Chapter 8

discovered, after twenty years' further service._

_First Venerable Employé_. Remember the words spoken a score of winters ago--Hope, brother, hope!

_Second Venerable Employé_. Yes--Hope, brother, hope!

[_As the Scene closes, the entire Establishment are left continuing the self-sustaining, but rather profitless employment, indefinitely. Curtain._

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_A Son of the Pool_. By the Author of _A Daughter of the Pyramids_.

* * * * *

CHARLES KEENE

BORN AUGUST 10, 1823. DIED JANUARY 4, 1891.

What words avail to honour friends departed, Gone from the gatherings which so long they graced? What phrase seems fit when comrades loyal-hearted Mourn a loved presence late by death displaced?

No formal elegiacs fashioned coldly, Beseem the memory of that manly soul, Whose simple, downright spirit trod so boldly Life's most sequestered ways from start to goal.

Not rank's trim pleasaunce, nor parades of fashion Tempted his genius; his the great highway Where, free from courtly pride and modish passion, Toil tramps, free humours crowd, rough wastrels stray.

Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly, Fixing for ever on his chosen page In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly The crowded pageant of a passing age.

What an array! How varied a procession! The humours of the parlour, shop, and street; Philistia's every calling, craft, profession, Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.

Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery, Waiterdom's wiles, Deacondom's pomp of port; Rustic simplicity, domestic drollery, The freaks of Service and the fun of Sport;

And all with such true art, so fine, unfailing, Of touch so certain, and of charm so fresh, As to lend dignity to Cabmen railing, To fustianed clods and fogies full of flesh.

Nor human humours only; who so tender Of touch when sunny Nature out-of-doors Wooed his deft pencil? Who like him could render Meadow or hedgerow, turnip-field, or moor?

Snowy perspective, long suburban winding Of bowery road-way, villa-edged and trim. Iron-railed city street, where gas-lamps blinding Glare through the foggy distance dense and dim?

All with that broad free force, whose fascination All felt, and artists most, that dexterous sleight Which gave our land the unchallenged consummation Of graphic mastery in Black-and-White.

Pleasant to dwell on, and a proud possession, Now the tired hand that shaped that world is still, Leaving an ineffaceable impression Upon the age that fired its force and skill.

Honoured abroad as loved at home, how ample, The tribute to that modest spirit paid! To pushing quackery a high example, A calm rebuke to egotist parade!

Frank, loyal, unobtrusive, simple-hearted, Loving his book, his pipe, his song, his friend, Peaceful he lived and peacefully departed, A gentle life-course, with a gracious end.

Irreparable loss to Art, deep sorrow To those his comrades, who so loved the man, And who had hoped for many a sunny morrow To greet that gallant spirit in the van.

That tall, spare form, that curl-crowned head, the knitting Of supple hands behind it as he sat, That quaint face-wrinkling smile like sunshine flitting, The droll, dry comment, the quotation pat;

The small oft-loaded pipe, of ancient moulding, The brazen box that held the well-loved weed; Who shall forget who once was graced by holding In friendship's clasp the hand now still indeed?

Farewell, great artist, comrade staunch and loyal! Few simpler lives our feverish age hath seen. Could pomp high-pinnacled, or trappings royal, Add honour to the memory of CHARLES KEENE?

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* * * * *

THE SHAH (LEFEVRE) AND THE SULTAN.

Over a series of weeks preceding Christmas, Europe was disturbed by rumours of a momentous interview reported to have taken place on the banks of the unsuspecting Bosphorus. One of the parties to the conference was his Imperial Majesty the SULTAN. The other was an English Statesman, the trusted counsellor of an Ex-Premier, and believed in family circles to be the real author of some of his supreme measures. The naturally retiring disposition of the Statesman in question, and his inviolable reticence in respect of any matter concerning himself, made it difficult to arrive at the truth. Doubtless the stupendous event--the possible consequences of which on European affairs Time will work out--would have remained for ever hidden but for the ruthless action of "the London Correspondents of various provincial papers, who gave in their London letters more or less inaccurate reports of the event." How they came to know anything about it admits of only one conclusion. _The SULTAN must have told them_. The event was too important to be left to this haphazard kind of record, and, accordingly, the _Speaker_ has been favoured with a narrative of what took place, the signature disclosing the fact that the other party to the interview was the SHAH LEFEVRE.

