Chapter 2

_The S.A._ Well, you may as well keep what little you _'ave_ got, Sir. Like to try our 'Irsutine Lotion, capital thing, Sir. Known it answer in the most desprit cases. Keep it in 'alf-crown or three-and-sixpenny sizes. Can I 'ave the pleasure of puttin' you up a three-and-sixpenny one, Sir? (_The Bald Customer musters up moral courage to decline, at which the Assistant appears disgusted with him_.) No, Sir? Much obliged, Sir. Let me see--(_with a touch of sarcasm_)--you part your 'air a one side, I _think_, Sir? Brush your 'at, Sir? Thankee, Sir. Pay at the counter, _if_ you please. Shop--there!

_The Loq. Ass._ Think your 'air's as you like it now, Sir? Like to look at yourself in a 'and-glass, Sir? Thank you, Sir.

[_The Bald Customer puts on his hat with relief, and instantly recovers his self-respect sufficiently to cast a defiant glare upon his rival, and walk out with dignity. The Grizzled Customer after prolonged self-inspection, follows. The two Assistants are left alone._

_The Loq. Ass._ Pretty proud of his 'air, that party, eh? Notice how I tumbled to him?

_The S.A._ (_with superiority_). I _heard_ you, o' course, but, as I'm always tellin' you, you don't do it _delicate_ enough! When you've been in the profession as long as I have, and seen as much of human nature, you'll begin to understand how important it is to 'ave tact. Now you never 'eard _me_ stoop to flattery nor yet over-familiarity--and yet you can see for yourself I manage without 'urting nobody's feelings--however bald! That's _tact_, that is!

* * * * *

* * * * *

HORACE IN LONDON.

TO A WAITER. (_AD PUERUM._)

None of your mispronounced Gallic shams, Waiter; Call not "Potato" a "_Pomme-de-terre, maîter_ _D'ottle_." I'd rather you styled it "Pertater," As Britons, sure, may.

As for _décor_, let the linen be stainless-- Crowns of exotics are gauds for the brainless. _Crowns_, indeed! Here's half-a-crown; you would gain less Oft from a _gourmet_.

* * * * *

MRS. R. has just purchased the first two volumes of _The History of the Popes_ (edited by F. ANTROBUS), "because," she says, "I particularly want to read about the time of the Reminiscence, with all about FIFTUS THE SIXTH and the Humorists."

* * * * *

SERIOUS CASE.--A patient who doesn't want it known that there's anything the matter with him, has placed himself under the care of Dr. ROBSON ROOSETEM PASHA, "because," he says, "his visits then are 'sub Roose-ah!'" [Now we know what's the matter with him.--ED.]

* * * * *

A PLEA FOR THE DEFENCE.

SCENE--_Mr. Punch's Sanctum. Mr. PUNCH discovered, to him enter Mr. JOHN BULL._

_Mr. Punch_. Well, Mr. BULL, what can I do for you?

_Mr. Bull_. I want to know your opinion, _Mr. Punch_ on the report of Lord WANTAGE's Committee on Recruiting?

_Mr. P._ Which of the reports, my friend? There seem to be two--one by the Soldier Members, and the other by the Government Under-Secretary of State for War.

_Mr. B._ Can't they be lumped together, _Mr. Punch_?

_Mr. P._ Well, yes, in the sense of being discarded. They are neither satisfactory, although they contradict one another.

_Mr. B._ So I think, _Mr. Punch_. What is to be done?

_Mr. P._ I will do my best to answer you. But just as a preliminary question, may I ask whether you insure your house, Mr. BULL?

_Mr. B._ Why, yes, certainly. I pay for guardianship and protection. If I did not, I should have to start fire-engines and the rest of it myself.

_Mr. P._ Quite so. And you find it cheaper in the long run.

_Mr. B._ To be sure. I have got much, too much to do to bother about the details of security from fire.

_Mr. P._ Again quite so. Then why don't you pay for your Army?

_Mr. B._ But I do, and a precious round sum too!

_Mr. P._ However, it is difficult to get recruits. And in England any and everything can be bought by money.

_Mr. B._ Pardon me, _Mr. Punch_, that's all nonsense. Abroad, they can get soldiers at half the price that--

_Mr. P._ (_interrupting_). Quite wrong, Mr. BULL. Soldiers are just as dear on the Continent as they are here. Only, you see, the foreigners look after the fire themselves--they become soldiers, instead of securing substitutes.

