Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

July 18, 1891.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. II.--TO SOCIAL AMBITION.

DEAR SIR, OR MADAM,

I had not intended to annoy you with another letter. But since I addressed you last week I have received one or two communications--not from you, _bien entendu_, for you are too wary to dispute the accuracy of what I have written; but from concrete human beings, who pretend to speak on your behalf, and deny that I have "proved my case." I might answer by saying that I never set out to prove a case--that I wished merely to enjoy a friendly chat with you, and to appeal to your clemency on behalf of the large class whom I ventured to represent by the DABCHICKS. "But," says one of my detractors, in a letter now lying before me, "you have only given one instance. You have talked grandly about Queens, and Dukes, and actresses, and, in the end, you have put us off with a wretched story about the _parvenu_ DABCHICK. For my part, I refuse to admit your authority until you prove, in greater detail, that you really know something of the subject on which you presumed to write." "Sir," I reply, "you are brusque, and somewhat offensive in the style you use towards me. For my part I do not admit that you are entitled to an answer from me, and I have felt disposed to pass you by in silence. But since there may be other weak vessels of your sort, I will do violence to myself, and pen another letter." And thus, my dear SOCIAL AMBITION, I once more take the liberty of addressing you, not without an inward tremor lest you should pounce upon me unawares, and cause me to expiate my rashness by driving me from the calm seclusion in which I spend my days, to mingle with the feverish throng who wrangle for place and precedence, myself the most feverish wrangler of them all. But, on the principle that we are both, in some sort, hawks, I think I may trust you to spare my eyes, while I remind you of one or two incidents in which you bore a part.

And first BLENKINSOP knocks at the door of my memory. I bid him enter, and I see a tall slim youth, not ill-favoured, wearing well-cut clothes, and carrying a most beautiful, gold-topped Malacca cane delicately in his hand. He is smoking a cigar, and complains to me that his life is a succession of aimless days, and that he cannot find any employment to turn his hand to. That very night, I remember, he dined with me. We went to the play together, and afterwards looked in at Lady ALICIA PARBOIL's dance. Dear Lady ALICIA, how plump she was, and how good-natured, and how well she married her fiddle-headed daughters. Her husband too, that clumsy, heavy-witted oaf, how cunningly and how successfully withal she schemed for his advancement. _Quid plura?_ you knew her well, she was devoted to you. I only speak of her to remind you that it was in her hospitable rooms that GERVASE BLENKINSOP met you--and his fate. He had danced for the second time that evening with ELVIRA PARBOIL, and, having returned that blushing virgin to her accustomed corner, was just about to depart when the ample form of Lady ALICIA bore down upon him: "Oh, Mr. BLENKINSOP," her Ladyship began, "I really cannot allow you to go before I introduce you to Mr. WILBRAHAM. I hear," she continued, "he has just lost his Private Secretary, and who knows but that--" Here she paused, and archly tapping her _protégé's_ cheek with her fan, she bore him off to introduce him to the Cabinet Minister. I watched the ceremony. Something whispered to me that BLENKINSOP was lost. Must I go through the whole painful story? He became Private Secretary to his new Right Honourable friend, and from that moment he was a changed man. His cheery good-nature vanished. Instead of it he cultivated an air of pompous importance. One by one he weeded out his useless friends, and attached to himself dull but potentially useful big wigs who possessed titles and influence. At one of our last speaking interviews (we only nod distantly now when we meet), he hinted that in the next distribution of honours his name might be expected. It appeared, but, alas for gratitude, he had to satisfy himself with a paltry K.C.M.G., which his wife (I forgot to say that he married ELVIRA) despises. He is now a disappointed man whom his friends, if he had any, would pity. He is getting on in life; the affectations he so laboriously cultivated no longer amuse. The witlings of his Clubs remark openly upon his ridiculous desire to pose as an earth-shaking personage, and when he goes home he has to listen to a series of bitter home-truths from the acrid ELVIRA. Would it not, I ask, have been better for Sir GERVASE BLENKINSOP, K.C.M.G., to have continued his ancient and aimless existence, than to have had a fallacious greatness dangled before his eyes to the end of his disappointed, but aspiring life?

