Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

September 19, 1891.

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SILENCE AND SLEEP.

(_LINES WRITTEN AT COCK-CROW._)

Night-time and silence! O'er the brooding hill The last faint whisper of the zephyr dies; Meadows and trees and lanes are hushed and still, A shroud of mist on the slow river lies; And the tall sentry poplars silent keep Their lonely vigil in a world of sleep.

Yea, all men sleep who toiled throughout the day At sport or work, and had their fill of sound, The jest and laughter that we mate with play, The beat of hoofs, the mill-wheel grinding round, The anvil's note on summer breezes borne, The sickle's sweep in fields of yellow corn.

And I too, as the hours go softly by, Lie and forget, and yield to sleep's behest, Leave for a space the world without a sigh, And pass through silence into dreamless rest; Like a tired swimmer floating tranquilly Full in the tide upon a peaceful sea.

But hark, that sound! Again and yet again! Darkness is cleft, the stricken silence breaks, And sleep's soft veil is rudely rent in twain, And weary nature all too soon, awakes; Though through the gloom has pierced no ray of light, To hail the dawn and bid farewell to night.

Still is it night, the world should yet sleep on, And gather strength to meet the distant morn. But one there is who, though no ray has shone, Waits not, nor sleeps, but laughs all rest to scorn, The demon-bird that crows his hideous jeer, Restless, remorseless, hateful Chanticleer.

One did I say? Nay, hear them as they cry; Six more accept the challenge of the foe: From six stretched necks six more must make reply, Echo, re-echo and prolong the crow. First shrieking singly, then their notes they mix In one combined cacophony of six.

Miscalled of poets "herald of the day," Spirit of evil, vain and wanton bird, Was there then none to beg a moment's stay Ere for thy being Fate decreed the word? Could not ASCLEPIAS, when he ceased to be, Take to the realms of death thy tribe and thee?

What boots it thus to question? for thou ART, And still shalt be; but never canst be still, Destined at midnight thus to play thy part, And when all else is silent to be shrill. Yea, as I lie all sleepless in the dark, I love not those who housed thee in the Ark.

* * * * *

"AS GOOD AS A BETTER."

Dr. Andrew Wilson (in "Science Jottings," in the _Illustrated London News_) dares disparage Golf "as an ideal game for young men," venturing to advocate the preferential claims of fogeyish Cricket, and even of futile Lawn Tennis--

"O Scots, wha hae wi' BALFOUR teed."

What _wull_ ye say to this disloyal, slanderous, sacrilegious ANDY? He hints that Golf is a mere modish fashion--even a _fin de siècle_ fad!!! How many perfervid and patriotic Scots will

"Condemn his soul to eternal perdition For his theory of the--National Game?"

He says "you hit a ball and walk after it, and manoeuvre it into a hole." Eugh! Such icy analysis would make Billiards a bore, and resolve "Knuckle-down" into nonsense! "It is not (_Golf_ is not!) a proceeding (_proceeding, quotha!_) of which youths and young men should grow enamoured." As though, forsooth, Golf were a sort of elderly Siren luring limp and languorous youths into illegitimate courses; a _passée_ Delilah, whose enervating fascinations sapped the virile vigour that might be dedicated to "that noblest of sports," Cricket, or even that "much better game," Lawn Tennis!!!

Surely the devotees of the Golf-cultus, the lovers of the Links, will be down like a "driver" upon Dr. WILSON. Oh, ANDY, ANDY, between you and your "brither Scots" there is henceforth "a great Golf fixed"!

* * * * *

A CRICKET PARADOX.

Though true without questioning, yet all the same, It's a trifle perplexing to know what it means That the counties that hate most to lose in a game Would be pleased very much at your giving them Beans

* * * * *

WIGS ON THE (SEA) GREEN!--Some Frenchman (we are told by _The Gentlewoman_) has done Ladies a good turn by inventing a Bathing Wig, which keeps the hair dry without making the fair bather look "a fright." Hooray! SABRINA herself might shout for such an invention, which even the Nereids need not despise. DIZZY once sarcastically referred to certain "Bathing W(h)igs," but they were of another sort. Not even the most adventurous Tory could "steal the clothes" of our latter day "Bathing Wigs."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. VII.

