PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

July 28, 1894.

LORD ORMONT'S MATE AND MATEY'S AMINTA.

By G***GE M*R*D*TH.

Volume I.

This was a school. Small wonder if the boys, doubly sensitive under a supercilious head-master of laughter-moving invention, poised for a moment on the to and fro of a needless knockabout jig-face with chin and mouth all a-pucker for the inquisitive contest. The stout are candid puff-balls blowing in an open sea of purposeless panting, hard to stir into an elephantine surging from arm-chairs; and these are for frock-coats, and they can wear watch-chains. So these boys understood it. Murat here, Murat there, Murat everywhere, with Shalders a-burst at the small end of a trumpet, cheeks rounded to the full note of an usher's eulogy, like a roar and no mistake, arduous in the moment, throbbing beneath a schoolmaster's threadbare waistcoat, a heart all dandelions to the plucker, yellow on top with white shifts for feather-fringe; or a daisy, transferring petulance on a bath-chair wheezing and groaning—on the swing for the capture of a fare—or shall it be a fair, that too a wheeze permitted to propriety hoist on a flaxy, grinning chub. This was Shalders.

Lady Charlotte Eglett appeared. Hers was the brother, the Lord Ormont we know, a general of cavalry not a doubt, all sabretache, spurs and plumes, dashing away into a Hindoo desert like the soldier he is, a born man sword in fist. She wrote, "Come to me. He is said to be married."

He spoke to her. "My father was a soldier."

"He too?" she interposed.

Their eyes clashed.

"You are the tutor for me," she added.

"For your grandson," corrected he.

It was a bargain. They struck it. She glanced right and left, showing the town-bred tutor her hedges at the canter along the main road of her scheme.

His admiration of the cavalry-brother rose to a fever-point. Not good with the pen, Lady Charlotte opined; hard to beat at a sword-thrust, thought Matey. "Be his pen-holder," put in the lady. "I would," said he, smiling again. She split sides, convulsed in a take-offish murmur, a roll here, a roll there, rib-tickling with eyes goggling on the forefront of a sentence all rags, tags, and splutters like a jerry-builder gaping at a waste land pegged out in plots, foundations on the dig, and auctioneer prowling hither thither, hammer ready for the "gone" which shall spin a nobody's land into a somebody's money passing over counter or otherwise pocket to pocket, full to empty or almost empty, with a mowling choke-spark of a batter-foot all quills for the bean-feast. So they understood it.

Matey then was Lord Ormont's secretary. A sad dog his Lordship; all the women on bended knees to his glory. Who shall own him? What cares he so it be a petticoat? For women go the helter-skelter pace; head-first they plunge or kick like barking cuckoos. You can tether them with a dab for Sir Francis Jeune. He will charge a jury to the right-about of a crapulous fallow-ball, stiff as Rhadamanthus eyeing the tremblers. But Matey had met this one before. Memories came pouring. He gazed. Was she, in truth, Lord Ormont's? The thought spanked him in the face. A wife? Possibly. And with an aunt—Aminta's aunt. She has a nose like a trout skimming a river for flies, then rises a minute and you not there, always too late with rod and line for sport. But there was danger to these two, and Lord Ormont was writing his Memoirs. A mad splashing of unnecessary ink on the foolscap made for his head, never more to wear the plumed cocked hat in a clash of thunder-bearing squadrons.

End of Vol. I.

A VADE MECUM FOR THE NAVAL MANŒUVRES.

(Compiled by a Pessimist.)

Question. Will the Naval Manœuvres of 1894 have any novel features?

Answer. Only in the imagination of the special correspondents.

Q. Will there be the customary coloured fleets?

A. Yes, with the usual commanders, officers and men.

Q. Will the lesson that a fleet having speed equal to a pursuing fleet, if given a start, will escape, be taught to all concerned?

A. Yes, to the great admiration of the authorities at Somerset House and Whitehall.

Q. Will it be demonstrated that if a town on the coast is left undefended, a hostile ironclad will be able to bombard it at pleasure?

