Chapter 2

"Here is power that would furnish forth a whole legion of the poetasters who crawl through our effete literature!" But I cannot pursue these memories. They are too painful. For who speaks of CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to cumber his bookshelves with the volumes in which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the tin pots delivered his shrieking message? His very name has flickered out; and when I spoke of him the other day, I was asked, by a person of some intelligence, if I referred to CHEPSTOWE who had just made 166 playing cricket for the Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the lion and the lizard keep his courts, and yet JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in his day. He blustered through many editions, he bellowed his contempt at a shrinking world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by the aid of newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and to-day the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded with that of an eminent cricket-player!

My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to wipe him out so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?

Farewell for a space. I may have to write to you again.

Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

"USED UP."--Lord BRASSEY requested several papers last week to publish his denial as to having the finest collection of stamps in the world. His Lordship, it appears, "doesn't take the smallest interest in foreign stamps." Fortunate for Lord BRASSEY. There are some excellent people who can't get up any interest, or capital either, at all without a stamp of some sort. Lord BRASSEY wished it further known, that he was not a collector of curios, and had no curiosity of any kind. Lord BRASSEY must be a later edition of _L'Homme Blasé_, to whom the world was round like an indiarubber-ball and "nothing in it."

* * * * *

"IN NUBIBUS."--If the new Sky-signs with which we are threatened, _viz._, advertisements reflected in the clouds, become the fashion, the aspect of the heavens by daylight will be as delightful and artistic as are the walls of our hoardings and Railway-stations. The anthem of "_The Heavens are Telling_" will have to be adapted for large towns. Perhaps pictures may be projected on the nebulous back-ground. If so, some of our best Artists may not object to taking a good sum, and then having their work "Sky'd."

* * * * *

PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!

_PICTURING THE VARIOUS MODES OF MELODRAMATIC MURDER_. (_BY OUR "OFF-HIS"-HEAD POET_.)

NO. I.--THE DAGGER MURDER.

They stand alone on the moonlit spot,-- Sing Ho--ho! and Ha--ha! there! One is the villain, and one is not, But the heroine's father. They stand alone on the patch of light (Which comes from the left as well as right)-- Oh, 'tis a glorious place and night For a Murder Scene! Rather!

They talk of deeds (of the parchment kind)-- Sing Ha--ha! and Ho-ho! there! The heavy father, to reason blind, Has them with him to show there! The deeds relate to the old man's will; The villain wants them to pay a bill! The night is cold, and the night is still Let the music be slow there!

They stand alone in the pale-green light-- Sing Hey--hey! and he--he! there! What is this flashing so keen and bright? What is this that I see there? Oh! deed of darkness in light descried! Oh! villain thrice damn'd that blade to hide, Right 'tween the arm on _the farther_ side-- Certain death when it be there!

They're still alone on the moonlit spot-- Sing He--he! and Hey--hey! there! Though one is Standing,[1] and one is not, For _one's_ cold as the clay there! The villain covers the dead man's stare-- The corpse lies stiff in the limelight's glare! The act is done!--and for all I care, The dead body can stay there!

[Footnote 1: HERBERT.]

* * * * *

TO MY LUGGAGE-LABELS.

Wonderful pictures of purple and gold, Ultramarine, and vermilion, and bistre; Splendid inscriptions of hostels untold, Touching memorials breathing of "Mr.;" "Schweizerhof," "Bernerhof," "Hofs" by the score; Signs of the Bear and the Swan, and the Bellevue, Gasthaus, Albergo, Posada, galore-- Beautiful wrecks, how I wish I could shelve you!

Visions of Venice--her stones and her smells! Whiffs of Cologne--aromatic mementos; Visiting cards, so to speak, of hotels; Como's, Granada's, Zermatt's and Sorrento's Ah! how ye cling to my boxes and bags, Glued with a pigment that baffles removal; Dogged adherents in dirt and in rags; Labels, receive my profane disapproval!

