The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103,
September 17, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 17, 1892
Author: Various
Release Date: March 12, 2005 [eBook #15332]
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 103
SEPTEMBER 17, 1892
HEARING HIMSELF.
(_MYSTERIOUS MEM. FROM A HAWARDEN NOTE-BOOK._)
Exceedingly kind and flattering of MAX MÜLLER! "I hope there are but
few here present who have never enjoyed the privilege of listening to
Mr. GLADSTONE." Ha! ha! He little thought there was _one_ there who
had _not_ "enjoyed that privilege." Have enjoyed most privileges in
my time, but never that of "hearing myself as others hear me"--more or
less. "Unavoidable absence of Mr. GLADSTONE!" Ho! ho! Then my disguise
_was_ perfect. Get myself up as a Liberal Unionist, with wig and
eye-glass. Not likely anybody would recognise me in _that_ rig.
Rather enjoyed myself--and my paper, "Phoenician Elements in the
Homeric Poems." Most seductive title! Such a _popular_ touch about it!
Think I shall have it printed as a "leaflet" for distribution among
Workmen's Clubs and Radical Associations. Might conciliate those
well-meaning but illogical Eight-Hour Men. Wonder if KEIRHARDIE would
like a copy. What more nicely calculated to cheer the scant leisure of
Labour?
Funny to hear my own sinuous sentences coming back to me from mouth
of another. Not quite sure MAX is so "fascinating in his voice, and
so persuasive in his delivery" as--but no matter. Can't say--as MAX
did--"I felt myself carried away, and convinced almost against my
will." Not at all! Wonder what he meant by that? Why "against his
will"? That's what Liberal Unionists, and other preposterous and
illogical opponents of mine say in House, when they compliment me on
my "eloquence," _and then vote against me!_ Absurd! Wish they'd drop
their compliments and vote straight.
"Small and exotic contribution" to Oriental Congress! Neat description
of paper running to nearly four columns of _Times_. "Intense sentiment
of nationality, which led the Greeks of later days to covet the title
of Autochthones." Wonder if that reminded MAX, or anyone else, of
_another_ race with "an intense sentiment of nationality," and a
passionate love of the land from which they sprang. Wonder whether,
if Nationalists were to call themselves "Auctochthones" instead of
Home-Rulers, we should get along better? Must consult JUSTIN on this
point. Should have to teach some of them to _pronounce_ their new
name, though. "Autochthones," spoken in wrath, with a rich brogue,
after dinner, would, I should think, beat Phillippopolis, or "Ri'
l'il, ti' li'l Isl'l" hollow.
_Anax andron_, too, might be useful. Say, as substitute for that
everlasting G.O.M., of which I admit I'm heartily sick, Lord of Men!
_Not_ King of Men, of course. LABBY might kick at latter. "Nothing
can be simpler than the meaning of the two words." Exactly. Must get
HARCOURT to popularise these. Applied to AGAMEMNON. Why not to "strong
men" who live _after_ AGAMEMNON? "Evidence from extraneous sources
of connection between title of _Anax andron_ and great Egyptian
Empire." Aha! I may yet have to play the _Anax andron_ in Egypt as
before. Allegory--I mean _Anax andron_ on banks of Nile! Good--and
not a Malapropism, whatever WOLSELEY may say. "Title of _Anax
andron_ descendible" (good word, "descendible") "from father to
son, and accorded in the poems to personages altogether secondary,
_viz._, EUMELOS and EUPHETES." Wonder what my EUMELOS--HERBERT--will
say to that!
Enjoyed it much whilst MAX was "mouthing out" (as Mrs. BROWNING
says) my eulogy of that man of "Phoenician stamp," the "universal
ODYSSEUS," who expressed the many-sided, the all-accomplished man;
the _polutropos_, the _polumetis_, the _tlemon_, the _polutlas_, the
_polumekanos_, the _poikilometis_, the _poluphron_, the _daïphron_,
the _talasiphron._ (What a peck of p's!) In battle never foiled! In
council supreme! His oratory like the snow-flakes of the winter
storm. Superbly representative Phoenician! "But over and above this
universality of ODYSSEUS in the arts of life, he bears the Phoenician
stamp in what may be termed his craft." Aha! The "Old Parliamentary
Hand" of his period plainly. Wonder if MAX thought of _that_!
Hellas and Phoenicia combined! As a Statesman of classical culture,
commercial instincts _and_ craft, what a shining success ODYSSEUS
might have been in these days!
He went into the Cyclops' cave
To see what he could spy out;
He slew his oxen, stole his sheep,
And then he poked his eye out,
as the ribald doggerelist has it. Sounds a little "predatory,"
perhaps, as SALISBURY would say. But quite capable of being
"spiritualised" into a sound Liberal policy, directed against the
purblind Poluphemos of Property and Privilege.
On the whole, I had a high old time among the Orientalists. But
when discussion ensued, I longed to throw off my disguise and
rush, Achilles-like, into the fray. But MAX might have thought that
inconsistent with my "colossal humanity;" so, very unwillingly, I
refrained.
* * * * *
UP ALOFT.--The most elevated title in the Peerage, and belonging to
the upperest part of the Upper House, is "Lord MOUNTGARRET." There can
be but one higher, and that will have to be created in the person of
a future "Lord TOPOCHIMNEPOT." Though, perhaps, the title of "Lord
COWLEY," if it were altered into Lord CHIMNEPOT-COWL-Y, would be the
highest of all.
* * * * *
ANGLICE-FRENCHIE EXCLAMATION (_on any of the recent many showery
days when, after an interval of ten minutes, the next bucketful
descended_).--"_POUR une autre fois!_"
* * * * *
[Illustration: NATURE'S SECRETS.
"HERE ARE SOME NEW LAID EGGS FOR YOU, GEORGIE!"
"OH, THANKS! HOW NICE! I HAVEN'T SEEN A NEW LAID EGG FOR WEEKS! HOW DO
YOU MANAGE TO GET THEM? OH, OF COURSE--YOU'VE GOT _AN INCUBATOR_!"]
* * * * *
INNS AND OUTS.
NO. III.--THE PORTER.