A. Yes, to the satisfaction of every scientist in the United Kingdom.

Q. Will it also be made clear to the meanest comprehension that if the night is sufficiently dark, and search-lights insufficient, a fleet will get out of a harbour in spite of considerable opposition?

A. Yes, to the great appreciation of the world at large, and the British public in particular.

Q. Will there be the customary secrecy about self-evident facts and trivial details?

A. Yes, to the annoyance of the newspaper correspondents, and the indignation of editors thirsting for copy.

Q. And, lastly, how may the Naval Manœuvres be appropriately defined?

A. As the means of obtaining the minimum of information at the maximum of expense.

A PAINFUL POSITION.

It is my base biographer

I've haunted all day long.

He's writing out my character,

And every word is wrong.

With the wrong vices I'm indued,

And the wrong virtues too;

My motives he has misconstrued

As only he could do.

I read the copy sheet by sheet

As it issues from his pen,

And this, this travesty complete

Will be my doom from men!

I've wrestled hard with psychic force—

It is in vain, in vain!

His nerves were ever tough and coarse,

Impervious his brain.

Ah, could a merely psychic spell

Ignite an earthly match!

Or could a hand impalpable

Material "copy" snatch!

I'm as incompetent as mist

The enemy to rack.

Ah, if a spiritual fist

An earthly eye could black!

A paper-weight it lies below,

It cannot be dispersed!

The publisher will never know

Who read that copy first!

His gliding pen, for all my hate,

Has never gone awry;

"All rights reserved," they'll calmly state,

O'er me. And here am I!

GUESSES AT GOODWOOD.

(By a Transatlantic Cousin, according to English ideas.)

That I shall get puppar to take me and mother down in real style.

That we will wake up sleepy old Europe, and show these insolent insulars that we are above small potatos.

That I shall cut out the Britisher Misses, and make their mummars sit up.

That I shall take care that luncheon is not neglected, and see that all my party, like the omnibuses, are full inside.

That I shall think very small of the races, so long as I get my boxes of gloves.

That I shall do credit to the best society of Boston and the seminaries of New York by speaking through my nose a mixture of slang and nonsense.

That I shall call his Grace of Canterbury "Archbishop," and any owner of strawberry leaves "Duke."

That I shall wear a gown trimmed with diamonds, and have my parasols made of net and precious stones. That I shall conceal the fact that puppar made his money out of the sale of wooden nutmegs and mother's aunt was a laundress.

That I shall flirt with a Duke at the Races, marry him at St. George's, and give up for ever the stars and stripes.

P.S. (by a Transatlantic Cousin, according to American ideas).—I shall continue to wonder at an English girl's notions of her kinswomen when there are so many charming specimens of refined Columbian gentlewomen resettled in the old home of the Anglo-Saxon race.

"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE," &c.

Scene—Hounds on drag of Otter, which has turned up small tributary stream.

Miss Di (six feet in her stockings, to deeply-enamoured Curate, five feet three in his, whom she has inveigled out Otter-hunting). "Oh, do just Pick me up and Carry me across. It's rather Deep, don't you know!"

[The Rev. Spooner's sensations are somewhat mixed.

"THE APPLE OF DISCORD; OR, WHICH IS THE LAUREATE?"

Paris ... Lord R-s-b-ry. Venus (à la Japonaise) ... Sir Edw-n Arn-ld. Juno ... L-w-s M-rr-s. Minerva ... Alfr-d A-st-n.

THE APPLE OF DISCORD.

(Modern Parliamentary Version.)

[Replying to questions concerning the delay in filling up the post of Poet Laureate, Sir W. Harcourt said, "This is a delicate question, and, amidst conflicting claims, I must shelter myself in the decency of the learned language, and I would reply, 'Poeta nascitur, non fit.' ... My hon. friend must remember what happened to the shepherd Paris when he had to award the apple, and the misfortunes which befel him and his partners—spretæque injuria formæ.">[

Unpoetical Statesman sings:—

I'm Paris the Shepherd, pro tem.,

And here are the three pseudo-goddesses!—

Different, truly, from them

Who appeared, without veils, skirts, or bodices,

Unto Œnone's false swain.

Well, I've no Œnone to wig me;

But—at the first glance it's so plain,

Paris can't give the fruit to—a pigmy.