_Mr. B._ What do you mean?

_Mr. P._ That you must either pay the market price, or go in for conscription. Your money--or your life!

_Mr. B._ Well, I really think I must consider it--I do, indeed!

_Mr. P._ And the sooner the better, Mr. BULL; and if you do not believe me, give Lord WANTAGE's Committee Report a second reading.

[_Scene closes in upon Mr. JOHN BULL giving the document reconsideration._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE BOGIE MAN.

(NEW AND STARTLING CIVIC VERSION.)

_Gog and Magog sing, sotto voce_:--

Oh, huddle near us, cherished ones! Hushed is our civic glee. The Voters, they have played the fool About the L.C.C. Oh, Turtle, dear--at table-- Oh, Griffin, spick and span, I hear the Civic Fathers say Here comes the Bogie Man!

_Chorus._

Oh, hush! hush! hush! Here comes the Bogie Man! _What_ hope, dears, when BEN TILLETT Is made an Alderman? Oh, whist! whist! whist! He'll catch ye if he can! Then vain you'll run, my popsey-wops, From this new Bogie Man!

When we sit down to dinner, My giant chum and I, O'er calipash and calipee We're both inclined to cry. For if Progressist fingers Once dip into our pan, Aloud, but vainly, we may cry, Whist! whist! the Bogie Man!

_Chorus_.--Oh, hush! hush! hush! Here comes the Bogie Man! Then hide your heads, my darlings; He'll catch ye if he can. Then whist! whist! whist! This new Progressive plan Would make our popsey-wopsey-wops Slaves to this Bogie Man!

In vain the _Times_ might thunder, In vain the _Standard_ squall, To frighten little Moderates; They paid no heed at all When CHURCHILL tried yah-boohing, Away the Voters ran And voted straight, with hearts elate, For yonder Bogie Man!

_Chorus_.--Oh, hush! hush! hush! Here comes the Bogie Man! He'll collar all our civic perks, 'Tis his "Progressive" plan. Oh, whist! whist! whist! He'll catch ye if he can. Heaven save you, my own popsey-wops, From yonder Bogie Man!

Oh, pets, it gives us quite a shock To think of your sad fate, If you _should_ lose your Guildhall rock, And _we_ be doomed by fate. For BURNS our pride would humble, No "giants" in his plan! Oh, Turtle sweet, oh, Griffin neat, Beware, yon Bogie Man!

_Chorus_.--Oh, whist! whist! whist! Here comes the Bogie Man! GOG and MAGOG, choice wines, good prog. Are no parts of _his_ plan. Oh, hush! hush! hush! He'll catch ye if he can! Progressive "slops," my popsey-wops, _He_'ll give--yon Bogey Man!

Oh, ROSEBERY turned tr-r-raitor, And LUBBOCK seemed to cool, MCDOUGALL, now, and PARKINSON May proudly play the fool. London's delivered to be ruled On the "Progressive" plan, And "BEN" can bear the honoured name-- Ye gods!--of ALDERMAN!!!

_Chorus_.--Oh, hush! hush! hush! Here comes the Bogie Man! Turtle, be cautious; Griffin, hide! You're under his black ban. Oh, whist! whist! whist! "We'll save ye, _if we can_, My pretty popsey-wopsey-wops, From yon bad Bogie Man!

* * * * *

TO QUEEN COAL.

(_BY HER FOND BUT POOR LOVER._)

"If thou art not dear to _me_, What care I how dear you be!"

* * * * *

BUTTER AND BOSH.

["Many customers who want Margarine will not consent to buy it under that name, but insist on its being called 'Butter.'"--_Daily Paper_.]

Oh, Wisdom, surely here your words you waste On men who consciously deceive their taste; Who cheating self are blindest when they've seen, And call that Butter which is Margarine. "Give me," 'tis thus their sentiments they utter, "Firkins of Bosh, but label them as Butter. Who cares for honest names? they're all my eye. _Decipiatur qui vult decipi_."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"ON THE BLAZON'D SCROLL OF FAME."

