon the unhappy country-side which he had decided to make the scene
of his rural education. Before that I used to see him constantly.
After that I quite lost sight of him. Occasionally I read paragraphs
in weekly papers about immense festivities due to the enterprise of
the CHUMPS, and from time to time I received local papers containing
long accounts of hunt breakfasts, athletic sports, the roasting of
whole oxen, and other such stirring country incidents in which it
appeared that the CHUMPS took a prominent part. I will do BEN the
credit to say that he never omitted to mark with broad red pencil
those parts which referred specially to himself, or reported any
speech he may have happened to make.

Eventually that which I dreaded came about. Circumstances made it
impossible for me to refuse an invitation to Carchester Manor, and
on a certain evening in the first week of December I found myself a
guest under the roof of the CHUMPS. The entertainment provided was, I
am bound to say, magnificent. Every want that the most exacting guest
could feel was supplied almost before he had expressed it, and all
that gorgeous rooms, stately retainers and irreproachable cooking
could do to secure our comfort was done at Carchester Manor. But CHUMP
himself was on that first evening the grandest spectacle of all. He
overpowered me. Like some huge Spanish galleon making her way with
bellying sails and majestic progress amidst a fleet of cockle-shells,
so did CHUMP bear himself amidst his party. The neighbouring magnates
came to meet us. Lord and Lady AGINCOURT with their charming daughter
Lady MABEL POICTIERS, Sir GEORGE BUCKWHEAT and his wife, the Reverend
Canon and Mrs. CATSPAW, and a host of others were there to do CHUMP
honour. I thought of POLYCRATES and his ring and of other well-known
examples. Something I knew must happen to disturb this edifice of
pompous grandeur. The something was not long in coming, for just after
CHUMP had expatiated at immense length upon the vintages of France,
after he had offered to stock the failing cellars of Lord AGINCOURT
from his own, after the butler had, with due parade, placed two corks
at his master's side in token of the treat that was to follow, it was
discovered by little BILLY SILTZER, an impudent dog without veneration
or reticence, that _both_ the bottles of _Pontet Canet_ were
disgustingly corked. To my relief, but to CHUMP's discomfiture, BILLY
announced his discovery. "BEN, my boy," he shouted across the table,
"the moths have been at this tap of wine. I'm afraid his Lordship
won't care to take it off your hands." BEN became blue with suppressed
fury. The trembling butler obeyed his angry summons. "Take that stuff
away," said BEN, "and drink it yourself. Bring fresh wine at once."
But, alas, for wasted indignation, no more _Pontet Canet_ was
forthcoming, and we had to satisfy ourselves on a wine whose
inferiority no flourish of trumpets could disguise.

Now there is nothing in the accident of a corked bottle that ought
to crush a man. I have seen a host rise serenely after such an
occurrence, and nobody dreamt of imputing it to him for wickedness.
But the contrast between the magniloquence of poor BEN and the deadly
failure of his wine, was too great. Even Lady MABEL, a kind girl
without affectations, could not forbear a smile when the incident was
narrated to her in the drawing-room, and some of the other guests,
whose names I charitably refrain from mentioning, seemed quite radiant
with pleasure at the misfortune of their host. CHUMP, however, was not
long in recovering, and before many hours had passed, he was assuring
us in the smoking-room, that he proposed to establish sport in his
particular district on a broad and enduring basis. On the following
morning there was a lawn-meet at the Manor, and, as I'm a living
sinner, our wretched host was flung flat on his back before the eyes
of all the neighbouring sportsmen and sportswomen by a fiery chestnut
which he bought for £400 from a well-known dealer. What became of him
during the rest of the day I know not. Indeed I shrink from continuing
the story of his ridiculous humiliations, and I merely desire to
remark that if this be your Excellency's manner of rewarding those
who serve you, I pray that I may be for ever preserved from your
patronage.

