Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

August 22, 1891.

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. III.

SCENE--_On the Coach from Braine l'Alleud to Waterloo. The vehicle has a Belgian driver, but the conductor is a true-born Briton. Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER and his daughter are behind with PODBURY. CULCHARD, who is not as yet sufficiently on speaking terms with his friend to ask for an introduction, is on the box-seat in front._

_Mr. Trotter_. How are you getting along, MAUD? Your seat pretty comfortable?

_Miss Trotter_. Well, I guess it would be about as luxurious if it hadn't got a chunk of wood nailed down the middle--it's not going to have anyone confusing it with a bed of roses _just_ yet. (_To PODB._) Your friend mad about anything? He don't seem to open his head more'n he's obliged to. I presume he don't approve of your taking up with me and Father--he keeps away from us considerable, I notice.

_Podb._ (_awkwardly_). Oh--er--I wouldn't say that, but he's a queer kind of chap rather, takes prejudices into his head and all that. I wouldn't trouble about him if I were you--not worth it, y' know.

_Miss T._ Thanks--but it isn't going to shorten my existence any.

[_CULCH. overhears all this, with feelings that may be imagined._

_Belgian Driver_ (_to his horses_). Pullep! Allez vîte! Bom-bom-bom! Alright!

_Conductor_ (_to CULCHARD_). 'E's very proud of 'is English, _'e_ is. 'Ere, JEWLS, ole feller, show the gen'lm'n 'ow yer can do a swear. (_Belgian Driver utters a string of English imprecations with the utmost fluency and good-nature._) 'Ark at 'im now! Bust my frogs! (_Admiringly, and not without a sense of the appropriateness of the phrase._) But he's a caution, Sir, ain't he? _I_ taught him most o' what he knows!

_A French Passenger_ (_to Conductor_). Dis done, mon ami, est-ce qu'on peut voir d'ici le champ de bataille?

_Conductor_ (_with proper pride_). It ain't no use your torkin to _me_, Mossoo; I don't speak no French myself. (_To CULCHARD._) See that field there, Sir?

_Culchard_ (_interested_). On the right? Yes, what happened _there_?

_Cond._ Fine lot o' rabbits inside o' there--big fat 'uns. (_To another Passenger_.) No, Sir, that ain't Belly Lions as you see from 'ere; that's Mon Sin Jeean, and over there Oogymong, and Chalyroy to the left.

ON THE TOP OF THE MOUND.

_CULCHARD, who has purchased a map in the Waterloo Museum as a means of approaching Miss TROTTER, is pounced upon by an elderly Belgian Guide in a blue blouse, from whom he finds it difficult to escape._

_The Guide_ (_fixing CULCHARD with a pair of rheumy eyes and a gnarled forefinger_). You see vere is dat schmall voodt near de vite 'ouse? not dere, along my shdeek--so. Dat is vare PEECTON vas kill, Inglis Officer, PEECTON. Two days pefore he vas voundet in de ahum. 'E say to his sairvan', "You dell ennipoddies, I keel you!" He vandt to pe in ze bataille: he _vas_ in ze bataille--seven lance troo im, seven; PEECTON, Inglis Officer. (_CULCHARD nods his head miserably._) Hah, you 'ave de shart dere--open 'im out vide, dat de odder shentilmans see. (_CULCHARD obeys, spell-bound._) Vare you see dat blue gross, Vaterloo Shirshe, vere Loart UXBREEDGE lose 'is laig. Zey cot 'im off and pury him in ze cott-yardt, and a villow grow oudt of 'im. 'E com 'ere to see the villow growing oudt of his laig.

_Culch._ (_abandoning his map, and edging towards Miss TROTTER_). Hem--we are gazing upon one of the landmarks of our national history--Miss TROTTER.

_Miss T._ That's a vurry interesting re-mark. I presume you must have studied up some for a reflection of that kind. Mr. PODBURY, your friend has been telling me-- [_She repeats CULCHARD's remark._

_Podb._ (_with interest_). Got any _more_ of those, old fellow?

