PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 101.

October 31, 1891.

YOUNG GRANDOLPH'S BARTY.

(Afrikander Version of the great Breitmann Ballad, penned, "more in sorrow than in anger," by a "Deutscher" resident in the distant regions where the Correspondent of the "Daily Graphic" is, like der Herr Breitmann himself, "drafellin' apout like eferydings.")

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—

Vhere is dat Barty now?

He fell'd in luf mit der African goldt;

Mit SOLLY he'd hat a row;

He dinks dat his secession

Would make der resht look plue,

But, before he drafel vast and var,

His Barty sphlit in two.

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—

Dere vash B-LF-R, W-LFF, and G-RST,

Dey haf vorgot deir "Leater,"

Und dat ish not deir vorst.

B-LF-R vill "boss" der Commons,

Vhile GRANDOLPH—sore disgraced—

Ish "oop a tree," like der Bumble Bee,

Und W-LFF and G-RST are "placed."

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—

Vhen he dat Barty led,

B-LF-R vash but a "Bummer,"

A loafing lollop-head.

Young Tories schvore by GRANDOLPH,

(Dey schvear at GRANDOLPH now,)

Now at de feet of der "lank æsthete"

Der Times itshelf doth bow!

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,

Dere all vash "Souse und Brouse."[¹]

Now he hets not dat prave gompany

All in der Commons House,

To see him skywgle GL-DST-NE,

Und schlog him on der kop.

Young Tory bloods no longer shout

Till der SCHPEAKER bids dem shtop.

Und, like dat Rhine Mermaiden

"Vot hadn't got nodings on,"

Dey "don't dink mooch of beoplesh

Vat goes mit demselfs alone!"

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—

Where ish dat Barty now?

Where ish dat oder ARTHUR's song

Vot darkened der Champerlain's prow?

Where ish de himmelstrahlende stern,

De shtar of der Tory fight?

All gon'd afay, as on Woodcock's wing,

Afay in de ewigkeit!

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty;

He hunt der lions now,

All in der lone Mashonaland,

But he does not "score"—somehow.

One Grand Old Lion he dared to peard,

Und he "potted" Earls and Dukes,

But eight or nine real lions at once,

He thinks are "trop de luxe"

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,

But he scooted 'cross der sea,

Und he tidn't say to dem, "Come, my poys,

Und drafel along mit me!"

Footnote 1: [(return)]

Saus und Braus—Ger., Riot and Bustle.

"CORRECT CARD, GENTS!"—"Wanted a Map of London" was the heading of a letter in the Times last Thursday. No, Sir! that's not what is wanted. There are hundreds of 'em, specially seductive pocket ones, with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short cuts to great centres carefully omitted. What is wanted is a correct map of London, divided into pocketable sections, portable, foldable, durable, on canvas,—but if imperfect, as so many of these small pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly brought up to date '91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase one is a waste of time, temper and money. We could mention an attractive-looking little map—which, but no— Publishers and public are hereby cautioned! N.B.—Test well your pocket map through a magnifying glass before buying. Experto crede!

OYSTERLESS.

(By an Impecunious Gourmet.)

[Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season advances, to be still higher in price.]

Oh, Oyster mine! Oh, Oyster mine!

You're still as exquisitely nice;

With perfect pearly tints you shine,

But you are such an awful price.

The lemon and the fresh cayenne,

Brown bread and butter and the stout

Are here, and just the same, but then

What if I have to leave you out?

What wonder that my spirits droop,

That life can bring me no delight,

When I must give up oyster soup,

So softly delicately white.

The curry powder stands anear,

The scallop shells, but what care I—

You're so abominably dear,

O Oyster! that I cannot buy.

With sad imaginative flights,

I think upon the days of yore;

Like TICKLER, on Ambrosian nights,

I have consumed them by the score.

And still, whenever you appeared,

My pride it was to use you well;

I let the juice play round your beard,

And always on the hollow shell.

I placed you in the fair lark-pie.

With steak and kidneys too, of course;

Your ancestors were glad to die,

So well I made the oyster sauce.

