Part 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93, OCTOBER 15, 1887.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand._

'ARRY ON OCHRE.

DEAR CHARLIE,

Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'ARRY, wus luck! 's back in town, Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all brown, Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I _do_ 'ate the Autumn, dear boy, When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or enjoy.

Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to blue. Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about _her_. Yah!--Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they purr.

Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal! Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!--oh, well, jigger that gal! Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, CHARLIE, so 'elp me, she did. Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.

Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, CHARLIE! The yaller god rules us all round. Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be found. If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up a tree. That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.

They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"--old Collars is red on that rot!-- There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not. The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot you please. It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't wuth a sneeze.

O CHARLIE, I wish I'd got millions! I _ought_ to be rich, and no kid.

I feel I wos made for it, CHARLIE. To watch every bloomin' arf quid,

Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns _carn't_ go the pace, But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.

Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion, dear boy! You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what it means to "enjoy." Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are the chaps As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game, mate, by laps.

That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; _them asses_ I calls 'em, old man, Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this plan. Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un, no doubt, Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs who're about.

Twig, CHARLIE, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant Purviders, and such Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the touch! Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees, Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey to squeeze.

The honey--or money--wants _massing_, that's jest wot the Masses can do-- And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on the screw. That's the doctrine of "DANNEL the Dosser," a broken-down toff, as I know; And if DANNEL ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. _That's_ ow yer big money-piles grow.

Rum party the Dosser is, CHARLIE--I can't make him out, mate, not quite. Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His delight Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon-- That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer mammon.

He eyes me in sech a rum style, CHARLIE, sort of arf smile and arf sneer, Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground--when he's well on the beer. A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam, For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,--a lay as he stands like a lamb.

"You _ought_ to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of his game To call me nicknames out of _Shakspeare_, and so on; but "Wot's in a name?" "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says "Dosser." I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if _he_ does, poor old josser!

'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift," Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed brains at a gift. _Save_, hay,--out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in that shape. You must _swag_ in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no bottles to _scrape_.

The Turf or the Stock Exchange, CHARLIE, would suit me, I'd trust to my luck, And my leariness, _not_ to get plucked like that silly young Ailesbury duck, Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a fluke, And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie--that is if I carn't be a Dook.

In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to _double the part_, As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start. With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to carry. The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is

'ARRY.

* * * * *

TURNING TO THE LEFT.--At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council (in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said, was the appointment by the Recorder of the Assistant-Judge of the Mayor's Court. It is rumoured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S. WRIGHT, (with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not to confirm that appointment. But why all this mystery? What had the Councillors to fear? Obviously, they could be doing nothing wrong if they were sustained by WRIGHT!

* * * * *

* * * * *

A LORD MAYOR'S DAY IN DUBLIN.

(_A Lay of the Criminal Law Amendment Act._)

"Shure it's BALFOUR would be troublin', meeself Lord Mayor o' Dublin, But every charge he makes I'll meet in fashion you'll call nate; For I'll face the accusation that he brings against the _Nation_, Attired from head to foot, my boys, in all my robes of State.

"So on with hat and gown, boys, for we're goin' through the town, boys, And you must help your City's Chief to make a real display," Thus TIM SULLIVAN he cried out, as straightway he did ride out, In civic pomp to near the Court on that eventful day.

And Town Councillors in numbers, woke from their normal slumbers, And, donning gowns and tippets, rose and put on all they knew, And with approbation glancing at the City Marshal, prancing On a hired hack, they followed him, a rather motley crew.

At length the Court they entered, when attention soon was centred, On a squabble that had risen about the Sword and Mace: For some swore they were not able to lie upon the table, Though the Lord Mayor hotly argued it was their proper place.

So when 'twas shown quite plainly, after pushing for it vainly, Beyond the "bar" the civic baubles had to be conveyed, With vow that none should floor them, their guardians upstairs bore them, And in the front seats flaunted them conspicuously displayed.

Then up stood Mr. CARSON, quite as quiet as a parson, And read out his indictment with a settled, stone-like face, Till TIM HEALY, quick replying, rose then and there, denying That the Counsel for the Crown had a shadow of a case.

And then as legal brother argued each against the other, The while TIM SULLIVAN reclined in all his civic blaze, O'DONEL he looked vexed there, and he seemed somewhat perplexed there, As if the matter struck him as involved in doubtful haze.

