Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

SEPTEMBER 28, 1895.

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

Aston-ishing!--The English Cup, won by the Aston Villa Football Club last year, has been stolen. Between boots and football a strong affinity exists; and it appears that a _cordonnier_, a member of the club, obtained a loan of the trophy, which he proudly placed in his shop window. On a pedestal, in the midst of all sorts and conditions and sizes of shoes, it stood in silvery splendour--a sovereign, as it were, o'er a kingdom of soles--and was the gaping admiration of the "idle progeny" of the neighbourhood, who, as is well known, evince ever an absorbing interest in all things appertaining to "the rolling circle's speed." And the knight of the Soccus and Cothurnus, the adept constructor of JESSAMY'S slipper and GILES'S "hobnailed," the owner of the store, lulled himself to sleep singing "Dear little Boot-ercup, Sweet little Footer-cup," and dreamed that the goal of his ambition had been reached, and that he had received the appointment of Soler and Heeler Extraordinary to all the Football Clubs of the United Kingdom. But, alas! he awoke one morn to find that a burglary had been committed, and that the Cup had vanished! "It would appear," says the _Liverpool Courier_, "that the thieves _wanted the cup for the value of its silver!_" Oh! impossible! Gentlemen who thus acquire valuable articles of gold or silver do so not for the coarse gratification of an _auri sacra fames_, but rather for the satisfaction of an artistic craving, a laudable desire to contemplate, in poetic solitude, the beauty of the objects.

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* * * * *

"BY PROXY."

More lovely than the summer morn That floods with light a southern shore And smiles upon the yellow corn Thy sister is, O sweet LENORE!

And yet, LENORE, dost thou not guess What draws me now from her to _thee_, What prompts me thus _thy_ hand to press, And from _thy_ lips seek Fate's decree?

Call me not fickle; for I'll love With fondness growing e'er more fond; More tender be than gentle dove Tow'rds her I prize all else beyond.

Dost thou not guess--or _wilt_ thou not-- The thoughts that in my bosom dwell?-- Then "lend me all the ears you've got," And I'll the mystery dispel:

More lovely than the summer sky Your sister is, whom I adore! I would propose--but I'm too shy; Pray _ask her for me_, kind LENORE!

* * * * *

FINAL "VALKYRIE--LONDON" DECISION.--"Quoth DUN-RAVEN, 'Never more!'"

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"SERMONS."

SIR,--I have read some correspondence on this subject in the _Daily Telegraph_. Nothing very original. But, Sir, I must ask a question which I fancy will set clerics and laymen a thinking. This is it: _Why should not a successful sermon have a good long run?_

A play that makes a hit runs for weeks, for months, for years. Audiences come from all parts to hear and see it. They come, too, by night, a most inconvenient time, and not by day. Now, why should it not be the same with a sermon?

Let us suppose that the Rev. Mr. SILVERTRUMPET, of St. Simon's Within-and-Without, preaches a first-rate sermon. For years past, popular preachers have been regularly advertised in the newspapers, and church-goers have been accustomed to look out for announcements as to where Mr. SILVERTRUMPET, or any other popular preacher, is to appear and discourse. The actor, on tour, goes round _with one play_ visiting different towns. _Why not the preacher with one sermon?_

Perhaps the actor has a _répertoire_ acquired in course of time: _so might it be with the preacher_. That a good sermon, once delivered, should be lost, is as hard on the preacher as that a good play should be performed for one night only, and then, "be heard no more!"

My remedial suggestions are: _first_, let critic attend "first morning" or "first afternoon" of a new sermon. Let him praise, or condemn it.

_Secondly._ No critics: but simply an advertisement under a column headed "Churches," announcing that Mr. SILVERTRUMPET or Mr. DESKTHUMPER, or whoever it may be, with all his titles, Canon, Archdeacon, Bishop, Vicar, &c., &c., set out in full, will preach at such and such a time, at such and such a church. Also, I think _the title of the sermon should be given_. There is sometimes an attraction in a title. Then, that sermon being a success, let it be thus advertised:--

ST. SIMON'S WITHIN-AND-WITHOUT.--The Rev. Mr. SILVERTRUMPET'S Sermon, entitled _Charity; or, How We Live Now_, having achieved an ENORMOUS SUCCESS, will be repeated EVERY SUNDAY at 11.30 (_or whatever the hour may be_) until further notice.

