Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100., Jan. 24, 1891. written by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100., Jan. 24, 1891.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
There was a bronze group by POLLET among the specimens of sculpture in
the French _Salon_, some twenty years ago,--"It may be more or less
an hour or so," as the poet sings,--representing a female form being
carried upwards in the embrace of a rather evil-looking Angel. It
illustrated a poem by the Vicomte ALFRED DE VIGNY, which I remember
reading, in consequence of this very statue having come into my
possession (it was afterwards sold at Messrs. CHRISTIE, MANSON &
WOODS, under the style and title of "Lot 121, _Elsa_"), and it
occurs to me that it was on precisely the same theme as the other
ALFRED's--not the _Vicomte_ but _Mister_ ALFRED AUSTIN's--"_The Tower
of Babel_," which I have just read with much pleasure, and, with some
profit; the moral, as I take it, being favourable to the Temperance
cause, as a warning against all spirits, good, bad, or indifferent.
_Afrael_, the inhabitant of a distant star, falls in love with
_Noema_, the wife of the atheistical Babelite _Aran_, to whom she has
borne a son, aged in the poem, as far as I can make out, about eight
years, and a fine boy for that. Anyhow, it makes _Noema_ at least
twenty-five, supposing she married at sweet seventeen, and, indeed,
she alludes to herself in the poem as no longer in her first youth.
Well, _Aran_, who is very far from being a domestic character, is
struck down by avenging lightning at the destruction of the Tower
of Babel, and _Noema_ is left a widow, with her child, who has been
protected in the _melee_ by the Spirit _Afrael's_ taking him out of
it, and restoring him to his mother's arms. When, after this, the
infatuated spirit-lover _Afrael_ requests _Noema_ to say the word
which shall make a man of him, and a husband of him too at the same
time, she modestly refuses, until she has had a decent time to order
her widow's weeds at her milliner's and wear them for about a month or
so, at the expiration of which interval _Afrael_ may, if he be still
of the same mind, call in again, and pop the question.
_Afrael_ bids good-bye to the Upper House, and, his heart being
ever true to _Poll_--meaning _Noema_--he returns, makes an evening
call upon her, and asks her, in effect, "Is it to be '_Yes-ema_,'
or '_No-ema_'?" The bashful widow chooses the former, and the
Spirit-lover _Afrael_, renouncing his immortality, i.e., giving
up spirits, becomes plain _Mr. Afrael_, and an ordinary, as far as
anybody can judge, a very ordinary mortal, showing what a change a
drop of spirits can effect in a constitution. Now I should like the
poem "continued in our next." I should like to hear _how_ they got
on together: and, as longevity was considerable in those patriarchal
days, I should like to know how they got on together when _Afrael
Esquire_ was 195, and his wife, _Noema_, was 200. Did _Afrael_ never
again take to his spirits? Or, did he become miserable and hipped
having entirely lost his spirits? Did his wife never make sarcastic
reference to the "stars" with whom he had formerly been acquainted?
And how about her boy, his step-son? Did they have any family? Whence
came the money?
Perhaps Mr. ALFRED AUSTIN (whose works are being printed by MACMILLAN
in a collected form, and among them _The Satire_ now historic)
will give us an entirely new volume on the same subject, telling an
expectant public all about _Mr._ and _Mrs. Afrael chez eux_, and, in
fact, something spicy about this strangely assorted couple; for Poet
ALFRED will do well to remember and act upon his own dictum when, in
the preface to _The Satire_, he observed, and with truth, that had he
originally "written with the grave decorum of a secluded moralist,
he would" by this time "have gone down into the limbo of forgotten
bores."
