PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 101.

August 15, 1891.

A TERRIBLE TALE.

Alas! it had of course to be!

For weeks I had not left my room,

When one fell day there came on me

An awful doom.

A burly rough, who drank and swore,

Without a word—I could not shout—

Attacked me brutally, and tore

My nails right out.

Then, dragging me out to the air—

No well-conducted conscience pricked him—

He mercilessly beat me there,

His helpless victim.

With cruel zest he beat me well,

He beat me till in parts I grew—

I shudder as the tale I tell—

All black and blue.

But what on earth he was about,

I could not guess, do what I would;

But when at length he cleaned me out

I understood.

Yet do not shed a tear, because

You've heard my story told in metre,

For I'm a Carpet, and he was

A Carpet-Beater.

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.

Thursday, June 12.—Letters from Billsbury arrive by every post, Horticultural Societies, sea-side excursions, Sunday School pic-nics, cricket club fêtes, all demand subscriptions, and, as a rule, get them. If this goes on much longer I shall be wound up in the Bankruptcy Court. Shall have to make a stand soon, but how to begin is the difficulty. Pretty certain in any case to put my foot down in the wrong place, and offend everybody. Amongst other letters came this one:—

4, Stone Street, Billsbury, June 10.

Sir,—I venture to appeal to your generosity in a matter which I am sure you will recognise to be of the highest importance. My services to the Conservative Party in Billsbury are well-known. I can safely say that no man has, during the last ten years, worked harder than I have to promote Conservative interests, and for a smaller reward. My exertions at the last election brought on a violent attack of malarial fever, which laid me up for some months, and from which I still suffer. The shaky character of my hand-writing attests the sufferings I have gone through, and the shattered condition of my bodily health at the present moment. I lost my situation as head-clerk in the Export Department of the Ironmongers' Association, and found myself, at the age of forty, compelled to begin life again with a wife and three children. Everything I have turned my hand to has failed, and I am in dire want. May I ask you, under these circumstances, to be so good as to advance me £500 for a few months. I will give any security you like. Perhaps I might repay some part of the loan by doing work for you during the election. This must be a small matter to a wealthy and generous man like you. To me it is a matter of life and death. Anxiously awaiting your early and favourable reply, and begging you to keep this application a secret,

I remain, Sir, Yours, faithfully, HENRY PIDGIN.

That sounded heart-breaking, but I happened to know that Mr. PIDGIN's "malarial fever" was nothing but delirium tremens, brought on by a prolonged course of drunkenness. Hence his shaky handwriting, &c. BLISSOP had warned me against him. Wrote back that, in view of the Corrupt Practices Act, it was impossible for me to relieve individual cases.

Called on the PENFOLDS this afternoon. They are up from Billsbury for their stay in London, and have got a house in Eaton Square. To my surprise found Mrs. BELLAMY and MARY there. That was awkward, especially as MARY looked at me, as I thought, very meaningly, and asked me if I didn't think SOPHY PENFOLD sweetly pretty. I muttered something about preferring a darker type of beauty (MARY's hair is as black as my hat), to which MARY replied that perhaps, after all, that kind of pink and white beauty with hair like tow was rather insipid. The BELLAMYS it seems met the PENFOLDS at a dinner last week, and the girls struck up a friendship, this call being the result. Young PENFOLD, whom I had never seen before, was there and was infernally attentive to MARY. He's in the 24th Lancers, and looks like a barber's block. Mrs. BELLAMY said to me, "I've been hearing so much about you from dear Lady PENFOLD. They all have the highest opinion of you. In fact, Lady PENFOLD said she felt quite like a mother to you. And how kind of you to buy so many things from Miss PENFOLD at the Bazaar. What are my father's noble lines?

"True kindness is no blustering rogue that struts

With empty mouthings on the stage of life,

But, like a tender, timid plant that shuts

At every touch, it shrinks from noisy strife."

