PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93.

JULY 23, 1887.

MR. PUNCH'S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.

No Amateur Reciter can consider himself fully equipped for the Drawing-room or Platform unless he is furnished with at least one poem in dialect, and Mr. Punch has accordingly commissioned from his Poet a recitation couched in the well-known vernacular of Loompshire. Loompshire, it need hardly be explained, is the county where most of the stage-rustics come from. The author of this little poem ventures to hope that philologists will find much deserving of careful study in some of the local expressions and provincialisms, while he can guarantee their entire authenticity, as they are mostly of his own invention. The phraseology is strictly copyright and must not be infringed, except by a dignitary of archiepiscopal rank for a charitable purpose. As for the piece itself, it is founded on a little anecdote related to the poet, which he believes has not hitherto seen the light in a metrical form. It has a good old-fashioned double title, viz:—

Michaelmas Day; or, How Tammas Pattle very nearly Cooked his Goose.

Begin by explaining the situation, thus:—"This is supposed to be spoken by a Loompshire cottager, who overhears a stranger admiring the goodly proportions of his goose,"—then start with as broad a drawl as you can assume. Remember that to be effective you must be unintelligible.

"Bewty," I 'ears ya carl her?—aye, ya niver spoöke truthfuller wurrëd!

Rammack t' coontry side ovver, an ya weänt see no foiner burrëd!

Passon he axed ma to sell her—but I towld him, "Beänt o' naw use—

She's as mooch of a Chris'en as moäst," I sez, "if she's nobbut a guse!"

Coom, then!

(This coaxingly, to an imaginary bird—be careful not to seem to make any invidious distinctions among your audience.)

... Naäy, but she wunna! she's gotten a wull of her oän!

Looök at the heye of her,—pink an' greëy, loike t'fire in a hopal stoän!

Howsiver she sims sa hinnercent-loike, she's a follerin' arl I saäy:

An' I boärt 'er at Kettleby Feär, I did, two yeär coom Cannelmas Daäy.

Araminta her neäme is—but I carls 'er "Minty," fur shoärt,

She weänt naw moor nor a goslin' o' coorse, what taïme she wur boärt:

But a' knawed she'd turn oot a rare 'un, to jedge by her weëight an' feäl,

An' I reckoned to fat her by Michaelmas Eve, ef I buzzled 'er oop wi meäl,

Mayhappen ya'll ardly beleäve ma—but she unnerstood fra' the fust,

What wur hexpected of 'er, (with a senile chuckle,) I thowt that burr'd 'ud ha' bust!

Cram her, a' did! but she swuckered it doon, wi' niver a weästed drop,

Fur she tuk that hinterest in it as she'd ruther ha' choäked nor stop!

An' she'd foller wheeriver a went—till I hedn't naw peäce fur t' foäk,

"'Ere be Tammy long of his sweetart!" wur hallus the village joäk!

An' I'd saäy: "'Tis ma Michaelmas denner I'm squirin' aboot, owd chap!"

An' Minty she'd stan' up a' tiptoe, an' fluther her neck, an' flap!

Did I 'appen to gaw of a hevenin, to looök at ma hinion patch?

Minty 'ud coom in along o' meä, an' rarstle aboot, an' scratch,

Cocking her heye at the bed o' saäge, with a kink as mooch as to saäy:

"Wull the saäge an' th' hinions be ready fur meä, by toime I be ready for theëy?"

Or she'd snifter at arl the windfalls as ligged i' the horchard graäss,

I knawed what she wur erfter, a did—she wur pickin' 'em oot for the saäss!

An' I'd roob ma ands fur to see her a ploddlin' across th' roärd,

(Tenderly.) "Thee'll mak' a denner, ma pratty," I'd saäy to her, "fit fur a loärd!"

Maäin an' boolky she wur as Michaelmas week coom nigh,

"Her'll niver not bulge naw bigger," I sez, "an she art fur to die!"

I knawed she wur doitlin' soomwheer by the pasture under t' moör,

Sa I fetched the chopper an' fettled 'im oop—an' I went fur to do 'er! (Grimly.)

An' I chillupped to Araminty, an' oop she rins with a clack,

"Seeä what I've gotten to show 'ee," I sez, (wi' the chopper behind ma back)

But I looked sa straänge an callow, she knawed I wur meanin' 'er ill,

An' she kep a sidlin' an' edgin' awaäy, an' a gaäpin' wi' hopen bill!

