Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI VOL 93 December 3rd 1887 THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P. +From the Lord Mayor of Dublin.+ _Mansion House, Dublin, Saturday_. +Dear Toby+, The news from Ireland, not all of which finds its way into your daily papers, grows in excitement. The exploit of Mr. +Douglas P-ne+, M.P., of Lisfinny Castle, has taken root, and all the landed gentry among the Irish Members are fortifying themselves in their castles, and hanging themselves outside the front-door by ropes to deliver addresses to their constituents. The regular thing now is to hang out our M.P.'s on the outer wall. I do not see accounts of these proceedings in your London papers. I was, as you know, a Journalist before I was Lord Mayor; so, if you don't mind, I'll send you a few jottings. If there is anything due for lineage, please remit it anonymously to the Land League Fund "From A Sympathiser." Foremost in this band of heroic patriots is the _châtelain_ of Butlerstown, +Joseph G-ll-s B-gg-r+, M.P., Butlerstown Castle, as everyone acquainted with Ireland knows, stands on the summit of a Danish rath, and was once the seat of an +O'Toole+. Now it is the den of +Joseph G-ll-s+. For some time he has been practising a flying leap from the eastern to the western turret, a distance of fifty feet over a yawning abyss, amid the cavernous depths of which the petulant plummet has played in vain. It is thrilling, whether at early dawn, or what time the darkening wing of Night begins to flap, to hear a shrill cry of "Hear, hear!" to see a well-known figure cleaving the astonished air, and to behold +Joseph G-ll-s+, erewhile upright on the eastern turret, prone on that which lifts its head nearer the setting sun. To be present on one of the occasions when +Joey B+. reads a Blue Book for three hours to a deputation shivering in the moat, is enough to convince the dullest Saxon of the hopelessness of enthralling a nation which has given birth to such as he. As +Joseph+ himself says, quoting, with slight variation, my own immortal verse,-- "Whether on the turret high, Or in the moat not dry, What matter if for Ireland dear we talk!" But the affairs at Butlerstown should not withdraw our gaze from a not less momentous event which recently happened in the neighbourhood of Cork city. Mr. +P-rn-ll+, as he has recently explained to you, has not found it expedient or even necessary to take part in our recent public proceedings in Ireland. But this abstention is to a certain extent illusory. It is no secret in our inner circles that our glorious Chief was but the other day in close communication with his constituents in the city of Cork. He arrived shortly after breakfast in a balloon which was skilfully brought to pause over the rising ground by Sunday's Well. At the approach of the balloon the trained intelligence of the Police fathomed the plot. The Privy Council was immediately communicated with. Sworn information was laid, and the meeting was solemnly proclaimed by telegraph. In the meanwhile, Mr. +P-rn-ll+ had addressed the meeting at some length and met with an enthusiastic reception. The Police massing in considerable numbers and beginning to bâton the electors, the Hon. Member poured a bag of ballast over them, and the balloon, gracefully rising, disappeared in the direction of Limerick. The proceedings then terminated. I expect that the success of this new departure, or perhaps I should say this unexpected arrival, will encourage our great Chief to pay a series of flying visits to Ireland. His adventure was certainly happier and more successful than one which befell our esteemed friend +Tim H-ly+, and nearly brought to an untimely conclusion a life dear to us and of inestimable value to Ireland. +Tim+ was announced to take the chair at a mass meeting summoned under the auspices of the local branch of the Land League of Longford. A room was taken, the word passed round, and all preparations made for a successful meeting. The Police, however, got wind of it, and of course the meeting was proclaimed. But +Tim+, as you may happen to know, is not the man to have his purpose lightly set aside. It was made known that +Tim+ would make his speech and the Police might catch him if they could. You know, may be, the big factory in the thriving town of Longford--the one with a tall chimbly? Well, the word was passed along again that the bhoys were to assemble about the factory. "Would they bring a chair or a table," they said, "for +Tim+ to stand on?" "No," said +Tim+, wiping his spectacles, "you leave it to me." Meeting announced to take place at eight o'clock. On the very strike of the hour, a stentorian voice, not unfamiliar in the House of Commons, floated over the assembled multitude. "Men of Longford," it said, "we are assembled here in the exercise of our privilege as free men." First of all they could not tell where the voice came from. Looking up, behold! there was +Tim+ planted inside the top of the tall chimbley, using it like a Bishop's pulpit. It was a capital idea, and worked admirably for half an hour, with the Police all throbbing and raging round, and +Tim+ eyeing them quite calmly, and all the crowd roaring and cheering, and throwing up their hats, and +B-lf-r+ getting it hot. Somehow, whether from treachery or accident no one knows, and perhaps never will know, but in the middle of one of his best sentences, +Tim+ suddenly vanished from sight, and was a clear three minutes later picked up from among the cinders in the furnace below. The proceedings then terminated. There is a good deal more I could tell you, +Toby+, my bhoy, if time permitted. I should like above all to tell you of Major +O'G-rm-n+'s magnificent oration delivered from the main shaft of the sewer in Waterford, with his former constituents hanging on his lips and the grate of the sewer. But I am just off myself to address a meeting of my fellow citizens. This too, is of course, proclaimed, and equally of course that makes no difference. I get on the top of the Lord Mayor's coach, leaning on the Mace, and supported by the Sword-bearer. The horses move at walking pace, and I address the crowd. It's wonderful what a lot one can take out of +B-lf-r+ that way. Yours faithfully, +T. D. S-ll-v-n+. * * * * * AMEN! "In deepest reverence and sincere love, the Reichstag is mindful of His Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince. May God protect the dear life of our beloved Crown Prince, and preserve it for the welfare of the Fatherland."