One more instance, and I have done. Do you remember TOMMY TIPSTAFF at Trinity? I do. He was, of course, a foolish youth, but he might have had a pleasant life in the fat living for which his family intended him. In his second year at the University, he met Sir JAMES SPOOF, an undergraduate Baronet, of great wealth, and dissolute habits. Poor TOMMY was dazzled by his new friend's specious glare and glitter, and his slapdash manner of scattering his money. They became inseparable. The same dealer supplied them with immense cigars, they went to race meetings, and tried to break the ring. When Sir JAMES wished to gamble, TOMMY was always ready to keep the bank. And all the time poor Mrs. TIPSTAFF, in her country home, was overjoyed at her darling's success in what she told me once was the most brilliant and remarkable set at Cambridge.

Where is TOMMY now? The other day a ragged man shambled up to me, with a request that I should buy a box of lights from him. There was a familiar something about him. Could it be TOMMY? The question was indirectly answered, for, before I could extract a penny, or say a word, he looked hard at me, turned his head away, and made off as fast as his rickety legs would carry him. Most men must have had a similar experience, but few know, as I do, that you, my dear SOCIAL AMBITION, urged the wretched TOMMY to his destruction.

On the whole, I dislike you. Those who obey you become the meanest of God's creatures.

Pardon my candour, and believe me, Yours, without respect, DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

AUTHOR! AUTHOR!

LORD COLERIDGE's summing up to the Jury in the action taken by _Jones_ (author of burlesques) v. _Roberts_ (player of the same) was excellent common sense, a quality much needed in the case. Mr. JONES,--not our ENERY HAUTHOR, whose contempt for Burlesque generally is as well known as he can make it,--wrote to Mr. ARTHUR ROBERTS, formerly of the Music Halls and now of the legitimate Stage, styling him "Governor," and professed that he would "fit him to a T." _Poeta nascitur non "fit_."--and the born burlesque-versifier was true to what would probably be his comic version of the Latin proverb. But the inimitable ARTHUR, who does so much for himself on the stage, hardly required any extraneous help, and at last rejected the result of poor JONES's three months' hard labour at the Joe-Millery mill. This, however, was no joke to JONES, who straightway decided that this time he would give the inimitable ARTHUR something quite new in the way of a jest; and so, dropping the dialogue, he came to "the action," which, in this instance, was an action-at-law. Whatever Mr. ROBERTS may have thought of the words, he will hardly have considered the result of this case as "good business" from his own private and peculiar point of view. But all Dramatic Authors,--with the solitary exception of Mr. YARDLEY, formerly famous in the field, but now better known in "The Lane," at pantomime time, than to any Court where he has a legal right to appear in wig and gown,--from the smallest, who write to please a "Governor," up to the biggest, who write to please themselves, should rejoice at the decision in the case of _Jones_ v. _Roberts_.

* * * * *

AN OMISSION AT THE GUILDHALL LUNCHEON.--On the occasion of the Civic Banquet to the German EMPEROR, an Alderman, distinguished for his courtesy to strangers, and his appreciation of good dishes, especially of anything at all spicy, wished to know why, as a compliment to their Imperial guest, they had omitted "pickelhaubes" from the bill of fare? He had understood, from well-informed friends, that the EMPEROR seldom went anywhere without some "pickelhaubes," whatever they might be, as he himself, the worthy Alderman, had never had the opportunity of tasting one.

* * * * *

* * * * *

JOLLY JULY.

The storm of rain comes swirling down, Our helpless flow'rets droop and die; The thunder crashes o'er the town-- In wet July.

Our cricket-match is spoilt, the stumps We draw beneath a drenching sky; Then homeward wend in doleful dumps-- In wet July.

The lawn's a lake, whereon there float The balls that erst would o'er it fly; We can't play tennis from a boat, In wet July.

Our garden-party's ruined quite, Of invitations friends fight shy; They wisely shun the sloppy sight In wet July.

Take that old aneroid away, A new barometer we'll try; With hope for haply one fine day-- In wet July.

* * * * *

BEATING THE RECORD.--Mrs. MALAPROP's "Cerberus, as three single gentlemen rolled into one," was "not in it" last week with H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, who, in the course of the Royal Entertainments given to our Imperial Cousin-German, appeared as "a host of illustrious personages." An admirable performance.

* * * * *

A NURSERY ECHO FROM CARLOW.

