Book: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, April 2, 1892
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, April 2, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 102.
April 2, 1892.
"'TIS MERRY IN HALL."
[Illustration: "Knock'd 'em!"]
"What's in an 'at without an 'ed?" DISTAFFINA DE COCKAIGNE was wont
to inquire, and "what's an 'all" (of Music like the London Pavilion)
"without a NED" in the shape of Mr. EDWARD SWANBOROUGH, the
all-knowing yet ever-green Acting Manager at this place of
entertainment, who possessing the secret of perpetual youth in all the
glory of ever-resplendent hat and ever-dazzling shirt-front, ushers
us into the Stalls in time to hear the best part of an excellent
all-round show. It is sad to think that, probably as we were disputing
with the cabman, the celebrated Miss BOOM-TE-RE-SA, alias LOTTIE
COLLINS, Serio-Comic and Dancer, was "booming" and "teraying" before
the eyes of a delighted audience. Strange that we should not yet
have heard the great original. But as she is not (so to adapt a line
from the "_Last Rose of Summer_") "left booming alone," we have
not escaped hearing several of her male and female imitators who,
by her kind permission and that of her publishers, trade on her
present exceptional success. However, when we entered the Stalls,
Miss BOOM-TE-RE-SA had disappeared, and somebody with a song had
"intervened"--a mode of proceeding not necessarily limited to the
Queen's Proctor--before the object of our visit walked on to the
stage, and when he did come a pretty object he was too, seeing that
it was Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, the unequalled and inimitable Comedian
of the Costermongers. He is a thorough artist in this particular
line, and no indifferent one in others; but his Coster ballads are
artistically first rate. The fashion of calling English singers by
Italian names is on the wane, otherwise Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, of
French extraction, would find an excellent Italian alias, closely
associated with the operatic and musical professions, and most
appropriate to the line he has adopted, in the name of "SIGNOR COSTA."
The melody of Mr. CHEVALIER's "_Coster's Serenade_," of which, I
rather think, he is the composer as well as librettist, is as charming
as it is strikingly original. After the _Chevalier sans peur et sans
approche_ had retired, clever and sprightly Miss JENNY HILL gave as
a taste of lodging-house-keeperism, following whom came the Two MACS
belabouring each other in their old hopelessly idiotic, but always
utterly irresistible style; and then Lieutenant W. COLE--King COLE
we "crowned him long ago"--gave his ventriloquial entertainment, who,
with his troop of talking dolls, should have his address at Dollis
Hill. There were many "turns" yet to follow when we left, at a
comparatively early hour; "and so," to quote old PEPYS, "home with
much content."
* * * * *
"TO HAVE AND TO HOLD."
Big promises and Party scoldings
Won't cure "Small Savings" by "Small Holdings."
* * * * *
THE MARVELS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
SCENE--_Interior of Small Box containing telephone with book
of addresses. Enter hurriedly_ Impatient Subscriber.
_Impatient Subscriber_ (_turning over leaves of address-book_).
Of course I can't find it! Ah! here it is! 142086. (_Rings bell
of telephone, and listens with receivers to his ear._) Now I have
forgotten it! (_Puts back receivers on rests, and refers again to
book. Telephone bell rings in answer. He hurries back and calls._)
One hundred and forty-two nought eighty-six.
_First Voice_ (_from telephone_). One hundred and forty-two?
_Imp. Sub._ Yes, and nought eighty-six.
_First Voice_. Which do you want?
_Imp. Sub._ Why, both.
_First Voice_. You can't. Must have one at a time.
_Imp. Sub._ It's only one. One four two nought eight six.
_First Voice_. One four two nought eight six?
_Imp. Sub._ Yes, please. One four two nought eight six.
_First Voice_. Very well. Why didn't you give the number before?
_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). Well, I have given it now. (_He listens
intently, exclaiming now and again_, "_Are you there_?" _and then
rings_.) One four two nought eight six, please.