[_CULCHARD moves away with disgusted hauteur._

_The Guide_ (_re-capturing him_). Along dat gross vay, VELLAINTON meet BLUSHAIR. Prussian général, BLUSHAIR, VELLAINTON 'e com hier. I see 'im. Ven 'e see ze maundt 'e vos vair angri. 'E say, "Eet is no ze battle-fiel' no more--I com back nevare!" Zat aidge is vere de Scots Greys vas. Ven they dell NAPOLEON 'oo zey are, 'e say. "Fine mens--splendid mens, I feenish dem in von hour!" SOULT 'e say, "Ah, Sire, you do not know dose dairible grey 'orses!" NAPOLEON 'e _not_ know dem. SOULT 'e meet dem at de Peninsulaire--'e know dem. In dat Shirsh, dventy, dirty dablets to Inglis officers. NAPOLEON 'e coaled op 'is laift vink, zey deploy in line, vair you see my shdeek--ha, ze shentelman is gone avay vonce more!

_Miss Trotter_ (_to CULCHARD, who has found himself unable to keep away_). You don't seem to find that old gentleman vurry good company?

_Culch._ The fact is that I much prefer to receive my impressions of a scene like this in solitude.

_Miss T._ _I_ should have thought you'd be too polite to tell me so; but I was moving on, anyway.

[_She goes on. Before CULCHARD can follow and explain, he finds himself accosted by Mr. TROTTER._

_Mr. T._ I don't know as I'm as much struck by this Waterloo field as I expected, Sir. As an Amurrcan, I find it doesn't come up to some of our battlefields in the War. We don't blow about those battlefields, Sir, but for style and general picturesqueness, I ain't seen nothing _this_ side to equal them. You ever been over? You want to come over and see our country--that's what _you_ want to do. You mustn't mind me a-running on, but when I meet someone as I can converse with in my own language--well, I just about talk myself dry.

[_He talks himself dry, until rejoined by the Guide with PODBURY and Miss TROTTER._

_Guide_ (_to PODBURY_). Leesten, I dell you. My vader--eighteen, no in ze Airmi, laboreur man--he see NAPOLÉON standt in a saircle; officers roundt 'im. Boots, op to hier; green cott; vite vaiscott; vite laigs--

_Podbury_. Your father's legs?

_Guide_. No, Sare; my vader see NAPOLÉON's laigs; leedle 'at, qvite plain; no faither--nossing.

_Podbury_. But you just said you _had_ a faither!

_Guide_. I say, NAPOLÉON 'ad no faither--vat you call it?--_plume_--in 'is 'at, at ze bataille.

_Podbury_. Are you sure? I thought the history books said he "stuck a feather in his hat, and called it Macaroni."

_Miss T._ I presume you're thinking of our National Amurrcan character, Yankee Doodle?

_Guide_. My vader, 'e no see NAPOLÉON viz a Yankedoodle in 'is 'at; 'e vear nossing.

_Podbury_. Nothing? What became of the green coat and white waistcoat, then, eh?

_Guide_. Ah, you unnerstan' nossing at all! Leesten, I dell you vonce more. My vader--

_Podbury_. No, look here, my friend; you go and tell _that_ gentleman all about it (_indicating CULCHARD_); he's very interested in hearing what NAPOLEON wore or didn't wear.

[_The Guide takes possession of CULCHARD once more, who submits, under the impression that Miss TROTTER is a fellow-sufferer._

_Guide_ (_concluding a vivid account of the fight at Houguymont_). Bot ven zey com qvite nearer, zey vind ze rade line no ze Inglis soldiers--nossing bot a breek vall, viz ze moskets--'Prown Pesses,' you coal dem--shdeekin out of ze 'oles! Ze 'oles schdill dere. Dat vas Houguymont, in the orshairde. Now you com viz me and see ze lion. Ze dail, two piece; ze bodi, von piece; ze ball, von piece. I sank you, Sare. 'Ope you com again soon.

[_CULCHARD discovers that the TROTTERS and PODBURY have gone down some time ago. At the foot of the steps he finds his friend waiting for him, alone._

_Culch_. (_with stiff politeness_). Sorry you considered it necessary to stay behind on my account. I see your American friends have already started for the station.

_Podbury_ (_gloomily_). There were only two seats on that coach, and they wouldn't wait for the next. I don't know why, unless it was that they saw you coming down the steps. She can't stand you at any price.

_Culch._ (_with some heat_). Just as likely she had had enough of your buffoonery!

_Podb._ (_with provoking good humour_). Come, old chap, don't get your shirt out with me. Not my fault if she's found out you think yourself too big a swell for her, is it?

_Culch._ (_hotly_). When did I say so--or think so? It's what you've told her about me, and I must say I call it--

_Podb._ Don't talk bosh! Who said she was forward and bad form and all the rest of it in the courtyard that first evening? She was close by, and heard every word of it, I shouldn't wonder.