[To each man of the Crews of the three Life-boats stationed in the Isle of Wight, at Brighstone, Brook and Atherfield, respectively, _Mr. Punch_ has had pleasure and pride in presenting an illuminated copy of the Picture and Poem entitled "MR. PUNCH TO THE LIFE-BOAT MEN," which appeared in his issue of February 13. The names of the coxswains and crews of these three boats, the _Worcester Cadet_, the _William Slaney Lewis_, and the _Catherine Swift_, are inscribed thereon (as they should be in the memories of all true Britons), as follows:--Of the _Worcester Cadet_, JAMES COTTON (Coxswain), ROBERT BUCKETT (Second Coxswain), ROBERT SALTER, WILLIAM BARTON, FRANK EDMUNDS, FRANK BUCKETT, GEORGE NEW, GEORGE MORRIS, GEORGE SHOTTER, GEORGE HAWKER, EDGAR WHITE, WILLIAM MERWOOD, and JAMES HEDGECOCK.

Of the _William Slaney Lewis_, JOHN HAYTER (Coxswain), BEN JACOBS (Second Coxswain), ROBERT COOPER, W. JACOBS, J. COOKE, G. WHITE, W. CASSELL, T. HOOKEY, J. NEWBURY, J. COOPER, J. HOOKEY, R. WOODFORD, M. CASSELL, WILLIAM HAYTER, W. BLAKE, and W. HOOKEY.

Of the _Catherine Swift_, WILLIAM COTTON (Coxswain), DAVID COTTON (Second Coxswain), JAMES COTTON, THOMAS COTTON, FRANK COTTON, JOHN COTTON, CHARLES COTTON, WALTER WOODFORD, WALTER WHITE, CHARLES HARDING, and B. WHILLIER.

These names thus receive--as they deserve--honourable record "For distinguished bravery and gallant conduct whilst on duty on the occasion of the wreck of the s.s. _Eider_, January 31, 1892."]

On the Scroll! And why not? Be you sure that it bears Many entries less worthy of record than theirs, The rough sea-faring fellows, whose names now go down, With applause from their Sovereign to swell their renown, To posterity's ears. And right pleasantly, too, They should sound on those ears; for, run over each crew And you'll find that those names have a true homely smack Both of country and kinship; there's JIM, there is Jack, There is BOB, there is BILL, TOM and GEORGE, CHARLIE, FRANK; Can you not hear them sound o'er the waves as in rank They go down to their work, ringing right cheery hail Through the shrieks of the storm that shall not make _them_ pale, Those bold Britons? They're brothers, sires, cousins, and sons, For see how the "family name" through them runs Those COTTONS could make up a crew at a pinch! Whilst the HOOKEYS and WHITES from that task need not flinch. Yes, these names sound as well on the Scroll, after all, As NAPOLEON or CÆSAR; and when the Great Call Of the last human Muster Roll comes, some plain "BILL," Whose business was rather to save than to kill, May step before mad ALEXANDER. Well, brothers, (You BUCKETTS, and WOODFORDS and COOPERS and others, Whose names he need hardly string into his rhymes,) _Punch_ hopes you may look on this Record sometimes With pleasant reflections. Mere words, he well knows, Will not--"butter your parsnips"--(to put sense in prose): But you have his hearty good will, and you know it,-- Right gladly he takes this occasion to show it! And when or wherever _another_ should come, Be sure your friend _Punch_ won't be careless or dumb!

* * * * *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

VI.--THE DUFFER AT WHIST.

(_CONTINUED._)

I am really fond of the game, which is fortunate, though my partners don't think so; but I am free to confess, that nothing short of an absorbing admiration for it and desire to excel, could tempt me to brave the sarcasms, even insults, to which I am subjected. Your thoroughgoing Whist-player as such--admirable in private life as I personally know him to be--the moment he begins the daily business of his life, seems to cast his better nature to the winds. At another time and place he would lend a sympathetic ear to any tale of woe; now and here nothing seems to interest him but his own immediate welfare, which he pursues with concentrated energy and earnestness. I verily believe that if, at one of two adjoining tables, the chandelier fell on the players' heads to their exceeding detriment, the occupants of the other table would scarcely lift their eyes or interrupt their rubber for one moment. _Fiant chartæ ruat coelum_--let the cards be made whatever chandeliers fall.

