Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

February 13, 1892.

"PLEASING THE PIGS!" (FROM A PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL REPORT.)

Mr. CHAPLIN received a deputation on the subject of the Swine-fever last week. True to his dramatic instincts as regards the fitness of things, the Minister for Agriculture was, on this occasion, wearing a Sow-wester. He regretted that he was unable to don a pig-tail, which, as the representative of the Fine Old English Gentleman of years gone by, he should much like to do, but it was a fashion with the pig-wigs of the last century which he hoped to see revived as "a tail of old times." It was better, far better to be pig-tailed as were their great grandfathers, than to be pigheaded as were so many people with pig-culiar notions, specially in Scotland.

"I am doing and have been doing," said the Ministering CHAPLIN, "my very best to please the pigs, but there are some pigs that won't be pleased when they find that everything is not going to be done for them gratis. You may take this for grunted,--I should say granted. Now let me give you an illustration. There were five pigs belonging to a well-known littery family. The first pig went to market but no one would purchase him, the second pig stayed at home (not feeling well), the third pig had pleuro-pneumonia, and the fourth pig was in full swing--if you can imagine a pig in a swing--of swine-fever; and the fifth and quite the smallest pig of the lot, a mere sucking-pig, went 'wheeze, wheeze, wheeze!' and 'wheezes' were always a very bad sign. _À propos_ of 'signs' I have little doubt but that the well-known sign of the 'Pig and Whistle' descends to us from ancient times of Influenza. He trusted that the whole pig-family would soon be pigging up again."

The Right Hon. Gentleman finished by apologising for not being able to quote anything apposite from the works of either the philosophic BACON, the Ettrick Shepherd HOGG, or the poetic SUCKLING, his motto for the present being "_porker verba_," and he had to issue a Circular about the cattle who were all going wrong.

The Deputation thanked Mr. CHAPLIN, and unanimously expressed their opinion, that where pigs were concerned, the Minister should have his stye-pend increased. Noticing that Mr. CHAPLIN had risen from his chair, and had assumed a threatening attitude, the Deputation hurriedly thanked the Minister of Agriculture, and speedily withdrew.

* * * * *

ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE IN LAST WEEK'S NUMBER.--"Mire + t = Mitre."

* * * * *

CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON.

BORN, JUNE 19, 1834. DIED, JAN. 31, 1892.

Sturdy saint-militant, stout, genial soul, Through good and ill report you've reached the goal Of all brave effort, and attained that light Which makes our clearest noontide seem as night. How much 'twill show us all! We boast our clarity Of spiritual sense, but mutual charity Is still our nearest need when faith grows fierce And even hope earth's mists can hardly pierce. You were much loved; you spake a potent word In the world's ear, and listening thousands heard With joy that clear and confident appeal. The lingering doubts finer-strung spirits feel, The sensitive shrinkings from familiar touch Of the high mysteries, moved you not. Of such The great throng-stirrers! And you stirred the throng Who felt you honest and who knew you strong; Racy of homely earth, yet spirit-fired With all their higher moods felt, loved, desired. Puritan, yet of no ascetic strain Or arid straitness, freshening as the rain And healthy as the clod; a native force Incult yet quickening, cleaving its straight course Unchecked, unchastened, conquering to the end. Crudeness may chill, and confidence offend, But manhood, mother wit, and selfless zeal, Speech clear as light, and courage true as steel Must win the many. Honest soul and brave, The greatest drop their garlands on your grave!

* * * * *

'LOOK HERE, UPON THIS PICTURE AND ON THIS!'

(_THE HAYMARKET HAMLET AS HE IS AND OUGHT TO BE._)

_Mr. H. Kemble_. "My dear Tree, _I_ ought to have played _Hamlet_. First, my name--Kemble. Secondly, Shakspeare's authority--'Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt,' and again, 'Fat and scant of breath'!"

_Mr. B. Tree_. "All right, my dear Kemble. Quite true what you say; and, any night I am unable to play, you shall be my double!"

* * * * *

WHIPPED IN VAIN.