(And so forth, I've forgotten the rest.) "I love kindness," continued Mrs. BELLAMY, "in young men. By the way, will you excuse a short invitation, and dine with us the day after to-morrow? All the PENFOLDS are coming." I said yes, and made up my mind that I must settle matters with MARY one way or another before complications got worse, or young PENFOLD made any more progress. I felt all the afternoon as if I'd committed a crime.

Friday, June 13th.—Three cheers. I've done it. Called on the BELLAMYS to-day. Found MARY alone. She was very sarcastic, but at last I could stand it no longer, and told her I had never loved and never should love anybody but her. Then she burst into tears, and I—anyhow she's promised to marry me. Have to interview Mrs. BELLAMY to-morrow. No time to do it to-day, as she was out till late. Chuck her up!

Mother received the news very well. "Accepted you, my darling boy?" she said. "Of course she did. How could she do otherwise? Bring her to see me soon. She shall, of course, have all the family jewels immediately, and the dining-room furniture too. There'll be a few other trifles too, I daresay, that you'll be glad of." Dear Mother, she's the kindest soul in the world. Carlo has been informed of the news, and is said to have manifested an extraordinarily intelligent appreciation of it, by insisting on a second helping for supper. He's a remarkable dog.

"SEMPER EADEM."

["The position of the Jews in Russia becomes daily more terrible. An order that they are henceforth to work upon their Sabbath and holy festivals is about to be issued and put in force."—Standard.—"A most pertinent illustration of the falsity of repeated rumours and reports representing in some cases a strong disposition, and in others an actual decision, on the part of the CZAR and the Russian Government, to alleviate the miseries of the Jews."—Times.]

Who said the scourge should slacken? Who foretold

The goad should cease, the shackle loose its hold?

The wish, perchance, fathered once more the thought,

Though long experience against it fought.

Not so! The CZAR's in Muscovy, and all

Is well with—Tyranny! The harried thrall

Shall still be harried, though, a little while,

The Autocrat on the Republic smile;

The Jew shall be robbed, banished, outraged still,

Although the tyrant, with a shuddering thrill

Diplomacy scarce hides, for some brief days

Must listen to the hated "Marseillaise!"

Fear not, Fanatic! Despot do not doubt!

The rule of Orthodoxy and the Knout

Is not yet over wholly. France may woo,

Columbia plead, the Jew is still the Jew;

And, spite of weak humanitarian fuss,

CÆSAR be praised, the Russ is still the Russ!

A GROUSE OUTRAGE.—Shooting them before the Twelfth.

"WON'T WORK!"

AIR—"St. Patrick's Day in the Morning." Irish Sportsman sings:—

St. Patrick, they say,

Kicked the snakes in the say,

But, ochone! if he'd had such a hound-pack as mine,

I fancy the Saint,

(Without further complaint)

Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine.

Once they shivered and stared,

At my whip-cracking scared;

Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,

Put the scumfish on me,

And, so far as I see,

There's scarce a dog-crayture

But's changed in his nature.

I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,

But my chances of Sport

Are cut terribly short

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

With a thundering polthogue,

And the toe of my brogue,

I'd like to kick both of 'em divil knows where!

Sure I broke 'em meself,

And, so long "on the shelf"

They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care.

O'BRIEN mongrel villin,

And as for cur DILLON

Just look at him ranging afar at his will!

I thought, true as steel,

They would both come to heel,

Making up for the pack

Whistled off by false MAC,

As though he'd ever shoot with my patience and skill!

To me ye'll not stick, Sirs?

What divil's elixirs

Tempt ye on the Twelfth in the morning?

Plague on ye, come back!

Och! ye villainous pack,

Ye slaves of the Saxon, ye blind bastard bunch!

Whelps weak and unstable,

I only am able

The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch!

Yet for me ye won't work,

But sneak homeward and shirk,

Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon!

He'll sell ye, no doubt.