--_Telegram from the Reichstag to the Crown Prince_. "So mote it be!" That deep and reverent prayer In all true hearts finds echo everywhere; Not least in those that flush with British blood. Prince, a loved daughter from our Royal brood, In trouble as in joy, is at your side, Sharing your sorrow as she shared your pride. For her dear sake, and for your own not less, We wish you, gallant soldier-chief, success In a dread struggle keener, sterner far Than those you faced in the fierce lists of war. We know--have you not proved it?--that 'twill be Met with the same cool steadfast gallantry As marked your bearing in more martial strife. Punch joins in that warm prayer for "the dear life," And echoes, from a far yet kindred strand, The pleading voices of the Fatherland! * * * * * As among the best books for a young man who had to be the architect of his own fortunes, some one in Mrs. +Ram's+ hearing mentioned +Thomas à Kempis+. "Oh yes," exclaimed the worthy lady, "I know. He built a great part of Brighton which was named after him." * * * +A Real "Orleans" Plum.+--The forged letters. * * * * * [Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PARALLELS. No. 4. SIR W. V. HARCOURT AS _FALSTAFF_. "+There's no more valour in that _Goschen_ than in a Wild Duck.".... "A plague of all Cowards still say I!+" _Henry the Fourth_, Part I., Act ii, Scenes 2 and 4.] * * * * * Mrs. +Ram+, at this time of year, takes a great interest in the state of the weather, and studies the daily Meteorological chronicle. She says that she always reads the reports from Ben Nevis's Observatory. She hopes that, one of these fine days, this learned astronomer will be made a Knight. Sir +Benjamin Nevis+ would be, she considers, a very nice title. "Of course," she adds, "judging by his name, he must be a Jew. They're such clever people. And, let me see, ain't there a proverb, or something of that sort, about 'the Jew of Ben Nevis'?" * * * * * BISHOP AND PORT. +My Dear Mr. Punch+, In my Autobiography, which I am glad and proud to say, has met with your cordial approbation, I have recorded how the late lamented Bishop, Dr. +Sumner+, said to me, "I have drunk a bottle of port wine every day since I was a boy." Well, his son, the Archdeacon, is annoyed at this statement. Now, my memory is a very good one, and if I am wrong in one point so circumstantially narrated, why not in several, why not in all? If the Bishop did not say this, to me, _who did_? Somebody said it, that I will swear. Who said it? If my memory fails me, is it not also likely that the Bishop's memory was not particularly good, and consequently, that he was mistaken in thinking that he had drunk a bottle a day since his boyhood? I have little doubt that the Bishop only imagined it, and perhaps he was joking. Perhaps he was playing on the words "bishop" and "port." "Bishop" was a hot drink, I fancy, made with port wine. I have no hesitation in comforting his Archidiaconal offspring by assuring him that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, his father, the Bishop, did not drink a bottle of port every day since his boyhood. He was a very fine old clergyman--I forget whether he was exactly portly or not, or whether he resided in Portman Square,--and I should say that first-rate port, such as the _elixir vitæ_ that made a hale centenarian of Sir +Moses Montefiore+, taken frequently, would have tended to make him the genial prelate he was. Had he only gone into port once, that would not have sufficed to have produced such a Bishop, for "One swallow does not make a +Sumner+." Yours ever, +W(ithdraw) P(ort) Frith+. P.S.--The Archdeacon is satisfied, and if he will only come round to see me and bring a bottle of the port the Bishop didn't drink, why, on my word as an artist, _I'll draw the cork_. * * * * * "_What shall he have who kills the Deer_?" Why, something to eat, of course. At least this was, among others, the notion of the poor starving Cottars. And they have now given up venison-eating because the food is deer. * * * +Two French Presidents Rolled Into One.+--M. +Grévy+, on being told that he must resign, wept copiously. This showed a want of resignation. Curious sight, +Grévy+ and Tears! * * * Sir +Charles Warren+ has been presented with the freedom of the Leathersellers' Guild. Capital motto for Policemen in a mob, "Nothing like leather! Leather away!" * * * * * ROBERT AT KILBURN. I had the cureosity one day to arsk a lerned gennelman on whom I was waiting, whether the poor fellers who lived in the world ever so many hundred years ago had got any Copperashuns. He pretended not to understand me at fust, and said, with a larf, as he dared say as they was made much as we was; that is to say, sum with large ones, and some with little ones; but when I xplained what I reely meant, he told me as they had, speshally amung the Romuns as lived in Ittaly. He was a werry amusing Gent, and when I arsked him what langwidge the Romuns torked, he tried to