(_BY AN M.P. OF A RETIRING NATURE._)

The Whip, he writes to me to-day, Not, as his wont, in tones pacific, But in the very strongest way, And using language quite terrific.

He hopes to see me in my place, And woe betide the sad seceder, Whose absence helps to throw disgrace Both on his Party and his Leader.

I throw my hat up to the sky. At taunts of treason or defection I flip my fingers. What care I? _For I do NOT seek re-election!_

* * * * *

"THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH."--According to the _Times_ of Friday last, February 5, Cardinal MANNING died practically a pauper. He had given everything away in charity. He was a "Prince of the Church," and his gifts to others were, indeed, princely. In the wills and deeds of how many of our Very Reverend and Right Reverend Lordships shall we find nothing gathered up and bequeathed of the loaves and fishes which have fallen to their share? Such a testament as the Cardinal's would be in quite a New Testamentary spirit.

* * * * *

FOREIGN AND HOME NEWS.--"The Prussian Education Bill," remarked an elderly bachelor to. Mr. PETER FAMILIAS, "is a very important matter; because you see--"

"Hang the Prussian Education Bill!" interrupted PETER F., testily. "You should see the English Education Bill I've had for my boy's schooling last half!"

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH TO THE LIFEBOAT-MEN.

[The President of the Board of Trade has, by command of the QUEEN, conveyed, through the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, to the crews of the lifeboats of Atherfield, Brightstone, and Brooke, Her Majesty's warm appreciation of their gallant conduct in saving the crew and passengers of the steamship _Eider_.]

Your hand, lad! 'Tis wet with the brine, and the salt spray has sodden your hair, And the face of you glisteneth pale with the stress of the struggle out there; But the savour of salt is as sweet to the sense of a Briton, sometimes, As the fragrance of wet mignonette, or the scent of the bee-haunted limes.

Ay, sweeter is manhood, though rough, than the smoothest effeminate charms To the old sea-king strain in our blood in the season of shocks and alarms, When the winds and the waves and the rocks make a chaos of danger and strife; And the need of the moment is pluck, and the guerdon of valour is life.

That guerdon you've snatched from the teeth of the thundering tiger-maw'd waves, And the valour that smites is as naught, after all, to the valour that saves. They are safe on the shore, who had sunk in the whirl of the floods but for _you_! And some said you had lost your old grit and devotion! We knew 'twas not true.

The soft-hearted shore-going critics of conduct themselves would not dare, The trivial cocksure belittlers of dangers they have not to share, Claim much--oh _so_ much, from rough manhood,--unflinching cool daring in fray, And selflessness utter, from toilers with little of praise, and less pay.

Her heroes to get "on the cheap" from the rough rank and file of her sons Has been England's good fortune so long, that the scribblers' swift tongue-babble runs To the old easy tune without thought. "Gallant sea-dogs and life-savers!" Yes! But poor driblets of lyrical praise should not be their sole guerdon, I guess.

On the coast, in the mine, at the fire, in the dark city byeways at night, They are ready the waves, or the flames, or the bludgeoning burglar to fight. And are _we_ quite as ready to mark, or to fashion a fitting reward For the coarsely-clad commonplace men who our life and our property guard?

A question _Punch_ puts to the Public, and on your behalf, my brave lad, And that of your labouring like. To accept your stout help we are glad: If supply of cheap heroes _should_ slacken, and life-saving valour grow _dear_-- Say as courts, party-statesmen, or churches--'twould make some exchequers look queer.

Do we quite do our part, we shore-goers? Those lights could not flash through the fog, And how often must rescuer willing lie idle on land like a log For lack of the warning of coast-wires from lighthouse or lightship? 'Tis flat That we, lad, have not done _our_ duty, until we have altered all that.

Well, you have done yours, and successfully, _this_ time at least, and at night. All rescued. How gladly the last must have looked on that brave "Comet Light," As you put from the wave-battered wreck. Cold, surf-buffeted, weary, and drenched, Your pluck, like the glare from that beacon, flamed on through the dark hours unquenched.