Heré? Ah! this must be she!

A classico-Cambrian Juno!

Propriety's pink all must see;

But what other claims has she? Few know!

Dull decency's all very fine;

She has a fine smack of the chapel;

But, dash it, I still must decline

To give Goddess Grundy the apple!

I'm sure she's domestic and chaste,

A virtuous, worthy old body;

But—that's scarce a goddess's waist,

Her tone, too, is—well, Eisteddfoddy.

I fear, if I gave the award

To this excellentest of old ladies,

Apollo might send me—'twere hard!—

To read one of her Epics—in Hades!

Then Pallas! Well, Pallas looks proud,

And I have no doubt might deserve a

Big crown from a true Primrose crowd:

But—she runs rather small for Minerva!

Men might mistake her for her owl.

"Her rhymes," say swell Tories, "are rippin'!"

But still, though the Standard may scowl,

I can't award Pallas the pippin!

And then Aphrodite! Oh my!

In that dress she must feel rather freezy.

There's confidence, though, in her eye,

She is taking it quite Japanesy.

That musumé smile's quite a fetch,

And yet—I acknowledge—between us—

(They'll call me a cold-blooded wretch)

I can't stand a Japanese Venus!

And so "the Hesperian fruit"

I must really reserve—for the present.

Yes. Heré will call me a brute,

And Pallas say things most unpleasant,

Aphrodite—won't she give me beans!

They all want the pippin—you bet it!

To grab it each "goddess" quite means,

And oh! don't they wish they may get it?

"The New Woman" (according to the type suggested by the 'Revolt of the Daughters') should be known as "The Revolting Woman."

A BALLADE OF THREE VOLUMES.

O awful sentence that we read,

O news that really seems to stun,

For Messrs. Mudie have decreed,

And also Messrs. Smith and Son,

Henceforth consistently to shun

The trilogies we value so,

And that, for thus the tidings run,

Three-volume novels are to go!

Reflect to what it soon must lead,

This rash reform which you've begun;

How can the novelist succeed

In packing tragedy and fun

Within the space of Volume One?

Already his returns are low,

Soon he'll be utterly undone—

Three-volume novels are to go!

And then for us, who humbly plead

For long romances deftly spun,

Will not these stern barbarians heed

Our concentrated malison?

Alas, your literary Hun

Nor sorrow nor remorse can know;

He cries in anger, "Simpleton,

Three-volume novels are to go!"

Envoi.

Prince, writers' rights—forgive the pun—

And readers' too, forbid the blow;

Of triple pleasure there'll be none,

Three-volume novels are to go!

Mrs. R. says she "quite understands the truth of the ancient proverb which says that 'the man who has a family has given sausages to fortune.'"

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART IV.—RUSHING TO CONCLUSIONS.

Scene IV.—A First-Class Compartment.

Spurrell (to himself). Formidable old party opposite me in the furs! Nice-looking girl over in the corner; not a patch on my Emma, though! Wonder why I catch 'em sampling me over their papers whenever I look up! Can't be anything wrong with my turn out. Why, of course, they heard Tom talk about my going down to Wyvern Court; think I'm a visitor there and no end of a nob! Well, what snobs some people are, to be sure!

Lady Cantire (to herself). So this is the young poet I made Albinia ask to meet me. I can't be mistaken, I distinctly heard his friend mention Andromeda. H'm, well, it's a comfort to find he's clean! Have I read his poetry or not? I know I had the book, because I distinctly remember telling Maisie she wasn't to read it—but—well, that's of no consequence. He looks clever and quite respectable—not in the least picturesque—which is fortunate. I was beginning to doubt whether it was quite prudent to bring Maisie; but I needn't have worried myself.

Lady Maisie (to herself). Here, actually in the same carriage! Does he guess who I am? Somehow——Well, he certainly is different from what I expected. I thought he would show more signs of having thought and suffered; for he must have suffered to write as he does. If Mamma knew I had read his poems; that I had actually written to beg him not to refuse Aunt Albinia's invitation! He never wrote back. Of course I didn't put my address; but still, he could have found out from the Red Book if he'd cared. I'm rather glad now he didn't care.