But after some reflection, with a _soupcon_ of dejection, He announced that he had settled (though, doubtless, mid some fears He might stir up BALFOUR'S fury), there was no case for a jury. His judgment was received in Court with hearty ringing cheers.

Then, wild with exultation, up rose Mayor and Corporation, And, greeted by the crowd without, were cheered along the way, Til the Mansion House on nearing, the mob cried, 'midst their cheering, A speech they wanted, and would hear what he had got to say.

Then TIM SULLIVAN he spouted;--the mob they surged and shouted, And the upshot of the speech was this, that if, through legal flaws, By any chance your way you see, to battle with the powers that be, You're hero both and martyr if you break the Saxon's laws.

So it's no use, BALFOUR, troublin' the Civic powers of Dublin; For if you do, you know that they will meet you just half way; And if fresh accusation you but bring against the _Nation_, The City shure will answer with another Lord Mayor's Day!

* * * * *

THE REAL GRIEVANCE OFFICE.

(_Before_ Mr. Commissioner PUNCH.)

_An Official of Epping Forest introduced._

_The Commissioner._ Now, Sir, what can I do for you?

_Witness._ You can confer a favour upon me, Sir, by correcting some sensational letters and paragraphs on "Deer-Maiming in Epping Forest," that have lately appeared in the newspapers.

_The Commissioner._ Always pleased to oblige the Corporation. Well, what is it?

_Witness._ I wish to say, Sir, that deer-shooting in Epping Forest, so far as its guardians are concerned, is not a sport, but a difficult and disagreeable duty?

_The Commissioner._ A duty?

_Witness._ Yes, Sir, a duty; because, in fulfilment of an agreement with the late Lords of the Forest Manors (to whom we have to supply annually a certain amount of venison), and in justice to the neighbouring farmers, whose crops are much damaged by the deer, we are obliged to keep down the herd to a fixed limit.

_The Commissioner._ But how about the stories of the wounded animals that linger and die?

_Witness._ We have nothing to do with them--we are not in fault. I mean by "we" those who have a right to shoot by the invitation of the proper Authorities.

_The Commissioner._ But are not the poor animals sometimes wounded?

_Witness._ Alas, yes! Unhappily the forest is infested by a gang of poachers of the worst type, and it is at their door that any charge of cruelty must be laid. So far as we are concerned, we kill the deer in the most humane manner. We use rifles and bullets, and our guns are excellent shots. As no doubt you will have seen from the report of the City Solicitor, such deer as it has been necessary to kill, have been shot by, or in the presence of, two of the Conservators renowned for their humanity and shooting skill.

_The Commissioner._ It seems to me that you should put down the poachers.

_Witness._ We do our best, Sir. You must remember the Corporation has not been in possession very long. We have to protect nearly ten square miles of forest land, close to a city whose population is counted by Millions.

_The Commissioner._ Very true. Can I do anything more for you?

_Witness._ Nothing, Sir. Pray accept my thanks for affording me this opportunity of offering an explanation. I trust the explanation is satisfactory?

_The Commissioner._ Perfectly. (_The Witness then withdrew._)

* * * * *

THE OCTOPUS OF ROMANCE AND REALITY.

(AS MUCH FACT AS FANCY.)

"Devil-fish" of VICTOR HUGO, Dread _Pieuvre_ of caves where few go But are made your palsied prey, Where are now your gruesome glories, Dwelt upon in shocking stories? Realism a big bore is "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

You who, worst of ocean's gluttons, Swallowed man, his boots, and buttons, Cooked in this familiar way? You who, in the tales of dreamers, Sucked down ships and swallowed steamers, Made the prey of kitchen schemers? "Octopus _is_ cheap to-day!"

Swallowed, _you_ colossal cuttle? Nemesis is really subtle! Carted on the Coster's tray, Dressed in fashions culinary, Which the cunning _chef_ will vary After every vain vagary? "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

Your huge arms, so strong, so many, Like tarantula's _antennae_, Just like tenderest tripe, they say! Only wait a little longer, Turtle soup--as from the Conger-- They will make from _you_, but stronger. "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

Octopus--or is't Oct[=o]pus?-- Fame, that should outshine CANOPUS, All too swiftly fleets away. Yet our feelings it must harrow, That _your_ demon-fame should narrow To cook-bench and coster barrow. "Devil-fish is cheap to-day!"