I had you stewed and featly fried,

And dipped in batter—think of that;

And, as a pleasant change, I've tried

You, skewered in rows, with bacon-fat.

"Where art thou, ALICE?" cried the bard.

"Where art thou, Oyster?" I exclaim.

It really is extremely hard,

To know thee nothing but a name.

For this is surely torment worse

Than DANTE heaped upon his dead;—

To find thee quite beyond my purse,

And so go oysterless to bed.

À PROPOS OF THE SECRETARY FOR WAR'S ROSEATE AFTER—DINNER SPEECH (on the entirely satisfactory state of the Army generally).—(STAN-)"HOPE told a flattering tale."

UNIVERSITY MEM.—The Dean of Christ Church will keep his seat till Christmas, and just a LIDDELL longer.

THE RAVEN.

(Very Latest War-Office Version. See Mr. Stanhope's After-Dinner Speech at the Holborn Restaurant (Oct. 17), and Letter in "Times" (Oct. 21) on "Pangloss at the War Office.")

Secretarial Pangloss sings:—

Late, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired but cheery,

Over many an optimistic record of War Office lore;

Whilst I worked, assorting, mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone rudely rapping, rapping at my Office-door.

"Some late messenger," I muttered, "tapping at my Office-door—

Only this, but it's a bore."

I remember—being sober—it was in the chill October,

Light from the electric globe or horseshoe lighted wall and floor;

Also that it was the morrow of the Holborn Banquet; sorrow

From the Blue Books croakers borrow—sorrow for the days of yore,

For the days when "Rule Britannia" sounded far o'er sea and shore.

Ah! it must have been a bore!

But on that let's draw the curtain. I am simply cock-sure—certain

That "our splendid little Army" never was so fine before.

It will take a lot of beating! Such remarks I keep repeating;

They come handy—after eating, and are always sure to score—

Dash that rapping chap entreating entrance at my Office-door!

It is an infernal bore!

Presently I grew more placid (Optimists should not be acid.)

"Come in!" I exclaimed—"confound you! Pray stand drumming there no more."

But the donkey still kept tapping. "Dolt!" I muttered, sharply snapping,

"Why the deuce do you come rapping, rapping at my Office-door?

Yet not 'enter' when you're told to?"—here I opened wide the door—

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open next I flung the shutter, when, with a prodigious flutter,

In there stepped a bumptious Raven, black as any blackamoor.

Not the least obeisance made he, not a moment stopped or stayed he,

But with scornful look, though shady, perched above my Office-door,

Perched upon BRITANNIA's bust that stood above my Office-door—

Perched, and sat, and seemed to snore.

"Well," I said, sardonic smiling, "this is really rather riling;

"It comports not with decorum such as the War Office bore

In old days stiff and clean-shaven. Dub me a Gladstonian craven

If I ever saw a Raven at the W.O. before.

Tell me what your blessed name is. 'Rule Britannia' held of yore,"

Quoth the bird, "'Tis so no more!"

Much I marvelled this sophistic fowl to utter pessimistic

Fustian, which so little meaning—little relevancy bore

To the rule of me and SOLLY; but, although it may sound folly,

This strange fowl a strange resemblance to "Our Only General" wore,

To the W-LS-L-Y whose pretensions to sound military lore

Are becoming quite a bore.

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that much-peeled bust, spake only

Of our Army as a makeshift, small, ill-manned, and precious poor.

Drat the pessimistic bird!—he grumbled of "the hurdy-gurdy

Marching-past side of a soldier's life in peace." "We've fought before,

Winning battles with boy-troops," I cried, "We'll do as we before—"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Nonsense!" said I. "After dinner at the Holborn, as a winner

Spake I in the Pangloss spirit to the taxpayers, (Don't snore!)

Told them our recruits—who'll master e'en unmerciful disaster,

Come in fast and come in faster, quite as good as those of yore,"—

"Flattering tales of (Stan) Hope!" cried the bird, whose dismal dirges bore,

One dark burden—"Nevermore!"

