Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., October 25, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., October 25, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
October 25, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. IV.--BOB SILLIMERE.
(_BY MRS._ HUMPHRY JOHN WARD PREACHER, _AUTHOR OF "MASTER
SISTERSON."_)
[On the paper in which the MS. of this novel was wrapped, the
following note was written in a bold feminine hand:--"This
is a highly religious story. GEORGE ELIOT was unable to write
properly about religion. The novel is certain to be well
reviewed. It is calculated to adorn the study-table of a
Bishop. The L1000 prize must be handed over at once to the
Institute which is to be founded to encourage new religions in
the alleys of St. Pancras.--H.J.W.P."]
CHAPTER I.
It was evening--evening in Oxford. There are evenings in other places
occasionally. Cambridge sometimes puts forward weak imitations. But,
on the whole, there are no evenings which have so much of the true,
inward, mystic spirit as Oxford evenings. A solemn hush broods over
the grey quadrangles, and this, too, in spite of the happy laughter of
the undergraduates playing touch last on the grass-plots, and leaping,
like a merry army of marsh-dwellers, each over the back of the other,
on their way to the deeply impressive services of their respective
college chapels. Inside, the organs were pealing majestically, in
response to the deft fingers of many highly respectable musicians,
and all the proud traditions, the legendary struggles, the well-loved
examinations, the affectionate memories of generations of proctorial
officers, the innocent rustications, the warning appeals of
authoritative Deans--all these seemed gathered together into one last
loud trumpet-call, as a tall, impressionable youth, carrying with him
a spasm of feeling, a Celtic temperament, a moved, flashing look,
and a surplice many sizes too large for him, dashed with a kind of
quivering, breathless sigh, into the chapel of St. Boniface's just as
the porter was about to close the door. This was ROBERT, or, as his
friends lovingly called him, BOB SILLIMERE. His mother had been an
Irish lady, full of the best Irish humour; after a short trial, she
was, however, found to be a superfluous character, and as she began to
develop differences with CATHERINE, she caught an acute inflammation
of the lungs, and died after a few days, in the eleventh chapter.
[Illustration]
BOB sat still awhile, his agitation soothed by the comforting sense
of the oaken seat beneath him. At school he had been called by his
school-fellows "the Knitting-needle," a remarkable example of the
well-known fondness of boys for sharp, short nicknames; but this did
not trouble him now. He and his eagerness, his boundless curiosity,
and his lovable mistakes, were now part and parcel of the new life
of Oxford--new to him, but old as the ages, that, with their rhythmic
recurrent flow, like the pulse of--[_Two pages of fancy writing are
here omitted._ ED.] BRIGHAM and BLACK were in chapel, too. They were
Dons, older than BOB, but his intimate friends. They had but little
belief, but BLACK often preached, and BRIGHAM held undecided views on
life and matrimony, having been brought up in the cramped atmosphere
of a middle-class parlour. At Oxford, the two took pupils, and helped
to shape BOB's life. Once BRIGHAM had pretended, as an act or pure
benevolence, to be a Pro-Proctor, but as he had a sardonic scorn, and
a face which could become a marble mask, the Vice-Chancellor called
upon him to resign his position, and he never afterwards repeated the
experiment.
CHAPTER II.
One evening BOB was wandering dreamily on the banks of the Upper
River. He sat down, and thought deeply. Opposite to him was a wide
green expanse dotted with white patches of geese. There and then, by
the gliding river, with a mass of reeds and a few poplars to fill in
the landscape, he determined to become a clergyman. How strange that
he should never have thought of this before; how sudden it was; how
wonderful! But the die was cast; _alea jacta est_, as he had read
yesterday in an early edition of St. Augustine; and, when BOB rose,
there was a new brightness in his eye, and a fresh springiness in his
steps. And at that moment the deep bell of St. Mary's--[_Three pages
omitted._ ED.]
CHAPTER III.