_First Voice_ (_after a pause_). What!
_Imp. Sub._ One four two nought eight six, please.
[Illustration]
_First Voice_ (_as if the number is now heard for the first time_).
One four two nought eight six?
_Imp. Sub._ Yes, please. And look sharp!
_First Voice_. What?
_Imp. Sub._ One four two nought eight six.
_First Voice_. I hear. One four two nought eight six. [_The
communication is cut off for a couple of minutes._
_Imp. Sub._ (_for the sixth time_). Are you there?
_Second Voice_. Yes. Who is it?
_Imp. Sub._ I am BOSH, BOODLE & CO.
_Second Voice_. RUSH, RUDDLE & CO.?
_Imp. Sub._ No. BOSH, BOODLE & CO.
_First Voice_. Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ No, no--we are still speaking. I want to know if you have
sent that case of champagne to BUMBLETON?
_Second Voice_. What? I can't hear you.
_Imp. Sub._ (_speaking very slowly, as if dictating to imperfectly
educated infants_). Have--you--sent--that--case--of--cham--pagne--to
BUM--BLE--TON?
_Second Voice_ (_puzzled_). Sent a case of champagne?
_First Voice_ (_interposing_.) Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking. Yes--have you sent a case of
champagne to BUMBLETON?
_Second Voice_. Sent a case of champagne to BUMBLETON? No; why should
we?
_Imp. Sub._ Because you promised TICKLEBY you would.
_Second Voice_ (_evidently perplexed_). Promised TICKLEBY?
_Imp. Sub._ (_in a tone of reproach_). Yes, promised TICKLEBY.
_First Voice_ (_interposing_.) Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking; please don't cut us off.
(_Returning to the champagne subject_). Yes, you promised TICKLEBY you
would send the case of champagne to BUMBLETON. (_With inspiration._)
You are the Arctic Wine Company, aren't you?
_Second Voice_. No. I am Secretary of the Curate's Papier Mache Church
Company.
_Imp. Sub._ (_in a tone of sorrow_). Aren't you one four two nought
eight six?
_Third Voice_ (_coming from somewhere_). Mind and bring a gun with
you, and--.
_Second Voice_. No. We are two four eight nought six seven. Good
morning!
_First Voice_. Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). I have not begun! You have put me on the
wrong number!
_First Voice_ (_calmly_). What number do you want?
_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). One four two nought eight six.
_First Voice_. Two four two nought eight six?
_Imp. Sub._ (_with suppressed rage_). No, _one_ four two nought eight
six.
_First Voice_. Very well. One four two nought eight six.
_Imp. Sub._ Yes, and don't make a mistake.
[_Long pause, during which he asks_, "_Are you there?_" _at
intervals._
_Fourth Voice_. What is it?
_Imp. Sub._ Are you Arctic Wine Company?
_Fourth Voice_. Yes, all right! What is it?
_Imp. Sub._ (_joyfully_). Have you sent a case of champagne to
BUMBLETON?
_Fourth Voice_. What? I can't hear you.
_First Voice_. (_interposing_). Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking. Have you sent a case of
champagne to BUMBLETON?
_Fourth Voice_. We can't hear you. Send a messenger.
_First Voice_. Have you finished?
_Imp. Sub._ (_shouting_). Yes! (_Is cut off._) Shorter to have done so
at once!
[_Uses intemperate language, and hurries off to get a
Messenger. Curtain._
* * * * *
THE CHURLISH CABMAN.
AIR--"_BALLYHOOLEY_."
[Illustration]
The Cabman's thrifty fares,
Who would seek suburban airs,
Desire, of course, a more extended "radius;"
But, Cabby, it is clear,
Thinks quite otherwise. I fear
The controversy's growing rather "taydious."
Whether by night or day,
A fair fare the fare should pay,
And Cabby should not overcharge unduly;
But _this_ is what riles _me_,
When churl Cabby _will_ not see
A would-be fare, but just ignores him coolly.
_Chorus_.