Into that limbo A.A. will never descend. It is delightful to find
him dedicating his book to Lord LYTTON, to whom--when L.L. was
OWEN MEREDITH, ALFREDO _mio_ had pointed out that, "in one serious
particular, he had overlooked parental admonition," and observing on
that occasion that, "had OWEN MEREDITH even a glimpse of the truth,
we" (A.A. himself, in 1861, much "we"-er then than now--"_et alors, il
grandira, il grandira!_") "should have been spared the final _tableau_
of repentance and forgiveness which concludes _Lucile_." But, thank
goodness, we (the Baron, and his literary friends) have _not_ been
spared the touching picture of repentance and forgiveness in ALFRED
AUSTIN's dedicating his latest poem to Lord LYTTON. _Sic transit ira
poetarum!_
In _The Season_ ALFREDO sang--
"I claim the precious privilege of youth,
Never to speak except to speak the truth."
But those lines were not written the day before yesterday, and as he
can no longer "claim" the aforesaid "precious privilege," he can in
his more mature years "go as he pleases." And there is so much "go"
in him that he always pleases; so the Baron anticipates the sequel to
_The Tower of Babel_ on the lines already suggested, presumptuous as
it may seem to suggest lines to a poet.
_Phra the Phoenician_, a very clever idea, with which BULWER would
have performed mysteriously thrilling wonders, but which Mr. ARNOLD
has written at once too heavily and treated too lightly, in too much
of a "so-called nineteenth century style;" which is a pity, as it is
full of dramatic incident, and the interest well kept up through some
two thousand years or so, more or less. He is a wonder is _Mister
Phra_, and might well be called _Phra Diavolo_ instead of _Phra the
Phoenician_. Sir EDWIN ARNOLD has written a preface to the volume,
and seems to express a wish that the wonders here recorded could be
possibilities of everyday life. But, if so, as _Mr. Weller, Senior_,
observed, _a propos_ of "there being a Providence in it," "O' course
there is, SAMMY; or what 'ud become o' the undertakers?" And as to
cremation--well, such an utter corporeal extinction would be the
only way of putting an end to the terrestrial existence of _Phra the
Phoenician_, who, however, "might rise," as _Mrs. Malaprop_ would say,
"like a Phoenician from the ashes."
The appearance of _A New Lady Audley_ is rather late in the
half-century as a "skit" on Miss BRADDON's celebrated novel. Now and
then I found an amusing bit in it, but, on the whole, poor stuff, says
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
My faithful "Co." has been reading poetry and prose, and thus
communicates the result of his studies:--There is genuine but
unassuming poetry, which is, after all, only another way of saying
fine feeling finely expressed, in _Corn and Poppies_, by COSMO
MONKHOUSE (ELKIN MATHEWS). Much of the verse is musical, and there
is throughout a vein of thoughtfulness which never degenerates into
a morbid brooding. I commend particularly "Any Soul to any Body,"
"A Dead March," and "Mysteries," as good examples of Mr. MONKHOUSE's
style. So much for verse. Let me now to prose. Like my baronial Chief,
I say, "Bring me my boots!" and let them be thick, so that I may
trudge safely through Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING's latest, "_The Light that
Failed" (Lippincott's Monthly Magazine_, January). This is described
as Mr. KIPLING's first long story. His publishers, moreover, are good
enough to take all the trouble of criticism upon their own shoulders.
They declare that "there is more stern strength in this novel than
in anything which Mr. KIPLING has written;" but that is, after all,
only a comparative statement, which profits me little, as I never yet
estimated the amount of "stern strength" in Mr. KIPLING's previous
writings. I am, however, told, in addition, that the tale "is as
intensely moving as it is intensely masculine" (there's lovely
language!) "and it will not be surprising if it should prove to be
the literary sensation of the year." To such an expression of opinion
by competent judges it would be futile to attempt to add very much.
I will only say, therefore, that the "sensation" produced in me by
this novel is one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced. The
characters are, for the most part, inordinately dull, preposterously
conceited, and insufferably brutal. As for _Dick Heldar_, the hero, no
more disagreeable and hateful bully-puppy ever thought and talked in
disconnected gasps through ninety-seven pages. The catastrophe moves
no pity. Mr. KIPLING seems to despise the public, "who think with
their boots, and read with their elbows;" but so clever a man might
surely show his contempt less crudely. KIPLING, I love thee, but never
more write such another tale!
* * * * *
[Illustration: INFELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.