gammon me as they all spoke Latin, ewen the little children and all, but in coarse I wasn't quite such a hignoramus as to swaller that, as my son +William+, who isn't by no means a fool, learnt Latin at Skool for three year and tells me as he carn't speak it a bit. The lerned gent also told me as it was such a rum tung to speak that they hadn't not no word for "Yes!" So that if a Gent of those long days had bin a dining at the "Ship and Turtle" an bin a waited on by an Hed Waiter, like me, and had said to him "Woud you like arf-a-crown, Waiter?" the pore feller woodn't have been able to say, "Yessir!" I was jest a leetle shocked at his torking such rubbish to me, it was hardly respekful, speshally as he had ony drunk one pint of Bollinger and one of our 63 Port, but its astonishing how heasily sum peeple's heds is affected. I was in hopes as he woud have tried the experymint on me, but he didn't, but went smiling away. I shood werry much have liked to have heard a good deal more about them werry old Copperashuns, and weather they was to be compared to that werry old 'un as I nose so well and respecs so ighly, for good deeds as well as good living. Take their werry last one as a sample. Earing of what was a going on down at Kilburn on Guy Fox day, and finding as the return train would bring me back in time for my perfeshnal dooties, I went there and found thowsands of peeple all met in a nice little new Park, that the old +Lord Mare+ was a coming down to fust of all crissen, and then throw open to the publick. And down he came accordingly in his full state Carridge, and his full state Footmen, and his full state Sherryiffs, and their full state Carridges and Footmen, jest for all the world as if he was a going to make a call on a few Royal Princes and Dooks, insted of opening a new Park surrounded by numbers of the reel working-classes. But he always has bin a reel gennelman, and never makes no difference atween rich and poor when he can do some good. I wasn't quite near enuff to hear what he said when he made his speech, but a werry respectable reporter arterwards told me, that the +Lord Mare+ had written a letter to +Queen Wictoria+ to ask if he might call the Park after her. And she had wrote to him in reply, "Deer +Handsum+, as there's alreddy a Wictoria Park, you may call this here one the Qween's Park. Pleas to remember this 5th of Nowember, Yours trewly, W. R. I." When the +Lord Mare+ enounced this pleasing intelligence, thus simply exprest, lorks how we did all cheer, and a little band that had bin hid in a little tent, struck up the hole of arf a werse of _God Save the Queen_, at which we all took off our hats, footmen and all, and braved the bitter blarst with our bare heds. Ah, that's wot I calls trew loyalty, and long may it continue, not the cold bitter blarst, but the warm sweet loyalty, for I'm sorry to say as the unusual xposure guv me a bad cold. I got back just in time for the Bankwet. The +Lord Mare+ with his usual kindness had let the Chairman of the Committee, the sillibrated Mr. +Woodbacon+, the grate bookseller, take the Chair, and a remarkabul good un he made, setting so good a xample as regards short speeches as made ewerybody follow suit. And now what was this hole proceeding all about? This is what I learnt from what was said:-- It wood seem then, that at Kilburn where it was wunce all green feelds, there has growed up a reglar crowd of working peeple with far more than their fair share of children and as the feelds has all come for to be bilt over, the poor little children afoursaid have been obleeged to do their playing in the streets, and the nateral or rather unnateral consequence has follered, as that numbers of the poor little deers was run over and killed. So a nice little Park has been made for 'em all to play in, where they can injoy their fresh hair and releeve their poor Mother's minds, and grow up red and strong and harty, instead of white and weak and wan. And the old Copperashun having put it all ship shape, and promist to keep it all in order for hever, arsked the +Lord Mare+ to go down and open it, as he did, and in sitch full state that one of the natives said as it was like a lot of sunbeams suddenly cumming out on a clowdy day. So the +Lord Mare+ finished his long list of good deeds by adding one more to 'em, and the Copperashun added one more Open Space to the many they has either secured or helped to secure. So wenever I hears a sneer at 'em I shall say, "Please to remember that 5th of November!" +Robert.+ * * * * * +Barnum's+ Show burnt. Of course he will rise like an American ph[oe]nix from the ashes. He will advertise it as Burnum's Show. * * * * * [Illustration: "PRAVE 'ORTS." "+By the bye, dear Professor, which would _you_ say--_Abiogén-esis_, or _Abiogen[=e]s-is_?+" "+_Neither_, my dear Madam, if I could possibly help it!+"] * * * * * +An Important Summing-up.+ (_By Our Own Special Reporter in the recent case of Somebody or Other v. Another Person of the name of_ +Barley+).