I had intended to have written, this week about "Loggosh"--including
that mysterious canvass hand-box which contains all that a foreigner
cares to carry about with him by day, and often pillows him when
travelling by night; but the very mention of luggage brings me back
to the Porter. I abominate him. I am "one who has suffered." So here
goes!
"Imposing," best describes the Hôtel porter; a very Grand Hôtel has
at least two of these impositions--the House Porter and the Omnibus
Porter. The latter you only see twice in your Hôtel existence, but he
is the most futile and the deadliest fraud of the two.
This Porter is part and parcel of that horrible deep-red-plush
nuisance, the Hôtel-omnibus. He and it are inseparables, and make up
a sort of Centaur between them. Once outside the Railway-station, I
am besieged by a babel of these Porter-omnibuses--"Bear Hôtel, Sor;"
"Grand Hôtel, Sor!"--This, from a very dilapidated specimen, which,
on inspection, turns out to be "Grand Hôtel Du Lac;" a pirate
porter-omnibus in fact; at last I find _The_ Grand Hôtel vehicle, and
functionary. The latter is of gigantic stature; quite a "chucker-out;"
in a uniform between that of a German bandsman and a Salvation
Captain--"Certinly, Sar. Dis Grand Hôtel; I see your Loggosh, Sar; gif
me se empfangschein." "Do you speak English?" I retort.--"Certinly;
spik Ingleese--empfangschein!"--"Empfangschein" baffles me, and I
am about to hand my keys to the monster, when a good-natured Courier
explains that it signifies the luggage-receipt.
Away ambles the Porter, leaving me with that orphaned sort of feeling
which a luggageless Englishman experiences; it is pouring cats and
dogs; I am dead beat; I creep into the dark omnibus. I find myself
quite alone. I wait impatiently--a quarter of an hour--twenty-five
minutes--still no Porter; I am famished; to distract myself, I
peer through the door, whence I can discern the messy vista of the
railway-station in the rain; it's lucky I do so; for there I behold my
own portmanteau, with its huge purple stripe, being hauled away on the
back of a railway-man, followed by an alien Hôtel Porter, _not mine_,
doing nothing: they are always doing nothing. To rush out indignantly,
seize my box, defy the brigands, and carry it back myself, seemed
the work of an instant. Drenched and gasping, I find myself once
more outside; the Porter of the Grand Hôtel Du Lac is at my heels,
furious and impertinent. "Dis, _not_ your loggosh: other shentleman's
loggosh." He seized the portmanteau, and a struggle would certainly
have ensued, when my own Hôtel Porter appeared on the scene
triumphant, with a regiment of station-men carrying one small tin box.
"What you do, Sar; see _here_, your loggosh!" The tin box belonged to
a commercial-traveller, who was bound for the Hôtel Du Lac.
I am too exhausted to curse, and leave the rival Porters to fight it
out themselves, after paying off the ragged regiment of Station-men.
On the drive to the Hôtel, the Porter tries to propitiate me.
"Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, fetch de loggosh. I tell you, better
leave it to me, Sar. You see, _I_ get your loggosh. Dat bizley Porter
of De Hôtel Du Lac, he change de empfangschein; but I sweep it from
him, and bring to de 'Bus"--"'Bus" was good--and then he laughed!
[Illustration: "Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de
loggosh."]
I never saw the brute again until the time of my departure; I had
taken a carriage to the Station this time, thinking thereby to avoid
the Porter-omnibus. I had registered my traps myself, and was looking
out for some one to carry them to the den in which you are penned till
the train arrives, when, lo! the chucker-out! smiling and bowing as if
he had never seen me before--"Is better I retchistar de loggosh, Sar;
pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh."
I turn on my heel with an imprecation which "Ingleese-spikers"
understand. But he still waits there, smiling, and expecting to be
tipped, Let him wait. So much for the Omnibus-Porter--at once the Gamp
and Undertaker of my Grand Hôtel existence.
The House-Porter is of equal size, and equal uselessness. He sits
in the hall, and always rises and salutes when you pass. If you want
anything, he waits till you have got it, and then offers to procure
it for you. If you ask to be called early, he chalks something on a
slate, and you are safe not to be disturbed until you rise in your
wrath and ring violently. Should you be in a town, and wish to secure
theatre-tickets, he becomes more active; he implores you not to resort
to "De Boxing Office, vare you pay premiums, you see;" but he has one
or two left for sale. Should you be weak enough to yield, you will
find that the worst seats at the highest prices are yours; and, if you
remonstrate next day, he will sigh wearily, and remark,--"Is acheslant
places, Sar; but was Gala Night, you see,"--an enigma, which those who
run may read. He is always offering to do something, and doing _you_
instead. He is absolutely unnecessary, for there is seldom anyone in a
Grand Hôtel to "chuck out," and this would be his only justification.
* * * * *
THE "BLOWER" BURST UP!
The "Blower" came down, like the braggart he was,
And of winning the fight was peculiarly "poz;"
And the voice of his backers was loud in their glee;--
"We shall lick him in two rounds--or certainly three!"
Like the "Champion Slugger," in trunks of bright green,
The "Big Fellow" at Eight fifty-two might be seen:
Like a truculent Titan, blind, baffled, and blown,
At Ten thirty-seven the brute was o'erthrown.
For CORBETT smote fiercely, and CORBETT fought fast,
And the bullying bounder was beaten at last;
And the cheeks of the coarse woman-puncher were chill,
He rolled over, and struggled to rise, and lay still.
And there stood his foe with his nostrils all wide,
And the shouts of his backers rolled on in their pride.
The swells of the Ring and the stars of the Turf
Surged round like the waves of the storm-beaten surf.
And there lay the "Blower," distorted and pale,
With the blood on his brow where the blows fell like hail.
_His_ backers were silent, he lay there alone,
His mawleys unlifted, his trumpet unblown.
And the "Sports" of the South are all loud in their wail.
But _Punch_, who hates bullying brutes, can but hail
That smart Californian's pluck, skill, and strength,
Who has pricked the big SULLIVAN bladder--at length!
* * * * *
"FONS ET ORIGO."--As to London Water "seek Wells," that is if you
wish to avoid unpleasant seq-uels. "_Don't_ leave Wells alone" is our
motto, meaning "Sir SPENCER" of that ilk, who has a deal worth hearing
to say on this subject.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TWO SIDES TO A QUESTION.