Then I maäde a grab at her sooden—an' she skirtled off to a feäld,

Wheer Squire had been diggin' fur fireclaäy—eh, but she yellocked an' beäled!

Cloppity-joggle I chaäsed her, sa well as I cud, bein' laäme,

An' flippity-flopper she kep' on ahead—an' a' squawked out "Shaäme!"

(The Amateur Reciter should find little difficulty here in suggesting something of the intonation of a frightened goose: Pause—then continue apologetically.)

I wur haäf asheämed o' mysen' I wur, afoor I coom to the hend,

(Remorsefully.) "Ye owd ongreätful guzzard," I thowt, "to gaw killin' ya hoänly friend!"

But ma friend wur a Michaelmas denner tew as I hedn't naw art to refuse!

(More remorsefully.) An' it maäde me seeä what a gowk I'd beeän to ha' gotten sa thick with a guse!

Sa I danged 'er well as I slummocked on, as ard as ma legs cud stoomp,

"Waäit till I gets tha, ma laädy!" I sez,—when, arl on a sooden ... Boomp!

—An I wur a sprawlin' an' floppin' in wan of the owd Squire's pits,

But fur t' claäy at t' bottom an' that, I mout ha bin brokken to bits!

An' I roared fur 'elp, fur I cudn't git up, an' the watter wur oop to my chin.

But nobbudy eerd ma a' beälin', nor thowt on the hole I wur in!

They'd niver find nawthin but boäns, I knawed, if they'd iver the gumption to dredge,

Then I groäned (impressively)—fur I eerd Araminty a tooklin' 'oop by the edge!

(Sulky sarcasm.) "Wunnerful funny, beänt it?" I sez, (I wur feälin' fit for to choäk.

To be catched loike a bee in a bottle—an' see her enjyin' the joäk!)

(Indignantly.) "Hevn't ya naw moor manners," I sez, "ya greät fat himpident thing!"

(Pathetically.) Fur I'd bred her oop from a goslin', I had—and theer wur the sting!

Well, she left ma aloän at laäst, an' I hedn't a mossel o' hoäpe—

When by coom Harry the hedger, an a' hoickt ma oop with a roäpe!

"Shudn't ha' heerd 'ee, Tammas," he sez, "or knawed as owt wur t' matter—

Ef it hedn't ha bin fur yon guse o' thine, as coom an raäised sech a clatter.

An' drawed ma hon in spite o' mysen—till I moinded the hopen shaäft!"

(Catch your breath, then brokenly.) Aye, Minty wur saävin ma life oop theer—when I wur a thinkin' she laäft!

Then I rooshed fur to catch her to coodle and gie her a greätful kiss—

Eh, but I right down bloobered (with pained surprise)—fur she scatted awaäy with a hiss!

"Weän't niver 'urt 'ee ageän!" I sez, "if thee'll hoänly forgit what's past!"

She wur raäre an' stiff fur a bit, she wur—but (with a doddering complacency) I maäde her coom round at last!

An' I had ma Michaelmas denner the saäme—an' a arty good denner he wur!

Sat down coompany, tew—fur I cudn't ha' done without her!

What did we maäke a meäl on? (Shamefaced confusion here, expressed by scratching the head.) Well,—happen thee'll think me a haäss—

But I'll tell 'ee: (with candour) I dined wi Minty on the stooffin' an happle saäss!

(Retire without ostentation, to have your jaw set at the nearest Surgeon's.)

Scarcely Worth While.—For some personal remarks on the Prince of Wales, utterly gratuitous and in the worst possible taste, the P. M. G., as we hear, has been dropped by the Service Clubs, and subsequently by the Turf. As a mark of strong disapprobation this was right enough, but if it was intended as a punishment which would inflict loss, we are inclined to think such boycotting may have had exactly the contrary effect. How happy was Thackeray's title "The Pall Mall Gazette written by gentlemen for gentlemen!" If it is not so now, what have we got in-Stead?

Philosophy at the Popping Crease.

"The glorious uncertainty?" why, to be sure

That it must be the slowest should see at a glance,

For Cricket, as long as the sport shall endure,

Must be in its nature a mere game of chance.

