Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, October 18, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, October 18, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
October 18, 1890.
HOW IT'S DONE.
_A HANDBOOK TO HONESTY._
NO. 11.--THE STRAIGHT "TIP."
SCENE--_Sanctum of "Large Wholesale House." Present, one
of the_ Principals, _a pompous personage, with imposing
watch-chain, and abundant space for it to meander over, and
a sleekly subservient_ "Head of Department." Principal _looks
irritated_, Head of Department _apprehensive, the former
angrily shuffling some papers, the latter nervously "washing
his hands with invisible soap, in imperceptible water._"
_Principal_. Well, Mr.--er--er--SCROOP, we--er--my partners and
self, are not quite satisfied with the way in which things are going
in--er--in your department.
_Head of Department_. Indeed, Sir. Sorry to hear that, Sir. May I ask,
Sir, in--er--in what particular I have--er--failed to give complete
satisfaction. (_Aside._) On the screw again, the old skinflint--I know
him.
[Illustration]
_Principal._ Well, in point of fact, the profits on your branch have
lately been very--have seemed--er--have been by no means--what we
could wish, Mr. SCROOP, what we could wish, Sir.
_H. of D._ Really, Sir, I--ah, am grieved to hear it, for, upon my
word, I hardly know--
_Principal_ (_abruptly_). There must be cutting down somewhere--I say
_somewhere_, Mr. SCROOP--_where_, I must leave to you. By the way, it
seems to me that PUDDICOMBE's prices are a bit high for a beginner
in the trade as he is. I think his "lines" ought to run a little
lower--eh?
_H. of D._ Well, Sir, I've suggested it to him myself, but he
protested there was hardly a margin left. However, since you name it,
Sir, I'll see what I can do with him. _(Aside._) Ruthless old grinder,
_that's_ his game, is it? Wants a few "extra" pounds to play with, and
means squeezing them out of PUDDICOMBE. Poor PUDDICOMBE, I've already
put the screw on him pretty tightly. However, I must give it another
turn, I suppose.
SCENE II.--Head of Department _and_ PUDDICOMBE, _a
hard-working, struggling manufacturer, who has schemed and
screwed for years to keep in with the Big House._
_Puddicombe_. Upon my word, Mr. SCROOP, I can't--I really can't,
knock off another quarter per cent. It's a tight fight already, and I
_can't_ do it.
_H. of D._ (_airily_). All right, PUDDICOMBE my boy,--as you please.
Plenty who will, you know.
_Puddicombe_. Really, Mr. SCROOP, I don't see how they can--
_H. of D._ (_rudely_). That's _their_ business. I only know they
_will_, and jump at it.
_Puddicombe_ (_hesitatingly_). But--er--I thought, when I made that
little arrangement with you, a year ago, about the trifling bonus to
you, you know, I thought you as good as promised--
_H. of D._ (_severely_). Mr. PUDDICOMBE, you surprise me. I am here,
Sir, to do the best I can for the Firm--and _I shall do it._ If
somebody else's prices are better than yours, somebody else gets the
line, that's all. Good day, Mr. PUDDICOMBE. (_Aside._) Confound his
impudence!--he shan't have another order if _I_ can help it! Trifling
bonus, indeed! One thing, he daren't split--so _I_'m safe.
[_Exit_ PUDDICOMBE, _despondently. Enter, presently, a
hopeful-looking person, with a sample-bag._
_H. of D._ (_cheerily_). Ah, Mr. PINCHER, how do--how do? Haven't seen
you for an age.
_Mr. Pincher_. Good day, Mr. SCROOP. I heard you wanted to see me,
and, as I've a _very_ cheap line in your way, I thought, as I was
passing, I'd venture to look in.
_H. of D._ Quite right, PINCHER. What's the figure, my boy?
_Pincher_ (_slily_). A shade lower than the lowest you've been giving.
Is that good enough?
_H. of D._ Well--ahem!--yes--of course, if the _quality_ is right.
_Pincher_. O.K., I assure you, Sir!
_H. of D._ Well, we're quoted as low as forty-five. If you can beat
that, I think I can place the order with you.
_Pincher_ (_aside_). Liar! Even poor PUDDICOMBE wouldn't go under
fifty. However, here goes! (_Aloud._) Will five off meet your views?
_H. of D._ Say seven and a half, and I'm on.