_Major Podmore_. "CONGRATULATE YOU, DEAR BOY!"
_Disappointed Cricketer_. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? BOWLED FIRST BALL--NEVER
GOT A RUN!"
_Major Podmore_. "QUITE SO, DEAR BOY. BUT IN THIS HOT WEATHER--80° IN
THE SHADE--SO MUCH BETTER, IF YOU CAN, TO TAKE THINGS COOLLY!"]
* * * * *
A ROUNDABOUT RAMBLE.
(_A FACT FOUNDED ON FICTION._)
The sharp, bright little Traveller made his way to the Cabinet of M.
CARNOT, and disturbed him at work.
"Do you know, M. Le Président," said he, "that the Russians are in
secret treaty with the English, and the Russo-French Alliance is all
nonsense--the most unreliable of broken reeds?"
"Well, no," replied CARNOT, "I have not heard anything of the sort;
and, if anyone should be up in it--"
But the Traveller did not want to hear the rest, for he was once again
on his road, telling everyone he met the disquieting intelligence,
and, consequently, the French people were greatly troubled.
He was soon in Berlin. He did not ask for an interview with the
KAISER, but took one.
"Your Royal and Imperial Majesty," said he, "are you aware that Italy
is in secret accord with France, and that the Triple Alliance is a
sham, and that the cry _À Berlin!_ may be renewed at any moment?"
"Well, no," said the Emperor, "I have not heard this; and if anyone
should know anything about it, I fancy--"
But the Traveller did not wait for the KAISER to finish the
sentence, but was off again, telling everyone he met the disquieting
intelligence. And, consequently, the German people were greatly
troubled.
Then the Traveller obtained admission, in the same unceremonious
fashion, to the apartment occupied by the Emperor of AUSTRIA.
"King of HUNGARY," said he, "are you aware that you cannot possibly
rely upon your German neighbour, because the KAISER has a secret
understanding with the CZAR, by which the Principalities will be
included in Russian territory, and the Rhine secured from French
invasion?"
"No, I have not heard it," was the answer; "and, if it had been the
case, I imagine that--"
But again the Traveller left without waiting for the completion of
the sentence, and went his way telling everyone he met the disquieting
intelligence. And consequently, the Austro-Hungarian peoples were
greatly troubled.
And now the Traveller was in the presence of the Emperor of ALL THE
RUSSIAS. Again he had obtained admission without the preliminary of an
official introduction.
"Little Father," said the Traveller, "are you aware that your youthful
relative in Berlin is coquetting with France and England, and you may
find the whole of Europe marshalled against you?"
"Well, no I have not heard it," returned the CZAR; "and I really
think--"
But the Traveller never learned what the CZAR really thought, for he
was away before His Imperial Majesty had completed the sentence. And
as he went away, after his usual fashion, he spread the disquieting
intelligence, and consequently the Russian people were greatly
troubled.
And now the Traveller was in Cairo. He presented himself before the
KHEDIVE without waiting for the English adviser.
"Your Highness, do you know that the British Army of occupation is on
the eve of departure?" said he.
"What, in spite of Lord ROSEBERY going to the Foreign Office!"
exclaimed the SULTAN's vassal, in a tone of considerable astonishment.
"Of course," replied the visitor. "Everything was settled long ago,
and before Christmas there won't be a red-coat in Egypt!"
"Indeed," returned His Highness, "I certainly have not heard it, and I
fancy--"
But the Traveller departed without ascertaining the drift of the
KHEDIVE's fancies, and on his road, strictly according to precedent,
spread the disquieting intelligence, and consequently the Egyptian
people were greatly troubled.
And now the Traveller was once more back in London. He entered Capel
Court and rested himself. He said nothing. It was unnecessary, for he
was well known, and his stories had already been discounted.
"Ah, my little friend RUMOUR," said Mr. BULLBEAR; "you have come back
again! And now you can rest for awhile, until we want you after the
next account."
So RUMOUR is waiting in the Stock Exchange until he is wanted after
the next account!
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XIV.--TO SWAGGER.
I approach you with fear and trembling. Somewhere in the Cave of the
Winds you have your home. The ancient Authors, to their discredit,
make no mention of your existence there, but the fact is as I have
stated it. The East wind blows into your gaping mouth, and forth you
go, puffing and swelling with an alien importance, to do your hateful
work. You hover over a second-rate Statesman, who has attracted the
applause of a Party by an opportune speech, compiled by the industry
of a humble Secretary. From that moment his nature changes. Though he
may have been simple and beloved, yet, through you, he shall become
pompous, and abhorred. His fellow-creatures are thenceforth mere
material for his trampling feet; he swells into regions to which no
criticism can reach; he covers himself in a triple hide of vanity,
ostentation, and disdain; he hails himself continually as the unaided
Saviour of his country, and dies in the odour of braggadocio, without
a genuine friend to mourn his loss.
[Illustration]
Or, again, you select some common, smug-faced Clergyman, capable, no
doubt, if he were left alone, of guiding his flock quietly into the
strait paths of goodness and humility. You turn him into a loud-voiced
Clerical quack, vending his wretched patent medicines of salvation
in a style of offensive denunciation that would have ruined a host of
Dulcamaras, trained in the insinuating methods of the ordinary trade.
But on this the Clergyman thrives, and weak women fall prostrate
before his roaring insincerity.
Nor do you neglect the young. Heavens! I remember I was once favoured
with the confidences of WILLIAM JOSKINS BACON, an Undergraduate,
generally known to his intimates as "Side of Bacon." I shudder
to recollect how that amazing creature discoursed to me about his
popularity, his influence, his surprising deeds both of valour and of
discretion. With one nod--and, as he spoke, he gave me an illustration
of his Olympian method--he had awed his Head-master--a present
ornament of the Bench of Bishops--into a terrified silence, from which
he recovered only to bless the name of JOSKINS, and hold him up as a
pattern to his schoolfellows. At a single phrase of scorn from those
redoubtable lips, his College Tutor had withered into acquiescence,
and had never dared to refuse him an _exeat_ from that day forth. "I
can't help pitying the beggar," said JOSKINS--"but I had to do it.