SCENE--_A Second-Class Compartment on the line between Wurzburg and Nuremberg. PODBURY has been dull and depressed all day, not having recovered from the parting with Miss TROTTER. CULCHARD, on the contrary, is almost ostentatiously cheerful. PODBURY is intensely anxious to find out how far his spirits are genuine, but--partly from shyness, and partly because some of their fellow travellers have been English--he has hesitated to introduce the subject. At last, however, they are alone, and he is determined to have it out on the very first opportunity._

_Culchard_. Abominably slow train, this _Schnell-zug_. I hope we shall get to Nuremberg before it's too dark to see the general effect.

_Podbury_. We're not likely to be in time for _table d'hôte_--not that _I'm_ peckish. (_He sighs._) Wonder whereabouts the--the TROTTERS have got to by now, eh?

[_He feels he is getting red, and hums the Garden Scene from "Faust."_]

_Culch._ (_indifferently_). Oh, let me see--just arriving at St. Moritz, I expect. Wonderful effect of colour, that is. [_He indicates the West, where a bar of crimson is flaming between a belt of firs._

_Podb._ (_absently_). Oh, wonderful!--where? (_Hums a snatch of a waltz._) Dum-dum-diddle-um-tum-dum-dum-dum-ty-doodle; dum-dum--I say, _you_ don't seem particularly cut up?

_Culch._ Cut up? Why should I be cut up, my dear fellow?--about what?

[_Before PODBURY can explain, two Talkative British Tourists tumble up into the compartment, and he has to control his curiosity once more._

_First T.T._ Well, I 'ope we're all right _now_, SAM, I'm sure--these German jokers have chivied us about enough for one journey! (_To CULCHARD._) Not in your way, this 'at-box, Sir? Don't give yer much space in these foreign trains. (_They settle down and the train starts._) Pretty bit o' country along 'ere!--puts me in mind o' the best part o' Box 'Ill--and I can't say more for it than _that_!

_Second T.T._ (_a little man with a sandy fringe and boiled-looking eyes_). What I notice about the country abroad is they don't seem to 'ave no _landmarks_.

_First T.T._ (_with a dash of friendly contempt_). What d'yer mean--no landmarks--_signposts_?

_Second T.T._ (_with dignity_). I mean to say, they don't 'ave nothing to indicate which is JACK's property, and which is JOE's.

_First T.T._ Go on--they've as much as what _we_ 'ave.

_Second T.T._ _'Ave_ they? We 'ave fences and 'edges. I don't see none _'ere_. P'raps you'll point me _out_ one?

_First T.T._ There's precious few 'edges or fences in the Isle o' Thanet, as you'd know if you've ever been to Margit.

_Second T.T._ (_loftily_). I'm not talkin' about Margit now. I'm talkin' of 'ere, and I'll trouble you to show me a landmark.

_First T.T._ Depend on it they've their own ways of knowing which is 'oo's.

_Second T.T._ That's not what I'm _sayin'_. I'm sayin' there ain't nothing to _indicate_ it. [_They argue the point at length._]

_Podb._ (_to CULCHARD_). Then you really aren't cut up--about Miss T. you know?

_Culch._ (_with the reserve of a man who only wants to be pressed_). There is no reason that I am aware of, why I should be--but (_lowering his voice_) don't you think we had better wait till we are alone to discuss that subject?

_Podb._ Oh, all right. I'm not partic--at least. Well, I'm glad you _aren't_, you know, that's all.

[_He becomes silent again--but his face brightens visibly._

_First T.T._ (_to Second Do._). See that field there? That's tobacco, _that_ is.