The SHAH's account, regarded as a record of a historical event, is manifestly hampered by that modest and insatiable desire for self-effacement which marks this eminent man. We see anonymous "persons who had access to the SULTAN approaching" the SHAH, and "suggesting to him that he ought to apply for an audience." We see him "declining to do so on the ground that, having taken an active part in the agitation in England on the subject of the Bulgarian atrocities in 1877, it would not be right that I should thrust myself on the attention of the SULTAN." It is generally thought at Stamboul and elsewhere that Mr. GLADSTONE was chiefly responsible for the memorable agitation referred to. But the SHAH is not the man to hide the truth. Also, "I wished to be free to say what I thought about the condition of Turkey on my return to England." That was only fair to waiting England. No use the SULTAN trying to "nobble" this relentless man. So it came to pass that he went to the Palace, reluctant, but "feeling we could not refuse such a command from the Sovereign of the country." He talked with CHAKIR PACHA and WAHAN EFFENDI; saw the SULTAN's horse; hung about for hours; no SULTAN appeared; went back to hotel quivering under the insult. Had framed telegram ordering the British Fleet to the Bosphorus, when VAMBÉRY turned up, pale and trembling; besought the SHAH to do nothing rash; explained it was all a mistake. This followed up by invitation to dine at the Palace the following day.

All this, and what followed at the dinner; how there were "excellent wines, electric lights, and a great display of plate"; how the SULTAN, concentrating his attention on the SHAH, and forgetful of poor FREDERICK HARRISON, who had, somehow, been elbowed into obscurity, paid court to this powerful personality; how he received him on the daïs, and now cunningly, though ineffectually, he endeavoured to secure on the spot the evacuation of Egypt, is told in the SHAH'S delicious narrative.

_Mr. Punch_, sharing in the thrilling interest this disclosure has created throughout the civilised world, has been anxious to complete the record by supplementing the SHAH's account of the interview, with the SULTAN's own version. This was, at the outset, difficult. Obstacles were thrown in the way, but they were overcome by the pertinacity and ingenuity of Our Representative, who at last found himself seated with the SULTAN on the very daïs from which SHAH LEFEVRE had conferred with his Imperial Majesty whilst other of the forty guests, "including the Austrian Ambassador," looked on, green with envy.

"It's a curious thing," said the SULTAN, laying down a book he had been reading when Our Representative entered, "that, when you were announced, I had just come upon a reference by your great Poet to your still greater Statesman. You know the line in Lockandkey Hall,--

"'Oh the dreary, drear LEFEVRE! Oh the barren, barren SHAW!'"

"That," Our Representative writes, "is not precisely the line as I remember it; but I make it a rule never to correct a SULTAN."

Accordingly His Majesty proceeded: "And so, my good Cousin, _Mr. Punch_, wants to know all about this interview, the _bruit_ of which has shaken the Universe. His wishes are commands to me. In the first place, I will tell you (though this is not for publication), that it was by the merest accident I had the advantage of knowing your great countryman. I heard there had come to Constantinople one FREDERICK HARRISON, head of a sect called the Positivists. I am, you know, in my way, and within the limits of my kingdom, one of the most absolute Positivists of the age. I wanted to see the English apostle, and told them to ask him to dinner. Somehow things got mixed up, and, at the preliminary morning call, the SHAH LEFEVRE walked in. Had never heard of him before, but gathered from CHAKIR PACHA, who had been talking to WAHAN EFFENDI, who, had seen WOODS PACHA, who had spent an hour with VAMBÉRY, upon whom SHAH LEFEVRE had called, that the SHAH was really the mainspring of the Liberal Party in England, GLADSTONE being merely figure-head, HARCOURT in his pay, and CHAMBERLAIN suffering in exile under his displeasure. Allah is Good! Here was a chance thrown into my hands. I forgot all about FREDERICK HARRISON; told CHAKIR PACHA and WAHAN EFFENDI to entertain the SHAH in the ante-chamber with coffee and cigarettes, drawing him out on Armenia and Egypt. Meanwhile I crept under the sofa, and heard every word. The SHAH very stern about Armenia, could not be drawn about Egypt. At end of hour and half began to get tired under sofa; managed to stick in WAHAN EFFENDI's Wellington boot a note, on which I had written, 'Take him to see my horse.' So they went off to stable, and, as soon as coast was clear, I crept out; shut myself up in room for rest of day. Heard afterwards that they came back, the SHAH much impressed with appearance of my horse; resumed conversation on Armenia and Egypt for another hour; at last got rid of SHAH.

