PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 101.
September 12, 1891.
SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.
CHAPTER IV.
Reims—Solemnity—Relief—En voiture—Politeness—Calling—Calves—Caves—Starting—Cocher—Duet.
Seen the Cathedral. Grand. As I am not making notes for a Guide-book, shall say nothing about it. "Don't mention it." I shan't. Much struck by the calm air of repose about Reims. So silent is it, that DAUBINET's irrepressible singing in the solemn court-yard of the Hotel comes quite as a relief. It is an evidence of life. This Hotel's exceptional quietude suggests the idea of its being conducted like a prison on the silent system, with, of course, dumbwaiters to assist in the peculiarly clean and tidy salle à manger.
"Petzikoff! Blass the Prince of WAILES!" sings out DAUBINET, whose Mark-Tapley-like spirits would probably be only exhilarated by a lonely night in the Catacombs. Then he shakes hands with me violently. In France he insists upon shaking hands on every possible occasion with anybody, in order to convey to his own countrymen the idea of what a thorough Briton he is.
"Vous avez eu votre café? Eh bien alors—allons! pour passer chez mon ami VESQUIER," says DAUBINET, at the same time signalling a meandering fly-driver who, having pulled up near the Cathedral, is sitting lazily on his box perusing a newspaper. He looks up, catches sight of DAUBINET, nods, folds up the paper, sits on it, gives the reins one shake to wake up the horse, and another, with a crack of his whip, to set the sleepy animal in motion, and, the animal being partially roused, he drives across the street to us. DAUBINET directs him, and on we go, lumbering and rattling through the town, meeting only one other voiture, whose driver appears infinitely amused at his friend having obtained a fare. Some chaff passes between them, which to me is unintelligible, and which DAUBINET professes not to catch, but I fancy, whatever it is, it is not highly complimentary to our cocher's fares. In one quarter through which we drive, they are setting up the booths and roundabouts for a Fair.
"They can't do much business here," I observe to my companion.
"Immense!" he replies.—"But there's no one about."
"There will be," he returns. "Manufacturing town—everybody engaged in business. Bell rings—Caramba!—out they come, like the cigarette-makers in Carmen." Here he hums a short musical extract from BIZET's Opera, then resumes—"Town's all alive—then, after dinner, back to business—evening time out to play, to cafés, to the Fair! God save the QUEEN!"
"But there's nothing doing at night, as we saw when we arrived yesterday," I observe.
"No," says DAUBINET; "it is an early place." Then he sings, "If you're waking"—he pronounces it "whacking"—"call me early, mothair dear!" finishing up with a gay laugh, and a guttural ejaculation in Russian; at least, I fancy it is Russian. "Ah! voilà!" We have pulled up before a very clean-looking and handsome façade. The carriage-gates are closed, but a side-door is immediately opened, and a neat elderly woman answers DAUBINET's inquiries to his perfect satisfaction. "VESQUIER est chez lui. Entrez donc!" We enter, profoundly saluting the porteress. When abroad, an Englishman should never omit the smallest chance of taking off his hat and bowing profoundly, no matter to whom it may be. Every Englishman abroad represents "All England"—not the eleven, but the English character generally, and therefore, when among people noted for their politeness, he should be absolutely remarkable for his courteous manners. As a rule, to which there can be no exception taken, never lose any opportunity of lifting your hat, and making your most polished bow. This, in default of linguistic facility, is universally understood and appreciated in all civilised countries. In uncivilised countries, to remove your hat, or to bow, may be taken as a gross outrage on good manners, or as signifying some horrible immorality, in which case the offender would not have the chance of repeating his well-intentioned mistake. But within the limits of Western enlightenment to bow is mere civility, and may be taken as a preface to conversation; to omit it is to show lack of breeding and to court hostility. Therefore, N.B. Rule in travelling—Bow to everybody. And this, by the way, is, after all, only Sir Pertinax Macsycophant's receipt for getting on in the world by "boo'ing and boo'ing."