PARNELL put the KETTLE on, TIM HEALY came it rather strong, HAMMOND was the people's man, And he's now M.P.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ALICE IN THUNDERLAND.

_Alice_ ... The TH-ND-R-R. _White Queen_ ... H-RC-RT. _Red Queen_ ... CH-MB-RL-N.

"I'll tell you what it is, your Majesty," said ALICE in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding the White Queen), "it'll never do to swagger about all over the place like that! Dignitaries have to be dignified, you know!"

Everything was happening so oddly (since Thunderland had turned against Blunderland) that she didn't feel a bit surprised at finding the Red Queen and the White Queen sitting close to her, one on each side. But she found it rather difficult to be quite civil to them--especially the White Queen, who had once been rather a favourite with her, but at whom she now never lost an opportunity of girding.

"Always speak the truth," said the Red Queen (cocking her nose at the White)--"think before you speak--and _write it down afterwards_. It's safest, if you're dealing with _some_ persons."

"That's just what I complain of," said the White Queen, loftily. "You couldn't tell the truth--about that Table--if you tried with both hands."

"I don't tell the truth with my _hands_," the Red Queen objected, icily.

"Nobody said you did," said the White Queen. "Nobody said you told it _anyhow_. I said you couldn't if you tried. And you _don't_ try either. So _there_!"

"She's in that state of mind," said the Red Queen, "that she wants to deny _something_--only she doesn't know what to deny!"

"A nasty vicious temper," the White Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a month or two.

The White Queen broke the silence by saying to the Red Queen, "I invite you to ALICE's Party--which _used_ to be neutral ground--to explain, if you _can_, that nondescript nonsense of yours about National Councils as a substitute for Home Rule."

The Red Queen smiled sourly, and said, "And I invite _you_"

"I didn't know _I_ was to have a Party at all," said ALICE. "Parties are things I don't hold with, as a rule; too great a tax and a tie. I like my freedom, _I_ do. But, if I _am_ to have one, I think _I_ ought to invite the guests."

"ALICE of Thunderland, you require some lessons in manners," the White Queen remarked.

"Manners are not taught in lessons," said ALICE. "Lessons teach _some_ people to do sums, and things of that sort."

"Can you do addition?" the Red Queen asked scornfully of the White. ("Bah, she can't do sums a _bit_!" she added, aside.)

"She is doubtless better at _Division_," interposed ALICE, significantly.

"Divide a State by a Statutory Parliament," said the Red Queen, with a derisive wink. "What's the right answer to that?"

"Much the same as dividing a Nation by an indefinite number of Councils," retorted the White Queen, smartly. "Talk about _tu quoques_, there's one for you!"

"Oh, as for that," rejoined the Red Queen, sniffing, "try another subtraction sum! Take a Grand Old Leader from a 'Party' of discredited 'Items,' and what would remain?"

"Why, a Policy, of course," replied the White Queen. "And another Leader," she added, _sotto voce_. "Here's another for _you_," she pursued, aloud. "Take a Liberal-Unionist Tail from a Radical 'Rat,' what would remain then?"

"I suppose _you_ think _nothing_ would remain," sneered the Red Queen.

"Wrong, as usual," said the White Queen; "the Rat's nasty temper would remain."

"But I don't see how!"

"Why, look here," the White Queen cried; "the Rat would lose its temper with its 'tail,' wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps it would," ALICE replied, cautiously.

"Then, if the 'Rat' went away from its 'Tail,' its temper would remain," the White Queen exclaimed.

ALICE said, as gravely as she could. "They might go different ways--the 'Rat,' the 'Tail,' and the 'Temper.'" But she couldn't help thinking to herself, "What dreadful nonsense we _are_ talking!"

* * * * *

THE ONLY ONE.--A ready-penning writer in his _Daily Graphic_ notice of doings in the Houses of Parliament, winds up his description of giving the Royal Assent to Bills in the Upper House with these words--"_So ends the ceremony, which seems to take one away from the Nineteenth Century_"--a little sum in subtraction--i.e., take one away from the Nineteenth Century, and the Eighteenth Century remains; but to continue--"_back to the days of the Edwards and the Henrys_." But why go back to any other century than the "so-called Nineteenth"? Isn't it only a very few years ago that _the_ EDWARDS, the singular HENRY with plural surname of EDWARDS, sat for Weymouth? What other HENRYS or EDWARDS could ever occur to any well-conditioned Parliamentary scribe?

