E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 103.

October 22, 1892.

IN MEMORIAM.

William Hardwick Bradbury.

Born, Dec. 3, 1832. Died, Oct. 13, 1892.

Large-hearted man, most loyal friend,

Art thou too gone—too early lost?

Our comrade true, our tireless host!

Prompt to inspire, console, defend!

Gone! Hearts with grateful memories stored

Ache for thy loss round the old board.

The well-loved board he loved so well,

His pride, his care, his ceaseless thought;

To him with life-long memories fraught;

For him invested with the spell

O'er a glad present ever cast

By solemn shadows of the past.

That past for him, indeed, was filled

With a proud spirit-retinue.

Greatness long since his guest he knew.

Whom THACKERAY's manly tones had thrilled;

Who heard keen JERROLD's sparkling speech,

And marked the genial grace of LEECH.

What changes had he known, who sat

With our four chiefs, of each fast friend!

And must such camaraderie end?

Shall friendly counsel, cordial chat,

Come nevermore again to us

From lips with kindness tremulous?

No more shall those blue eyes ray out

Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth;

That ever mobile mouth give birth

To frolic whim, or friendly flout?

Our hearts will miss thee to the end,

Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!

Miss thee? Alas! the void that's there

No other form may hope to fill,

For those who now with sorrow thrill

In gazing on that vacant chair;

Whither it seems he must return,

For whose warm hand-clasp yet we yearn.

Tribute to genius all may give,

Ours is the homage of the heart;

For a friend lost our tears will start,

Lost to our sight, yet who shall live,

Whilst one who knew that bold frank face

At the old board takes the old place.

For those, his closer kin, whose home

Is darkened by the shadow grey,

What can respectful love but pray

That consolation thither come

In that most sacred soothing guise

Which natural sorrow sanctifies.

Bereavement's anguish to assuage

Is a sore task that lies beyond

The scope of friendship or most fond

Affection's power. Yet may this page,

True witness of our love and grief,

To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!

"ANECDOTAGE."

Companion Paragraph to Stories of the same kind.

CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange," observed the brilliant author of the School for Scandal, "Right you are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue. "But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!" Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen, I'm not meself at all at all!"

THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.

The dainty artificial fly

Designed to catch the wily trout,

Full loud laudabunt alii,

And I will join, at times, no doubt,

But yet my praise, without pretence,

Is not from great experience.

I talk as well as anyone

About the different kinds of tackle,

I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,

Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;

I've flies myself of each design,

No book is better filled than mine.

But when I reach the river's side

Alone, for none of these I wish.

No victim to a foolish pride.

My object is to capture fish;

Let me confess, then, since you ask it—

A worm it is which fills my basket!

O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,

On which with scorn the haughty look,

It is thy fascinating squirm

Which brings the fattest trout to book,

From thee unable to refrain,

Though flies are cast for him in vain!

Deep gratitude to thee I feel,

And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,

When rival anglers view my creel,

And straightway turn a jealous green;

And, should they ask me—"What's your fly?"

"A fancy pattern," I reply!

SWORD AND PEN;

Or, The Rival Commanders.

(Extract from a Military Story of the near Future.)

Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him. He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might know his drill, he might have read his Queen's Regulations, but he had vague ideas of the power of the Press.

"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!' it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong. Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."

"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of men to argue, but to obey."

"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound too tightly to precedent."

The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.

"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you. I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."

"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be found in the most recent dictionaries."

And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.

"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.

"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they remain as they were."

"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man in the Cloak.

"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.

"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger.

"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that—"

"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they please, and they may rest assured that their communications will escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."

Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of command.

"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are you the Commander-in-Chief?"

"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress. "Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

Proem.

Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! The trumpets blare!

The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,

And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet

For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;

The laurels vacant from the brows of him

In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.

Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie

On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,

Whilst Punch, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,

Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.

And first advances, as by right supreme,

With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,

With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing,

As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring

From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.

(In stature, not in song!) Though passion-scarred,

Porphyrogenitus at least he looks;

Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks;

Unreminiscent now of youthful rage,

Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage,

Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe,

Whose polished paganry's erotic flow,

And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings,

The virtues, and most other "proper" things,

Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed.

Such is the power of timely palinode!

Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang,

As the first Bard this moving measure sang:—

ON THE BAYS.

(To the tune—more or less—of "In the Bay.")

I.

Beyond the bellowing onset of base war,

Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest.

Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest

Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar

To win the wreath that he beyond the bar

Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.

II.

And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay

Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day,

Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire,

Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher;

My thoughts on courtier-wings might make their way

Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.

III.

For I, to the proprieties reconciled.

Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."

At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth;

That was before my better self had birth.

At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled,

But Hertha's not thine only goddess, O Earth!

IV.

For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,

Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring

In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;

Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,

More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;

Some living love our England for thee bare.

V.

Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea,

And trumpet pæans loud to Liberty,

With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet,

Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet,

From the pure passage of the god to be;

And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.

VI.

I did not think to glorify gods and kings,

Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods;

But who with hope and faith may live at odds?

And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings,

Compete, and laureate laurels are lovely things,

Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods!

Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes!

True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes.

If there be laureate laurels, or bays, or palms,

In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times,

They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms

His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes,

Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of—psalms

That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away!

Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.

Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant,

His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant,

As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock

The rock—whelmed Titan's breathings. He no shock

Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze.

A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please

By undishevelled dandy-daintiness,

Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress.

Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from Hermon;

Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon!

His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text,

Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next!

THE WORTH OF VERSE.

AIR—"The Birth of Verse."

Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,

Vague prophecies which fill the ear,

Dim perturbation, precious pain,

A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,—

These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:—

Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!

Some say no definite thought there is

In my full flatulence of sound.

Let National Observers quiz

(H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!)