So much, then, for BENJAMIN. In spite of everything I have a sort of
sneaking regard for the poor man, especially since I discovered that
he was not a free agent, but was inspired in word and action by your
blatant influence. Were it not that I feared to weary you, I might
proceed at much greater length. I might parade before you regiment
upon regiment of pompous local magnates and political nobodies all
drilled and disciplined by your offensive methods, and all of them
as absurd and preposterous as they can be made. But the spectacle
would only move you to derision. One point, however, I must insist
on. Whatever you do, don't throw JOSHUA POSER across my path again.
I might do him an injury. We were at College together, he being my
senior by a year. Even then he always assumed a condescension towards
me, an air as of one who temporarily stepped down from a pedestal to
mingle with common grovellers. He became a personage in the City,
a Chairman and a Director of Companies, and I lost sight of him.
Yesterday I met him, and he was good enough to address me. "Yes,
yes," he observed, "I remember you well. I have read some of your
contributions to periodical literature, and I can honestly say I
was pleased; yes, I was pleased. Of course the work is unequal,
and I marked one or two passages that might have been omitted with
advantage. For instance, the discussion between the vicar and the
family doctor is not quite in the most refined taste, but there is
distinct promise even in that. By the way, why don't you write in _The
New Congeries_? Your style would suit it. I always take that paper in,
and I find it very much appreciated in the pantry. The butler reads
it, when we have done with it, and passes it on to the footman. It
keeps them out of mischief. Now take my advice, and contribute to
that." I humbly murmured my thanks to this intolerable person, and
left him. As I turned away I half thought I heard the sound of your
Excellency's bellows in the neighbourhood of POSER. Was I wrong?

I remain (merely in an epistolary sense),
Your Excellency's humble servant,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

APPROPRIATE TITLE FOR MR. ANDREW LANG.--The Folk-Loreate.

* * * * *

"AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM!"

(_A PENDANT TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON'S "THE KEY-BOARD."_)

Five-and-thirty black slaves,
Half-a-hundred white.
All their duty but to make
Shindy day and night,
Now with throats of thunder,
Now with clattering lips,
While she thumps them cruelly
With stretched finger-tips.

When she quits the chamber
All the slaves are dumb,
Dumb with rapture, till the Minx
Back shall come to strum,
Dumb the throats of thunder,
Hushed chromatic skips,
Lacking all the torturing
Of strained finger-tips.

Dusky slaves and pallid,
Ebon slaves and white,
When Minx mounts her music-stool
Neighbours fly with fright.
Ah, the bass's thunder!
Oh, the treble's trips!
Eugh, the horrid tyrannies
Of corned finger-tips!

Silent, silent, silent,
All your janglings now;
Notes false-chorded, slithering slaps,
Pedal-aided row!
Where is Minx, we wonder?
Ah! those scrambling skips!
Back she's come to torture us
With her finger-tips!

* * * * *

CHARLEMAGNE AND I.

_Aix-la-Chapelle, Monday_.--CHARLEMAGNE was doubtless well advised
in selecting this town for his residence. However that be, it is not
a matter for us to dogmatise about. I have heard a lamented friend,
suddenly and all too soon lost, say there are few things more
regrettable than the tendency of the present age to review the actions
of great men, not lost but gone before, and to pass judgment upon them
without having enjoyed the opportunity of hearing what they might have
to say in justification or palliation of the proceedings challenged.

That is true and tersely put. Still I may observe that if C. lived
at this period and had his choice, say between Aix-la-Chapelle and
Homburg or Aix-les-Bains, it is doubtful whether he would have
built his cathedral here. Unlike the two latter watering-places,
Aix-la-Chapelle has other fish to boil besides the invalids who come
hither attracted by the fame of its hot springs. It is a manufacturing
town, and has all the characteristics of one. At Homburg or
Aix-les-Bains you walk up a street, turn a corner and find yourself
among pine-trees, or in a smiling valley with a blue lake blinking
at the sun. Here the baths are in the centre of the town, and, like
a certain starling, you feel you "can't get out."