I maintain that, as there are crowds attracted from all parts during two years to visit a theatre between the hours of seven and eleven nightly, in order to see an amusing or thrilling play, and a popular actor (likewise twice a week for _matinées_), so, in like manner, there would be crowds to come from all parts to hear a good sermon and see a popular preacher once, or even twice on Sunday.

I remain, Sir, yours, A. LAMBKIN.

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SIR,--About sermons I have this to say, or sing,--

A sermon for Sundays, oh! preach, preach to me! Let those who don't like it complain! But should it delight me, the seats being free, I'm likely to hear it again.

Yours, KNOTT MOORE.

* * * * *

PITCH-ED OUT.--A motion for the introduction of tar-macadam, instead of granite, as pavement for the Aberdeen streets, was rejected by the Town Council after a lengthy and lively discussion upon the subject. What really gave the _coup de grâce_ to the cause of the Tar-macadamites was a councillor's statement that "he had often got a wet foot in a tar-macadam street ('_Hear, hear!_')." This alarming assertion effectually "queered the pitch"--to use a slang expression--for the would-be innovators, and "granite and dry feet" won the day by fourteen votes to nine.

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* * * * *

POETIC LICENCE.

SIR LEWIS MORRIS describes the United States as:--

She Who sits august and free, A crownèd Commonwealth from sea to sea."

But why "crownèd"? America will surely resent the monarchical suggestion. Might not _this_ be more appropriate, Sir LEWIS?:--

She Who owns the Big Countree, Where Niggers are, and Silver may be free, A dollar'd despotism, under three Great tyrants--"Boodle," "Lynch," and "Tammany."

How's _that_ for high-falutin, mellifluous MORRIS?

* * * * *

Edith Mary Ledingham.

_The young stewardess of the "Iona" who met with a terrible death on that ill-fated vessel in the heroic effort to rescue a child._

["She was such a good girl. She was so happy in her new work, and liked the sea."--_Her Mother._]

Only "a Gateshead girl," whose name, Though loved, was all unknown to fame, Until that testing morn, That moment fierce of sudden fear; To-day to English hearts as dear As English girl hath borne!

That awful instant set it fair Among the records high and rare That glorify our State. A girl's heart, simple, cheerful, fond, To desperate duty could respond, In the great moment, great.

What more have History's heroes done? Or with what readier valour won The golden meed of Fame? Only charred ashes left to sight! But on the immortal scroll we write Another gentle name.

Such a good girl! And loved the sea! O white-cliff'd isle, while such as she Light a poor English home. The Viking blood, the NELSON strain No fateful hour shall seek in vain To serve thee on the foam.

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AS THE LAW SHOULD BE.

(_From "The Legal Intelligence" of the Future._)

Mr. Justice _Punch_ then addressed the prisoner in the following words:--"Prisoner at the Bar, you have been rightly found guilty of committing the heinous crime of writing and causing to be published a pernicious form of composition known as a 'Penny Dreadful.' The jury who have tried you have had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that you are solely responsible for the fearful results that have followed the appearance of your latest contribution to criminal literature. Had not _Red-handed Rob_ left the printers there is every reason for believing that the manor-house would have never been burnt down, and that poor Mrs. SMITH would have been still hale and hearty. Nay more, the twenty-seven burglaries and fifty-six other crimes of even a yet more serious character would in all human probabilities have never been committed. For all this terrible work you are primarily responsible. In days gone by you would have escaped the appropriate penalty of your wickedness. But now that the Pernicious Story Punishment Act has become the law of the land, I have the power, as I have long had the will, to treat you with becoming severity." His Lordship then passed sentence in the customary form. Later in the day the publishers and printers of _Red-Handed Rob_ were convicted of being accessories both before and after the fact, and shared the fate of their colleague in iniquity.

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VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE.