You must make these fellows feel you're their master, or they'll never
give you a moment's peace. Halloa!" he continued, as a brawny athlete
sauntered into the room, "how's the boat going, BULLEN? Not very well,
eh? Well, remember I'm ready to lend you a hand, and pull you through
when things get desperate." The smile with which this offer was
received had no effect upon my companion. He took it rather as a
tribute to the subtle humour which, as he believed, lay lurking in his
simplest utterances. "Always make 'em laugh," he observed, with pride.
"It keeps up the spirits of these poor devils of rowing-men; and old
BULLEN knows I'm all there when I'm wanted." But I had heard enough,
and departed from him, feeling as though a steam-roller had passed
over my moral nature, and flattened out my self-respect.
Then there was CHEPSTOWE, the poet. I am old enough to remember him;
and it pleases me sometimes to call back to my mind this paltry and
forgotten little literary _Bombastes_. As I write, I have before
me some of the reviews that greeted his boisterous invasion of the
regions of song. "Mr. CHEPSTOWE," said one, "has struck a note which
is destined to vibrate so long as the English language is spoken in
civilised lands. He is no ordinary rhymester, struggling feebly in the
bonds of convention. With a bold and masterful on-rush, he cleaves his
way unhesitatingly to the very heart of things, tears it out, and lays
it, palpitating and bleeding, before the eyes of humanity. We have
only space for a few lines from the magnificent _Ode to Actuality_:--
"'Prone in the caverns of the vasty deep
I lay,
And slept not, though I seemed to sleep.
The day
Pierced not with sullen eyes of pallid scorn
The dark,
Unplumbed abyss, where, girt with red limbs torn.
The shark
Sported, and eyeless monsters crawled in slime--'
"No extract can, however, convey an adequate idea of this grand poem,
on which, as on the bed rock, Mr. CHEPSTOWE's fame is established for
ever, SHAKSPEARE himself might have been proud to have written it."
I may remark, parenthetically, that in his "Ode" CHEPSTOWE pictured
himself as a sort of animate skeleton:--
"Sockets where light once shone grinned emptiness;
The teeth
Were fallen from the gaping, gumless jaws; nathless
Beneath
The cold smooth skull, the brain retained her throne."
Amid these uncomfortable surroundings CHEPSTOWE described himself as
penetrated with raptures of fierce joy at having shaken himself free
from the world and its puling insincerities to dwell amid "Unpitying
shapes of death's dread twin despair," where "Rapine and slaughter
raged, and none rebuked." Another reviewer observed that "The soul of
ARCHER's, the tavern-brawler's glorious victim, KIT MARLOWE, has taken
again a habitation of clay. She speaks trumpet-tongued by the mouth
of Mr. CHEPSTOWE. We note in these outpourings of dramatic passion
an audacity, an energy, an enthusiasm, that are calculated to shake
Peckham Rye to its centre, and make Balham tremble in its ridiculous
carpet slippers. Who--to take only one example--but Mr. CHEPSTOWE or
MARLOWE could have written thus of 'Rapture'?--
"'Not in the mouths of prating men who deem
That God dwells in the senseless clay they mould,
Who live their little lives and die their deaths,
Lapped in a smug respectability;
Who never dreamt of breaking puny laws
Formed for a puny race of grovellers;
But in the blood-stained track of flaming swords,
Wielded by knotty arms in Man's despite,
Or on the wings of crashing battle-balls,
Bone-shattering dealers of a thousand wounds,
The roaring heralds of indignant God,
There rapture dwells, and there I too would dwell.'
"Here is power that would furnish forth a whole legion of the
poetasters who crawl through our effete literature!" But I cannot
pursue these memories. They are too painful. For who speaks of
CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to cumber his bookshelves with the volumes
in which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the tin pots delivered his
shrieking message? His very name has flickered out; and when I spoke
of him the other day, I was asked, by a person of some intelligence,
if I referred to CHEPSTOWE who had just made 166 playing cricket for
the Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the lion and the lizard
keep his courts, and yet JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in
his day. He blustered through many editions, he bellowed his contempt
at a shrinking world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by
the aid of newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and
to-day the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded
with that of an eminent cricket-player!
My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to wipe him out
so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?
Farewell for a space. I may have to write to you again.
Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
"USED UP."--Lord BRASSEY requested several papers last week to publish
his denial as to having the finest collection of stamps in the world.
His Lordship, it appears, "doesn't take the smallest interest in
foreign stamps." Fortunate for Lord BRASSEY. There are some excellent
people who can't get up any interest, or capital either, at all
without a stamp of some sort. Lord BRASSEY wished it further known,
that he was not a collector of curios, and had no curiosity of any
kind. Lord BRASSEY must be a later edition of _L'Homme Blasé_, to whom
the world was round like an indiarubber-ball and "nothing in it."
* * * * *
"IN NUBIBUS."--If the new Sky-signs with which we are threatened,
_viz._, advertisements reflected in the clouds, become the fashion,
the aspect of the heavens by daylight will be as delightful and
artistic as are the walls of our hoardings and Railway-stations.
The anthem of "_The Heavens are Telling_" will have to be adapted
for large towns. Perhaps pictures may be projected on the nebulous
back-ground. If so, some of our best Artists may not object to taking
a good sum, and then having their work "Sky'd."
* * * * *
PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!
_PICTURING THE VARIOUS MODES OF MELODRAMATIC MURDER_. (_BY OUR
"OFF-HIS"-HEAD POET_.)
NO. I.--THE DAGGER MURDER.
[Illustration]
They stand alone on the moonlit spot,--
Sing Ho--ho! and Ha--ha! there!
One is the villain, and one is not,
But the heroine's father.
They stand alone on the patch of light
(Which comes from the left as well as right)--
Oh, 'tis a glorious place and night
For a Murder Scene! Rather!
They talk of deeds (of the parchment kind)--
Sing Ha--ha! and Ho-ho! there!
The heavy father, to reason blind,
Has them with him to show there!
The deeds relate to the old man's will;
The villain wants them to pay a bill!
The night is cold, and the night is still
Let the music be slow there!
They stand alone in the pale-green light--
Sing Hey--hey! and he--he! there!
What is this flashing so keen and bright?
What is this that I see there?
Oh! deed of darkness in light descried!
Oh! villain thrice damn'd that blade to hide,
Right 'tween the arm on _the farther_ side--
Certain death when it be there!