_Second T.T._ What they make their penny smokes of. (_The train enters a station._) What funny engines they do 'ave 'ere! I expect the guard'll be wanting to see our _billyetts_ again next. It's as bad as it used to be with the passports. I've 'eard--mind yer, I don't know 'ow much likeli'ood there is in the assertion--that they're going to bring 'em in again. Most intricate they were about them. (_To CULCHARD._) Why, if you'll believe me, a friend o' mine as 'ad one--well, they got 'is description down to a ioter! He'd a cast in 'is eye,--they put it down, and a pimple you'd 'ardly notice--but down _that_ went!

_First T.T._ It's no use 'aving such things if they don't do it thoroughly.

_Second T.T._ (_irrelevantly_). I wish I 'adn't 'ad that glass o' peach wine where we changed last. (_A_ Guard _appears at the window, and makes some guttural comments on the couple's tickets._) Wechseln? Why, that means _wash_, don't it? I'm as clean as _him_, anyway. "Anshteigen,"--ah, I ought to know what _that_ means by this time! SAM, my boy, we're bundled out again. I _told_ yer 'ow it would be!

[_They tumble out, and the carriage is presently filled by an assortment of Germans, including a lively and sociable little Cripple with a new drinking-mug which he has just had filled with lager, and a Lady with pale hair and sentimental blue eyes._

_Podb._ We can talk all right _now_, eh? _They_ won't understand. Look here, old fellow, I don't mind owning _I'm_ rather down in the mouth about--you know what. I shouldn't care so much if there was any chance of our coming across them again.

_Culch._ (_cordially_). I am very glad to hear you say so. I was rather afraid you had taken a dislike--er--in that quarter.

_Podb._ I?--is it _likely_! I--I admire her awfully, you know, only she rather seemed to snub me lately.

_Culch._ (_with patronising reassurance_). Quite a mistake on your part, I assure you, my dear fellow. I am sure she will learn to appreciate you--er--fully when you meet again, which, I may tell you, will be at no very distant date. I happen to know that she will be at the Italian Lakes early next month, and so shall we, if you let me manage this tour my own way.

_Podb._ (_with surprise and gratitude_). I say, old boy, I'd no notion you were such a nailing good chap! Nein, danky. (_To the little Cripple, who is cheerily inviting him, in pantomime, to drink from his mug._) Cheeky little beggar. But do you really think anything will--er--come of it, if we do meet her again--_do_ you now?

_Culch._ I--ah--have the best reasons for feeling tolerably certain of it. [_He looks out of window and smiles._

_Podb._ But that cousin of hers--CHARLEY, you know--how about _him_?

_Culch._ I put that to her, and there is nothing in it. In fact, she practically admitted--(_He glances round and lowers his voice._) I will tell you another time. That lady over there is looking at us, and I'm almost certain--

_Podb._ What if she is, she don't understand a word we're saying. I want to hear all about Her, you know.

_Culch._ My dear PODBURY, we shall have ample time to talk about her while we are at Nuremberg together--it will be the greatest pleasure to me to do so as long as ever you please.

_Podb._ Thanks, old chap! I'd no idea you were doing all this, you know. But just tell me this, what did she _say_ about me?

_Culch._ (_mystified_). About you? I really don't recollect that she mentioned _you_ particularly.

_Podb._ (_puzzled_). But I thought you said you'd been speaking up for me! What _did_ you talk about then?

_Culch._ Well, about myself--naturally. [_He settles his collar with a vague satisfaction._

_Podb._ (_blankly_). Oh! Then you haven't been arranging to meet her again on _my_ account?

_Culch._ Good Heavens, no--what a very grotesque idea of yours, my dear fellow! [_He laughs gently._

_Podb._ Is it? You always gave out that she wasn't your style at all, and you only regarded her as a "study," and rot like that. How could _I_ tell you would go and cut me out?

_Culch._ I don't deny that she occasionally--er--jarred. She is a little deficient in surface refinement--but that will come, that will come. And as to "cutting you out," why, you must allow you never had the remotest--

_Podb._ I don't allow anything of the sort. She liked me well enough till--till you came in and set her against me, and you may think it friendly if you like, but I call it shabby--confoundedly shabby.

