Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, Sep. 24, 1892 by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, Sep. 24, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 103.
September 24, 1892.
'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.
[Illustration]
DEAR CHARLIE,--Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know _wot_'ll
come next!
Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my
text;
But really life's turn-ups are twisters. You lay out for larks,
'ealth, and tin,
But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected,"
romps in.
Who'd ha' thought of _me_ jacking up suddent, and giving the
Sawbones a turn?
Who'd ha' pictered _me_ "Taking the Waters"? Ah! CHARLIE, 'twos
hodds on the Urn
With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as
Tot'nam-Court Road
Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos
full growed.
_Bad_, CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill-box
declared.
Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I
felt a bit scared,
And it left me a yaller-skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus,
stoney-broke.
If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a
croak.
Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way,
and struck ile,
Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but _he_'s
made his pile.
Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd
ghost
A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it--a'most.
Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh,
fudge!
He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if _I_'m
any judge.
I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set
_me_ up.
Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young
pup.
"Carn't _afford_ it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but--thanks be to
'orse-flesh--_I_ can--"
Well, he tipped us a fifty-quid crisp 'un--and ROOSE sent me 'ere;
he's _my_ Man!
Three weeks' "treatment"! Well, threes into fifty means cutting a
bit of a dash;
Good grub, nobby togs, local doctor, baths, waters, and everythink
flash.
"'Appy 'ARRY!" sez you. But way-oh, CHARLIE! 'Arrygate isn't all
jam.
_Me_ jolly? Well, mate, if you arsk me, I carn't 'ardly say as I
ham.
To spread myself out with the toppers is proper, no doubt, bonny
boy;
But--I wish it wos Brighton, or Margit, or somewheres a chap could
_enjoy_.
Oh, them "Waters," old man!!! S'elp me never! yer don't kow wot
nastyness _is_
Till you've tried "Sulphur 'ot and strong," fasting. The Kissing
Gin, taken a-fizz,
Isn't _wus_ than ditch-water and sherbet; but Sulphur!!! It's
eased my game leg;
But I go with my heart in my mouth, and I feel like a blooming bad
hegg.
B-r-r-r-r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out
of it, slap.
When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy
white cap,
And cheeks like a blush-rose for bloominess--well, I'm a gent,
but, yah-hah!
I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta-ta!
Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't
'ave a _wus_ smell.
Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water.
Eugh! Old Pump Well?
Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be,
I'm sure,
But for BLACK--local doctor, a stunner!--who's got me in 'and for
a cure.
I'm not nuts on baths took _too_ reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't
'arf bad,
When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust
off, dear old lad!
They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a
feller about
Don't come nicer for calling it _massage_. But there, it's O.K.
I've no doubt.
They squat you upon a low shelf, with a sort of a water-can "rose"
At the nape of yer neck, while a feller in front squirts yer down
with a 'ose.
He slaps you as though you wos batter, he kneads you as if you wos
dough,
And gives yer wot for on the spine, till you git in a doose of a
glow.
Then you're popped in a big iron cage, where the 'ose plays upon
you like fun;
A lawn, or a house a-fire, CHARLIE, could not be more thoroughly
done.
Sez I, "I'm _insured_, dontcher know, mate; so don't _waste_ the
water, d'ye 'ear?"
But he didn't appear to arf twig. He seemed jest a bit thick in
the clear.
Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings
a-play--
'Taint _oder colong_, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the
local _bokay_.
They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give _me_ the needle
fust off;
'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me
sputter and cough.
Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five
minutes to bake,
And that's the "_Aix Douche_," as they call it. _I_ call it the
funniest fake
In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes
the time,
And _I_ shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old
Babbylon's grime.
Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun _I_ can
find
Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it
blind.
Oh, the sniffs and sour faces, old fellow, the shudders and
shivers, and sighs;
The white lips a-working like rabbits', the sheepish blue-funk in
their eyes!
Old Pump Room's a hoctygon building, rum blend like of chapel and
bar,
With a big stained-glass winder one side, hallygorical subject! So
far
As I've yet made it out, it's a hangel a-stirring up somethink
like suds.
"A-troubling the waters," I 'eard from a party in clerical duds.
You arsk, like you do at a bar, for the speeches of lotion you want.
_Some_ say; you git used to the flaviour, and _like it_! Bet long
hodds _I_ shan't.