--Mr. Justice +Mathew+ regretted being compelled to decide against +Barley+ on the question of "quantities." Of course, there had been an error on the part of the highly respectable Corporation of Ramsgate, which might be characterised as a "sin of commission," while the neglect of their clerk to enter their arrangement with +Barley+ on the minutes was a "sin of omission." All the witnesses in this case must be believed, as they had, _à propos_ of +Barley+, taken their oats--he should say their oaths. Perhaps when the present statute came to be revised, Mr. +Barley+ might act for the town, for which it appears he had done good service, and +Barley+ would not have to hide under a bushel. It was clear that this sort of +Barley+ was worth more than the present price of 28_s_. a quarter. Counsel on both sides had made an eloquent display of wheat--he begged pardon, he meant "wit"--and if in this judgment he had to tread on anyone's corn, he assured them that to do so went against the grain. As an official, +Barley+ would have the sack, but sack and all could be taken up to another Court, and there, as a German speaking French would say, _On beut Barley_, about it still further. (The Jury thanked his Lordship, and all the parties left the Court much pleased, humming _All about the Barley_. * * * "They acted a Greek Play at Cambridge, my dear," said Mrs. +Ram+ to a friend, "and fancy, it was written, as I am informed, by a young lady, Miss +Sophie Klees+. I suppose she is a student of Girton. How clever! _I_ couldn't write it, I'm sure." * * * _The "Quart d'heure de Rabelais,"_ if translated into Anglo-French, may be taken to express a bad time of it with the roughs in Trafalgar Square, _i.e., a mauvais quart d'heure de Rabble--eh_? * * * The Works of +Charles Dickens+ must have achieved great popularity in South Eastern Europe, where there is an entire country called Boz-nia. * * * * * [Illustration: THE NEW SCHOOL. _Schoolboy (aged 16)_. "Good-bye, old Chappies! Can't waste any more time with you. 'Good business'!"] * * * * * TOM BROWN & CO.'S SCHOOL DAYS. _A Glimpse at the Commercial Education of the Future_. Twelve o'Clock struck, and the Fourth Form at St. Dunstan's left its class-room with a rush. The old hour of leaving off the morning's studies was still preserved. Yet, in conformity with the spirit of the times, the venerable foundation of St. Dunstan's had recently witnessed great changes. The Governing Body had taken the matter in hand, and had gone to work with a will. The teaching of Greek and Latin had been entirely suppressed, polite literature eliminated, and the whole curriculum of the school arranged solely to the provision of that glaring want of the times, a sound commercial education. To effect this, some radical changes had been necessary. The Rev. +Jabez Plumkin+, D.D., Oxford Prizeman, through whose unwearied exertions, for the past five-and-twenty years, St. Dunstan's had been gradually acquiring an increasing fame in the Class-lists of both Universities, had been forcibly ejected from the Head-Mastership, and his place filled by a leading member of a well-known firm of advertising stock-jobbers, and the Assistant-Masters had all been selected on similar lines. "Company-floating," was taught by a late Promoter, who had had much experience in the creation of many bubble concerns, and "Rigging the Market" was entrusted to a Professor who was known, in his capacity as Accountant to a wholesale City Cheese Warehouse, to have contracted a thorough familiarity with this important subject of the new commercial education. Everything was done to foster a spirit of keen speculative enterprise in the boys. The whole traditions of the school were changed. The old idea of honour had died out. How to over-reach each other by sharp practice was the one idea that animated every youthful breast from the senior in the Sixth to the junior in the Under Third. The tape was always working at the Principal's desk. The study-tables were covered with Stock and Mining Journals. Even the playground was turned into a Money Market. Cricket had been banished to make way for the more exciting game of "Bulls and Bears," and the Principal passing through occasionally, would sometimes stop and say, "That's right, my boys, learn to do each other, and remember the motto of your School, 'Monies maketh man.'" Posted up upon the gates, communicated by telegraph hourly from the City, were every day to be found the latest prices. And it was to get a first look at this that the Fourth Form had just left its class-room with a rush. A crowd of eager faces were anxiously scanning the latest quotations, and notes were being taken in a score of pocket-books, whipped out for the purpose. +Tom Brown & Co.+--he had earned this _sobriquet_ from his companions for his shrewd business capacity--did not, however, join the throng, but stood a little way off, looking on, and waiting for the excitement to abate. Gradually it calmed down, and the boys broke up into little knots and groups, discussing the state of the market. Then he spoke:-- "Look here, you fellows," he said, "I've got a good thing on here, that, I fancy, will be more worth your attention than even the latest prices." He pulled a prospectus from his pocket. An interested crowd closed round him at once. "It's 'Old Mother +Noggins+, Limited,'" he went on, reading from the paper before him, "This Company has been started for the purpose of acquiring at wholesale prices all the tarts, bull's-eyes, apples, toffy, and ginger-beer, forming the present stock-in-trade of Old Mother +Noggins's+ store, and for retailing the same at a figure, that will, after paying the guaranteed interest on the fourpenny debenture shares, admit of the declaration of a dividend of 14 per cent. on the ordinary paid-up share capital of the Company. A buzz of excited admiration went up from the throng. The Fourth Form at St. Dunstan's had not for a long time had such a good thing put before it. "I know," continued +Tom+, producing a bundle of forms of application from his pocket, "that you fellows, would like to hear of it. Who'll go for it?" There was a loud responsive shout of "I!" and a dozen hands were at once stretched towards the speaker. Business commenced, and sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns were pouring into +Tom's+ pockets faster than he could cram them there. He was making a very good morning's work of it. Presently, a dull, heavy-looking boy joined the