Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

January 9, 1892.

ON A NEW YEARLING.

(_SECOND WEEK._)

My fire was low; my bills were high; My sip of punch was in its ladle; The clarion chimes were in the sky; The nascent year was in its cradle. In sober prose to tell my tale, 'Twas New Year's E'en, when, blind to danger, All older-fashioned nurses hail With joy "another little stranger."

The glass was in my hand--but, wait, Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting With pæans too precipitate A baby scarce an outline boasting: One week at least of life must flit For me to match it with its brothers-- I'll wager, like most infants, it Is wholly different from others.

He frolics, latest of the lot, A family prolific reckoned; He occupies his tiny cot, The eighteen-hundred-ninety-second! The pretty darling, gently nursed Of course, he lies, and fondly petted! The eighteen-hundred-ninety-first Is not, I fancy, much regretted.

You call him "fine"--he's great in size, And "promising"--there issue from his Tough larynx quite stentorian cries; Such notes are haply notes of promise. Look out for squalls, _I_ tell you; soft And dove-like atoms more engage us; Your _fin-de-siècle_ child is oft Loud, brazen, grasping, and rampageous.

You bid me next his eyes adore; So "deep and wideawake," they beckon; We've suffered lately on the score Of "deep and wideawake," I reckon. You term me an "unfeeling brute," A "monster Herod-like," and so on-- You may be right; I'll not dispute; I'll cease a brat's good name to blow on.

Who'll read the bantling's dawning days?-- Precocious shall he prove, and harass The world with inconvenient ways And lisped conundrums that embarrass? (Such as Impressionists delight To offer each æsthetic gaper, And faddists hyper-Ibsenite Rejoice to perpetrate on paper?)

Or, one of those young scamps perhaps Who love to rig their bogus bogies, And set their artful booby-traps For over-unsuspicious fogies? Or haply, only commonplace-- A plodding sort of good apprentice, Who does his master's will with grace, And hurries meekly where he sent is?

And, when he grows apace, what blend Of genius, chivalry and daring, What virtues might our little friend Display to brighten souls despairing? What quiet charities unknown, What modest, openhanded kindness, What tolerance in touch and tone For braggart human nature's blindness?

Or what--the worser part to view-- Of wanton waste and reckless gambling, What darker paths shall he pursue With sacrilegious step and shambling? What coarse defiance, haply, hurl At lights beyond his comprehension-- An attitudinising churl Who struts with ludicrous pretension.

I know not--only this I know, They're getting overstrained, my ditties, This kind of poem ought to flow Less like a solemn "_Nunc Dimittis_." 'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre, And jaunty seems this yearling baby; But, as both year and song expire They're sadder, each, and wiser, maybe.

* * * * *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

"_Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I'm All Right_" is heard, "all over the place," as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are too well aware. Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus? As thus:--

NO. V.--I-TWADDLEY-HIGH-DRY-HIGH-TONED-I! OK, I'M ALL RIGHT!

AIR--"_HI-TIDDLEY-HI-TI!_"

I'm a young writer grimly gay, My volumes sell, and sometimes pay. First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour, Who had faced the Sphinx called Life, With amusing misery rife, So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I'd have a lark. With pessimistic pick I pottered round Pottered round, A new "funny" trick I quickly found, Smart and sound, Life's cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned, You be bound! The cynic lay I found would pay, In a young Man of Mark!

_CHORUS._

All of you come along with me! I'm for a rare new fine new spree! Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted, All of you come my books to try! I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I, Ego for ever! Buy! Buy! Buy! And _I_'m all right!

Down with the West I go; my pen Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten, With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling. Smart little scribes from near and far Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!" DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry, But _his_ pessimistic air, rich and rare, Subtle, fair, Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare, And to blare; Whilst true Critics _débonnaire_, who are rare, With a _flaire_, For true humour, Swell of rumour The gregarious cry.

_CHORUS._

All of you come along with me! You'll have a rare new fair new spree! Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted. Humour's new _cuvée_, extra-dry. I-twaddley--high-dry-high-toned I! Come and worship the pessimist "I" For _that's_ all right!

After I've taken the toffish Town, A second edition, at Half-a-crown, Seeks the suffrages--(and _money_, for on Swelldom you'll go "stoney")-- Of the much derided Mob. Yes, the Proletariat "Bob" (With the Guinea of the Nob) must aid the Sons of Light. Gath and Askelon, you see, can give Me, L.S.D. All true Egoists love those pregnant letters Mystic Three! Flout Philistia with great glee, fair and free, But agree To take its "tin," Though with a grin Of pessimistic spite.