_Culch._ (_colouring_). It's not of vital importance if she did. (_Whistling._) Few-fee-fee-foo-foodle-di-fee-di-fa-foo.

_Podb._ Not a bit--to her. Better step out if we mean to catch that train. (_Humming._) La-di-loodle-lumpty-leedle-um-ti-loo!

[_They step out, PODBURY humming pleasantly and CULCHARD whistling viciously, without further conversation, until they arrive at Braine l'Alleud Station--and discover that they have just missed their train._

* * * * *

* * * * *

TWO EMPERORS;

_OR, THE CHRISTIAN CZAR AND THE HEATHEN CHINEE._

[A decree issued by the Emperor of CHINA (in connection with the recent anti-foreign agitation in that country) points out that the relations between the Chinese and the foreign missionaries have been those of peace and goodwill, and that the Christians are protected by treaty and by Imperial edicts, and commands the Governors and Lieutenant-Governors to protect the Christians and put down the leaders in the riots.]

Many writers remark,-- And their language is plain, That for cruelty dark, And for jealousy vain, The Heathen Chinee is _peculiar_,-- In future perhaps they'll refrain.

AH-SIN has his faults, Which one cannot deny; And some recent assaults On the mis-sion-a-ry, Have been worthy of--say Christian Russia, When dealing with small Hebrew fry.

But the EMPEROR seems stirred Persecution to bar, Which it might be inferred That I mean the White CZAR; But I don't. On the Muscovite CÆSAR Such charity clearly would jar.

_He's_ always the same, And he'll not stay _his_ hand; The poor Jews are fair game In a great "Christian" Land; But the Lord of the Pencil Vermilion Rebukes _his_ fanatical band.

A Heathen--of course!-- (Whilst the CZAR is a Saint) But a sign of remorse At the Christian's complaint May be seen in the edict he's issued, Which might make a great Autocrat faint.

A Christian, 'tis true, To a Heathen Chinee Is as bad as a Jew Must undoubtedly be To an orthodox Christian of Russdom, Too "pious" for mere Char-i-tee.

So one Emperor stones His poor Israelites, Whilst the other one owns Even Christians have "rights," And, although they're (of course) "foreign devils," Their peace with good-will he requites.

Which is why, I maintain (And my language is free) That the CZAR, though he's vain Of his Or-tho-dox-y, Might learn from his Emperor cousin, Though he's only a Heathen Chinee!

* * * * *

NEWS OF "OUR HENRY" (_communicated by Mr. J.L. T-LE_).--To our interviewer the eminent actor replied, "Yes, suffering from bad sore throat, but may talk, as it's _hoarse exercise_ which has been recommended. A stirrup-cup at parting? By all means. My cob is an excellent trotter, so I pledge you, with a bumper well-in-hand. Good-day!" And so saying, he gaily waved his plumed hat, and rode away.

* * * * *

"RATHER A LARGE ORDER."--"The Order of the Elephant" conferred on President CARNOT by the King of Denmark. This should include an Order for the Grand Trunk, in which to carry it about. The proper person to receive this Order is evidently the Grand Duke of Tusk-any.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE UNHYGIENIC HOUSEHOLDER.

_AFTER READING THE REPORTS OF THE CONGRESS._

Tell me not in many a column, I must pull up all my drains; Or with faces long and solemn, Threaten me with aches and pains. Let me end this wintry summer, 'Mid the rain as best I may, Without calling in the plumber, For he always comes to stay.

I appreciate the Prince's Shrewd remarks about our lot; But the horror he evinces At our dangers, frights me not. Science in expostulation, Shows our rules of health are wrong; But in days when sanitation Was unknown, men lived as long.

If the air with microbes thickens, Like some mirk malefic mist, Tell me prithee how the dickens We can manage to exist. From the poison breathed each minute, Man ere this had surely died; When we see the fell things in it, On the microscopic slide.

I'm aware we're oft caught napping, And the scientist can say, That our yawning drains want trapping, Lest the deadly typhoid stay. Even with your house in order, If you go to take the air, So to speak, outside your border, Lo! the merry germs are there.

Doctors vow, in tones despotic, I must dig 'neath basement floors, Lest diseases called zymotic Enter in at all my pores. PARKES, of sanitation master, Wanted "purity and light;" I'm content to risk disaster, With unhygienic night.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.--HYMENEAL.--I have been asked to attend the wedding of a friend, and respond to the toast of "The Ladies." I have never done such a thing before, and feel rather nervous about it. My friend says that I must "try and be very comic." I have thought of one humorous remark--about the "weaker sex" being really stronger--which I fancy will be effective, but I can't think of another. Would _one_ good joke of that sort be sufficient? _À propos_ of the lady marksman at Bisley, I should like to advise all ladies to "try the Butts," only I am afraid this might be taken for a reference to the President of the Divorce Division. How could I work the Jackson case in neatly? Would it be allowable to pin my speech on the wedding-cake, and read it off? Also, could I wear a mask? Any hints would be welcomed by--BEST MAN.