I've sampled the lot, my dear CHARLIE, Strong Sulphur and Mild,
Cold _and_ 'Ot;
And all I can say is, the jossers who say it ain't beastly talk rot.
You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy
sort of sniff,
Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their
hupper lips stiff;
Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort
of bounce,
And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot
sixteen hounce.
When they git it, a-fume in a tumbler, a-smelling like hegg-chests
gone wrong,
They squirm, ask the snowy-capped gurl, "Is _this_ right?"--"Yes,
Sir. Sixteen ounce, strong!"
Sez the minx with a cold kind o' smile. "Ah--h--h! _per_cisely!"
they smirks, and walks round,
With this "Yorkshire Stinko" in their 'ands--and their 'earts in
their mouths I'll be bound.
Then--Gulp! Oh Gewillikins, CHARLIE! it gives yer the ditherums,
it do.
Bad enough if you 'ave to wolf _one_, but it fair gives yer beans
when 'tis _two_.
The wictims waltz round, looking white, wishing someone would just
spill _their_ wet,
And--there's 'ardly a glass "returned empty" but wot shows its
'eel-taps, you bet!
This is "Taking the Waters" at 'Arrygate! Well, I shall soon take
my 'ook.
Speshal Scotch, at my favourite pub, from that sparkling young
dona, NELL COOK,
Will do me a treat arter this, mate, and come most pertikler A 1.
'Ow I long to be back in "The Village," dear boy, with its bustle
and fun!
Still, the air 'ere's as fresh as they make it, and gives yer a
doose of a peck,
And DUNSING, the Boss at "The Crown," does yer proper. I came 'ere
a wreck;
But sulphur, sound sleep, and cool breezes, prime prog, and good
company tells;
So 'ere's bully for 'Arrygate, CHARLIE, in spite of rum baths and
bad smells.
That Fifty is nearly played out, and my slap at the Ebor went
wrong--
I'd a Yorkshire tyke's tip, too, old man; but I'm stoney, though
still "going strong"
(As _Lord Arthur_ remarks in the play), so no more at "The Crown"
I must tarry,
But if 'Arrygate wants a good word--as to 'ealth--it shall 'ave it
from
'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TWO'S COMPANY."
_Newspaper Boy_ (_suddenly, at window_). "WANT AN _OBSERVER_,
CAPTAIN?"
_Mathilde_ (_on Honeymoon Trip_). "OH, FREDDIE, DEAR! NO! NO!! _DO_
LET US BE QUITE ALONE!"]
* * * * *
THE FIGHTING "FOUDROYANT"
BEING TUGGED TO ITS LAST BERTH--IN A SHIPBREAKER'S YARD.
(_A THEME FROM TURNER TREATED IN MODERN BRITISH STYLE, WITH APOLOGIES
TO THE PATRIOTIC PAINTER OF "THE FIGHTING 'TEMERAIRE.'"_)
"Mayhap you have heard, that as dear as their lives,
All true-hearted Tars love their ships and their wives."
So DIBDIN declared, and he spoke for the Tar;
He knew Jack so well, both in peace and in war!
But hang it! times change, and 'tis sad to relate,
The old Dibdinish morals seem quite out of date;
Stick close to your ship, lads, like pitch till you die?--
That sounds nonsense to-day, and I'll tell ye for why.
The good old _Foudroyant_--how memory dwells on
Those brave fighting names!--was once flag-ship to NELSON.
But NELSON, you know, died a good while ago,
And his flag-ship has gone a bit shaky, and so
JOHN BULL, who's now full of low shopkeeping cares,
And thinks more of the Stocks than of naval affairs,
Regards not "Old Memories," that "eat off their head."
Turn old cracks out to grass? No, let's sell 'em instead!
A ship's like the high-mettled racer once sung
By that same dashing DIBDIN of patriot tongue,
Grown aged, used up, is he honoured? No, zounds!
"The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds!"
And so with a barky of glorious name,
(It is business, of course--_and a Thundering Shame!_)
Worn out, she is nought but spars, timbers and logs,
And so, like the horse, should be sold--to the dogs!
As for the _Foudroyant_, the vessel was trim
When it fought with the French, for JOHN BULL, under _Him_,
The Star of the Nile. Yes, it carried _his_ flag,
When it captured the Frenchman. There's no need to brag,
Or to say swagger things of a generous foe.
Besides, things have doosedly altered, you know.
_We_'re no more like NELSON than I to a Merman;
_We_ can sell his flag-ship for firewood, to the German!