_Hostess_. "WON'T YOU TRY SOME OF THAT JELLY, HERR SILBERMUND?"
_Herr Silbermund_ (_who has just been helped to Pudding_). "ACH, ZANK
YOU, NO. I VOOT 'RAHZER PEAR VIZ ZE ILLS VE HAF, ZAN VLY TO OZZERS ZAT
VE KNOW NOT OF.'" [_Herr S. is particularly proud of his knowledge of
Shakspeare._]]
* * * * *
"WORSE THAN EVER!"
FARMER SMITH _LOQUITUR_:--
"To market, to market, to buy a fat pig!"
Yes, so runs the old-fashioned nursery rhyme,
And a porker that's plump, and round-barrel'd and big,
Is good business,--or used to be once on a time.
But now, they're the horriblest nuisance on earth
Are Pigs, and a great deal more plague than they're worth.
I begin to believe 'twould be better by far
If Pigs, like the Dodo, extinct could become.
They involve one in nothing but jangle and jar,
And as to large profits, why that's all a hum.
"Please the Pigs?" That's absurd, a mere obsolete wheeze,
For Pigs are precisely the beasts you _can't_ please!
Gee up, _Dobbin_, old lad! Home's in sight; you have borne
My burden, and that of my basket, right well,
Your carrying power some neighbours would scorn,
But you're sound and good grit, though you mayn't look a swell.
We're starting, lad, after our short half-way halt,
If we don't make good time it will not be our fault.
We did the first stretch unexpectedly slick,
My basket well loaded a feather-weight seemed,
The road was so smooth, and your canter so quick,
'Twas better, old lad, than we either had dreamed.
A great disappointment to some folk, I think.
Then we halted half-way for a rest and a drink.
That big Irish Pig, which had plagued us so oft.
Was away,--running after its head or its tail!
Oh joy, _Dobbin_, dear, to jog on, and go soft,
No row, no obstruction by hedge-gap or rail.
Ah, then they discovered the pace and the pith
Of _Dobbin_ the dull, and his mount, Farmer SMITH.
Now all seems smooth sailing! Hillo! What was that?
A squeak? Nay, it sounds like a chorus of squeaks!
Don't shy, my dear _Dobbin_--you'll shake off my hat.
The lane here grows narrow. Who's there? No one speaks.
But that raucous "hrumph! hrumph!" that cacophonous yell!
'Tis Pig-noise, and Irish--I know it so well.
It is right in the road, it is plump in the gap.
Steady, _Dobbin_! Don't halt for this hullaballoo--
Gee up! and go steady, now there's a good chap.
What, the same plaguy Pig! Nay, by Jove, _there are two!_
And they're fighting each other, these porkers perverse,
In the gap we must pass! Oh! this grows worse and worse!
[_Whips up Dobbin._
* * * * *
KOCH SURE!
SCENE--_A PLACE OF MEETING. ENTER BROWN AND JONES. THEY SALUTE ONE
ANOTHER_.
_Brown_ (_excitedly_). Have you heard the good news?
_Jones_ (_stolidly_). What good news?
_Brown_. That Dr. KOCH has at length revealed his secret?
_Jones_ (_startled_). No, has he! Dear me! And that I should have
missed so pleasant a piece of intelligence! And so he has told an
anxiously-expectant world the cause of his success! Can _you_ explain
the matter to me?
_Brown_ (_cheerfully_). With the assistance of the Public Press, to be
sure I can. See here, I will give you the solution to the problem, as
told by the Journals, "without puzzling technicalities."
_Jones_. I hang upon your words with an impatience that
politeness--the outcome of civilisation--alone renders endurable.
_Brown_. Then you must know that Dr. KOCH has discovered that the
remedy for tuberculosis consists of a glycerine extract of a pure
cultivation of tubercle bacilli, the local effect of which, when
injected into a healthy guinea-pig, produces a nodule found at the
point of inoculation, which, when a second puncture is perpetrated,
causes what may be called the bacillary fluid to be brought into the
current of its circulation, so that the infected tissue may react upon
the agent which it had previously been able to resist. I am not quite
sure that I have got the _exact_ words, but that's the idea. Simple,
isn't it?
