Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, September 12, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.



September 12, 1891.



SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER IV.

_REIMS--SOLEMNITY--RELIEF--EN
VOITURE--POLITENESS--CALLING--CALVES--CAVES--STARTING--COCHER--DUET._

Seen the Cathedral. Grand. As I am not making notes for a Guide-book,
shall say nothing about it. "Don't mention it." I shan't. Much
struck by the calm air of repose about Reims. So silent is it, that
DAUBINET's irrepressible singing in the solemn court-yard of the
Hotel comes quite as a relief. It is an evidence of life. This Hotel's
exceptional quietude suggests the idea of its being conducted like a
prison on the silent system, with, of course, dumbwaiters to assist in
the peculiarly clean and tidy _salle à manger_.

"Petzikoff! Blass the Prince of WAILES!" sings out DAUBINET, whose
_Mark-Tapley_-like spirits would probably be only exhilarated by a
lonely night in the Catacombs. Then he shakes hands with me violently.
In France he insists upon shaking hands on every possible occasion
with anybody, in order to convey to his own countrymen the idea of
what a thorough Briton he is.

"_Vous avez eu votre café? Eh bien alors--allons! pour passer chez
mon ami_ VESQUIER," says DAUBINET, at the same time signalling a
meandering fly-driver who, having pulled up near the Cathedral, is
sitting lazily on his box perusing a newspaper. He looks up, catches
sight of DAUBINET, nods, folds up the paper, sits on it, gives the
reins one shake to wake up the horse, and another, with a crack of
his whip, to set the sleepy animal in motion, and, the animal being
partially roused, he drives across the street to us. DAUBINET directs
him, and on we go, lumbering and rattling through the town, meeting
only one other _voiture_, whose driver appears infinitely amused at
his friend having obtained a fare. Some chaff passes between them,
which to me is unintelligible, and which DAUBINET professes not to
catch, but I fancy, whatever it is, it is not highly complimentary to
our _cocher's_ fares. In one quarter through which we drive, they are
setting up the booths and roundabouts for a Fair.

"They can't do much business here," I observe to my companion.

"Immense!" he replies.--"But there's no one about."

[Illustration]

"There will be," he returns. "Manufacturing town--everybody engaged
in business. Bell rings--_Caramba!_--out they come, like the
cigarette-makers in _Carmen_." Here he hums a short musical extract
from BIZET's Opera, then resumes--"Town's all alive--then, after
dinner, back to business--evening time out to play, to _cafés_, to
the Fair! God save the QUEEN!"

"But there's nothing doing at night, as we saw when we arrived
yesterday," I observe.

"No," says DAUBINET; "it is an early place." Then he sings, "If you're
waking"--he pronounces it "whacking"--"call me early, mothair dear!"
finishing up with a gay laugh, and a guttural ejaculation in Russian;
at least, I fancy it is Russian. "Ah! _voilà!_" We have pulled up
before a very clean-looking and handsome _façade_. The carriage-gates
are closed, but a side-door is immediately opened, and a neat elderly
woman answers DAUBINET's inquiries to his perfect satisfaction.
"VESQUIER _est chez lui. Entrez donc!_" We enter, profoundly saluting
the porteress. When abroad, an Englishman should never omit the
smallest chance of taking off his hat and bowing profoundly, no
matter to whom it may be. Every Englishman abroad represents "All
England"--not the eleven, but the English character generally, and
therefore, when among people noted for their politeness, he should be
absolutely remarkable for his courteous manners. As a rule, to which
there can be no exception taken, never lose any opportunity of lifting
your hat, and making your most polished bow. This, in default of
linguistic facility, is universally understood and appreciated in all
civilised countries. In uncivilised countries, to remove your hat,
or to bow, may be taken as a gross outrage on good manners, or as
signifying some horrible immorality, in which case the offender would
not have the chance of repeating his well-intentioned mistake. But
within the limits of Western enlightenment to bow is mere civility,
and may be taken as a preface to conversation; to omit it is to show
lack of breeding and to court hostility. Therefore, N.B. _Rule in
travelling_--Bow to everybody. And this, by the way, is, after all,
only _Sir Pertinax Macsycophant's_ receipt for getting on in the world
by "boo'ing and boo'ing."

We pass through a courtyard, reminding me of the kind of courtyard
still to be seen in some of our old London City houses-of-business.
This, however, is modernised with whitewash. Here also, it being a
Continental court-yard, are the inevitable orange-trees in huge green
tubs placed at the four corners. A few pigeons feeding, a blinking
cat curled up on a mat, pretending to take no sort of interest in the
birds, and a little child playing with a cart. Such is this picture.
Externally, not much like a house of business; but it is, and of big
business too. We enter a cool and tastefully furnished apartment.
Here M. VESQUIER receives us cordially. He has a military bearing,
suggesting the idea of a Colonel _en retraite_. I am preparing
compliments and interrogatories in French, when he says, in good plain
English, with scarcely an accent--

"Now DAUBINET has brought you here, we must show you the calves, and
then back to breakfast. Will that suit you?"

"Perfectly." I think to myself--why "calves"? It sounded like
"calves," only without the "S." Must ask presently.

M. VESQUIER begs to be excused for a minute; he will return directly.
I look to DAUBINET for an explanation. "We are, then, going to see a
farm, I presume?" I say to him. "Farm!" exclaims DAUBINET, surprised.
"_Que voulez-vous dire, mon cher?_"--"Well, didn't Mister--Mister--"
"VESQUIER," suggests DAUBINET.

"Yes, Mister VESQUIER--didn't he say we were to go and 'see the
calves'?--_C'est à dire_," I translate, in despair at DAUBINET's
utterly puzzled look, "_que nous irons avec lui à la ferme pour voir
les veaux_--the calves."--"Ha! ha! ha!" Off goes DAUBINET into a roar.
Evidently I've made some extraordinary mistake. It flashes across me
suddenly. Owing to M. VESQUIER's speaking such excellent English, it
never occurred to me that he had suddenly interpolated the French word
"_caves_" as an anglicised French word into his speech to me. This
accounts for his suppression of the final consonant.

[Illustration]

"Ah!" I exclaim, suddenly enlightened; "I see--the cellars."

"_Pou ni my?_" cries DAUBINET, still in ecstasies, and speaking
Russian or modern Greek. "_Da!_--of course--_c'est ça--nous
allons voir les caves_--the cellars--where all the champagne is.
_Karrascho!_"

At this moment M. VESQUIER returns. He will just take us through the
offices to his private rooms. Clerks at work everywhere. Uncommonly
like an English place of business: not much outward difference between
French clerks in a large house like this and English ones in one of
our great City houses; only this isn't the City, but is, so to speak,
more Manchesterian or Liverpoolian, with the immense advantage of
being remarkably clean, curiously quiet, and in a pure and fresh
atmosphere. I don't clearly understand what M. VESQUIER's business is,
but as he seems to take for granted that I know all about it, I trust
to getting DAUBINET alone and obtaining definite information from him.
Are they VESQUIER's caves we are going to see? "No," DAUBINET tells me
presently, quite surprised, at my ignorance; "we are going to see _les
caves de Popperie_--Popp & Co., only Co.'s out of it, and it's all
POPP now."