But invalids musn't be choosers, and if RUSTEM ROOSE sends you
to Aix-la-Chapelle--he's always sending somebody somewhere--to
la-Chapelle you must carry your Aix, in the hope that you may leave
them there.

"I wonder," said the Member for SARK, who as usual is grumbling round,
"if the local female population was less unlovely in CHARLEMAGNE's
time? Probably, since he married with a frequency not excelled by our
HENRY VIII. But what was HILDEGARDE like--HILDEGARDE, his favourite
spouse? If she in any way resembled the women who throng the streets
of Aix-la-Chapelle to-day, C.'s lot was not a happy one. Never in any
city, in either hemisphere, have I suffered such a nightmare of ugly
ill-dressed women as is here found."

That is a most unfair and unjustifiable remark to make. Brimstone
evidently does not agree with SARK who is more disagreeable than ever.
The only thing that has touched his stony nature since he came to Aix
is the unselfish devotion of the local aristocracy to the interests
of the town. Visitors mustering in the Elisengarten for their
morning cups, notice the group of musicians in the orchestra by the
entrance-gate. Every man wears a top-hat, the only head-gear of the
kind seen in Aix. SARK, attracted by this peculiarity, made inquiries,
and learned from an intelligent native that these are nobles in
disguise, who, desirous of contributing to the common weal, turn out
at seven every morning to play the band. They are willing to sink all
social distinctions, save that they _will_ wear the cylindrical hat of
civilisation. Not comfortable, especially in wet weather; but it adds
an air of distinction to the group.

"Very nice of them," SARK grudgingly admits; "but"--he must have
the compensation of a sneer--"imagine our House of Lords forming
themselves into groups to play the band in Palace Yard, with HALSBURY
wielding the mace by way of _bâton_! They'd never do it, TOBY, even in
top-hats. Germany's miles ahead of us in this matter."

Sorry to find Squire of MALWOOD, who spent a morning here on his way
to Wiesbaden, agreeing in SARK's view of the standard of female beauty
at Aix.

"Strange," he mused, "that Nature never makes an ugly flower or tree
or blade of grass; and yet, when it comes to men and women, behold!"
and he swept a massive arm round the blighted scene in the crowded
Kaiserplatz.

A small boy who thought the beneficent stranger in blue serge was
chucking pfennings about the Square, careered wildly round in search
of the treasure. We walked on without undeceiving him. To quote again
from an old friend: "There is nothing more conducive to the production
and maintenance of a healthy mind in a sound body than enterprise and
industry, even when, owing to misapprehension or miscalculation, their
exercise leads to no immediate reward."

It had been quite a surprise one morning to find the SQUIRE striding
into the coffee-room at "Nuellens."

"Thought you were down at Malwood," I said, "looking after your flocks
and herds, your brocoli and your spring onions."

[Illustration:

Ask why was made the gem so small
And why so huge the granite?
Because 'twas meant that men should set
The larger value on it.
]

"So I had hoped to be," he said, as we strolled up and down under the
trees in the Elisengarten. "But the fact is, TOBY, dear boy, I could
not stand the weather. I am of a sensitive nature, and it cut me to
the heart to see cold winds nipping the fruit and trees, the flood of
rain beating down the corn, the oats, and the mangel-wurzel. People
make a mistake about me. They regard me as an ambitious politician,
caring for nothing but the House of Commons and the world of
politics. At heart I am an agriculturist. Give me three acres and
a cow--anybody's, I don't care--and I will settle down in peace and
quietness, remote from political strife, never turning an ear to
listen to the roll of battle at Westminster. I am often distraught
between the attractions of interludes in the lives of CINCINNATUS
and of WILLIAM OF ORANGE's great Minister. Of the two I think I am
more drawn towards the rose-garden at Sheen than by CINCINNATUS's
unploughed land. Before I die I should like to create a new rose and
call it 'The Grand Old Man.'"