"_Hi! hi! Cab! Hi_!" Oh, no!
On the sullen brute will go;
When he _wants_ a fare, he's clamorous and unruly;
But if he wants a _drink_,
With a sneer or with a wink,
He'll rumble on and just ignore you coolly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DESTROYING THE MONEY-LENDER'S WEB; OR, THE THIRTEENTH
LABOUR OF HERSCHELLES.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: RATHER SMART ALL ROUND.
_Lady Di._ (_who has been trying a Horse with a view to purchase_).
"AND DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT HE'S QUITE UP TO MY WEIGHT, MR. SPAVIN?"
_Spavin._ "LOR! MY LADY, HE'D CARRY TWO OF YOU!"
_Lady Di._ "WHAT? DO YOU MEAN TO SAY THAT I'M ONLY HALF A HORSEWOMAN?"
_Spavin._ "BY NO MEANS, MY LADY. BUT ANOTHER LIKE YOUR LADYSHIP WOULD
LOOK SO WELL ON THE OTHER SIDE!"]
* * * * *
HOW TO REPORT THE PRACTICE OF THE CREWS.
(_NEWEST STYLE._)
Scarcely had the tintinabulum fixed on the altitude of the clock tower
of the ecclesiastical building known to fame and rowing men as Putney
Church sounded out the merry chimes of eleven in the forenoon, when
the wielders of the sky-blue (or dark-blue) blades were observed by
the eager frequenters of the tow-path carrying their trim-built ship
to the water's edge. Not many moments were cut to waste before each
man had safely ensconced himself on the thwart built for him under the
experienced eyes of the champion boat-builder. The men looked, it must
in all fairness be admitted, in the high level of condition. In each
eye there blazed a stern determination to do or die on every possible
occasion. When the signal to start was given, the boat was observed
to move with the bounding speed of a highly-trained greyhound. The
oars dipped into the water like one man, though a marked inclination
was observed on the part of two or three of the oarsmen to "hurry,"
while the rest seemed equally disposed to be "late." A few fatherly
words from the prince of modern coaches soon had the desired effect
of placing matters on a more completely satisfactory footing. The
suggestion often made in these columns that a swifter rate of striking
should be introduced, was acted upon. The boat moved with perfect
evenness, while the wavelets played round her like young dolphins out
for a holiday.
I need only add that our old friend Jupiter Pluvius proved once again
to be a kind friend to those who tempted the dangers of the foaming
tide in Putney Reach. In conclusion, it must be observed that the
stroke was sometimes "short" and occasionally "long," but the "slides"
moved like things of life, and contributed greatly to the pleasure of
a very enjoyable outing.
* * * * *
DESTROYING THE SPIDER'S WEB;
_OR, THE THIRTEENTH LABOUR OF HERSCHELLES._
"To Lion-Hearted Hercules," the strong,
Sounded the clarion of Homeric song.
"Alcides, forcefullest of all the brood
Of men enforced with need of earthly food."
_Punch_ will sing gallant Herschelles, than whom
Who was more worthy of Alcmene's womb
Or Jovian parentage? Behold him stand
With lion-hide on loins, and club in hand!
Forceful and formidable to all foes,
But fatal most especially to those
Of Hydra presence and Stymphalian beak,
Whose quarry is unseasoned youth, who seek
By subtle snares the Infant's steps to trip,
And catch the Minor in their harpy grip.
To his Twelve Labours, against monsters grim,
Who might have lived in safety but for him,
To snare, to slay, to humbug, and to cozen,
Herschelles, just to make a baker's dozen,
Adds a Thirteenth!
A wily, wicked wight,
Dwelling in noxious nooks as dark as night,
Beyond the radius of the housemaid's broom,
And thence dispensing dire disgrace and doom
Long time our homes hath haunted. Greedy Ghoul,
As furtive of advance as fierce of soul,
The Money-lending Spider is his name,
And grim and gruesome was his little game.
