Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

SEPTEMBER 7, 1895.

THAT POOR PENNY DREADFUL!

["Is the 'Penny Dreadful' and its influence so very dreadful, I wonder?"--JAMES PAYN.]

Alas! for the poor "Penny Dreadful"! They say if a boy gets his head-full Of terrors and crimes, _He_ turns pirate--sometimes; Or of horrors, at least, goes to bed full.

Now _is_ this according to Cocker? Of Beaks one would not be a mocker, But _do_ many lads Turn thieves or foot-pads, Through reading the cheap weekly Shocker?

Such literature is _not_ healthy; But _does_ it make urchins turn stealthy Depleters of tills, Destroyers of wills, Or robbers of relatives wealthy?

I have gloated o'er many a duel, I've heard of DON PEDRO the Cruel: Heart pulsing at high rate, I've read how my Pirate Gave innocent parties their gruel.

Yet I have ne'er felt a yearning For stabbing, or robbing, or burning. No highwayman clever And handsome, has ever Induced _me_ to take the wrong turning!

A lad who's a natural "villing," When reading of robbing and killing _May_ feel wish to do so; But SHEPPARD--like CRUSOE-- To your average boy's only "thrilling."

Ah! thousands on Shockers have fed full, And yet _not_ of crimes got a head-full. Let us put down the vile, Yet endeavour the while, To be _just_ to the poor "Penny Dreadful"!

* * * * *

* * * * *

FOR WHEEL OR WOE.

The Rural District Council at Chester resolved recently to station men on the main roads leading into the city to count the number of cyclists, with a view to estimating what revenue would accrue from a cycle tax. Extremely high and public-spirited of the Chester authorities to take the matter up. These dwellers by the Dee ought to adopt as their motto, "The wheel has come full cycle."

* * * * *

"WHO IS SYLVIA?"--An opera, from the pen of Dr. JOSEPH PARRY, the famous Welsh composer, entitled _Sylvia_, has been successfully produced at the Cardiff Theatre Royal. The _libretto_ is by Mr. FLETCHER and Mr. MENDELSSOHN PARRY, the _maestro's_ son, so that the entire production is quite _parry-mutuel_.

* * * * *

THE RAILWAY RACE.

A new British sport has arisen, or rather has, after a seven years' interval, been revived within the last week or so, and the British sporting reporter, so well-known for his ready supply of vivid and picturesque metaphor, has, as usual, risen to the occasion. That large and growing class of sedentary "sportsmen," whose athletic proclivities are confined to the perusal of betting news, have now a fresh item of interest to discuss in the performances of favourite and rival locomotives. More power has been added to the elbows of the charming and vociferous youths, who push their way through the London streets with the too familiar cry of "Win-nerr!" (which, by the way, has quite superseded that of "Evening Piper!"). And the laborious persons who assiduously compile "records" have enough work to do to keep pace with their daily growing collection. Even the mere "Man in the Street" knows the amount of rise in the Shap Fell and Potter's Bar gradients, though possibly, if you cross-question him, he could not tell you where they are. However, the great daily and evening papers are fully alive to the occasion, and the various sporting "Majors" and "Prophets" are well to the fore with such "pars" as the following:--

Flying Buster, that smart and rakish yearling from the Crewe stud, was out at exercise last evening with a light load of eighty tons, and did some very satisfactory trials.

* * * * *

Invicta, the remarkably speedy East Coast seven-year-old, made a very good show in her run from Grantham to York yesterday. She covered the 80-1/2 miles in 78 minutes with Driver TOMKINS up, and a weight of some 120 tons, without turning a hair. She looked extremely well-trained, and I compliment her owners on her appearance.

* * * * *

Really something ought to be done with certain of the Southern starters. I will name no names, but I noticed one the other day whose pace was more like thirty hours a mile than thirty miles an hour. I have heard of donkey-engines, and this one would certainly win a donkey race.

* * * * *

These long-distance races are, no doubt, excellent tests for the strength and stamina of our leading cross-country "flyers," but I must enter a protest against the abnormally early hours at which the chief events are now being pulled off. A sporting reporter undergoes many hardships for the good of the public, but not the least is the disagreable duty of being in at the finish at Aberdeen, say at 4.55 A.M. The famous midnight steeple-chase was nothing to it.

* * * * *

There was some very heavy booking last night at Euston, and Puffing Billy the Second was greatly fancied. He has much finer action and bigger barrel than his famous sire, not to mention being several hands higher. It is to be hoped that he will not turn out a roarer, like the latter.