* * * * *

SALUBRITIES ABROAD.

("Is this the Hend?"--_Miss Squeers_.)

SKURRIE puts us in the train, gives us our COOK'S tickets all ready stamped and dated. No trouble. Then he insists on comparing his notes of our route with mine, to see that all is correct.

"Wednesday," he says, "that's to-day. Geneva _dep_. 12, Bale _arr_. 7.45." He speaks a _Bradshaw_ abbreviated language. "Change twice, perhaps three times, Lausanne, Brienne, Olten. Not quite sure; but you must look out." Oh, the trouble and anxiety of looking out for where you change! "Then," he goes on, "Thursday, Bale _dep_. 9.2 A.M., Heidelberg _arr_. 1.55."

"Any change?" I ask, as if I wanted twopence out of a shilling.

"No; at least I don't think so. But you had better ask," he replies. Ah! this asking! if you are not quite well, and don't understand the language (which I do not in German Switzerland), and get hold of an austere military station-master, or an imbecile porter, and then have to carry that most inconvenient article of all baggage, a hand-bag, which you have brought as "so convenient to hold everything you want for a night," and which is so light to carry until it is packed! "Then," goes on the imperturbable SKURRIE, "you'll 'do' Heidelberg, dine there, sleep there, and on Friday Heidelberg _dep_. 6 A.M.----"

Here I interrupt with a groan--"Can't we go later?"

"No," says SKURRIE, sternly. "Impossible. You'll upset all the calculations if you do."

JANE says, meekly, that when one is travelling, and going to bed early, it is not so difficult to get up very early, and, for her part, she knows she shall be awake all night. Ah! so shall I, I feel, and already the journey begins to weigh heavily on me, and I do not bless SKURRIE and his plan. "But," I say aloud, knowing he has done it all for the best, and that I cannot now recede, "go on."

He does so, at railroad pace:--"Heidelberg _dep_. 6. Mannheim _arr_. 7.5, _dep_. 7.15. Mayence _arr_. 8.22, in time for boat down the Rhine 8.55. Cologne _arr_. 4.30. And there you are."

"Yes," I rejoin, rather liking the idea of Cologne, "there we are--and then?"

"Well, you'll have a longish morning at Cologne; rest, see Cathedral, breakfast," and here he refers to his notes, "Cologne _dep_. 1.13 P.M., and Antwerp _arr_. 6.34."

"Change anywhere?" I inquire, helplessly. "Yes," he answers, meditatively. "At this moment I forget where, but you've got examination of baggage on the Belgian frontier, and you have two changes, I think. However, it's all easy enough."

"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am depressed: and Cousin JANE isn't much better, though she tries to put everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all events "the travelling will soon be over."

SKURRIE continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with my notes, "Sunday--Antwerp _dep_. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael _arr_. 7.45--yes--then Rosendael _dep_. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at Flushing. Queenborough _arr_. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by 7.55."

"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."

"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full consideration. "Ha!--let me see----" Then, as if by inspiration, he continues quickly--"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish you _bon voyage_."

I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he is not going to accompany us?

"Can't--wish I could," returns SKURRIE, "but I've got to go off to Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and can't make any mistake. _Au plaisir!_"

And he is off. So are we.

Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin JANE, too.

Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and small things, of which JANE--poor JANE!--has her share, and, but for her sticking to every basket and package, I should, in despair, have surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at Bale, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."

Our treatment in the _salle-a-manger_ of that Monarchical Hostelrie is enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter with insubordinate assistants--and we are miserable.

Off early to Heidelberg. Delighted, at all events, to bid farewell to the worthy Monarchs. This trip seemed to invigorate us, and if civility, polite attention, good rooms, and an excellent _cuisine_ could make any invalid temporarily better, then our short stay at the Prinz Karl Hotel--a really perfectly managed establishment--ought to have revived us both considerably. And so it did. A lovely drive to the heights among the pine woods and in the purest air went for something, but alas the knowledge that we had to rise at 5 A.M., to be off by six--it turned out to be a 6.30 train--drove slumber from our eyes, and only by means of a cold bath, the first thing on tumbling out of bed, could I brace myself for the effort. Then on we went, taking SKURRIE'S pre-arranged tour.

