The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 102.
May 7, 1892.
'ARRY ON WHEELS.
DEAR CHARLIE,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April we've 'ad,
Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers feel mad.
Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer spite.
When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or fact'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the 'op;
But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is in train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.
It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.
Feelosophers may think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the 'ead;
But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and no kid.
If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and no quid!
'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing—on wheels;
For I've took to the bicycle, yus,—and can show a good many my 'eels.
You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of straight road,
And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm blowed.
Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo is rot.
Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry pot;
But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and that,
As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is not sech a flat.
Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good 'ealth, I've no doubt
That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning about,
Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling as wheeling's 'ard work,
And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did shirk.
I ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered out, and a 'ump,
Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off their chump.
You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big silver mug.
No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.
Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form.
And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World by storm,
Went off like candle-snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is boot.
Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as it certn'y won't soot.
But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly emagine 'ow much,
If you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some dawdling old Dutch.
Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering old sort
As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes a'rf the sport!
'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering thust;
I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
As 'elpless as 'ot calf's-foot jelly, old man, and about as much use.
Now I don't like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't stand, s'elp my bob;
But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I'm fair on the job.
So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall trees,
Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas "go as yer please."
They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with rain;
Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges live there,
And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did I care.
When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit o' lip,
With a big D or two—for the ladies—and wosn't they soon on the skip!
'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, CHARLIE, until I could fair feel my feet;
If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it'll do you a treat.
I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer much risk,
And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;
And then came the barney, my bloater! I jined 'arf a dozen prime pals,
And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly the gals.
No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman form, and sech muck.
I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to pot-luck.
A rush twelve-a-breast is a gammock, twelve squeakers a going like one;
But "rules o' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and spile all the fun.
The "Charge o' the Light Brigade," CHARLIE? Well, mugs will keep spouting it still;
But wot is it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin' down 'ill?
Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls, women's shrieks, and men's swears!
Oh, I tell yer it's 'Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting down-stairs.
Quiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on the trot,
May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't my form by a lot.
Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as prowl
Along green country roads at their ease, till they're scared by my squeak, or my 'owl?
My "alarm" is a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill old macaw,
Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden; it gives yer a twist in the jaw,
And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my socks
When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a Jack-in-the-box.
I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.
'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,—a boon and a joy!
Wy, the way as the werry words worrit respectables jest makes me bust;
When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row and the dust!
We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town;
Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it down?
And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the wheel,
And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the thing squeal.
My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,
And my spine fairly 'umped to it, CHARLIE, and then carn't I paint the town red?
They call me "The Camel" for that, and my stomach-capas'ty for "wet."
Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,—you bet!
There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the Times about hus.
They call us "road-tyrants" and rowdies; but, lor! it's all fidgets and fuss.
I'd jest like to scrumplicate some on 'em; ain't got no heye for a lark.
I know 'em; they squawk if we scrummage, and squirm if we makes a remark.
If I spots pooty gurls when out cycling, I tips 'em the haffable nod;
Wy not? If a gent carn't be civil without being scowled at, it's hodd.
Ah! and some on 'em tumble, I tell yer, although they may look a mite shy;
It is only the stuckuppy sort as consider it rude or fie-fie.
We wos snaking along t'other day, reglar clump of hus—BUGGINS and me,
MUNGO 'IGGINS, and BILLY BOLAIR, SAMMY SNIPE, and TOFF JONES, and MICK SHEE;
All the right rorty sort, and no flies; when along comes a gurl on a 'orse.
Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave 'er a rouser, in course.
'Orse shied, and backed into a 'edge, and it looked so remarkable rum,
That we couldn't 'elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos pertikler yum-yum;
We wos ready to 'elp, 'owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he swore,
And—would you believe it, old pal?—went for BUGGINS, and give 'im wot for!!!
Nasty sperrit, old man; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech a hact!
Them's the sort as complains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as ain't got no tact.
We all did a guy like greased lightning; you can when you're once on your wheel—
Stout bobbies carn't run down a "Safety," and gurls can do nothink but squeal.
That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to think a fine sport
And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of that sort.
All boko! dear boy, those Times letters! I mean the new barney to carry,
As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf
'ARRY.
THE FORCE OF EXAMPLE.
Lady Clara Robinson (née Vere de Vere). "THANKS! HOW IS IT OMNIBUS MEN ARE SO MUCH CIVILLER THAN I'M TOLD THEY USED TO BE?"
Conductor. "YOU SEE, LADY, THERE'S SO MANY DECAYED ARISTOCRACY TRAVELS BY US NOWADAYS, THAT WE PICKS UP THEIR MANNERS!"
SONNET ON THE SOUTH-EASTERN.
(After a Celebrated Model.)
COMPOSED AT LONDON BRIDGE TERMINUS, APRIL 18, 1892.