Much as I prized you, when roaming afield, Loved you, when Life was metheglyn and skittles, Wished you the spell of remembrance to wield, Calling the scenery back and the victuals; Still, when it blows and it rains, and it irks, Here in apartments adjoining a seaview, After a meal that would terrify Turks, Somehow I feel I can scarcely believe you.

Yes! It's too much to remember the past-- Here, amid shrimps, and agilities nameless; Glaciers gigantic, and Restaurants vast Chime not with sands and a tablecloth shameless; Smoking a pestilent, sea-side cigar, Mewed in a lodging with children and nurses, Epitaphs gorgeous of far "_Dolce far_," Curse you with paterfamiliar curses!

* * * * *

THE UGLY FACE: A MORAL DUTY

Some years ago a babe was born--I need not name the place-- With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face, Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits, While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.

His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort, His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short; That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear, When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."

Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch, For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch; And in course of time he grew up--though a loving mother's joy-- Into quite a champion specimen of the genius "ugly boy."

At school his teasing comrades gave him many comic names, And he became the victim of all sorts of naughty games; Nor did the master like him, for he felt that such a face, Mid a row of ruddy youngsters, was extremely out of place.

In time, his father placed him in the City--as a clerk-- Where his personal appearance excited much remark; But he fell out with his principal, whose customers complained, That his clerk was making faces, and said "Bosh!" when he explained.

On perceiving from the office that he never would be missed, As Mr. GILBERT puts it, he determined to enlist; And so one summer afternoon he started forth in search Of a Sergeant who perambulates close by St. Martin's Church.

The Sergeant burst out laughing when he'd uttered his request, And declared that, of a batch of jokes he knew, this was the best; "'Tis a pity you're too short, my lad," he then went on to say, "For wid _that_ face ye'd froighten ivery inimy away!"

In a fountain which played handy--it was near Trafalgar Square-- He was rushing off to drown himself, the victim of despair, When he knocked against a person he'd not seen for quite an age, Who had left his home some years before, and gone upon the Stage.

To this friend he soon narrated his distressing tale of woe, And declared his case was hopeless. But the actor said, "Not so. There's _one_ thing, my fine fellow, that as yet you haven't tried, Where your face will be your fortune, and a pound or two beside.

"With a mouth like yours to grin with, and your too delicious squint, And the ears that Nature's given you with such a lack of stint,-- No matter what an author may provide you with to speak, You're a ready-made Comedian--with your fifty quid a week."

And it was so. Though he started at a figure rather less Than the one that I have mentioned, still the truth I but express When I say he now is earning such a wage as wouldn't shock A respectable Archbishop or a fashionable jock.

And the face that all men sneered at, now is very much admired, And the public ne'er, apparently, of watching it grows tired, And the Merchant who dismissed him, in the Stalls is wont to sit, While the Sergeant and his sweetheart are applauding from the Pit.

The moral of my narrative is easy to espy. But still I'd better mention it, lest some should pass it by: "Though it's often very troublesome indeed to find it out-- There's a proper sphere for _everyone_, beyond the slightest doubt."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"PUTTING ON THE HUG."

[During President CARNOT's tour he received at Aix-les-Bains "a delegation of children." One of these, clad in a Russian dress, offered him a bunch of flowers, repeating a stanza written for the occasion. M. CARNOT, amid cries of "_Vive la France!_" "_Vive la Russie!_" "_Vive Carnot!_" "_Vive la République!_" kissed the little girl, saying, "_J'embrasse la Russie!_"]

Yes--"_Vive la France!_"--and "_Vive la Russie!_" too. _Vive_--why not?--everybody! Called once, "_Monsieur le Président Faute-de-Mieux_"[2] (By _Punch_, that foe of shoddy). I fancy I have justified the name, Ay, to the very letter. I may not be a THIERS, but all the same, France has not found a better.