* * * * *

There are dark rumours abroad that the King's Cross favourite has been got at. She was in the pink of condition two days ago; but when I saw her pass at Peterborough to-day, she was decidedly touched in the wind. The way she laboured along was positively distressing. Besides, she was sweating and steaming all over.

* * * * *

I will wire my prophecies for to-day as soon as I know the results.

THE SHUNTER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY "COPPER."

(_After Wordsworth's "Character of the Happy Warrior."_)

[Sir JOHN BRIDGE, at Bow Street, bidding farewell to Detective-Sergeant PARTRIDGE, retiring after thirty years' service, described the virtues of the perfect policeman. He must be "absolutely without fear," "gentle and mild in manner," and utterly free from "swagger," &c., &c.]

Who is the happy "Copper"? Who is he

Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be?

--It is the placid spirit, who, when brought

Near drunken men, and females who have fought,

Surveys them with a glance of sober thought;

Whose calm endeavours check the nascent fight,

And "clears the road" from watchers fierce and tight.

Who, doomed to tramp the slums in cold or rain,

Or put tremendous traffic in right train,

_Does_ it, with plucky heart and a cool brain;

In face of danger shows a placid power,

Which is our human nature's highest dower;

Controls crowds, roughs subdues, outwitteth thieves,

Comforts lost kids, yet ne'er a tip receives

For objects which he would not care to state.

Cool-headed, cheery, and compassionate;

Though skilful with his fists, of patience sure , And menaced much, still able to endure.

--'Tis he who is Law's vassal; who depends

Upon that Law as freedom's best of friends;

Whence, in the streets where men are tempted still By fine superfluous pubs to swig and swill

Drink that in quality is not the best,

The Perfect Bobby brings cool reason's test

To shocks and shindies, and street-blocking shows;

Men argue, women wrangle,--Bobby _knows_!

--Who, conscious of his power of command

Stays with a nod, and checks with lifted hand,

And bids this van advance, that cab retire,

According to his judgment and desire;

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same

Keeps true with stolid singleness of aim;

And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait

For beery guerdon, or for bribery's bait;

Thieves he must follow; should a cab-horse fall,

A lost child bellow, a mad woman squall,

His powers shed peace upon the sudden strife,

And crossed concerns of common civic life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment of more dangerous kind,

Shot that may slay, explosion that may blind,

Is cool as a cucumber; and attired

In the plain blue earth's cook-maids have admired,

Calm, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law,

Fearless, unswaggering, and devoid of "jaw."

Or if some unexpected call succeed

To fire, flood, fight, he's equal to the need;

--He who, though thus endowed with strength and sense,

To still the storm and quiet turbulence,

Is yet a soul whose master bias leans

To home-like pleasures and to jovial scenes;

And though in rows his valour prompt to prove,

Cooks and cold mutton share his manly love:--

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high

On a big horse at some festivity,

Conspicuous object in the people's eye,

Or tramping sole some slum's obscurity,

Who, with a beat that's quiet, or "awful hot,"

Prosperous or want-pinched, to his taste or not,

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

In which the Beak's approval may be won;

And which may earn him, when he quits command,

Good, genial, Sir JOHN BRIDGE'S friendly shake o' the hand.

Whom neither knife nor pistol can dismay,

Nor thought of bribe or blackmail can betray:

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering, to the last,

To be with PARTRIDGE, ex-detective, class'd:

Who, whether praised by bigwigs of the earth,

Or object of the Stage's vulgar mirth,

Plods on his bluchered beat, cool, gentle, game,

And leaves _somewhere_ a creditable name;

Finds honour in his cloth and in his cause,

And, when he dips into retirement, draws

His country's gratitude, the Bow Street Beak's applause:

This is the happy "Copper"; this is he

Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be.

* * * * *

"TWENTY MINUTES ON THE CONTINENT."

(_By Our Own Intrepid Explorer._)

"I tell you what you want," said my friend SAXONHURST. "You find your morning dumb-bells too much for you, and complain of weakness--you ought to get a blow over to France."