_CHORUS._

All of you come along with me! 'ARRY, who loves a fair old spree! "Mugwump" with fine _morgue_ delighted, Cynic at "yearnestness" sore frighted! All of you come my "tap" to try! I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I! Come along, boys, Buy! Buy! Buy! And _I_'m all right!

* * * * *

* * * * *

JIM'S JOTTINGS.

NO. 1.--DOWN OUR COURT.

(_In which Jim Juniper, better known as "Ginger Jimmy," discourses of Homes and Open Spaces, &c., and, puts a practical problem to the new "Public Health, and Housing Committee of the London County Council._")

My name is GINGER JIMMY, and I live, when I'm to hum, In Rats Rents, the kind o' nay'brood wot the Swells now calls a Slum. I'm a bit thick in the clear, like, and don't quite know wot they mean, But I guess it isn't mansions, and I'm sure it isn't _clean_.

They are always on the job now about Slums, and they do say They are going to clear _our_ Court out on the suddent some fine day. Whether it's roads, or railways, or hotels, blowed if _I_ know; Only 'ope they'll give us notice, and some place where we can go.

'One _is_ 'ome, if but a dungheap; if you're pitchforked out of that, And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat, With yer bits o' sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck, I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.

Heviction? When you're stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout, And you've nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you _must_ turn hout; 'Cos without them "rights o' proputty" no country couldn't jog; But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!

I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave, And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave"; But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake. I am fly to most all capers, but don't tumble to _their_ fake.

Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do. They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue, But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot; Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke What does the "All a-blowin'!" with a barrer and a moke; And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain't so jolly sure As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me. Reglar nubbly one is NOCK, With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher's block. He'd a made a spiffing Club Swell if he'd ony 'ad the chink, With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

And _I_ ain't no softy, neither, bet your buttons. That don't pay, For you're 'bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o' day; But I've got a mash on flowers; they are better than four 'arf, Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY 'ave his larf!

NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin' hout our place For to make a bit o' garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space, O _I_ know the sort o' fakement, gravel walks, a patch o' grass, And a sprinkle of young lime-trees of yer Thames Embankment class.

Some bloke spots the place as likely, and praps buys it on the cheap, (Spekylators keeps _their_ lids hup though the parish nobs may sleep,) Pooty soon the pot's a-bilin' about Hopen Spaces. Yus! And the chap as bought the bit o' ground is fust to raise the fuss.

Recreation for the People, Hopen Playgrounds for the Young! That's the patter of the platformers; and don't they jest give tongue! Well, it's opened with a flourish, and there's everyone content; Pertiklerly the landlords round as nobbles better rent.

But _I_ don't object to gardings, not a'mossel--t'other quite; As I've said, a bit of green stuff and a flower is my delight; I wish London wos _more_ hopen, and more greener, and more gay; Only people down our Court has got to _live_ as well as _play_.

If they clears out the arf acre where we huddles orful close, We must all turn out, that's certain; where we'll turn to, goodness knows; And it won't be werry spashus, the new "Park" won't, arter all, With the graveyard railinks one side, and on t'other a blank wall.

Wot we want is decent 'ouses, at a rent as doesn't take 'Arf a cove's poor screw to pay it. That _'a_ the present landlord's fake! If they only knowed 'ow 'ard it is to meet "Saint Monday" square, When yer ealth is werry middlin', and the jobs is werry rare!

P'raps them Dooks, and Earls, and Marquiges, and Kernels, wot they states Has just clubbed theirselves together to keep down the bloomin' Rates, And to smash the Kounty Kouncil, as they've bunnicked the Skool Board, Jest a few of their hodd moments to _our_ naybrood might afford.

They _must_ 'ave a feelink 'art towards the poor, and no mistake, Or they wouldn't take sech trouble for the poor Ratepayers' sake, NOCKY SPRIGGENS sez it 'minds 'im of a League of Loving Cats To purtect from traps and pizen the poor mice and starvin' rats.

Jest like NOCKY's narsty way that is! But if them Dooks would try To assist the Kounty Kouncil in their new Committee--wy, They might 'elp our Health and Housing in a style as none could mock, Give the proud "Pergressives" what-for, and fair put the shut on NOCK.