And thus BOB was ordained, and, having married CATHERINE, he accepted
the family living of Wendover, though not before he had taken
occasion to point out to BLACK that family livings were corrupt
and indefensible institutions. Still, the thing had to be done; and
bitterly as BOB pined for the bracing air of the East End of London,
he acknowledged, with one of his quick, bright flashes, that, unless
he went to Wendover, he could never meet Squire MUREWELL, whose
powerful arguments were to drive him from positions he had never
qualified himself, except by an irrational enthusiasm, to defend. Of
CATHERINE a word must be said. Cold, with the delicate but austere
firmness of a Westmoreland daisy, gifted with fatally sharp lines
about the chin and mouth, and habitually wearing loose grey gowns,
with bodices to match, she was admirably calculated, with her narrow,
meat-tea proclivities, to embitter the amiable SILLIMERE's existence,
and to produce, in conjunction with him, that storm and stress, that
perpetual clashing of two estimates without which no modern religious
novel could be written, and which not even her pale virginal grace
of look and form could subdue. That is a long sentence, but, ah!
how short is a merely mortal sentence, with its tyrannous full stop,
against the immeasurable background of the December stars, by whose
light BOB was now walking, with heightened colour, along the vast
avenue that led to Wendover Hall, the residence of the ogre Squire.
CHAPTER IV.
The Squire was at home. On the door-step BOB was greeted by Mrs.
FARCEY, the Squire's sister. She looked at him in her bird-like
way. At other times she was elf-like, and played tricks with a lace
handkerchief.
"You know," she whispered to BOB, "we're all mad here. I'm mad,
and he," she continued, bobbing diminutively towards the Squire's
study-door, "he's mad too--as mad as a hatter."
Before BOB had time to answer this strange remark, the study-door flew
open, and Squire MUREWELL stepped forth. He rapped out an oath or two,
which BOB noticed with faint politeness, and ordered his visitor to
enter. The Squire was rough--very rough; but he had studied hard in
Germany.
"So you're the young fool," he observed, "who intends to tackle me.
Ha, ha, that's a good joke. I'll have you round my little finger in
two twos. Here," he went on gruffly, "take this book of mine in your
right hand. Throw your eyes up to the ceiling." ROBERT, wishing to
conciliate him, did as he desired. The eyes stuck there, and looked
down with a quick lovable look on the two men below. "Now," said
the Squire, "you can't see. Pronounce the word 'testimony' twice,
slowly. Think of a number, multiply by four, subtract the Thirty-nine
Articles, add a Sunday School and a packet of buns. Result, you're a
freethinker." And with that he bowed BOB out of the room.
CHAPTER V.
A terrible storm was raging in the Rector's breast as he strode,
regardless of the cold, along the verdant lanes of Wendover. "Fool
that I was!" he muttered, pressing both hands convulsively to his
sides. "Why did I not pay more attention to arithmetic at school? I
could have crushed him, but I was ignorant. Was that result right?"
He reflected awhile mournfully, but he could bring it out in no other
way. "I must go through with it to the bitter end," he concluded, "and
CATHERINE must be told." But the thought of CATHERINE knitting quietly
at home, while she read Fox's _Book of Martyrs_, with a tender smile
on her thin lips, unmanned him. He sobbed bitterly. The front-door
of the Rectory was open. He walked in.--The rest is soon told.
He resigned the Rectory, and made a brand-new religion. CATHERINE
frowned, but it was useless. Thereupon she gave him cold bacon for
lunch during a whole fortnight, and the brave young soul which had
endured so much withered under this blight. And thus, acknowledging
the novelist's artistic necessity, ROBERT died.--[THE END.]
* * * * *
WINTER SEASON AT COVENT GARDEN.--Opening of Italian Opera last
Saturday, with _Aida_. Very well done. "Wait" between Second and Third
Act too long: "Waiters" in Gallery whistling. Wind whistling, too, in
Stalls. Operatic and rheumatic. Rugs and fur capes might be kept on
hire by Stall-keepers. Airs in _Aida_ delightful: draughts in Stalls
awful. Signor LAGO called before Curtain to receive First Night
congratulations. Signor LAGO ought to do good business "in front,"
as there's evidently no difficulty in "raising the wind."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "L'ONION FAIT LA FORCE."
