Chapter 2

_Thursday._--AUGUSTUS (according to his own account) alarmingly ill. Found by his bedside a medical dictionary (taken from the shelves of my library) which he says, he had been reading. He thinks, that he has all the worst symptoms of _delirium tremens_. This is strange, as his habitual drink is ginger-beer. He complains of pains in his ears, eyes, knees, elbows, and big toes on both feet. Quite unable to get up before five o'clock, when he was fortunately, sufficiently recovered to accompany his younger brothers to a juvenile party and Christmas tree. According to SAMMY (my second son) AUGUSTUS danced every dance, and served as an assistant to an amateur conjuror. But this last statement I give with some reserve, as it does not correspond with the report furnished by AUGUSTUS himself.

_Friday._--AUGUSTUS at his worst. In the morning he alarmed his mother by a passionate burst of weeping. He seems to think that, if he goes back to school to-morrow, he will die immediately. Feeling that this was an unhealthy state of mind, I took him to the Zoological Gardens in the afternoon, and must confess that, while there, he appeared to experience a keen delight in feeding the bears with fragments of newspaper, concealed in stale buns. But at night his melancholia returned, and he was scarcely able to eat his dinner.

_Saturday._--Received a letter from my eminent and reverend friend, Dr. SWISHTALE, informing me that, in consequence of the prevalence of influenza, it had been thought advisable to extend the Christmas vacation for a fortnight or three weeks. On conveying this intelligence to my eldest son, he seemed to rapidly recover, and has (I am happy to say) been well ever since.

Trusting that the history of this singular case may afford some hints and comfort to parents with children afflicted (as was my dear AUGUSTUS) with a disease so eccentric in its ramifications as influenza,

I remain, dear _Mr. Punch_,

Yours most truly, SIMON SIMPLE WIDEAWAKE.

_Malinger Villa, Blarney Road, S. W._

* * * * *

VOCES POPULI.

THE CADI OF THE CURBSTONE.

SCENE--_A thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Shortly before Scene opens, an Elderly Gentleman has suddenly stopped the cab in which he has been driving, and, without offering to pay the fare, has got out and shuffled off with a handbag. The Cabman has descended from his seat and overtaken the old gentleman, who is now perceived to be lamentably intoxicated. The usual crowd springs up from nowhere, and follows the dispute with keen and delighted interest._

_Cabman._ Look 'ere, you ain't goin' not without payin' _me_, you know--where's my two shillings?

_The Elderly Gentleman_ (_smiling sweetly, and balancing himself on his heels against some railings_). I'm shure _I_ dunno.

_Cabman._ Well, _look_, can't yer? don't keep me 'ere all day--feel in yer pockets, come!

[_The Old Gentleman makes an abortive effort to find a pocket about him somewhere, and then relapses into abstraction._

_Crowd._ Let 'im take 'is time, _he'll_ pay yer right enough, if you let the man alone.

_A Woman._ Ah, pore gentleman, the best of us is took like that sometimes!

[_Murmurs of sympathy._

_Cabman._ I don't want no more than what's my own. 'E's rode in my keb, and I want my fare out of 'im--an' I mean '_aving_ it, too!

[_Here the Old Gentleman, who seems bored by the discussion, abruptly serpentines off again and is immediately overtaken and surrounded._

_The E. G._ Wha' d'ye mean? 'founded 'perrinence! Lemme 'lone ... 'portant bishniss!

_Cabman._ Pay me my fare,--or I'll have your bag!

[_Seizes bag; the Elderly Gentleman resisting feebly, and always smiling_.

_Crowd._ Why can't yer pay the man his fare and have done with it? There, he's feeling in his pockets--he's going to pay yer now!

[_Elderly Gentleman dives vaguely in a pocket, and eventually produces a threepenny bit, which he tenders magnificently._

_Cabman._ Thruppence ain't no good _to me_--two shillings is what I want out o' _you_--a florin--'j'ear me?

_The E. G._ (_after another dive fishes up three halfpence_). Thash all you're 'titled, to--go 'way, go 'way!

_Crowd_ (_soothingly to Cabman_). 'E'll make it up in time--don't '_urry_ 'im.

_Cabman._ D' ye think I kin stand 'ere cooling my 'eels, while he's payin' me a 'apn'y every 'arf 'our? I've got my living to earn same as _you_ 'ave!