Spurr. (to himself). Old girl seems as if she meant to be sociable; better give her an opening. (Aloud.) Hem! would you like the window down an inch or two?

Lady Cant. Not on my account, thank you.

Spurr. (to himself). Broke the ice, anyway. (Aloud.) Oh, I don't want it down, but some people are fond of fresh air.

Lady Cant. (with a dignified little shiver). With a temperature as glacial as it is in here! Surely not!

Spurr. Well, it is chilly; been raw all day. (To himself.) She don't answer. I haven't broken the ice.

[He produces a memorandum book.

Lady Maisie (to herself). He hasn't said anything very original yet. So nice of him not to pose! Oh, he's got a note-book; he's going to compose a poem. How interesting!

"He's going to compose a poem. How interesting!"

Spurr. (to himself). Yes, I'm all right if Voluptuary wins the Lincolnshire Handicap; lucky to get on at the price I did. When will the weights come out for the City and Suburban? Let's see whether the Pink 'Un has anything about it.

[He refers to the "Sporting Times."

Lady Maisie (to herself). The inspiration's stopped—what a pity! How odd of him to read the Globe! I thought he was a Democrat!

Lady Cant. Maisie, there's quite a clever little notice in Society Snippets about the dance at Skympings last week. I'm sure I wonder how they pick up these things; it quite bears out what I was told; says the supper arrangements were "simply disgraceful; no plovers' eggs, and not nearly enough champagne; and what there was, undrinkable!" So like poor dear Lady Chesepare; never does do things like anybody else. I'm sure I've given her hints enough!

Spurr. (to himself, with a suppressed grin). Wants to let me see she knows some swells. Now ain't that paltry?

Lady Cant. (tendering the paper). Would you like to see it, Maisie? Just this hit here; where my finger is.

Lady Maisie (to herself, flushing). I saw him smile. What must he think of us, with his splendid scorn for rank? (Aloud.) No, thank you, Mamma; such a wretched light to read by!

Spurr. (to himself). Chance for me to cut in! (Aloud.) Beastly light, isn't it? 'Pon my word, the company ought to provide us with a dog and string apiece when we get out!

Lady Cant. (bringing a pair of long-handled glasses to bear upon him). I happen to hold shares in this line. May I ask why you consider a provision of dogs and string at all the stations a necessary or desirable expenditure?

Spurr. Oh—er—well, you know, I only meant, bring on blindness and that. Harmless attempt at a joke, that's all.

Lady Cant. I see. I scarcely expected that you would condescend to such weakness. I—ah—think you are going down to stay at Wyvern for a few days, are you not?

Spurr (to himself). I was right. What Tom said did fetch the old girl; no harm in humouring her a bit. (Aloud.) Yes—oh yes, they—aw—wanted me to run down when I could.

Lady Cant. I heard they were expecting you. You will find Wyvern a pleasant house—for a short visit.

Spurr (to himself). She heard! Oh, she wants to kid me she knows the Culverins. Rats! (Aloud.) Shall I, though? I daresay.

Lady Cant. Lady Culverin is a very sweet woman; a little limited, perhaps, not intellectual, or quite what one would call the grande dame; but perhaps that could scarcely be expected.

Spurr. (vaguely). Oh, of course not—no. (To himself.) If she bluffs, so can I! (Aloud.) It's funny your turning out to be an acquaintance of Lady C.'s, though.

Lady Cant. You think so? But I should hardly call myself an acquaintance.

Spurr. (to himself). Old cat's trying to back out of it now; she shan't, though! (Aloud.) Oh, then I suppose you know Sir Rupert best?

Lady Cant. Yes, I certainly know Sir Rupert better.

Spurr. (to himself). Oh, you do, do you? We'll see. (Aloud.) Nice cheery old chap, Sir Rupert, isn't he? I must tell him I travelled down in the same carriage with a particular friend of his. (To himself.) That'll make her sit up!

Lady Cant. Oh, then you and my brother Rupert have met already?