Quite a revelation this of the true inwardness of the SQUIRE. Would
astonish some people in London, I fancy, if ever I were to mention
this conversation. But, to quote once more from a revered authority:
"We all live a dual life, and are not actually that which, upon
cursory regard, the passer-by believes us to be. Every gentleman, in
whatever part of the House he may sit, has a skeleton in the cupboard
of his valet."

The SQUIRE stayed here only a morning, passing on to other scenes.
I watched his departure with mingled feelings; sorrow at losing a
delightful companion, and apprehension of what might happen if he
were to remain here to go through the full cure. The place is, as SARK
says, the most brimstony on the same level. You breathe brimstone,
drink it, bathe in it, and take it in at the pores. At the end
of three weeks or a month you are dangerously saturated with the
chemical. An ordinary lucifer match is nothing to a full-bodied
patient at the end of three weeks treatment at Aix-la-Chapelle. If the
SQUIRE had stayed on, I should never have seen his towering frame pass
underneath a doorway without my heart leaping to my mouth. Some day he
would have accidentally struck his head against the lintel and would
have ignited as sure as a gun.

If CHARLEMAGNE were now alive, I feel certain from what I know of him,
he would have exhausted the resources of civilisation in search of a
preventive of this ever-present and dangerous risk. Under CAROLO MAGNO
the patient might have gone about the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle with
sweet carelessness, knowing that, however much brimstone he carried,
he would strike only on the box.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OUR COMPATRIOTS ABROAD.

"AND HOW DID YOU LIKE SWITZERLAND?"

"OH, IMMENSELY! IT WAS OUR FIRST VISIT, YOU KNOW!"

"AND DID YOU GO ON INTO ITALY?"

"WELL, NO. WE FOUND A HOTEL AT LAUSANNE WHERE THERE WAS A FIRST-RATE
TENNIS-LAWN, YOU KNOW--QUITE AS GOOD AS OURS AT HOME. SO WE SPENT THE
WHOLE OF OUR HOLIDAY THERE, AND PLAYED LAWN-TENNIS ALL DAY LONG!"]

* * * * *

FAMILY TIES.

["The journal (the _Grashdanin_) is of opinion that in making
common cause with the other European Powers against China,
Russia would but serve the ends of ... England to the
prejudice of her own interests, which demand that she
should not jeopardise the security of her Asiatic shores, or
contribute to the complete ascendancy of Great Britain in
the Pacific Ocean, by arousing the antagonism of
China."--_Times_.]

_Muscovite loquitur_:--

"Won't you help me bind the Dragon?" says the Briton to the Russ.
Oho! ingenuous JOHNNY! I'm opposed to needless fuss,
And have other fish to fry--say near the Oxus! Not a hang
Do I care for what may happen on the great Yang-tse-Kiang.

I approve Non-intervention. 'Tis your favourite doctrine, JOHN,
And you stick to it _so_ closely, and that's just why you get on.
If you think that Dragon's dangerous--I hold 'tis but his play!--
There's but one thing you've got to do--clear out of the brute's way.

I am sure he doesn't want you where you've stayed a deal too long;
He wishes you would up and go to--well _not_ to Hong-Kong,
But the natural home of all such "Foreign Devils," in _his_ view.
Why, he's none too sweet on Me, JOHN; is it likely he'd like _you_?

_Grattez le Russe--et cetera_. You are mighty fond, J.B.,
Of quoting that stale epigram. You fancy it riles me.
Not a bit of it, my Briton; Tartars have a thickish skin,
And your foe and I are neighbours, nay a distant sort of kin.

The Mantchus and the Romanoffs are not exactly chums,
And a Tartar insurrection, when that little trouble comes,
As it may do if you press too much at Pekin, well, who knows?
There is always something pleasing in the quarrels of one's foes.

The Mantchus miss a many of once subject Tartar tribes
Who have--gravitated Russwards. Little call for blows or bribes
To make blood-relations mingle. On the Mantchus this may jar,
But we've not forgotten Kuldja, and we recollect Kashgar.