"Now then, Gentlemen," says the _gérant_ of POPP & Co, "here's a
_voiture_. We have twenty minutes' drive." The Popp-Manager points
out to me all the interesting features of the country. DAUBINET amuses
himself by sitting on the box and talking to the coachman.

"It excites me," he explains, when requested to take a back seat
inside--though, by the way, it is in no sense DAUBINET's _métier_
to "take a back seat,"--"it excites me--it amuses me to talk to a
_cocher. On ne peut pas causer avec un vrai cocher tous les jours._"
And presently we see them gesticulating to each other and talking
both at once, DAUBINET, of course, is speaking English and various
other languages, but as little French as possible, to the evident
bewilderment of the driver. DAUBINET is perfectly happy. "Petzikoff!
Blass the Prince of WAILES!" I hear him bursting out occasionally.
Whereat the coachman smiles knowingly, and flicks the horses.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWO WINDS.

(_A FAIRY STORY FOR THE SEASON OF 1891. IMITATED--AT A DISTANCE--FROM
HANS ANDERSEN'S CELEBRATED TALE OF "THE FOUR WINDS."_)

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

The Mother of the Winds (acting as _locum tenens_ for her Clerk of the
Weather, who, sick of his own unseasonable work, was off to spend his
annual holiday with Mr. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON in the Pacific Isles),
received the desperately damp, dishevelled, blown-about, and almost
heart-broken Princess AGRICULTURA at the door of the Cave.

"Oh, here you are again!" she cried, "once more in the Cavern of the
Winds! And this time you have brought two of my sons with you, I see,"
she added, pointing to the South Wind and the West Wind, who were
blowing away at the Princess like bellowsy blends of Blizzards,
Cloud-bursts, Tornadoes and Tritons.

"Oh, do for pity's sake, stop them!" cried AGRICULTURA, struggling
hard to keep herself and her garments together. "It seems as though
the heavens have become one vast sluice, that keeps pouring down
water, as my predecessor, the Prince, put it. I have not a dry thread
about me. _Please_ put them in their Bags--_do_--whilst I have a
little talk with you about them, and the mischief they have been
doing."

Two prolonged chuckles, a deep stentorian one and a sharp staccato
one, came from the two Bags already hanging to the wall of the Cavern,
from whence subsequently protruded the round ruddy form of the North
and the pinched figure of the East Wind. "Ho! ho! ho!" chortled the
North Wind, chokingly. "Who says _I_ do all the damage?"

"He! he! he!" sniggered the East Wind, raspingly. "Who is the pickle
and spoil-sport _now_, I should like to know?"

"Shut up!" said the Mother of the Winds, sharply. "And as to you two,"
she added, turning to the South and West Winds, "if you don't stand
still and give an account of yourselves, I'll pop you into your
respective Bags in the twinkling of a hundred-ton gun!"

"Why, who is _she_, that she should call us over the clouds?" cried
the two Winds, stopping their blowing a bit, and pointing to the
Princess.

"She is my guest," said the old woman; "and if that does not satisfy
you, you need only get into the Bags. Do you understand me now?"

Well, this did the business at once; and the two Winds, in a breath,
began to relate whence they came, and what they had been doing for
nearly three months past.

"We have been spoiling the English Summer," they said.

"_That's_ nothing new," muttered the Mother of the Winds.

"_Isn't_ it, though--in the way _we've_ done it?" cried the two,
triumphantly. "Why, those two Boys over yonder, uniting their
flatulent forces, could not have done better--or worse. Ho! ho! ho!
_They_ made last winter a frozen Sahara. _We've_ made the present
summer a squashy Swamp! The winter was as dry as the dust of RAMESES.
The summer has been as wet as old St. Swithin's gingham. We soaked
June, we drenched July, and we drowned August. We squelched the
strawberry season, reducing tons of promising fruit to flavourless
pulp, and the growers to damp despair. Whooosh!! What a wetting we
gave 'em!!! As soon as the Cricket Season started, so did _we_! Didn't
we just? We simply sopped all the wickets, and spoilt all the matches,
either keeping the cricketers waiting in the pavilion or slipping
about on sloppy slithery turf. Consequently, the Cricketing Season
has been a sickening sell. We 'watered down' the 'averages' of all the
'cracks.' S.W. was too many for W.G. (GRACE, of Gloucester), and W.W.
gave the _other_ W.W. (READ, of Surrey) a fair doing! We followed 'The
Leviathan' in particular about persistently, till he must be real
glad to 'take his hook' to Australia. Wherever _he_ was playing, from
Kennington to Clifton, we combined our forces, swooped down on him,
and simply washed him out!"

"Wanton wags!" said the Mother of the Winds, reproachfully.

"Ra-_ther_," yelled her promising offspring in chorus. "But that's not
all, _is_ it, S.W.?--_is_ it W.W.? We mucked up Lawn Tennis, soaked
Henley Regatta, nearly spoilt the German EMPEROR's visit, ruined all
the _al fresco_ functions of the Season--slap!--flooded Society out
of London, only to deluge them in their flitting till they wished they
were back again, intensified the Influenza Epidemic, and--"

"Oh! stop, stop!" moaned the Old Woman. "Those Boys yonder will
burst--with jealousy. But what have you been doing to the Princess
AGRICULTURA here?"

The two broke into a spasmodic duo of delight and disdain. "Why _look_
at her?" they cried. "Doesn't she speak for herself?"

"I _do_," replied AGRICULTURA. "And I charge this pair of Pernicious
Pickles with planning--and to a large extent effecting--my
Destruction! Hay, Hops, Cereals, Root-Crops, Fruits and Flowers--all
ruined by these roystering rascals. They've done more incurable
mischief in three supposed-to-be Summer Months than those
much-maligned Boys over yonder did all the Winter. They've had it all
their own way the Season through, ay, as much as though they'd nailed
the weathercock to S.W., and knocked out the bottom of Aquarius's
water-pot. And I call upon you, O Mother of the Winds, to pop them at
once into their respective Bags, sit upon them till they are choked
silent and still, and then hang them up to dry--if dry such watery
imps _can_--for at least six months to come!"

Now whether the Mother of the Winds gave ear to the prayer of the poor
Princess AGRICULTURA, and imposed upon the Two Winds the punishment
they richly deserved, the sequel must show.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SIGNS OF BREEDING.

(_Vide Correspondence in the "Daily Telegraph_.")

_Little Binks agrees with Lord Byron that Breeding shews itself in the
Hands, and complacently surveys his own._

"BOSH!" SAYS BLOKER. "BREEDING SHOWS ITSELF IN THE EAR, AND NOWHERE
ELSE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MORE MESSAGES FROM THE MAHATMA.