_John Bull_. "NOW, MY DEAR LITTLE PORTUGAL, AS YOU ARE STRONG BE WISE,
OR YOU'LL GET YOURSELF INTO A PRETTY PICKLE!"]
* * * * *
THE FIRE KING AND HIS FRIENDS.
(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO MONK LEWIS AND THE AUTHORS OF "REJECTED
ADDRESSES."_)
"No hardship would be inflicted upon manufacturers, if
dangerous trades in general were subjected to such a
supervision as would afford the largest attainable measure
of security to all engaged in them. The case is one which
urgently demands the consideration of Parliament, not only for
the protection of work-people, but even for the protection
of the Metropolis itself. It should never be forgotten
that fire constitutes the gravest risk to which London is
exposed."--_The Times_.
The Fire King one day rather furious felt,
He mounted his steam-horse satanic;
Its head and its tail were of steel, with a belt
Of riveted boiler-plate proved not to melt
With heat howsoever volcanic.
The sight of the King with that flame-face of his
Was something exceedingly horrid;
The rain, as it fell on his flight, gave a fizz
Like unbottled champagne, and went off with a whizz
As it sprinkled his rubicund forehead.
The sound of his voice as he soared to the sky
Was that of a ghoul with the grumbles.
His teeth were so hot, and his tongue was so dry,
That his shout seemed us raucous as though one should try
To play on a big drum with dumb-bells.
From his nostrils a naphthaline odour outflows,
In his trail a petroleum-whiff lingers.
With crude nitro-glycerine glitter his hose,
Suggestions of dynamite hang round his nose,
And gunpowder grimeth his fingers.
His hair is of flame fizzing over his head,
As likewise his heard and eye-lashes;
His drink's "low-test naphtha," his nag, it is said,
Eats flaming tow soaked in combustibles dread,
Which hot from the manger he gnashes.
The Fire King set spurs to the steed he bestrode,
Intent to mix pleasure with profit.
He was off to Vine Street in the Farringdon Road,
And soon with the flames of fired naphtha it flowed
As though 'twere the entry to Tophet.
He sought HARROD's Stores whence soon issued a blast
Of oil-flame that lighted the City
Then he turned to Cloth Fair. Hold, my Muse! not too fast!
On the Fire King's last victims in silence we'll cast
A look of respectfullest pity.
But the Fire King flames on; Now he pulls up to snatch
Some fodder. The stable's in danger.
His whip is a torch, and each spur is a match,
And over the horse's left eye is a patch,
To keep it from scorching the manger.
But who is the Ostler, and who is his lad,
In fodder-supplying alliance,
Who feed the Fire King and his Steed? 'Tis too bad
That TRADE should feed Fire, and his henchman seem glad
To set wholesome Law at defiance.
See, Trade stocks the manger, and there is the pail
Full set by the imp Illegality!
That fierce fiery Pegasus thus to regale,
When he's danger and death from hot head to flame-tail,
Is cruelly callous brutality.
Ah, Justice looks stern, and, indeed, well she may,
With such a vile vision before her.
The ignipotent nag and its rider to stay
In their dangerous course is her duty to-day,
And to _do_ it the public implore her.
"By Jingo!" cries _Punch_, "you nefarious Two,
Your alliance humanity jars on!
If you feed the Fire Fiend, with disaster in view,
And the chance of men's death, 'twere mere justice to do
To have you indicted for arson!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: FELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.
"OH, ROBERT, THE GROUSE HAS BEEN KEPT TOO LONG! I WONDER YOU CAN EAT
IT!"
"MY DEAR, 'WE NEEDS MUST LOVE THE HIGHEST WHEN WE SEE IT!'"
(_Guinevere._)]
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
AT THE FRENCH EXHIBITION.