Arter all yer Public Garding's little better than a chouse, While the landlord rents yer heart out for a wretched Privit 'Ouse. And yer Hopen Space's pootiness ain't much good to _our_ sort, Who are shut up in the dismal dens called 'Omes, gents, down our Court.

Oh, Philanterpists, and Sanitrys, and Dooks, I do not mean To be rucking upon Charity, or rounding on wot's clean; But _if_ yer wants to 'elp us as has lived so long in muck, The _only_ thing wot's wanted ain't to give us the clean--chuck!

* * * * *

* * * * *

'ARRY EXAMINED.

_Q._ What is meant by "Higher Education?"

_'Arry_. Getting a Tutor at so much a week. That's the way _I_ should 'ire education--if I wanted it.

* * * * *

A DEFINITION.--"A pun on a word is a _new sense_."--Dr. JOHNSON, Junior.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. XXII.

SCENE--_The Campo S.S. Giovanni e Paolo. Afternoon. CULCHARD is leaning against the pedestal of the Colleoni Statue_.

_Podbury_ (_who has just come out of S. Giovanni, recognising CULCHARD_). Hullo! _alone_, eh? Thought you were with Miss TROTTER?

_Culchard_. So I am. That is, she is going over a metal-worker's show-room close by, and I--er--preferred the open air. But didn't you say you were going out with the--er--PRENDERGASTS again?

_Podb._ So I am. She's in the Church with BOB, so I said I'd come out and keep an eye on the gondola. Nothing much to see in _there_, you know!

_Culch._ (_with a weary irony_). Only the mausoleums of the Doges--RUSKIN's "Street of the Tombs"--and a few trifles of that sort!

_Podb._ That's all. And I'm feeling a bit done, you know. Been doing the Correr Museum all the morning, and not lunched yet! So Miss TROTTER's looking at ornamental metal-work? Rather fun that, eh?

_Culch._ For those who enjoy it. She has only been in there an hour, so she is not likely to come back just yet. What do you say to coming into S.S. Giovanni e Paolo again, with _me_? Those tombs form a really remarkable illustration, as RUSKIN points out, of the gradual decay of--

_Miss Trotter_ (_suddenly flutters up, followed by an attendant carrying a studded halberd, an antique gondola-hook, and two copper water-buckets--all of which are consigned to the disgusted CULCHARD_). Just hold these a spell till I come back. Thanks ever so much.... Well, Mr. PODBURY! Aren't you going to admire my purchases? They're real antique--or if they aren't, they'll wear all the better.... There, I believe I'll just have to run back a minute--don't you put those things in the gondola yet, Mr. CULCHARD, or they'll get stolen.

[_She flutters off._

_Culch._ (_helplessly, as he holds the halberd, &c._). I suppose I shall have to stay _here_ now. You're not going?

_Podb._ (_consulting his watch_). Must. Promised old BOB I'd relieve guard in ten minutes. Ta-ta!

[_He goes; presently BOB PRENDERGAST lounges out of the church._

_Culch._ If I could only make a friend of _him_! (_To BOB._) Ah, PRENDERGAST! lovely afternoon, isn't it? Delicious breeze!

_Bob_. (_shortly_). Can't say. Not had much of it, at present.

_Culch._ You find these old churches rather oppressive, I daresay. Er--will you have a cigarette? [_Tenders case._

_Bob_. Thanks; got a pipe. (_He lights it._) Where's Miss TROTTER?

_Culch._ She will be here presently. By the way, my dear PRENDERGAST, this--er--misunderstanding between your sister and her is very unfortunate.

_Bob_. I know that well enough. It's none of _my_ doing! And _you_'ve no reason to complain, at all events!

_Culch._ Quite so. Only, you see, we _used_ to be good friends at Constance, and--er--until recently--

_Bob_. Used we? Of course, if you say so, it's all right. But what are you driving at exactly?

_Culch._ All I am driving at is this: Couldn't we two--er--agree to effect a reconciliation between the two ladies? So much pleasanter for--er--all parties!

_Bob_. I daresay. But how are you going to set about it? _I_ can't begin.

_Culch._ Couldn't you induce your sister to lay aside her--er--prejudice against me? Then _I_ could easily--

_Bob_. Very likely--but I _couldn't_. I never interfere in my sister's affairs, and, to tell you the honest truth, I don't feel particularly inclined to make a beginning on your account. [_Strolls away._

_Culch._ (_to himself_). What a surly boor it is! But I don't care--I'll do him a good turn, in spite of himself! (_Miss T. returns_.) Do you know, I've just been having a chat with poor young PRENDERGAST. He seems quite cut up at being forced to side with his sister. I undertook to--er--intercede for him. Now is it quite fair, or like your--er--usual good-nature, to visit his sister's offences--whatever they are--on him? I--I only put it to you.