["One can do nothing with Railways. You cannot write sonnets on the South-Eastern."—Mr. Barry Pain, "In the Smoking-Room."]
Earth has not anything to show less fair:
Patient were he of soul who could pass by
A twenty minutes' wait amidst the cry
Of churlish clowns who worn cord jackets wear,
Without one single, solitary swear.
The low, unmeaning grunt, the needless lie,
The prompt "next platform" (which is all my eye),
The choky waiting-room, the smoky air;
Refreshment-bars where nothing nice they keep,
Whose sandwich chokes, whose whiskey makes one ill;
The seatless platforms! Ne'er was gloom so deep!
The truck toe-crusheth at its own sweet will.
Great Scott! are pluck and common-sense asleep,
That the long humbugged Public stands it still?
REDDIE-TURUS SALUTAT.—A good combination of names is to be found in an announcement of a forthcoming Concert at Prince's Hall, Piccadilly, on the evening of May 11, to be given by Mr. CHARLES REDDIE and Mr. A. TAYLOR. Briefly, it might be announced as "A. TAYLOR's REDDIE-made Concert." If REDDIE-money only taken at door, will A. TATYOR give credit? Solvitur ambulando—that is, Walk in, and you'll find out. It is to be play-time for Master JEAN GERARDY, "Master G.," who is going to perform on an Erard piano, when, as his REDDIE-witted companion playfully observes, "The youthful pianist will out-Erard ERARD."
"Call you this Backing your Friends?"
(By a Confused Conservative.)
To stave off Change, and check the loud Rad Rough rage,
Conservatism is as shield and fetter meant;
And now brave BALFOUR votes for Female Suffrage;
And RITCHIE tells us he approves of "Betterment"!
O valiant WESTMINSTER, O warlike WEMYSS,
Is this to be the end of all our dreams?
LA JUSTICE POUR RIRE; OR, WHAT IT HAS NEARLY COME TO.
SCENE—Interior of a Foreign Law Court. Numerous officials in attendance performing their various duties in an apprehensive sort of way. Audience small but determined.
Judge (nervously). Now are we really protected from disturbance?
General in Command of Troops. I think so. The Court House is surrounded by an Army Corps, and the Engineers find that the place has not been undermined to at least a distance of a thousand feet.
Judge (somewhat reassured). Well, now I think we may proceed with the trial. Admit the accused.
[The Prisoner is bowed into the dock, and accommodated with a comfortably cushioned arm-chair.
Prisoner. Good morning. (To Judge.) You can resume your hat.
Judge (bowing to the Prisoner). Accused, I am deeply honoured by your courtesy. I trust you have been comfortable in the State apartments that have been recently supplied to you.
Prisoner (firmly). State apartment! Why it was a prison! You know it, M. le Juge, and you, Gentlemen of the Jury and Witnesses. (The entire audience shudder apprehensively.) And, what is more, my friends outside know it! They know that I was arrested and thrown into prison. Yes, they know that, and will act accordingly.
Judge (tearfully). I am sure none of us wished to offend you!
Members of the Bar (in a breath). Certainly not!
Prisoner. Well, let the trial proceed. I suppose you don't want any evidence. You have heard what I have said. You know that I regret having caused inconvenience to my innocent victims. They would forgive me for my innocent intentions. I only wished to save everybody by blowing everybody up.
The Court generally. Yes, yes!
Prisoner. Well, I have just done. And now what say the Jury? Where are they?
Foreman of the Jury (white with fear). I am, Sir,—very pleased to see you, Sir,—hope you are well, Sir?
Prisoner (condescendingly). Tol lol. And now what do you say? am I Guilty or Not Guilty?
Foreman of the Jury. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. We will talk it over, Sir—if you don't mind, Sir.
Prisoner. I need not tell you that my friends outside take the greatest possible interest in your proceedings.
Foreman (promptly). Why, yes, Sir! The fact is we have all had anonymous letters daily, saying that we shall be blown out of house and home if we harm you.
Prisoner (laughing). Oh, be under no apprehension. It is merely the circular of my friends. Only a compilation of hints for the guidance of the Gentlemen of the Jury.
Foreman. Just so, Sir. We accepted it in that spirit.
Prisoner. You were wise. Now, Gentlemen, you have surely had time to make up your minds. Do you find me Guilty or Not Guilty?
Foreman (earnestly). Why, Not Guilty, to be sure.
Judge. Release the accused! Sir, you have my congratulations. Pray accept my distinguished consideration.
Prisoner (coldly). You are very good. And now adieu, and off to breakfast with what appetite ye may!
The Entire Court (falling on their knees, and raising their hands in supplication). Mercy, Sir! For pity's sake, mercy!
Ex-Prisoner (fiercely). Mercy! What, after I have been arrested! Mercy! after I have been cast into gaol!