_Crowd._ Ah, he's right there! (_Persuasively to Elderly Gentleman._) 'Ere, Ole Guv'nor, fork out like a man!

[_The Old Guv'nor shakes his head at them with a knowing expression._

_Cabman._ Well, I shan't let go o' this 'ere bag till I _am_ paid--that's all!

[_Here a Policeman arrives on scene._

_Policeman._ Now, then, what's all this? Move along 'ere, all of you--don't go blocking up the thoroughfare like this! (_Scathingly_.) What are yer all _lookin'_ at? (_The Crowd, feeling this rebuke, move away some three paces, and then linger undecidedly._) 'Ere, Cabman, you've no right to lay 'old on that gentleman's bag--_you_ know that as well as I do!

_Cabman_ (_somewhat mollified by this tribute to his legal knowledge, releases bag_). Well, _he_ ain't got no right to ride in my keb, and do a guy, without paying nothink, 'as he?

_Policeman._ All I tell _you_ is--you've no right to detain his bag.

_Cabman._ Let 'im pay me my legal fare, then--two shillings it is 'e owes _me_. I don't want to hinterfere with 'im, if he'll pay me.

_Pol._ (_with a magnificent impartality, to the E. G._). What have you got to say to _that_?

_The E. G._ (_with a dignified wave of the hand_). Shay? Why, tha' I'm shimply--a gerrilm'n.

_Pol._ (_his impartiality gradually merging into official disgust_). Well, all I can say to _you_ is, if you _are_ one, don't abuse it.... Where are you going to?

_The E. G._ (_brimming over with happy laughter_). _I_ dunno!

_Pol._ (_deciding to work on his fears_). Don't you? Well, _I do_, then. I know where _you_'re goin' to--ah, and where you'll _be_, too, afore you're much older--the station-'us!--(_with a slight lapse into jocularity, in concession to his audience_)--"for one night honly"--that's _your_ direction, unless you look out. (_With virtuous indignation._) 'Ere are you--calling yourself a gentleman, and old enough to know better--riding in this man's keb, and trying to bilk him out of his money. Why, you ought to be _ashamed_ o' yourself!

_A Funny Onlooker._ Now, Policeman, why do you interfere? Why can't you leave them to settle it between them?

_Pol._ (_turning on him with awful dignity_). I don't want no suggestions from _you_, Sir. I know _my_ dooty, and them as tries to obstruck me'll get no good by it. I'm not 'ere to take one man's part more than another.

_Cabman._ Well, ain't you goin' to do something now you _are_ here? What's the good of a Copper if he won't 'elp a man to git his rights, eh?

[_Murmurs of sympathy from Crowd._

_Pol._ Now, you mind _your_self--that's what _you_'d better do, or _you_'ll be gitting into trouble next! I've told you I can't interfere one way or the other; and--(_generally, to Crowd_)--you must pass along 'ere, please, or I shall 'ave to make yer.

_Crowd_ (_to Eld. G._). Give the man his money, can't yer? Pay 'im!

_Cabman._ Come, look sharp! Just you pay me!

_The E. G._ How c'n I pay, man? P'fectly 'shurd! Go to bleeshes!

[_Bolts again, and is once more overtaken by the indignant Cabman._

_Pol._ (_following up_). Now, then, Cabman, don't go hustling him!

[_Crowd's sympathy veers round to the E. G. again._

_Cabman._ _'Oo's_ 'ustlin'? I ain't laid a finger on 'im. (_Magnanimously._) I've no wish to 'inder 'im from going wherever he likes, so long as he pays me fust!

_Pol._ You've no right to touch the man, nor yet his bag; so be careful, that's all I tell you!

_The E. G._ (_with maudlin enthusiasm_). Pleeshman's perfelly ri'! Pleeshman always knowsh besht!

[_Tries to pat Policeman on back._

_Pol._ (_his disgust reaching a climax_). 'Ere, don't you go pawin' _me_ about--for I won't '_ave_ it! If _I'm_ right, it's more than what _you_ are, anyhow! Now be off with you, wherever it is you're going to!

_Cabman_ (_desperate_). But look 'ere--can't you take his name and address?

_Pol._ (_rising to the occasion_). Ah! that's what I was waitin' for! Now you've _ast_ me--now I kin _act_! (_Pulls out a pocket-book full of dirty memoranda, and a stumpy pencil._) Now then, Sir, your name, if _you_ please?