_Pincher_. Done with you, Sir. (_Aside._) With what he'll want for
himself, there's "nothing in it!"--_this_ time.
_H. of D._ Well--subject, of course, to our Principal's approval, I
think I may say the line is yours, PINCHER. (_Aside._) Don't know
how the doose he does it! Well, that's none o' my business. Won't old
SKINFLINT be pleased? Must try and spring him for a holiday, on the
strength of it.
_Pincher_. Thanks--many thanks. (_Books it._) Hope we shall do
more business together,--to our mutual advantage. By the way, Mr.
SCROOP--(_in a low voice_)--if there _is_ any little thing I can put
in your way, you know, I, er--er!--
_H. of D._ Oh, don't mention it, PINCHER. Give me a look up on Tuesday
evening, at home. You know my little place at Peckham. My good lady'll
give you a little music.
_Pincher_. Ah, I've a good deal of influence in that line. Now, if
there's anything Mrs. SCROOP might fancy--I know "perks" are not in
_your_ line, but the ladies, my boy, the ladies!
_H. of D._ (_laughing_). You will have your joke, PINCHER. Well,
oddly enough, the Missis was only saying last night she wanted a new
piano--one of BROADWOOD's grands, for choice--and if you--
_Pincher_ (_mysteriously_). Leave it to me, my dear Sir, leave it to
me. If Mrs. SCROOP isn't satisfied by this day week, why--never give
me another line. Ha! ha! _Good_ day, Mr. SCROOP!
[_Exit, chuckling_.
* * * * *
ROBERT'S RETURN TO THE CITY.
I've bin jolly cumferal lately at the Grand Hotel, as ewerybody in fac
seems to be, for they cums in a smilin with hope, and gos away smilin
with satisfacshun, and with the thorow conwicshun of soom cumming
again, and sum on 'em says to me, says they, "Oh rewor! Mr. ROBERT!"
and others says, "Oh Plezzeer! Mr. ROBERT!" which both means, as my
yung French frend tells me, "Here's to our nex merry meeting!" but
that sounds more like a parting Toast with a bumper of good old Port
to drink it in, but I dezzay as he's right. But larst week I receeves
a most prumptery order from the LORD MARE, "to cum back to the City,
if it were ony for a week." So in coarse back I cums, and a grand
sort of a week we has all had on it! I shall fust begin with a reglar
staggerer of a dinner at the Manshun House on Munday, given, as I was
told, to all the Horthers and Hartists of Urope, who had jest bin a
holding of a Meeting to let ewerybody kno as how as they ment for to
have their rites in their hone ritings and picters, or they woodn't
rite no more, nor paint no more!
[Illustration]
My prefound estonishment may be more heasily described than conseeved
when I says as they was amost all Forreners of warious countries! so
that when I handed anythink werry speshal to sum on 'em they would
shake their heds and say, "No mercy!" or "Nine darnker!" as the case
mite be.
Well, so much for Monday. On Toosday I spent nearly the hole day at
Gildhall in surveyin, and criticisin, hay, and in one case, acshally
_tasting_ the wundrus collecshun of all kinds and condishuns of Frute
that the hole Country can perduce, that had been colleckted there!
I wunders how many of the tens of thousands who came to Gildhall to
see the temting sight, can say the same. But ewery wise perducer of
heatables or drinkables allus tries to captiwate the good opinyon of a
Hed Waiter. The hidear jest ocurs to my mind to ask at about what part
of the next Sentry the County Counsil will be a dewoting of their time
and money to a similar usefool purpuss! And hecco answers, Wen! The
uniwersal werdick of heverybody as was there agreed in saying, that
nothink like it in buty, and wariety, and size, wasn't never seen
nowheres before. And then came the werry natural enquiry, what on
airth's a going to be done with it all? And then came the equally
nateral answer, "The Fruiterers' Company is a going to send all the
werry best of it to the LORD MARE?" And then, "Hey, Presto!" as the
cunjurer says, and on Wensday evening there it was on the table at
another Grand Bankwet at the Manshun House, and quite a number of the
Fruiterers' Company a sitting a smiling at the LORD MARE's horspitable
table, and the werry head on 'em all, Sir JAMES WHITEHEAD, giving the
distingwished compny sitch a delightful acount of what they had bin
and gone and done, and was a going to do, as made ewerybody rejoice to
think that we had such a nobel Company as the Fruiterers' Company, and
such a prince of Masters to govern 'em. And I feels bound in honor to
say, that the black grapes was about the werry finest as ewer I ewer
tasted. ROBERT.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SHIELD AND THE SHADOW.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE VICTIMS OF HIGH SPEED.