Let the remainder be a blank.

When abroad I had bought a French one-volume novel which I had seen praised in the _Figaro_. I will not give its name, nor that of its author. If it indeed portrays persons really living in Paris, and if these persons are not wholly exceptional (but, if so, why this novel, which implies the contrary and denounces them?) then is the latest state of Republican Paris worse than its former state in the days of the _degringolade_ of the Empire, and Paris must undergo a fearful purgation before she will once again possess _mens sana in corpore sano_. I read this disgusting novel half-way through until its meaning became quite clear to me, and then I proceeded by leaps and bounds, landing on dry places and skipping over the filth in order to see how the author worked out a moral and punished his infamous scoundrel of a chief personage. No. Moral there was none, except an eloquent appeal to Paris to rise and crush these reptiles and their brood. On the wretched night when feverish, ill, and sleepless, I lay miserably in the saloon of the Flemish steamer crossing to Queenborough, I opened the porthole above me and threw this infernal book into the sea. After this I bore the sufferings of that night with a lighter heart.

* * * * *

Suffice it that I arrived at home--and how glad I was to get there--broken down, prostrate and only fit for bed----where with railways running round and round my head, steamboats dashing and thumping about my brain, the shrieks of German and Flemish porters ringing in my ears, SKURRIE always forcing me to travel on, on, on, against my will, I remained for about three weeks.

_Advice gratis to all Drinkers of Waters_.--"The story shows," as the Moral to the fables of AESOP used to put it, that when you have finished your cure, make straight by the easiest stages for the seaside at home. Avoid all exertion: and ask your medical man before leaving to tell you exactly what to eat, drink, and avoid, for the next three weeks at least after the completion of your cure.

* * * * *

While ill, but when beginning to crave for some amusement or distraction, I asked that my dear old BOZ'S _Sketches_ should be read to me, to which in years gone by I had been indebted for many a hearty laugh. Alas! what a disappointment! Except for a little descriptive bit here and there, the fun of these _Sketches_ sounded as wearisome and old-fashioned as the humours of the now forgotten "Adelphi screamers" in which Messrs. WRIGHT and PAUL BEDFORD used to perform, and at which, as a boy, I used to scream with delight, when the strong-minded mistress of the house, speaking while the comic servant was laying the cloth for dinner, would say of her husband, "When I see him I'll give him----" "Pepper," says the comic servant, accidentally placing that condiment on the table. "He shan't," resumes the irate lady, "come over me with any----" "Butter," interrupts the comic servant, quite unconsciously, of course, as he deposits a pat of Dorset on the table. And so on. Later on, I tried THACKERAY'S _Esmond_. How tedious, how involved, and full of repetitions! It is enlivened here and there by the introduction of such real characters as _Dick Steele_, _Lord Mohun_, _Dean Atterbury_, and others, and by the mysterious melodramatic appearances and disappearances of _Father Holt_, a typical Jesuit of the "penny dreadful" style of literature. But the work had lost whatever charm it ever possessed for me, and, indeed, I had always considered it an over-rated book, not by any means to be compared with _Vanity Fair_, _Pendennis_, or even with _Barry Lyndon_, which last is repulsively clever.

* * * * *

Then I asked for a book that I never yet could get through, and to which I thought that now, with leisure and a craving for distraction, I might take a liking. This was _Little Dorrit_. I tried hard, but it made my head ache even more than _Esmond_ had done, and I laid it down, utterly unable to comprehend the mystery which takes such an amount of dreary, broken-up, tedious dialogue in the closing chapters to unravel.

* * * * *

I took down WASHINGTON IRVING'S _Sketch-book_, and read it with delight. Fresh as ever! It did me good. So did CHARLES LAMB'S Essays. And then guess what moved me to laughter, to tears, and to real heartfelt gratitude that we should have had a writer who could leave us such an immortal work? What? It is a gem. It is very small, but to my mind, and not excepting any one of all he ever wrote, the most precious in every way for its true humour, for its natural pathos, and for its large-hearted Christian teaching, is _The Christmas Carol_, by CHARLES DICKENS. Had this been his only book, it would have sufficed for his imperishable fame.

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