Sounds nice, does it not? If that great one-armed Shade
Could look down on the bargain he'd--swear, I'm afraid
(If his death-purged bold spirit held yet ought of earth).
And I fancy 'twill move the gay Frenchman to mirth
To hear this last story of shop-keeping JOHN--
Or his huckster officials. The Frenchman, the Don,
The Dutchman, all foes we have licked,--may wax bold
When they hear that the brave old _Foudroyant_ is--Sold!!!
Great TURNER has pictured the old _Temeraire_
Tugged to _her_ last berth. Why the sun and the air
In that soul-stirring canvas, seem fired with the glory
Of such a brave ship, with so splendid a story!
Well, look on that picture, my lads, and on _this_!
And--no, do not crack out a curse like a hiss,
But with stout CONAN DOYLE--_he_ has passion and grip!--
Demand that they give us back NELSON's old Ship!
British hands from protecting her who shall debar?
Ne'er ingratitude lurked in the heart of a Tar.
"(Sings DIBDIN) That Ship from the breakers to save"
Is the plainest of duties e'er put on the brave.
While a rag, or a timber, or spar, she can boast,
A place of prime honour on Albion's coast
Should be hers and the _Victory's!_ Let us not say,
Like the fish-hucksters, "_Memories_ are cheap, Sir, to-day!"
* * * * *
ECCLESIASTICAL TASTE.--A condiment not much in favour with High
Churchmen just now, must be "Worcester Sauce." It is warranted to
neutralise the very highest flavour.
* * * * *
IMPROMPTU.
Of "garnered leaves"
And "garnered sheaves"
Sing sentimental donkeys.
Perhaps e'er long
Their simple song
Will be of Garnered Monkeys!
* * * * *
"A railway from Joppa to Jerusalem" sounds like a Scriptural Line. In
future, "going to Jericho" will not imply social banishment, as the
party sent thither will be able to take a return-ticket.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OF MALICE AFORETHOUGHT.
_Cheery Official._ "ALL FIRST CLASS 'ERE, PLEASE?"
_Degenerate Son of the Vikings_ (_in a feeble voice_). "_FIRST CLASS?_
NOW DO I _LOOK IT_?"]
* * * * *
THE LAY OF THE LAST KNIGHT.
My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART--
Ah! happy augury. Would I could
Leave it so. But 'twill not do.
Like soap of Monkey brand,
It will not wash clothes,
Or, in truth, ought else.
'Tis but an accident of rhythm
Born of the imperative mood that makes one
Start a poem of this kind on ten feet,
Howe'er it may thereafter crawl or soar.
What I really was about to remark was that
My name and style are ELLIS ASHMEAD BART-
LETT, Knight; late Civil Lord of Admiralty
You know me. I come from Sheffield; at least
I did on my return thence
Upon re-election.
II.
A sad world this, my masters, as someone--
Was it my friend SHAKSPEARE?--
Says. The sadness arises upon reflection, not
That I'm a Knight, but that I am, so to speak,
A Knight of only two letters.
As thus--Kt. 'Tis but a glimmer of a night,
If I, though sore at heart, may dally with
The English tongue
And make a pensive pun.
III.
Of course I expected different things from
The MARKISS.
What's the use, what's the purpose,
Of what avail, wherefore,
That a man should descend from the
Spacious times of ELIZABETH with nothing
In his hand other than a simple Knighthood?
Anyone could do that.
It might be done to anyone.
He, him, all, any, both, certain, few,
Many, much, none, one, other, another.
One another, several, some, such and whole.
Why, he made a Knight
At the same time,
In the same manner,
Of
MAPLE
BLUNDELL!
IV.
Look here, MARKISS, you know,
This won't do.
It may pass in a crowd, but not with
ELLIS ASHMEAD BART--
(There it is again. Evidently doesn't matter
About the feet)
LETT.
V.
And yet MARKISS, mine,
I shall not despair.
You are somewhat out of it
At the present moment.
And I am not sure--
Not gorged with certainty--
That Mr. G. would be
Inclined to make amends.
He is old; he is aged.
Prejudice lurks amid
His scant white locks,
And forbids the stretch-
Ing forth of generous hand in whose
Recesses coyly glint
The Bart. or K.C.B.
VI.
But you are not everyone;
Nor is he. Nor do both together
In the aggregate
Compose the great globe
And all that therein is.