[Illustration]

1. I am KOOT HOOMIBOOG. There are more things in my philosophy than
were ever dreamed of in heaven or earth. You are POONSH. You are a
Thrupni but you are not a Mahatma. Be a Mahatma, and save your postage
expenses. But you must be discreet; and you must be exceeding vague.
A Mahatma is nothing if he is not vague. You must also be elusive. Can
you elude? It is no light matter to prove one's spiritual capacity by
materialising a cigarette inside a grand piano.

2. Your reply to my letter is soulless and sceptical. How _can_ you
ask me, O POONSH, what I am trying to get at? I ask nothing from you.
It would be to your advantage rather than mine if you printed my poem
on the Re-incarnation of Ginan Bittas, entitled _The Soul's Gooseberry
Bush_. And if you will only be a Mahatma, or a disciple, I will gladly
let you have the serial rights in that great work. What do you mean by
saying you do not want to find cigarettes in your neighbour's piano?
Think it over again, and you will see the beauty of it. You are a
Thrupni, but surely you have _some_ spiritual needs.

3. You say that you do not want my poem, and you ask me if I have no
further attractions to offer. I am KOOT HOOMIBOOG, and I have kept the
greatest attraction for the last. If you will only join us, you _may_
find a few newspapers who will discuss you. You may see the question
whether you are a fool or a knave debated in the correspondence
columns. Think of the glory of it!

4. What? you won't? Well; I _am_ surprised!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE (EUROPEAN) WORLD AND ITS WIFE.--Europe--says an oracle--is "Wedded
to Peace." Possibly. And Europe, doubtless, does not exactly desire a
divorce. But Europe has to pay pretty heavily--in armies and fleets,
&c.--for Peace's "maintenance."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. VI.

    SCENE--_Garden of the Hotel Victoria at Bingen, commanding
    a view of the Rhine and the vine-terraced hills, which
    are bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Under the mopheaded
    acacias, CULCHARD and PODBURY are sitting smoking. At a
    little distance from them, are a Young Married Couple, whose
    honeymoon is apparently in its last quarter._

_The Bridegroom_ (_lazily, to Bride, as she draws another chair
towards her for a foot-rest_). How many _more_ chairs do you want?

_Bride_ (_without looking at him_). I should think you could spare me
one--you can hardly sit on three at once!

    [_After this interchange of amenities, they consider
    themselves absolved from any further conversational efforts._

_Podb._ (_to CULCH., resuming a discussion_). I know as well as you
do that we are booked for Nuremberg; but what _I_ say is--that's no
earthly reason why we should _go_ there!

_Culch._ No reason why _you_ should go, unless you wish it, certainly.
_I_ intend to go.

_Podb._ Well, it's beastly selfish, that's all! I know _why_ you're so
keen about it, too. Because the TROTTERS are going.

_Culch._ (_colouring_). That's an entire mistake on your part. Miss
TROTTER has nothing to do with it. I don't even know whether she's
going or not--for certain.

_Podb._ No, but you've a pretty good idea that she _is_, though. And
I _know_ how it will be. You'll be going about with her all the time,
and I shall be shunted on to the old man! I don't _see_ it, you know!
(_CULCH. remains silent. A pause. PODBURY suddenly begins to search
his pockets_.) I say--here's a pretty fix! Look here, old fellow,
doosid annoying thing, but I can't find my purse--must have lost it
somewhere!

_Culch._ (_stoically_). I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. It's
awkward, certainly. I suppose I shall have to lend you enough to go
home with--it's all I can do; but I'll do that with--er--pleasure.

_Podb._ (_staring_). Go home? Why, I can wire to the governor for
more, easily enough. We shall have to stay here till it comes, that's
all.

_Culch._ And give up Nuremberg? Thank you!

_Podb._ I rather like this place, you know--sort of rest. And we could
always nip over to Ems, or Homburg, if it got too slow, eh?

[Illustration: "Good Heavens, It--It's gone!"]

_Culch._ If I nip over anywhere, I shall nip to Nuremberg. We may
just as well understand one another, PODBURY. If I'm to provide money
for both of us, it's only reasonable that you should be content to
go where _I_ choose. I cannot, and will not, stand these perpetual
interferences with our original plan; it's sheer restlessness. Come
with me to Nuremberg, and I shall be very happy to be your banker.
Otherwise, you must stay here alone.

    [_He compresses his lips and crosses his legs._

_Podb._ Oh, _that_'s it, is it? But look here, why not tit up whether
we go on or stay?

_Culch._ Why should I "tit up," as you call it, when I've already made
up my mind to go. When I once decide on anything, it's final.

_The Bride_ (_to Bridegroom, without enthusiasm_). Would you like me
to roll you a cigarette?

_Bridegroom_ (_with the frankness of an open nature_). Not if I know
it. I can do it better myself.

_Bride_ (_coldly_). I see.

    [_Another silence, at the end of which she rises and walks
    slowly away, pausing at the gate to see whether he intends to
    follow. As he does not appear to have remarked her absence,
    she walks on._

_Podbury_ (_to Culch., in an undertone_). I say, those two don't seem
to hit it off exactly, eh? Seem sorry they came! You'll be glad to
hear, old fellow, that we needn't separate after all. Just found my
purse in my trouser-pocket!

_Culch._ Better luck than you deserve. Didn't I tell you you should
have a special pocket for your money and coupons? Like this--see.
(_He opens, his coat._) With a buttoned flap, it stands to reason they
_must_ be safe!

_Podb._ So long as you keep it buttoned, old chap,--which you don't
seem to do!

_Culch._ (_annoyed_). Pshaw! The button is a trifle too--(_feels
pocket, and turns pale_). Good Heavens, it--it's _gone_!

_Podb._ The button?

_Culch._ (_patting himself all over with shaking hands_).
Everything!--money, coupons, circular notes! They--they must have
fallen out going up that infernal Niederwald. (_Angrily._) You _would_
insist on going!

_Podb_. Phew! The whole bag of tricks gone! You're lucky if you get
them again. Any number of tramps and beggars all the way up. Shouldn't
have taken off your coat--very careless of you! (_He grins._)

_Culch._ It was so hot. I must go and inform the Police here--I may
recover it yet. Anyway, we--we must push on to Nuremberg, and I'll
telegraph home for money to be sent there. You can let me have enough
to get on with?

_Podb._ With all the pleasure in life, dear boy--on your own
conditions, you know. I mean, if I pay the piper, I call the tune.
Now, I don't cotton to Nuremberg somehow; I'd rather go straight on to
Constance; we could get some rowing there.

_Culch._ (_pettishly_). Rowing be ---- (_recollecting his
helplessness_). No; but just consider, my dear PODBURY. I assure you
you'll find Nuremberg a most delightful old place. You must see how
bent I am on going there!