Wheels within wheels, dear JOHNNY! As to missionaries, well,
They are troublesome--and useful; but to put things all pell-mell
On account of priests and parsons, and of quite an alien creed,
That's scarce "diplomatic," JOHNNY; it is not, dear boy, indeed.

A new Tamerlane, my JOHNNY, who could stir the Tartar hordes
To--say "Asiatic Concert,"--well, you know that thought affords
To your talky "Only General" a quite sensational theme.
But prophecy's not "business," JOHN, and CÆSAR should not dream.

Oh! the world is full of Bogies. _I_'m the biggest of them all
In the minds of many croakers who ne'er saw the Chinese Wall,
But are frightened at the spreading of my kindred--on the map;
For I'm semi-Asiatic, and half Tartar, dear old chap.

Now put this and that together, think of Pamir, Turkestan,
Of Persia, of the Dardanelles!--I think you'll see, old man,
That though this ramping Dragon _you_ may wish to tie and tame,
A Benevolent Neutrality is rather more _my_ game.

* * * * *

A PLAYGOER'S "LAST WORD."

(_AN ECHO FROM THE PIT._)

The Season is--_has_ been for some time--silly,
And lengthy correspondences are rife.
We have, alas! to read them willy-nilly;
They take a deal of pleasure out of life.
To flee such evils here's an easy way--
Let morning dailies idly rant or vapour,
At the Lyceum go and see the play,
The programme there's the finest DALY paper.[2]

[Footnote 2: A Correspondent, signing himself "A Knight of the Free
Lists," suggests that free admissions to the Lyceum should be known,
during the American Company's season, as "The Best Daly 'Paper.'"]

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR A DEPRESSED TEETOTALLER.--"Whine and Water."

* * * * *

[Illustration: FAMILY TIES.

JOHN BULL. "AIN'T YOU GOING TO LEND A HAND?"

RUSSIA. "WELL, I DON'T KNOW;--YOU SEE HE'S A SORT OF RELATION OF
MINE!!"]

* * * * *

TIPPLING SALLY.

_A SONG OF SORROW ON ZOO SUNDAY._

[SALLY, the Chimpanzee (late of the Zoo), is stated to have
"drunk beer daily."]

Of all the monkeys at the Zoo
There's none like Tippling SALLY.
She was the first who quenched her thirst
Quite al-co-hol-i-cally.
A draught of beer made her not queer,
But seemed her strength to rally.
MORTIMER GRANVILLE well might cheer
Three cheers for Tippling SALLY.

Of all the days within the week
I chiefly favoured one day,
That was the day when children seek
The rapture called "Zoo Sunday."
For then full drest all in my best
I'd go and visit SALLY,
And see her soothe her hairy breast
So al-co-hol-i-cally!

But now no more poor SALLY's tricks
With glee fill girl or boy full;
No mug of beer her soul can cheer,
Nor glass of O-be-joyful!
We yet may see some Chimpanzee
With Drink's temptations dally,
To WILFRID's woe; but no, ah! no!
It won't be Tippling SALLY!

* * * * *

AN ESSAY IN REVIEWING.

We are obliged to "Beginner" for the proffered contribution to our
collection of Book Reviews. That is, however, a department of the
paper our noble friend the BARON DE BOOK-WORMS reserves for his own
pen. But as _Mr. Punch_ has never been known to discourage beginners,
he finds room here for the interesting contribution, which perhaps
should more appropriately have been addressed to his _confrère_ at the
office of the _Athenæum_:--

[Illustration]

