Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 101

SEPTEMBER 26, 1891

THE WAITERS' STRIKE.

(_AT THE NAVAL EXHIBITION._)

The German Waiter waxeth fat; he grows exceeding proud; He is a shade more kicksome than can fairly be allowed. The British Press goes out to dine--the Teuton, they relate, Throws down his napkin like a gage, and swears he will not wait.

Now there are many proverbs--some are good and some are not-- But the Teuton was misled who cried, "Strike while the _entrée_'s hot!" Like readers with no book-marks, all the rebels lost their place, And vanished out of Chelsea in their dress-suits and disgrace.

And I'm told that there were murmurings and curses deep and low In darksome public-houses in the road of Pimlico, And a general impression that it was not safe to cross The temper of that caterer, Mr. MACKENZIE ROSS.

O Waiter, German Waiter! there are many other lands Where you can take your creaking boots and eke your dirty hands; And we think you'll have discovered, ere you reach your next address, That in England German Waiters aren't the Censors of the Press.

* * * * *

MARLOWE AT CANTERBURY.

"Keep up the Christopher!" a recommendation adapted _urbi et orbi_ which, quoting _Mr. Puff_, our HENRY when speaking at Canterbury ought to have given after the unveiling of KIT MARLOWE's statue. We hope that the unveiling address will not prove unavailing, and that the necessary funds may soon be forthcoming for the completion of the work. For the present all that has been effected by the ceremony is to have given the _Times_ and _Telegraph_ opportunities for interesting leading articles at a very dull season when material is scarce; also it has given the author of _Tom Cobb_ and other remarkable plays a chance of writing to the _Times_; and finally it has broken in upon the well-earned holiday of the indefatigable and good-natured HENRY. But there was one question not put by our HENRY. It ought to have arisen out of the record of MARLOWE's interment, but didn't. "The burial register of St. Nicholas, Deptford," said the _Times_ of September 16, "contains the entry, 'CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, slain by FRANCIS ARCHER, June 1, 1593.'" The entry maybe taken as veracious, although made by "a clerk of St. Nicholas." [MARLOWE was a dramatist; was ARCHER a dramatic critic?]

* * * * *

TWO WORDS IN SEASON.

(_HUMBLY DEDICATED TO THOSE EMINENT CONTROVERSIALISTS, LORD GRIMTHORPE AND MR. TALLACK._)

NO. I.

A little more grammar, a touch of the file To smooth the rough edge of his tongue and his style; And some friends, who could soften his temper or check it, Might amend Baron GRIMTHORPE, who once was called BECKETT.

NO. II.

Some scorn for the faddists who ask us to hug, Not with ropes but with pity, the pestilent Thug, And some sense (of which Fate, it would seem, says he shall lack,) Of the value of logic would much improve TALLACK.

* * * * *

ANOTHER STRIKE THREATENED.--The advent of the brother of the reigning King of SIAM threatens to cause embarrassment in some English houses where HIS HIGHNESS might expect to be received. JEAMES has positively declined to throw open a door and announce, "Prince DAMRONG!" "Such langwidge," he says, "is unbecoming and beneath Me--leastways unless it is remembered in the wages."

* * * * *

WHY SHOULD MERIT WAIT?

We have reason to believe that Sir HENRY EDWARDS, whose stone image adorns a thoroughfare in Weymouth, will not long be left in sole possession of the honour of having a monument dedicated to him in his lifetime. In view of an interesting event pending in his family, it is proposed that a statue shall be erected to Sir SAMUEL WILSON, M.P., in the grounds at Hughenden. The project has so far advanced that the inscription has been drafted, and we are pleased to be able to quote it:--

To Perpetuate the Memory of Sir SAMUEL WILSON, Kt., A good Husband, a kind Father, A great Sheep-Farmer. Twice elected to the Legislative Assembly of Victoria, He once sat for the borough of Portsmouth. He built Wilson Hall for Melbourne University, And bought Hughenden Manor for Himself. He introduced Salmon into Australian Waters, And married his Eldest Son To the Sixth Daughter of the Duchess of MARLBOROUGH.