_Podb._ Oh, yes, I see _that_. But then I'm _not_, don't you know--so
there we are!

_Culch._ (_desperately_). Well, I'll--I'll meet you half-way. I've no
objection to--er--titting up with you--Nuremberg or Constance. Come?

_Podb._ You weren't so anxious to tit up just now--but never mind.
(_Producing a mark_.) Now then, Emperor--Constance. Eagle--Nuremberg.
Is it sudden death, or best out of three? [_He tosses._

_Culch._ Sud--(_The coin falls with the Emperor uppermost._) Best out
of three.

    [_He takes coin from PODBURY and tosses._

_Podb._ Eagle! we're even so far. (_He receives coin._) This settles
it. [_He tosses._

_Culch._ Eagle again! Now mind, PODBURY, no going back after _this._
It must _be_ Nuremberg now.

_Podb._ All right! And now allow me to have the pleasure of restoring
your pocket-book and note-case. They did fall out on the Niederwald,
and it was a good job for you I was behind and saw them drop. You
must really be more careful, dear boy. Ain't you going to say "ta" for
them?

_Culch._ (_relieved_). I'm--er--tremendously obliged. I really can't
say how.--(_Recollecting himself_.) But you need not have taken
advantage of it to try to do me out of going to Nuremberg--it was a
shabby trick!

_Podb._ Oh, it was only to get a rise out of you. I never meant to
keep you to it, of course. And I say, weren't you sold, though? Didn't
I lead up to it beautifully? (_He chuckles._) Score to me, eh!

_Culch._ (_with amiable sententiousness_). Ah, well, I don't grudge
you your little joke if it amuses you. Those laugh best who laugh
last. And it's settled now that we're going to Nuremberg.

    [_Miss TROTTER and her father have come out from the
    Speisesaal doors, and overhear the last speech._

_Mr. Trotter_ (_to Culchard_). Your friend been gettin' off a joke on
you, Sir?

_Culch._ Only in his own estimation, Mr. TROTTER. I have nailed him
down to going to Nuremberg, which, for many reasons, I was extremely
anxious to visit. (_Carelessly._) Are we likely to be there when you
are?

_Miss T._ I guess not. We've just got our mail, and my cousin,
CHARLEY VAN BOODELER, writes he's having a real lovely time in the
Engadine--says it's the most elegant locality he's struck yet, and
just as full of Amurrcans as it can hold; so we're going to start out
there right away. I don't believe we shall have time for Nuremberg
this trip. Father, if we're going to see about checking the baggage
through, we'd better go down to the _dépôt_ right now. [_They pass
on._

_Culch._ (_with a very blank face and a feeble whistle_).
Few-fitty-fitty-fitty-fa-di-fee-fee-foo; few--After all, PODBURY, I
don't know that I care so much about Nuremberg. They--they say it's a
good deal changed from what it was.

_Podb._ So are _you_, old chap, if it comes to that.
Tiddledy-iddlety-ido-lumpty-doodle-oo! Is it to be Constance after
all, then?

_Culch._ (_reddening_). Er--I rather thought of the Engadine--more
_bracing_, eh?--few-feedle-eedle-oodle--

_Podb._ You artful old whistling oyster, _I_ see what you're up to!
But it's no go; she don't want either of us Engadining about after
her. It's CHARLEY VAN STICKINTHEMUD's turn now! We've got to go to
Nuremberg. You can't get out of it, after gassing so much about the
place. When you've once decided, you know, it's _final_!

_Culch._ (_with dignity_). I am not aware that I _wanted_ to get out
of it. I merely proposed in your--(PODBURY _suddenly explodes._) What
are you cackling at _now_?

_Podb._ (_wiping his eyes_). It's the last laugh, old man,--and it's
the best!

    [_CULCHARD walks away rapidly, leaving PODBURY in solitary
    enjoyment of the joke. PODBURY's mirth immediately subsides
    into gravity, and he kicks several unoffending chairs with
    quite uncalled-for brutality._

       *       *       *       *       *

A "KNOT"ICAL STORY OF DRURY LANE.

(_TOLD BY OUR AGED SALT, WITH A TASTE FOR THE DIBDIN DRAMA._)

[Illustration: "A Sailor Knot"--not a Sailor.]

[Illustration: Losing their heads on board the _Dauntless_.]