Envy! O trumpery, O MORRIS!

Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE?

I know the chambers of my soul

Are filled with laudatory airs,

Such as the salaried bard should troll

When he the Laureate laurels wears.

And I am he who opened Hades,

To harmless parsons and to ladies!

For I can "moralise my song"

More palpably than Mr. POPE;

And I can touch the toiling throng:

There is small doubt of that, I hope.

I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows,

And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs.

I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete,

But on the Liberal goose I'm sound.

And I can count my (rhythmic) feet

With any Pegasus around.

I witch all women, and some men,

GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "Gwen."

If these be not sufficient claims,

The worth of Verse is vastly small.

I've called him various pretty names,

The honoured Master of us all;

"His place is with the Immortals." Yes!

But I could fill it here, I guess!

His "chaste white Muse" could not object,

For mine is white, and awfully chaste.

Now ALGERNON has no respect

For purity and public taste.

EDWIN is given to allegory.

Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!

He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak.

And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"

Inexperienced Fred. "NOT EXACTLY 'GOOD,'—BUT I THINK I'VE LET OFF ABOUT A HUNDRED CARTRIDGES."

Experienced Sportsman. "NOT SO BAD. S'POSE YOU MUST HAVE 'LET OFF' AN EQUAL NUMBER OF PARTRIDGES!"

IN A GHOST-SHOW.

Warlock's "Celebrated Ghost-Exhibition and Deceptio Visus" has pitched its tent for the night on a Village Green, and the thrilling Drama of "Maria Martin, or, The Murder in the Red Barn, in three long Acts, with unrivalled Spectral Effects and Illusions," is about to begin. The Dramatis Personæ are on the platform outside; the venerable Mr. MARTIN is exhorting the crowd to step up and witness his domestic tragedy, while the injured MARIA, is taking the twopences at the door; WILLIAM CORDER is finishing a pipe, and two of the Angelic Visions are dancing, in blue velveteen and silver braid, to the appropriate air of "The Bogie Man."

Inside.

The front benches are occupied by Rustic Youths, who beguile the tedium of waiting by smoking short clays, and trying to pull off one another's caps.

First Youth (examining the decorative Shakspearian panels on the proscenium.) They three old wimmin be a-pokin' o' that old nipper, 'ooever he be.

[The "old nipper" in question is, of course, MACBETH.

Second Youth. Luk up at that 'un tother side—it's a Gineral's gho-ast a-frightenin' th' undertaker (A subject from "Hamlet") They've gi'en over dancin' outside—they'll be beginning soon. (The company descend the steps, and pass behind the scenes.) We shall see proper 'ere, we shall.

[The Curtain draws up, and reveals a small stage, with an inclined sheet of glass in a heavy frame in front; behind this glass is the Cottage Home of MARIA MARTIN.

Maria (coming out of Cottage, and speaking in an inaudible tone). At last—WILLIAM CORDER—to make me his wife—I know not why—strange misgiving 'as come over me.

[She is unfeelingly requested to speak up.

William Corder (whose villany is suggested at once by his wearing a heavy silver double watch-chain, with two coins appended, and no neck-tie—enters left). Yes, MARIA, as I have promised, I will take you to London, and make you my wife—but first meet me in disguise to-night, and in secret, at the Red Barn.

[MARIA is understood to demur, but finally agrees to the rendezvous, and retires into the Cottage. Old Mr. MARTIN comes out in a black frock-coat, and a white waistcoat—he has no neck-tie either, but the omission, in his case, merely suggests a virtuous economy. He feebly objects to MARIA being married in London, but admits that, "Perhaps he has no right to interfere with WILLIAM's arrangements," and goes indoors again. WILLIAM retires, and the scene changes to a 'very small street, which is presently invaded by a very large Comic Countryman, called "TIM," who is engaged to MARIA's sister NANNY.

Tim. They tell I, as how the streets o' Lunnon be paved wi' gold, and I be goin' 'oop to make ma fortune, I be.

[NANNY comes in and bribes him to remain by the promise of "cold pudden with plenty of gravy." Comic business, during which every reference to "cold pudden" (and there are several) is received with roars of laughter. WILLIAM CORDER, on the ingenious plea that he wishes to take some flowers up to London, borrows a spade and pickaxe from TIM, to whom it appears he owes ninepence, which he promises—like the villain he is—to repay "the very next time he sees him in Church."

William (going off with a flourish and a Shakspearian couplet).

My mind's made up. Hence all thoughts that are good!

Crimes once commenced, Must. End in—blood! [Act drop.

A Female Spect. They don't seem in no 'urry to come to th' Gho-ast part, seemin'ly.

Her Swain. Ye wudn't have 'em do th' Gho-ast afoor th' Murder, wud ye?

ACT II.—The interior of the Red Barn. WILLIAM discovered digging MARIA's grave in his shirt-sleeves, and thereby revealing that his shirt-front is as false as his heart. He announces that "Nothing can shake him, now, from his pre-determined purpose," and that "the grave gapes for its coming victim."

Enter MARIA, disguised in a brown bowler hat and a very tight suit of tweed "dittoes," in which she looks very like the "Male Impersonator" at a Music-hall. The Audience receive her with derision and the recommendation to go and get her hair cut.

Maria. Here am I in disguise at the Red Barn. And yet something seems to whisper to me that danger is near. WILLIAM, where, where are you?

William (coming out of a corner). 'Ere, MARIA, 'ere! (Aside.) Now to 'url my victim to an early grave! (Aloud.) 'Ave you obeyed my instructions and avoided notice?

Maria. I have. Whenever I saw anyone approaching, I hid behind a hedge and ducked in the ditch.

William (with sombre approval). That was most discreet on your part, MARIA. No one saw you come in, and no one will ever see you go out. Be'old your open grave!