"Hang it, Raven, this is riling!" cried I. "Stop your rude reviling!"

Then I wheeled my office-chair in front of bird and bust and door;

And upon its cushion sinking, "I," I said, "will smash like winking

This impeachment you are bringing, O you ominous bird of yore,

O you grim, ungainly, ghastly, grumbling, gruesome feathered bore!"

Croaked the Raven, "You I'll floor."

Then methought the bird looked denser, and his cheek became immenser.

And he twaddled of VON MOLTKE, and his German Army Corps;

"Flattering the tax-payers' vanity," and much similar insanity,

In a style that lacked urbanity, till the thing became a bore.

"Oh, get out of it!" I cried; "our little Army yet will score."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "of all evil, that we're 'going to the devil'

Has been the old croaker's gospel for a century, and more.

Red-gilled Colonels this have chaunted in BRITTANIA's ears undaunted,

By their ghosts you must he haunted. Take a Blue-pill, I implore!

When our Army meets the foe it's bound to lick him as of yore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!

"Prophet!" said I, "that's uncivil. You may go to—well, the devil!

That Establishments are 'short,' and 'standards' lowered o'er and o'er.

That mere 'weeds,' with chests of maiden, cannot march with knapsack laden;

That the heat of sultry Aden, or the cold of Labrador,

Such can't stand, may be the truth; but keep it dark, bird, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Then excuse me, we'll be parting, doleful fowl," I cried, upstarting;

"Get thee back to—the Red River, or the Nile's sand-cumbered shore!

Leave no 'Magazine' as token of the twaddle you have spoken.

What? BRITANNIA stoney-broken? Quit her bust above my door.

Take thy hook from the War Office; take thy beak from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

And the Raven still is sitting, croaking statements most unfitting,

On BRITANNIA's much-peeled bust that's placed above my Office-door,

And if Pangloss, e'en in seeming, lent an ear to his dark dreaming,

Useless were official scheming, grants of millions by the score,

For my soul were like the shadow that he casts upon the floor,

Dark and dismal evermore!

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.

Aunt Jane. "THAT MAKES THREE WEDDINGS IN OUR FAMILY WITHIN A TWELVEMONTH! IT WILL BE YOUR TURN NEXT, MATILDA!"

Matilda. "OH, NO!"

Aunt Jane. "WELL, THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY THINGS HAPPEN SOMETIMES, YOU KNOW!"

TUPPER'S PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY UP TO DATE.

["The range of our inquiry was intended to include the whole migratory range for seals.... Our movements were kept most secret."—Sir George Baden-Powell on the Work of the Behring Sea Commission.]

We came, we saw, we—held our tongues (myself—BADEN-POWELL—and Mr. DAWSON.)

We popped on each seal-island "unbeknownst," and what we discovered we held our jaws on.

We'd five hundred interviews within three months, which I think "cuts the record" in interviewing,

Corresponded with 'Frisco, Japan, and Russia; so I hope you'll allow we've been "up and doing."

(Not up and saying, be't well understood). As TUPPER (the Honourable C.H., Minister

Of Fisheries) said, in the style of his namesake, "The fool imagines all Silence is sinister,

"But the wise man knows that it's often dexterous." Be sure no inquisitive shyness or bounce'll

Make us "too previous" with our Report, which goes first to the QUEEN and the Privy Council.

Some bigwig's motto is, "Say and Seal," but as TUPPER remarked a forefinger laying

To the dexter side of a fine proboscis, "Our motto at present is, Seal without saying!"

LEGAL QUERY.—The oldest of the thirteen Judges on the Scotch Bench is YOUNG. Any chance for a Junior after this?

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XII.

SCENE—In front of the Hôtel Bodenhaus at Splügen. The Diligence for Bellinzona is having its team attached. An elderly Englishwoman is sitting on her trunk, trying to run through the last hundred pages of a novel from the Hotel Library before her departure. PODBURY is in the Hotel, negotiating for sandwiches. CULCHARD is practising his Italian upon a very dingy gentleman in smoked spectacles, with a shawl round his throat.

