PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 103.

September 24, 1892.

'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.

DEAR CHARLIE,—Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know wot'll come next!

Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my text;

But really life's turn-ups are twisters. You lay out for larks, 'ealth, and tin,

But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected," romps in.

Who'd ha' thought of me jacking up suddent, and giving the Sawbones a turn?

Who'd ha' pictered me "Taking the Waters"? Ah! CHARLIE, 'twos hodds on the Urn

With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as Tot'nam-Court Road

Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos full growed.

Bad, CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill-box declared.

Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I felt a bit scared,

And it left me a yaller-skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus, stoney-broke.

If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a croak.

Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way, and struck ile,

Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but he's made his pile.

Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd ghost

A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it—a'most.

Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh, fudge!

He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if I'm any judge.

I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set me up.

Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young pup.

"Carn't afford it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but—thanks be to 'orse-flesh—I can—"

Well, he tipped us a fifty-quid crisp 'un—and ROOSE sent me 'ere; he's my Man!

Three weeks' "treatment"! Well, threes into fifty means cutting a bit of a dash;

Good grub, nobby togs, local doctor, baths, waters, and everythink flash.

"'Appy 'ARRY!" sez you. But way-oh, CHARLIE! 'Arrygate isn't all jam.

Me jolly? Well, mate, if you arsk me, I carn't 'ardly say as I ham.

To spread myself out with the toppers is proper, no doubt, bonny boy;

But—I wish it wos Brighton, or Margit, or somewheres a chap could enjoy.

Oh, them "Waters," old man!!! S'elp me never! yer don't kow wot nastyness is

Till you've tried "Sulphur 'ot and strong," fasting. The Kissing Gin, taken a-fizz,

Isn't wus than ditch-water and sherbet; but Sulphur!!! It's eased my game leg;

But I go with my heart in my mouth, and I feel like a blooming bad hegg.

B-r-r-r-r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out of it, slap.

When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy white cap,

And cheeks like a blush-rose for bloominess—well, I'm a gent, but, yah-hah!

I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta-ta!

Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't 'ave a wus smell.

Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water. Eugh! Old Pump Well?

Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be, I'm sure,

But for BLACK—local doctor, a stunner!—who's got me in 'and for a cure.

I'm not nuts on baths took too reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't 'arf bad,

When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust off, dear old lad!

They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a feller about

Don't come nicer for calling it massage. But there, it's O.K. I've no doubt.

They squat you upon a low shelf, with a sort of a water-can "rose"

At the nape of yer neck, while a feller in front squirts yer down with a 'ose.

He slaps you as though you wos batter, he kneads you as if you wos dough,

And gives yer wot for on the spine, till you git in a doose of a glow.

Then you're popped in a big iron cage, where the 'ose plays upon you like fun;

A lawn, or a house a-fire, CHARLIE, could not be more thoroughly done.

Sez I, "I'm insured, dontcher know, mate; so don't waste the water, d'ye 'ear?"

But he didn't appear to arf twig. He seemed jest a bit thick in the clear.

Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings a-play—

'Taint oder colong, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the local bokay.

They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give me the needle fust off;

'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me sputter and cough.

Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five minutes to bake,

And that's the "Aix Douche," as they call it. I call it the funniest fake

In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes the time,

And I shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old Babbylon's grime.

Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun I can find

Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it blind.

Oh, the sniffs and sour faces, old fellow, the shudders and shivers, and sighs;

The white lips a-working like rabbits', the sheepish blue-funk in their eyes!

Old Pump Room's a hoctygon building, rum blend like of chapel and bar,

With a big stained-glass winder one side, hallygorical subject! So far

As I've yet made it out, it's a hangel a-stirring up somethink like suds.

"A-troubling the waters," I 'eard from a party in clerical duds.

You arsk, like you do at a bar, for the speeches of lotion you want.

Some say; you git used to the flaviour, and like it! Bet long hodds I shan't.

I've sampled the lot, my dear CHARLIE, Strong Sulphur and Mild, Cold and 'Ot;

And all I can say is, the jossers who say it ain't beastly talk rot.

You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy sort of sniff,

Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their hupper lips stiff;

Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort of bounce,

And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot sixteen hounce.

When they git it, a-fume in a tumbler, a-smelling like hegg-chests gone wrong,

They squirm, ask the snowy-capped gurl, "Is this right?"—"Yes, Sir. Sixteen ounce, strong!"

Sez the minx with a cold kind o' smile. "Ah—h—h! percisely!" they smirks, and walks round,

With this "Yorkshire Stinko" in their 'ands—and their 'earts in their mouths I'll be bound.

Then—Gulp! Oh Gewillikins, CHARLIE! it gives yer the ditherums, it do.

Bad enough if you 'ave to wolf one, but it fair gives yer beans when 'tis two.