THE DREAM OF AN ANXIOUS CAPTAIN AFTER TEARING ACROSS THE
FISHING-GROUNDS OF NEWFOUNDLAND.]
* * * * *
THE SHIELD AND THE SHADOW.
["Before the 'silent millions' who make up the rank and file
of Hindoos discard the cruelties of their marriage system,
their opinions, prejudices, and habits of thought must change.
Nothing is more certain than that they will change slowly; but
we hold to the belief that judicious legislation will hasten
the process more powerfully than anything else."--_The "Times"
on Child-Marriage and Enforced Widowhood in India_.]
Yes, compassion is due to thee, India's young daughter;
The sound of thy sorrow, thy plaint of despair
Have reached English ears o'er the wide westward water,
And sympathy stirred, seldom slumbering there.
Child-Wife, or Child-Widow, in agony kneeling
And clasping the skirts of the armed Island Queen,
Her heart is not cold to thine urgent appealing;
Considerate care in her glances is seen.
Not hot as the urgings of zealotry heady
The action of her who's protectrice and guide.
Her stroke must be measured, her sympathy steady,
Whose burden's as great as her power is wide.
She stands, AEgis-armed, looked forth calm, reflective,
Across the wide stretches of old Hindostan.
The plains now subdued to her power protective,
Saw politic AKBAR and sage SHAH JEHAN.
If AKBAR was pitiful, Islam's great sworder,
Shall she of the AEgis be less so than he?
The marriage of widows he sanctioned, his order
Three centuries since laid the ban on Suttee.
And she, his successor, has rescued already
The widow from fire, and the child from the flood;
For mercy's her impulse, her policy steady
Opposes the creed-thralls whose chrism is blood.
And now the appeal of the Child-Widow reaches
The ears ever open to misery's plaint.
She _thinks_--for the sway of long centuries teaches
That zeal should not hasten, and patience not faint.
The child kneeling there at her skirts is the creature
Of tyrannous ages of creed and of caste;
She bears, helpless prey of the priest, on each feature.
The pitiful brand of a pitiless past.
Long-wrought, closely knit, subtly swaying, deep-rooted,
The system whose shadow is over the child;
By grey superstition debased and imbruted,
By craft's callous cruelty deeply defiled.
But long-swaying custom hath far-reaching issues,
The hand that assails it doth ill to show haste.
The knife that would search poor humanity's tissues,
Hath healing for object, not ravage or waste.
Not coldness, but coolness, sound policy pleads for,
But, subject to that, human sympathies yearn
To aid the child-victim the woman's heart bleeds for,
For whom a man's breast with compassion must burn.
Poor child! The dark shadow that closely pursues her
Means menacing Terror; she sues for a shield,
And how shall the strong AEgis-bearer refuse her?
The bondage of caste to calm justice must yield.
We dare not be deaf to the voice of the pleader
For freedom and purity, nature and right;
Let Wisdom, high-throned as controller and leader,
Meet cruelty's steel with the shield of calm might!
* * * * *
MY MOTHER BIDS ME DYE MY HAIR.
[Auburn is said to be the present fashionable colour in hair.]
[Illustration: The Hazard of the Dye.]
My Mother bids me dye my hair
A lovely auburn hue,
She says I ought to be aware
It's quite the thing to do.
"Why sit," she cries, "without a smile,
Whilst others dance instead?"
Alas! no partners ask me while
My tresses are not red.
When no one else at all is near,
And I am quite alone,
I sadly shed a bitter tear
To think the Season's gone.
But when the time again draws nigh,
The time when maidens wed,
I'm quite resolved to "do _and_ dye"--
My tresses _shall_ be red!
* * * * *
TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.