What, not remember it! Not the scene on Wapping Old Stairs and Mr.
CHARLES GLENNEY in the Merchant Service, and Miss MILLWARD the Ward of
Count GURNEY DELAUNAY! Not remember all that! Not recollect the pretty
set with the River, the boat-house, and the figure-heads! Ah, tell it
to the Marines! Not that they would believe you! I remember it, and a
good deal more. Now it came about in this way. You see Miss MILLWARD
thought that Lieutenant CHARLES WARNER, R.N.--"her sweetheart as a
boy"--was dead, and, like a sensible young lady, made arrangements to
marry his foster-brother, meaning GLENNEY. This she would have done
most comfortably, had not the Count and a Boat-builder, one JULIAN
CROSS PENNYCAD, objected. But after all, their opposition wouldn't
have come to much hadn't Lieutenant CHARLES WARNER, R.N., taken it
into his head to turn up from the Centre of Africa, or the Cannibal
Islands, or somewhere. On second thoughts I don't think it could have
been the Cannibal Islands, because _there_ they would have certainly
eaten him--he looked so plump, and in such excellent condition. Well,
Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., finding that Miss MILLWARD was on the eve of
marrying Mr. GLENNEY, most nobly made room for his foster-brother, and
hurried back to sea. But as luck (and Mr. HENRY PETTIT) would have it,
just as the lady and gentleman were on their way to Stepney Old Church
to be spliced, who should turn up in a uniform that showed him to be
a fine figure of a man but Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., himself--with
the Press Gang. It turned out that Lieutenant WARNER's ship was very
under-manned, and that he had been ordered by his Captain to get all
the sailors he could on board H.M.S. _Dauntless_--a vessel, by the
way, that afterwards proved to be the very image of the _Victory_.
And here came a complication. Through the treachery of JULIAN CROSS
PENNYCAD, Lieutenant WARNER seized Mr. GLENNEY just as he and Miss
MILLWARD were entering Stepney Old Church. Says Mr. GLENNEY to
Lieutenant WARNER, "What, taking me, because you are jealous of me,
on my wedding-day! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" or words to
that effect. Says Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., to Mr. GLENNEY, "Nothing
of the sort. For the man who would betray another, save in the way of
kindness, on his bridal morn, is unworthy of the name of a British
sailor," or words to _that_ effect. Then Miss MILLWARD chimed in, and
thus touched the heart of Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., so deeply that he
ordered Mr. GLENNEY's immediate release. "I forget my duty," explained
the generous WARNER. "But I don't," put in his superior officer,
Captain WILLIAM LUGG VERNON, "and I order that man to be carried on
board!" and there was not a dry eye amongst those present, except,
perhaps, amongst the heartless "Press Gang," who, having to write
notices for the daily and weekly papers, were naturally eager to see
what "In the Fo'castle" and "The Deck of the _Dauntless_" were like.
And these they did see in the next Act of this really capital Drama.
And here came in a scene that will long be remembered to the honour of
the British Navy and the National and Royal Theatre, Drury Lane. There
came a mutiny, with the misguided GLENNEY at the head of it. Said
Captain WILLIAM LUGG VERNON, after it was quelled, "We can't spare a
man, and so I shall have Mr. GLENNEY flogged." "Don't do that," cried
Lieutenant WARNER; "he is my brother and my friend, although he has
given me a oner, owing to a misunderstanding. Captain, may I appeal to
these men, and ask them in stirring language, to fight the foe." "You
shall," replied his superior officer; "and, by arrangement with Mr.
HENRY PETTITT, I will see that '_Rule Britannia_' is played softly by
an efficient orchestra while you are speaking to them." "A thousand
thanks!" cried the eloquent WARNER; and then he let them have it. He
told them that the enemy were waiting for them--that they had left
Brest for the purpose of engaging in a first-class naval engagement.
He pointed out that the other ships of the Fleet were on their way to
the scrimmage. "Would the gallant _Dauntless_ be the only laggard?"
"No!" shouted the now-amenable-to-naval-discipline GLENNEY, and with
the rest of the malcontents, he asked to be led to glory. It was
indeed stirring to see the red-coats waving their hats on the tops of
their bayonets, and the Blue Jackets brandishing their swords. In the
enthusiasm of the moment, the entire ship's company seemed to have
lost their heads, and cheers came from the deck, and the auditorium
equally. It was a moment of triumph for everyone concerned! Everyone!
And need I say anything more? Need I tell you how it came right in the
end? How Miss MILLWARD (who was always on the eve of being married
to someone) did actually go through a civil ceremony (the French
were polite even in the days before Waterloo) with the Count, which,
however, failed to count (as an old wag, with a taste for ancient
jests, observed to a brother droll), because the Gallic nobleman got
killed immediately after the ceremony? Need I hint that Mr. GLENNEY
was falsely accused of murder, to be rescued at the right moment
by the ever-useful and forgiving WARNER? Need I say that Mr. HENRY
PETTITT was cheered to the echo for his piece, and Sir AUGUSTUS
DRURIOLANUS for his stage management? No, for other chronicles have
given the news already; and it is also superfluous to describe the
fun of those excellent comedians, Mr. HARRY NICHOLLS and Miss FANNY
BROUGH. All I can say is, if you want to see a good piece, well
mounted, and capitally acted all round, why go to Old Drury, and you
will agree with me (and the old wag with a taste for ancient jests)
that Sir AUGUST-US might add September, October, November, and
December to his signature, as _A Sailor's Knot_ seems likely to remain
tied to the Knightly Boards until it is time to produce the Christmas
Pantomime. So heave away, my hearties, and good luck to you!

       *       *       *       *       *

SONGS FOR THE PRO. AND CON. THEOSOPHICAL CONTROVERSIALISTS.--"_All
round Mahatmas_," "_He's a jolly good Chela!_" "Row, _Brothers_, Row!"
and "_Why did my 'Masters' sell me?_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CRICKETANA. YOUNG LADIES V. BOYS.

_Fair Batter_ (_ætat._ 18). "NOW, JUST LOOK HERE, ALGY JONES--NONE OF
YOUR PATRONAGE! YOU _DARE_ TO BOWL TO ME WITH YOUR LEFT HAND AGAIN,
AND I'LL BOX YOUR EARS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH."

_A SCENE VERY FREELY ADAPTED FROM "THE CRITIC."_

    _Enter Mr. PUNCH, First Commissioner of Police, Inspector,
    and Constables._

_Commissioner_. Oh! very valiant Constables: one is the Inspector
himself, the others are ordinary P.C.'s. And now I hope you shall hear
some better language. I was obliged to be plain and intelligible in
my manifesto, because there was so much matter-of-fact ground for
remonstrance, and even chiding; but still, 'i faith, I am proud of my
men, who, in point of fact, are fine fellows.

_Mr. P._ Unquestionably! But let us listen--unobserved, if so it may
be.

_Inspector_. How's this, my lads! What cools your usual zeal,
  And makes your helméd valour down i' the mouth?
  Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame
  Whose reddening blaze, by civic spirit fed,
  Should be the beacon of a happy Town?
  Can the smart patter of a Bobby's tongue
  Thus stagnate in a cold and prosy converse,
  Or freeze in oathless inarticulateness?
  No! Let not the full fountain of your valour
  Be choked by mere official wiggings, or
  Your prompt consensus of prodigious swearing
  Be checked by the philanthropists' foaming wrath,
  Or high officialdom's hostility!

_Mr. P._ There it is, Mr. Commissioner; they admit your by no means
soft impeachment.

_Commissioner_. Nay, listen yet awhile!

_1st P.C._ No more!--the freshening breeze of your rebuke
  Hath filled the napping canvas of our souls!
  And thus, though magistrates expostulate,

    [_All take hands and raise their truncheons._

  And hint that ANANIAS dressed in blue,
  We'll grapple with the thing called Evidence,
  And if we fall, by Heaven! we'll fall _together_!

_Inspector_. There spoke Policedom's genius!
  Then, are we all resolved?

_All_. We are--all resolved.

_Inspector_. To pull--and swear--together?

_All_. To pull--and swear--together.

_Inspector_. All?

_All_. All!

_Mr. P._ _Nem. con._ Egad!

_Commissioner_. Oh, yes! When they do agree in the Force, their
unanimity is wonderful!

_Inspector_. Then let's embrace this resolution, and "Keep it with a
constant mind--and now--"

    [_Kneels._

_Mr. P._ What the plague, is he going to pray?

_Commissioner_. Yes--hush! In great emergencies--on the Stage or in
the Force--there's nothing like a prayer in chorus.

_Inspector_. "O MENDEZ PINTO!"

_Mr. P._ But why should he pray to MENDEZ PINTO?

_Commissioner_. Oh, "the Knight, PINTO-MENDEZ FERDINANDO," as POE
calls him, is the tutelary genius of Bards--and Bobbies! Hush!

_Inspector_. If in thy homage bred
  Each point of discipline I've still observed;
  Swearing in squads, affirming in platoons;
  Nor but by due promotion, and the right
  Of service to the rank P.C. Inspector,
  Have risen; assist thy votary now!

_1st P.C._ Yet do not rise--hear me! [_Kneels._

_2nd P.C._ And me! [_Kneels._

_3rd P C._ And me! [_Kneels._

_Inspector_. Now swear--and pray--all together!

_All_. We swear!!!
  Behold thy votaries submissive beg
  That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask,
  Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
  And sanctify whatever means they use
  To gain them

_Mr. P._ A very orthodox and harmonious chorus. Their "_tutti_" is
perfection.