The wictims waltz round, looking white, wishing someone would just spill their wet,

And—there's 'ardly a glass "returned empty" but wot shows its 'eel-taps, you bet!

This is "Taking the Waters" at 'Arrygate! Well, I shall soon take my 'ook.

Speshal Scotch, at my favourite pub, from that sparkling young dona, NELL COOK,

Will do me a treat arter this, mate, and come most pertikler A 1.

'Ow I long to be back in "The Village," dear boy, with its bustle and fun!

Still, the air 'ere's as fresh as they make it, and gives yer a doose of a peck,

And DUNSING, the Boss at "The Crown," does yer proper. I came 'ere a wreck;

But sulphur, sound sleep, and cool breezes, prime prog, and good company tells;

So 'ere's bully for 'Arrygate, CHARLIE, in spite of rum baths and bad smells.

That Fifty is nearly played out, and my slap at the Ebor went wrong—

I'd a Yorkshire tyke's tip, too, old man; but I'm stoney, though still "going strong"

(As Lord Arthur remarks in the play), so no more at "The Crown" I must tarry,

But if 'Arrygate wants a good word—as to 'ealth—it shall 'ave it from

'ARRY.

THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT."

"TWO'S COMPANY."

Newspaper Boy (suddenly, at window). "WANT AN OBSERVER, CAPTAIN?"

Mathilde (on Honeymoon Trip). "OH, FREDDIE, DEAR! NO! NO!! DO LET US BE QUITE ALONE!"

THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT"

Being Tugged to its Last Berth—in a Shipbreaker's Yard.

(A Theme from Turner treated in Modern British style, with Apologies to the Patriotic Painter of "The Fighting 'Téméraire.'")

"Mayhap you have heard, that as dear as their lives,

All true-hearted Tars love their ships and their wives."

So DIBDIN declared, and he spoke for the Tar;

He knew Jack so well, both in peace and in war!

But hang it! times change, and 'tis sad to relate,

The old Dibdinish morals seem quite out of date;

Stick close to your ship, lads, like pitch till you die?—

That sounds nonsense to-day, and I'll tell ye for why.

The good old Foudroyant—how memory dwells on

Those brave fighting names!—was once flag-ship to NELSON.

But NELSON, you know, died a good while ago,

And his flag-ship has gone a bit shaky, and so

JOHN BULL, who's now full of low shopkeeping cares,

And thinks more of the Stocks than of naval affairs,

Regards not "Old Memories," that "eat off their head."

Turn old cracks out to grass? No, let's sell 'em instead!

A ship's like the high-mettled racer once sung

By that same dashing DIBDIN of patriot tongue,

Grown aged, used up, is he honoured? No, zounds!

"The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds!"

And so with a barky of glorious name,

(It is business, of course—and a Thundering Shame!)

Worn out, she is nought but spars, timbers and logs,

And so, like the horse, should be sold—to the dogs!

As for the Foudroyant, the vessel was trim

When it fought with the French, for JOHN BULL, under Him,

The Star of the Nile. Yes, it carried his flag,

When it captured the Frenchman. There's no need to brag,

Or to say swagger things of a generous foe.

Besides, things have doosedly altered, you know.

We're no more like NELSON than I to a Merman;

We can sell his flag-ship for firewood, to the German!

Sounds nice, does it not? If that great one-armed Shade

Could look down on the bargain he'd—swear, I'm afraid

(If his death-purged bold spirit held yet ought of earth).

And I fancy 'twill move the gay Frenchman to mirth

To hear this last story of shop-keeping JOHN—

Or his huckster officials. The Frenchman, the Don,

The Dutchman, all foes we have licked,—may wax bold

When they hear that the brave old Foudroyant is—Sold!!!

Great TURNER has pictured the old Téméraire

Tugged to her last berth. Why the sun and the air

In that soul-stirring canvas, seem fired with the glory

Of such a brave ship, with so splendid a story!

Well, look on that picture, my lads, and on this!

And—no, do not crack out a curse like a hiss,

But with stout CONAN DOYLE—he has passion and grip!—

Demand that they give us back NELSON's old Ship!

British hands from protecting her who shall debar?

Ne'er ingratitude lurked in the heart of a Tar.

"(Sings DIBDIN) That Ship from the breakers to save"

Is the plainest of duties e'er put on the brave.

While a rag, or a timber, or spar, she can boast,

A place of prime honour on Albion's coast

Should be hers and the Victory's! Let us not say,

Like the fish-hucksters, "Memories are cheap, Sir, to-day!"

ECCLESIASTICAL TASTE.—A condiment not much in favour with High Churchmen just now, must be "Worcester Sauce." It is warranted to neutralise the very highest flavour.

Impromptu.

Of "garnered leaves"

And "garnered sheaves"

Sing sentimental donkeys.

Perhaps e'er long

Their simple song

Will be of Garnered Monkeys!