(_A Hint to the Purveyors of Tainted Literary Food for Youth_)

The varlet who vends unwholesome victual Is sharply punished, if caught in the act; Why should the scoundrel expect acquittal Who sells bad books to our boys? Sad fact! We know that youth loves not goody boring, That little pigs have no relish for pearls! But where's the excuse for foul garbage pouring In innocent souls of our boys and girls?

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OBERLANDED A LA MODE.

Up in railway; all Switzerland is now "up in railway." Revisiting simple spot opposite Jungfrau; here twenty years ago. "Simple!" Electric light; shops; telescopes; tourists everywhere! They sprawl on hillocks like Bank-holiday-Virginia-Waterers! Just heard one ask waiter, "'Ow many feet are we 'ere above the sea?" "One tousing eight 'undred mètres." "What's the good of meters?" What indeed? Electric light everywhere. Everybody telescoping chamois, and buying photographs; photographs chiefly of _other_ places; all the same when you return home. Men attired like golfers; women in gaiters; exercise, principally shopping. Simple Switzeresses outside toy-booths, talk excellent English, but all in national costume. N.B. National costume can be purchased.

There _used_ to be only half an inn here; there are _now_ five hotels, with a beer-garden, and inevitable casino. Dancing every night. Like to watch fair, fat, sentimental German waltzing solemnly. Elderly Darby of Albion, too, capering the newest shuffles and reverses, would surprise his wife Joan at home. "Darby is devoted to climbing, and I was glad to let him return to the primitive little place I remember on our honeymoon." That is what _she_ thinks. _Climbing!_ Not a bit of it! Most here, when fagged out with shopping, take guide and porter up the "Shamhorn." There's a "Shamhorn" album now wherein proud mountaineers exhibit flights of fancy in their records that one could never guess from their countenances. At _table d'hôte_ not a few of SVENGALI'S opinion, that "only the dirty want to wash." But the water is superb! so are the Alps. Yet am I Oberlanded, and must go lower to feel higher.

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OUR OWN TORRIST IN NORTH DEVON.

_Mem. at Ilfracombe._--Capital boating and fishing here. Likewise plenty of steamering. Lovely scenery everywhere about in this neighbourhood for pedestrians, equestrians, "carriage-folk," and donkey-chaise people. _Special mem. for equestrians and drivers_;--"_Hire on the spot_," which sounds like some direction at billiards, but is meant for advice to riders and drivers. Picturesque caves on coast to visit in rowing-boat, or in canoe which you can paddle yourself. With fair weather, and good waterproof, you can't be dull at Ilfracombe.

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_Mem._--"For outward application only." Before starting for a long and genuinely country walk, put in your pocket a waterproof sponge wrapper. It occupies no space, and, like an objectionable person in a small party, _is always there to be sat upon_. Strong crook-handled stick with pointed ferrule indispensable.

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Were Ilfracombe a French watering-place, how delightful it could be made. Imagine the restaurants, the _déjeuners à la fourchette_, under cover in bad weather, out in the open air in fine; the good bands; the casino; the _établissement_, with excellent reading and writing-rooms, billiard tables, library, first-rate concerts and fair dramatic performances; _petits chevaux_, _petits soupers al fresco_, and every possible opportunity afforded for enjoying life _en pleine air_.

* * * * *

_À propos_ of restaurants, there is a splendid chance for starting a first-rate French hotel in Ilfracombe, with well-devised gardens, and at such a superb height, that while it would be open to all the most refreshing breezes--for it is impossible to feel the full benefit of these in the valley--yet would it be warm and cosy during the coldest months, of which, in an ordinary year with well-regulated seasons, there cannot be many.

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Ilfracombers boast that the snow does not lie in these parts. I hope the Ilfracombers who gave me this information are, so far, like the snow.

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Of course there are golf links. The links-eye'd golf man looks out for these at once, and though he has got to go some little distance for them, there they are--at last. Equally of course there is lawn tennis, and plenty of it close at hand. A shilling an hour; "_net profits_."

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_Per steamboat to Tenby._--Tenby is described on some of the excursionist handbills as "_The Naples of Wales_." If Tenby is the Naples of Wales, then Margate is the Monte Carlo of Kent.

