Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 22, 1892 by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 22, 1892
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 15594-h.htm or 15594-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/9/15594/15594-h/15594-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/9/15594/15594-h.zip)
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 103
OCTOBER 22, 1892
IN MEMORIAM.
WILLIAM HARDWICK BRADBURY.
BORN, DEC. 3, 1832. DIED, OCT. 13, 1892.
Large-hearted man, most loyal friend,
Art thou too gone--too early lost?
Our comrade true, our tireless host!
Prompt to inspire, console, defend!
Gone! Hearts with grateful memories stored
Ache for thy loss round the old board.
The well-loved board _he_ loved so well,
His pride, his care, his ceaseless thought;
To him with life-long memories fraught;
For him invested with the spell
O'er a glad present ever cast
By solemn shadows of the past.
That past for him, indeed, was filled
With a proud spirit-retinue.
Greatness long since his guest he knew.
Whom THACKERAY's manly tones had thrilled;
Who heard keen JERROLD's sparkling speech,
And marked the genial grace of LEECH.
What changes had he known, who sat
With our four chiefs, of each fast friend!
And must such _camaraderie_ end?
Shall friendly counsel, cordial chat,
Come nevermore again to us
From lips with kindness tremulous?
No more shall those blue eyes ray out
Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth;
That ever mobile mouth give birth
To frolic whim, or friendly flout?
Our hearts will miss thee to the end,
Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!
Miss thee? Alas! the void that's there
No other form may hope to fill,
For those who now with sorrow thrill
In gazing on that vacant chair;
Whither it seems he _must_ return,
For whose warm hand-clasp yet we yearn.
Tribute to genius all may give,
Ours is the homage of the heart;
For a friend lost our tears will start,
Lost to our sight, yet who shall live,
Whilst one who knew that bold frank face
At the old board takes the old place.
For those, his closer kin, whose home
Is darkened by the shadow grey,
What can respectful love but pray
That consolation thither come
In that most sacred soothing guise
Which natural sorrow sanctifies.
Bereavement's anguish to assuage
Is a sore task that lies beyond
The scope of friendship or most fond
Affection's power. Yet may this page,
True witness of our love and grief,
To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!
* * * * *
"ANECDOTAGE."
_COMPANION PARAGRAPH TO STORIES OF THE SAME KIND._
CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and
humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY
SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two
countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange,"
observed the brilliant author of the _School for Scandal_, "Right you
are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue.
"But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a
creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!"
Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen,
I'm not meself at all at all!"
* * * * *
THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.
[Illustration]
The dainty artificial fly
Designed to catch the wily trout,
Full loud _laudabunt alii_,
And I will join, at times, no doubt,
But yet my praise, without pretence,
Is not from great experience.
I talk as well as anyone
About the different kinds of tackle,
I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;
I've flies myself of each design,
No book is better filled than mine.
But when I reach the river's side
Alone, for none of these I wish.
No victim to a foolish pride.
My object is to capture fish;
Let me confess, then, since you ask it--
A worm it is which fills my basket!
O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
On which with scorn the haughty look,
It is thy fascinating squirm
Which brings the fattest trout to book,
From thee unable to refrain,
Though flies are cast for him in vain!
Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,
When rival anglers view my creel,
And straightway turn a jealous green;
And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?"
"A fancy pattern," I reply!
* * * * *
SWORD AND PEN;
OR, THE RIVAL COMMANDERS.
(_EXTRACT FROM A MILITARY STORY OF THE NEAR FUTURE._)
Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him.
He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might
know his drill, he might have read his _Queen's Regulations_, but he
had vague ideas of the power of the Press.
"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank
think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!'
it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong.
Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a
mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."
"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of
men to argue, but to obey."
"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know
that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these
days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound
too tightly to precedent."
The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave
the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.
"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you.
I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow
morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."
"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I
don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be
found in the most recent dictionaries."
And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much
the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an
inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the
parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that
suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.
"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.
"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been
desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they
remain as they were."
"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man
in the Cloak.
"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.
"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow
than of anger.
"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service
that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that--"
"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so
ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born
Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow
the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their
grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they
please, and they may rest assured that their communications will
escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."
Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of
command.
"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are
you the Commander-in-Chief?"
"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the
speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress.
"Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"
A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the
Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And
thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.
* * * * *
THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.
[Illustration]
PROEM.
_Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra!_ The trumpets blare!
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
Whilst _Punch_, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.
And first advances, as by right supreme,
With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,
With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing,
As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring
From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.