We pass through a courtyard, reminding me of the kind of courtyard still to be seen in some of our old London City houses-of-business. This, however, is modernised with whitewash. Here also, it being a Continental court-yard, are the inevitable orange-trees in huge green tubs placed at the four corners. A few pigeons feeding, a blinking cat curled up on a mat, pretending to take no sort of interest in the birds, and a little child playing with a cart. Such is this picture. Externally, not much like a house of business; but it is, and of big business too. We enter a cool and tastefully furnished apartment. Here M. VESQUIER receives us cordially. He has a military bearing, suggesting the idea of a Colonel en retraite. I am preparing compliments and interrogatories in French, when he says, in good plain English, with scarcely an accent—
"Now DAUBINET has brought you here, we must show you the calves, and then back to breakfast. Will that suit you?"
"Perfectly." I think to myself—why "calves"? It sounded like "calves," only without the "S." Must ask presently.
M. VESQUIER begs to be excused for a minute; he will return directly. I look to DAUBINET for an explanation. "We are, then, going to see a farm, I presume?" I say to him. "Farm!" exclaims DAUBINET, surprised. "Que voulez-vous dire, mon cher?"—"Well, didn't Mister—Mister—" "VESQUIER," suggests DAUBINET.
"Yes, Mister VESQUIER—didn't he say we were to go and 'see the calves'?—C'est à dire," I translate, in despair at DAUBINET's utterly puzzled look, "que nous irons avec lui à la ferme pour voir les veaux—the calves."—"Ha! ha! ha!" Off goes DAUBINET into a roar. Evidently I've made some extraordinary mistake. It flashes across me suddenly. Owing to M. VESQUIER's speaking such excellent English, it never occurred to me that he had suddenly interpolated the French word "caves" as an anglicised French word into his speech to me. This accounts for his suppression of the final consonant.
"Ah!" I exclaim, suddenly enlightened; "I see—the cellars."
"Pou ni my?" cries DAUBINET, still in ecstasies, and speaking Russian or modern Greek. "Da!—of course—c'est ça—nous allons voir les caves—the cellars—where all the champagne is. Karrascho!"
At this moment M. VESQUIER returns. He will just take us through the offices to his private rooms. Clerks at work everywhere. Uncommonly like an English place of business: not much outward difference between French clerks in a large house like this and English ones in one of our great City houses; only this isn't the
"Now then, Gentlemen," says the gérant of POPP & Co, "here's a voiture. We have twenty minutes' drive." The Popp-Manager points out to me all the interesting features of the country. DAUBINET amuses himself by sitting on the box and talking to the coachman.
"It excites me," he explains, when requested to take a back seat inside—though, by the way, it is in no sense DAUBINET's métier to "take a back seat,"—"it excites me—it amuses me to talk to a cocher. On ne peut pas causer avec un vrai cocher tous les jours." And presently we see them gesticulating to each other and talking both at once, DAUBINET, of course, is speaking English and various other languages, but as little French as possible, to the evident bewilderment of the driver. DAUBINET is perfectly happy. "Petzikoff! Blass the Prince of WAILES!" I hear him bursting out occasionally. Whereat the coachman smiles knowingly, and flicks the horses.
THE TWO WINDS.
(A Fairy Story for the Season of 1891. Imitated—at a distance—from Hans Andersen's celebrated Tale of "The Four Winds.")
The Mother of the Winds (acting as locum tenens for her Clerk of the Weather, who, sick of his own unseasonable work, was off to spend his annual holiday with Mr. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON in the Pacific Isles), received the desperately damp, dishevelled, blown-about, and almost heart-broken Princess AGRICULTURA at the door of the Cave.
"Oh, here you are again!" she cried, "once more in the Cavern of the Winds! And this time you have brought two of my sons with you, I see," she added, pointing to the South Wind and the West Wind, who were blowing away at the Princess like bellowsy blends of Blizzards, Cloud-bursts, Tornadoes and Tritons.
"Oh, do for pity's sake, stop them!" cried AGRICULTURA, struggling hard to keep herself and her garments together. "It seems as though the heavens have become one vast sluice, that keeps pouring down water, as my predecessor, the Prince, put it. I have not a dry thread about me. Please put them in their Bags—do—whilst I have a little talk with you about them, and the mischief they have been doing."
Two prolonged chuckles, a deep stentorian one and a sharp staccato one, came from the two Bags already hanging to the wall of the Cavern, from whence subsequently protruded the round ruddy form of the North and the pinched figure of the East Wind. "Ho! ho! ho!" chortled the North Wind, chokingly. "Who says I do all the damage?"