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Tenby Pier being in process of construction, there is no landing except in small boats, of which there appears to be a better supply than is usual on such excursions. But as even these boats cannot be run ashore with their cargoes, there are the stalwart arms of boatmen extended to carry ladies, and boatmen's broad shoulders on which gentlemen, unable to wade, can ride pick-a-back. _Anyone over fifteen stone had better remain on board._

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A guide-book, written by Mr. and Mrs. S. C. HALL--names held in grateful remembrance as authorities on Irish legends--describes climate of Tenby as being "for the greater portion of the year warm, dry, and bracing." May be; was not there "for the greater portion of the year." She "Halls by the Sea," further declare, when comparing Tenby with Hastings, Ventnor, and Torquay, that it, though "equally mild, is nevertheless invigorating." Shouldn't have thought it. But--very glad to hear it.

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Oysters in plenty at Tenby. This being the first month with an "r" in it after the off-oyster season, we saw an ogre-like gourmand devouring a dozen or so of the natives of Tenby, with the magic aid of vinegar, pepper, and--and--_whisky!!_ Of such grand constitutions (should he be none the worse afterwards) are heroes made!

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_From Ilfracombe to Lynton._--Pass Watermouth Castle. Lucky person the proprietor of this charming place. Lovely position this Watermouth; quite enough to make one's mouth water.

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Near Coombe-Martin is Hangman's Hill, where a sheep hanged a man for stealing him.

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In the character of _Mr. P.'s_ Own Inn-spector I venture to pronounce the Valley of Rocks Hotel at Lynton delightful. Here everything is unpretentiously English, and even the waiters are not all foreigners. The supply of certain articles of food may on occasion run short (which ought not to happen), and consequently you can only complain of what you _don't_ get, very rarely of what you do. The other hostelries may be equally good, but of these _Mr. P.'s_ Own Inn-spector, being un-ubiquitous, cannot speak from experience.

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The Valley of Rocks Hotel is so-called because it is _not_ in the valley but high up, and thence you can go down by the easiest possible descent, _i.e._ _per_ water-worked tram-way to Lynmouth, and so remount. Here we go up up up, and here we go down down down O, all day at threepence a head per journey, reduction on taking a quantity of tickets, not persons.

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And here comes in my complaint. I do not know what numbers this "_ascenseur_" will carry with safety, but that it can _not_ carry more than twenty, all told, inside and out, with anything like comfort, I, not being "Your Fat Contributor," will honestly affirm. Whether the proprietorship is in the hands of a company, or in those of Sir TIT BIT NEWNES is of no importance. If Sir T. B. N. has the sole management, he may be trusted in future to look after this "_facilis descensus_" well and wisely.

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The drivers of the Ilfracombe four-horsed coaches are all good whips; not showy, but careful. Pretty sight to see COPP'S mail, the Defiance brought at a trot between the two gate-posts, and tooled round the small lawn up to the Valley of Rocks Hotel, Lynton. N.B. Put your name down early for box-seat in Coppy-book.

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Notice that the Defiance guard is a master of horn blowing. He tootles most of the popular tunes of the day with windy wariations, humourously causing deep bellowing bass notes to issue from the instrument whenever the coach is passing by a field of cattle. The guard takes an unfair advantage of these animals, as their peculiarity being to have no horns, _they are unable to return the blow!_

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Plenty of bathing; well managed; might be much better. _Advice gratis for "bain de luxe"_:--Take a boat, towels, spirit lamp, can of fresh water, &c., &c., discover natural bathing place on coast, snugly fixed up among the rocks,--and _there you are_. Don't forget to have with you refreshments for after bath.

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It grieves me to be compelled to quit Ilfracombe just as the real sport is beginning. I do not allude to the North Devon Stag Hounds, but to the arrival of September wasps, and very fine autumn gnats. This morning had a glorious run over tables and chairs, killing the wily wasp in the open, that is, on the window pane, with a slipper. Luckily "_pane forte et dure_." or there would have been smashery. Cut off his sting, if possible, with purpose of presenting it to youngest lady of party. Killed a second, but less wily wasp. Ran him to earth in jam pot. A third, which entered by the door, after a rapid burst through the hall, showed some fine sport, and after getting away in the open (window), went to ground somewhere in the rose bushes, when the pursuers, armed with napkins, slippers, and paper-knives, gave up the pursuit, and returned to breakfast.