_Jones_. Very! [_Exeunt severally._
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WORSE THAN EVER!"
FARMER SMITH. "TUT-T-T! _TWO OF 'EM!_ BAD ENOUGH WHEN THERE WAS ONLY
ONE!!"]
* * * * *
DOMESTIC MELODIES.
(_BY SANCHO PRESTON PANZA._)
WINTER BATH-SONG.
For weeks the sun each morn arose
As 'tis his nature to,
But little difference he made
Sopp'd by the fog's asthmatic shade;
From day's beginning till its close
The day no brighter grew.
Above the sheets, the sleeper's nose
Peep'd shyly, as afraid,
While 'neath the dark and draughty flue
The burnt-out cinders meanly strew
The hearth, where now no firelight glows,
No waiting warmth is laid.
Full many a morn I sprang from bed,
As o'er the deadly brink
The wretch, with courage of despair,
Leaps from the slimy river-stair,
By hopeless hope unthinking sped,
Ere he can pause to think.
Cold as the efforts of the dead,
The needle-atom'd air,
Impinged upon the limbs that shrink.
On shivering shanks, and eyelids pink,
And bound its bands about the head,
And chill'd the underwear.
The frost that held us in its grip,
Would raise the prisoning paw,
And Nature, like a mouse set free,
Enjoyed delusive liberty,
While every water-pipe must drip
To greet the passing thaw.
Then rudely dashed from eager lip
The cup of joy would be,
And fingers numbed, and chattering jaw,
Owned unexpelled the winter's flaw,
And on the steps the goodmen slip,
And shout the major D.
Long like a fossil tipsy-cake
The sponge each morn appeared;
The bath, if plenished over-night,
Was frozen ere the morning light,
And more that frigid water-ache
Than unwashed days I feared,
Now while the milder zephyrs shake
Once more the winter's might,
My sponge, my bath, by loss endeared,
Shall dree no more a lonely weird;
And as young ducks to water take,
Shall be my bath ward flight.
* * * * *
GOOD DEVON!
Mr. W.H. SMITH will return to Grosvenor Place from Torquay on Monday,
for the opening of Parliament.
'Tis pity of you, OLD MORALITY,
Back from your rest to loud banality.
After St. Stephen's shindy, Devon
No doubt appeared a very heaven:
But cream's as much like water chalky
As Torquay Torrs to Talky-Talky!
* * * * *
CHANGE OF INITIALS.
"Often as I may have been invited," Mr. T.M. HEALY is reported to
have said, in the course of a recent speech, "I never yet put a toe
inside his house." Memorable words. Henceforth, name changed to
TOE-AND-HEALY, M.P.
* * * * *
A WORD TO MOTHERS.
[A well-known Dramatic Critic has recently spoken of a play as
"just the play in which growing girls will delight."]
O Anxious Mothers, come and listen
To what just now I've got to say.
If I'm not wrong, your eyes will glisten
Before the end of this my lay.
With strong affection overflowing--
Your children are indeed your pearls--
You can't help feeling pleased at knowing
The play's the thing--for growing girls!
The pages of a lady's journal
I've very often read with care,
The news, the gossiping eternal,
You're always sure of getting there.
Of how you ought to bind your tresses,
The latest styles, the tint in hair,
And there I've seen the kind of dresses
It's right for growing girls to wear.
But never once the slightest mention
Of what they'd better go and see,
And yet it's clear that some attention
To such a thing there ought to be.
For sentiment and love they're frantic,
They're fond of knights and belted earls,
A play that's just the least romantic--
Yes, that's the play for growing girls.
A crowing child, who loves to prattle,
Can easily be kept at rest.
You've only got to get a rattle,
Or p'raps a dolly would be best.
A bouncing boy will blow a bubble,
And want no more the livelong day;
But if a growing girl gives trouble,
You've got to take her to the play!
* * * * *
A PIONEER IN PETTICOATS.
[An American Lady is about to explore Africa, on humane
principles.]