Tall-talk is tedious, but one must not flinch When asked the task to tackle; And he's no Frenchman true who, at a pinch, Cannot both crow and cackle. Ah, _Vive_, once more, the Gallic Cock--and hen! These Talking-Tours are trying, But 'tis with windy flouts of tongue or pen, We keep the French flag flying.

A sop for SAVOY neatly put, elicits _Such_ "double rounds of cheering." "_Vive CARNOT!_" To be sure! My annual visits, France to the Flag endearing By sweet-phrased flattery of the Fatherland, Are sure to swell our legions. "I wish, France, to be _thine_!" The effect was grand, In "Allobrogian" regions.

_Vive_ Everything--especially _la Blague!_ (What _should_ we do without it?) Fraternity! the Fatherland! the Flag!-- _I_ work them--never doubt it! Then "_La République_" and "_La Russie_," linked, Pair off, 'midst acclamations: Yes, I proclaimed--and never winced or winked-- _That_ "brotherhood of nations!"

"A delegation of young children," Ah! And they were not the only ones. "Men are but children of a larger--" Bah! Wise and strong _men_ are--lonely ones. Most men--French-men--have touches of the child, Fondness for show, fine phrases-- Pst! Here my _rôle_'s not cynical, but mild, And open as dawn-daisies.

"_J'embrasse la Russie!_" That was rather neat For "_Faute-de-Mieux_," at any rate. Wondrous the magic power of _blague_, and "bleat" On Man--_mouton_ degenerate! That "_Bête Humaine_," as ZOLA dubs him. Gr--r--r! The real brutes are braver; The tiger, when in chase of prey, won't purr, Nor will the Bear, then, slaver.

The Bear! Reminds me of a horrid dream I had that night. A funny one, But startling! I awoke with such a scream! I dreamt some link (a money one?) Bound me to a big Bruin, rampant, tall, A regular Russian Shagbag, In whose close hug I felt extremely small, And squeezable as a rag-bag.

I, CARNOT, squeezable! 'Tis too absurd! A President, and pliant! But--in my dream--the raucous voice I heard Of that grim ursine giant. "Come to my arms! You'll find them strong and snug. The North's _so_ true--and tender!"-- And then that monster huge put on the hug! I thought my soul I'd render.

A bear's embrace, like a prize-fighter's grip, Is close as passion's clasping. "Welcome!" he grunted. "_I_'ll not let you slip!" "Thanks! thanks!" I answered, gasping. "_J'em--brasse--la--Rus--sie!_" Here my breath quite failed In that prodigious cuddle. 'Twas but a dream--How was it sleep prevailed My meaning so to muddle?

"_J'embrasse la Russie!_" It was neatly phrased As MOHRENHEIM admitted, A President, in doggerel stanzas praised, Must be so ready-witted, Yet mild Republican and Autocrat, Hugging in friendly seeming, Suggest that _Someone_ may be cuddled _flat_-- At least in restless dreaming.

[Footnote 2: See Cut so named, p. 279, Vol. 93, Dec. 17, 1887.]

* * * * *

FROM THE VALE OF LLANGOLFLYN.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I have just seen your Number with the Song of "The Golf Enthusiast." It occurs to me that no one has ever mentioned the fact that the Romans knew the game, for does not VIRGIL sing, "_Tee veniente die--Tee decedente canebat?_" I have not the book, and therefore can't give you the reference--but I know I am right, as I am

A WELSH GOLFER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHY YOUNG MEN DON'T MARRY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The reason is obvious. It is entirely owing to your advice to those about to marry--Don't! I myself have been on the brink of proposing to several thousand delightful girls, a large per centage of which, I am convinced, would have gladly accepted me. I have in every case been restrained by the recollection of your advice.--Your obedient and obliged Servant,

HUGH ADOLPHUS LATCH-KEY.