The players at my Club are all good, one especially so, a retired Colonel of a West Indian regiment, of whom I stand in mortal dread. He has short shrift for any failings, even of players nearly as good as himself, whilst as for me! though he has never yet resorted to personal violence with a chair-leg, yet that would not surprise me; and my pestilent fate in defiance of all mathematical odds in such case made and provided, is to cut him as my partner three and four times in succession in an evening. I sometimes have glimmerings of sense, and in hands presenting no particular difficulty, if they contain plenty of good cards--can manage to scrape along in a way I think fairly satisfactory even--to him, though he never encourages me by saying so. But an awful thing happened the other night. I had played one rubber with him and won it, though it was only a rubber of two instead of a bumper, as it would have been if I had played properly--for being in doubt and remembering the adage, I had led a trump, but it subsequently turned out that _the adversaries had called for them_. Now I never see an adversaries' call, and but rarely those of my partner, unless when made glaringly conspicuous by a ten and a two, so I led this wretched card with disastrous results.

However, my partner accepted the situation with unexpected suavity, merely remarking pleasantly, as an item of general interest, "The only time my partner ever leads a trump is when the adversaries call." I smiled inanely--what else could I do? for I was dimly conscious that the stricture might have justification in fact. Yes, this was bad; but worse remains behind. In the last hand of the next rubber, my partner had four trumps; so had I; he had, besides a very long suit; hence he extracted the trumps, and we were left with the last two between us, mine being the better. I got the lead, of course, exactly at the time I did not want it; although everyone else knew where the smaller trump was, I did not, so I drew it from my partner's hand, and then led him a card of which he had none in the suit; this card, as ill-luck would have it, belonged to an enormously long suit, of which one of the adversaries had entire control. So this gentleman got in and made about six tricks in it, finishing up with the two; he therefore made with his spades all--indeed, I rather think more tricks than the Colonel ought to have made in his diamonds, each of which, now losing cards, he successively banged down with increasing anger and turbulence of gesture, as the enormity of my crime was borne in upon him. It was the deciding game of a rubber; the adversaries' score had stood at one, while we were at two, and besides, we had had two by honours; as they made four by cards, they went out--and so did I--not without an _obbligato_ accompaniment on muted strings; unwhispered whispers of "confounded blockhead!" "blundering idiot!" "well, of all the born fools!" and similar objurgations.

When I came to think the matter over in cold blood, I could see that my proper course would have been to lead the losing card before drawing my partner's trump. I merely made a mistake (a fatal one I grant) in the order of playing them. That was all.

* * * * *

My friend goes on to make learned remarks about "American leads," "the fourth best," and the difficulties of playing a knave; lead him at once, _I_ think, on _Dogberry's_ principle: and "thank heaven you are rid of a knave."

The depths of my guilt may be guessed from the fact that many of my Mentor's explanations are Hittite to me. People talking of laying up a wretched old age by not playing, I should be laying it up for other people if I did play much. Half-crown points, a partner who knows how to score (those counters and candlesticks, or the machines with little bone grave-stones that shut up with a snap, bother me), and amiable conversation on well-chosen topics while the game goes on, make the kind of Whist that I enjoy. We used to play it in Common Room in the happy past; it was easier than Loo, which I never quite understood. The rigour of the game is the ruin of Whist.

* * * * *

* * * * *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

"_Sich a Nice Man Too!_" is one of the latest, and greatest, successes of the clever Coster Laureate, Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, who, "Funny without being Vulgar," proves that he, the Muse of the Market Cart, and Bard of the Barrow, "Knocks 'em in the Old Kent Road,"--and elsewhere--with well-deserved success. As is ever the case with the works of genuine genius, "liberal applications lie" in his "patter" songs, the enjoyment of which need by no means be confined to the Coster and his chums. For example, at Caucus-Conferences and places where they sing--and shout--the following might be rendered with relish:--

NO. VII.--SICH A SMART MAN TOO!

(_COSTER-JIM ON CORKUS-JOE._)

There's party-men yer meets about What wins yer 'eart instanter; Of _their_ success there's ne'er a doubt, They romps in in a canter. There's one as means to lick the lot, Brum JOE, the artf'llst dodger. For 'im we Rads went 'ot and 'ot; Sez we, "Yus, JOE's the codger!"

_Chorus._

Sich a smart man too! Sich a _very_ smart man! No Tory pride, no toffish affectation! Yet 'e somehow makes yer feel That in 'im yer 'ave to deal With a gent, if not by buth, by edgercation!

'E made 'is pile in a snide way,-- "Down on ther nail," 'is motter-- Went to the front, and came to _stay_; Whigs might pertest and potter. 'Is game wos doin' the poor good, And doin' of it 'andsome. JACK CADE they called 'im,--which wos rude-- 'Acos 'e talked o' ransom!