_Chorus of Arab Stall-keepers._ Come and look! Alaha-ba-li-boo! Eet
is verri cold to-day! I-ah-rish Brandi! 'Ere, _Miss_! you com' 'ere!
No pay for lookin'. Alf a price! Verri pritti, verri nah-ice, verri
cheap, verri moch! And so on.
_Chorus of British Saleswomen_. _Will_ you allow me to show you this
little novelty, Sir? _'Ave_ you seen the noo perfume sprinkler? Do
come and try this noo puzzle--no 'arm in _lookin'_, Sir. Very nice
little novelties 'ere, Sir! 'Eard the noo French Worltz, Sir? every
article is really very much reduced, &c, &c.
AT THE FOLIES-BERGERE.
SCENE--_A hall in the grounds. Several turnstiles leading to
curtained entrances._
_Showmen_ (_shouting_). Amphitrite, the Marvellous Floatin' Goddess.
Just about to commence! This way for the Mystic Gallery--three
Illusions for threepence! Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon; the
Oriental Beauty in the Table of the Sphinx, and the Wonderful Galatea,
or Pygmalion's Dream. Only threepence! This way for the Mystic Marvel
o' She! Now commencing!
_A Female Sightseer_ (_with the air of a person making an original
suggestion_). Shall we go in, just to see what it's like?
_Male Ditto_. May as well, now we _are_ 'ere. (_To preserve himself
from any suspicion of credulity._) Sure to be a take-in o' some sort.
[_They enter a dim apartment, in which two or three people are
leaning over a barrier in front of a small Stage; the Curtain
is lowered, and a Pianist is industriously pounding away at a
Waltz_.
_The F.S._ (_with an uncomfortable giggle_). Not much to see _so_ far,
is there?
_Her Companion_. Well, they ain't begun yet.
[_The Waltz ends, and the Curtain rises, disclosing a Cavern
Scene._ Amphitrite, _in blue tights, rises through the floor._
_Amphitrite_ (_in the Gallic tongue_). Mesdarms et Messures, j'ai
'honnoor de vous sooayter le bong jour! (_Floats, with no apparent
support, in the air, and performs various graceful evolutions,
concluding by reversing herself completely_). Bong swore, Mesdarms
et messures, mes remercimongs!
[_She dives below, and the Curtain descends._
_The F.S._ Is that all? I don't see nothing in _that_!
_Her Comp._ (_who, having paid for admission, resents this want of
appreciation_). Why, she was off the ground the 'ole of the time,
wasn't she? I'd just like to see _you_ turnin' and twisting about
in the air as easy as she did with nothing to 'old on by!
_The F.S._ I didn't notice she was off the ground--yes, that _was_
clever. I never thought o' that before. Let's go and see the other
things now.
_Her Comp._ Well, if you don't see nothing surprising in 'em till
they're all over, you might as well stop outside, _I_ should ha'
thought.
_The F.S._ Oh, but I'll notice more next time--you've got to get
_used_ to these things, you know.
[_They enter the Mystic Gallery, and find themselves in a
dim passage, opposite a partitioned compartment, in which
is a glass case, supported on four pedestals, with a silver
crescent at the back. The Illusions--to judge from a sound
of scurrying behind the scenes--have apparently been taken
somewhat unawares._
_The Female Sightseer_ (_anxious to please_). They've done that
'alf-moon very well, haven't they?
_Voice of Showman_ (_addressing the Illusions_). Now then, 'urry up
there--we're all waiting for you.
[_The face of "Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon,"
appears, strongly illuminated, inside the glass-box, and
regards the spectators with an impassive contempt--greatly to
their confusion._
_The Male S._ (_in a propitiatory tone_). Not a bad-looking girl, is
she? _Atalanta, the Queen of the Moon (to the Oriental Beauty in next
compartment_). Polly, when these people are gone, I wish you'd fetch
me my work!