_Sept_. 5, 1892.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The reason (which I confide to your ear, and yours alone) is obvious--the girls don't, and apparently _won't_ propose. Of course they ought--what else do we have Leap Year for? Take my own case. I am genuinely in love with ETHEL TRINKERTON, who has just been staying with us in the country for three weeks. She has paid me every kind of attention. In our neighbourhood, if A. carries B.'s umbrella, where A. and B. are of opposite sexes, it is regarded as an informal, though perfectly definite way of announcing an approaching engagement. She knew the custom, and _carried mine on no less than three occasions_. (It is entirely beside the point that it rained heavily each time.) Yet she left us yesterday without an approach to a proposal. She's fair enough herself, but is her conduct? It isn't as if I hadn't given her enough chances. It cost me a small fortune to bribe my small brother to keep away; and, time after time, I've consented to sit alone with her in the summer-house. It isn't as if she couldn't afford it. They tell me she has at least a thousand a-year in her own right (whatever that may be), which would do capitally. I happen to be penniless myself; but, as I heard her say, her idea of marriage was the union of "soul to soul," my want of a few paltry pence could hardly matter. It's particularly humiliating for me, as, after the repeated umbrella-carrying, everybody here thinks it's all settled. That, _Mr. Punch_, is the reason why, at any rate, _one_ young man doesn't marry.

Yours, thoroughly aggrieved, BERTIE COOL-CHEEK,

_Pickleton-in-the-Marsh, Kent_.

P.S.--If ETHEL really didn't understand her position, and would like to reopen the matter, I would not be haughty about it.--B. C-C.

DEAR, KIND, GOOD MR. PUNCH,--The reason is obvious--the men don't and won't propose to the right girls. Take my own case. I've just stayed three weeks with the COOL-CHEEKS, and felt quite certain BERTIE would have proposed. He had all the symptoms badly. I saw him give his little brother half-a-crown to go indoors for ten minutes, and the way he _would_ go in the summer-house and for long walks--with _me_--made it quite clear (as I thought) what was going to happen. Yet, he let me come away without a word! I'm sure _I_ don't want to run after him (or anybody else), but I _did_ think he meant something. We suited one another admirably. In fact, if he doesn't ask _me_ with all the opportunities he had, he'd ask no one.

Yours, just-a-little-disappointed, ETHEL TRINKERTON,

_The Thorns, Bayswater._

P.S.--He carried my umbrella almost hourly--and you know what _that_ means. If BERTIE was only nervous, and would like another chance--well, we are always at home on Sunday afternoons.--E.T.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A HINT TO EDITORS.

SCENE--_The Sanctum of a Newspaper Office. Editor discovered (by Obtrusive Visitor) hard at work._

_Obtrusive Visitor_. I trust that I have not come at an unfortunate moment?

_Editor_ (_looking up from his desk_). Dear me! You here! Delighted to see you. But don't let me disturb you. Good-bye!

_Ob. Vis._ (_seating himself_). No; I am afraid it is the other way. I know at this time of the week you must be exceptionally busy.

_Ed._ (_with courteous impatience_). Not at all, but--

_Ob. Vis._ Oh! thank you so much. Because it is the very last thing in the world I would like to do--to disturb you. And now, how are you?

_Ed._ Quite well, thanks. But now, if you don't mind, I will just finish.

[_Turns to go on with his article._

_Ob. Vis._ (_rejecting the hint_). I said to myself as I came along, Now I will look him up.

_Ed._ Very kind of you, but--

_Ob. Vis._ Oh, not in the least; and you know, my dear fellow, how I enjoy a chat.

_Ed._ Yes,--and I, too. But just now--

_Ob. Vis._ Quite so. You want me to do all the talking, as we haven't met for the last three weeks. Well, you must know we have been to Herne Bay, and--

_Ed._ Yes; charming place. But just now I am--

_Ob. Vis._ Quite so. But I didn't come to tell you about Herne Bay, although it is really a delightful spot. The air--

_Ed._ Yes, I know all about it. First-rate, most salubrious, and the rest of it. But, my dear friend, you really must--

_Ob. Vis._ Quite so! Yes, everyone knows all about Herne Bay; and I really came to ask you if you had any room for an article.