Spurr. (aghast). Your brother! Sir Rupert Culverin your——! Excuse me—if I'd only known, I—I do assure you I never should have dreamt of saying——!

Lady Cant. (graciously). You've said nothing whatever to distress yourself about. You couldn't possibly be expected to know who I was. Perhaps I had better tell you at once that I am Lady Cantire, and this is my daughter, Lady Maisie Mull. (Spurrell returns Lady Maisie's little bow in the deepest confusion.) We are going down to Wyvern too, so I hope we shall very soon become better acquainted.

Spurr. (to himself, overwhelmed). The deuce we shall! I have got myself into a hole this time; I wish I could see my way well out of it! Why on earth couldn't I hold my confounded tongue? I shall look an ass when I tell 'em.

[He sits staring at them in silent embarrassment.

Scene V.—A Second-Class Compartment.

Undershell (to himself). Singularly attractive face this girl has; so piquant and so refined! I can't help fancying she is studying me under her eyelashes. She has remarkably bright eyes. Can she be interested in me? does she expect me to talk to her? There are only she and I—but no, just now I would rather be alone with my thoughts. This Maisie Mull whom I shall meet so soon; what is she like, I wonder? I presume she is unmarried. If I may judge from her artless little letter, she is young and enthusiastic, and she is a passionate admirer of my verse; she is longing to meet me. I suppose some men's vanity would be flattered by a tribute like that. I think I must have none; for it leaves me strangely cold. I did not even reply; it struck me that it would be difficult to do so with any dignity, and she didn't tell me where to write to.... After all, how do I know that this will not end—like everything else—in disillusion? Will not such crude girlish adoration pall upon me in time? If she were exceptionally lovely; or say, even as charming as this fair fellow-passenger of mine—why then, to be sure—but no, something warns me that that is not to be. I shall find her plain, sandy, freckled; she will render me ridiculous by her undiscriminating gush.... Yes, I feel my heart sink more and more at the prospect of this visit. Ah me!

[He sighs heavily.

His Fellow Passenger (to herself). It's too silly to be sitting here like a pair of images, considering that——(Aloud.) I hope you aren't feeling unwell?

Und. Thank you, no, not unwell. I was merely thinking.

His Fellow P. You don't seem very cheerful over it, I must say. I've no wish to be inquisitive, but perhaps you're feeling a little lowspirited about the place you're going to?

Und. I—I must confess I am rather dreading the prospect. How wonderful that you should have guessed it!

His Fellow P. Oh, I've been through it myself. I'm just the same when I go down to a new place; feel a sort of sinking, you know, as if the people were sure to be disagreeable, and I should never get on with them.

Und. Exactly my own sensations! If I could only be sure of finding one kindred spirit, one soul who would help and understand me. But I daren't let myself hope even for that!

His Fellow P. Well, I wouldn't judge beforehand. The chances are there'll be somebody you can take to.

Und. (to himself). What sympathy! What bright, cheerful common sense! (Aloud.) Do you know, you encourage me more than you can possibly imagine!

His Fellow P. (retreating). Oh, if you are going to take my remarks like that, I shall be afraid to go on talking to you!

Und. (with pathos). Don't—don't be afraid to talk to me! If you only knew the comfort you give! I have found life very sad, very solitary. And true sympathy is so rare, so refreshing. I—I fear such an appeal from a stranger may seem a little startling; it is true that hitherto we have only exchanged a very few sentences; and yet already I feel that we have something—much—in common. You can't be so cruel as to let all intimacy cease here—it is quite tantalising enough that it must end so soon. A very few more minutes, and this brief episode will be only a memory; I shall have left the little green oasis far behind me, and be facing the dreary desert once more—alone!

His Fellow P. (laughing). Well, of all the uncomplimentary things! As it happens, though, "the little green oasis"—as you're kind enough to call me—won't be left behind; not if it's aware of it! I think I heard your friend mention Wyvern Court! Well, that's where I'm going.

Und. (excitedly). You—you are going to Wyvern Court! Why, then, you must be——

[He checks himself.

His Fellow P. What were you going to say; what must I be?