* * * * *

VOCES POPULI.

A RECITATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

SCENE--_An Evening Party; Miss FRESIA BLUDKINSON, a talented young Professional Reciter, has been engaged to entertain the company, and is about to deliver the favourite piece entitled, "The Lover of Lobelia Bangs, a Cowboy Idyl." There is the usual crush, and the guests outside the drawing-room, who can neither hear nor see what is going on, console themselves by conversing in distinctly audible tones. Jammed in a doorway, between the persons who are trying to get in, and the people who would be only too glad to get out, is an Unsophisticated Guest who doesn't know a soul, and is consequently reduced to listening to the Recitation. This is what he hears:--_

_Miss Fresia Blud_. (_in a tone of lady-like apology_).

I am only a Cowboy--

[_Several Ladies put up their glasses, and examine her critically, as if they had rather expected this confession. Sudden burst of Society Chatter from without._

_Society Chatter_. How d'ye do?... Oh, but her parties never _are_!... How are you?... No, I left her at ... Yes, he's somewhere about ... Saw you in the Row this mornin'.... Are you doing anything on ----?... Oh, _what_ a shame!... No, but _doesn't_ she now?... No earthly use trying to get in at present ... &c., &c.

_Miss Fresia B._ (_beginning again, with meek despair, a little louder_).

I am only a Cowboy; reckless, rough, in an unconventional suit of clothes; I hain't, as a rule, got much to say, and my conversation is mostly oaths.

[_Cries of "Ssh!" intended, however, for the people outside, who are chattering harder than ever._

When the cackle of females strikes my ear--

_Society Chatter_ (_as before_). Oh, _much_ cooler here ... Yes, delightful, wasn't it? Everybody one knows ... No, you don't _really_?... Oh, POPSY's flourishing, thanks ... The new Butler turned out a perfect demon ... but I said I wouldn't have his tail dooked for anything ... so they've painted it _eau de Nil_, and it looks _so_ nice!

_Miss F.B._ (_pointedly_).

When the cackle of females strikes my ear, I jest vamose, for they make me skeered, And I sorter suspicion I skeer them too, with my hulking form, and my bushy beard!

[_Here, of course, she strokes a very round chin._

_Society Chatter_. Seems to be somethin' goin' on in there--singin', actin', dancin', or somethin' ... Well, of course, only heard _her_ version of it as yet, y'know ... Have you seen him in ... white bensaline with a Medici collar, and one of those ... nasty gouty attacks he _will_ have are only rheumatism, &c., &c.

_Miss F.B._ (_when next heard_).

I cleared my throat, and I tried to speak--but the words died strangled--

_A Feminine Voice outside_. So _long_ since we had a quiet talk together! Do tell me all about, &c., &c.

_Miss F.B._ --strangled by sheer alarm.

For there in front--

[_Here she points dramatically at a stout matron, who fans herself consciously._

--was the slender form, and the sweet girl-face of our new "School Harm"! Say, boys! hev' ye heard an Æolian harp which a Zephyr's tremulous finger twangs? Wa'al, it kinder thrills ye the way I felt when I first beheld LOBELIA BANGS!

_Soc. Chat._ Oh, you really _ought_ to go--so touching! DICK and I both regularly howled all through the last Act ... Not in the _least_, thanks. Well, if there _is_ a seat ... You're sure there _are_ any ices? Then, strawberry, please--no, _nothing_ to drink!... _Will_ you allow me?... Told she could dress hair perfectly, but I soon found she was ... a Swedenborgian, my dear, or something horrid ... Haven't you? _I've_ had it three times, and ... so many people have asked me for cards that really I ... had the drains thoroughly looked to, and now they're ... delicious, but rather overpowering in a _room_, I think! &c., &c.

_Miss F.B._ (_with genuine feeling_).

Who would imagine one meek-voiced girl could have held her own, in a deafening din! But LOBELIA's scholars discovered soon she'd a dead-sure notion of discipline; For her satin palm had a sting like steel, and the rowdiest rebel respected her, When she'd stretched out six of the hardest lots in the Bible-Class with a Derringer!