"At night VAMBÉRY, disguised as melon-seller, entered Palace and gained access to my room. Told me fearful mess had been made of matters. The SHAH really didn't care about seeing the horse; wanted to see me. Talks about ordering round the Fleet. 'Better ask him to dinner,' said VAMBÉRY; so despatched Grand Chamberlain in carriage and six. The SHAH mollified; gave him a good dinner: plenty of electric lights. Afterwards he was good enough to see me on the daïs. Tried to get him to promise alteration in attitude of English Liberal Party towards me; also wanted him to settle at once withdrawal of troops from Egypt, But, though most urbane in manner, exceedingly cautious. Not to be drawn. Talk about Eastern statecraft! nothing to you English, as represented by jour SHAH LEFEVRES. When I pressed him to come to point about Egypt, he said, 'On this subject I can only speak my own views. I am not authorised to speak on behalf of those I am politically associated with, but personally I am opposed to the occupation of Egypt by English troops.' There's an answer for you! Your MACHIAVELLIS, your TALLEYRANDS not in it. Felt I had wasted some time, and given away a dinner all for nothing, except the memory that will ever rest with me of having been privileged to see this remarkable man standing on my daïs."

Here the SULTAN clapped his hands three times, and Our Representative, being carefully placed in a sack, was dropped into the Bosphorus, whence he was rescued in time to send off this despatch for publication in the current Number.

* * * * *

ACCIDENT ON THE ICE.--The other day a gentleman, well known in the world of Sport and Art, was skating on the Serpentine, and fell in with a friend. Both were getting on well when our reporter left.

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EXTRACT FROM REPORT OF THE G.O.M.'S BIRTHDAY SPEECH AT HAWARDEN:--

"And I do not hesitate to betray to you this secret, that not infrequently in the summer months, when winding my way homewards after midnight, sometimes very long after it, from the House of Commons, I have stopped my course for a moment by the side of the drinking fountain in Great George Street, Westminster, when there was nobody to look at me, and have indulged in the refreshing draught which was there afforded me, feeling at the same time that I was not performing any action which could expose me to the resentment or displeasure of my excellent friend whose name is well known to you all--Sir WILFRID LAWSON."

* * * * *

I'D BE A CRIMINAL.

A SONG OF THE RULING SENSATION.

TUNE--_I'D BE A BUTTERFLY_.

I'd be a criminal, born in a slum, Where refuse, and rowdies, and raggedness meet; For when to the court for my trial I come, I'll be gazed on by all that is gracious and sweet.

Fair dames of the land will acknowledge my power, And Scientists sage will be slaves at my feet; Offers of marriage I'll get in full shower, And fools in my cause in their thousands will meet.

They'll trot out each new "scientific" vagary, Some hope of escape to my prison to bring, And scribes on my case will be sportive and airy And tell how I look, eat, sleep, dress, talk or sing.

Those I have butchered will get scant attention, Interest's sure to be centred in me. Painters will picture me, poets may mention, Beauties discuss me at five o'clock tea.

Mad doctors will fight o'er my mental condition, Hypnotists swear I was somebody's tool; And if I'm condemned, why a Monster Petition Will promptly be signed by each faddist and fool.

Murder--and good Dr. LIÈGOIS of Nancy Will back you, LABRUYÈRE will help you away. I'd be a Murderer, that is my fancy, He is the only true Hero to-day!

* * * * *

THE AMUSING RATTLE'S TOPICAL NOTEBOOK.

(_FOR THE USE OF DINERS-OUT AND OTHER AMATEUR ENTERTAINERS._)

_The Strike in Scotland_.--You might suggest, that were it in Ireland, one might see a _rail_ way out of it, or rather in it. This jest may be expected to be appreciated by a parson's wife of the sharper sort. Something ought to be got out of the visit of the agitator BURNS to the North. Example of what can be done in this direction:--"People who play with fire (persons who go in for strikes) must expect BURNS." However, be careful not to say this to a Scotchman, or he may want your blood before you get to the cigarettes. North Britons are very jealous of the reputation of their national poet, and permit no jokes upon the subject. You see, in letting off your witticism at a Scotchman, you would have to explain that it _was_ a joke. You might also hint that it was "hard lines" for the Railway Companies concerned; but this will provoke gloom rather than gaiety amongst those who have invested in Caledonians and North British. If you talk about the riots in connection with the movement, you might say that the pugnacious rioters remind you of safety matches, "for they not only strike, but strike on the box!"