_Miss T._ Well, to think now! I guess you're about the most unselfish Saint on two legs! Now some folks would have felt jealous.

_Culch._ Possibly--but I cannot accuse myself of such a failing as that.

_Miss T._ I'd just like to hear you accuse yourself of _any_ failing! I don't see however you manage to act so magnanimous and live. I told you I wanted to study your character, and I believe it isn't going to take me vurry much longer to make up my mind about _you_. You _don't_ suppose I'll have any time for Mr. PRENDERGAST after getting such a glimpse into your nature? There, help me into the gondola, and don't talk any more about it. Tell him to go to Salviati's right away.

_Culch._ (_dejectedly, to himself_). I've bungled it! I might have _known_ I should only make matters worse!

_On the Piazzetta; it is moonlight, the Campanile and dome of San Giorgio Maggiore are silhouetted sharp and black against the steel-blue sky across a sea of silver ripples. PODBURY and CULCHARD are pacing slowly arm-in-arm between the two columns._

_Culch._ And so you went on to S. Giovanni in Bragora, eh? then over the Arsenal, and rowed across the lagoons to see the Armenian convent? A delightful day, my dear PODBURY! I hope you--er--appreciate the inestimable privileges of--of seeing Venice so thoroughly?

_Podb._ Oh, of course it's very jolly. Find I get a trifle mixed afterwards, though. And, between ourselves, I wouldn't mind--now and then, you know--just dawdling about among the shops and people, as you and the TROTTERS do!

_Culch._ That has its charms, no doubt. But don't you find Miss PRENDERGAST a mine of information on Italian Art and History?

_Podb._ Don't I just--rather too _deep_ for me, y' know! I say, isn't Miss TROTTER immense sport in the shops and that!

_Culch._ She is--er--vivacious, certainly. (_PODBURY sighs_.) You seem rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?

_Podb._ Not dull--a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly back-courts and canals and in stuffy churches--it _can't_ be healthy, you know! And they've _no_ drainage. I only hope I haven't caught something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general lowness--_She_ says I lunch too heavily--but I swear it's more than that!

_Culch._ Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low, with all your advantages--in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift!

_Podb._ Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?

_Culch._ If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense. Every earnest nature presents an--er--priggish side at times. I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't _know_ me, of course, been charged with priggishness.

_Podb._ Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about _her_. Only--well, it don't signify. [_He sighs._

_Culch._ Ah, PODBURY, take the good the gods provide you and be content! You might be worse off, believe me!

_Podb._ (_discontentedly_). It's all very well for _you_ to talk--with Miss TROTTER all to yourself. I suppose you're regularly engaged by this time, eh?

_Culch._ Not quite. There's still a ----. And your probation, that's practically at an end?

_Podb._ I don't know. Can't make her out. She wouldn't sit on me the way she does unless she _liked_ me, I suppose. But I say, it must be awf--rather jolly for you with Miss TROTTER? She's got so much _go_, eh?

_Culch._ You used to say she wasn't what you call cultivated.

_Podb._ I know I did. That's just what I like about her! At least--well, we _both_ ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky beggars, I'm sure! [_He sighs more heavily than ever._

_Culch._ You especially, my dear PODBURY. In fact, I doubt if you're half grateful enough!

_Podb._ (_snappishly_). Yes, I am, I tell you. _I_'m not grumbling, am I? I know as well as you do she's miles too good for me. Haven't I _said_ so? Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?

_Culch._ I am glad you see it in that light. Aren't you a little irritable to-night?

_Podb._ No, I'm not. It's those filthy canals. And the way you talk--as if a girl like Miss TROTTER wasn't--!

_Culch._ I really can't allow you to lecture me. I am not insensible to my good-fortune--if others are. Now we'll drop the subject.

_Podb._ I'm willing enough to drop it. And I shall turn in now--it's late. You coming?

_Culch._ Not yet. Good-night. (_To himself, as PODBURY departs._) You insensate _dolt_!

_Podb._ Good-night! (_To himself, as he swings off._) Confounded patronising _prig_!

* * * * *

HUMPTY-DUMPTY UP AGAIN!