They're still alone on the moonlit spot--
Sing He--he! and Hey--hey! there!
Though one is Standing,[1] and one is not,
For _one's_ cold as the clay there!
The villain covers the dead man's stare--
The corpse lies stiff in the limelight's glare!
The act is done!--and for all I care,
The dead body can stay there!
[Footnote 1: HERBERT.]
* * * * *
TO MY LUGGAGE-LABELS.
Wonderful pictures of purple and gold,
Ultramarine, and vermilion, and bistre;
Splendid inscriptions of hostels untold,
Touching memorials breathing of "Mr.;"
"Schweizerhof," "Bernerhof," "Hofs" by the score;
Signs of the Bear and the Swan, and the Bellevue,
Gasthaus, Albergo, Posada, galore--
Beautiful wrecks, how I wish I could shelve you!
Visions of Venice--her stones and her smells!
Whiffs of Cologne--aromatic mementos;
Visiting cards, so to speak, of hotels;
Como's, Granada's, Zermatt's and Sorrento's
Ah! how ye cling to my boxes and bags,
Glued with a pigment that baffles removal;
Dogged adherents in dirt and in rags;
Labels, receive my profane disapproval!
Much as I prized you, when roaming afield,
Loved you, when Life was metheglyn and skittles,
Wished you the spell of remembrance to wield,
Calling the scenery back and the victuals;
Still, when it blows and it rains, and it irks,
Here in apartments adjoining a seaview,
After a meal that would terrify Turks,
Somehow I feel I can scarcely believe you.
Yes! It's too much to remember the past--
Here, amid shrimps, and agilities nameless;
Glaciers gigantic, and Restaurants vast
Chime not with sands and a tablecloth shameless;
Smoking a pestilent, sea-side cigar,
Mewed in a lodging with children and nurses,
Epitaphs gorgeous of far "_Dolce far_,"
Curse you with paterfamiliar curses!
* * * * *
THE UGLY FACE: A MORAL DUTY
[Illustration: "A ready-made Comedian with fifty quid a week."]
Some years ago a babe was born--I need not name the place--
With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face,
Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits,
While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.
His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort,
His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short;
That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear,
When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."
Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch,
For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch;
And in course of time he grew up--though a loving mother's joy--
Into quite a champion specimen of the genius "ugly boy."
At school his teasing comrades gave him many comic names,
And he became the victim of all sorts of naughty games;
Nor did the master like him, for he felt that such a face,
Mid a row of ruddy youngsters, was extremely out of place.
In time, his father placed him in the City--as a clerk--
Where his personal appearance excited much remark;
But he fell out with his principal, whose customers complained,
That his clerk was making faces, and said "Bosh!" when he explained.
On perceiving from the office that he never would be missed,
As Mr. GILBERT puts it, he determined to enlist;
And so one summer afternoon he started forth in search
Of a Sergeant who perambulates close by St. Martin's Church.
The Sergeant burst out laughing when he'd uttered his request,
And declared that, of a batch of jokes he knew, this was the best;
"'Tis a pity you're too short, my lad," he then went on to say,
"For wid _that_ face ye'd froighten ivery inimy away!"
In a fountain which played handy--it was near Trafalgar Square--
He was rushing off to drown himself, the victim of despair,
When he knocked against a person he'd not seen for quite an age,
Who had left his home some years before, and gone upon the Stage.
To this friend he soon narrated his distressing tale of woe,
And declared his case was hopeless. But the actor said, "Not so.
There's _one_ thing, my fine fellow, that as yet you haven't tried,
Where your face will be your fortune, and a pound or two beside.
"With a mouth like yours to grin with, and your too delicious
squint,
And the ears that Nature's given you with such a lack of stint,--
No matter what an author may provide you with to speak,
You're a ready-made Comedian--with your fifty quid a week."
And it was so. Though he started at a figure rather less
Than the one that I have mentioned, still the truth I but express
When I say he now is earning such a wage as wouldn't shock
A respectable Archbishop or a fashionable jock.
And the face that all men sneered at, now is very much admired,
And the public ne'er, apparently, of watching it grows tired,
And the Merchant who dismissed him, in the Stalls is wont to sit,
While the Sergeant and his sweetheart are applauding from the Pit.
The moral of my narrative is easy to espy.
But still I'd better mention it, lest some should pass it by:
"Though it's often very troublesome indeed to find it out--
There's a proper sphere for _everyone_, beyond the slightest doubt."
* * * * *
[Illustration: TECHNICALITIES.
_First Amateur Water-Colourist._ "DO YOU _WASH_ MUCH?"
_Second Ditto Ditto_. "NO; I _SCRATCH_ A GOOD DEAL!"]
* * * * *
"PUTTING ON THE HUG."
[During President CARNOT's tour he received at Aix-les-Bains
"a delegation of children." One of these, clad in a Russian
dress, offered him a bunch of flowers, repeating a stanza
written for the occasion. M. CARNOT, amid cries of "_Vive
la France!_" "_Vive la Russie!_" "_Vive Carnot!_" "_Vive la
République!_" kissed the little girl, saying, "_J'embrasse la
Russie!_"]
Yes--"_Vive la France!_"--and "_Vive la Russie!_" too.
_Vive_--why not?--everybody!
Called once, "_Monsieur le Président Faute-de-Mieux_"[2]
(By _Punch_, that foe of shoddy).
I fancy I have justified the name,
Ay, to the very letter.
I may not be a THIERS, but all the same,
France has not found a better.
Tall-talk is tedious, but one must not flinch
When asked the task to tackle;
And he's no Frenchman true who, at a pinch,
Cannot both crow and cackle.
Ah, _Vive_, once more, the Gallic Cock--and hen!
These Talking-Tours are trying,
But 'tis with windy flouts of tongue or pen,
We keep the French flag flying.
A sop for SAVOY neatly put, elicits
_Such_ "double rounds of cheering."
"_Vive CARNOT!_" To be sure! My annual visits,
France to the Flag endearing
By sweet-phrased flattery of the Fatherland,
Are sure to swell our legions.
"I wish, France, to be _thine_!" The effect was grand,
In "Allobrogian" regions.
_Vive_ Everything--especially _la Blague!_
(What _should_ we do without it?)
Fraternity! the Fatherland! the Flag!--
_I_ work them--never doubt it!