Of swollen body, of protuberant beak,
He knew that Youths were green, and Infants weak,
And spun his web, invisible but strong,
Where'er GRAY's well-named "little triflers" throng,
Who, verily unmindful of their doom,
He watched from forth his grubby haunts of gloom,
And strove by sinister device to lure,
Till, 'midst his viscous mazes once secure,
Them he might seize and suck.
The Birds, the Boar,
The Lion, or the Bull, all whom before
Great Herschelles had tackled, were not worse
Than the Colossal Spider, Albion's curse,
The scourge of childish Wealth and youthful Rank,
The Moloch of our Minors! Fathers, thank
Our new Alcides, who, with legal club,
Could dare the web assault, the Spider drub!
Worse than Tarantula venom hath the bite
Of this Conkiferous Ogre, which to fight
Herschelles did adventure! Thump! Bang! Whack!
The web is burst, the Spider's on his back,
All impotently spluttering poisonous spleen
Let's hope such monster may no more be seen.
And let us hail great Herschelles, whose skill
The high-nosed horror hath availed to kill.
Blow, Infants, blow the pipe, and thump the tabor,
In honour of the hero's Thirteenth Labour!
* * * * *
CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.
VII.--THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD.
No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit,
and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the
South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can he
more soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and
watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs
on, and perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and
fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty
demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you
come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him
postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need
for you to change your position, and you can always fill your basket
easily--with irises and marsh-marigolds.
[Illustration: "I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe
with the rod."]
Such are our county contents, but woe befall the day when I took to
salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount
up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If
you buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it
will not cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman
the strength of a SANDOW. You need wading-breeches, which come up
nearly to the neck, and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been
raised, can one swim in them, in case of an accident? For _one_, I can
answer, he can't. The reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line
measures hundreds of yards, and the place where you fish for salmon
is usually at the utter ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in
February. Covered with furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are
pulled in a funereal manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish
for themselves. The angler's only business is to pick them up if a
salmon bites, and when this has gone on for a few days, with no bite,
Influenza, or a hard frost with curling, would be rather a relief.
This kind of thing is not really angling, and a Duffer is as good at
it as an expert.
Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the
Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as
a name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you
pay a large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging
floods, or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring
peevishly through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument,
that the water is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls
at some thirty miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that
the Duffer does not leave any indispensable part of his equipment
at home. He arrives at the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose
contempt for the Duffer breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod,
selects a casting line, knots on the kind of fly which is locally
recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how cold it is! I begin
casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a
hole. Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and
here one is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However,
the high india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a
pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the
soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking
more gingerly, though to the spectator, my movements suggest partial
intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of
boulders, which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water.
There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth.
I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A
frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught
up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No
use in the language of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank,
extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more
cautiously. Something wrong, the hook has caught in my coat, between
my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to
do, on account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut
the hook out with a knife making a big hole in the coat, and cast
again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it
scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my
luck, I have cracked it off!
Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the
fly-book follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my
pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in
looking for it, the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash.
Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have
some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap, without
noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that
may do as the water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting
over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least
I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave
bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me. Give him five
minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother
looking at that again. Five minutes take a long time in passing, when
you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times and bad times and all times
pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a good way above him and
come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a long heavy drag under
water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot, while I stand in a
rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get out and run down
the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out, somehow, falling
on my back, but keeping the point up with my right hand. No bones
broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the line, with a
heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't come, he
is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so nice
as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out
contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves
out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of
short heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers.
The rod thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that.
It is very disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off
again up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin
water at the top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo!
what's that splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and
has got into the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like
mad, and all the line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling
at the line to bring up the reel, but the reel only lets the line
out, and now he is off again, down stream this time, and I after him,
and the line running out at both ends at once, and now my legs get
entangled in it, it is twisted all round me. He runs again and jumps,
the line comes back in my face, all slack, something has given. It
is the hook, it was not knotted on firmly to start with. He flings
himself out of the water once more to be sure that he is free, and I
sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody such bad fortune, but it
is just my luck!