"A railway from Joppa to Jerusalem" sounds like a Scriptural Line. In future, "going to Jericho" will not imply social banishment, as the party sent thither will be able to take a return-ticket.

OF MALICE AFORETHOUGHT.

Cheery Official. "ALL FIRST CLASS 'ERE, PLEASE?"

Degenerate Son of the Vikings (in a feeble voice). "FIRST CLASS? NOW DO I LOOK IT?"

THE LAY OF THE LAST KNIGHT.

My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART—

Ah! happy augury. Would I could

Leave it so. But 'twill not do.

Like soap of Monkey brand,

It will not wash clothes,

Or, in truth, ought else.

'Tis but an accident of rhythm

Born of the imperative mood that makes one

Start a poem of this kind on ten feet,

Howe'er it may thereafter crawl or soar.

What I really was about to remark was that

My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART-

LETT, Knight; late Civil Lord of Admiralty

You know me. I come from Sheffield; at least

I did on my return thence

Upon re-election.

II.

A sad world this, my masters, as someone—

Was it my friend SHAKSPEARE?—

Says. The sadness arises upon reflection, not

That I'm a Knight, but that I am, so to speak,

A Knight of only two letters.

As thus—Kt. 'Tis but a glimmer of a night,

If I, though sore at heart, may dally with

The English tongue

And make a pensive pun.

III.

Of course I expected different things from

The MARKISS.

What's the use, what's the purpose,

Of what avail, wherefore,

That a man should descend from the

Spacious times of ELIZABETH with nothing

In his hand other than a simple Knighthood?

Anyone could do that.

It might be done to anyone.

He, him, all, any, both, certain, few,

Many, much, none, one, other, another.

One another, several, some, such and whole.

Why, he made a Knight

At the same time,

In the same manner,

Of

MAPLE

BLUNDELL!

IV.

Look here, MARKISS, you know,

This won't do.

It may pass in a crowd, but not with

ELLIS ASHMEAD BART—

(There it is again. Evidently doesn't matter

About the feet)

LETT.

V.

And yet MARKISS, mine,

I shall not despair.

You are somewhat out of it

At the present moment.

And I am not sure—

Not gorged with certainty—

That Mr. G. would be

Inclined to make amends.

He is old; he is agëd.

Prejudice lurks amid

His scant white locks,

And forbids the stretch-

Ing forth of generous hand in whose

Recesses coyly glint

The Bart. or K.C.B.

VI.

But you are not everyone;

Nor is he. Nor do both together

In the aggregate

Compose the great globe

And all that therein is.

I'll wait awhile, possessing my soul in

Patience.

Everything comes to the man who waits.

(Sometimes, 'tis true, 'tis the bobby

Who asks what he's loafing there for,

And bids him

Move on.

That is a chance the brave resolute soul

Faces.) The pity of it is

That you, MARKISS, having so much to give,

So little gave

To

Me.

VII.

Oh, MARKISS! MARKISS!

Had I but served my GLADSTONE

As I have served thee,

He would not have forsak—

But that's another story.

THE NEW HOPERA OF 'ADDON 'ALL.—The title finally decided upon for the SULLIVAN-GRUNDY Opera is Haddon Hall. Lovely for 'ARRY! "'Ave you seen 'Addon 'All?" Then the 'ARRY who 'as only 'eard a portion of it, will say, "I 'addn't 'eard 'all." As a Cockney title, it's perfect. Successful or not, Author and Composer will congratulate themselves that, to deserve, if not command success, they 'ad don all they knew. If successful, they'll replace the aspirates, and it will be some time before they recover the exact date when they Had-don Hauling in the coin. Prosit!

MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.—Says the Pall Mall Gazette:—"For knocking over a man selling watercress, with fatal results, a Hammersmith cabman has been committed for trial for manslaughter." If this is true, the HOME SECRETARY should immediately interpose. The action of knocking a man over is hasty, and may be indefensible. But if the Hammersmith Cabman had just grounds for belief that the man was "selling watercresses with fatal results," he should rather be commended than committed for trial.

"KEEPING-UP THE CHRISTOPHER."—(A Note from an Old Friend).—"CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS" indeed! As years ago I told Sairey Gamp about her bothering Mrs. Harris, "I don't believe there's no sich a person." That's what I says, says I, about COLUMBUS, wich ain't like any other sort of "bus" as I see before my blessed eyes every day.

Yours,
ELIZABETH PRIG.

P.S.—Mr. EDWIN JOHNSON, him as wrote to the Times last Saturday, is of my opinion. Good Old JOHNSON!

"HONORIS CAUSÂ."—To Mr. GRANVILLE MONEY, son of the Rector of Weybridge, whose gallant rescue of a lady from drowning has recently been recorded, Mr. Punch grants the style and title of "Ready MONEY."