_Arrive in Africa_.--Convinced that real way of taming the savage
heart is by _Feminine Tact_. No need of brutal habits of male
adventurers. Two negresses, from "Ole Virginny," with me, who said
they would like to "see Africa again"; a few Arabs, to carry our
baggage. Intend to study home-life of African tribes, and to get them
to talk into my phonograph.
[Illustration]
_Month Later_.--Have had to exhibit more Feminine Tact than I
expected. Got entangled in swampy forest on Zambesi (I think), and
Arabs declined to extricate us unless their pay was doubled! Also one
of negresses--horrid woman!--has deserted me--come to place that she
pretended to recognise as her native village, and said she meant to
stay! Tact useless with females!
_On Lake Tanganyika_--or if it isn't Lake Tanganyika, it's _an
entirely new lake_,--which I have been the first to discover! Suffer a
good deal from fever and queer diet. Am studying native home-life.
_Later_.--Have left two Arabs and my remaining negress on Lake, and
gone myself to look for STANLEY's Dwarfs. Told that TIPPOO TIB is
somewhere about. Also advised to be very careful not to fall in with
the "man-eating Manyuema."
_Still Later_.--Did fall in with them! Also fell out with them.
They made all preparations for using me as a side-dish at a cannibal
banquet, when TIPPOO TIB arrived and released me.
_Tanganyika again!_--Back here safe and sound! TIPPOO TIB turned out
most unsatisfactory. Wanted to marry me!--with a hundred other wives
already! Not prepared for _this_ sort of home-life. Managed to get
away by describing to him a Remington typewriter, and promising if he
let me go, to bring one back _at once_.
Find that my "rear-guard"--the negress and Arabs--have been up to
fearful pranks during my absence. Negress killed and ate one of Arabs,
and then other Arab killed and ate negress! Tell remaining Arab I
shall have him punished when I get to Coast. Arab says he'll get there
first, and publish a book showing _me_ up!
_Latest_.--Left alone in middle of Africa, with a phonograph, several
bales of baggage, and a diary. Question now is--will Feminine Tact
show me road to Zanzibar?
* * * * *
UNIVERSITY HONOURS.--"SMITH's Prizeman"--ARTHUR BALFOUR. The "Senior
Wrangler" (for several years past)--Mr. GLADSTONE.
* * * * *
THE AMUSING RATTLE'S TOPICAL NOTE-BOOK.
(_FOR THE USE OF PROFESSIONAL DINERS-OUT AND OTHER AMATEUR
ENTERTAINERS._)
_The Meeting of Parliament_.--This is not a very promising subject,
but mild mirth may be produced in outlying districts (say Southend or
Honiton, Devon) by observing, that the rock upon which the Irish Party
went to pieces was a happy one--in fact, a GLAD-STONE. This, strictly
speaking, is _not_ a new jest, and therefore must be helped out by
a burst of self-supplied laughter. You might add, that as Members of
Parliament are obliged, by the rules of the House, to address their
colleagues _standing_, there would he little chance of a _seated_
discussion. But you must, however, take care to cough when you say
_seated_, so that those on the look-out for a brilliant _bon-mot_ may
know that you mean _heated_.
_The Revolt in Chili_.--The name of the place in which the
disturbances have occurred will help you effectively to remark that
the outbreak is seasonable during the present inclement weather. As
the Army sympathises with the Government, and the sister service
with the rioters, you can suggest "that knaves would, of course, be
supported by the _Navy_!" This may lead up to a really magnificent
burst of waggery in the assertion that the dissentients must of
necessity be "all at sea."
_The New Archbishop of York_.--Insist that his Grace is a Scotchman,
and not an Irishman, and prove your proposition by declaring that
the road to success was "MACGEE's (pronounced MAGGIE's) secret!"
This really splendid flash of humour will bear polishing--as written
it seems a little in the rough. You may refer to the Primate's
universally acknowledged partiality for quiet sarcasm, by saying that
"ever since he joined the ecclesiastical Bench he has been known as
an _arch_ Bishop!" These entertaining quibbles, delicately handled,
should be received with enthusiasm at a five o'clock tea in a Deanery.