The gentleman who made the suggestion is a kind guardian of my health. He is not a doctor, although I believe he did "walk the hospitals" in his early youth, but knows exactly what to advise. As a rule, when I meet him he proposes some far-a-field journey. "What!" he exclaims, in a tone of commiseration; "got a bad cold! Why not trot over to Cairo? The trip would do you worlds of good." I return: "No doubt it would, but I havn't the time." At the mere suggestion of "everyone's enemy," SAXONHURST roars with laughter. He is no slave to be bound by time. He has mapped out any number of pleasant little excursions that can be carried out satisfactorily during that period known to railway companies (chiefly August and September) as "the week's end." He has discovered that within four-and-twenty hours you can thoroughly "do" France, and within twice that time make yourself absolutely conversant with the greater part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow over" to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no lengthy proceedings.

"About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you to rights," continues SAXONHURST, in a tone of conviction. "Just you trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they will pull you through. Keep your eye on the 9 A.M. Express from Victoria and you will never regret it."

Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the resources of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia, lunch sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of (literally) five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight hours one could travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call upon the Gallic _douane_, test the _cuisine_ of the _buffet_ attached to the Hôtel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day." It seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to perform it, it was as easy as possible.

There is no deception at 9 A.M. every morning at the Victoria Station. A sign-post points out the Dover Boat Express, and tells you at the same time whether you are to have the French-flagged services of the _Invicta_ and the _Victoria_, or sail under the red ensign of the _Calais-Douvres_. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I fancy it is the fastest of the speedy trio. Near to the board of information is a document heavy with fate. In it you can learn whether the sea is to be "smooth," "light," "moderate," or "rather rough." If you find that your destiny is one of the two last mentioned, make up your mind for breezy weather, with its probable consequences. Of course, if you can face the steward with cheerful unconcern in a hurricane, you will have nothing to fear. But if you find it necessary to take chloral before embarking (say) on the Serpentine in a dead calm, then beware of the trail of the tempest, and the course of the coming storm. If a man who is obliged to go on insists that "it will be all right," take care, and beware. "Trust him not," as the late LONGFELLOW poetically suggested, as it is quite within the bounds of possibility that he may be "fooling thee." But if the meteorological report points to "set fair," then away with all idle apprehensions, and hie for the first-class smoking compartment, that stops not until it gets to Dover pier, for the pause at Herne Hill scarcely counts for anything.

As you travel gaily along through the suburbs of Surrey and the hops of Kent, you have just time to glance from your comfortable cushioned seat at "beautiful Battersea," "salubrious Shortlands," "cheerful Chatham," "smiling Sittingbourne," "favoured (junction for Dover and Ramsgate) Faversham," and last, but not least, "cathedral-cherishing Canterbury." You hurry through the quaint old streets of "the Key to Brompton" (I believe that is the poetical _plus_ strategical designation of the most warlike of our cinque ports), and in two twos you are on board the _Calais-Douvres_, bound for the _buffet_ of _buffets_, the pride of the caterer's craft, or rather (to avoid possible misapprehension) his honourable calling. The Channel is charming. This marvellous twenty miles of water is as wayward as a woman. At one time it will compel the crews of the steamers to appear in complete suits of oil-skin; at another it is as smooth as a billiard-table, and twice as smiling. The report at Victoria has not been misleading. We are to have a pleasant, and consequently prosperous passage.

On board I find a goodly company of lunchers. Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., sedate and silent--once the terror of thieves of all classes, and ruffians of every degree, now partly in retreat. Then there is the MACSTORM, C.B., warrior and novelist. Foreign affairs are represented by MM. BONHOMMIE and DE CZARVILLE, excellent fellows both, and capable correspondents in London. Then there are a host of celebrities. DICKY HOGARTH, the caricaturist; SAMUEL STEELE SHERIDAN, the dramatist; and SHAKSPEARE JOHNSON COCKAIGNE, the man of literary all-work.

"It is very fine this to me when therefore I come out why," observes an Italian explorer, who has the reputation of speaking five-and-twenty languages fluently, and is particularly proud of his English.

"Certainly," I answer promptly, because my friend is a little irritable, and still believes in the possibilities of the _duello_.

"Therefore maybe you find myself when I am not placed which was consequently forwards." And with this the amiable explorer from the sunny south, no doubt believing that he has been imparting information of the most valuable character, relapses into a smiling silence.

In the course of the voyage I find that, if I pleased, I could wait until a quarter to four, and then return to my native shores. This would give me more than three hours in Calais. But what should I do with them?

"You might go to the Old Church," says Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., "which was an English place of worship in the time of Queen MARY. Some of the chapels are still dedicated to English Saints, and there are various other memorials of the British occupation."