"'Tis all pitch and toss;" one can show it is so;—

'Tisn't science or strength rules its losses or winnings.

Half depends on the "pitch"—of the wickets, you know,

The rest on the "toss"—for first innings.

"Good Business."—An advertiser in the Daily Chronicle of the 12th inst., has not a bad idea of a fair profit:—

BABY-CARRIAGE Bassinette, unsoiled; 4 rubber-wheels, carriage-springs, reversible hood, handsome rug, complete, £27; cost £4 10s., last month. Mrs. W.

If "Mrs. W." has not already obtained her price, we sincerely wish she may get it. She deserves it.

"The Bancroft School."—On Saturday last Prince Albert Victor laid the foundation-stone of the new buildings at Woodford. This sounds promising for the Theatrical Profession. Of course Mr. Bancroft will take the male pupils, and Mrs. Bancroft will instruct "the Spindle side."

Sarah B. at the Lyceum, under the management of M. Mayer. May 'er season be successful!

"LE MONDE OÙ L'ON S'AMUSE."

She. "By the bye, I met your Brother at Dinner last Night. Such a delightful Party! Such a Dinner!! Such Flowers!!!"

He. "Indeed! Where was it?"

She. "At the—a—the—a——Upon my Word, I really forget whose House it was I was dining at!"

A DAY OUT. (By Jacques Junior.)

A fishing, paddling pic-nic! What, to stand

On the lush margent of the gusty stream,

With feet benumbed, and watch the bobbing quill,

And then to dine al fresco—not for Jacques!

Where, for the smooth mahogany of Ind,

The unplaned earth is board; for cushion'd chair

The damp earth, ant-infested, or rough root

Chafing the unaccustomed cuticle;

Where mint sauce th' insecure platter doth o'errun,

With hose and doublet playing Lucifer;

Where glasses must be emptied as they're filled,

To the great prejudice of temperance,

Or, if set down, drops me a spider in,

To spoil the fortune he cannot enjoy,

Like Sir No-Company, who makes a third.

While e'en a grumble, relishabler far

Than that keen sauce of Sparta, is denied.

For one there'll be who'll not let ill alone,

But, "I prithee try this compound; I learnt the knack

In Venice," or, "Thus in England wines are mix'd!

Pray you pronounce upon't." Another, worst,

Will keep all waiting while he spoils good food,

Concocting some vile preparation,

Calling't a Sallet. "Taste in charity,

For Fate's against me; some ingredient

Of utmost import hath been left at home."

And so the wholesome green is all besprent

With bile-disturbing mixture. Out upon't!

I'd rather find a kitten in a stew

Than one of these same preaching salad-bunglers.

What are the uses of al fresco meals?

Who likes a toad, ugly and venomous,—

Where's such a precious fool—upon the bread?

And they who, in contempt, the Dryad's haunts

Profane with empty bottles and loose papers,

Find tongues in tarts, ants running on their boots,

Wasps in the wine, and salt in everything!

At the Lyceum.—Saturday was the last night of Mr. Irving's Season,—a season remarkable for the inexhaustible popularity of Faust, produced in 1885, and for the revival of most of the Lyceum successes, by way of airing them for American exportation. On this occasion The Merchant of Venice was given. Miss Ellen Terry's Portia is one of the best examples of true comedy acting in the present day. Mr. Irving's Shylock is a marvellously subtle impersonation, full of humour, pathos, and tragic power. After the play he made a short speech bidding a temporary farewell to his friends. Mr. Punch replies, "Good luck go with you, Au revoir!"

THE QUEEN AT HATFIELD.

In days of old in Hatfield halls,

They feasted late and early,

The grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,

And danced beside Lord Burleigh.

The stars of great Eliza's reign,

Were seen in all their glory,

Smart Essex girt with golden chain,

And Raleigh known to story.

'Tis said that 'neath a Hatfield Oak,

Elizabeth was sitting,

When courtiers hastened there and spoke,

In lowly tones, befitting

The mighty message that they bore;

There, where the leaves waved o'er her,

They hailed her Queen from shore to shore,

And humbly bowed before her.

And now another Queen has gone

Where Hatfield lawns are shady;

The ancient oaks have looked upon,

Another gracious Lady.

