Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 30, 1892 by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 30, 1892
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 14544-h.htm or 14544-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/4/14544/14544-h/14544-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/4/14544/14544-h.zip)
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 102
APRIL 30, 1892
MR. PUNCH'S HEBRIDEAN SALMON-FLY BOOK.
STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PEN-HOLDER.
(By Wullie White, Author of "They Taught Her to Death"
"A Pauper in Tulle," "My Cloudy Glare," "Green Pasterns in
Picalilli," "Ran Fast to Royston," &c., &c., &c.)
["I now send you," writes this popular and delightful Author, "the
latest of the Novels in which I mingle delicate sentiment with
Hebridean or Highland scenery, and bring the wisdom of a Londoner to
bear directly upon the unsophisticated innocence of a kilt-wearing
population. I am now republishing my books in a series. I'll take
short odds about my salmon-flies as compared with anyone else's, and
am prepared to back my sunsets and cloud-effects against the world. No
takers. I thought not. Here goes!"]
CHAPTER I.
[Illustration]
I held it in my right hand, toying with it curiously, and not without
pleasure. It was merely a long, wooden pen-holder, inky and inert to
an unappreciative eye, but to me it was a bright magician, skilled
in the painting of glowing pictures, a traveller in many climes, a
tried and trusted friend, who had led me safely through many strange
adventures and much uncouth dialect. "Old friend," I said, addressing
it kindly, "shall you and I set out together on another journey? We
have seen many countries, and the faces of many men, and yet, though
we are advancing in years, the time has not yet come for me to lay
you down, as having no need of you. What say you--shall we start once
more?" I hear a confused sound as of men who murmur together, and
say, "We have supped full of horrors, and have waded chin-deep in
Zulu blood; we have followed the Clergy of the Established Church into
the recesses of terrible crimes, and have endured them as they bared
their too sensitive consciences to our gaze. We pine for simpler, and
more wholesome pleasures. Now," I continued, "if only Queen TITA and
the rest will help us, I think we can do something to satisfy this
clamour." For all answer, my pen-holder nestled lovingly in my hand.
I placed my patent sunset-nib in its mouth, waved it twice, dipped it
once, and began.
CHAPTER II.
The weary day was at length sinking peacefully to rest behind the
distant hills. The packed and tumbled clouds lay heavily towards the
West, where a gaunt jagged tower of rock rose sheer into the sky.
And lo! suddenly a broad shaft of blood-red light shot through the
brooding cumulus and rested gorgeously upon the landscape. On each
side of this a thin silvery veil of mist crept slowly up and hung in
impalpable folds. The Atlantic sand stretching away to the North shone
with the effulgence of burnished copper. And now brilliant flickers
of coloured light, saffron, purple, green and rose danced over the
heaven's startled face. The piled clouds opened and showed in the
interspace a lurid lake of blood tinged with the pale violet of an
Irishwoman's eyes. Great pillars of flame sprang up rebelliously and
spread over the burning horizon. Then a strange, soft, yellow and
vaporous light raised its twelve bore breech-loading ejector to its
shoulder and shot across the Cryanlaughin hills, and the cattle shone
red in the green pastures, and everything else glowed, and the whole
world burned with the bewildering glare of a stout publican's nose in
a London fog. And silence came down upon the everlasting hills whose
outlines gleamed in a prismatic--
"That will do," said a mysterious Voice, "the paint-box is exhausted!"
CHAPTER III.
I was shocked at this rude interruption.
"Sir!" I said, "I cannot see you, though I hear your voice. Will you
not disclose yourself?"
"Nonsense, man," said the aggravating, but invisible one, "do not
waste time. Let us get on with the story. You know what comes next.
_Revenons a nos saumons._ Ha, Ha! spare the rod and spoil the book!"
I was vexed, but I had to obey, and this was the result:
The pools were full of gleaming curves of silver, each one belonging
to a separate salmon of gigantic size fresh run from the sea. The
foaming Black Water tumbled headlong over its rocks and down its
narrow channel. DONALD, the big keeper, stood industriously upon the
bank arranging flies. "I hef been told," he observed, "tat ta English
will be coming to Styornoway, and there will be no more Gaelic spoken.