_Soc. Chat._ No, a very dull party, you could move about quite easily in all the rooms, so we ... kicked the whole concern to shivers and ... came on here as soon as we could ... Capital dinner they _gave_ us, too ... &c., &c.

_Miss F.B._ (_with as much conviction as possible under the circumstances_).

And the silence deepened; no creature stirred in the stagnant hush, and the only sound Was the far-off lumbering jolt, produced by the prairie rolling for leagues around!

_Soc. Chat._ (_crescendo_). Oh, an old aunt of mine has gone in for step-dancing--she's had several lessons ... and cut her knees rather badly, y'know, so I put her out to grass ... and now she can sit up and hold a biscuit on her nose ... but she really ought to mix a little grey in her wig!

[_&c. &c., to the distraction of the Unsophisticated Guest, who is getting quite interested in LOBELIA BANGS whom he suddenly discovers, much to his surprise, on horseback._

_Miss F.B._

And on we cantered, without a word, in the midday heat, on our swift mustangs. I was only ignorant Cowboy CLEM--but I worshipped bright LOBELIA BANGS!

_Soc. Chat._ (_fortissimo_). Not for ages; but last time I met him he was ... in a dreadful state, with the cook down with influenza ... and so I suppose he's _married_ her by this time!

_Miss F.B._ (_excitedly_).

But hark! in the distance a weird shrill cry, a kinder mournful, monotonous yelp--

(_Further irruption of Society Chatter_) ... is it jackal?--bison?--a cry for help?

_Soc. Chat._ Such a complete _rest_, you know--so perfectly peaceful! Not a soul to talk to. I _love_ it ... but, to really enjoy a tomato, you must see it dressed ... in the _sweetest_ little sailor suit!

_Miss F.B._

My horse was a speck on the pampas' verge, for I dropped the rein in my haste to stoop; Then I pressed my ear to the baking soil--and caught--ah, horror--the Indian whoop!

_Soc. Chat._ Some say it _isn't_ infectious, but one can't be too careful, and, with children in the house, &c., &c.

_Miss F.B._

I rose to my feet with quivering knees, and my face turned white as a fresh-washed towel; I had heard a war-cry I knew too well--'twas the murderous band of Blue-nosed Owl!

_Soc. Chat._ Nice fellow--I'm very fond of him--so fresh--capital company--met him when I was over there, &c.

_Miss F.B._

"What? leave you to face those fiends alone!" she cried, and slid from her horse's back; "Let me die with you--for I love you, CLEM!" Then she gave her steed a resounding smack, And he bounded off; "Now Heaven be praised that my school six-shooter I brought!" said she. "Four barrels I'll keep for the front-rank foes--and the next for you--and the last for me!"

_Soc. Chat._ Is it a _comic_ piece she's doing, do you know? Don't think so, I can see somebody smiling. Sounds rather like SHAKSPEARE, or DICKENS, or one of those fellahs ... Didn't catch what you said. No Quite impossible to hear oneself speak, _isn't_ it?

_Miss F.B._

And ever louder the demons yelled for their pale-faced prey--but I scorned death's pangs, For I deemed it a doom that was half delight to die by the hand of LOBELIA BANGS! Then she whispered low in her dulcet tones, like the crooning coo of a cushat dove! (_At the top of her voice_). "Forgive me, CLEM, but I could not bear any squaw to torture my own true love!" And she raised the revolver--"crack-crack-crack!"

[_To the infinite chagrin of the Unsophisticated Guest, who is intensely anxious to hear how Miss BANGS and her lover escaped from so unpleasant a dilemma--the remaining cracks of her revolver, together with the two next stanzas, are drowned in a fresh torrent of small-talk--after which he hears Miss F.B. conclude with repressed emotion_:

But the ochre on Blue-nosed Owl was blurred, as his braves concluded their brief harangues; And he dropped a tear on the early bier of our Prairie belle, LOBELIA BANGS!

[_Which of course leaves him in a state of hopeless mystification._

_Soc. Chat._ Is that the _end_? Charming! Now we shall be able to _talk_ again! &c., &c.

* * * * *

OFF TO MASHER LAND.

(_BY OUR OWN GRANDOLPH._)

(THIRD LETTER.--C.)

LANDS-CAPE POLITICS.