_BEING A FEW NOTES TAKEN EN ROUTE IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT CURE._
I don't exactly know how I got mixed up with it, but I found myself
somehow "fixed," as our American cousins would say, to join a party
who were going to see Old JEPHSON (the Q.C.), who had broken "down,"
or broken "up," or had gone through some mental and physical smashing
process or other, that necessitated an immediate recourse to mountain
air,--to where he could get it of the right sort and quality with
as little strain or tax on his somewhat shattered nerves as might be
compatible with a dash into the heart of Switzerland at the fag-end
of the swarming tourists' season. "Murren will be too high for him:
distinctly too high for him," thoughtfully observed the distinguished
specialist who had been called in, and had at once prescribed the
"air tonic" in question; "and the Burgenstock would be too low. His
condition requires an elevation of about 3500 feet. Let me see.
Ha! Engelberg is the place for him. My dear lady," he continued,
addressing Mrs. JEPHSON, who had already imbibed the theory that
every altitude, from Primrose Hill to Mont Blanc, suited its special
ailment, the only thing necessary being to hit on the right one, "My
dear lady, get your good husband to Engelberg at once. Write to HERR
CATTANI, Hotel Titlis, Engelberg, Unterwalden, asking what day he can
receive you (use my name), and then, as soon as you can possibly get
off, start. I can promise you it will do wonders for our patient."
[Illustration: Lit de Luxe!]
So, in about five days, we found ourselves, a party of six (including
young JERRYMAN, who said that, though he saw no difference between
Lucerne and Bayswater, except that Bayswater was a "howling
site bigger," he would come, "if only for the lark of seeing the
dilapidated old boy" (his way of referring to his invalid Q.C.
Uncle) "shovelled about the Bernese Oberland like a seedy Guy
Faux,") crossing the silver streak on that valued, steady-going,
and excellently well-found Channel friend, the _Calais-Douvres_. Of
course we made a fresh friend for life on board--one always does. We
counted up fifty-seven fresh friends for life we had made, one way
and another, on our way, before we got home again. This was a Dr.
MELCHISIDEC, who at once yielded his folding-chair to the Dilapidated
One, and, finding himself bound also for Engelberg, attached himself
as a sort of General-Director and Personal Conductor to our party.
"Had we got our tickets through COOK, and asked him to secure our
places in the train?" he inquired. "We had." "Ha! then it would be
all right." And it was. On our arriving at Calais, no crush, or
excitement, and fighting for places. We were met by three courteous,
military-looking officials, who talked four languages between them,
and ushered us to our "reserved" places. Royalty could not have fared
better. "You're all right with COOK," observed Dr. MELCHISIDEC. "He's
got a man everywhere; and, if there's any hitch, you've only got
to call him in. A clear case of too many Cooks _not_ spoiling the
broth." And so we found it. I had always hitherto considered Cook's
Excursionists as rather a comic institution, and as something to be
laughed at. Nothing of the sort. "Blessed be COOK!" say I. All I
know is, that we found his name a perfect tower of strength along
the entire route we traversed.
And now we were whirling along towards Basle in the rather stuffy
splendours provided for us by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons
Lits, that reminded one, as much as anything of being fixed into
one's allotted place in a sort of gigantic Gladstone Bag--an illusion
assisted, no doubt, by the prominence of a deal of silver-plated
fittings, in the shape of knobs and door-handles, all somewhat
tarnished and dusty. True, the compartment, which gave on to a
corridor running the whole length of the carriage, was provided with
a table, an inkstand, a large pan for cigar-ash, and a colossal
spittoon; but as one had no immediate need of any of these things,
and they filled up the already sufficiently limited space, one was
strongly disposed, but for the presence of the military official of
the Wagons Lits who paced the corridor before alluded to, to pitch
them all out of the window then and there. But it was drawing on
towards seven o'clock, and the question of feeding naturally came to
the fore. How was the Dilapidated One to get his meal at Tergnier,
the place where the military official informed us we should find "an
excellent repast, 'ot, and ready, with plenty of time to dispose of
'im with every facility," waiting for us.
[Illustration: "C'est tout, Monsieur?"]