But perhaps it iss not true, for they will tell many lies. I am a
teffle of a liar myself."
And lo! as we watched, the grey sky seemed to be split in two by an
invisible wedge, and a purple gleam of light shot--
"Stow that!" said the Voice, "I have allowed you to put in a patch of
Gaelic, but I really cannot let you do any more sun-pictures. Try and
think that it is a close time for landscapes, and don't let the light
shoot again for a bit."
"All right," I retorted, not without annoyance, "but you'll just
have to make up your mind to lose that salmon. It was a magnificent
forty-pounder, and, if it hadn't been for your ridiculous
interruption, we should have landed him splendidly in another six
pages."
"As you like," said the Voice.
CHAPTER IV.
And now our journey was drawing to a close. Out of the solemn hush
of the purple mountains we had passed slowly southwards back to the
roar and the turmoil of the London streets. And many friends had
said farewell to us. SHEILA with her low, sweet brow, her exquisitely
curved lips, and her soft blue eyes had held us enraptured, and we
had wept with COQUETTE, and fiercely cheered the WHAUP while he held
WATTIE by the heels, and made him say a sweer. And we had talked
with MACLEOD and grown mournful with Madcap VIOLET, and had seen many
another fresh and charming face, and had talked Gaelic with gusto and
discrimination. And Queen TITA had sped with us, and we had adored
BELLE, and yet we cried for more. But now the dream-journey was past,
and lo! suddenly the whole heaven was blazing with light, and a bright
saffron band lay across--
"Steady there!" said the Voice. "Remember your promise!"
THE END.
* * * * *
SAINTS OR SINNERS?
[BY SPECIAL WIRE.]
MELBOURNE.--It is said, on good authority, that the favourite books of
the interesting prisoner now in custody are, the _Pilgrim's Progress_,
an Australian Summary of the _Newgate Calendar_, and the poetry of
the late Dr. Watts. He has also expressed himself as pleased with
Mrs. Humphrey Ward's latest work of fiction, though he does not quite
approve of the theological opinions of the writer.
PARIS, _Tuesday_.--The supposed author of the dynamite outrages, is
the recipient of numerous presents in prison, sent him by male and
female admirers, and persons anxious for his conversion and his
autograph. The edition of _Thomas a Kempis_, recently given him, is a
most valuable antique copy; but he complains of the print as unsuited
to his eyesight.
MELBOURNE. _Later_.--The Solicitor engaged on behalf of our
interesting prisoner has requested the Government to allow a
commission, consisting of the medical superintendents at Broadmore,
Hanwell and Colney Hatch, with six other English experts in insanity,
to come out to Australia to inquire into the mental condition of
the prisoner. A telegram has also been despatched to Lord SALISBURY
requesting that the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF ENGLAND and an Old Bailey
Jury may be sent out to try the case; otherwise there will be "no
chance of justice being done." The British PREMIER's reply has not yet
been received. It is believed that he is consulting Mr. GOSCHEN about
the probable cost of such a step.
MELBOURNE. _Latest_.--Through the instrumentality of an Official
connected with the prison, I am enabled to send you some important
information concerning our prisoner which you may take as absolutely
authentic. His breakfast this morning consisted of buttered toast,
coffee, and poached eggs. He complained that the latter were not
new-laid, and became very excited. It has also transpired that he is
strangely in favour of Imperial Federation, and he has declared to his
gaolers that "The friendship between England and her Colonies ought
to be cemented." This expression of opinion has created a profound
sensation.
* * * * *
THE POINT OF VIEW.
(_AS PRIVATE TOMMY ATKINS PUTS IT TO HIS COMRADE BILL._)
[In the Report of Lord WANTAGE's Committee, it appears that
our Home Army costs seventeen and a-half millions per annum.