_Culch._ Don't talk so loud, I'm sure I saw that woman smile!

_Podb._ She may smile her head off for all I care. (_The train stops; the Cripple and all but the Pale-haired Lady get out_.) Here we are at Nuremberg. What hotel did you say you are going to?

_Culch._ The Bayrischer-Hof. Why?

[_He gets his coat and sticks, &c., out of the rack._

_Podb._ Because I shall go to some other, that's all.

_Culch._ (_in dismay_). My dear PODBURY. this is really too childish! There's no sense in travelling together, if we're going to stay at different hotels!

_Podb._ I'm not sure I shall go any further. Anyway, while I _am_ here, I prefer to keep to myself.

_Culch._ (_with a displeased laugh_). Just as you please. It's a matter of perfect indifference to _me_. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored by yourself, though.

_Podb._ That's _my_ look out. It can't be worse than going about with you and listening while you crow and drivel about her, that's one comfort! [_The Pale-haired Lady coughs in a suspicious manner_.

_Culch._ You don't even know if there _is_ another hotel.

_Podb._ I don't care. I can find a pot-house somewhere, I daresay.

_The Pale-haired Lady_ (_in excellent English, to PODBURY as he passes out_). Pardon me, you will find close to the Bahnhof a very goot hotel--the Wurtemburger.

[_PODBURY thanks her and alights in some confusion; the Lady sinks back, smiling_.

_Culch._ (_annoyed_). She must have understood every word we said! Are you in earnest over this? (_PODBURY nods grimly_.) Well, you'll soon get tired of your own society, I warn you.

_Podb._ Thanks, we shall see.

[_He saunters off with his bag: CULCHARD shrugs his shoulders, and goes in search of the Bayrischer-Hof Porter, to whom he entrusts his luggage tickets, and takes his seat in the omnibus alone._

* * * * *

"ANGELS AND MINISTERS OF GRACE!"

["The London Correspondent of the _Manchester Guardian_ hears that certain ungallant Members of Parliament are threatening at the beginning of next Session to make a formal protest against the wholesale admission of ladies to the precincts of the House."]

Ungallant! Vastly fine! But when they crowd The terrace seats, elbow us in the lobbies, Chatter and laugh, and care no more about (Elderly) senators than boys or bobbies; Why then, Sir, all M.P.'s of nerve and _nous_ Will say that, though we love the babbling beauties, The swarming of these "Angels in the House," Will simply play the devil with its duties!

* * * * *

STORICULES.

IV.--A REVIEWER'S CONFESSION.

I am extremely fond of sitting and looking on; but I do not care about taking part in anything. There are some people who cannot even witness a cab accident without wanting to be the horse or the man who is sitting on the horse's head. They walk round the prostrate animal and give advice; and if they are allowed to help in any way, they are quite happy. If such people watch a game of any sort, they always wish they were taking part in it. I once went to a cricket-ground to eat luncheon, and I went with an enthusiast of this kind. We noticed that his attention seemed distracted, that he only replied in monosyllables when we spoke to him, and that there was something on his mind. "I would give," he exclaimed, at last--and it was the only remark that he had volunteered for half-an-hour--"I would give a year of my life for twenty minutes with that bowling." He was evidently deeply affected. "_Why_ don't they take him off?" he moaned. There were tears in his eyes. I do not quite understand that feeling. I can watch absolutely anything, but I never want to do more. I was not made to undertake principal parts--I can witness amateur theatricals without wishing to be the prompter. I review novels, but I do not write them.

The other day I watched a game of tennis. I had placed the lounge-chair in a safe and shady position. I had got a paper-knife and the third volume with me. The cat had followed me out of the library, and sat down in a convenient position so that I could scratch it gently behind the ear if I wanted to. I was smoking a pipe that had just reached the right stage of maturity, and, in some indefinable way, made life seem richer and better. Everything was well arranged for the watching of tennis.