Nor then was your labour at end. There was treasure to save and to land. Well done, life-boat heroes, once more! _Punch_ is proud to take grip of your hand! Your QUEEN, ever quick to praise manhood, has spoken in words you will hail, And 'twere shame to the People of England, if they in their part were to fail.

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE GUARDS.

_A SONG OF SENTIMENT, TO THE TUNE OF "FAIR LADY ELIZABETH MUGG."_ (_"REJECTED ADDRESSES."_)

["The last of the old Mail-guards is about to disappear from the service of the Post Office. Fifty-six years have elapsed since Mr. MOSES NOBBS--for such is the venerable official's name--was selected to undertake the duties of Guard to one of the Royal Mails."--_Daily Telegraph_.]

Historical Muse! are you sober? _Is_ he, the old Mail-guard, alive, Who probably swigged sound October From flagons, in One, Eight, Three, Five? When PILCH went a-slogging, and CLARKE Was a-studying slow underhand lobs? Hooray for that evergreen spark, The veteran Guard, MOSES NOBBS![1]

Why, MOSES, thus bring to a close Your fifty-six years on the road? Do you yearn, after all, for repose, Who with zeal half-a-century glowed? The Muse makes her moan at your loss, And Sentiment silently sobs. Ah! Time, friend, will play pitch-and-toss With all of us, even a NOBBS!

One sees your Mail-Coach all a-blaze, A masterly hand on the rein, In those rollicking, railway-less days, Which never shall greet us again. That tootling tin-horn one can hear; The old buffers, with breeches and fobs, One can picture; they doubtless were dear To the bosom of brave MOSES NOBBS.

That blunderbuss, too! Good old Guard! At what Knight of the Road has it shot? And do you remember the bard Who gave us "_The Tantivy Trot_?" Mr. EGERTON WARBURTON's gone, No longer the Highwayman robs; And silence now settles upon The Last of the Guards--MOSES NOBBS!

Yet oblivion shall not descend On that name till a stave hath been sung. The Muse is antiquity's friend, And in praise of the past will give tongue. If CRACKNALL, the Tantivy Whip, Claimed song, they're but _parvenu_ snobs Who say that the lyre should let slip The memory of stout MOSES NOBBS.

The Mail-Coach, my NOBBS, is no more What it was when you put on the man; We've Mail Trains, all rattle and roar, And that portent, the Packet Post Van. A Pullman, and not the Box-seat, Is the aim of our modern Lord BOBS; But the old recollections are sweet; And _Punch_ drinks to your health, MOSES NOBBS!

[Footnote 1: The _Telegraph_ gives the gentleman's name both as "NOBBS" and "NOGGS." As "NOBBS" comes first, _Mr. Punch_ adopts it, he hopes without misnaming the illustrious veteran.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

IV.--THE DUFFER AS COLLECTOR.

I may be a Duffer, but I hope I am neither an idiot nor a cad. I have never collected postage-stamps, nor outraged common humanity by asking people to send me their autographs. With these exceptions I have failed as a collector of almost everything. To succeed you need luck, and a dash of unscrupulousness, and careful attention to details, and a sceptical habit of mind. Even as a small boy I used to waste my shillings at a funny little curiosity-shop, kept by a nice old lady who knew no more about her wares than I did. Here I acquired quite a series of old coppers, which Mrs. SOMERVILLE said were ancient Bactrian. We asked where Bactria was, and she replied that it was a "country beyond Cyrus." We answered that Cyrus was not a territorial but a personal name, "A fellow, don't you know, not a place," but the old lady's information stopped there. I wonder where my Bactrian Collection is now. Certainly I never sold it; indeed, I never sold anything; not only because nobody would buy, but because, after all, one is a Collector, not a tradesman. Birds' eggs I would have collected if I could, but you had first to find the bird's nest (almost an impossible quest for a born Duffer), and to blow the eggs, which, let me tell you, needs nicety of handling. I did once find a thrush's nest, and tried blowing an egg, but it was not wholly a success, and the egg (the contents of which I accidentally absorbed) was not wholly fresh. Then it is awkward when you are at the top of a tall tree, with an egg in your mouth, for safety, if the other boys make you laugh, as you try to come down. It is the egg which,--but enough! Everyone who has been in that position will understand what is meant. It is not difficult to collect shells on the seashore, but it is extremely difficult to find out what shells they are, after you have collected them.