group. "Hullo, +Flopper+!" cried +Tom+, addressing this last arrival, "why don't you put that ten bob your Uncle sent you into this thing? I'll be bound he told you to turn it over. You won't get such a chance every day." "What is it?" asked +Flopper+. A chorus of voices instantly joined in a brief explanation of the advantages of investing in "Old Mother +Noggins'+ Limited." "By Jove!" said +Flopper+, "I don't know that I won't." "Not if I know it," cried an authoritative voice, breaking in upon the scene. It was +Snagsby+, the "Sharper" who spoke. There was a general look in his direction, and a disposition to make way for him as he approached. He had been mixed up disadvantageously in a recent "corner" in marbles, and had from time to time floated several concerns that had never paid any dividends, and was generally regarded as a "queer" customer in consequence. It was for this reason that he had been nicknamed the "Sharper." "And what do you want him to do with his money?" asked +Tom+, stepping forward in a defiant attitude. "He'll put every blessed halfpenny of it into my 'General Pen-knife Supply,'" was the laconic reply. "He signed for the allotment last night." "But I've changed my mind," pleaded +Flopper+, helplessly, and he handed the half-sovereign to +Tom+. "You give that up!" cried the Sharper, menacingly. "You try to take it!" replied +Tom+, grimly. In another instant the Sharper had flown at +Tom+. There was a brief struggle. +Tom+ hit out at him, and caught him in the face. "Oh, that's your game, is it!" shouted the Sharper. "You'll fight me for that." "Fight you? When and where you like," replied +Tom+. There was a general cheering and throwing up of hats. "Hooray! There's going to be a fight between the Sharper and +Tom Brown & Co.+," shouted the Fourth Form. They hadn't had such good news for a long time. * * * * * The whole School was there, and the third round had been fought. Betting had been fast and furious, and there had been several attempts made by the supporters of both champions to break the ring and put an end to the contest when the fortunes of the day seemed to be going against their own special favourite. But now a curious thing happened. After a little preliminary sparring in the fourth round, +Tom Brown & Co.+, suddenly dropping on one knee, went to the ground. In a few seconds the surprising news was known that he had given in. The sponge was thrown up, and the Sharper declared the victor. +Tom+ was quickly surrounded by his friends, and led off the field. +Flopper+ ran up to him. "I'm so sorry, +Tom+," he said, "that you should have fought in my quarrel, and have got licked." There was a twinkle in +Tom's+ eye. "My dear fellow," he replied. "Don't imagine I wouldn't have thrashed him; but business is business, and I got a good price for not doing so. Didn't you twig that _I sold the fight_?" * * * * * That night +Tom Brown & Co.+ wrote home an enthusiastic account of his day's doings to his parents. The next morning, +Tom Brown+, Senior, referring to the letter with a glow of pride on his commercial face, remarked to his better-half that the boy's training seemed perfect, and that he was destined to turn out remarkably well. "I can't tell you," he added, "how I long to see that boy loose upon the Stock Exchange. He will be a credit to the family." * * * * * A book has been recently published entitled _The Amateur's Guide to Architecture_, by +Sophie Beale+. Sophie shows us how a house should be Beale't. But just imagine an Amateur Architect!! * * * The complaint of the Charity Organisation Society, slightly varied from +Shakspeare+, is that "The quality of Mercy is not _trained_." * * * * * SHOWS VIEWS. _By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere_. What can be more dismal than the fourth day of a Fancy Bazaar for a "Sale of Work," in aid of a parochial charity? Honestly, I do not know. I fancy that even the proverbial "Mute at a funeral," must be livelier. That is my present opinion, and it was the same last Thursday, when lured by a programme quaintly printed in "old-faced" type, and having "ye" in lieu of "the," and "Maister" instead of Mister, I made my way to the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, (formerly Madame +Tussaud's+) and sought admission to "Old Marybone Gardens, A.D. 1670." Outside the ex _depôt_ of Waxworks, were two persons in the costume of the last Century distributing circulars, and later on I met another couple similarly apparelled heading a procession of Sandwich-men walking down Waterloo Place. In the Hall of the Bazaar lads in the same sort of dresses, were selling programmes (marked sixpence) for twopence. I entered by a small canvass-cottage "y'clept" (as the Sale of Workers would call it) "the Rose of Normandy," and found myself in the once famous "Hall of Kings" without the figures. I discovered two or three dwarf trees, some lattice-work and a lot of canvass-covering. I must confess it did not cause me much surprise to find only a few spectators. The moment I appeared, a lady advanced and asked me in a tone of authority to take a button-hole. I refused with courtesy suggestive at once of the gallant and the miser, and the Sale of Work-woman retired rather crest-fallen. Then two girls, costumed as two females of a past but vague period, dashed at me as I turned away, and breathlessly explained that if I bought a half-crown ticket I should be entitled to a chance in a raffle for a five-guinea sofa-cushion. I slightly frowned as I expeditiously refused the invitation, and the ladies disappeared into a corner--I trust more in sorrow than in anger--to read the evening paper. In the centre of the room was a "fish pond" full of presents, where a mild-looking curate was feebly attempting