(In stature, _not_ in song!) Though passion-scarred,
Porphyrogenitus at least he looks;
Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks;
Unreminiscent now of youthful rage,
Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage,
Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe,
Whose polished paganry's erotic flow,
And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings,
The virtues, and most other "proper" things,
Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed.
Such is the power of timely palinode!
Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang,
As the first Bard this moving measure sang:--
ON THE BAYS.
(_To the tune--more or less--of "In the Bay."_)
I.
Beyond the bellowing onset of base war,
Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest.
Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest
Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar
To win the wreath that he beyond the bar
Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.
II.
And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay
Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day,
Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire,
Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher;
My thoughts on courtier-wings _might_ make their way
Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.
III.
For I, to the proprieties reconciled.
Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."
At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth;
That was before my better self had birth.
At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled,
But Hertha's _not_ thine only goddess, O Earth!
IV.
For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,
Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring
In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;
Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,
More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;
Some living love our England for thee bare.
V.
Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea,
And trumpet paeans loud to Liberty,
With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet,
Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet,
From the pure passage of the god to be;
And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.
VI.
I did not think to glorify gods and kings,
Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods;
But who with hope and faith may live at odds?
And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings,
Compete, and laureate laurels _are_ lovely things,
Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods!
Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes!
True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes.
If there _be_ laureate laurels, or bays, or palms,
In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times,
They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms
His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes,
Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of--psalms
That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away!
Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.
Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant,
His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant,
As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock
The rock--whelmed Titan's breathings. He no shock
Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze.
A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please
By undishevelled dandy-daintiness,
Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress.
Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from Hermon;
Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon!
His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text,
Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next!
THE WORTH OF VERSE.
AIR--"_The Birth of Verse_."
Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,
Vague prophecies which fill the ear,
Dim perturbation, precious pain,
A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,--
These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:--
Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!
Some say no definite thought there is
In my full flatulence of sound.
Let National Observers quiz
(H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!)
Envy! _O trumpery, O MORRIS!_
Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE?
I know the chambers of my soul
Are filled with laudatory airs,
Such as the salaried bard should troll
When he the Laureate laurels wears.
And I am he who opened Hades,
To harmless parsons and to ladies!
For I _can_ "moralise my song"
More palpably than Mr. POPE;
And I can touch the toiling throng:
There is small doubt of _that_, I hope.
I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows,
And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs.
I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete,
But on the Liberal goose I'm sound.
And I can count my (rhythmic) feet
With any Pegasus around.
I witch all women, and some men,
GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "_Gwen_."
If these be not sufficient claims,
The worth of Verse is vastly small.
I've called him various pretty names,
The honoured Master of us all;
"His place is with the Immortals." Yes!
But I could fill it _here_, I guess!
His "chaste white Muse" could not object,
For mine is white, and awfully chaste.
Now ALGERNON has no respect
For purity and public taste.
EDWIN is given to allegory.
Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!
He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak.
And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Experienced Sportsman_ (_on Pony_). "WELL--HAD GOOD
SPORT, FRED, OLD BOY?"
_Inexperienced Fred_. "NOT EXACTLY 'GOOD,'--BUT I THINK I'VE LET OFF
ABOUT A HUNDRED CARTRIDGES."
_Experienced Sportsman_. "NOT SO BAD. S'POSE YOU MUST HAVE 'LET OFF'
AN EQUAL NUMBER OF PARTRIDGES!"]
* * * * *
IN A GHOST-SHOW.
_Warlock's "Celebrated Ghost-Exhibition and Deceptio Visus"
has pitched its tent for the night on a Village Green, and the
thrilling Drama of "Maria Martin, or, The Murder in the Red
Barn, in three long Acts, with unrivalled Spectral Effects and
Illusions," is about to begin. The Dramatis Personae are on the
platform outside; the venerable Mr. MARTIN is exhorting the
crowd to step up and witness his domestic tragedy, while the
injured MARIA, is taking the twopences at the door; WILLIAM
CORDER is finishing a pipe, and two of the Angelic Visions
are dancing, in blue velveteen and silver braid, to the
appropriate air of "The Bogie Man."_
INSIDE.
_The front benches are occupied by Rustic Youths, who beguile
the tedium of waiting by smoking short clays, and trying to
pull off one another's caps._
_First Youth_ (_examining the decorative Shakspearian panels on the
proscenium._) They three old wimmin be a-pokin' o' that old nipper,
'ooever he be.