Once more a Cecil plays the host,

And bows in Royal presence;

What wonder if Queen Bess's ghost,

Looked down upon the pleasance.

The past and present seem to meet,

In those historic portals;

Methinks our modern Statesmen greet,

Elizabeth's immortals.

And, as the phantoms fade away,

While bells clash from the steeple,

They cry, "Long live Victoria,

To bless her loving people!"

Very Annoying.—Just when everything was going along so smoothly, just when the Jubilee police arrangements had been so successful as to warrant a tribute from Chief Commissioner Punch, and a recognition from Londoners generally, to have these police difficulties suddenly sprung upon Sir Charles Warren was enough to drive him wild,—enough to make him a rabid Warren. But he has taken the right course, and much good will come out of all this trouble. Cheer up, Sir Charles! Anyhow you are not in for a Cass-tigation.

On Messrs. Richard Bentley and Sons' list of books appears Mr. Hissey's Journeys in England. What an unpleasant visitor, if he is only true to the name of Hissey, and makes the tour of the Theatres in London and the provinces. Managers, beware!

"MY LAWYER."

[Crown 8vo., 6s. 6d., MY LAWYER: A Concise Abridgment of, and Popular Guide to, the Laws of England. By a Barrister-at-Law.]

Who was it, when I thought I saw

In something I had signed a flaw,

Gave me my first distaste for law?

My Lawyer.

Who, when into his hands I fell,

As I my grievance tried to tell,

Around me wove some fatal spell?

My Lawyer.

Who from my mind at once all trace

Of doubt and fear did quite efface,

And made me think I had a "case"?

My Lawyer.

Who of all obstacles made light,

And, whether I was wrong or right,

Insisted that I ought to fight?

My Lawyer.

Who, as I saw the costs increase,

And wished to come to terms of peace,

Declined to let the turmoil cease?

My Lawyer.

Who daily plagued me more and more,

And every time I passed his door

Charged me straight off thirteen-and-four?

My Lawyer.

Who, liking not his little games,

When I resolved to waive my claims,

Quick added fuel to the flames?

My Lawyer.

Who, though some compromise I sought,

And did not wish the matter fought,

Before a jury had it brought?

My Lawyer.

Who, though at last I got enraged,

The battle still more stoutly waged,

And leading Counsel, three, engaged?

My Lawyer.

Who, when, of course, my case went wrong,

Because it wasn't worth a song,

Sent in a bill twelve pages long?

My Lawyer.

And who, now that I'm wiser grown,

And to this book for aid have flown,

Would still on me inflict his own?

My Lawyer.

Yet now, spite all his legal tricks,

Henceforth this work, price six-and-six,

Shall promptly be, in every fix,

My Lawyer.

"WHAT'S THE NEXT FASHION?"

"Varium et mutabile semper Fœmina."

Madame France. "I wonder which will Suit me Best, after all. I'm beginning to be Tired of This."

CRICKET AT LORD'S.

Hits by Dumb Crambo, Junior.

THE LESSON OF THE ROYAL REVIEW.

(By Our Special Scientific Experimentalist.)

It was with great satisfaction that I received my orders to visit Aldershot on the occasion of the Royal Review, "to deduce from the display the exact position occupied by England amongst the Powers of Europe as a Military Nation." I felt that hardly a better man could have been chosen for the task. My experience in the four divisions of the globe, my knowledge of the wars of the last three quarters of a century, exactly fitted me for the task. I said to myself, "I am intrusted with the performance of a solemn and sacred duty. I am asked to carefully report upon the condition of a large body of men, with a view to sampling the entire British Army. The large body of men shall have my careful consideration." Actuated by these worthy motives, I left Waterloo in the early morn (it was scarcely nine o'clock), and travelled to Aldershot.

On my way down I entered into discussion with four civilians, whose interest in the day's proceedings seemed to be centred in the great question of lunch. It was in vain that I attempted to sound them upon the efficiency or the reverse of the Auxiliary Forces (they were all more or less connected with the Volunteers), because they confined their conversation to where they were likely to find So-and-So's drag on Bourley Wood, and where the—— Volunteer Battalion of the Royal Such-and-Such a Regiment was situated.

"What do you think of canvass as a shelter?" I asked, note-book in hand.