Then "_La République_" and "_La Russie_," linked,
Pair off, 'midst acclamations:
Yes, I proclaimed--and never winced or winked--
_That_ "brotherhood of nations!"
"A delegation of young children," Ah!
And they were not the only ones.
"Men are but children of a larger--" Bah!
Wise and strong _men_ are--lonely ones.
Most men--French-men--have touches of the child,
Fondness for show, fine phrases--
Pst! Here my _rôle_'s not cynical, but mild,
And open as dawn-daisies.
"_J'embrasse la Russie!_" That was rather neat
For "_Faute-de-Mieux_," at any rate.
Wondrous the magic power of _blague_, and "bleat"
On Man--_mouton_ degenerate!
That "_Bête Humaine_," as ZOLA dubs him. Gr--r--r!
The real brutes are braver;
The tiger, when in chase of prey, won't purr,
Nor will the Bear, then, slaver.
The Bear! Reminds me of a horrid dream
I had that night. A funny one,
But startling! I awoke with such a scream!
I dreamt some link (a money one?)
Bound me to a big Bruin, rampant, tall,
A regular Russian Shagbag,
In whose close hug I felt extremely small,
And squeezable as a rag-bag.
I, CARNOT, squeezable! 'Tis too absurd!
A President, and pliant!
But--in my dream--the raucous voice I heard
Of that grim ursine giant.
"Come to my arms! You'll find them strong and snug.
The North's _so_ true--and tender!"--
And then that monster huge put on the hug!
I thought my soul I'd render.
A bear's embrace, like a prize-fighter's grip,
Is close as passion's clasping.
"Welcome!" he grunted. "_I_'ll not let you slip!"
"Thanks! thanks!" I answered, gasping.
"_J'em--brasse--la--Rus--sie!_" Here my breath quite failed
In that prodigious cuddle.
'Twas but a dream--How was it sleep prevailed
My meaning so to muddle?
"_J'embrasse la Russie!_" It was neatly phrased
As MOHRENHEIM admitted,
A President, in doggerel stanzas praised,
Must be so ready-witted,
Yet mild Republican and Autocrat,
Hugging in friendly seeming,
Suggest that _Someone_ may be cuddled _flat_--
At least in restless dreaming.
[Footnote 2: See Cut so named, p. 279, Vol. 93, Dec. 17, 1887.]
* * * * *
FROM THE VALE OF LLANGOLFLYN.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I have just seen your Number with the Song of "The
Golf Enthusiast." It occurs to me that no one has ever mentioned the
fact that the Romans knew the game, for does not VIRGIL sing, "_Tee
veniente die--Tee decedente canebat?_" I have not the book, and
therefore can't give you the reference--but I know I am right, as I am
A WELSH GOLFER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "PUTTING ON THE HUG!"
M. LE PRÉSIDENT (_breathlessly_). "J'EM--BRASSE--LA RUSSIE!!"
("An interesting incident occurred during the official
reception held by M. CARNOT at the Mairie. A child dressed in
the Russian national costume presented the President with
a bouquet, at the same time reciting a brief complimentary
speech. M. CARNOT smilingly embraced the child, saying, 'I
embrace Russia.'"--_Quoted from Daily Papers_.)]
* * * * *
WHY YOUNG MEN DON'T MARRY.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The reason is obvious. It is entirely owing to your
advice to those about to marry--Don't! I myself have been on the brink
of proposing to several thousand delightful girls, a large per centage
of which, I am convinced, would have gladly accepted me. I have in
every case been restrained by the recollection of your advice.--Your
obedient and obliged Servant,
HUGH ADOLPHUS LATCH-KEY.
_Sept_. 5, 1892.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The reason (which I confide to your ear, and yours
alone) is obvious--the girls don't, and apparently _won't_ propose.
Of course they ought--what else do we have Leap Year for? Take my own
case. I am genuinely in love with ETHEL TRINKERTON, who has just been
staying with us in the country for three weeks. She has paid me every
kind of attention. In our neighbourhood, if A. carries B.'s umbrella,
where A. and B. are of opposite sexes, it is regarded as an informal,
though perfectly definite way of announcing an approaching engagement.
She knew the custom, and _carried mine on no less than three
occasions_. (It is entirely beside the point that it rained heavily
each time.) Yet she left us yesterday without an approach to a
proposal. She's fair enough herself, but is her conduct? It isn't
as if I hadn't given her enough chances. It cost me a small fortune
to bribe my small brother to keep away; and, time after time, I've
consented to sit alone with her in the summer-house. It isn't as
if she couldn't afford it. They tell me she has at least a thousand
a-year in her own right (whatever that may be), which would do
capitally. I happen to be penniless myself; but, as I heard her say,
her idea of marriage was the union of "soul to soul," my want of a few
paltry pence could hardly matter. It's particularly humiliating for
me, as, after the repeated umbrella-carrying, everybody here thinks
it's all settled. That, _Mr. Punch_, is the reason why, at any rate,
_one_ young man doesn't marry.
Yours, thoroughly aggrieved, BERTIE COOL-CHEEK,
_Pickleton-in-the-Marsh, Kent_.
P.S.--If ETHEL really didn't understand her position, and would like
to reopen the matter, I would not be haughty about it.--B. C-C.
DEAR, KIND, GOOD MR. PUNCH,--The reason is obvious--the men don't and
won't propose to the right girls. Take my own case. I've just stayed
three weeks with the COOL-CHEEKS, and felt quite certain BERTIE would
have proposed. He had all the symptoms badly. I saw him give his
little brother half-a-crown to go indoors for ten minutes, and the way
he _would_ go in the summer-house and for long walks--with _me_--made
it quite clear (as I thought) what was going to happen. Yet, he let
me come away without a word! I'm sure _I_ don't want to run after him
(or anybody else), but I _did_ think he meant something. We suited
one another admirably. In fact, if he doesn't ask _me_ with all the
opportunities he had, he'd ask no one.
Yours, just-a-little-disappointed, ETHEL TRINKERTON,
_The Thorns, Bayswater._
P.S.--He carried my umbrella almost hourly--and you know what
_that_ means. If BERTIE was only nervous, and would like another
chance--well, we are always at home on Sunday afternoons.--E.T.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A REAL CONVERT.