"He! he! he!" sniggered the East Wind, raspingly. "Who is the pickle and spoil-sport now, I should like to know?"
"Shut up!" said the Mother of the Winds, sharply. "And as to you two," she added, turning to the South and West Winds, "if you don't stand still and give an account of yourselves, I'll pop you into your respective Bags in the twinkling of a hundred-ton gun!"
"Why, who is she, that she should call us over the clouds?" cried the two Winds, stopping their blowing a bit, and pointing to the Princess.
"She is my guest," said the old woman; "and if that does not satisfy you, you need only get into the Bags. Do you understand me now?"
Well, this did the business at once; and the two Winds, in a breath, began to relate whence they came, and what they had been doing for nearly three months past.
"We have been spoiling the English Summer," they said.
"That's nothing new," muttered the Mother of the Winds.
"Isn't it, though—in the way we've done it?" cried the two, triumphantly. "Why, those two Boys over yonder, uniting their flatulent forces, could not have done better—or worse. Ho! ho! ho! They made last winter a frozen Sahara. We've made the present summer a squashy Swamp! The winter was as dry as the dust of RAMESES. The summer has been as wet as old St. Swithin's gingham. We soaked June, we drenched July, and we drowned August. We squelched the strawberry season, reducing tons of promising fruit to flavourless pulp, and the growers to damp despair. Whooosh!! What a wetting we gave 'em!!! As soon as the Cricket Season started, so did we! Didn't we just? We simply sopped all the wickets, and spoilt all the matches, either keeping the cricketers waiting in the pavilion or slipping about on sloppy slithery turf. Consequently, the Cricketing Season has been a sickening sell. We 'watered down' the 'averages' of all the 'cracks.' S.W. was too many for W.G. (GRACE, of Gloucester), and W.W. gave the other W.W. (READ, of Surrey) a fair doing! We followed 'The Leviathan' in particular about persistently, till he must be real glad to 'take his hook' to Australia. Wherever he was playing, from Kennington to Clifton, we combined our forces, swooped down on him, and simply washed him out!"
"Wanton wags!" said the Mother of the Winds, reproachfully.
"Ra-ther," yelled her promising offspring in chorus. "But that's not all, is it, S.W.?—is it W.W.? We mucked up Lawn Tennis, soaked Henley Regatta, nearly spoilt the German EMPEROR's visit, ruined all the al fresco functions of the Season—slap!—flooded Society out of London, only to deluge them in their flitting till they wished they were back again, intensified the Influenza Epidemic, and—"
"Oh! stop, stop!" moaned the Old Woman. "Those Boys yonder will burst—with jealousy. But what have you been doing to the Princess AGRICULTURA here?"
The two broke into a spasmodic duo of delight and disdain. "Why look at her?" they cried. "Doesn't she speak for herself?"
"I do," replied AGRICULTURA. "And I charge this pair of Pernicious Pickles with planning—and to a large extent effecting—my Destruction! Hay, Hops, Cereals, Root-Crops, Fruits and Flowers—all ruined by these roystering rascals. They've done more incurable mischief in three supposed-to-be Summer Months than those much-maligned Boys over yonder did all the Winter. They've had it all their own way the Season through, ay, as much as though they'd nailed the weathercock to S.W., and knocked out the bottom of Aquarius's water-pot. And I call upon you, O Mother of the Winds, to pop them at once into their respective Bags, sit upon them till they are choked silent and still, and then hang them up to dry—if dry such watery imps can—for at least six months to come!"
Now whether the Mother of the Winds gave ear to the prayer of the poor Princess AGRICULTURA, and imposed upon the Two Winds the punishment they richly deserved, the sequel must show.
SIGNS OF BREEDING.
(Vide Correspondence in the "Daily Telegraph.")Little Binks agrees with Lord Byron that Breeding shews itself in the Hands, and complacently surveys his own.
"BOSH!"
MORE MESSAGES FROM THE MAHATMA.
1. I AM KOOT HOOMIBOOG. There are more things in my philosophy than were ever dreamed of in heaven or earth. You are POONSH. You are a Thrupni but you are not a Mahatma. Be a Mahatma, and save your postage expenses. But you must be discreet; and you must be exceeding vague. A Mahatma is nothing if he is not vague. You must also be elusive. Can you elude? It is no light matter to prove one's spiritual capacity by materialising a cigarette inside a grand piano.