The Dingy Italian (suddenly discovering CULCHARD's nationality). Ecco, siete Inglese! Lat us spika Ingelis, I onnerstan' 'im to ze bottom-side. (Laboriously, to CULCHARD, who tries to conceal his chagrin.) 'Ow menni time you employ to go since Coire at here? (C. nods with vague encouragement.) Vich manners of vezzer you vere possess troo your travels—mosh ommerella? (C.'s eyes grow vacant.) Ha, I tink it vood! Zis day ze vicket root sall 'ave plenti 'orse to pull, &c., &c. (Here PODBURY comes up, and puts some rugs the coupé of the diligence.) You sit at ze beginning-end, hey? better, you tink, zan ze mizzle? I too, zen, sall ride at ze front—we vill spika Ingelis, altro!

Podb. (overhearing this, with horror). One minute, CULCHARD. (He draws him aside.) I say, for goodness' sake, don't let's have that old organ-grinding Johnny in the coupé with us!

Culch. Organ-grinder! you are so very insular! For anything you can tell, he may be a decayed nobleman.

Pod. (coarsely). Well, let him decay somewhere else, that's all! Just tell the Conductor to shove him in the intérieur, do, while I nip in the coupé and keep our places.

[CULCHARD, on reflection, adopts this suggestion, and the Italian Gentleman, after fluttering feebly about the coupé door, is unceremoniously bundled by the Conductor into the hinder part of the diligence.

In the Bernardino Pass, during the Ascent.

Culch. Glorious view one gets at each fresh turn of the road, PODBURY! Look at Hinter-rhein, far down below there, like a toy village, and that vast desolate valley, with the grey river rushing through it, and the green glacier at the end, and these awful snow-covered peaks all round—look, man!

Podb. I'm looking, old chap. It's all there, right enough!

Culch. (vexed). It doesn't seem to be making any particular impression on you, I must say!

Podb. It's making me deuced peckish, I know that—how about lunch, eh!

Culch. (pained). We are going through scenery like this, and all you think of is—lunch! (PODBURY opens a basket.) You may give me one of those sandwiches. What made you get veal? and the bread's all crust, too! Thanks, I'll take some claret.... (They lunch; the vehicle meanwhile toils up to the head of the Pass.) Dear me, we're at the top already! These rocks shut out the valley altogether—much colder at this height, eh? Don't you find this keen air most exhilarating?

Podb. (shivering). Oh very, do you mind putting your window up? Thanks. You seem uncommon chirpy to-day. Beginning to get over it, eh?

Culch. We shan't get over it for some hours yet.

Podb. I didn't mean the Pass, I meant—(hesitating)—well, your little affair with Miss PRENDERGAST, you know.

Culch. My little affair? Get over? (He suddenly understands.) Oh, ah, to be sure. Yes, thank you, my dear fellow, it is not making me particularly unhappy. [He goes into a fit of silent laughter.

Podb. Glad to hear it. (To himself.) 'Jove, if he only knew what I know! [He chuckles.

Culch. You don't appear to be exactly heartbroken?

Podb. I? why should I be—about what?

Culch. (with an affectation of reserve). Exactly, I was forgetting. (To himself.) It's really rather humorous. (He laughs again.) Ha, we're beginning to go down now. Hey for Italy—la bella Italia! (The diligence takes the first curve.) Good Heavens, what a turn! We're going at rather a sharp pace for downhill, eh? I suppose these Swiss drivers know what they're about, though.

Podb. Oh, yes, generally—when they're not drunk. I can only see this fellow's boots—but they look to me a trifle squiffy.

Culch. (inspecting them, anxiously). He does seem to drive very recklessly. Look at those leaders—heading right for the precipice.... Ah, just saved it! How we do lurch in swinging round!

Podb. Topheavy—I expect, too much luggage on board—have another sandwich?

Culch. Not for me, thanks. I say, I wonder if it's safe, having no parapet, only these stone posts, eh?

Pod. Safe enough—unless the wheel catches one—it was as near as a toucher just then—aren't you going to smoke? No? I am. By the way, what were you so amused about just now, eh?