Conchology is no child's play. As to collecting marine animals for an aquarium, the trouble begins when you forget your acquisitions, and carry them about for some time in the pockets of your jacket. That jacket is apt to be dusted by the bigger boys, who also interfere with your affections for toads, lizards, snakes and other live stock dear to youth. The common ambition of boyhood is to be a great rabbit-grower, but, somehow, my rabbits did not thrive. The cats got at them, and, in shooting at the cats with a crossbow, I had the misfortune to break several windows, and riddle a conservatory.

The chief objects of my later ambition have been rare old books, gems, engravings, china, and so forth. All these things, if they are to be collected, demand that you shall have your wits about you; and the peculiarity of the Duffer is that his wits are always wool-gathering. A nice collection of wool they must have stored up somewhere. As to books, one invariably begins by collecting the wrong things. In novels and essays you read of "priceless Elzevirs," and "Aldines worth their weight in gold." Fired with hope, you hang about all the stalls, where you find myriads of Elzevirs, dumpy, dirty little tomes, in small illegible type, and legions of Aldines, books quite as dirty, if not so dumpy, and equally illegible, for they are printed in italics. You think you are in luck, invest largely, and begin to give yourself the airs of an amateur and a discoverer. Then comes somebody who knows about the matter in hand, and who tells you, with all the savage joy of a collector, that nobody wants any Elzevirs and Aldines, except a very few, and they must be in beautiful old bindings, uncut down, or scarcely cut down by the binder. These you may long for, but you certainly will never find them in the fourpenny box. The Duffer is always making the mistake of buying small bargains, as he thinks them, and so he will spend, in some time, perhaps, a hundred pounds. With a hundred pounds, and with luck, and prudence, and cunning, he might perhaps buy one small volume which a collector who knew his business would not wholly disdain. But, as it is, he has squandered his money, and has nothing to show for it but a heap of trash, of the wrong date, without the necessary misprints in the right places, ragged, short, and, above all, _imperfect_. I suppose I have the richest collection of imperfect books in the world. One hugs oneself on one's _Lucasta_ (very rare), or one's Elzevir _Cæsar_ of the right date, or one's first edition of MOLIÈRE, and then comes, with fiendish glee, the regular collector, and shows you that _Lucasta_ has not the portrait of LOVELACE, that _Cæsar_ has not his pagination all wrong (as he ought to have), that the Molières are Lyons piracies, that half of GILBERT's _Gentleman's Diversion_ is not bound up with the rest, that, generally speaking, there are pages missing here and there all through your books, which you have never "collated," that "a ticket of PADELOUP, the binder, has been taken off some broken board of a book, and stuck on to a modern imitation, and so forth, all through the collection. You cannot sell it; nobody will take as a present this Library of a Gentleman who has given up collecting; even Free Libraries do not want this kind of treasure, and so it remains, littering your shelves, a monument of folly. Happy are the Duffers whose eyes are impenetrably sealed, and who can go on believing, in spite of a modern water-mark, in their sham BURNS MSS. and their volumes with autographs of all the celebrated characters in history. But my eyes are purged, and I do not think you shall find me collecting old books any more. Certainly I shall not venture into auction-rooms, compete with the Trade, and get left with a book artfully run up, thanks to my enthusiasm, to four or five times its market value.

As to china, what the Duffer buys is invariably cracked, and the "marks" on which he places confidence are flagrant imitations. He usually begins by supposing that Crown Derby is a priceless possession, also he has a touching faith in chipped blue and white cups and saucers, marked with a crescent. Worcester they may be, but not the right sort of Worcester. And Crown Derby is the very Aldine or Elzevir of this market. You might as well collect shares in the Great Montezuma Gold Mine, and expect to derive benefit from the investment.