There were two players--BILL, a young son of the house, whom I knew intimately, and TOMMY, a boy of the same age, who had just come up from the Rectory. I had not seen TOMMY before. He was a nice-looking little boy, and wore a black necktie in the collar of his silk tennis-shirt. BILL is not good-looking; he is red and freckled, and grins vastly. He was wearing rather unclean flannels, and did not look quite so refined and delicate as TOMMY. I compared the two boys, and thought that I preferred BILL. In the first game of the set, BILL, who plays wonderfully well, won easily; after that, my attention got fixed on that third volume. I turned down a corner of the page whenever I came across anything that was at all conventional. I was reading the book for review, and my notice of it was to appear in _The Scalpel_ on the following Saturday. It was, on the whole, a capital novel, but it was by an author who had been, I thought, more successful than was good for him. He had been elected freely to the best Clubs. During the season he had gone everywhere. Many editions of his book had been sold. He had acquired a little cult who said extravagant things about him in the literary papers. It is sickening to see a man reverenced during his lifetime. I could imagine him posing before his cult and being pleased; even before I had read a page of his novel, I had made up my mind to administer to him a wholesome corrective in the pages of _The Scalpel_. I was rather sorry to find that it was really a capital novel; but it had enough faults for my purpose.

I had read for some time before I turned my attention to the game again. When I did so, I was startled, for it was perfectly obvious that BILL was giving the game away. His usual service is a little like invisible lightning with a bend in it; he was now serving in a modified manner, which he generally uses only when he is playing with girls who are not his sisters. It was also obvious that TOMMY, who looked very elated, fully believed that he was winning on his own merits, and had no idea that BILL was merely allowing him to win.

"My game--and set!" cried TOMMY, joyously.

"You've improved awfully," said BILL.

I could not imagine why BILL had intentionally lost that set, for I knew that he hated losing. When TOMMY had gone home again to the Rectory, BILL came up to me to ask how old I thought a man ought to be before he began smoking. I said that I thought thirty-six was about the right age, and asked BILL why he had let TOMMY win.

"Oh, nothing particular," said BILL, in his matter-of-fact way; "only I'd never seen him wear that kind of tie before, and I asked him what he was doing it for, and he said it was for his aunt; she died a few weeks back; so I thought I might as well give him the set to make up for it."

I was rather amused. "TOMMY looked very pleased with himself," I said.

"Yes, he'll brag about that game all over the place," replied BILL, rather despondently. For a moment or two he was silent, imagining the triumph and pride of TOMMY. "I'd punch his head as soon as look at him," he added.

"What on earth for? He thought he'd won by play."

"He can't play any more than a cow, but that's not it. I hate to see anyone get so glorious about anything. Well, I don't know--it's kind of natural. He'd have had a right to brag, if he had really won, and he thought he did."

"Anyhow," I said, severely, "it's a mean trick to want to damage anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right to be."

"Well, yes--I'll give you thirty."

"Can't play. I'm going to finish this novel, BILL."

"Is that one of the books you write about in the papers?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to praise it, or cut it up?"

"I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I believe I'm going to praise it." And I did.

* * * * *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. III.--TO POMPOSITY.

MY DEAR POMPOSITY,

It was only yesterday that I dined with BULMER, the wealthy brewer, in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I dare not be more precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as I do that BULMER's origin, though it may not have been humble, was certainly obscure. Nobody quite knows how he first managed to become a partner in the great concern which he now entirely controls. Fifteen years ago few people ever heard of or drank the "Pellucid Ale" without which no tap-room and few middle-class luncheon tables can now be considered complete. Suddenly, however, column upon column of the daily press overflowed, as it were, with those two magic words; analytical chemists investigated the properties of the beverage, and one and all pronounced it in highly technical language to contain more bone-forming and sinew-developing elements than any other known beer. The poetry-and-beer-loving public was fascinated by a series of memorable stanzas:--

"The hardy Briton loves good cheer, His mighty sinews never fail: 'Pour me,' he cries 'a draught of Beer, And let it be Pellucid Ale.'"