[_The Sightseers move on, feeling crushed. In the second
compartment the upper portion of a female is discovered,
calmly knitting in the centre of a small table, the legs
of which are distinctly visible._
_The Female S._ Why, wherever has the _rest_ of her got to?
_The Oriental Beauty_ (_with conscious superiority_). That's what
you've got to find out.
[_They pass on to interview "Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream,"
whose compartment is as yet enveloped in obscurity._
_A Youthful Showman_ (_apparently on familiar terms with all the
Illusions_). Ladies and Gentlemen, I shell now 'ave the honour of
persentin' to you the wonderful Galatear, or Livin' Statue; you will
'ave an oppertoonity of 'andling the bust for yourselves, which will
warm before your eyes into living flesh, and the lovely creecher live
and speak. 'Ere, look sharp, carn't yer'! [_To_ Galatea.
_Pygmalion's Dream_ (_from the mystic gloom_). Wait a bit, till I've
done warming my 'ands. Now you can turn the lights up ... there,
you've bin and turned 'em _out_ now, stoopid!
_The Y.S._ Don't you excite yourself. I know what I'm doin'.
(_Turns the lights up, and reveals a large terra-cotta Bust._) At
my request, this young lydy will now perceed to assoom the yew and
kimplexion of life itself. Galatear, will you oblige us by kindly
coming to life?
[_The Bust vanishes, and is replaced by a decidedly earthly
Young Woman in robust health._
_The Y.S._ Thenk you. That's all I wanted of yer. Now, will you kindly
return to your former styte?
[_The Young Woman transforms herself into a hideous Skull._
_The Y.S._ (_in a tone of remonstrance_). No--no, not that ridiklous
fice! We don't want to see what yer will be--it's very _loike_ yer,
I know, but still--(_The Skull changes to the Bust._) Ah, that's
more the stoyle! (_Takes the Bust by the neck and hands it round for
inspection._) And now, thenking you for your kind attention, and on'y
orskin' one little fyvour of you, that is, that you will not reveal
'ow it is done, I will now bid you a very good evenin', Lydies and
Gentlemen!
_The F.S._ (_outside_). It's wonderful how they can do it all for
threepence, isn't it? We haven't seen _She_ yet!
_Her Comp._ What, 'aven't you seen wonders enough? Come on, then. But
you _are_ going it, you know!
[_They enter a small room, at the further end of which are a
barrier and proscenium with drawn hangings._
_The Exhibitor_ (_in a confidential tone, punctuated by bows_).
I will not keep you waiting, Ladies and Gentlemen, but at once
proceed with a few preliminary remarks. Most of you, no doubt, have
read that celebrated story by Mr. RIDER HAGGARD, about a certain
_She-who-must-be-obeyed_, and who dwelt in a place called Kor, and you
will also doubtless remember how she was in the 'abit of repairing,
at certain intervals, to a cavern, and renooing her youth in a fiery
piller. On one occasion, wishing to indooce her lover to foller her
example, she stepped into the flame to encourage him--something went
wrong with the works, and she was instantly redooced to a cinder.
I fortunately 'appened to be near at the time (you will escuse a
little wild fib from a showman, I'm sure!) I 'appened to be porsin
by, and was thus enabled to secure the ashes of the Wonderful She,
which--(_draws hangings and reveals a shallow metal Urn suspended in
the centre of scene_), are now before you enclosed in that little urn.
She--where are you?
_She_ (_in a full sweet voice, from below_). I am 'ere!
_Showman_. Then appear!
[_The upper portion of an exceedingly comely Young Person
emerges from the mouth of the Urn._
_The F.S._ (_startled_). Lor, she give me quite a turn!
_Showman_. Some people think this is all done by mirrors, but it is
not so; it is managed by a simple arrangement of light and shade. She
will now turn slowly round, to convince you that she is really inside
the urn and not merely beyind it. (She _turns round condescendingly._)
She will next pass her 'ands completely round her, thereby
demonstrating the utter impossibility of there being any wires to
support her. Now she will rap on the walls on each side of her,
proving to you that she is no reflection, but a solid reality, after
which she will tap the bottom of the urn beneath her, so that you
may see it really is what it purports to be. (She _performs all these
actions in the most obliging manner_.) She will now disappear for a
moment. (She _sinks into the Urn._) Are you still there, She?