The Duke of CAMBRIDGE doubts if we could rapidly mobilise one
Army Corps. Sir EVELYN WOOD holds half the men under him at
Aldershot are not equal to doing a day's service, even in
England. The Duke of CONNAUGHT says half the battalions under
his command are no good for service, cannot even carry their
kits, and are not fit to march. Lord WOLSELEY, it is stated,
compares the British Army to a "squeezed lemon."]
"Squeezed lemon!" _That's_ encouraging!
Wish Wolseley knew 'ow much it's pleased us.
I'd like to arsk _one_ little thing:
I wonder who it is who's squeezed us?
The whole Report's a thing to cheer;
Makes us feel proud and pleased, oh! very!
And won't the bloomin' furrineer
Over our horacles make merry?
Costs seventeen millions and a arf,
And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink!
That tots it up! They wouldn't charf,
Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do _you_ think?
Therefore, we're just a useless lot.
After pipe-claying and stiff-starching,
We _might_ be good for stopping shot,
Only that we're not fit for marching!
We cannot carry our own kits!
I say, Bill, _ain't_ we awful duffers?
Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits,
Could more completely give us snuffers.
CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD,
All of a mind, for once, about us!
What wonder Bungs dub us no good,
And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us?
I see myself as others see;
A weedy, narrer-chested stripling,
Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
Wot can't go out without our nurses,
But ups and pats us on the back
In very pooty potry-verses.[1]
We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
(Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.
So Tommy's best respects to _'im_,
At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im.
Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim,
He _might_ not know us _when_ we meet 'im!
But, Bill, if all this barney's _true_
Consarnin' "Our Poor Little Army,"
It must be nuts to Pollyvoo!
_He_ needn't feel a mite alarmy.
_Whose_ fault is it we cost a lot,
And, if war comes, _must_ fail, or fly it?
Well facts is facts, and bounce is rot;
But, blarm it, BILL,--_I'd like to try it!_
[Footnote 1: Mr. Kipling dedicates his "Barrack-Room Ballads"
to "TOMMY ATKINS" in these lines:--
I have made for you a song,
An' it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it's true;
I've tried for to explain.
Both your pleasure and your pain,
And, THOMAS, here's my best respects to you!
Oh, there'll surely come a day
When they'll grant you all your pay
And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound,
And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE STATE OF THE MARKET.
_Artist_ (_to Customer, who has come to buy on behalf of a large
Furnishing Firm in Tottenham Court Road_). "HOW WOULD THIS SUIT YOU?
'SUMMER'!"
_Customer._ "H'M--'SUMMER.' WELL, SIR, THE FACT IS WE FIND THERE'S
VERY LITTLE DEMAND FOR _GREEN_ GOODS JUST NOW. IF YOU HAD A LINE OF
_AUTUMN TINTS_ NOW--THAT'S THE ARTICLE WE FIND MOST SALE FOR AMONG OUR
CUSTOMERS!"]
* * * * *
ROBERT ON THE HARTISTIC COPPERASHUN.
Oh, ain't the Copperashun jest a cummin out in the Hi Art line! Why,
dreckly as they let it be nown as they was a willin to make room
in their bewtifool Galery for any of the finest picters in the hole
country as peepel was wantin to send there, jest to let the world
no as they'd got 'em, and that they wos considered good enuff by the
LORD MARE and the Sherriffs and all the hole Court of Haldermen, than
they came a poring in in such kwantities, that pore Mr. WELSH, the
Souperintendant, was obligated to arsk all the hole Court of common
Counselmen, what on airth he was to do with 'em, and they told him to
hinsult the Libery Committee on the matter, and they, like the lerned
gents as they is, told him to take down sum of the werry biggest and
the most strikingest as they'd got of their hone Picters and ang 'em
up in the Gildhall Westybool, as they calls it, coz it's in the East,
I spose, and so make room for a lot of the littel uns as had been
sent to 'em, coz they was painted by "Old Marsters," tho' who "Old
Marsters" was, I, for one, never could make out, xcep that he must
have well deserved his Nickname, considering the number of picters as
he must ha' painted. And now cums won of the werry cleverest dodges
as even a Welsh Souperintendant of Gildhall picturs coud posserbly
have thort on. Why what does he do? but he has taken down out of the
Gallery, won of the werry biggest, and one of the werry grandest,
Picters of moddern times, and has hung it up in the Westybool
aforesaid, to take the whole shine out of all the little uns as so
many hemnent swells had been ony too glad to send to Gildhall--"the
paytron of the Harts," as I herd a hemnent Halderman call it,--to give
'em the reel stamp as fust rate.