_The E. G._ (_sleepily_). Shtupid thing a-do, but qui' forgot.... Come out 'ithout mi' name, 'shmornin'!

_Pol._ (_sternly_). That won't do with Me, you know. What's your name? Out with it!

_The E. G._ (_evidently making a wild shot at it_). FERGUSHON.

[_Smiles, as if he feels sure the Policeman will be pleased with a name like that_.

_Pol._ JOHN? GEORGE? JAMES?--or what?

_The E. G._ You can purr 'em all down t' me--it don' marrer!

_Pol._ (_briskly_). Where do you live, Mr. FERGUSON?

_The E. G._ (_mechanically_). Shirty-one, Lushington Street, Gargleshbury Park.

_Pol._ (_writing it down, and giving leaf to Cabman_). There, will _that_ do for you?

_Cabman._ That's all _I_ want. (_To the E. G._) You'll 'ear from me later on.

_The E. G._ (_affectionately_). Alwaysh pleash'd shee you, any time.... Pleeshman too.... Shorry can't shtop--mos' 'portant bishnish!

_Pol._ Which way do you want to go?

_The E. G._ Earlsh Court.

_Pol._ Then get there, if you're capable of it. And now, you boys, clear the road, will you?

[_The Elderly Gentleman, smiling in the full conviction of having extricated himself from a difficult situation with consummate tact and diplomacy, goes off unsteadily in the direction of Piccadilly, accompanied by a suite of small boys who have kindly resolved to see him through any further adventures that may await his progress. The Cabman remains to discuss the affair at great length on the curbstone. The Policeman paces slowly on, conscious that he has worthily maintained the dignity of his office._

* * * * *

A CORRESPONDENT, _à propos_ of the prevailing epidemic, writes,--"Sir, there must have been an epidemic of influenza at Cambridge about thirty-three years ago, as in a travesty of _Faust_, produced at the A. D. C. about that time, occurs a parody of the song '_Di Frienza_' from _La Traviata_, commencing '_Influenza_ is about, So I'll stay no longer out.' History repeats itself occasionally.--I am, Yours,

AN INFLUENZIAL PERSONAGE, Trin. Coll. Cam."

* * * * *

* * * * *

PLAIN ENGLISH!

JOHN BULL _loquitur:_--

"ENGLISH as she is spoke," my little friend, Is not precisely what your pundits deem it. Let _me_ give you a lesson! This must end. That flag, however lightly you esteem it, Has not so long waved folds fair, broad, and ample To all earth's winds for _you_ at last to trample.

No! What the mischief is your little game? Monkeyish tricks help neither power nor dignity. A little country heir of much fair fame, I'd like to treat with patience and benignity; But memories of CAMOENS and DE GAMA Should save you from the clown's part in earth's drama.

Clowning it is to caper in this style, Trying to make a foot-cloth of my banner. You ought to know the temper of our Isle, You've tested it in circumstantial manner. Down before SOULT and JUNOT you'd have gone But for that very flag, and WELLINGTON.

Old friends? Of course we are. Old rivals too, In commerce and adventure the world over. From JOHN THE GREAT'S time to the present, you In Africa have been a daring rover; "The Rover's free"! Ah! that's good lyric brag-- He is not free to trample on my flag!

VASCO DE GAMA and CABRAL, no doubt, Held an exceedingly free hand aforetime. Cocks of the walk were those adventurers stout, But then their time was different from your time. In what you call your "civilising labours," You'll have to think a little of your neighbours.

"Prancing proconsuls" often stir up strife, Which to abate diplomacy must strain. Your PINTO seems to mean war to the knife-- He's too much given to the 'Ercles vein. I'm sure I do not want to hurt your feelings, I simply say I can't stand SERPA'S dealings.

Plain English this, my little Portuguee, And BARROS GOMES will tell you I mean it. Fight? Pigmy _versus_ Titan? Fiddlededee! My meaning--without menaces, you'll glean it-- Is this--I would not hector, no, nor "nag," Only, my lad--_you'll just come off that Flag!_

* * * * *

LONDON FOR THE LONDONERS;

_Or, How to Please Everybody_.

SCENE--_Railway Compartment._ BROWN _and_ JONES _discovered reading Newspapers._

_Brown_ (_putting down his journal_). Not much news, Sir.

_Jones_ (_following the example_). Quite so, Sir--not much.