Of such is the Colony of Victoria.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Dear Miss DOLLIE RADFORD," writes the Assistant-Reader, "I trust I am right in the feminine and unconjugal prefix; but, be that as it may, I wish simply to tell you that, at the instigation of a lettered friend, I have spent a few moments very wisely in reading your thin little book of verse, _A Light Load_. (ELKIN MATHEWS.) I feel now as if I had been gently drifting down a smooth broad river under the moonlight, when all nature is quiet. I don't quite know why I feel like that, but I fancy it must be on account of some serene and peaceful quality in your poems. Here, then, there are sixty-four little pages of restfulness for those whose minds are troubled. You don't plunge into the deep of metaphysics and churn it into a foam, but you perch on your little bough and pipe sweetly of gorse and heather and wide meadows and brightly-flashing insects; you sing softly as when, in your own words--

"--gently this evening the ripples break On the pebbles beneath the trees, With a music as low as the full leaves make, When they stir in some soft sea-breeze."

One of my "Co." says he always reads anything that comes in his way bearing the trade-mark BLACKWOOD. His faith has been justified on carrying off with him on a quiet holiday, _His Cousin Adair_, by GORDON ROY. The book has all the requisites of a good novel, including the perhaps rarest one of literary style. _Cousin Adair_ is well worth knowing, and her character is skilfully portrayed. As a foil against this high-minded, pure-souled unselfish girl, there are sketched in two or three of the sort of people, men and women, more frequently met with in this wicked world. But _Cousin Adair_ is good enough to leaven the lump. GORDON ROY is evidently a _nom de plume_ that might belong to man or woman. My "Co." is inclined to think, from certain subtle touches, that he has been entertained through three volumes by a lady.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

* * * * *

WHAT'S IN A TITLE?

(_TO THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET MOSES."_)

With a title so lucky (though luck's all my eye), Your book's sure of readers I'll wager my head. For not even a Critic will dare to reply, When he's asked to review it, "I'll take it as re(a)d."

* * * * *

FROM THE LATEST COLWELL-HATCHNEY EXAMINATION PAPER IN FOREIGN LANGUAGES FOR THE CAKE SCHOLARSHIP.--_Question_. What is the feminine of _Beau temps? Answer_ (_immediately given_). Belle-Wether.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. VIII.

SCENE--_A Bridge over the Pegnitz, at Nuremberg. Time, afternoon. The shadows of the old gabled and balconied houses are thrown sharply on the reddish-yellow water. Above the steep speckled roofs, the spires of St. Lorenz glitter against the blue sky. CULCHARD is leaning listlessly upon the parapet of the bridge_.

_Culchard_ (_to himself_). How mediæval it all is, and how infinitely restful! (_He yawns._) What a blessed relief to be without that fellow PODBURY! He's very careful to keep out of my way--I've scarcely seen him since I've been here. He must find it dreadfully dull. (_He sighs._) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of the conical caps of those towers. I _ought_--but I don't. I fancy that half-engagement to MAUD TROTTER must have, scared away the Muse. I wonder if PODBURY has really gone yet? (_Here a thump on the back disposes of any doubt as to this._) Er--so you're still at Nuremberg? [Awkwardly.

_Podbury_ (_cheerfully_). Rather! Regular ripping old place this--suits me down to the ground. And how are _you_ getting on?

_Culch._ Perfectly, thanks. My mind is being--er--stimulated here in the direction most congenial to it.

_Podb._ So's mine. By the way, have you got a book--don't mean a novel, but a regular improving book--the stodgier the better--to lend a fellow?

_Culch._ Well, I brought an _Epitome of Herbert Spencer's Synthetic Philosophy_ away with me to dip into occasionally. It seems a very able summary, and you are welcome to it, if it's of any use to you.

_Podb._ SPENCER, eh?--he's a stiff kind of old bird, ain't he? He'll do me to-rights, thanks.