_The Parnell Negociations in France_.--You can say something about O'BRIEN's invitation to Mr. PARNELL to pay him an evening visit on the French coast, reminds you of the once popular song, "_Meet me by Moonlight, Boulogne_." If you are told that "Boulogne" should be "Alone," return, "Precisely--borrowed a word--Boulogne was a loan." This ought to go with roars. At a Smoking Concert you might suggest that Mr. O'BRIEN was just the man to settle a quarrel, because even when he was in prison he took an absorbing interest in _the proper adjustment of breeches_!

_The Row at the Post Office_.--As the Savings' Bank Department has for years been the Cinderella of the Civil Service, this is a subject that will not create much interest; however, you might possibly extract a pleasantry out of the name of the present Postmaster-General in connection with the now-appeased _employés_. With a little trouble you should be able to say something quite sparkling about what the "officers" _hoe_ to _Raikes_!

_The Portuguese Difficulty in Africa_.--Rather a good subject at a Christmas Dinner, where relatives (on particularly affectionate and intimate terms) are gathered together. Say you have got to the dessert, and you start the subject. Observe that it is fortunate that the SULTAN OF TURKEY is not interested in the matter, or there would be further trouble of a like character. To the question, "Why?" reply, taking up a bottle of red wine to point your witticism, "would it not be a second difficulty with the _Porte, you geese_?" To make the jest perfect, connect Turkey in Europe with the _dindon aux marrons_, of which you will have just partaken.

_The Weather_.--If forced to fall back upon this venerable subject (which should only be broached in the wilds of Cornwall, or other equally primitive spots), of course you can speak of a hard frost being "_an ice_ day for a hunting-man, although he is sure to swear at it." If the weather breaks, you may observe, "_You thaw so_," but not when you have to shout the quibble through the ear-trumpet of a deaf old maid. And this, with the other witticisms recorded above, should carry you (by desire) into the middle of next week.

* * * * *

A DEADLY KISS.--The Hotch-kiss.

* * * * *

A PANTOMIMIC REVERIE.

(_BY A "SLIPPERED PANTALOON."_)

Tax-gatherers molest one's door, The streets are choked with messy mist; I'm the proverbial Bachelor, An old, prosaic Pessimist. Yet somehow--who can tell me why?-- Urged by the Past's dim Phantom, I'm Disposed my cosy Club to fly, And prank it at the Pantomime.

A Phantom weird of things forgot! My mother, proud of me at her Sweet side--our yellow chariot-- The long, long drive--the theatre-- My fear to miss--my thrill when in-- The Fairy Queen, the jolly King-- The laughter flung at Harlequin, And Pantaloon arollicking.

And sister PRUE, and brother TIM, (I scarcely recollected them), Magnificent in gala trim: Dear me, how I respected them! I deemed them quite grown up, so bold Seemed they, glared so defiantly: Yet they, too, cowered to behold Prone before JACK the Giant lie.

Yes! Where is TIM, where PRUE, alack! Where mother fondly pliant now? Where for that matter too is JACK, And where the grisly Giant now? In lonely stall, with vacant brow I sit and eye the _coryphées_: In my time they were Fairies; now They seem to me but sorry fays.

The pageantry is twice as grand, The wealth of wealth embarrasses; And yet this is not elfinland But great AUGUSTUS HARRIS's. The _blasé_ children vote it flat, When Mister Clown cries, "Here's a go!" Yes, there's the box where erst we sat And laughed so, sixty years ago.

The very box: I think, you know, The reason I'm so queer to-night Is merely because long ago Here faces were not here to-night. I'd best be off--Bless me! no Clown? No Stage?--no Past invidious? No Orchestra?--but simply BROWN Snoring the midnight hideous!

No Drury Lane?--no tinsel flare?-- No pirouetting Bogeydom?-- Only a Club, and one who there Forgot in sleep his Fogeydom! Welcome my Transformation Scene; I'm dull once more, and every Old Bachelor like me, I ween, May muse at times his reverie.

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NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.