_She_ (_from the recess of the Urn_). Yes.
_Showman_. Then will you give us some sign of your presence! (_A hand
and arm are protruded, and waved gracefully._) Thank you. Now you can
come up again. (She _re-appears._) She will now answer any questions
any lady or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you
won't ask her how it is done--for I'm sure she wouldn't give me away,
_would_ you, She?
_She_ (_with a slow bow and gracious smile_). Certingly not.
_The F.S._ (_to her Companion_). Ask her something--do.
_Her Comp._ Go on! _I_ ain't got anything to ask her--ask her
yourself!
_A Bolder Spirit_ (_with interest_). Are your _feet_ warm?
_She_. Quite--thanks.
_The Showman_. How old are you, She?
_She_ (_impressively_). Two theousand years.
_'Arry._ And quite a young thing, too!
_A Spectator_ (_who has read the Novel_). 'Ave you 'eard from LEO
VINCEY lately?
_She_ (_coldly_). I don't know the gentleman.
_Showman_. If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now
retire into her urn, thanking you all for your kind attendance this
morning, which will conclude the entertainment.
[_Final disappearance of_ She. _The Audience pass out,
feeling--with perfect justice--that they have "had their
money's worth."_
* * * * *
HOW IT'S DONE.
_A HAND-BOOK OF HONESTY._
NO. III.--GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.
SCENE I.--_St. Stephen's._ Sagacious Legislator _on his legs
advocating a new Anti-Adulteration Act. Few M.P.'s present,
most of them drowsing_.
_Sagacious Legislator_. As I was saying, Sir, the adulteration of
Butter has been pushed to such abominable lengths that no British
Workman knows whether what he is eating is the product of the Cow
or of the Thames mud-banks. (_A snigger._) Talk of a Free Breakfast
Table! I would free the Briton's Breakfast Table from the unwholesome
incubus of Adulteration. At any rate, if the customer chooses to
purchase butter which is _not_ butter, he shall do it knowingly, with
his eyes open. (_Feeble "Hear, hear!"_) Under this Act anything which
is not absolutely unsophisticated milk-made Butter must be plainly
marked, and openly vended as Adipocerene!
[Illustration]
[_Amidst considerable applause the Act is passed._
SCENE II.--_Small Butterman's shop in a poor neighbourhood.
Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind counter. To him enter a
pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in
a leaf from a ledger._
_Workman._ I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff as you sold my
old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe it's butter at all.
_Butterman_ (_sneeringly_). And who said it _was_? What did your
Missus buy it as?
_Workman_. Why, Adipo--whot's it, I believe. But that's only another
name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't it? Anyhow, it's no reason
why it should be nasty.
_Butterman_ (_loftily_). Now look here, my man, what do you expect?
That's Adipocerene, that is, and _sold as such_. If you'll pay for
Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must
take yer chance.
_Workman_. But what's it made on?
_Butterman_. That's no business of mine. If you could anerlyse
it--(mind, I don't say yer _could_)--into stale suet and
sewer-scrapings, you couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as
it's sold for, could yer?
_Workman_ (_hotly_). But hang it, I don't _want_ stale suet and
sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may call it.
_Butterman_ (_decisively_). Then buy Butter, and _pay_ for it like a
man, and don't come a-bothering me about things as I've nothink to do
with. If Guv'ment _will_ have it called Adipocerene, and your Missus
_will_ buy it becos it's cheap; don't you blame _me_ if you find it
nasty, that's all. Good morning!
[_Retires up, "swelling visibly."_
_Workman_. Humph! Betwixt Grandmotherly Government and Manufacturers
of Mysteriousness, where _am_ I? That's wot I want to know! [_Left
wanting to know._