_Culch._ It strikes me, PODBURY, that you must find the time rather long, to want a book of that kind. If you wish to resume our--ah--original relations, I am quite ready to overlook what I am sure was only a phase of not unnatural disappointment.

_Podb._ (_cheerily_). Oh, _that's_ all right, old fellow. I've got over all that business. (_He colours slightly._) How soon did you think of moving on?

_Culch._ (_briskly_). As soon as you please. We might start for Constance to-morrow, if you like.

_Podb._ (_hesitating_) Well, you see, it's just this: there's a fellow staying at my hotel--PRENDERGAST, his name is--rattling good sort--and I've rather chummed up with him, and--and he's travelling with a relation of his, and--well, the fact is, they rather made a point of my going on to Constance with _them_, don't you see? But I daresay we could work it so as to go on all together. I'll see what they say about it.

_Culch._ (_stiffly_). I'm exceedingly obliged--but so large a party is scarcely--however, I'll let you know whether I can join you or not this evening. Are you--er--going anywhere in particular just now?

_Podb._ Well, yes. I've got to meet PRENDERGAST at the _Café Noris_. We're going to beat up some stables, and see if we can't hire a couple of gees for an hour or two before dinner. Do you feel inclined for a tittup?

_Culch._ Thanks, but I am no equestrian. (_To himself, after PODBURY's departure._) He seems to manage well enough without me. And yet I do think my society would be more good for him than--. Why did he want to borrow that book, though? Can my influence after all-- (_He walks on thoughtfully, till he finds himself before an optician's window in which a mechanical monkey is looking through a miniature telescope; the monkey suddenly turns its head and gibbers at him. This familiarity depresses him, and he moves away, feeling lonelier than ever._)

_ON THE TERRACE OF THE BURG. HALF AN HOUR LATER._

_Culch._ (_on a seat commanding a panorama of roofs, gables, turrets, and spires_). Now this is a thing that can only be properly enjoyed when one is by oneself. The mere presence of PODBURY--well, thank goodness, he's found more congenial company. (_He sighs._) That looks, like an English girl sketching on the next seat. Rather a fine profile, so regular--general air of repose about her. Singular, now I think of it, how little repose there is about MAUD. (The Young Lady _rises and walks to the parapet._) Dear me, she has left her india-rubber behind her. I really think I ought-- (_He rescues the india-rubber, which he restores to the owner._) Am I mistaken in supposing that this piece of india-rubber is your property?

_The Y.L._ (_in musically precise tones_). Your supposition is perfectly correct. I was under the impression that it would be safe where it was for a few moments; but I am obliged to you, nevertheless. I find india-rubber quite indispensable in sketching.

_Culch._ I can quite understand that. I--I mean that it reduces the--er--paralysing sense of irrevocability.

_The Y.L._ You express my own meaning exactly.

[_CULCHARD, not being quite sure of his own, is proportionately pleased._

_Culch._ You nave chosen an inspiring scene, rich with historical interest.

_The Y.L._ (_enthusiastically_). Yes, indeed. What names rise to one's mind instinctively MELANCHTHON, JOHN HUSS, KRAFT, and PETER VISCHER, and DÜRER, and WOHLGEMUT, and MAXIMILIAN THE FIRST, and LOUIS OF BAVARIA!

_Culch._ (_who has read up the local history, and does not intend to be beaten at this game_). Precisely. And the imperious MARGRAVE OF BRANDENBURG, and WALLENSTEIN; and GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, and GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN. One can almost see their--er--picturesque personalities still haunting the narrow streets as we look down.

_The Y.L._ I find it impossible to distinguish even the streets from here, I confess, but you probably see with the imagination of an artist. _Are_ you one by any chance?

_Culch._ Only in words; that is, I record my impressions in a poetic form. A perfect sonnet may render a scene, a mood, a passing thought, more indelibly than the most finished sketch; may it not?

_The Y.L._ That is quite true; indeed, I occasionally relieve my feelings by the composition of Greek or Latin verses, which I find, on the whole, better adapted to express the subtler emotions. Don't you agree with me there?

_Culch._ (_who has done no Greek or Latin verse since he left school_). Doubtless. But I am hindering your sketch?