to secure a prize. On the whole the entertainment was scarcely exhilarating. The programme promised "from V to VI of ye clocke" (how silly!) "a _séance_ of Mesmerism," in two "partes," (how really stupid!) and "Maister +Charles Bertram+" (Why "Maister?") was to appear later on. Then at eight "of ye clocke" (dear, dear! _how_ idiotic!) "the Welbeck Dramatic Club" (what a name!) was "to performe ye Comic Drama by +L. S. Buckingham+, y'clept" (of course!) "_Take that Girl away_." Later still "Mistresse +Jarley+" was to give her waxworks with the assistance of "Maister +Sidney Ward+," (tut, tut!) the Festival finally closing with "Music" at "X of ye clocke" (stuff and nonsense!). It will be seen that I cannot even now look at the programme (priced at sixpence and sold for twopence) without some signs of impatience. The afternoon was too young to allow of my assisting at any of these toothsome merry-makings, so after mooning about for a quarter of an hour I came away. As I left, a newly-arrived dame of mature years was putting on a nurse's cap hurriedly, evidently with the view to starting in hot pursuit of me to secure my custom for some toys. The ladies with the cushion looked at me languidly as I passed them, and then returned to a perusal of their paper. When last I had had the advantage of paying a visit to "the Portman Rooms, formerly Mme. +Tussaud's+," I had seen nothing but waxwork figures in eccentric attitudes. On the whole, I think the former denizens of the place looked more at home in their quaint costumes than the Sale of Workers "from Tuesday, November 22 to Saturday, November 26, inclusive!" Finding myself in its neighbourhood, I could not help taking a turn in the present palace of the eminent "Portrait Modellist." I paid the necessary shilling and the optional sixpence, and renewed my acquaintance with "The Kings and Queens," "The Coronation Group," and "The Chamber of Horrors." A group representing a reception at the Vatican was quite new, if I except two or three funeral attendants, who, I fancy I remember, made their last (but one) appearance at the Lying in State of +Pio Nono+. After examining a rather cheerful presentment of the latest assassin in "The Chamber of Comparative Physiognomy" (as the Chamber of Horrors was once, for a short period, "y'clept"), I passed through a turnstile, and entered the Refreshment Department. Here I noticed that an "overflow meeting," consisting, amongst other more-or-less-interesting exhibits of Mr. +Lewis Wingfield's+ historical costume-wearers (from the Healtheries), and that now rather-imperfectly-remembered worthy, the late Sir +Bartle Frere+ (from the rooms above), had been humorously arranged, no doubt with a view to provoking healthy and hearty laughter. Having refreshed my mind with a hurried inspection of this delightful, albeit, somewhat miscellaneous gathering, and my body with a twopenny Bath bun, I gracefully retired, greatly pleased with the afternoon's entertainment. * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. Reviewing the Pages. What a set these Emperors, Empresses, Kings, Queens, Princes and Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses, &c., &c., and all such great people everywhere seem to have been, according to the _Memoirs of Count Horace de Viel Castel_ (published by Messrs. +Remington & Co.+), who was a kind of small French +Pepys+, a great snob, and a Parisian _Sir Benjamin Backbite_. Yet there is in this +Horace+ something of the Horatian satirist, only without the poetry. "But +Horace+, Sir, was delicate, was nice," which is not exactly the characteristic of the writings of +M. de Viel+ Castel, who tells us "Of birth-nights, balls, and shows, More than ten +Hollinsheds+, or +Halls+, or +Stowes+. When the +Queen+ frowned, or smiled, he knows; and what A subtle Minister may make of that: Who sins with whom:"---- And such like tittle-tattle _ad nauseam_, not sparing his own father and brother. Imagine the sort of man who, night after night, could sit down and chuckle over the composition of this precious diary! "With the exception of the President and the Princess" (+Mathilde+, at whose house he was perpetually dining), he says, "all the (+Buonaparte+) family are good for nothing." Of the _bourgeois_ class he writes, "They are always the same stupid, craven-hearted, vain race." He was shocked at the production of _La Dame aux Camelias_, and considered it as a degradation of the French stage and a disgrace to the Public that patronised the performance. To have shocked M. +de Viel Castel+ was a feat indeed. +Fould+ "the foxy Jew" got ten millions out of the Crédit Foncier; so the public was fool'd also. +D'Orsay+ was "a ridiculous old doll," and the Duke of +Brunswick+ "an old fool." He sneered at England, but considered at the moment that an alliance with us was the best policy. The Empress at one time went in for spirit-rapping, and consulted a table which told her a variety of lies about the result and duration of the Crimean War. Such a table must have been very black and supported by blacklegs, though it had sufficient french polish about it to be silent in the presence of a bishop. It is not until the last page of the _Memoirs_, 1864, that the name of M. +de Bismarck+ appears. I suppose that "Society," high, low, or middle-class, has always gone on in much the same way, more or less openly, according to the spirit of the Court, since what is called "Society" came into existence; and invariably with a +Viel Castel+, or a +Greville+, or some one even less particular and more observant "among them takin' notes" for future publication. Mr. Bousfield, the translator, seems to have done his work with a judicious regard for a certain section of English readers. It