_Local Preacher_ (_giving an account to the Vicar of the Parish of a
dispute he has had with the Leading Lights of his Sect_). "YES, SIR,
AFTER TREATMENT THE LIKES O' THAT, I SAYS TO 'EM, 'FOR THE FUTURE,'
SAYS I, 'I CHUCKS UP ALL RELIGION, AND I GOES TO CHURCH!'"]
* * * * *
A HINT TO EDITORS.
SCENE--_The Sanctum of a Newspaper Office. Editor discovered
(by Obtrusive Visitor) hard at work._
_Obtrusive Visitor_. I trust that I have not come at an unfortunate
moment?
_Editor_ (_looking up from his desk_). Dear me! You here! Delighted to
see you. But don't let me disturb you. Good-bye!
_Ob. Vis._ (_seating himself_). No; I am afraid it is the other way. I
know at this time of the week you must be exceptionally busy.
_Ed._ (_with courteous impatience_). Not at all, but--
_Ob. Vis._ Oh! thank you so much. Because it is the very last thing in
the world I would like to do--to disturb you. And now, how are you?
_Ed._ Quite well, thanks. But now, if you don't mind, I will just
finish.
[_Turns to go on with his article._
_Ob. Vis._ (_rejecting the hint_). I said to myself as I came along,
Now I will look him up.
_Ed._ Very kind of you, but--
_Ob. Vis._ Oh, not in the least; and you know, my dear fellow, how I
enjoy a chat.
_Ed._ Yes,--and I, too. But just now--
_Ob. Vis._ Quite so. You want me to do all the talking, as we haven't
met for the last three weeks. Well, you must know we have been to
Herne Bay, and--
_Ed._ Yes; charming place. But just now I am--
_Ob. Vis._ Quite so. But I didn't come to tell you about Herne Bay,
although it is really a delightful spot. The air--
_Ed._ Yes, I know all about it. First-rate, most salubrious, and the
rest of it. But, my dear friend, you really must--
_Ob. Vis._ Quite so! Yes, everyone knows all about Herne Bay; and I
really came to ask you if you had any room for an article.
_Ed._ (_roused_). My dear fellow, I assure you we are quite full for
months. Any number of excellent things standing over.
_Ob. Vis._ Oh, yes, I know you are always full. You told me so the
last time I called.
_Ed._ Quite so! Very sorry, but it can't be helped. Have to look so
far ahead nowadays, you know.
_Ob. Vis._ Certainly; and that is why I thought I would just bring a
half-finished article and show you what I had dome, and complete it
if you thought it would do. You can put it in whenever you like; so it
would not hurt for standing over.
_Ed._ (_with inspiration_). What is it called?
_Ob. Vis._ "Russian Wheat and Chinese Tea or Free Trade in Australia."
The subject is quite novel, and ought to attract considerable
attention.
_Ed._ Novel! Why, my dear fellow, I do believe I have an article
somewhere in that heap upon the very subject.
[_Pretends to search pile of MS._
_Ob. Vis._ (_uneasily_). Oh, never mind. I will read you what I have
written, and--
_Ed._ (_genially_). Oh, no, I won't give you the trouble. I will read
you what _he_ has written, and then you can see.--Ah, here it is!
[_Produces enormous pile of MS._
_Ob. Vis._ (_hesitating_). Well, perhaps, if you don't mind--
[_Suddenly remembers an appointment and exit. Editor resumes
hit work with an air of triumph. Curtain._
* * * * *
THE THIEF'S MOTTO.--"Take things quietly."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jones_. "HOW IS IT WE SEE YOU SO SELDOM AT THE CLUB
NOW?"
_Old Member_. "AH, WELL, YOU SEE, I'M NOT SO YOUNG AS I WAS; AND
I'VE HAD A GOOD DEAL OF WORRY LATELY; AND SO, WHAT WITH ONE THING AND
ANOTHER, I'VE GROWN RATHER FOND OF MY OWN SOCIETY."
_Jones_. "EPICURE!"]
* * * * *
TO A PHEASANT.
A SPORTSMANLIKE(?) SONG FOR SEPTEMBER.
AIR--"_You are Queen of my Heart To-night_."
I Stand in the copses sighing
As the cruel hours creep by,
And I see you slowly flying
Above the trees on high.
Your wondrous wealth, of feather
Has weaved a subtle spell,
And I softly wonder whether
You'd really taste as well.
For my hand is fairly steady
Though my heart is beating fast,
Oh, tell me that you too are ready
To make this hour your last.
For repentance may come when we're sober,
Let's seize on the chance while we may;
Then why should we wait till October?
Oh! Why not be shot to-day?
Oh! tell me why, why should I remember
With a thought of wild alarm,
That all through the month of sweet September
You should be free from harm.
Why, why does your beauty enslave me,
As it does, you're bound to allow
Oh! say but the word that will save me,
And tell me to shoot you now.
For my heart is wildly beating
(As it's often done before),
And the moments madly fleeting
Are going to come never more.
For repentance may come when we're sober,
Let's seize on the chance while we may,
Then why should we wait till October?
Oh! Why not be shot to-day?
* * * * *
"THE GRATUITOUS OPINION."
(_A STORY FOR THE LONG VACATION_.)
The Eminent Lawyer was about to return to his private address, when
there was a knock at the door of his Chambers. He attended to the
summons himself, and found facing him an elderly and carefully dressed
individual.
"That some of my suburban neighbours desire the information, must be
my excuse for troubling you," said the visitor.
"Nay, do not apologise," returned the Eminent Q.C., "it is my
pleasantest duty to give legal tips or applications to anybody. It is
not altogether lucrative, as I deliver them for nothing, but then on
the other hand, they are suitable for insertion in the papers, and
that is a comforting consideration. What can I do for you?"
[Illustration]
"I have to ask you on behalf of my suburban neighbours," continued the
visitor, "whether there is any principle which is accepted by Judges
to regulate their decisions in cases where drunkenness seems to be the
incentive of crime?"
"I shall only be too glad to find a solution to a problem which
appears one of great difficulty--the more especially as certain
inhabitants of the suburbs are so deeply interested in the subject. It
seems to me that some Judges think one way and some another."
"That is strange," murmured the visitor. "Cannot their Lordships come
to a common conclusion?"