Judge (in tears.) They thought they were right. They were, doubtless, wrong, but it was to save the remainder of the row of houses! Can you not consider this a plea for extenuating circumstances?
Ex-Prisoner (sternly). No. It was my business, not theirs. It was I who paid for the dynamite—not they. (Preparing to leave the Court.) Good bye. You may hear from me and from my friends!
Judge (following him to the door). Nay, stay! See us—we kneel to you. (To audience.) Kneel, friends, kneel! (Everybody obeys the direction.) One last appeal! (In a voice broken with emotion.) We all have Mothers!
Ex-Prisoner (thunder-stricken). You all have Mothers! I knew not this. I pardon you! [The audience utter shouts of joy, and the Ex-Prisoner extends his hands towards them in the attitude of benediction. Scene closes in upon this tableaux.
HESITATION.
MR. PUNCH'S ROYAL ACADEMY GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND VERY FAMILIAR FRIEND FOR THE R.A. SEASON.
No. 16. It is called "A Toast. By AGNES E. WALKER." It should be called "A Toast without a Song," as it seems to represent an eminent tenor unavoidably prevented by cold, &c., when staying at home, and taking the mixture as before.
No. 19. A musical subject, "The Open C." By HENRY MOORE, A.
No. 24. "Food for Reflection; or, A (Looking) Glass too much." Black Eye'd SUSAN (hiding her black eye) after a row. The person who "calls himself a Gentleman" is seen as a retiring person in another mirror. ETTORE TITO.
No. 40. Little Bo Peep after Lunch, supported by a tree. Early intemperance movement. "Let 'm 'lone, they'll come home, leave tails b'ind 'em." JOHN DA COSTA.
No. 56. Ben Ledi. This is a puzzle picture by Mr. JAMES ELLIOT. Of course there is in it, somewhere or other, a portrait of the eminent Italian, BENJAMIN LEDI. Puzzle, to find him.
No. 83. "The Coming Sneeze." Picture of a Lady evidently saying, "Oh dear! Is it influenza!!" THOMAS C.S. BENHAM.
No. 89. "Handicapped; or, A Scotch Race from thiS TARTAN Point." JOHN PETTIE, R.A.
No. 95. Large and Early Something Warrior, pointing to a bald-headed bust, and singing to a maiden, "Get your Hair Cut!" RALPH PEACOCK.
No. 97. "Toe-Toe chez Ta-Ta; or, Oh, my poor Foot!" "Must hide it before anyone else sees it." FRANK DICKSEE, R.A.
No. 102. "Attitude's Everything; or, The Affected Lawn Tennis Player." By FREDERIC A. BRIDGMAN, probably a Lillie Bridge man.
No. 105. "Dumb as a Drum with a hole in it." Vide Sam Weller. "JOY! JOY! (G.W.) my task is done!"
No. 107. "Outside the Pail; or, 'Nell' the Dairing Dairymaid." Taken in the act by R.C. CRAWFORD (give him several inches of canvas, and he'll take a NELL) as she was about to put a little water out of the stream into the fresh milk pail.
No. 130. A (Sir Donald) Currie, admirably done in P. and O. (Paint and Oil) by W.W. OULESS, R.A.
No. 211. "Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind."—As You Like It. But we don't like it—we mean, the wind, of course. Oh, so desolate and dreary! We suppose that in order to keep himself warm, Sir JOHN must have been thoroughly wrapped up in his work when he painted this. Sir J.E. MILLAIS, Bart., R.A.
No. 228. "The Great Auk's Egg." "Auk-ward moment: is it genuine or not? He bought it at an Auk-tion; it had probably been auk'd about before, genuine or not There'll be a great tauk (!) about it," says H.S. MARKS, R.A.
No. 238. "With a little pig here and a little cow here,
Here a sheep and there a sheep and everywhere a sheep."
Old Song, illustrated by SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.
No. 250. "Ticklish Times; or, the First Small and Early in the Ear." "She sat, half-mesmerised, thinking to herself, 'Shall I have many dances this season?' 'You've got a ball in hand,' whispered small and early Eros Minimus. 'Ah,' she returned, dreamily, 'a bawl in the hand is indeed worth a whisper in the ear.'" From the Greek of Akephalos. W. ADOLPHE BOUGUEREAU.
No. 272. The Flying Farini Family. Nothing like bringing 'em up to the acrobatic business quite young. PHIL R. MORRIS, A.
No. 290. "Sittin' and Satin." IRLAM BRIGGS. [N.B.—Mr. P. always delighted to welcome the immortal name of BRIGGS. Years ago, one of JOHN LEECH's boys drew "BRIGGS a 'anging," and here he is,—hung!]
No. 310. First-rate portrait of a Railway Director looking directly at the spectator, and saying, "Of course, I'm the right man in the right place, i.e., on the line." Congratulations to HUBERT HERKOMER, R.A.