Culch. Was I amused? (The vehicle gives another tremendous lurch.) Really, this is too horrible!

Podb. (with secret enjoyment). We're right enough, if the horses don't happen to stumble. That off-leader isn't over sure-footed—did you see that? (Culch. shudders.) But what's the joke about Miss PRENDERGAST?

Culch. (irritably). Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't bother about that now. I've something else to think about. My goodness, we were nearly over that time! What are you looking at?

Podb. (who has been leaning forward). Only one of the traces—they've done it up with a penny ball of string, but I daresay it will stand the strain. You aren't half enjoying the view, old fellow.

Culch. Yes, I am. Magnificent!—glorious!—isn't it?

Podb. Find you see it better with your eyes shut? But I say, I wish you'd explain what you were sniggering at.

Culch. Take my advice, and don't press me, my dear fellow; you may regret it if you do!

Podb. I'll risk it. It must be a devilish funny joke to tickle you like that. Come, out with it!

Culch. Well, if you must know, I was laughing.... Oh, he'll never get those horses round in.... I was—er—rather amused by your evident assumption that I must have been rejected by Miss PRENDERGAST.

Podb. Oh, was that it? And you're nothing of the kind, eh? [He chuckles again.

Culch. (with dignity). No doubt you will find it very singular; but, as a matter of fact, she—well, she most certainly did not discourage my pretensions.

Podb. The deuce she didn't! Did she tell you RUSKIN's ideas about courtship being a probation, and ask you if you were ready to be under vow for her, by any chance?

Culch. This is too bad, PODBURY; you must have been there, or you couldn't possibly know!

Podb. Much obliged, I'm sure. I don't listen behind doors, as a general thing. I suppose, now, she set you a trial of some kind, to prove your mettle, eh? [With another chuckle.

Culch. (furiously). Take care—or I may tell you more than you bargain for!

Podb. Go on—never mind me. Bless you, I'm under vow for her, too, my dear boy. Fact!

Culch. That's impossible, and I can prove it. The service she demanded was, that I should leave Constance at once—with you. Do you understand—with you, PODBURY!

Podb. (with a prolonged whistle). My aunt!

Culch. (severely). You may invoke every female relative you possess in the world, but it won't alter the fact, and that alone ought to convince you—

Podb. Hold on a bit. Wait till you've heard my penance. She told me to cart you off, Now, then!

Culch. (faintly). If I thought she'd been trifling with us both like that, I'd never—

Podb. She's no end of a clever girl, you know. And, after all, she may only have wanted time to make up her mind.

Culch. (violently). I tell you what she is—she's a cold-blooded pedantic prig, and a systematic flirt! I loathe and detest a prig, but a flirt I despise—yes, despise, PODBURY!

Podb. (with only apparent irrelevance). The same to you, and many of 'em, old chap! Hullo, we're going to stop at this inn. Let's get out and stretch our legs and have some coffee.

[They do; on returning, they find the Italian Gentleman smiling blandly at them from inside the coupé.

The It. G. Goodaby, dear frens, a riverderla! I success at your chairs. I vish you a pleasure's delay!

Podb. But I say, look here, Sir, we're going on, and you've got our place!

The It. G. Sank you verri moch. I 'ope so. [He blows PODBURY a kiss.

Podb. (with intense disgust). How on earth are we going to get that beggar out? Set the Conductor at him, CULCHARD, do—you can talk the lingo best!

Culch. (who has had enough of PODBURY for the present). Talk to him yourself, my dear fellow, I'm not going to make a row. [He gets in.

Podb. (to Conductor). Hi! sprechen sie Französisch, oder was? il-y-a quelque chose dans mon siège, dites-lui de—what the deuce is the French for "clear out"?

Cond. Montez, Monsieur, nous bartons, montez vîte alors!

[He thrusts PODBURY, protesting vainly, into the intérieur, with two peasants, a priest and the elderly Englishwoman. The diligence starts again.

AT THE ITALIAN OPERA.