strikes me that he has had the good taste to omit a few anecdotes about some of our own exalted personages which would not have been received with unmixed satisfaction in every quarter. This is only a surmise on my part, as I am unacquainted with the original work. Let me recommend everyone who values a powerful study of character more than a merely cleverly-constructed story, to read _Marzio's Crucifix_, by +Marion Crawford+. I do not know what special opportunities the author had for the work, but the characters are individually, masterpieces. The scene between _Marzio_ and _Don Paolo_, when the latter is wrapt in devout contemplation of the artist's _chef d'[oe]uvre_, is most striking, and would have been more so had _Marzio_ carried out his intention of knocking his brother down, and disposing of him out of hand. With Mr. +Saunders's+ _The Story of some Famous Books_ (+Elliot Stock+) I was rather disappointed, in consequence of there not being enough "famous books," and not much more story than the needy knife-grinder had to tell. Still, I thank him for introducing me to a delightful name--"+Theopompus+ of Chios"--whom, for this present, I will take as my godfather, and sign myself, Yours, +Theopompus, Baron de Book Worms+. * * * * * +Staff Appointments.+--The Specials. * * * * * [Illustration: AN EYE FOR "ELECTIVE AFFINITIES." _Sir Edwin_. "+Hullo, Angy? Stew-pan? Apron? Tripe and Onions? What on earth's up?+" _The Lady Angelina_. "+Yes, Dearest! Since _you've_ become a _Special Constable, I'm_ doing my little utmost to become a Special _Cook_! I thought it might bind us still closer together!+" _Sir Edwin_. "+My own _Love!!_!+"] * * * * * LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON. (_A Ballad of the Brave Old Sort_.) "It was all for the Union We left fair Albion's land. It was all for the Union We first saw Irish land, My Boy! We first saw Irish land! "All must be done that man can do. Shall it be done in vain? My +G-sch-n+, to prove that untrue We two have crossed the main, My Boy! We two have crossed the main!" He turned him round and right-about All on the Irish shore. Said he, "We'll give +P-rn-ll+ a shake, And make the Rads to roar, My Boy! And make the Rads to roar!" He was a stout and trusty carle. Said he, "A flare we'll raise, And, spite the Leaguers' angry snarl, We'll make the Beacon blaze, My Boy! We'll make the Beacon blaze! "Who says our friends a handful are, Our foes a serried host? Our Beacon, blazing like a star, Shall check the blatant boast, My Boy! Shall cheek the blatant boast. "Not all are to sedition sworn, Or shackled by the League. Cheer up! We'll laugh, their hate to scorn, And baffle their intrigue, My Boy! And baffle their intrigue. "Puff, +G-sch-n+, puff! Like Boreas blow! And I the logs will pile. The Beacon, now a slender glow, Shall blaze across the Isle, My Boy! Shall blaze across the Isle. "Eh? What? The wood is damp, you say? There comes more smoke than flame? Nay; pile, and poke, and puff away! We'll not give up the game, My Boy! We'll not give up the game. "If we should let this fire die out All on the Irish shore, To Unionism stern and stout Adieu for evermore, My Boy! Adieu for evermore!" * * * * * +The Two Canons and Bean-baggers.+--The Bean-baggers are likely to come badly off with two such big guns against them as Canons +Liddon+ and +McColl+. Let the matter be settled amicably by agreeing that whatever it was they did see was a "What-you-+McColl+-it." * * * * * HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG. Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you find countless pleasant pictures--delightful sea-subjects, charming landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir +John Linton's+ excursion _coupons_, and personally conduct yourself--if you don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned out--round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly. * * * * * Sir +Drummond+ is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in keeping one +Wolff+ from our door," as Sir +Gorst+, Q.C., observed to +Grandolph+. "Poor +Wolffy+!" sighed +Grandolph+. "I shall write a fable on 'The +Wolff+ and the Shah!'" * * * +Sardou and Sara.+--+Sara B.+ has made a hit in what is reported to be a poor play called _La Tosca_, by +Sardou+. But in consequence of +Sara's+ acting, it is in for a run. _Che Sara sara_, _i.e_. (free translation), "Who has seen +Sara+ once will see +Sara+ again." * * * * * [Illustration: LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.] * * * * * A DOWN-Y PHILOSOPHER; _Or, Memoirs of a Missing Link_. I've no particular reason to think an account of my life will interest anybody. That being so, I don't know why I write it. But I do. I suppose it's Chance. +H-xl-y+ (who _is_ such fun!) calls my Memoir, because I'm a F.R.S., a case of "_Fellow-De-Se_." [Illustration: Seal making a Deep Impression.] Talking of Chance, everything that has ever happened to me _has_ been Chance! For instance, what could have been more a matter of luck than my choosing a house at Down? +H-xl-y+ says something about being "Down on my luck." (What a master of style old +H-xl-y+ is, to be sure!) Then there was that voyage on the _Sea-Mew_. If it hadn't been that my Uncle kicked me six times round his garden at Shrewsbury, because I said "I'd be jiggered if I went," I don't believe I should ever have had courage to accept the appointment of Naturalist to the expedition. That voyage gave me an object in life. My nose had _made_ me an object in life before that (_vide Portrait_), but Natural Selection triumphed over my nose, and so I became in due time famous, and an Ag-nose-tic! +My Schooldays.