_Chorus._

Sich a smart man too! Sich a _very_ smart man! No "Lily" pride, no blue--blood affectation! Yet he somehow made yer feel That in 'im yer 'ad to deal With a gent by nature _and_ by edgercation!

You ought to seen 'im on the stump, Smart frock and stiff shirt collar; Got up regardless, clean-cut chump, Orchid for button-'oler! 'E cocked a snook at pride o' race. We shouted "Brayvo, BRUMMY! Peg on, we'll put yer in fust place; Then won't old WEG look rummy?"

_Chorus._

Sich a smart man too! Sich a _very_ smart man! No _Rip wan Winkle_ HARTY affectation! Yet 'e somehow made yer feel That 'e jest knowed 'ow to deal With the "Gentlemen" by buth and edgercation.

Acrost 'is phiz there stole a smile, Like sunshine in November. Sez 'e, "_I_'m for the Sons o' Tile!" O yus, don't we remember! We fancied JOE wos one of hus, A cove we might ha' trusted. Now you should 'ear the Corkus cuss At the Brum bubble--busted!

_Chorus._

Sich a smart man too! Sich a _very_ smart man! No orty scorn, no "arm-cheer" affectation! One as somehow made yer feel 'E alone knowed 'ow to deal With Allotments, Taxes and Free Edgercation!

'E chose to play at hodd man hout; 'E ain't the fust by many Wot's tried to Tommy-Dodd the rout With a two-'eaded penny. It's broke our trust; _'e_ can go 'ome With Toffdom for next neighbour. _'E_ won't cut Capital's cockscomb In the 'Oly Cause o' Labour!

_Chorus._

Sich a snide man too! Sich a _very_ snide man! And now,--but that's 'is hartful affectation! 'E would like to make hus feel As he only "plays genteel," To give Toffs a Demmycratic Hedgercation!

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, March 7._--JOKIM in a bad way to-night. People are wanting to know how it has come about that TATE's offer of £80,000 for Picture Gallery, with £80,000 worth of pictures thrown in to start it, has, after long correspondence with CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER, been withdrawn. JOKIM rises to explain.

"What I should really like to do," he whispered to me, in confidence, "is to give him one for his _tête_, as we say in cribbage. But suppose I must speak him fair." Did his best in that direction though undercurrent of observation in lengthy paper he read decidedly set in direction of making TATE out as a cantankerous wrong-headed person who, proposing to bestow some £160,000 in way of free gift, expected to have his wishes consulted in such matter of detail as selection of site for Gallery.

"I venture to hope," said JOKIM, in conclusion, "that the door is not finally closed on the establishment of a gallery for British Art."

"That's not quite it," said Young Father DILLWYN, with hand to ear, listening from corner seat below Gangway he shares with that other eminent statesman, the SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE. "What we complain of is, that you have so managed matters that the door hasn't been opened."

"Ah, well," said JOKIM, wringing his hands, "it's no use my trying anything. Remember once seeing in dock of police-court at Lyons, a sailor brought up charged with some offence. On his arm was tattooed the legend, '_Pas de chance_.' He told long story of honest endeavour, combined with strict honesty and tireless industry, ever frustrated by malign accident. In short, he was no sooner out of prison than he was sent back upon fresh conviction. He had no chance, and one time, in enforced retirement from the world, he indelibly inscribed the legend on his forearm. _Moi aussi, je n'ai pas de chance._ Ever since I joined this Government things have gone wrong with me, whether in Budget Schemes, when acting as Deputy Leader of the House, with £1 notes, and now in this affair, where I run my head against TATE (sort of _tête-à-tête_), and, though I'm innocent as a lamb, everybody will have it that I've muddled things and lost the nation a munificent gift. _Pas de chance; cher Toby; pas de chance!_"

HANBURY been looking into our Army Service, and behold! it is very bad. Condemns it, lock, stock, and barrel. Things no better than they were in time of Crimean War. Our Army costs more, and could do less than any in the world. Curious to find statement like this gravely made in presence of twenty-eight Members, all told, including the SPEAKER. Suppose it's true, Empire on verge of precipice, into which, on slightest impulse, it may totter and disappear. Hon. Members, in the main, care so little that they busy themselves writing letters, chatting in Lobby, gossipping in Smoke-room; the few present admirably succeed in disguising terror that must possess them as HANBURY, in solemn voice, utters his lamentation.