_The Y.L._ No, I was merely saturating my mind with the general effect. I shall not really begin my sketch till to-morrow. I am going now. I hope the genius of the place will inspire you.

_Culch._ Thank you. I trust it will--er--have that effect. (_To himself, after the Young Lady has left the terrace._) Now, that's a very superior girl--she has intellect, style, culture--everything the ideal woman _should_ have. I wonder, now, whether, if I had met her before--but such speculations are most unprofitable! How clear her eyes looked through her _pince-nez_! Blue-grey, like Athene's own. If I'd been with PODBURY, I should never have had this talk. The sight of him would have repelled her at once. I shall tell him when I take him that book that he had better go his own way with his new friends. I shall spend most of to-morrow on this terrace.

SCENE--_The Conversations-Saal at the Wurtemburger-Hof. Evening. PODBURY at the piano; BOB PRENDERGAST and his sister HYPATIA seated near him._

_Podb._ (_chanting dolefully_)--

Now then, this party as what came from Fla-an-ders, What had the com-plex-_i_-on rich and rare, He went and took and caught the yeller ja-aun-ders-- And his complexion isn't what it were!

_Mr. and Miss Prendergast_ (_joining sympathetically in chorus_). And his complexion _isn't_ what it _were_!

[_There is a faint knock at the door, and CULCHARD enters with a volume under his arm. None of the three observes him, and he stands and listens stiffly as PODBURY continues,--_

Well, next this party as what came from Fla-an-ders, Whose complex-shun was formi-ally rare, Eloped to Injia with ELIZA SA-AUN-DERS, As lived close by in Canonbury Square.

_Culch._ (_advances to piano and touches PODBURY's arm with the air of his better angel_). Er--I have brought you the philosophical work I mentioned. I will leave it for an occasion when you are--er--in a fitter frame of mind for its perusal.

_Podb._ Oh, beg pardon, didn't see you, old fellow. Awfully obliged; jam it down anywhere, and (_whispering_) I say, I want to introduce you to--

_Culch._ (_in a tone of emphatic disapproval_). You must really excuse me, as I fear I should be scarcely a congenial spirit in such a party. So good night--or, rather--er--good-bye. [_He withdraws._

_Miss Hypatia P._ (_just as C. is about to close the door_). Please don't stop, Mr. PODBURY, that song is quite too deliciously inane!

[_CULCHARD turns as he hears the voice, and--too late--recognises his Athene of that afternoon. He retires in confusion, and, as he passes under the window, hears PODBURY sing the final verse._

The moral is--Now _don't_ you come from Fla-an-ders, If you should have complexions rich and rare; And don't you go and catch the yaller ja-aun-ders, Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!

_Miss Hypatia P._ (_in a clear soprano_). "Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!"

[_CULCHARD passes on, crushed._

* * * * *

* * * * *

DOGGEREL BY A "DISHER."

[On September 1 the Free Education Act came into force throughout England and Wales.]

Remember, remember The first of September And Free Education's sly plot; I know no reasons Why cancelling fees on The poor should not silence Rad rot!

* * * * *

A NOTE AND QUERY.--At the enthronement of Dr. MACLAGAN as Archbishop of York "the band of the First Royal Dragoons," says the _Daily Graphic_, "played an appropriate march." That the band of the Royal Dragoons should symbolically and cymballically represent the Church Militant is right enough; but what is "a march appropriate" to an Archbishop? One of BISHOP's glees would have been more suitable to the occasion. Henceforth Dr. MACLAGAN can say, if he likes, "I'_m Arch_-bishop of Canterbury!"

* * * * *

"THE GREAT LOAN LAND."--Russia.

* * * * *

THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT.

(_A SOLEMN TRAGEDY OF THE SHOOTING SEASON._)

This is the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend, &c.

This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label, &c.

This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds," &c.

This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.

This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.

This is the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c.

This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.

And this is _Jack_ (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by Railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot!

MORAL.

If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send (As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend, Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel, And be very very careful _how you fasten on the label_!