_Commissioner_. Vastly well, is't not? Is that well managed or not? Is
the "thin Blue line" well disciplined or not? Have you such absolute
perfection of "alltogetherishness" on your lyric stage as the Force
voluntarily maintains--in its own interests, and obedient to its own
peculiar _esprit de corps_?

_Mr. P._ (_with significance_). Not exactly!

       *       *       *       *       *

MANY HAPPY RETURNS!

(_PUNCH TO MADAME LA RÉPUBLIQUE._)

    ["The Republic attains its majority to-morrow (Sept. 4). It
    is the first Government since the Revolution which has had a
    twenty-first birthday."--_The Times_.]

  Dear Madam, "Perfidious Albion" proffers
    The best birthday wishes good feeling can shape!
  A snap of the fingers for cynical scoffers!
    A fig for the framers of venomous jape.
  May Peace and Goodwill be your lasting possession,
    Your proud "Valour" tempered by "years of discretion!"

       *       *       *       *       *

HYGEIA OFF THE SCENT.--It is stated that even the charms of a
champagne luncheon failed to attract more than one out of twenty-four
members of the Hygienic Congress invited to test the merits of
sewage-farms by ocular--or should we say _nasal_?--demonstration.
Perhaps the missing three-and-twenty thought that in this case, at
least, Mrs. MALAPROP would be both correct and pertinent in saying
that "Comparisons are _odorous_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH."

INSPECTOR. "NOW SWEAR! ALL TOGETHER!" CONSTABLES. "WE SWEAR!!"

MR. PUNCH (_aside_). "DEAR ME, SIR EDWARD; WHEN THEY _DO_ AGREE, THEIR
UNANIMITY IS WONDERFUL!."--"_The Critic_," _freely adapted._]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT'S ROMANCE.

I have been so bothered for coppys of my Romanse, as I read at the
Cook's Swarry some time back, that I have detummined to publish it,
and here it is. In coarse, all rites is reserved.

ROBERT.

[Illustration]

THE MYSTERY OF MAY FARE.

(BY ONE BEHIND THE SEENS.)

CHAPTER I.--_DESPARE!_

It was Midnite! The bewtifool Countess of BELGRAVIER sat at the hopen
winder of her Boodwar gazing on the full moon witch was jest a rising
up above the hopposite chimbleys. Why was that evenly face, that
princes had loved and Poets sillybrated, bathed in tears? How offen
had she, wile setting at that hopen winder, washed it with Oder
Colone, to remove the stanes of them tell tail tears? But all in wane,
they wood keep running down that bewtifool face as if enamelled with
its buty; and quite heedless of how they was a spiling of her new
ivory cullered sattin dress that Maddam ELISE's yung ladies had been a
workin on up to five a clock that werry arternoon.

She had bin to the great ball of the Season, to be washupped as usual
by the world of Fashun, but wot had driven her home at the hunerthly
hour of harf-parst Eleven? Ah, that cruel blo, that deadly pang, that
despairin shok, must be kep for the nex chapter.

CHAPTER II.--_THE HELOPEMEANT!_

Seated in the House-keeper's own Room at the Dook of SURREY's lovely
Manshun, playfoolly patting his fatted calves, and surrounded by his
admiring cirkle, sat CHARLES, the ero of my Tale. CHARLES was the idle
of that large establishment. They simply adored him. It was not only
his manly bewty, tho that mite have made many an Apoller envy him. It
was not only his nolledge of the world, tho in that he was sooperior
to menny a Mimber of Parlyment from the Sister Oil, but it was his
stile, his grace, his orty demeaner. The House-keeper paid him marked
attenshuns. The Ladies Maid supplyed him with Sent for his ankerchers.
The other Footmen looked up to him as their moddel, and ewen the
sollem Butler treated him with respec, and sumtimes with sumthink
else as he liked even better. The leading Gentlemen from other Doocal
establishments charfed him upon his success with the Fare, ewen among
the werry hiest of the Nobillerty, and CHARLES bore it all with a
good-natured larf that showed off his ivory teeth to perfecshun. Of
course it was all in fun, as they said, and probberly thort, till
on this fatal ewening, the noose spread like thunder, through the
estonished world of Fashun, that CHARLES had heloped with the welthy,
the middle-aged, but still bewtifool, Marchioness of ST. BENDIGO.

CHAPTER III.--_THE DEWELL_.

The pursoot was rapid and sucksessful, and the MARKISS's challenge
reyther disterbed the gilty pair at their ellegant breakfast. But
CHARLES was as brave as he was fare, and, having hired his fust Second
for twenty-five francs, and made a few other erangements, he met his
hantigginest on the dedly field on the follering day at the hunerthly
hour of six hay hem. CHARLES, with dedly haim, fired in the hair! but
the MARKISS being bald, he missed him. The MARKISS's haim was even
more dedly, for he, aperiently, shot his rival in his hart, for he
fell down quite flat on the new-mown hay, and dishcullered it with his
blud!

The MARKISS rushed up, and gave him one look of orror, and, throwing
down a £1000 pound note, sed, "that for any one who brings him two,"
and, hurrying away to his Carridge, took the next train for Lundon.
CHARLES recovered hisself emediately, and, pocketing the note, winked
his eye at the second second, and, giving him a hundred-franc note for
hisself, wiped away the stains of the rouge and water, and returned to
breakfast with his gilty parrer-mour.

CHAPTER IV.--_THE END_.

The poor MARKISS was so horryfied at his brillyant sucksess, that
CHARLES's sanguinery corpse aunted his bed-side, and he died within
a munth, a leetle munth, as _Amlet_ says, of the dredful ewent, and
CHARLES married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry short
time CHARLES was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of sum £10,000 a
year; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a hundred and fifty
pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to hold Hingland;
and as the lovely Countess of BELGRAVIER is fortnetly becum a Widder,
and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel, by them as is behind
the seens, like myself, for instance, that before many more munce is
past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder and one andsum Widderer
less than there is now; and we is all on us ankshushly looking forred
to the day wen the gallant Count der WENNIS shall lead his lovely
Bride to the halter of St. George's, Hannower Squeer, thus proving the
truth of the Poet's fabel,--

  "The rank is but the guinny's stamp,
  The Footman's the man for a' that."

       *       *       *       *       *

WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS?

A SONG OF VANISHED SUMMER.

    ["What has become of our Dairymaids?"--_Newspaper Question._]

AIR--"_THE DUTCHMAN'S LITTLE DOG_."

  O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
    O where, O where can she be?
  With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long,
    O where, and O where is she?

  Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun,
    And farming is nought but a bilk.
  When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank,
    Why, why should they leave us our Milk?

  Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1]
    Might wish that a milkmaid were she;
  Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days
    Could troll forth her ballad with glee.

  But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn,
    And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright!
  There is much to do and but little to earn
    In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.

  Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield,
    And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall,
  Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field,
    Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?

  Milking the Cow, and churning the milk
    Made work for the maids long ago,
  But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk,
    _That's_ where our Dairymaids go.

  Ah! DOLLY becomes a mechanical drudge,
    And SALLY--a something much worse.
  Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge
    Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.

  The meadow at eve and the dairy at morn,
    And a song--from KIT MARLOW--between,
  Would fire a fine-dressed modern MAUDLIN with scorn,
    And move modish MOLLY to spleen.

  The Dairymaid's true "golden age" is long fled
    With Summer, and pippins and cream;
  Like little _Bo-Peep_ and _Boy-Blue_, it is dead,
    Save as parts of a pastoral dream.

  O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
    O where, and O where can she be?
  Well, they make cockney shop-girls of PHILLIS and JOAN,
    And I guess that they make such with _she_!

[Footnote 1:

            "I would I were a milkmaid
  To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake and die."

    TENNYSON's _Queen Mary_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A MATTER OF CORSET.--At Sydenham, Ontario (it is stated), the Corset
has been declared to be "incompatible with Christianity!" If some of
our fashionable dames uttered their innermost feelings, they would
doubtless reply, "So much the worse for--Christianity." It is so
obvious that many modish Mammas care much more for their daughters'
bodices than their souls.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH ON TOUR. HE ARRIVES AT KINGSTOWN BY THE IRISH
MAIL.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GUZZLING CURE.

    [Sir DYCE DUCKWORTH, in a letter written to a Vegetarian
    Correspondent, says, "I believe in the value of animal food
    and alcoholic drinks for the best interests of man. The abuse
    or misuse of either is another matter."]

[Illustration]

  O plump Head-waiter, I have read
    What worthy DUCKWORTH writes!
  And that is why I've swiftly sped
    To where your door invites.
  I kept my indigestion down
    Of old, by sheer starvation;
  But now no longer shall I frown
    On food assimilation.

  I pledge him in your oldest port,
    _This_ medical adviser,
  For vainly elsewhere might be sought
    A cheerier or a wiser,
  He bids me speedily return
    To ordinary diet--
  A sage prescription!--and I burn
    To chance results, and try it!

  I've lived on air; on food for Lent;
    On what some Doctor calls
  "Nitrogenous environment"--
    A fare that quickly palls.
  I'll eat the chops I once did eat;
    All care and thought I banish;
  And with this unexpected treat
    My old dyspeptics vanish.

  What though they warn me that at first--
    It may be merely fancy--
  The stomach's sure to try its worst
    In base recalcitrancy?
  When half-starved gastric juice is set
    To cope with dainty dishes,
  The outcome--one may safely bet--
    Won't be just what one wishes.

  This earth is rich in chemists' shops,
    With doctors it abounds,
  Who, if I feel the change from slops,
    Will take me on their rounds.
  So, scorning indigestive ache,
    I count each anxious minute;
  Oh, waiter, hurry up that steak!
    My happiness is in it.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANNALS OF A WATERING-PLACE

THAT "HAS SEEN ITS DAY."

I do not know when Torsington-on-Sea's day precisely was, or, whether
indeed its day has yet dawned, but I was sent there by my medical
adviser as being _the very place_ for me, it being "delightfully
quiet", nine miles from a railway station, which apparently means
in plain English twenty-four hours behind the rest of this habitable
globe, and generally stranded in the race for every conceivable
comfort or necessity with which an age of Co-operative Stores
and Electric Lighting has made one comfortably--perhaps too
comfortably--familiar. Judging, however, from the fact that
Torsington-on-Sea consists mainly of a pretentious architectural
effort consisting of six-and-thirty palatial sea-side residences,
twenty-four of which are let in sets of furnished apartments to highly
respectable families, and twelve of which appear, from want of funds,
to have stopped short in their infancy many years ago at the basement,
showing a weed-covered foundation of what might, had the over-sanguine
capitalist not overshot the initial mark, have proved as fine a
sea-side terrace on the South East Coast as the weary cockney eye
could well hope to light upon, it would be including the fact that
there is but one policeman to protect the lives and properties of the
inhabitants and strangers of Torsington-on-Sea, by day and by night,
and a town band (with a uniform) of five, of which two-fifths are, I
was going to say "armed" with cymbals, triangle and with big and side
drums, it would be more reasonable to suppose that Torsington-on-Sea
had seen its day, and that what glories it ever had may be regarded as
having departed with the vanished years.

[Illustration]

Beyond the stock recreation afforded by the militarily-apparelled
Town Band of five, whose _répertoire_ appears to be confined to a
sad and serious opening march, a rather lugubrious galop, and a
couple of valses and a quick-step Polka, which evidently owe their
origin to the genius of the Conductor, the entertainment offered by
Torsington-on-Sea must be further sought for from a donkey-chair, the
donkey attached to which has many a long year ago lost what it ever
possessed in the shape of "spirit," a cast-off Nigger Minstrel, with a
concertina that is somewhat out of order, and a lovely "public-house"
tenor, who is heard only after dark, but with a voice so sweet and
true in tone, that one wonders how it is that instead of thrilling
the High Street of Torsington-on-Sea for possibly the few halfpence
he picks up in that rather unappreciative thoroughfare, he is
not simultaneously rushed at and eagerly caught up by the leading
_impressarios_ of all the continental opera-houses in Europe!

Then there is the daily arrival of the "coach," for such is the faded
yellow omnibus styled, that meets the London train from Boxminster,
which pulls up with a flourish at the "Three Golden Cups." There is
seldom anything brought by this noteworthy conveyance, unless it be
a package or parcel for Mr. DUNSTABLE, the one highly respectable
tradesman in the town. DUNSTABLE's is _the_ emporium _par excellence_
where anything, from a patent drug down to the latest new novel, can
be ordered down from Town. There is a tradition that old GEORGE THE
THIRD, when passing through Torsington in the year 1793, stopped at
DUNSTABLE's for some boot-laces, and, patting the grandfather of the
present proprietor on the head, said, "What! what! none in stock! Then
I think we must have some of these pretty curls instead." Anyhow, that
is given as the reason for the style and title of "Dunstable's _Royal_
Library and Reading Room," which it has enjoyed without dispute from
the commencement of the present century to the present day.

I came here, as I said, by the advice of my medical adviser, to "pick
up." How far Torsington-on-Sea has helped me to do this, I must deal
with subsequently.

       *       *       *       *       *

IGNORANT BLISS.

[Illustration]

  At noon through the open window
    Comes the scent of the new-mown hay.
  I look out. In the meadow yonder
    Are the little lambs at play.
  They are all extremely foolish,
    Yet I haven't the heart to hint
  That over the boundary wall there grows
    A beautiful bed of mint.
          For a little lamb
          Will run to its mam.
          And will say "O! dam,"
      At a hint, however well intentioned,
      When the awful name of mint is mentioned.