Later in the day killed a splendid gnat with very big head and large wings. Quite a pantomime gnat. Send him: as specimen to Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS. Useful as model for "property gnat" at Christmas. Or, nailed him to wall, as warning to other gnats.

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_Final Note._:--Ilfracombe ought simply to be perfect. Spare friendly criticism, and you help to spoil the place. But I say to the I. I. C., in all friendliness, addressing them in French, "knowing the language," like _Jeames, "Messieurs, j'ai raison, moi; vous,--vous avez Torrs_." And now, I am off to Cromer.

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"ITERUM CRISPINUS!"--Bravo SIMS REEVES! SIMMUM to the front again, the evening shirt-front, inviting MAUD for a stroll with him in the garden, as fresh as ever! Glad to hear that in addition to "_Tom Bowling_," and out of compliment to the modern _furore_ for cricket, SIMMUM is going to produce, from his chest, a new song entitled "_Will Batting_," which is to be dedicated to "W. G." But SIMMUM, our prime tenor, will make it a duet, and sing it with Grace. Trust soon to hear that SIMMUM will give us "_The Lost Ball_," as a companion to the "_The Lost Chord_."

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CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. V.--"GOING DOWN"--THE RACES--UPS AND DOWNS.

"_Going down?_" Not this year. Bin laid up with the Flu, like my betters, and still feel a little bit squiffy, But when I _am_ fit and 'ave just arf a charnce of a run down to Epsom, I'm on in a jiffy. Lor! 'ow many times 'ave I druv to the Derby, in all sorts o' cumpny, 'igh, low, and jest mejum; And seen some queer games, too! Well, say wot yer like, it's a 'oliday bust, and it breaks the year's tejum.

Tejum's the doose, if you arsk me; and dulness does hoceans more 'arm than the pious ones reckon. It's jest when mernotony gives yer the 'ump that you're open to any bad biz as may beckon. Grey flatting constant will set you a longing to paint the town red, jest by way o' variety; Leastways, it's so with a Cabby, _I_ know, and no doubt it's the same in more toppin' Socierty.

Ah! I remember old Kennington toll-gate afore 'twos removed Oh! the jams and the crushes! Once tooled down a fine F. O. clerk, young and smart, with the pootiest parcel o' blue silk and blushes, 'Amper O. K., Larrynargers _had libbitum_, fizz up to Dick, and a somethink _poetic_, Like laylocks, laburnums and mayblossom in it, as made me--a mere nipper then--symperthetic.

To see 'im a whisking the dust from 'er bonnet, arf tender, arf sorcy, an' 'er a-purtending, To bridle up proud and becoming, was pooty. Whose money, thought I, my young nabs are _you_ spending. 'E parted like water, and backed 'em a buster; and blowed if _I_ shouldn't with them heyes upon me. Dunno if _'e_ spotted a winner. _I_ didn't! But 'ow they enjoyed it! 'Er smile reglar won me.

When young 'uns is sweet 'uns, and sweet 'uns high-bred 'uns, it fetches me, somehow, to see 'em philander, They do it so dainty, an' sorter respekful. BILL BOGER, 'e says I'm a cackling old gander. All right, bilious BILLY! You've druv lovey-doveys of all sorts and ranks till you're verjuice an' sorrel, But these weren't no Monday Bank 'Oliday Mashers, or shop-sweet-hearts out on the scoop, _that's_ a moral.

Well, close to the Stand a old heagle-beaked buffer was doing the nice to a dragful of toppers, And one 'awk-nosed duchess, as yaller as mustard, with hoptics suggestive of bile or 'ot coppers, Dropped lamps on _our_ little turn-out. Oh, Jemimer! I'm sure red-'ot needles was simply not in it, A savage old Pater, a jealous Miss GOLDBAGS, and--hus! Oh! I twigged the whole game in a minnit.