_Don Quixote_. By MIGUEL CERVANTES. We have conscientiously plodded
through this voluminous work, which is certainly not entirely without
merit. It purports to recount the daily doings of a resident in a
village of La Mancha (Spain) who, accompanied by a clownish retainer,
went forth in search of adventures. He was not very happy, his day's
sport being invariably rounded oft by a sound drubbing, received
either by himself, his Squire, or both. We wish Lord MACAULAY had
lived to see the publication of this work, and had with fuller leisure
relieved us of the task of reviewing it. Remembering his method of
procedure as illustrated in his article on Dr. NARE's _Memoirs of Lord
Burleigh_, he would doubtless by careful enumeration have been able to
show that from first to last _Don Quixote_ had more ribs broken than
any man has actually possessed since ADAM was privy to a diminution of
their original number. He seems also to have had a perpetual renewal
of teeth, keeping pace with their frequent removal by brute force. As
for the number of legs and arms he had fractured, MACAULAY's Schoolboy
would have shrunk from the task of computing their aggregate.

These are blemishes upon a work that is, at least, well intentioned,
and which might have been more successful had our author been inclined
to give his hero credit for more acumen. When he represents _Don
Quixote_ as running tilt at windmills under the impression that they
are armed knights, and when he pictures him charging a flock of sheep
in the belief that it is an ordered army, we think he too grossly
trifles with the assumed credulity of his readers. Exaggeration
is, indeed, the bane of a work that, from first page to last, bears
evidence of the drawback of extreme youth on the part of the author.
We have been pleased to notice some indications of humour in the
conversation of _Sancho Panza_. But it is the pennyworth of sack to
an intolerably large quantity of bread. What we have written has been
without desire to discourage Mr. CERVANTES, whom we shall be glad to
meet with again, bringing with him the fruits of unremitted practice
and of maturer views of life.

* * * * *

TO ARAMINTA.

(_AFTER HEARING MR. SAMSON'S LECTURE._)

["To keep the family true, refined, affectionate, faithful,
is the woman's task--a task that needs the entire energies and
life of woman; and to mix up this sacred duty with the grosser
occupation of politics and trade, is to unfit her for it
as much as if a priest were to embark in the business of
money-lender."--FREDERIC HARRISON.]

[Illustration]

I Prithee, ARAMINTA, hear
What FREDERIC HARRISON has said:
Don't read for College honours, dear,
And put a towel round your head.
Don't sully what should surely be
An unstained soul, with tricks of trade;
Leave stern official work to me,
While you remain a simple maid.

Don't prate of woman's function, sweet,
Your only duty is to charm;
Leave platform spouting, as is meet,
To men; it cannot do them harm.
Your influence comes from gracious ways,
Your glory in the home doth lie;
The guardian angel of our days,
Until you bless us when we die.

Don't enter on ignoble strife
With man, 'tis yours to soar above--
To all the higher things of life,
Divine compassion, and pure love.
'Tis yours to stimulate, refine,
To win men by a kindly heart;
Not grovel with us where the sign
Of Mammon hangs above the mart.

Thine is the task to reign supreme
Within the sacred sphere of home;
To make our life one happy dream,
Thine own as spotless as the foam.
To trade, to toil, to head the feast,
To seek the politician's gain,
Were hateful:--ay, as though the priest
Took usury, within the fane!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS owns to being easily affected by a pathetic
episode. He well remembers how years ago in the course of a
discussion among literary men about books and their writers, the Baron
acknowledged that in spite of his having been told how the pathos of
DICKENS was all a trick, and how the sentiment of that great novelist
was for the most part false, he still felt a choking sensation in his
throat and a natural inclination to blow his nose strenuously whenever
he re-read the death of _Little Paul_, the death of _Dora_, and some
passages about _Tiny Tim_. There was no dissentient voice as to
the death of _Colonel Newcome_; all admitted the recurrence of that
peculiar choking sensation, read they their THACKERAY never so often.
Now the Baron differs from _Josh Sedley_ in, as he thinks, many
respects, but he is almost as "easily moved to tears" as was that
stout hero. Wherefore this preface? Well, 'tis because the Baron owns
to having "snivelled," if you will, when reading a delightful story,
published by MACMILLAN in one volume ("bless all good stories in _one_
vol., clearly printed!" says the Baron, parenthetically), entitled
simply, _Tim_. No relation to _Tiny Tim_ already mentioned; quite
another child. The Baron strongly recommends _this_ story, and
especially to Etonians past and present, as giving a life-like picture
which the latter will recognise, of the career at that great public
school of a fragile little chap entirely unfitted by nature for the
rough and tumble of such a life. The considerate tutor, too, is no
effort of imagination; he exists; and, perhaps, such an one may have
always existed since the division between Collegers and Oppidans
first began. The Baron in his own time, nigh forty years ago, knew
an exceptional species of this rare genus; but there are plenty of
witnesses to the truth of the Etonian portion of _Tim_. "_Tolle,
lege_!" quoth the Baron, and be not ashamed if in reading the latter
portion of the story you have to search for your pocket-handkerchief,
and, glancing furtively around, murmur to yourself, "But soft! I am
observed!" Then when unobserved, "_wipe_ the other eye!" and thank the
unknown author of _Tim_; at the same time not forgetting your guide,
philosopher, and friend,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