_Brown._ Perhaps, Sir, the most interesting item is this talk about London Improvement.

_Jones._ So I think, Sir. But what do we want with this plan for widening the Strand, and making a road to Holborn? It seems to me, Sir, that the suburbs are being neglected.

_Brown._ I agree with you, Sir. Now, if they would develop the North of London, it would be more to the purpose. If they would run a road direct from Charing Cross to, say Zanzibar Terrace, Upper Kensal Green, West, it would really be of service to the public.

_Jones._ Very likely, Sir--very likely. For my part, it seems to me that Chiswick also requires a helping hand. The construction of a broad boulevard running from Charing Cross in a straight line to, say, Upham Park Road, would tend to show that the County Council justly appreciated its own responsibilities. And I say this, knowing the necessities of Chiswick, for in that neighbourhood I happen to reside.

_Brown._ And I, too, Sir, am equally cognisant of the requirements of Upper Kensal Green West. As a matter of fact, Sir, I happen to have a comfortable house in Zanzibar Terrace.

_Jones._ And I, Sir, a delightful villa in Upham Park Road.

[_Whistle. Train enters tunnel, and further conversation is drowned by the rattle of the carriages._

* * * * *

A Musical Anticipation.

FRED COWEN'S _Viking_ Sure to be striking. Think there is luck in BARTON MCGUCKIN.

* * * * *

UNSOUGHT HONOUR.--After his last Birthday, Mr. GLADSTONE was unanimously elected a Member of "the Eighty Club."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

OLD COLDS FOR NEW.

(_A Fairy Tale of Anglo-Russian Origin._)

ONCE upon a time there was a feeble little Ailment called "Cold-in-the-head," which was treated in the most contemptuous fashion by its relations. The nearest of its kith and kin--Measles and Scarlatina--absolutely laughed when its name was mentioned, and scarcely recognised it as a connection. So Cold-in-the-head had rather a bad time of it generally.

One day the feeble little Ailment was wandering aimlessly about in search of a resting-place, when it came upon an enormous establishment thronged with thousands of working-men. When the _employés_ are described as "working-men," it is not, however, quite accurate, for at that moment they were not working.

"Why are you idle?" sneezed out little Cold-in-the-head in a tone of compassion.

"Because," replied one of the _employés_, rather gruffly, "there is nothing to do. If you want further information, you had better inquire at that office."

And the man pointed to a door bearing the legend, "Editor's Room." The poor little Ailment entered the apartment, and found a Gentleman seated in front of a desk covered with papers. The Gentleman was staring before him, and the ink in his pen had dried up.

"What do you want?" asked the Gentleman. "And why don't you shut the door behind you?"

"I should cease to exist without draughts," explained the poor little Ailment, "and please don't speak roughly to me, as I want to help you."

"You help me!" exclaimed the Editor--for the Gentleman was an Editor. "How can you do that?"

"I think I can give you a subject."

"You are very welcome if you can do that," was the reply, "as in this dead season of the year ideas are as scarce as coals; nay scarcer. But surely, didn't you do something for the Press ages ago?"

"That was in the 'forties;' but I am quite different now."

Then the little Ailment related to the Editor stories of Russia, and the East, and all sorts of wonderful things.

"Well," murmured the Editor, after some consideration, "I think you may be useful, after all, if we are helped by the Doctors."

* * * * *

"What a fuss they are making about this new rival of ours!" said Measles, angrily.

"Too absurd!" commented Scarlatina, in a tone of annoyance.

Then there was a grand procession. First came Correspondents, then Interviewed Physicians, then the General Public. It was a sight that had never been seen before. In the midst of the excitement an Ailment appeared.

"Why, bless me!" cried Measles. "Only fancy!"

"Can I believe my eyes?" shouted Scarlatina. "Why, it's poor little Cold-in-the-head, that no one used to care a jot about six months ago!"

"Silence!" said the Ailment, with great dignity. "You must learn to treat me with the respect due to my exalted station. And please don't call me 'Cold-in-the-head,' for I am known as 'The Russian Influenza!'"

Then the Ailment turned towards _Mr. Punch_, who (as was his wont) was smiling, and bade him do homage.

"Not a bit of it," exclaimed the Sage of Fleet Street, raising a glass of Ammoniated Tincture of Quinine to his lips, and quaffing merrily a teaspoonful. "I defy you! You are puffed up with conceit, my poor little Illness, and when, in a few weeks' time, we have another sensation to talk and think about, you will sink back into your native obscurity."