I'll wait awhile, possessing my soul in
Patience.
Everything comes to the man who waits.
(Sometimes, 'tis true, 'tis the bobby
Who asks what he's loafing there for,
And bids him
Move on.
That is a chance the brave resolute soul
Faces.) The pity of it is
That you, MARKISS, having so much to give,
So little gave
To
Me.
VII.
Oh, MARKISS! MARKISS!
Had I but served my GLADSTONE
As I have served thee,
He would not have forsak--
But that's another story.
* * * * *
THE NEW HOPERA OF 'ADDON 'ALL.--The title finally decided upon for the
SULLIVAN-GRUNDY Opera is _Haddon Hall_. Lovely for 'ARRY! "'Ave you
seen _'Addon 'All_?" Then the 'ARRY who 'as only 'eard a portion of
it, will say, "I _'addn_'t 'eard _'all._" As a Cockney title, it's
perfect. Successful or not, Author and Composer will congratulate
themselves that, to deserve, if not command success, they _'ad don
all_ they knew. If successful, they'll replace the aspirates, and it
will be some time before they recover the exact date when they Had-don
Hauling in the coin. _Prosit!_
* * * * *
MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.--Says the _Pall Mall Gazette_:--"For knocking
over a man selling watercress, with fatal results, a Hammersmith
cabman has been committed for trial for manslaughter." If this is
true, the HOME SECRETARY should immediately interpose. The action
of knocking a man over is hasty, and may be indefensible. But if
the Hammersmith Cabman had just grounds for belief that the man
was "selling watercresses with fatal results," he should rather be
commended than committed for trial.
* * * * *
"KEEPING-UP THE CHRISTOPHER."--(_A Note from an Old
Friend_).--"CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS" indeed! As years ago I told _Sairey
Gamp_ about her bothering _Mrs. Harris_, "I don't believe there's no
sich a person." That's what I says, says I, about COLUMBUS, wich ain't
like any other sort of "bus" as I see before my blessed eyes every
day.
Yours, ELIZABETH PRIG.
P.S.--Mr. EDWIN JOHNSON, him as wrote to the _Times_ last Saturday, is
of my opinion. Good Old JOHNSON!
* * * * *
"HONORIS CAUSA."--To Mr. GRANVILLE MONEY, son of the Rector of
Weybridge, whose gallant rescue of a lady from drowning has recently
been recorded, _Mr. Punch_ grants the style and title of "Ready
MONEY."
* * * * *
QUESTION AND ANSWER.--"Why don't I write Plays?" Why should I?
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XV.--TO SWAGGER.
[Illustration]
Not long ago I reminded you of CHEPSTOWE, the incomparable poet who
was at one time supposed to have revolutionised the art of verse.
Now he is forgotten, the rushlight which he never attempted to
hide under the semblance of a bushel, has long since nickered its
last, his boasts, his swelling literary port, his quarrels, his
affectations--over all of them the dark waves of oblivion have passed
and blotted them from the sand on which he had traced them. But in his
day, as you remember, while yet he held his head high and strutted
in his panoply, he was a man of no small consequence. Quite an army
of satellites moved with him, and did his bidding. To one of them
he would say, "Praise me this author," and straightway the fire of
eulogy would begin. To another he would declare--and this was his more
frequent course--"So-and-so has dared to hint a fault in one of us;
he has hesitated an offensive dislike. Let him be scarified," and
forthwith the painted and feathered young braves drew forth their axes
and scalping-knives, and the work of slaughter went merrily forward.
Youth, modesty, honest effort, genuine merit, a manifest desire to
range apart from the loud storms of literary controversy, these were
no protection to the selected victim. And of course the operations of
the Chepstowe-ites, like the "plucking" imagined by _Major Pendennis_,
were done in public. For they had their organ. Week by week in _The
Metropolitan Messenger_ they disburdened themselves, each one of his
little load of spite and insolence and vanity, and with much loud
shouting and blare of adulatory trumpets called the attention of the
public to their heap of purchasable rubbish. There lived at this time
a great writer, whose name and fame are still revered by all who love
strong, nervous English, vivid description, and consummate literary
art. He stood too high for attack. Only in one way could the herd
of passionate prigs who waited on CHEPSTOWE do him an injury. They
could attempt, and did, to imitate his style in their own weekly
scribblings. _Corruptio optimi pessima_. There is no other phrase
that describes so well the result of these imitative efforts. All the
little tricks of the great man's humour were reproduced and defaced,
the clear stream of his sentences was diverted into muddy channels,
the airy creatures of his imagination were weighted with lead and made
to perform hideous antics. Never had there been so riotous a jargon
of distorted affectation and ponderous balderdash. Smartness--of a
sort--these gentlemen, no doubt, possessed. It is easy to be accounted
smart in a certain circle, if only you succeed in being insolent.