"I fear not," replied the Eminent Counsel, with a mournful smile. "It
is merely a question of opinion. However, I take it that one would
be perfectly safe to commit a murder under the influence of _delirium
tremens_."
"I am infinitely obliged to you for the information," said the
visitor, "as now I know what to do."
"You are not homicidal, I trust!" exclaimed the Lawyer, jumping up
from his chair, and taking protection behind a desk. "I have the
greatest possible objection to homicidal clients."
"Be under no apprehension," was the reply. "I have a strong desire to
shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve to do it.
If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?"
The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied. "I have no wish
to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted my time for
consideration, I would propose that you should try the matter for
yourself. Become intoxicated, put yourself within the clutches of the
law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap."
"You are very good," returned the would-be homicide, "but I have
one difficulty. When I make up my mind to remove a person by
unconventional means (for choice, a carving-knife), and consume the
necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication--"
"Yes," interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.
"I find, on reaching intoxication, that I have entirely forgotten the
identity of the man I have marked for my victim. Then I have got to
grow sober before I can remember who it is. Annoying, isn't it?"
And, wishing the Eminent Counsel a pleasant holiday, the visitor
disappeared into the Inner Temple.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE SOUTH SEA-SIDE.]
* * * * *
THE HAT TO THE PARASOL.
(_A SCHERZO IN NOBS AND STICKS._)
[Illustration]
Reflection polished of highbred
And unreflecting graces,
I scintillate o'er STREPHON's head
At gala, rout or races;
Mine is the black but comely blend,
And mine the crowning touches
That so demurely recommend
The dandy to the duchess.
Out on thee, cruel Parasol,
Of lace, the pearl, and satin;
And glinting like a fairy doll
With many a burnished patin;
Cool, charming as the dainty dame
Who twirls thy coromandel;
Thou flauntest proudly since thy name,
Like hers, can boast its handle!
The cynosure of wondering _beaux_,
I boast a soul above thee;
No fate can mar my calm repose,
Or make me cease to love thee;
Supreme above the common tile,
My own affronts unheeding,
I bow and compliment and smile,
The Chesterfield of breeding.
Out on thee, trinket idly swayed!
Could any courtier dare see,
Through such perfections so displayed,
The mere "_Belle Dame sans merci_"?
Could man believe a thing so soft,
So framed for gentle passion,
Might wound, and wound not once but oft
The jaunty glass of fashion?
Yet sooth it is; and here I stand
A martyr to my tenets--
That orthodoxy smooth and grand
Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's;
Unruffled once and unperplexed,
Collapsing now like jelly,
And but a sermon on the text
_Sic transit lux capelli_.
I who have braved our fitful climes
And laughed when tempest drenches,
And shaken off the dust that grimes
Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
Survived the counterblasting Row,
And Summer gales that roar so--
I ne'er imagined such a foe
Could trounce me to a torso.
* * * * *
THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.
(_A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON._)
["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us
perfectly equipped."--_The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't
Marry."_]
The Tater and the Heptarchy
Were walking hand-in-hand;
They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see
The folly of the land;
"If fools would not talk fiddlededee,"
They said "it _would_ be grand!"
"If modest maids with towzled mops
On _you_ and _me_ were clear,
Do you suppose," the Tater said,
"More men would wed each year?"
"I doubt it," said the Heptarchy--
"They only mean to sneer!
"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!'
They--shamming love--beseech.
'Oh, tell us about Saxon times!
The course of history teach!'
But what they really want is 'tin;'
A thumping share for each.
"A girl may cook like any _chef_,
And know all HALLAM through,
May be a dab at darning socks,
Or making Irish stew;
But what young cubs care for is cash,
And not for me _or_ you.
"They want to lead an easy life,
And have good weeds and wine.
Without these luxuries, a wife
They scornfully decline.
For _Benedick's_ life of manly strife
The fops are far too fine."
"The Season's come," the Tater said,
"To write of many things:
Of frocks--and socks--and needle-work--
And babes--and bonnet-strings;
But all the lot talk utter rot.
Let the fools have their flings!
"Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls,
Their wastefulness, their waist,
Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls,
Their matrimonial haste,
Are the crude chat of cubs and churls,
And in the vilest taste.
"But when they prate of you and me,
As the two gifts _they_ want,
Say Classic lore and Cookery
Are things for which _they_ pant;
Believe me, my dear Heptarchy,
They plumb profoundest Cant!"
* * * * *
SEA-SIDE ILLS.
(_BY OUR MAN OVER-BORED._)
SEA-SIDYLL--THE PIER BAND.
[Illustration]
'Tis the Band of the Corporation--
And it plays on that body's pier;
And one knows by the way
That the instruments play,
That the talent is not too dear.
And the trombone is not too clear;
When it has to play quick
It is moistful and thick,
For the trombone is fond of beer--
It is nurtured on pots of beer.
'Tis the Band of the Corporation--
And the cornet is fat just here;
And he's short, and bull-necked.
When you come to reflect
How he wastes all his wind, 'tis queer
That the man should be stout just here!
But the noise of the throat
In the solos denote
That the cornet is fond of beer--
It's been brought up on pots of beer.
'Tis the Band of the Corporation--
And I know why that Band is queer,
For I see in the face
Of the trombone a trace
Of the blackguard who blows it near
Me in Town, at most times of year!
And I mark, too, the face
Of that beastly big-bass--
(Which has also been reared on beer)--
And I know, too, the face
Of that other disgrace,
The fat cornet! They've come down here--
They've been borrowed, and lent new gear!
But I know them of old,
And in spite of the gold
Round the hats, with the peaks just here,
I can see who they are while near.
They wear bowlers in Town,
And frock-coats which are brown,
On account of their age--or beer!
For they play to the public for beer;
For they stand and they blow
On the kerb in a row,
And then go to the public for beer!
And so this is the Band down here!
* * * * *
"THREE CHOIRS FESTIVAL."--Curious coincidence, if true, that when Miss
JESSIE KING was charmingly giving the contralto song, "_While my Watch
I'm Keeping_," a gentleman in the crowded audience suddenly put his
hand to his waistcoat-pocket and exclaimed, "Good gracious! it's
gone!" He will never forget the title of that song. The watch was off
its guard.
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
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