[_The "old nipper" in question is, of course, MACBETH._
_Second Youth._ Luk up at that 'un tother side--it's a Gineral's
gho-ast a-frightenin' th' undertaker (_A subject from "Hamlet"_)
They've gi'en over dancin' outside--they'll be beginning soon. (_The
company descend the steps, and pass behind the scenes._) We shall see
proper 'ere, we shall.
[_The Curtain draws up, and reveals a small stage, with an
inclined sheet of glass in a heavy frame in front; behind this
glass is the Cottage Home of MARIA MARTIN._
_Maria_ (_coming out of Cottage, and speaking in an inaudible tone_).
At last--WILLIAM CORDER--to make me his wife--I know not why--strange
misgiving 'as come over me.
[Illustration: "They catch one another's wrists, and walk up and down
together."]
[_She is unfeelingly requested to speak up._
_William Corder_ (_whose villany is suggested at once by his wearing
a heavy silver double watch-chain, with two coins appended, and no
neck-tie--enters left_). Yes, MARIA, as I have promised, I will take
you to London, and make you my wife--but first meet me in disguise
to-night, and in secret, at the Red Barn.
[_MARIA is understood to demur, but finally agrees to the
rendezvous, and retires into the Cottage. Old Mr. MARTIN
comes out in a black frock-coat, and a white waistcoat--he
has no neck-tie either, but the omission, in his case, merely
suggests a virtuous economy. He feebly objects to MARIA
being married in London, but admits that, "Perhaps he has no
right to interfere with WILLIAM's arrangements," and goes
indoors again. WILLIAM retires, and the scene changes to a
'very small street, which is presently invaded by a very large
Comic Countryman, called "TIM," who is engaged to MARIA's
sister NANNY._
_Tim_. They tell I, as how the streets o' Lunnon be paved wi' gold,
and I be goin' 'oop to make ma fortune, I be.
[_NANNY comes in and bribes him to remain by the promise of
"cold pudden with plenty of gravy." Comic business, during
which every reference to "cold pudden" (and there are several)
is received with roars of laughter. WILLIAM CORDER, on
the ingenious plea that he wishes to take some flowers up
to London, borrows a spade and pickaxe from TIM, to whom it
appears he owes ninepence, which he promises--like the villain
he is--to repay "the very next time he sees him in Church."_
_William_ (_going off with a flourish and a Shakspearian couplet_).
My _mind's_ made up. Hence _all_ thoughts _that_ are good!
Crimes _once_ commenced, _Must_. End in--blood! [_Act drop._
_A Female Spect._ They don't seem in no 'urry to come to th' Gho-ast
part, seemin'ly.
_Her Swain._ Ye wudn't have 'em do th' Gho-ast afoor th' Murder, wud
ye?
ACT II.--_The interior of the Red Barn. WILLIAM _discovered
digging MARIA's grave in his shirt-sleeves, and thereby
revealing that his shirt-front is as false as his heart.
He announces that "Nothing can shake him, now, from his
pre-determined purpose," and that "the grave gapes for its
coming victim."_
_Enter MARIA, disguised in a brown bowler hat and a very
tight suit of tweed "dittoes," in which she looks very like
the "Male Impersonator" at a Music-hall. The Audience receive
her with derision and the recommendation to go and get her
hair cut._
_Maria_. Here am I in disguise at the Red Barn. And yet something
seems to whisper to me that danger is near. WILLIAM, where, _where_
are you?
_William_ (_coming out of a corner_). 'Ere, MARIA, 'ere! (_Aside._)
Now to 'url my victim to an early grave! (_Aloud._) 'Ave you obeyed my
instructions and avoided notice?
_Maria_. I have. Whenever I saw anyone approaching, I hid behind a
hedge and ducked in the ditch.
_William_ (_with sombre approval_). That was most discreet on your
part, MARIA. No one saw you come in, and no one will ever see you go
out. Be'old your open grave!
[_After some pleading from MARIA, a desperate struggle takes
place--that is, they catch one another's wrists, and walk up
and down together. MARIA calls upon her Mother's spirit,
whereupon a very youthful Angel is seen floating above the
couple._
_The Female S._ (_triumphantly_). Theer now--theer ain't bin no murder
yet, and theer's th' Gho-ast sure enough!
_Swain_ (_who is not going to own that he is mistaken_). That ain't
naw Gho-ast!
_Female S._ What is it, then?
_Swain._ Why, it's the "De-cep-ti-o Vissus," as was wrote up outside.