2. Your reply to my letter is soulless and sceptical. How can you ask me, O POONSH, what I am trying to get at? I ask nothing from you. It would be to your advantage rather than mine if you printed my poem on the Re-incarnation of Ginan Bittas, entitled The Soul's Gooseberry Bush. And if you will only be a Mahatma, or a disciple, I will gladly let you have the serial rights in that great work. What do you mean by saying you do not want to find cigarettes in your neighbour's piano? Think it over again, and you will see the beauty of it. You are a Thrupni, but surely you have some spiritual needs.
3. You say that you do not want my poem, and you ask me if I have no further attractions to offer. I am KOOT HOOMIBOOG, and I have kept the greatest attraction for the last. If you will only join us, you may find a few newspapers who will discuss you. You may see the question whether you are a fool or a knave debated in the correspondence columns. Think of the glory of it!
4. What? you won't? Well; I am surprised!
THE (EUROPEAN) WORLD AND ITS WIFE.—Europe—says an oracle—is "Wedded to Peace." Possibly. And Europe, doubtless, does not exactly desire a divorce. But Europe has to pay pretty heavily—in armies and fleets, &c.—for Peace's "maintenance."
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
No. VI.
SCENE—Garden of the Hotel Victoria at Bingen, commanding a view of the Rhine and the vine-terraced hills, which are bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Under the mopheaded acacias, CULCHARD and PODBURY are sitting smoking. At a little distance from them, are a Young Married Couple, whose honeymoon is apparently in its last quarter.
The Bridegroom (lazily, to Bride, as she draws another chair towards her for a foot-rest). How many more chairs do you want?
Bride (without looking at him). I should think you could spare me one—you can hardly sit on three at once!
[After this interchange of amenities, they consider themselves absolved from any further conversational efforts.
Podb. (to CULCH., resuming a discussion). I know as well as you do that we are booked for Nuremberg; but what I say is—that's no earthly reason why we should go there!
Culch. No reason why you should go, unless you wish it, certainly. I intend to go.
Podb. Well, it's beastly selfish, that's all! I know why you're so keen about it, too. Because the TROTTERS are going.
Culch. (colouring). That's an entire mistake on your part. Miss TROTTER has nothing to do with it. I don't even know whether she's going or not—for certain.
Podb. No, but you've a pretty good idea that she is, though. And I know how it will be. You'll be going about with her all the time, and I shall be shunted on to the old man! I don't see it, you know! (CULCH. remains silent. A pause. PODBURY suddenly begins to search his pockets.) I say—here's a pretty fix! Look here, old fellow, doosid annoying thing, but I can't find my purse—must have lost it somewhere!
Culch. (stoically). I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. It's awkward, certainly. I suppose I shall have to lend you enough to go home with—it's all I can do; but I'll do that with—er—pleasure.
Podb. (staring). Go home? Why, I can wire to the governor for more, easily enough. We shall have to stay here till it comes, that's all.
Culch. And give up Nuremberg? Thank you!
Podb. I rather like this place, you know—sort of rest. And we could always nip over to Ems, or Homburg, if it got too slow, eh?
Culch. If I nip over anywhere, I shall nip to Nuremberg. We may just as well understand one another, PODBURY. If I'm to provide money for both of us, it's only reasonable that you should be content to go where I choose. I cannot, and will not, stand these perpetual interferences with our original plan; it's sheer restlessness. Come with me to Nuremberg, and I shall be very happy to be your banker. Otherwise, you must stay here alone.
[He compresses his lips and crosses his legs.
Podb. Oh, that's it, is it? But look here, why not tit up whether we go on or stay?
Culch. Why should I "tit up," as you call it, when I've already made up my mind to go. When I once decide on anything, it's final.
The Bride (to Bridegroom, without enthusiasm). Would you like me to roll you a cigarette?
Bridegroom (with the frankness of an open nature). Not if I know it. I can do it better myself.
Bride (coldly). I see.
[Another silence, at the end of which she rises and walks slowly away, pausing at the gate to see whether he intends to follow. As he does not appear to have remarked her absence, she walks on.