I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling
cautiously I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I
tie it on with the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up
the slack, and put on another fly, out of my cap, a Popham. Then I
fish down the rest of the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of
the water, there is a long slow draw, before I can lift the point of
the rod, a salmon jumps high out of the water at me,--and is gone!
I never struck him, was too much taken aback at the moment; did not
expect him then. Thank goodness, the hook is not off this time.
The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is
close in on my side. By Jove, here he is, he took almost beside the
rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream, if he
will come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is
very swift and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall
of rock difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He
insists on going down, I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he
leaps, and then, well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him,
over the stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the
top joint of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would
hold well enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be
touching the fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad
thing, rushes across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank.
Why won't the line run? The line is entangled in my boot-lace. He is
careering about; I feel that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew
it would happen; he is off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A
beauty he was, clear as silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is
nothing for it but a walk back to the house. I have lost one fly-book,
two hooks, a couple of casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I
have torn a great hole in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch,
I find my fly-book in my breast pocket, where I had not thought of
looking for it somehow. Then the rain comes, and there is not another
fishing day in my fortnight. Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour
of glorious life," while it lasted. The other men caught four or five
salmon apiece; it is their Red Letter Day. It is marked in black in my
calendar.
* * * * *
TOOTING.
["It is a noteworthy fact that while debates have been
languishing at Westminster, at Tooting there have been Members
enough to 'make a House' any day during the past fortnight,
so keen an interest is the 'Royal and Ancient' game
exciting."--_Daily Telegraph._]
What's the use of hooting.
Or cir-cum-lo-cuting?
M.P.'s off
To play at Golf.
All the way to Tooting!
Petty points PAT's mooting!
Chances not computing,
M.P. slips,
(Despite the Whips)
Off to Golf at Tooting!
Landlords _may_ be looting,
Tenants _may_ be shooting;
Where's the fun
In _that_? Let's run
Off to Golf at Tooting!
So M.P.'s are "scooting,"
On-the-gay-galoot-ing;
Cut the House
(It shows their _nous_)
For the Links at Tooting!
There is joy in shooting,
Wine-ing or cherooting,
Dinners, Moors,
Weeds--_all_ are bores,
Compared with Golf at Tooting!
* * * * *
[Illustration: CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS.
_Tommy._ "I HAD _SUCH_ A BAD DREAM LAST NIGHT, GRANDPAPA!"
_The Admiral._ "TELL IT ME, TOMMY."
_Tommy._ "OH NO! IT WOULD ONLY FRIGHTEN YOU AS IT FRIGHTENED ME!"]
* * * * *
"BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE."
["FIFTY POUNDS Reward will be gratefully paid to any Lady
or Gentleman who will ASSIST in RECOVERING a valuable
HEIRLOOM.... Anyone with wealthy or influential friends can at
once secure above reward. Address, &c."]
[Illustration]
I am an impecunious young man, and, the other day, on seeing this
Advertisement in the _Times_, I was seized with a wild desire to "at
once secure above reward." Said I to myself, "I have 'wealthy and
influential friends.' There is my cousin's uncle, who has, I believe,
thirty thousand a-year, though I never saw any part of it, or of him,
for the matter of that; and there is my own aunt by marriage, whose
second husband is a K.C.B., but I forget his name, and do not know
where he lives." So I sat and thought about it for a time with my
eyes shut, and then I started. The train was so full, that I imagined
it must be market-day in some neighbouring town, but the station was
so much fuller, that I could hardly get out of the train. At last,
edgeways, I reached a pale and melancholy ticket-collector, and asked
him where I should find the address mentioned. He turned a pitying
eye upon me, and, pointing to the crowd that filled the station, said,
wearily, "They're all a-goin' there. I know, cos they've all arst me.
You'd better foller 'em."