Gems are among the things that the Duffer may most wisely collect, for the excellent reason that, in this country, he very seldom indeed finds any for sale. He cannot come to much sorrow, for lack of opportunities. In Italy it is different. How many beautiful works of Art I have acquired in Florence, at considerable ransoms, all of them signed in neat, but illegible Greek capitals. I puzzled over them with microscopes. The names seemed to end in [Greek: ICHLÊS]. I thought myself a rival of BLACAS, or Lord KILSYTH, or the British Museum. Then my friend, WILKINS, came in. "Pretty enough pastes of the last century I see," he remarks. "Pastes!--last century!" I indignantly exclaim; "why they're of the best period: Sards, all of them signed, but I can't make out the artist's name." "It is PICHLER," says WILKINS, "he usually signed, for fear his things should be sold as antiques." I had to give in about PICHLER (which certainly does not sound very Greek); "but here," I said, "you can't call _this_ paste, you can't scratch the back of it." "I know I can't," says WILKINS, examining the ring, "for a very good reason, because a thin layer of sard has been inserted behind. But it's paste, for all that."

"Well," I say, "here's a genuine ancient ring, old gold, and a lovely head of Prosperine in cornelian."

"Well, this _is_ odd," says WILKINS, "I know the setting is genuine, I have seen it before. But then it had a rubbishy late bit of work in it, and I was in the _atelier_ when a gem-cutter shaved away the top of the stone, and copied your head of Prosperine on it from a Sicilian coin. I can show you a coin of the same stamp in my collection."

And he showed me it, otherwise I might have remained incredulous. "These scarabs," he went on, "are from Birmingham, I know the glaze. That gold Egyptian ring, Queen TAIA's do you say, is Coptic, Cairo is full of them. That head of CÆSAR is a copy from the one in the British Museum."

"Why, it is rough with age," I said.

"Ay, they've stuffed it down a turkey's crop, and it has got rubbed up in the gravel with which the ingenious bird assists the process of digestion. A _man_ who could swallow that gem is a goose."

I am presenting my esteemed collection of ancient engraved stones to my nephew at school, who shows all the character of the collector. He may swop them for bats, or tarts, or he may learn wisdom from the misfortunes of his uncle.

* * * * *

IN THIS STYLE, SIX-AND-EIGHTPENCE.

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ (_rising to cross-examine_). Then you assert that the golden dinner-service which we are inquiring about was in your possession on the evening of July 26th at half-past eight o'clock?

_Plaintiff._ I do.

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ And that when you went to take them out of the strong-box at 9:15 for your party they had disappeared?

_Plaintiff._ Quite so.

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ Pardon my suggesting such a thing, but I am instructed to ask you whether, when you paid £800 to the rate-collector for arrears of rates on the very next day, you had not obtained that sum by selling a portion of this gold plate yourself?

_The Judge._ Really, Mr. BADGERER, this won't do at all. "Legal bullying" is a thing of the past, and I shall have to commit you for contempt if you make these unworthy suggestions to the Witness.

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ But, m'Lud, the whole point of the defence is that the Plaintiff himself sto--

_The Judge_ (_hastily interposing_). --Sh! You must not talk like that. Remember that "the floor of the Court is _not_ the same thing as the interior of a coal-barge."

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ (_sulkily_). Very well. But I really don't know how I am to conduct my case if your Ludship intervenes to check me. (_To_ Witness.) I can ask you _this_ at any rate. Did you or did you not run up to Town by an early train the morning after the robbery?

_Plaintiff._ Certainly I did. I went to see my tailor, in Bond Street.

_Mr. Badgerer, Q.C._ And why did you, then, go all the way from Bond Street to the City, eh?

_Plaintiff_ (_gravelled_). My Lord, I must appeal for protection. The question is a bullying one.

_The Judge._ Oh, certainly! Counsel has no right to ask such things. He ought to take the charitable view of your actions, and suppose that you went to the City for a mid-day chop, or because you wanted to look at St. Paul's, or something of that kind. We must really try and conduct our business as nobly as we can.