Podbury (to Culch., in an undertone). I say, those two don't seem to hit it off exactly, eh? Seem sorry they came! You'll be glad to hear, old fellow, that we needn't separate after all. Just found my purse in my trouser-pocket!
Culch. Better luck than you deserve. Didn't I tell you you should have a special pocket for your money and coupons? Like this—see. (He opens, his coat.) With a buttoned flap, it stands to reason they must be safe!
Podb. So long as you keep it buttoned, old chap,—which you don't seem to do!
Culch. (annoyed). Pshaw! The button is a trifle too—(feels pocket, and turns pale). Good Heavens, it—it's gone!
Podb. The button?
Culch. (patting himself all over with shaking hands). Everything!—money, coupons, circular notes! They—they must have fallen out going up that infernal Niederwald. (Angrily.) You would insist on going!
Podb. Phew! The whole bag of tricks gone! You're lucky if you get them again. Any number of tramps and beggars all the way up. Shouldn't have taken off your coat—very careless of you! (He grins.)
Culch. It was so hot. I must go and inform the Police here—I may recover it yet. Anyway, we—we must push on to Nuremberg, and I'll telegraph home for money to be sent there. You can let me have enough to get on with?
Podb. With all the pleasure in life, dear boy—on your own conditions, you know. I mean, if I pay the piper, I call the tune. Now, I don't cotton to Nuremberg somehow; I'd rather go straight on to Constance; we could get some rowing
Culch. (pettishly). Rowing be —— (recollecting his helplessness). No; but just consider, my dear PODBURY. I assure you you'll find Nuremberg a most delightful old place. You must see how bent I am on going there!
Podb. Oh, yes, I see that. But then I'm not, don't you know—so there we are!
Culch. (desperately). Well, I'll—I'll meet you half-way. I've no objection to—er—titting up with you—Nuremberg or Constance. Come?
Podb. You weren't so anxious to tit up just now—but never mind. (Producing a mark.) Now then, Emperor—Constance. Eagle—Nuremberg. Is it sudden death, or best out of three? [He tosses.
Culch. Sud—(The coin falls with the Emperor uppermost.) Best out of three.
[He takes coin from PODBURY and tosses.
Podb. Eagle! we're even so far. (He receives coin.) This settles it. [He tosses.
Culch. Eagle again! Now mind, PODBURY, no going back after this. It must be Nuremberg now.
Podb. All right! And now allow me to have the pleasure of restoring your pocket-book and note-case. They did fall out on the Niederwald, and it was a good job for you I was behind and saw them drop. You must really be more careful, dear boy. Ain't you going to say "ta" for them?
Culch. (relieved). I'm—er—tremendously obliged. I really can't say how.—(Recollecting himself.) But you need not have taken advantage of it to try to do me out of going to Nuremberg—it was a shabby trick!
Podb. Oh, it was only to get a rise out of you. I never meant to keep you to it, of course. And I say, weren't you sold, though? Didn't I lead up to it beautifully? (He chuckles.) Score to me, eh!
Culch. (with amiable sententiousness). Ah, well, I don't grudge you your little joke if it amuses you. Those laugh best who laugh last. And it's settled now that we're going to Nuremberg.
[Miss TROTTER and her father have come out from the Speisesaal doors, and overhear the last speech.
Mr. Trotter (to Culchard). Your friend been gettin' off a joke on you, Sir?
Culch. Only in his own estimation, Mr. TROTTER. I have nailed him down to going to Nuremberg, which, for many reasons, I was extremely anxious to visit. (Carelessly.) Are we likely to be there when you are?
Miss T. I guess not. We've just got our mail, and my cousin, CHARLEY VAN BOODELER, writes he's having a real lovely time in the Engadine—says it's the most elegant locality he's struck yet, and just as full of Amurrcans as it can hold; so we're going to start out there right away. I don't believe we shall have time for Nuremberg this trip. Father, if we're going to see about checking the baggage through, we'd better go down to the dépôt right now. [They pass on.
Culch. (with a very blank face and a feeble whistle). Few-fitty-fitty-fitty-fa-di-fee-fee-foo; few—After all, PODBURY, I don't know that I care so much about Nuremberg. They—they say it's a good deal changed from what it was.
Podb. So are you, old chap, if it comes to that. Tiddledy-iddlety-ido-lumpty-doodle-oo! Is it to be Constance after all, then?