[_The Guardian Angel vanishes; WILLIAM _gets a spade, and
aims at MARIA, who takes it away, and strikes him; he is
then reduced to the pick-axe, but she wrests this from him
too, and hits him in the face with it. He pulls her coat off,
and her hair down--but she escapes from him a third time--on
which he snatches up a pistol, and fires it._
_William_ (_with unreasonable surprise_). Great Evans! What 'ave I
done? I, am become a _Murderer_! The shot 'as taken effect! See,
she staggers this way! (_Which MARIA does, to die comfortably in
WILLIAM's arms_.) I 'ave slain the only woman who ever truly loved
me; and I know not whether I loved her most while living, or hate her
most now she's dead! (_The Curtain falls, leaving WILLIAM with this
nice point still unsolved, and the Audience profoundly unmoved by the
tragedy, and evidently longing for more of the Comic Countryman._)
ACT III.--_Interior of Old MARTIN's Cottage. He attempts to
forget his anxiety about his daughter--who he fears, with
only too much reason, has come to an untimely end--by going to
sleep in a highly uncomfortable position on a kitchen-chair.
The Murder is re-enacted in a vision, in dumb-show. The form
of MARIA appears in the tweed suit, and urges him to search
for her remains in the Red Barn._
_Old Martin_ (_awaking_). I have 'ad a fearful dream, and I am under
the impression that MARIA has been foully murdered in the Red Barn.
[_He calls the Comic Countryman to help him "to commence
a thorough investigation"--which he does, in a spirit of
rollicking fun befitting the occasion, as the Scene changes to
the Red Barn._
_Old M._ (_finding the spade_). What's this? A spade--and, by its
appearance, it 'as recently been used, for there are marks of blood
upon it! I now begin to be afraid my dream will come true.
[_Roars of laughter when the Comic C. discovers the body, and
implores it to "say summat!" Change of Scene. WILLIAM CORDER
discovered At Home, in a long perspective of pillars and
curtains, ending in a lawn and fountain._
_William_ (_moodily_). 'Tis now exactly twelve months since MARIA
MARTIN was done to death by these 'ands. Since then, I have married a
young, rich, and beautiful wife--and yet I am not 'appy.
[_Enter Old MARTIN, who, by the simple method of changing
his hat and coat, has now become a Bow-street Officer; he puts
questions to WILLIAM, who at once betrays himself, and has
to be searched. As a pair of pistols exactly resembling one
that was left in the Red Barn, are found in his coat-tail
pockets; his guilt is conclusively proved, and he is led away.
The next Scene shows him in the Condemned Cell, resolving to
sleep away his few remaining hours on a kitchen-chair. He has
a vision of MARIA in tweeds, who exhorts him to repent_.
Old MARTIN, _who is now either the Governor of the Gaol or the
Hangman, enters to conduct him to the scaffold, and on the way
he is met--to the joy of the Audience--by the Comic, C.,
who duns him for the ninepence. WILLIAM shakes his head
solemnly, points to the skies, and passes on. The Comic C.
then goes to sleep in a chair and has a vision on his own
account, in which he beholds the apotheosis of MARIA--still
in the suit of dittoes--and piloted by a couple of obviously
overweighted Angels; and also the last moments of WILLIAM
CORDER, who, as he stands under an enlarged "Punch"
gibbet, pronounces the following impressive farewell before
disappearing through a trap._
Ye Youth, be warned by my Despair!
Avoid bad women, false as they are fair. (_This is just a little
hard on poor MARIA by-the-way._)
Be wise in time, if you would shun my fate,
For oh! how wretched is the man who's wise too late!
[_And with this the Drama comes to an end, and the Comic
Countryman begs the Audience to give the performance a good
word to their friends outside._
* * * * *
BETWEEN THE ACTS; OR, THE DRAMA IN LIQUOR.
SCENE--_Refreshment Saloon at a London Theatre. A three-play
bill forms the evening's entertainment. First Act over. Enter
BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON._
_Brown_. Well, really a very pleasant little piece. Quite amusing.
Yes; I think I will have a cup of coffee or a glass of lemonade. Too
soon after dinner for anything stronger.
_Jones_. Yes, and really, after laughing so much, one gets a thirst
for what they call light refreshments. I will have some ginger-beer.
_Robinson_. Well, I think I will stick to iced-water. You know the
Americans are very fond of that. They always take it at meal-times,
and really after that capital _equivoque_ one feels quite satisfied.
(_They are served by the Bar Attendant._) That was really very funny,
where he hides behind the door when she is not looking.
[_Laughs at the recollection._
_Brown_. And when the uncle sits down upon the band-box and crushes
the canary-cage! [_Chuckles._