No. 311. Popping in on them, in not quite a friendly way, by Very Much in ERNEST CROFTS, A.
No. 317. "Strong Op-inions." A Political Picture by a Liberal Onionist. CATHERINE M. WOOD.
No. 342. A Person sitting uprightly. By BENTLEY.
No. 351. "Only a Couple of Growlers, and no Hansom!" By J.T. NETTLESHIP.
No. 373. "There is a Flower that bloometh." The Mayor of AVON, as he appeared 'avon his likeness (A 1) taken by PHIL R. MORRIS, A.
No. 412. "Hush a bye, Bibby!" Capital picture, speaks for itself. "I know that man, he comes from—Liverpool." Brought here by LUKE FILDES, R.A.
No. 440. "Poppylar Error." Old Lady (loq.). "Oh, dear! I've eaten one o' them nasty stuck-up poppies, and I do feel so—Oh! I feel my colour is gradually PALIN (W.M.)."
No. 502. "What, no Soap!" She may appear a trifle cracky, but no one can say that this picture represents her as having gone "clean mad." ANNA BILINSKA.
No. 553. Margate Sands in Ancient Times. Cruel conduct of an Ancient Warrior towards a young lady who refused to bathe in the sea. Full of life by E.M. HALE (and Hearty).
No. 575. "Poor Thing!" Touching picture of ideal patient in Æsthetic Idiot Asylum. LUCIEN DAVIS.
No. 636. "A Clever Examiner drawing him out." [N.B.—This ought to have been exhibited at A. TOOTH's Exhibition.] RALPH HEDLEY.
No. 686. Upper part of Augustus Manns, Esq. The Artist has, of course, chosen the better part. "MANNS wants but little here below," but he doesn't get anything at all, being cut off, so to speak, in his prime about the second shirt-button. Exactly like him as he was taken before the Artist at "Pettie Sessions."
No. 1041. "Every Dog must have his Dose; or, King Charles's Martyrdom." FRED HALL.
SCULPTURE.—The descriptions in the Guide are too painful. We prefer not, to give any names, but here are specimens:—"Mr. So-and-so, to be executed in bronze"; "The late Thingummy—bust!" These will suffice. Then we have No. 1997. "All Three going to Bath" by GEORGE FRAMPTON; and last, but not by any means least, a very good likeness of our old friend J.C. HORSLEY, R.A., and while we think of it, we'll treat him as a cabman and "take his number," which it's 1941, done by JOHN ADAMS-ACTON, and so, with this piece of sculpture, we conclude our pick of the Pictures with this display of fireworks; that is, with one good bust up! Plaudite et valete!
ARS LONGA.
Talking "ART" is so "smart" in the first week of May,
That is "ART," which you start with a thundering A.
Simple "art" must depart; that's an obsolete way.
Some think "art" would impart all the work of to-day.
THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.
"THAT'S THE NEW DOCTOR—AND THOSE ARE HIS CHILDREN!"
"HOW UGLY HIS CHILDREN ARE!"
"WELL, NATURALLY! OF COURSE DOCTORS HAVE GOT TO KEEP THE UGLY ONES THEMSELVES, YOU KNOW!"
RECKONING WITHOUT THEIR HOST.
Mr. P.C. BULL, loquitur:—
Humph! There you go, suspicious lurkers,
From lands less free! I grudge you room
Among my hosts of honest workers.
Had I the settling of your doom,
Your shrift were short, and brief your stay.
As 'tis, I'll watch you on your way.
A Land of Liberty! Precisely.
And curs of that advantage take.
But, if you want my tip concisely,—
We hate the wolf and loathe the snake:
And as you seem a blend of both,
To crush you I'd be little loth.
Freedom we love, and, to secure it,
Take rough and smooth with constant mind.
Espionage? We ill endure it,
But Liberty need not be blind.
Sorrow's asylum is our isle;
But we'd not harbour ruffians vile.
To flout that isle foes are not chary,
When of its shelter not in need;
But, when in search of sanctuary,
They fly thereto with wondrous speed.
Asylum? Ay! But learn—in time—
'Tis no Alsatia for foul crime.
Foes dub me sinister, satanic,
A friend of Nihilists and knaves;
Because I will not let mere panic
Rob me of sympathy with slaves,
And hatred of oppressors. Fudge!
Their railings will not make me budge.
I've taken up my stand for freedom,
I'll jackal to no autocrat;
But rogues with hands as red as Edom,
Nihilist snake, Anarchist rat,
I'd crush, and crime's curst league determine.
I have no sympathy with vermin.
Doors open, welcome hospitable
For all, unchallenged, is my style;
But trust not to the fatuous fable
That Caliban's free of my isle
With prosperous Prospero's free consent.
Such lies mad autocrats invent.
Such for some centuries they've been telling,