And now what does my thousands of readers suppose was the subjeck
of this werry grandest of all Picters? Why, no other than a most
magniffisent, splendid, gorgeus, large as life representashun of the
LORD MARE's Show, a cummin in all its full bewty and splender from the
middel of the Royal Xchange!!
But ewen that isn't all. For the Painter of this trewly hartistic
Picter, determined to make his grand work as truthful as it is
striking, has lawished his hole sole, so to speak, upon what are
undoubtedly the most commanding figures in the hole glorious display,
and them is the LORD MARE's three Gentlemen! with their wands of
power, and their glorious Unyforms, not forgetting their luvly silk
stockins; on this occasion, too, spotless as the rising Sun! To say
that they are the hobservd of all hobservers, and the hadmirashun of
all the fare sex, and the henvy of the other wun, need not be said,
tho they do try to hide their gelesy with a sickly smile.
Need I say that it is surrounded ewery day by a sercle of smiling
admirers, who, I have no doubt, come agane and agane, to show it to
their admiring friends; and, just to prove its grand success, the
werry last time as I was there, I owerheard a smiling gent say to his
friend,--"Well, TOM, as this is such a success, it would not supprise
me if the same hemnent Hartis was to paint the LORD MARE's Bankwet
next year, with all the Nobel Harmy of Waiters arranged in front!"
Wich Harmy will be pussinelly konduktid by your faithful
ROBERT.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE POINT OF VIEW.
_Frenchman._ "WELL, MON AMI, YOUR SIR EVELYN VOLSELEY SAY YOU CAN GO
NOWHERES AND DO NOSING! YOU ARE A SKVEEZED LEMON!"
_Tommy Atkins._ "WELL, HANG IT, YOU BLOOMING FURRINEERS HAVEN'T ALWAYS
FOUND IT SO!"]
* * * * *
TELEPHONIC THEATRE-GOERS.
(_A SKETCH AT THE ELECTRICAL EXHIBITION._)
SCENE--_The Exterior of the Telephone Music Room in the
Egyptian Vestibule. The time is about eight. A placard
announces, "Manchester Theatre now on"; inside the wickets a
small crowd is waiting for the door to be opened. A Cautious
Man comes up to the turnstile with the air of a fox examining
a trap._
_The Cautious Man_ (_to the Commissionnaire_). How long can I stay in
for sixpence?
_The Commissionnaire_. Ten Minutes, Sir.
_The C.M._ Only ten minutes, eh? But, look here, how do I know
there'll be anything going on while I'm _in_ there?
_Comm._ You'll find out that from the instruments, Sir.
_The C.M._ Ah, I daresay--but what _I_ mean is, suppose there's
nothing _to hear_--between the Acts and all that?
_Comm._ Comp'ny guarantees there's a performance on while you're in
the room, Sir.
[Illustration: "How very distinctly you hear the dialogue, Sir, don't
you?"]
_The C.M._ Yes, but all these other people waiting to get in--How'm I
to know I shall get a _place_?
_Comm._ (_outraged_). Look 'ere, Sir, we're the National Telephone
Comp'ny with a reputation to lose, and if you've any ideer we want to
swindle you, all I can tell _you_ is--stop outside!
_The C.M._ (_suddenly subdued_). Oh--er--all right, thought I'd make
sure _first_, you know. Sixpence, isn't it?