"Oh, a mess-tent is as good a place as anywhere else if the cookery and wines are all right," was the only reply I received that had the slightest bearing on the military situation. Then my companions refused to talk of anything further save the racing fixtures for the following fortnight.

At Aldershot I found a number of omnibuses drawn up, labelled "House of Commons," which were soon occupied by elderly ladies, who appeared to be excellent representatives of our Legislators. Seeing that the flymen had arranged a tariff that measured distances with sovereigns, and hours with bank-notes, I determined to walk to the Long Valley, and my example was largely followed. Smartly-gowned ladies, and men whose attire suggested the shady side of Pall-Mall, dispensed with all conveyances, and sturdily trudged to the review ground, to the intense disgust of the cabmen, whose harvest could not have been particularly lucrative. The only vehicles that we saw on the road were waggons filled with country-folk, and harnessed to heavy lumbering cart-horses, that moved very deliberately and slowly, and now and again a London coach. A specimen of the last came up to me just as I was getting out of the town—it was occupied by a company of ladies and gentlemen with an up-all-night look about them. As a matter of fact, I believe it had started shortly after midnight, or thereabouts. I recognised one of the occupants, who, until he caught my eye, had seemed rather depressed, but who, upon exchanging greetings with me, assumed a most jovial air, and seemed quite to wake up. He subsequently told me that he had never enjoyed himself so much. "Up over-night, you see, then a long drive in the dawn and early morning, getting to Aldershot before the Queen. Review, lunch, and home again." The last item, I fancy, must have been rather an anti-climax, although my friend would not admit it. However, I have a kind of instinct that should there be another big Review, he will choose the rail in preference to the road.

As I passed the barracks I could not help admiring the waggery of the Military Authorities in setting up placards requesting "the Public not to walk on the grass." The light-hearted Authorities (it is scarcely necessary to say to those who know the latent humour in the breasts of the Head-quarters' Staff) had selected a site for these posters where no grass would grow. From the hurry-skurry observable on all sides, I gathered that the Procession was on its way—a supposition that was turned into certainty by the boom of a Royal Salute. And yet I was miles from my seat! There was only one thing to do—to force my way down a road that had been closed since nine o'clock. The entrance to this pathway was guarded by a mounted sentry. I approached him, and showed him my pass, which made me free of all "camps and bivouacs." He complained that he was not a "camp," but had nothing to urge in denial when I insisted that "then he must be a bivouac." As some dozens of others were attempting to force the passage, he allowed me to pass, and from that moment practically the British Army was at my mercy. No provision had been made to deal with spectators when once the gallant Scots Grey had been passed. Thus I was able to lead the Royal Procession, and was greatly pleased to find every one on the alert. Battalion after battalion seemed to me well set up, and the Duke of Cambridge with his drawn sabre left nothing to be desired. I inspected them all, and can certainly say that I had not to stop to re-arrange a belt or even a general-officer's scabbard. This being the case, my movements were rapid, but not faster than those of the Derby Dog. In the fearful heat I found my seat (a very comfortable one) close to the saluting point, and then was prepared to see the march-past. The bands struck up. "George Ranger" waved his sword and there was a shout. Then came the tramp of armed men, and it occurred to me that after a very long run, I could scarcely do better than close my eyes. I found by doing this that I could think the matter out. What had perplexed me on the road down was how I should find the mess of the particular regiment that had honoured me with a card of invitation for luncheon.

I soon made up my mind that I had better ask my way. This I did, and found the country Constabulary most intelligent. As I had come to Aldershot to see the soldiers, rather than to enjoy the pleasures of the table, it would perhaps be out of place to mention here how good lobster salad is when you are really hungry, and how very grateful to the palate claret cup appears when one has had nothing to drink for many hours. Enough to say, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and catching a train to Waterloo, was once more at home.

On reading my notes I find that I have left unanswered the question with which I commenced this article. I was sent to Aldershot to "deduce from the display, the exact position occupied by England amongst the Powers of Europe as a Military Nation." Quite so. Well—but perhaps on second thoughts I had better get the Editor to send me to another review before I attempt to solve the problem.

[Certainly: try it.—Ed.]

OF THE MASKE-ALINE GENDER.