Culch. (reddening). Er—I rather thought of the Engadine—more bracing, eh?—few-feedle-eedle-oodle—
Podb. You artful old whistling oyster, I see what you're up to! But it's no go; she don't want either of us Engadining about after her. It's CHARLEY VAN STICKINTHEMUD's turn now! We've got to go to Nuremberg. You can't get out of it, after gassing so much about the place. When you've once decided, you know, it's final!
Culch. (with dignity). I am not aware that I wanted to get out of it. I merely proposed in your—(PODBURY suddenly explodes.) What are you cackling at now?
Podb. (wiping his eyes). It's the last laugh, old man,—and it's the best!
[CULCHARD walks away rapidly, leaving PODBURY in solitary enjoyment of the joke. PODBURY's mirth immediately subsides into gravity, and he kicks several unoffending chairs with quite uncalled-for brutality.
A "KNOT"ICAL STORY OF DRURY LANE.
(Told by our aged Salt, with a taste for the Dibdin Drama.)
What, not remember it! Not the scene on Wapping Old Stairs and Mr. CHARLES GLENNEY in the Merchant Service, and Miss MILLWARD the Ward of Count GURNEY DELAUNAY! Not remember all that! Not recollect the pretty set with the River, the boat-house, and the figure-heads! Ah, tell it to the Marines! Not that they would believe you! I remember it, and a good deal more. Now it came about in this way. You see Miss MILLWARD thought that Lieutenant CHARLES WARNER, R.N.—"her sweetheart as a boy"—was dead, and, like a sensible young lady, made arrangements to marry his foster-brother, meaning GLENNEY. This she would have done most comfortably, had not the Count and a Boat-builder, one JULIAN CROSS PENNYCAD, objected. But after all, their opposition wouldn't have come to much hadn't Lieutenant CHARLES WARNER, R.N., taken it into his head to turn up from the Centre of Africa, or the Cannibal Islands, or somewhere. On second thoughts I don't think it could have been the Cannibal Islands, because there they would have certainly eaten him—he looked so plump, and in such excellent condition. Well, Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., finding that Miss MILLWARD was on the eve of marrying Mr. GLENNEY, most nobly made room for his foster-brother, and hurried back to sea. But as luck (and Mr. HENRY PETTIT) would have it, just as the lady and gentleman were on their way to Stepney Old Church to be spliced, who should turn up in a uniform that showed him to be a fine figure of a man but Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., himself—with the Press Gang. It turned out that Lieutenant WARNER's ship was very under-manned, and that he had been ordered by his Captain to get all the sailors he could on board H.M.S. Dauntless—a vessel, by the way, that afterwards proved to be the very image of the Victory. And here came a complication. Through the treachery of JULIAN CROSS PENNYCAD, Lieutenant WARNER seized Mr. GLENNEY just as he and Miss MILLWARD were entering Stepney Old Church. Says Mr. GLENNEY to Lieutenant WARNER, "What, taking me, because you are jealous of me, on my wedding-day! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" or words to that effect. Says Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., to Mr. GLENNEY, "Nothing of the sort. For the man who would betray another, save in the way of kindness, on his bridal morn, is unworthy of the name of a British sailor," or words to that effect. Then Miss MILLWARD chimed in, and thus touched the heart of Lieutenant WARNER, R.N., so deeply that he ordered Mr. GLENNEY's immediate release. "I forget my duty," explained the generous WARNER. "But I don't," put in his superior officer, Captain WILLIAM LUGG VERNON, "and I order that man to be carried on board!" and there was not a dry eye amongst those present, except, perhaps, amongst the heartless "Press Gang," who, having
SONGS FOR THE PRO. AND CON. THEOSOPHICAL CONTROVERSIALISTS.—"All round Mahatmas," "He's a jolly good Chela!" "Row, Brothers, Row!" and "Why did my 'Masters' sell me?"
CRICKETANA. YOUNG LADIES V. BOYS.
Fair Batter (ætat. 18). "NOW, JUST LOOK HERE, ALGY JONES—NONE OF YOUR PATRONAGE! YOU DARE TO BOWL TO ME WITH YOUR LEFT HAND AGAIN, AND I'LL BOX YOUR EARS!""NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH."