  At the close of day the burglar comes
    For to ply his gentle trade.
  I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and
    Grow timid and quite afraid.
  I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know
    That my neighbours of titled rank
  Went abroad on a sudden last night and left
    Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank.
          For a burglar bold
          Grows harsh and cold
          When he finds he's sold,
      And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing
      That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing.

  I'm a poet--you may not know it,
    But I am and hard up for "tin,"
  So I've written these clever verses
    And I hope they'll get put in.
  Yet Life is an awful lottery
    With a gruesome lot of blanks,
  And I wish the Editor hadn't slips
    That are printed "Declined with Thanks."
          For it's rather hard
          On a starving bard
          When his last trump card
      Is played, and he wishes himself bisected
      When his Muse's lays come back--rejected!

       *       *       *       *       *

STORICULES.

III.--THE DEAR OLD LADY.

There were three of them in the railway-carriage. One was a
Stockbroker; one was a Curate; one was an Old Lady. They had been
strangers to each other when they started; but it was near the end of
the journey, and they were chatting pleasantly together now. One could
see that the little Old Lady was from the country; she was exquisitely
neat and simple in appearance; there was an air of primness about her
which one rarely sees in a city product. She carried a big bunch of
hedgerow flowers. She seemed to be a little nervous about travelling,
and still more nervous about encountering the noise and confusion of
the great city. She had asked the Stockbroker and Curate a good many
questions about the sights that she ought to see, and how much she
ought to pay the cabman, and which were the best shops. "Not but what
TOM will look after me," she explained; "Tom's a very good son to me,
and he'll be waiting on the platform for me. And such a boy as he
was too when he was younger! Fruit! There wasn't anything that boy
wouldn't do to get it--any kind of mischief." She grew garrulous on
the subject of Tom's infancy. The two men answered her questions,
and listened amusedly to her chatter. Occasionally they interchanged
smiles. Presently the train got near to the station just before the
terminus. The Curate warned the Old Lady that the tickets would be
collected there.

[Illustration]

"Thank you, Sir," she said, "for telling me. Then I must be getting
my ticket ready. I've got it quite safely. Such a lot of money it did
seem to pay for a ride to London! But TOM _would_ have me come. He
never forgets his old Mother." She undid her reticule and took out her
purse; she undid the purse and took out a folded paper; she unfolded
the paper and took out the ticket. Then she put the paper back in
the purse, and the purse back in the reticule. She held the ticket
gingerly between two fingers of her cotton-gloved hand, as if it were
a delicate fruit, and she were afraid of rubbing the bloom off it.

"What a refreshing contrast to our city ways!" thought the
Stockbroker.

"_How_ characteristic!" thought the Curate.

"My word! there's one of my hair-pins coming out," said the Old Lady,
suddenly. The hand which held the ticket flew to the back of her head,
to put the hair-pin right.

And then, all at once, the look of animation died out of the Old
Lady's face. She seemed utterly aghast and horror-stricken. She gasped
out an unintelligible interjection.

"What's the matter, Ma'am?" asked the Stockbroker.

"My ticket's gone! I was putting that hair-pin right, and the ticket
slipped out of my fingers, and dropped down the back of my neck
between my clothes and--and myself. What _shall_ I do when that
gentleman comes for the tickets?"

The Curate blushed violently. In his boyhood's days he had put
halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until
they percolated out in the region of his boots. He had only just
checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and
jump.

The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her. He was a
season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector. He would explain it to
the man. "You'll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you--I
mean, later on." The British love of euphemism had asserted itself.
"And then you can send it to the collector by post. You had better
write down your name and address to give him. I'll guarantee to the
collector that it will be all right."

The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks. Slowly and laboriously she
wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket
was folded. All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold. The
Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused.

TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at
once.

"Ah!" said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, "that's
my notion of a dear Old Lady."

"Everything about her was _so_ characteristic," answered the Curate,
admiringly.

Neither the Curate nor the Stockbroker had the advantage of hearing
what the dear Old Lady said to Tom that afternoon.

"It came off just beautifully, my boy. Not that I blame _them_, mind
you,--how were they to know that it was a ticket which I didn't give
up last year, and that I hadn't even taken a ticket at all to-day? No,
I don't blame them. As for the address, I put the same address that
was on the label of the Curate's bag, only I altered The Rev. CHARLES
MARLINGHURST to Mrs. MARLINGHURST. And the Stockbroker guaranteed that
I should send either the ticket or the money. So he'll have to pay up!
Oh, my word! My gracious word, what a treat!"

The dear Old Lady chuckled contentedly.

Tom also chuckled.

The Stockbroker subsequently relinquished to a great extent his habit
of remarking upon his own marvellous intuition, enabling him to
read character at sight; the Curate preached a capital sermon on the
deceptiveness of man, and when he said man he meant woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN.

[Illustration]

  I think you should know I've been put out of humour
    By something I hear very nearly each day.
  In a small town like ours, as you know, every rumour
    Gets about in a truly remarkable way.
  It is too much to hope for that women won't prattle,
    But I candidly tell you, I do feel enraged
  When I find that a part of their stock tittle-tattle
    Is that we--how I laugh at the thought!--are engaged.

  Though you don't even claim to be reckoned as pretty,
    You are not, I admit it, aggressively plain.
  You dress pretty well, and your talk, if not witty,
    As a rule doesn't give me much positive pain.
  You will one day be rich, for your prospects are "healthy,"
    Yet as Beauty and Riches do not make up Life,
  Why, were you as lovely as Venus, as wealthy
    As Croesus I wouldn't have _you_ for my wife.

  Are you free altogether from blame in the matter--
    I'm resolved to be frank, so it's useless to frown--
  Have you not had a share in the mischievous chatter
    Which makes our "engagement" the talk of the town?
  When some eager, impertinent person hereafter
    Shall inquire of its truth, and shall ask, "Is it so?"
  Instead of implying assent by your laughter,
    Would you kindly oblige me by answering, "No"?

  I recognise freely your marvellous kindness
    In allowing your name to be linked with my own.
  Maybe it is only incurable blindness
    To your charms that compels me to let them alone.
  But if with reports I am still to be harried,
    I've thoroughly made up my mind what to do;
  Just to settle it all, I shall shortly be married,
    I shall shortly be married, but not--_not_ to you.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHO BREAKS PAYS."--"In some large restaurants," says the _Daily
Chronicle_, "the girls engaged have to pay for the breakages which
occur in the course of carrying on a business in which they are not
partners." If the maxim at the head of this paragraph were strictly
and impartially enforced, such exacting employers would have to
pay pretty smartly for certain "breakages" which occur in the
carrying on of a business in which they consider _they_ have no
concern--breakages, to wit, of the girls' health, spirits, and, often,
hearts!

       *       *       *       *       *

MODERN VERSION OF "WISE MEN OF THE EAST."--The Congress of
Orientalists.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, September 12, 1891" ***

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