Und. (to himself). There is no doubt about it; bright, independent girl; gloves a trifle worn; travels second-class for economy; it must be Miss Mull herself; her letter mentioned Lady Culverin as her aunt. A poor relation, probably. She doesn't suspect that I am——I won't reveal myself just yet; better let it dawn upon her gradually. (Aloud.) Why, I was only about to say, why then you must be going to the same house as I am. How extremely fortunate a coincidence!

His Fellow P. We shall see. (To herself.) What a funny little man; such a flowery way of talking for a footman. Oh, but I forgot; he said he wasn't going to wear livery. Well, he would look a sight in it!

PREVENTION BETTER THAN CURE.

"Can you let me have a Bullet-proof Coat for my little Dog? My next-door Neighbour has threatened to Shoot him for Barking!"

Where to send a Young Horse to be well Broken in for Riding.—Evidently to the "Hackney Training Schools."

THE PERSONAL EQUATION.

"You're going to drive my Lady to Regent Street, aren't you, Dickon?"

"Yes. It's hall very well for 'er Ladyship to go about in a Thing like this! She hain't known in the West End. Hi ham!"

"EVICTED TENANTS."

Local Veto Bill. "ARE WE TO HAVE NO 'COMPENSATION FOR DISTURBANCE'?"

H-rc-rt. "YOU'LL SEE!—RE-INSTATEMENT!—NEXT SESSION!!"

[Exeunt Bills, dejectedly.

"EVICTED TENANTS."

["It is impracticable to proceed in the present Session with some of the great measures to which the Government is pledged, such, for example, as that relating to the Church in Wales, the Registration Bill, and the Local Veto Bill."—Sir William Harcourt.

Little Local Veto, loquitur:—

Oh, exactly! Just what I expected! And after such volumes of talk!

My prospects you told me were brilliant, and here it all ends—in a baulk!

O, won't I just work up Sir Wilfrid, and won't I just wake Mister Caine?

But there, you can't trust anybody, these times, that's exceedingly plain.

And you too, my own bringer-up, to turn me out of house and of home!

Oho, you unnatural parent! And where shall we wanderers roam—

Poor Taffy, and young (Registration) Bill—look at him limping!—and Me?

And the other ones tucked up inside, and especially that impudent Three,

The Irish, the Scotch, and the London boys, whom you so favour and pet,

Are laughing at us from the window. But, drat them, their turn may come yet.

They may have to turn out, after all! Billy Budget of course is all right,

For you fought for your favourite che-ild, and, by Jingo, it has been a fight!

But what have I done to be rounded on? Call yourself boss of the place?

Why, the Bartleys, and Bowleses, and Boltons and Byrnes simply laugh in your face!

What use to be landlord at all if you can't choose your tenants? Oh my!

That odious Bung—one more B!—has the laugh of me still! I could cry—

But I won't. I will kick! I'm not meek, like those other two poor little Bills;

Look, how limp and dejected they go, though against their poor dear little wills!

But I am not going to be put upon. I'll make it awkward all round.

You won't treat me so any more; you won't "chuck" me again, I'll be bound.

And what Compensation have I, for Disturbance? Eh! what's that you say?

"All right?"—"Reinstatement—next year?"—"Pass away, my dears, please, pass away?"—

Ah! it's all very fine to look pleasant and promise fair things—at the door;

But that's regular constable blarney, old boy, and you've done it before!

Meanwhile we're Evicted, worse luck! like the poor Irish Tenants whose case

Those busy B's muster to fight over. Ah! you put on a bold face,

But we ain't the only Pill Garlics! No; some of 'em still left inside

Will yet join us, out in the cold, as will p'raps be a pill to their pride!

[Exit with other Bills.

The Colonel and the Quiver.—Our own Colonel Saunderson, M.P., was never better at his best than when, in the debate last Thursday night, he said, "If the Bill passes, a quiver of horror will run through every tenant, &c., &c." Of course the gallant Colonel meant "arrow" or "dart," not "quiver." A dart or an arrow will run through a person, piercing him in front, and reappearing at back. But "quiver" doesn't do this sort of thing. An arrow so transfixing a body may make it quiver—but this is another matter. More power to the quivering elbow of the gallant Colonel!