"Or you can go to the _plage_," puts in the MACSTORM. "Great fun in fine weather. Whole families pic-nic on the sands. They feed under tents or in chalets. In the water all day long, except at meal-times. At night they retire, I think, to a little collection of timber-built villas, planted in a neatly-kept square. The whole thing rather suggestive of ALEXANDER SELKIRK _plus_ an unlimited supply of a quarter-inch deal flooring, canvas, and cardboard."

In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine to go no further than the _buffet_. Acting under the instructions of Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well, I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders. A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysée, takes me in hand. We make out a _menu_ on the spot--Melon, _tête de veau à la vinaigrette_, _caneton aux petits pois_, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a _café_ and _chasse_. All good. Then the _garçon_ skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise the performer--if he wishes it--a prosperous career on the lofty _trapèze_), are undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers Albion bound. Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my lunch, settled my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good steamer that is to carry me back to my native land.

Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I watch them after _déjeuner à la fourchette_ through the perfumed haze of an unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned, they are not a patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian coast line, but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond compare." I remember that at one time or another I have heard "the finest music in the world, but at that moment there comes stealing into my ears a melody worth all that music put together, the chime of English village bells." I recollect that I have heard these beautiful expressions used in the Garrick Theatre on the occasion of the revival of a certain little one-act piece. Mr. ARTHUR BOUCHIER was then eloquent (on behalf of the author) in praise of Dover, and I now agree with him. What can be more beautiful than the white cliffs of Albion and the sound of English village bells--after a capital lunch at Calais, and during the enjoyment of an unusually good cigar?

The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day."

"How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring out a cup of tea.

"And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I owe to twenty minutes on the continent."

And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they shall serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title and the end to an article.

* * * * *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My pater reads the Bristol newspapers, but I don't, because there's never any pirates or red Indians in them, but happening to look in one the other day I noticed an awfully good thing. It said that at a place called Stapleton all the parents were very indignant at the way in which the schoolmistress had been treated by the manigers, and to show their symperthy they decided to keep their children from school. The school was nearly empty in consequents. Now I don't think my schoolmaster has half enough sympathy shown him. He does know how to cane, certainly, but he isn't really such a beast as fellows make out--at least not just the day or so before the holidays begin--and would you mind telling parents that they ought to keep their boys at home for a week or a fortnight after next term begins, to show how much they symperthise with him? Poor chap, he has lots of trouble--I know he has, because I give him some.

Yours respekfully, BLOGGS JUNIOR.

* * * * *

BAWBEES THANKFULLY RECEIVED.--A National Scottish Memorial to BURNS is in the Ayr. "Surely," writes a perfervid one, "BURNS did as much for our country and the world as SCOTT, yet how very different the monuments of the two in Edinburgh and Glasgow! I am sure no Scotchman would grudge his mite, however poor, for such a purpose." Quite so. But it would take a good many "Cotter's Saturday mites" to build anything like the Scott Memorial in Princes Street. And what is this that the Rev. Dr. BURRELL, of New York, said in presenting a new panel for the Ayr statue of BURNS from American lovers of the poet? "The stream of pilgrims," he observed, "from America to the banks of the Doon was twice as large as that which found its way to the banks of the Avon." Then why should not the stream of dollars follow, and erect a colossal "Burns Enlightening the Nations" somewhere down the Clyde--say, at the Heads of Ayr? _Hamlet_ beaten by _Tam O'Shanter_, and Avon taking a back seat to Doon! Flodden is, indeed, avenged.

* * * * *

THE WEARING O' THE GREEN.--There was a discussion at the Cork Corporation's meeting on a recommendation of the Works Committee, that "a new uniform, of Irish manufacture, be ordered for the hall-porter." What should be the colour, was the difficulty? "Some members," we regret to read, "were in favour of blue"; and then the debate went on thus--

Mr. BIBLE he thought they should stick to the green Mr. FARINGTON said that green uniforms rot; Mr. LUCY denounced such a statement as mean, And--"never change colour!"--advised Sir JOHN SCOTT.

So the hall-porter will have a uniform of "green and gold"--the green to be durable," and the gold to make it endurable!

* * * * *

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

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. II.--IN THE SHELTER. ME AND BILLY BOGER.

[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at the Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.]

There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, _with_ a cough, and a fare as is sour and tight-fisted, Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits terrible twisted. And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in. With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer," _And_ 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad! What do _you_ think? I says to my pal BILLY BOGER.

Brown-crusted one, BILLY; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a "Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according. Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up like, against a damp hoarding. Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, BILL do; won't take it on nohow, the orkurd old Tartar. The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em from playing the martyr!