_The New Play at the Haymarket_.--As the plot turns upon the doings of
the Society of Friends, you may extract a jest by saying "that many
of the characters trembled with anxiety before its production--in
fact, were _quakers_!" The name of the Manager of the Haymarket has
frequently been the subject of a quip, if not a crank; still it may
yet serve as a peg for slyly observing that, "At the fall of the
Curtain, TREE, naturally enough, appeared with a _bough_!"
_The Weather_.--Of course you must introduce this subject, and as
everything that _can_ be said _has_ been said about it, you may quote
SYDNEY SMITH as your authority for observing, that the only possible
sport for M.F.H.'s at this time of the year must be "_hunt--the
slipper!_" If the point of this "good thing" is not immediately
obvious, the fault will be with SIDNEY SMITH, and not with you.
And this quaint oddity should satiate your audience with mirth and
merriment until next week--and even longer!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A COLD RECEPTION: OR PARLIAMENT MEETING IN A BLIZZARD.]
* * * * *
STILL ANOTHER CHAPTER OF MY MEMOIR.
(_IN SUPPLEMENT OF "HARPER."_)
BY MONSIEUR VAN DE BLOWITZOWN TROMP.
[Illustration]
Forget at this moment where I was born, but I lived long enough at
Marseilles to be married in that great southern French city. My wife's
father had been in the Marines; her uncle (on the grandfather's side)
had been a _Sapeur pompier_. Thus did I, as it were, become _lie_ with
the sea and land forces of my adopted country. My wife's mother was
a descendant of a noble but anonymous family in the Vosges, whilst
her maternal uncle was accustomed to attach to himself some local
unpopularity by preferring for investigation a complicated sheet which
set forth his genealogy, tracing his origin back to the Bourbons.
You ask me which Bourbon? I frankly answer, I cannot tell. My wife's
maternal uncle spoke of them as "_the_ Bourbons," just as you talk
of "_the_ Groceries," and no one asks you _Lequel_? As for my own
ancestry, I do not speak of it. I have never been in the habit of
thrusting myself on the attention of the public. It is sufficient
for me that my wife's maternal uncle's ancestors were Bourbons.
I first began to take charge of public affairs in connection with
an election that took place in the city where I found myself. M.
DE LESSEPS opposed THIERS and GAMBETTA. He presented himself as an
independent candidate. Was he? I suspected. Already I had my secret
agents in every centre of population. One, whose letter bore the
post-mark the Pyramids, placed in my hand proof that DE LESSEPS was an
official candidate of the Empire. I secretly conveyed this information
to a local newspaper. The news burst like a tempest on the public of
Marseilles, and swept away in its irresistible whirl the candidature
of M. DE LESSEPS.
This was pretty well for a first newspaper paragraph, worth at the
time, as I remember thinking, more than the paltry three sous a line
that became my due. But I had made more than a few sous--I had made an
enemy! Years after, BISMARCK told me how, chatting with NAPOLEON THE
THIRD at Donchery, that fallen monarch had recalled this incident, in
which his prophetic eye justly discerned the beginning of the end. He
admitted that he had said to the EMPRESS, "France is too small for me
and VAN DE BLOWITZOWN TROMP. One of us must cross _la Manche_."
Sublime! One of us did.
But my time was not yet. My friends advised, nay, besought me to leave
Marseilles. Towards the end of this year (1869) I took their advice,
and retired to a small property I chanced to have in the centre of
the Landes. This place being dry, and somewhat remote, was peculiarly
suitable for watching the growth of great problems with a mind
unbiassed by any knowledge of facts. I saw the Franco-German question
grow, and I foresaw how it would end. I wrote to THIERS, and told
him all about it. When the war broke out I mounted my stilts, and
cautiously made my way across the untrodden track, following my
Destiny. I had predicted the downfall of the Empire, and, in its last
gasp, the Empire strove to wither me. Proceedings had been commenced,
when Sedan put an end to them.