The great success of the Gray's Inn Maske, has raised in the mind of some of the critics the consideration whether a revival of this form of entertainment could not be established. Ever ready to assist in carrying out a valuable suggestion, Mr. Punch begs to provide a Scenario for a modern Maske:—

Scene I.—The Exterior of the Castles of Torius and Gladstonius with a view of the Palace of Westminster, seen through the gateway. Enter Sessionius, who looks about him and ponders.

Sessionius. This should not be! Such a time as this puts down a thousand pleasant schemes of summer! When a Bill, an Opposition, and a Closure are met within the Hall of great St. Stephen's! Let the Ex-M.P. bless the summer day, but Whigs, Rads, and Tories, needs must nod to the Sessions Reign.

Enter Vacatia.

Vacatia. Well, o'ertaken Session!

Sessionius. What's that I see? How dare you approach. D'ye mean to give the lie to the prophets, who say I shall not be done until October? Away, thou tempting fancy! Begone! Stay not a moment!

Vacatia. Nay, be not angry! In days gone by thou used to welcome me! Why is it?

Sessionius. Do you not see I cannot move? With Irish Members and Coercion Bills, I may stay here for ever!

Vacatia weeps, and is appeased by Trippius, who explains that they can go unto the seaside by the Sunday trains. Then all go out. Then enter the Excursionists, who sing strange songs in praise of wine and tobacco. After a while the fun grows fast and furious, and the Scene changes to,—

The Garden of Parliamentary Flowers of Speech.

First song, wherein the Speaker works a charm by which certain Irish Members dance a measure with sticks, and striking the floor, then one another's coat-tails, and, lastly, one another's heads. When this is done, Harcourtius appears in the pavan, or "peacock's strut," and marches about. He disappears, and there is a Dance of Woodmen with hatchets by the Gladstonian Family. All this ends merrily with a view of Vacatia working a change as Trippius introduces a View of a possible Autumn Session.

"What I want some fellow to tell me," said Mr. Duffer, looking up from an advertisement of a forthcoming sale at Aldridge's, "is—what the dickens is the use of a broken sporting dog?"

"À LA PORTE!"

Wolff. "Must really be going now! Had a Delightful Time of it. Spent a lot of Money, and enjoyed myself amazingly. Ta! Ta!"

Sultan. "So sorry you're going. By the way, I'll attend to that Little Matter you came about, at the earliest Moment possible. Ta! Ta!"

CLEAR AS CRYSTAL; OR, ALL ABOUT IT.

Interior of a Railway Carriage on a Suburban Line. Well-Informed Politicians discovered discussing question of the hour.

First Well-Informed Politician (summing up the situation with confidence). Well, that's how it stands. Drummond Wolff has telegraphed to say that the thing's no go, and that he can't get 'em to sign. So he has put the Convention into his pocket, and is coming home as fast as his legs can carry him.

Second Well-Informed Politician (tentatively). Pardon me, but I don't think it has quite come to that, has it? He was to have left, but the Sultan, you know, asked him to wait for an audience, or something of that sort. I saw something about it just now in the paper.

[Hunts up and down the columns of the "Times" vaguely.

Third Well-Informed Politician. O yes, I know what you mean. Here; it's here. (Produces "Standard.") Ha! this is it. (Reads.) "Sir H. D. Wolff was to have left yesterday, but having asked an audience to take leave, and the Sultan not having named a day for it, his departure has been postponed."

Second Well-Informed Politician. Yes, that's it. (Addressing First Well-Informed Politician with more assurance.) You see there's evidently a chance of further negotiation. I shouldn't be surprised to hear that the thing was settled yet.

First Well-Informed Politician (with warmth). Stuff, Sir—there'll be no settlement—and a precious good job too! Who wants any Convention? Not England. No, we're well out of it, and, what's more, Salisbury knows it.

Third Well-Informed Politician. You quite surprise me. Surely Lord Salisbury had set his heart on the signing of the Convention.

Second Well-Informed Politician. Oh yes, I'm sure of that. Why, I've just been reading it—in the Vienna Correspondence, I think it was. Where was it?

[Again commences a vague hunt up and down the columns of the "Times."

First Well-Informed Politician. Nonsense—I don't care what the "Vienna Correspondence" says. Tells a pack of lies, I'll be bound. I tell you Salisbury's no fool, and he knows when he has got a free hand.