Merit of this order the band could boast of plenteously.
One peculiarity, too, must be noted in _The Metropolitan Messenger_.
It had a magnetic attraction for all the sour and sorry failures whose
reputation and income, however greatly in excess of their deserts,
had not equalled their expectation. The Cave of Adullam could not have
been more abundantly stocked with discontent. It is the custom of the
_rates_ everywhere to attempt to prevent, or, if that be impossible,
to decry success in others, in order to exalt themselves. The
"Metropolitans" followed the example of many unillustrious
predecessors, though it must, in justice, be added, that they would
have been shocked to hear anyone impute to them a want of originality
in their curious methods. In the counsels of these literary bravos,
WILLIAM GRUBLET held a high place. At the University, where he had
pursued a dull and dingy career of modified respectability, not much
was thought or spoken of GRUBLET. If he was asked what profession he
proposed to adopt, he would wink knowingly, and reply, "Journalism."
It sounded well--it gave an impression of influence, and future power,
and, moreover, it committed him to nothing. It is just as easy to say
"Journalism," in answer to the stock question, as it is to deliver
yourself over, by anticipation, to the Bar, the Church, or the Stock
Exchange. Hundreds of young men at both our ancient Universities
look upon Journalism as the easiest and most attractive of all the
professions. In the first place there are no Examinations to bar
the way, and your ordinary Undergraduate loathes an Examination as
a rat may be supposed to loathe a terrier. What can be easier--in
imagination--than to dash off a leading article, a biting society
sketch, a scathing review, to overturn ancient idols, to inaugurate
movements, to plan out policies? All this GRUBLET was confident
of being able to do, and he determined, on the strength of a few
successful College Essays, and a reputation for smartness, acquired
at the expense of his dwindling circle of intimates, to do it. He
took his degree, and plunged into London. There, for a time, he was
lost to public sight. But I know that he went through the usual
contest. Rejected manuscripts poured back into his room. Polite,
but unaccommodating Editors, found that they had no use for vapid
imitations of ADDISON, or feeble parodies of CHARLES LAMB. Literary
appreciations, that were to have sent the ball of fame spinning up the
hill of criticism, grew frowsy and dog's-eared with many postages to
and fro.
In this protracted struggle with fate and his own incompetence, the
nature of GRUBLET, never a very amiable one, became fatally soured,
and when he finally managed to secure a humble post on a newspaper, he
was a disappointed man with rage in his heart against his successful
rivals and against the Editors who, as he thought, had maliciously
chilled his glowing aspirations. His vanity, however,--and he was
always a very vain man--had suffered no diminution, and with the
first balmy breezes of success his arrogance grew unbounded. Shortly
afterwards, he chanced to come in the way of CHEPSTOWE; he impressed
the poet favourably, and in the result he was selected for a place
on the staff of _The Metropolitan Messenger_, then striving by every
known method to battle its way into a circulation.
It was at this stage in his career that I met GRUBLET. He was pointed
out to me as a young man of promise who had a trenchant style, and had
lately written an article on "Provincialism in Literature," which had
caused some stir by its bitter and uncompromising attacks upon certain
well-known authors and journalists. I looked at the man with some
interest. I saw a pale-faced, sandy-haired little creature with a
shuffling, weak-kneed gait, who looked as if a touch from a moderately
vigorous arm would have swept him altogether out of existence.
His manner was affected and unpleasant, his conversation the most
disagreeable I ever listened to. He was coarse, not with an ordinary
coarseness, but with a kind of stale, fly-blown coarseness as of
the viands in the window of a cheap restaurant. He assumed a great
reverence for RABELAIS and ARISTOPHANES; he told shady stories,
void of point and humour, which you were to suppose were modelled
on the style of these two masters. And all the time he gave you to
understand, with a blatant self-sufficiency, that he himself was one
of the greatest and most formidable beings in existence. This was
GRUBLET as I first knew him, and so he continued to the end.