+ At school I was an exceptionally naughty boy. I cannot conceive what induced me to tell another little boy that I had often produced crab-apples by taking a dead crab and burying it in an orchard, but I did. My little friend, I recollect, didn't believe me, and indeed pulled my nose (always a sore point with me, but he made its point much sorer) for telling what he called "beastly crams." We had a fight, I also remember. Perhaps I ought to call it a "struggle for existence." He was much the "fittest," and he survived. _I_ got licked. +Choice of Calling.+ My extreme naughtiness continued unabated when I became a young man. Nobody expected I should ever "do" anything--except six months' hard labour! At Cambridge I was so shockingly "rowdy," that my father declared, there was no alternative but to send me into the Church. But as I was hunting with the College drag at the hour when I ought to have been in for my Ordination Examination, the Bishop failed to see matters in the same light. I then decided to be a Doctor. If I had stuck to this profession I fancy that my turn for trying experiments would have landed me in some exalted position--possibly at Newgate. As it was, after attending a lecture on Surgery, I was discovered in the local Hospital trying to cut off a patient's leg on an entirely new principle, with a pair of scissors and an old meat-saw, and I was nearly "run in" for manslaughter. I decided to give up Medicine, and a slight shindy over a supposed error of mine in calculating a score having prevented my becoming a success as a Public-house Billiard-marker, I thought I would make my mark in another way, as a breeder of race-horses. Being, however, forcibly chucked out of Newmarket Heath one day for an alleged irregularity which I never could understand, I began really to wonder what profession I _was_ fitted to adorn. +I become a Naturalist.+ It was at this time that the Captain of the _Sea-Mew_ offered me that post of which I have before spoken. I accepted it, and began at once to lower the record in sea-sickness, being never once well on board ship _for three whole years_! It was a new experience, and altered me a good deal. From being rowdy and idle I became quiet and abnormally diligent. If you don't believe this, ask +H-xl-y+ (who is such fun!). On returning to England I at once settled Down, and began to write books. +The "Origin of Species."+ This work is my title to fame. It only took me thirty-three years and six months to write. I felt quite glad when it was finished. People who have read it tell me they feel the same, The row it caused was frightful! If you want to see "+Soapy Sam's+" slashing _Quarterly Review_ article pulverised, read +H-xl-y's+ reply. (But, query--isn't this scientific log-rolling?) The remark which was made, after perusing the book, by that eminent Botanist, my friend Professor +Hookey+, was--"Walker!" But he was soon converted. +My Way of Working.+ This, also, can't interest anybody, yet I give it. I get up at 4 A.M., and take a walk. From 7 to 10 I work. After dinner--with champagne--I take another stroll. I have made most astonishing scientific discoveries at this time. I could, point out the exact spot in the road where I became convinced that _the whole country had been elevated sixteen feet since the morning_! +H-xl-y+, who was with me, quite agreed, and said that we must all have been elevated at the same time, without knowing it. +My Favourite Authors.+ These are, of course, +Lyell+ on _Lias_, and +Hookey+ on _Herbaceous Foraminifera_. They are far superior to +Shakspeare+, who bores me. I like novels, the trashier the better. Only let 'em end well, and I don't care how they begin, or whether they begin at all. In newspapers, the best part, I think, is the Parliamentary Debates. In reading them I have often got valuable hints as to the "Origin of Speeches," and they frequently afford conclusive evidence of the "Descent of Man." I thought of bringing Parliamentary manners in as a chapter in my book on "Earth-worms," but +H-xl-y+ advised me not to, and I didn't. +My Nose.+ I think I've mentioned this feature before. It troubles me. It is undoubtedly of a low type, yet it has survived! Why have I not been fitted with a fitter one? It is another instance of the fact that everything--including my fame--has come to me by sheer luck. +H-xl-y+ says "there's a Dar-winning modesty about this last remark." Also says, "I've found the 'Philosopher's Tone.'" (What screaming fun +H-xl-y+ always is!) +My Portraits.+ Perhaps I may be allowed to say one word as to the Photographs preceding these volumes. _They aren't the least little bit like me_! In Volume One I appear as the unmistakable "Country Butcher." In Volume Two I am "The Gorilla Asleep," or "Beetle-brow Napping" (after a beetle-hunt, probably). Volume Three represents me as the Typical Brigand of Transpontine Melodrama. Why, too, has the Photographer insisted on bringing out that unfortunate feature of mine so prominently? Why? indeed! Who nose? * * * * * THE LARKS AND THE ROSES. (_Ballad, by Milton Featherly Jonsone_.) [Illustration: Rose on the Swell.] The roses were blowing, like whales in the sea Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free, And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee In the ether. The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade, And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade, Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd On her zither. _Tempo di Valse_. Ho, larks and roses! Hey, the bonny weather! Hey, we rose at morning prime; Ho, we lark'd together! 'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide By Inglesham poplars,
{'title': 'Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887 by Various', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}