* * * * *

NOT QUITE POLITE.--The Manager of the Shaftesbury Theatre advertises "three distinct plays at 8·15, 9·15, and 10." Distinct, but not quite clear. Anyhow, isn't it rather a slur on other Theatres where it implies the plays, whether at 8·15, 9·15, or 10, are "indistinct."

* * * * *

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

_Prospect of Holiday--An Entrée--A Character in the Opening--Light and Leading--French Exercise--Proposition--Acceptation--Light Comedian--Exit--Jeudi alors--The Start_.

CHAPTER I.

I am sitting, fatigued, in my study. I have not taken a holiday this year, or last, for the matter of that. Others have; I haven't. Work! work! work!--and I am wishing that my goose-quills were wings ("so appropriate!" whisper my good-natured friends behind their hands to one another), so that I might fly away and be at rest. To this they (the goose-quills, not the friends) have often assisted me ere now. Suddenly, as I sit "a-thinking, a-thinking," my door is opened, and, without any announcement, there stands before me a slight figure, of middle height, in middle age, nothing remarkable about his dress, nothing remarkable about his greyish hair and close-cut beard, but something very remarkable about his eyes, which sparkle with intelligence and energy; and something still more remarkable about the action of his arms, hands, and thin, wiry fingers, which suggests the idea of his being an animated semaphore worked by a galvanic battery, telegraphing signals against time at the rate of a hundred words a minute, the substantives being occasionally expressed, but mostly "understood,"--pronouns and prepositions being omitted wholesale.

"What! DAUBINET!" I exclaim, he being the last person I had expected to see, having, indeed, a letter on my desk from him, dated yesterday and delivered this morning, to that he was then, at the moment of writing, and practically therefore for the next forty-eight hours--at least; so it would be with any ordinary individual--in Edinburgh. But DAUBINET is not an ordinary individual, and the ordinary laws of motion to and from any given point do not apply to him. He is a Flying Frenchman--here, there, and everywhere; especially everywhere. So mercurial, that he will be in advance of Mercury himself, and having written a letter in the morning to say he is coming, it is not unlikely that he will travel by the next train, arrive before the letter, and then wonder that you weren't prepared to receive him. Such, in a brief sketch, is _mon ami_ DAUBINET.

"Aha! _me voici!_" he cries, shaking my hand warmly. Then he sings, waving his hat in his left hand, and still grasping my right with his, "_Voici le sabre de mon père!_" which reminiscence of OFFENBACH has no particular relevancy to anything at the present moment; but it evidently lets off some of his superfluous steam. He continues, always with my hand in his, "_J'arrive! inattendu! Mais, mon cher_,"--here he turns off the French stop of his polyglot organ, and, as it were, turns on the English stop,--continuing his address to me in very distinctly-pronounced English, "I wrote to you to say I would be here," then pressing the French stop, he concludes with, "_ce matin, n'est-ce pas?_"

"_Parfaitement, mon cher_," I reply, giving myself a chance of airing a little French, being on perfectly safe ground, as he thoroughly understands English; indeed, he understands several languages, and, if I flounder out of my depth in foreign waters, one stroke will bring me safe on to the British rock of intelligibility again; or, if I obstinately persist in floundering, and am searching for the word as for a plank, he will jump in and rescue me. Under these circumstances, I am perfectly safe in talking French to him "_Mais je ne vous attendais ce matin_"--I've got an idea that this is something uncommonly grammatical--"_à cause de votre lettre que je viens de recevoir_"--this, I'll swear, is idiomatic--"_ce matin. La voilà!_" I pride myself on "_La_," as representing my knowledge that "_lettre_," to which it refers, is feminine.

"_Caramba!_" he exclaims--an exclamation which, I have every reason to suppose, from want of more definite information, is Spanish. "_Caramba!_ that letter is from Edinburgh; _j'ai visité_ Glasgow, the _Nord et partout, et je suis de retour_, I am going on business to Reims, _pour revenir par Paris,--si vous voudrez me donner le plaisir de votre compagnie--de Jeudi prochain à Mardi--vous serez mon invité,--et je serai charmé, très charmé._"

Being already carried away in imagination to Reims, and returning by Paris, I am at once inclined to reply,

"_Enchanté!_ with the greatest pleasure."