[Illustration: DESIGN FOR THE POSTER FOR THE NEXT GERMAN EXHIBITION IN
LONDON.]

* * * * *

A FALLEN LEADER.

CHARLES STEWART PARNELL.

BORN, JUNE 27TH, 1846. DIED, OCTOBER 6TH, 1891.

"The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty MARMION?"

_Sir Walter Scott_.

Fallen! And not as leaders love to fall,
In battle's forefront, loved and mourned by all;
But fiercely fighting, as for his own hand,
With the scant remnant of a broken band;
His chieftainship, well-earned in many a fray,
Rent from him--by himself!
None did betray
This sinister strong fighter to his foes;
He fell by his own action, as he rose.
He had fought all--himself he could not fight,
Nor rise to the clear air of patient right.
Somewhere his strenuous soul unsoundly rang,
When closely tested. Let the laurels hang
About his tomb, for, with whatever fault,
He led with valour cool a fierce assault
Upon a frowning fortress, densely manned
With strong outnumbering enemies. He planned
Far-seen campaigns apparently forlorn;
He fronted headlong hate and scourging scorn,
Impassively persistent. But the task
Of coldly keeping up the Stoic mask
O'ertaxed him at the last; it fell, and lo!
Another face was bared to friend and foe.
Scarce to his foes will generous judgment lean--
Foes mean as merciless, and false as mean,
Their poisoned pens, which even softening Death,
Which hate should hush and stifle slander's breath,
May not deprive of venom, prodding still
The unresponsive corse they helped to kill,
Is an ignoble sight. Turn, turn away!
Mean hates pursue the MARMION of our day,
A nobler foe, like DOUGLAS, well may rue
His fall, and sigh, "'Tis pity of him, too!"

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR THE MOMENT.

(_BY A MILITANT RADICAL CANDIDATE._)

Ah! I must trounce the Tory foe,
And love my Toiling neighbour.
The cry with which to fight I go
Is "Labour and _Be_labour!"

* * * * *

[Illustration: "WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."--NO. 2.

WHEN THE ROAD-CAR STOPS SUDDENLY JUST AS HE IS CAUTIOUSLY DESCENDING
THE STAIRCASE!]

* * * * *

THE G.P. AND THE G.P.O.

(_A DIALOGUE STRICTLY ACCORDING TO PRECEDENT._)

_General Public_. I am sorry to say the condition of the Postal
Service is really extremely defective. The delay in the delivery of
letters is most annoying. Frequently a note which should be received
in the evening is not obtained until the following morning--proof of
this being given by the post-marks.

[Illustration]

_General Post Office_. Your complaint shall receive consideration.

_G.P._ You are most kind. Next, a telegram despatched from one part
of London to another part, sometimes takes eight hours, and the reason
given is that the counter-clerk has a discretionary power to retain
telegrams until he has what he considers a sufficient supply for the
messenger to take out for delivery. This naturally causes much delay
and consequent inconvenience.