[_He passes into the enclosure, and joins the crowd._
_A Comic Man_ (_in an undertone to his Fiancee_). That's a careful
bloke, that is. Know the _value_ o' money, _he_ does. It'll have to
be a precious scientific sort o' telephone that takes _'im_ in. He'll
'ave _his_ six-pennorth, if it bursts the machine! Hullo, they're
letting us in now.
[_The door is slightly opened from within, causing an
expectant movement in crowd--the door is closed again._
_A Superior Young Lady_ (_to her Admirer_). I just caught a glimpse
of the people inside. They were all sitting holding things like
opera-glasses up to their ears--they did look so ridiculous!
_Her Admirer_. Well, it's about time they gave _us_ a chance of
looking ridiculous, their ten minutes must be up now. I've been trying
to think what this put me in mind of. _I_ know. Waiting outside the
Pit doors! doesn't it you?
_The Sup. Y.L._ (_languidly, for the benefit of the bystanders_). Do
they make you wait like this for the Pit?
_Her Admirer_. _Do they make you wait!_ Why, weren't you and I
three-quarters of an hour getting into the Adelphi the other evening?
_The Sup. Y.L._ (_annoyed with him_). I don't see any necessity to
bawl it out like that if we _were_.
[_The discreetly curtained windows are thrown back, revealing
persons inside reluctantly tearing themselves away from their
telephones. As the door opens, there is a frantic rush to get
places._
_An Attendant_ (_soothingly_). Don't crush, Ladies and
Gentlemen--plenty of room for all. Take your time!
[_The crowd stream in, and pounce eagerly on chairs and
telephones; the usual Fussy Family waste precious minutes
in trying to get seats together, and get separated in the
end. Undecided persons flit from one side to another.
Gradually they all settle down, and stop their ears with
the telephone-tubes, the prevailing expression being one of
anxiety, combined with conscious and apologetic imbecility.
Nervous people catch the eye of complete strangers across the
table, and are seized with suppressed giggles. An Irritable
Person finds himself between the Comic Man and a Chatty
Old Gentleman.
_The Comic Man_ (_to his Fiancee, putting the tube to his ear_). Can't
get _my_ telephone to tork yet! (_Shakes it._) _I'll_ wake 'em up!
(_Puts the other tube to his mouth._) Hallo--hallo! are you there?
Look alive with that Show o' yours, Guv'nor--we ain't got long to
stop! (_Pretends to listen, and reply._) If you give me any of your
cheek, I'll come down and punch your 'ead! (_Applies a tube to his
eye._) All right, POLLY, they've _begun_--I can see the 'ero's legs!
_Polly_. Be quiet, can't you? I can't hold the tubes steady if you
will keep making me laugh so. (_Listening._) Oh, ALF, I can hear
singing--can't you? Isn't it lovely!
_The Com. M._ It seems to me there's a bluebottle, or something, got
inside mine--I can 'ear _im_!
_The Irr. P._ (_angrily, to himself_). How the deuce do they
expect--and that infernal organ in the nave has just started booming
again--they ought to send out and stop it!
_The Chatty O.G._ (_touching his elbow_). I beg your pardon, Sir, but
can you inform me what opera it is they're performing at Manchester?
The _Prima Donna_ seems to be just finishing a song. Wonderful how one
can hear it all!
_The Irr. P._ (_snapping_). Very wonderful indeed, under the
circumstances! (_He corks both ears with the tubes_). It's too
bad--now there's a confounded string-band beginning outs--(_Removes
the tube._) Eh, what? (_More angrily than ever._) Why, it's _in_ the
blanked thing! (_He fumbles with the tubes in trying to readjust them.
At last he succeeds, and, after listening intently, is rewarded by
hearing a muffled and ghostly voice, apparently from the bowels of the
earth, say_--"Ha, say you so? Then am I indeed the hooshiest hearsher
in the whole of Mumble-land!")
_The Chatty O.G._ (_nudging him_). How very distinctly you hear the
dialogue, Sir, don't you?