Sure, a pig with ring'd snout

Is a far boulder baste

Than such mongrels! The taste

Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on

Will soon make ye moan

That ye left me alone

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

TO LORD TENNYSON.

On His Eighty-second Birthday, August 6, 1891.

Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[¹]

But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.

And sweet thou singest as when fully ran

Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse

The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,

On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,

Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,

It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.

Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,

Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"

Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret

The careless given boon. Not so with thee.

Such immortality is thine as clings

To "happy men that have the power to die."

The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings

Charms the world's heart. Such immortality

Is better than unending lapse of years.

For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth,

Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears

Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth,

Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath

Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou

Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death,

Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now,

Great Singer, still we wish thee length of days,

Song-power unslackened, and unfading bays!

Footnote 1: [(return)]

"Tithonus."

VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.

The Proprietor. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, SHARDSON, I'M GETTING SICK OF THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' SHOW! THE KNACKER AIN'T SELLING A SCRAP—NO NOTICE TOOK OF US ANYWHERE—NOT A BLOOMIN' ADVERTISEMENT! AND YET THERE AIN'T 'ARDLY A LIVIN' ENGLISHMAN OF MARK, FROM TENNYSON DOWNWARDS, AS WE 'AVEN'T SHOWN UP AND PITCHED INTO, AND DRAGGED 'IS NAME IN THE MUD!"

The Editor. "DON'T LET'S THROW UP THE SPONGE YET, OLD MAN! LET'S GIVE THE DEAD 'UNS A TURN—LET'S HAVE A SHY AT THACKERAY, BROWNING, GEORGE ELIOT, OR, BETTER STILL, LET'S BESPATTER GENERAL GORDON AND CARDINAL NEWMAN A BIT,—THAT OUGHT TO FETCH 'EM A FEW, AND BRING US INTO NOTICE!"

WHAT HOE! RAIKES!—When King RICHARD—no, beg his pardon, Mr. RICHARD KING—says, as quoted in the Times, "That he can only assume that Mr. RAIKES purposely availed himself of a technicality to cover a statement which was a palpable suggestio falsi," he throws something unpleasant into the teeth of RAIKES. It is as well to remember that rakes have teeth.

"LATINÉ DOCTUS."—A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking, as his friend, who met him on the quai, observed, "so changed he would hardly have known him." "That's it," replied the staggering graduate, "quantum mutatus ab billow!" Oh! he must have been bad!

THE SONG THAT BROKE MY HEART.

I paused in a crowded street,

I only desired to ride—

Only to wait for a Hammersmith 'bus

With room for myself outside;

When I caught the nastiest tune

My ear had ever heard,

And asked the Police to take it away,

But never a man of them stirred.

So the singer still sang on;

She would not, would not go;

She sang a song of the year before last

That struck me as rather low.

She followed with one that was high,

That made the tear-drops start,

That was "Hi-tiddly-i-ti! Hi!-ti!-hi!"

The song that broke my heart!

WHAT is A "DEMOGRAPHER"?—Those Londoners who ask this question will have already obtained a practical answer, as, this week, London is full of Demographers, to whom Mr. Punch, Grand Master of all Demographers (or "writers for the people"), gives a hearty welcome. All hail to "The New Demogracy!"

'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT.

Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust.

Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still;

So I'll pull out my eskrytor, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my quill.

If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal;

Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.

Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true;

But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?

Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster—I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar.

We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.

'Ad a invite to 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know,

Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.

Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?

Wish you could 'ave seen us—and heard us—old boy, when aboard of our ship.

Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot,

And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.

My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong;

I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed middlingish strong.

'EMMY 'OPKINS, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,

Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.

Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss EMMY; but that's only jest by the way,

'ARRY ain't one to brag of bong four tunes; but wot I wos wanting to say

Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our sort.

Bosh! CHARLIE, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport.

Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q.T.

Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of spree,

Wy it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the ditherums, it do.

I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's blue.

Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,

Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames banks with perlice;

Who sneer about "'ARRY at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course,"

As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm 'oarse!

Scrap o'sandwich-greased paper'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or "Bass,"

Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the grass,

Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies they are!

Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart Banjo-twang makes 'em jar.

I'm Toffy, you know, and no flies, CHARLIE; swim with the Swells, and all that,

But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical rat.

"Riparian Rights," too! Oh Scissors! They'd block the Backwaters and Broads,

Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old BURNS busts their 'oards!

Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's DANNEL, the Dosser, old chap.

As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf a rap,—

Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with him, CHARLIE; won't run to a pint o' four 'arf,

And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his charf.

Sez DANNEL—and dash his darned cheek, CHARLIE!—"Monkeys like you"—meaning Me!—

"Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree

Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an excuse

For exclusiveness, finds it in you, you contemptible coarse-cackling goose!

"Riparian rights? That's the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course;

But 'tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it force.

You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you befoul;

You—you, who'd make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday howl!

"Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on their lawns,

And 'ARRY's a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns;

You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene,

And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red through her green.

"You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from Oxford or Bow,

You're a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when you row;

Your 'monkeyings' mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport,

And there isn't an Eden on earth but's destroyed when it's 'ARRY's resort.

"Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice;

There's excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing voice,

You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 'tis you

Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the nymph-worshipping crew!"

I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than arf

Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf.

But the cheek on it, CHARLIE! A Stone-broke! I should like to give him wot for,

Only DANNEL the Dosser's a dab orf of whom t'ain't so easy to score.

But it's time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it of late—

Us on 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the ink-spiller's "slate."

I mean doin' them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting, that's flat.

If I don't give them dash'd Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I'll 'eat my old 'at.

Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat coke.

These fussy old footlers whose 'air stands on hend at a row-de-dow joke,

The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but "skylarking" song's better fun,

And you carn't do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.

As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair to the front;

But we wosn't alone; lots of toppers, in 'Ouse-Boat, or four-oar, or punt,

Wos a doin' the rorty and rosy as lively as 'OPKINS's lot,

Ah! the swells sling it out pooty thick; they ain't stashed by no ink-spiller's rot.

Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of Bass, my dear boy,

Lots of dashing, and splashing, and "mashing" are things every man must enjoy,

And the petticoats ain't fur behind 'em, you bet. While top-ropes I can carry,

It ain't soap-board slop about "Quiet" will put the clear kibosh on

'ARRY.

HOW TO SPEND A HOLIDAY ON SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES.

(A Page from the Diary of an Enthusiast in search of Rest.)

["It is a good rule of practice to devote one portion of a short vacation to the serious and necessary business of doing nothing, and doing it very thoroughly too."—Letter to the Times.]

At last my time for rest has arrived. Musn't be idle, though. Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE says it would be most injurious to my health. Must hunt up precedents for leisure leading to no results. Let me see—why not try the British Museum? Sure to find something useful there—and useless, which will be more appropriate.

Take an omnibus. See one in the distance. Hail it. Conductor takes no notice! Shout and hurry after it. Try to attract attention of the driver. Failure. Capital commencement to my labours. Had my run for nothing!

Victory! Stopped one partially occupied. No room outside. Enter interior. Six passengers on one seat. Five on the other. The half dozen regard me with contemptuous indifference. The five make no room. Explain that I want a seat. Remark received in silence. Sit down on knee of small boy. Mother (next him) expostulates—angrily. Chorus of indignant beholders. Conductor is impertinent. Ask for his number, he asks for my fare. Pay him. While this is going on, young woman has entered omnibus, and taken vacant seat. Conductor counts places, says there is no room. Can't carry me. Won't give back fare—has torn off ticket. Says I must get out. Say I will report him. Impudent again. Getting out drop ticket. Incident subsequently (to my later satisfaction) leads to nothing!