_Ed._ (_roused_). My dear fellow, I assure you we are quite full for months. Any number of excellent things standing over.

_Ob. Vis._ Oh, yes, I know you are always full. You told me so the last time I called.

_Ed._ Quite so! Very sorry, but it can't be helped. Have to look so far ahead nowadays, you know.

_Ob. Vis._ Certainly; and that is why I thought I would just bring a half-finished article and show you what I had dome, and complete it if you thought it would do. You can put it in whenever you like; so it would not hurt for standing over.

_Ed._ (_with inspiration_). What is it called?

_Ob. Vis._ "Russian Wheat and Chinese Tea or Free Trade in Australia." The subject is quite novel, and ought to attract considerable attention.

_Ed._ Novel! Why, my dear fellow, I do believe I have an article somewhere in that heap upon the very subject.

[_Pretends to search pile of MS._

_Ob. Vis._ (_uneasily_). Oh, never mind. I will read you what I have written, and--

_Ed._ (_genially_). Oh, no, I won't give you the trouble. I will read you what _he_ has written, and then you can see.--Ah, here it is!

[_Produces enormous pile of MS._

_Ob. Vis._ (_hesitating_). Well, perhaps, if you don't mind--

[_Suddenly remembers an appointment and exit. Editor resumes hit work with an air of triumph. Curtain._

* * * * *

THE THIEF'S MOTTO.--"Take things quietly."

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A PHEASANT.

A SPORTSMANLIKE(?) SONG FOR SEPTEMBER.

AIR--"_You are Queen of my Heart To-night_."

I Stand in the copses sighing As the cruel hours creep by, And I see you slowly flying Above the trees on high. Your wondrous wealth, of feather Has weaved a subtle spell, And I softly wonder whether You'd really taste as well. For my hand is fairly steady Though my heart is beating fast, Oh, tell me that you too are ready To make this hour your last. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may; Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day? Oh! tell me why, why should I remember With a thought of wild alarm, That all through the month of sweet September You should be free from harm. Why, why does your beauty enslave me, As it does, you're bound to allow Oh! say but the word that will save me, And tell me to shoot you now. For my heart is wildly beating (As it's often done before), And the moments madly fleeting Are going to come never more. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may, Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day?

* * * * *

"THE GRATUITOUS OPINION."

(_A STORY FOR THE LONG VACATION_.)

The Eminent Lawyer was about to return to his private address, when there was a knock at the door of his Chambers. He attended to the summons himself, and found facing him an elderly and carefully dressed individual.

"That some of my suburban neighbours desire the information, must be my excuse for troubling you," said the visitor.

"Nay, do not apologise," returned the Eminent Q.C., "it is my pleasantest duty to give legal tips or applications to anybody. It is not altogether lucrative, as I deliver them for nothing, but then on the other hand, they are suitable for insertion in the papers, and that is a comforting consideration. What can I do for you?"

"I have to ask you on behalf of my suburban neighbours," continued the visitor, "whether there is any principle which is accepted by Judges to regulate their decisions in cases where drunkenness seems to be the incentive of crime?"

"I shall only be too glad to find a solution to a problem which appears one of great difficulty--the more especially as certain inhabitants of the suburbs are so deeply interested in the subject. It seems to me that some Judges think one way and some another."

"That is strange," murmured the visitor. "Cannot their Lordships come to a common conclusion?"

"I fear not," replied the Eminent Counsel, with a mournful smile. "It is merely a question of opinion. However, I take it that one would be perfectly safe to commit a murder under the influence of _delirium tremens_."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for the information," said the visitor, "as now I know what to do."

"You are not homicidal, I trust!" exclaimed the Lawyer, jumping up from his chair, and taking protection behind a desk. "I have the greatest possible objection to homicidal clients."

"Be under no apprehension," was the reply. "I have a strong desire to shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve to do it. If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?"