"_Hoch! Hoch! Hurrá!_" he cries, by way of response, waving his hat. Then he sings loudly, "And--bless the Prince of WALES!" After which, being rather proud of his mastery of Cockneyisms, he changes the accent, still singing, "Blaass the Prince of WAILES!" which he considers his _chef d'oeuvre_ as an imitation of a genuine Cockney tone, to which it bears exactly such resemblance as does a scene of ordinary London life drawn by a French artist. Then he says, seriously--"_Eh bien! allons! C'est fixé_--it is fixed. We meet Victoria, _et alors, par_ London, Chatham & Dover, from Reims _viâ_ Calais, _très bien,--train d'onze heures précises,--bien entendu. J'y suis. Ihr Diener! Adios! A reverderla! Addio, amico caro!_" Then he utters something which is between a sneeze and a growl, supposed to be a term of endearment in the Russian tongue. Finally he says in English, "Good-bye!"

His hat is on in a jiffy (which I take to be the hundredth part of a second) and he is down the stairs into the hall, and out at the door "like a flying light comedian" with an airy "go" about him, which recalls to my mind the running exits of CHARLES WYNDHAM in one of his lightest comedy-parts. "_Au revoir! Pour Jeudi alors!_" I hear him call this out in the hall; the door bangs as if a firework had exploded and blown my vivacious friend up into the air, and he has gone.

"_Jeudi alors_" arrives, and I am at Victoria for the eleven o'clock Express to the minute, having decided that this is the best, shortest, and cheapest holiday I can take. I've never yet travelled with my excellent French friend DAUBINET. I am to be his guest; all responsibility is taken off my shoulders except that of my ticket and luggage, and to travel without responsibility is in itself a novelty. To have to think of nothing and nobody, not even of oneself! Away! away!

* * * * *

POLITESSE.--The following version of our great popular Naval Anthem will be issued, it is hoped, from Whitehall (the French being supplied by the Lords of the Admiralty in conjunction) to all the musical Naval Captains in command at Portsmouth. The graceful nature of the intended compliment cannot escape the thickest-headed land-lubber:--

Dirige, Madame la France, Madame la France dirigera les vagues! Messieurs les Français ne seront jamais, jamais, jamais, Esclaves!

The effect of the above, when the metre is carefully fitted to the tune (which is a work of time), and sung by a choir (with accent) of a thousand British Blue-jackets, will doubtless be quite electrical.

* * * * *

NOTE BY A TRAVELLING FELLOW FIRST CLASSIC.--There's no passage in any Classical author, Latin or Greek, so difficult as is the passage between Dover and Calais on a rough day, and yet, strange to say, the translation is comparatively easy.

* * * * *

A PICTURE ON THE LINE.--Sketch taken at the Equator.

* * * * *

QUITE A LITTLE NOVELTY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--As Englishmen are so often accused of want of originality, I hope you will let me call your attention to an occasion when it was conclusively proved that at least two of the British race were free from the reproach. The date to which I refer was the 1st of August last, when "a new and original drama," entitled _The Trumpet Call_, was produced at the Royal Adelphi Theatre, and the two exceptions to the general rule then proclaimed were Messrs. GEORGE R. SIMS and ROBERT BUCHANAN, its authors. The plot of this truly new and original piece is simple in the extreme. _Cuthbertson_, a young gentleman, has married his wife in the belief that his Wife No. 1 (of whom he has lost sight), is dead. Having thus ceased to be a widower, _Cuthbertson_ is confronted by Wife No. 1 and deserts Wife No. 2. Assured by the villain of the piece that she is not really married to _Cuthbertson_, Wife No. 2 prepares to marry her informant. The nuptials are about to be celebrated in the Chapel Royal, Savoy, when enter Wife No. 1 who explains that she was a married woman when she met _Cuthbertson_, and therefore, a fair, or rather unfair, bigamist. Upon this _Cuthbertson_ (who is conveniently near in a pew, wearing the unpretentious uniform of the Royal Horse Artillery), rushes into the arms of the lady who has erroneously been numbered Wife No. 2, when she has been in reality Wife No. 1, and all is joy. Now I need scarcely point out to you that nothing like this has ever been seen on the stage before. It is a marvel to me how Messrs. SIMS and BUCHANAN came to think of such clever things.