* * * * *

A MUSICAL SUGGESTION.

(_CERTAINLY NEW AND ORIGINAL._)

Why doesn't one of our talented composers--Sir ARTHUR, or Mr. MACKENZIE, or Mr. STANFORD, or Mr. EDWARD SOLOMON--write a Cantata, entitled _The Weather?_ The subject is thoroughly English, and lends itself so evidently to much variety in treatment. The title should be, _The Weather: a Meteorological Cantata_.

It should commence with a hopeful movement, indicative of the views of various people interested in the weather as to future probabilities. The sportsman, the agriculturist, the holiday-maker, likewise the livery-stable keeper, and the umbrella manufacturer would, _cum multis aliis_, be all represented; Songs without Words; the Sailor's Hope; then wind instruments; solo violin; the Maiden's Prayer for her Sailor-love's Safety, &c. Then "as the arrows" (on the _Times_ chart) "fly with the wind," so would the piccolo, followed by the trombone, and thus the approach of the storm would be indicated. Roll on drum, distant thunder; the storm passes off, and we have a beautiful air (the composer's best), which delights and reassures us.

All at once, "disturbances advance from the Atlantic;" grand effect, this!

Sudden Fall of Barometer! (This would be something startling on drum and cymbals, with, on 'cello, a broken chord.) Momentary relief of a "light and fresh breeze" (hornpipe), interrupted by showers from the West and winds from the North; then strong wind from East (something Turkish here); light breeze from Scotland (Highland Fling); Anticyclonic movement; "Depression" on the hautbois; increase of wind; then thunder, lightning, rain--all the elements at it! Grand effect!! Crash!!! and ... for _finale_, calm sea, sun shining, joyful chorus, Harvest Home, weddings, &c., &c., &c.

I've nothing more to say. Surely this outline is sufficient. Only if any Composer does make use of this idea, and become famous thereby, let him not be ungrateful to the suggester of this brilliant notion (copyright), whose name and address may be had for the asking at the Fleet Street Office.

* * * * *

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER VI.

_RECOVERY--WAITER--VICOMTE--CHÂTEAU--RECEPTION--NIGHT--MORNING-- WORKERS--HEADSTONES--MEMORIES--STONES--EXPLANATIONS--BREAKFAST-- OFF--BACK AGAIN._

DAUBINET, quite recovered from his fatigue, sings "Blass the Prince of WAILES" enthusiastically, and at intervals ejaculates queer, uncouth words in the Russian tongue. Breakfast with Russian tongue. He asks the waiter for "_minuoschhah karosh caviar_." To which the waiter adroitly replies, "_parfaitement M'sieu_" and disappears. Returning ten minutes afterwards, the wily attendant makes no further allusion to the supposed errand that has taken him out of the room.

Then DAUBINET, remembering that we are literally "here to-day and gone to-morrow," says we must visit his friend the Vicomte. I cannot catch the Vicomte's name; I manage to do so for half an hour at a time, and then it escapes me. As we are in this champagney country, I write it down as M. le Vicomte DE CHAMPAGNIAC. We are to dine and sleep there. A Night in a French Château. "But this is another story."

On our arrival at the Château de Quelquechose we are right royally and heartily received. Delightful evening. _Vive la Compagnie_! Magnificent view from my bedroom. In the clear moonlight I can see right away for miles and miles over the Champagne valleys. At 6.30 we are in the break, and within an hour or so are "All among the barley," as the song used to say, which I now apply to "All amongst the Vineyards." Peasants at work everywhere: picking and sorting. How they must dislike grapes! Of course they are all teetotallers, and no more touch a drop of champagne than a grocer eats his own currants, or a confectioner his own sweetmeats. I suppose the butcher lives exclusively on fish, and his friend, the neighbouring fishmonger, is entirely dependent on the butcher for his sustenance, except when game is in, and then both deal with the gamester or poulterer. There are some traders in necessaries who can make a fair deal all round. The only exception to this rule, for which, from personal observation, I can vouch, is the tobacconist, who is always smoking his own cigars.