[_The Irritable Person, without removing the tubes, turns
and glares at him savagely, without producing the slightest
impression._
_Another Ghostly Voice_ (_very audibly_). The devil you are!
_A Careful Mother_. MINNIE, put them down at _once_, do you hear? I
can't have you listening to such language.
_Minnie_. Why, it's only at Manchester, Mother!
_Ghostly Voices and Sounds_ (_as they reach the Irritable Person_).
"You cursed scoundrel! So it was _you_ who burstled the billiboom, was
it? Stand back, there, I'll hork every gordle in his--!" (_... Sounds
of a scuffle ... A loud female scream, and firing ..._) "What have you
done?"
_The Ch. O.G._ Have you any sort of idea what he _has_ done, Sir?
[_To the Irritable Person._
_The Irr. P._ No, Sir, and I'm not likely to have as long as--
[_He listens with fierce determination._
_First Ghostly Voice_. Stop! Hear me--I can explain everything!
_Second Do. Do._ I will hear _nothing_, I tell you!
_First Do. Do._ You shall--you _must_! Listen. I am the only surviving
mumble of your unshle groolier.
_The Ch. O.G._ (_as before_). I think it must be a Melodrama and not
an Opera after all--from the language!
_An Innocent Matron_ (_who is listening, with her eyes devoutly fixed
on the Libretto of "The Mountebanks," under the firm conviction that
she is in direct communication with the Lyric Theatre._) I always
understood _The Mountebanks_ was a _musical_ piece, my dear, didn't
you? and even as it is, they don't seem to keep very close to the
words, as far as I can follow!
_Ghostly Voices_ (_in the Irritable Person's ear as before_). "Your
_wife_?" "Yes, my wife, and the only woman in the world I ever loved!"
_The Irr. P._ (_pleased, to himself._) Come, now I'm getting
accustomed to it, I can hear capitally!
_The Voices_. Then why have you--?...I will tell you all. Twenty-five
years ago, when a shinder foodle in the Borjeezlers I--
_A Still Small Voice_ (_in everybody's ear_). TIME, PLEASE.
_Everybody_ (_dropping the tubes, startled._) Where did _that_ come
from?
_The Com. M._ They've been and cut it off at the main--just when it
was getting interesting!
_His Fiancee_. Well, I can't say I made out much of the plot myself.
_The Com. M._ I made out enough to cover a sixpence, anyhow. You
didn't expect the telephone to explain it all to you goin' along, and
give you cawfee between the Acts, did you?
_The Ch. O.G._ (_sidling affably up to the Irritable Person as he
is moving out_). Marvellous strides Science has made of late, Sir!
Almost incredible. I declare to _you_, while I was sitting there, I
positively felt inclined to ask myself the question--
_The Irr. P._ Allow me to say, Sir, that another time, if you will
obey that inclination, and put the question to yourself instead of
other people, you will be a more desirable neighbour in a Telephone
Room than, I confess I found you!
[_He turns on his heel, indignantly._
_The Ch. O.G._ (_to himself_). 'Strordinary what unsociable people one
_does_ come across at times! Now I 'm always ready to talk to anybody,
I am--don't care _who_ they are. Well--well-- [_He walks on, musing._
* * * * *
[Illustration: QUITE NATURAL.
_Mamma._ "ETHEL DEAR, WHY WON'T YOU SAY GOOD-BYE TO THIS GENTLEMAN? HE
IS VERY KIND!"
_Ethel._ "BECAUSE, MUMMY DEAR, YOU TOLD HIM JUST NOW HE IS 'THE LION
OF THE SEASON,'--AND I AM SO FRIGHTENED!"]
* * * * *
"DE PROFUNDIS."
(_BY AN INDIGNANT "OUTSIDER."_)
A masterpiece, worthy of TURNER,
Was mine, there my friends all agree,
No work of a pot-boiling learner,
My "_View on the Dee_."
A place on the line I expected,
Associate shortly to be!
Hang me, if it isn't rejected,
And marked with a D!