And _Mr. Punch_ (as the event will prove) was--as he always is--entirely right!

* * * * *

AT THE PORTE ST. MARTIN.--If there were ever any question as to the genius of SARA BERNHARDT, she has now settled it by appearing as _Jeanne d'Arc_, and showing us what she is Maid of. By the way, as of course she wears golden or auburn hair, _Jeanne d'Arc_ must appear as _Jeanne_ Light. Irreverent scoffers may say this is historically correct, as from their point of view _Joan_ was rather light-headed. Of course, _Joan_ is coming over to London. Why not to Mr. HARE'S Theatre, and finish the evening with a prime Garrick Stake.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A COMING BIG BORE.

_Being a probable Extract from the "City Intelligence" for 1900._

THE half-yearly meeting to discuss the Report just issued by the Chairman and Directors of the Amalgamated International Anglo-French Submarine Channel Tunnel Railway Company was held in the Company's Fortress Boardroom yesterday afternoon, and, owing to the present critical Continental outlook, as might have been expected, succeeded in securing the attendance of an unusually large number of shareholders.

The Chairman, who on rising was received with prolonged hooting and a chorus, again and again renewed _con amore_ by the assembled audience, of "_And he's a jolly bad fellow!_" having, at length, though frequently interrupted, obtained something like a hearing, was understood to say, that he had little to offer in the shape of comment on the Report submitted to the meeting. (_Groans._) The causes of its unsatisfactory nature were patent to all. Owing to their having been compelled, in what he now fully recognised was a slavish and mistaken obedience to a popular clamour (_a Voice, "You're right!_"), three years ago, in the height of a sudden scare about invasion--("_Oh! oh!_")--to let the water in and flood the Tunnel--(_groans_)--they had been occupied ever since in pumping it out again, and though now he was glad to announce that the last bucketful had been emptied out, and that the traffic would be resumed forthwith--(_cheers_)--still the operation had cost them three millions of money, that they had to get from the market in the shape of Seventeen per Cent. First Preference Debentures--("_Oh! oh!_")--on which, however, he trusted that a favourable season's receipts might enable them possibly to pay a next half-year's dividend of three and sixpence. (_Prolonged groans._) It was not much; still, it was something. ("_Oh! oh!_") But if they wished to secure even this modest remuneration for their money, they must make up their minds, especially at the present moment, when there was a daily,--he might almost say, an hourly,--expectation of the withdrawal of their Ambassador from Paris, that there must be no more craven yielding to delusive impulses of an idiotic patriotism--(_loud cheers_),--in a word, no more talk about closing the Tunnel on the paltry plea of "national security." (_Prolonged cheering._) He was glad to hear those cheers. It was an endorsement of the standpoint that he and his Directors meant to take in the present crisis, which was, in effect, to remind themselves that they were shareholders of the Anglo-French Submarine Channel Tunnel Railway Company first--and Englishmen afterwards--(_thunders of applause, and loud and prolonged cheering_);--and that, if called upon to shed their life's blood, it would be solely in defence of that great engineering work, the true monument of peace, in which their aspirations, their hopes, and, above all, their capital, had been so fearlessly embarked and largely invested.(_Renewed enthusiasm._)

A Shareholder here rose, and said, that if there really was, as the Chairman seemed to imply, a probability that war with our friendly neighbours might break out at any minute, would it not be advisable, in the interests of the Company, to come to some amicable and therefore satisfactory commercial arrangement for the transit of troops through the Tunnel, which, no doubt, it would be their first object to secure.(_Laughter._) There might possibly be some stupid attempt of our own Government forces to seize upon and even damage, with a view to rendering the Tunnel useless, the works commanding this end of it. Should not a Volunteer Corps of Shareholders be at once organised--("_Hear! hear!_")--for the purpose of keeping them until the French Military Authorities came over in sufficient force to enable them to seize and securely hold them against all comers? He trusted he was not wanting in a well-balanced and legitimate patriotism--("_No! no!_")--but like their respected Chairman, he felt that there was a higher claim, a louder call than that addressed to an Englishman by his country, and that was the deep, grim, stern and stirring appeal made to the Seventeen per Cent. Debenture-holder by his Company.(_Roars of laughter._)