Won't have anything more to do with the omnibuses. Enter hansom—old man (the driver) smiles civilly when I say "British Museum." Now, I must seriously rest. Go to sleep. Slumber until awakened by a jolt. Look out. Find myself near the river. Strikes me that the Thames is not close to the Museum. Appeal to cabman through the hole in the roof. Difficulty in attracting his attention. Stop him at last. Ask him why he did not take me to the Museum. He smiles and says he didn't hear me—he is deaf! Very angry. He expostulates, civilly. He saw I was asleep and didn't wish to disturb me! He has been driving up and down the Thames Embankment for the last three hours—charge seven and sixpence. Don't see my way out of the difficulty, except by payment. He thanks me, and suggests that he shall now drive me to the Museum for eighteen-pence. Very angry and refuse. He is hailed by someone else, and is off to pick up his new fare. On consideration it seems to me that my anger has led to nothing. Nothing—just what I wanted, but not exactly at the right moment.

Rather hungry. Enter a restaurant. Crowded with gentlemen wearing hats—who seem to be on intimate terms with the waiters. Get a bill of fare which is thrust into my hands by an attendant loaded with dishes. Let me see—what shall I have? "Lamb's head and peas." Have never tried this dish. Might be good. Waiter (who seems to be revolving, like the planetary system, in an orbit) reaches me, and I shout what I want. He replies, "Sorry, Sir, just off," and vanishes. Look up something else. "Liver and bacon." Not had it for years! Used to like it. On reappearance of the planetary waiter, give my order. He nods and vanishes. Wait patiently. Rather annoyed that my nearest neighbour has used my part of the table for a dish containing broad beans. Glare at him. No result. Planetary waiter has passed me twice—stop him angrily the third time. He is less busy now—he pauses. He thrusts bill of fare before me, and asks me "what I would please to want." Explode and shout in tones of thunder, "Liver and bacon!" He disappears, and comes back a few minutes later, saying, "Very sorry, but when I first ordered it, liver and bacon was on—now it's off. Will I have a chop?" Reply angrily, "No." Same answer to "Steak," "Duck and green peas," "A cut off the beef joint," and "Irish stew." Waiter asks (with forced civility), "What will I have!" I return, as I leave the restaurant, "Nothing!" On regaining the street (although hungry) I am pleased to think that I am still obeying Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE's directions!

No use trying cab or omnibus. Both failures. Why not walk? Good way of wasting time, so begin to go northward, and in due course get to Bloomsbury. Enter Museum. Umbrella seized. Approach Reading Room. Civil attendant informs me that the Library is closed—taking stock, or something! Then I have come all this way for nothing! Angry, but inwardly contented. Doing nothing "very thoroughly!"

Turn back. Why not go to a theatre? Certainly. Go to four in succession, and find them all closed! Well, good way of wasting time, Shall I visit one of the Exhibitions? Chelsea or Earl's Court? After consideration, come to the conclusion that this would be worse than doing nothing. Must draw the line somewhere!

After all, there is no place like home. Or shall I go to my Club? Yes. Get there. Find it is being repaired, and that the members are taken in somewhere else. Hate new scenes and new faces. Return to my first idea, and make for my private address; but feel that it may be rather dull, as my wife and the children are at the seaside. Still, somebody can get me a little supper. At least, I hope so. Find my latch-key is of no use, on account of the chain being up. Ring angrily, when a charwoman in a bonnet appears, and explains that the servants, not expecting me home so early, have gone to the play, having locked up the larder. Charwoman agrees with me that it is disgraceful—especially the locking up of the larder.

However, it can't be helped. Make up my mind to go to bed, and get fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent in doing absolutely nothing! Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE will be satisfied!

"Our Children's Ears."

Whether they'll be as long as those of Midas,

Or stand out salient from either side as

A close-cropped ARRY's, at right angles set

To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet;

But in one thing, at least, a score they'll chalk—

They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!

DEFINITION.—"La haute Cuisine"—the kitchen on the top flat of a ten-storey'd mansion.