A Scene very freely adapted from "The Critic."
Enter Mr. PUNCH, First Commissioner of Police, Inspector, and Constables.
Commissioner. Oh! very valiant Constables: one is the Inspector himself, the others are ordinary P.C.'s. And now I hope you shall hear some better language. I was obliged to be plain and intelligible in my manifesto, because there was so much matter-of-fact ground for remonstrance, and even chiding; but still, 'i faith, I am proud of my men, who, in point of fact, are fine fellows.
Mr. P. Unquestionably! But let us listen—unobserved, if so it may be.
Inspector. How's this, my lads! What cools your usual zeal,
And makes your helméd valour down i' the mouth?
Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame
Whose reddening blaze, by civic spirit fed,
Should be the beacon of a happy Town?
Can the smart patter of a Bobby's tongue
Thus stagnate in a cold and prosy converse,
Or freeze in oathless inarticulateness?
No! Let not the full fountain of your valour
Be choked by mere official wiggings, or
Your prompt consensus of prodigious swearing
Be checked by the philanthropists' foaming wrath,
Or high officialdom's hostility!
Mr. P. There it is, Mr. Commissioner; they admit your by no means soft impeachment.
Commissioner. Nay, listen yet awhile!
1st P.C. No more!—the freshening breeze of your rebuke
Hath filled the napping canvas of our souls!
And thus, though magistrates expostulate,
[All take hands and raise their truncheons.
And hint that ANANIAS dressed in blue,
We'll grapple with the thing called Evidence,
And if we fall, by Heaven! we'll fall together!
Inspector. There spoke Policedom's genius!
Then, are we all resolved?
All. We are—all resolved.
Inspector. To pull—and swear—together?
All. To pull—and swear—together.
Inspector. All?
All. All!
Mr. P. Nem. con. Egad!
Commissioner. Oh, yes! When they do agree in the Force, their unanimity is wonderful!
Inspector. Then let's embrace this resolution, and "Keep it with a constant mind—and now—"
[Kneels.
Mr. P. What the plague, is he going to pray?
Commissioner. Yes—hush! In great emergencies—on the Stage or in the Force—there's nothing like a prayer in chorus.
Inspector. "O MENDEZ PINTO!"
Mr. P. But why should he pray to MENDEZ PINTO?
Commissioner. Oh, "the Knight, PINTO-MENDEZ FERDINANDO," as POE calls him, is the tutelary genius of Bards—and Bobbies! Hush!
Inspector. If in thy homage bred
Each point of discipline I've still observed;
Swearing in squads, affirming in platoons;
Nor but by due promotion, and the right
Of service to the rank P.C. Inspector,
Have risen; assist thy votary now!
1st P.C. Yet do not rise—hear me! [Kneels.
2nd P.C. And me! [Kneels.
3rd P C. And me! [Kneels.
Inspector. Now swear—and pray—all together!
All. We swear!!!
Behold thy votaries submissive beg
That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask,
Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
And sanctify whatever means they use
Mr. P. A very orthodox and harmonious chorus. Their "tutti" is perfection.
Commissioner. Vastly well, is't not? Is that well managed or not? Is the "thin Blue line" well disciplined or not? Have you such absolute perfection of "alltogetherishness" on your lyric stage as the Force voluntarily maintains—in its own interests, and obedient to its own peculiar esprit de corps?
Mr. P. (with significance). Not exactly!
MANY HAPPY RETURNS!
(Punch to Madame La République.)
["The Republic attains its majority to-morrow (Sept. 4). It is the first Government since the Revolution which has had a twenty-first birthday."—The Times.]
Dear Madam, "Perfidious Albion" proffers
The best birthday wishes good feeling can shape!
A snap of the fingers for cynical scoffers!
A fig for the framers of venomous jape.
May Peace and Goodwill be your lasting possession,
Your proud "Valour" tempered by "years of discretion!"
HYGEIA OFF THE SCENT.—It is stated that even the charms of a champagne luncheon failed to attract more than one out of twenty-four members of the Hygienic Congress invited to test the merits of sewage-farms by ocular—or should we say nasal?—demonstration. Perhaps the missing three-and-twenty thought that in this case, at least, Mrs. MALAPROP would be both correct and pertinent in saying that "Comparisons are odorous!"