Young JERRYMAN suggested the luncheon-basket, which he saw an American
get through the other day, containing two pork sandwiches, nine
inches long; half a fowl, a couple of rolls, three peaches, a bunch
of grapes, a jam-tart, and a bottle of wine; but Dr. MELCHISIDEC put
his veto on this, and, looking at the Dilapidated One critically, as
if he was wondering how much he weighed, if it came to carrying him,
came in with a judicial "No! no! I think we can manage to get him to
the Buffet," which settled the matter; and with the announcement that
we had all of us "_vingt-trois minutes d'arret_," we found ourselves
stepping across the growing dusk of the platform, into the cheerful
and brightly-lighted Station _Restaurant_, where a capital and
comfortable meal, excellently served, was awaiting us. And, O ye
shades of Rugby, Swindon, Crewe, Grantham, and I know not what other
British Railway feeding centres, at which I have been harassed,
scalded, and finally hurried away unfed, would that you could take a
lesson from the admirable management, consideration for the digestion
of the hungry passengers, and general all-round thoughtfulness that
characterises the taking of that meal "_de voyage_" at Tergnier.
[Illustration: Nach Engelberg!
* To be continued till further notice.]
To begin with, you have about finished your soup, when a station
official appears at the door and informs all the feeding passengers
in an assuring and encouraging voice that they have "_encore dix-huit
minutes_"--as much as to say, "Pray, my dear Monsieur, or Madame,
as the case may be, do not hurry over that capital portion of _boeuf
braise a l'Imperiale_, but enjoy its full flavour at your perfect
leisure. There is not, pray believe me, the remotest occasion for any
excitement or hurry." A little later on, in your repast, when you are
just, perhaps, beginning to wonder whether you oughtn't to be thinking
about returning to the train, the good fairy official again appears at
the door, this time announcing that you have "_encore douze minutes_"
in the same encouraging tones, that seem to say, "Now, I beg you will
quite finish that excellent '_poulet_' and '_salade_.' Believe me, you
have ample time. Trust to me. I charge myself with the responsibility
of seeing that you catch your train calmly and comfortably;" which he
certainly does, looking in again as Madame comes round, and you pay
her her modest demand of three francs fifty for her excellently-cooked
and well-served repast (_vin compris_), with the final announcement
of, "_Maintenant en voiture, Mesdames et Messieurs_," that find you
comfortably seated in your place again, with three minutes to spare
before the departure of the train. But perhaps the best testimony to
the excellence of the management may be found in the fact that the
Dilapidated One was not only got out, but well fed, and put back in
his place, with a whole minute to spare, without any excitement,
or more than the usual expenditure of nerve-force required for the
undertaking.
"I will, when Monsieur desires it, make up the bed for 'im,"
volunteers the military officer, towards eleven o'clock; and, as
there isn't much going on, we say, "All right--we'll have it now;"
and we disport ourselves in the corridor, while he works a sort of
transformation in our Gladstone Bag compartment, which seems greatly
to diminish its "containing" capacity. Indeed, if it were not for the
floor, the ceiling, and the walls, one would hardly know where to stow
one's packages. _Le train de Luxe_ I know has come in, of late, for
some abuse, and some grumblers have made a dead set at it. I don't
know what their experience of a _lit de luxe_ may have been, but,
if it was anything like mine, they must have experienced a general
feeling of wanting about a foot more room every way, coupled with a
strong and morbid inclination to kick off roof, sides, back, and, in
fact, everything, so as, somehow, to secure it.
However, the night passed, the unceasing rattle of the train being
occasionally changed for the momentary dead stillness, when it
stopped, as it did now and then, at some small place on the way, for
apparently no better reason than that of pulling the station-master
out of bed to report it. Practically I was undisturbed, except at,
I think, a place called _Delle_, where, in the very small hours of
the morning, a gentleman opened the door of my bedroom _de Luxe_,
and asked me in a voice, in which melancholy and sleep seemed to be
struggling for the mastery, whether "I had any declaration I wished to
make to the Swiss _Douanes_," and on my assuring him that I had "none
whatever," he sadly and silently withdrew.
Nothing further till Basle, where we halted at 6 A.M. for breakfast
and a change of trains, and where I was much impressed with the
carrying power of the local porter, whom I met loaded with the
Dilapidated One's effects, apparently surprised that that "was all" he
was expected to take charge of. Lucerne in a blaze of stifling heat,
with struggling Yankee and British tourists being turned away from
the doors of all the hotels, so we were glad to get our telegram from
Herr CATTANI announcing that he was able to offer us rooms that he
had "disponible;" and at 3 P.M. we commenced our carriage-drive to
Engelberg. Towards five we quitted the plain and began the ascent.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
A promising series, so far, is this re-issue by Messrs. CHATTO
AND WINDUS of "_The Barber's Chair, Etc._," by DOUGLAS JERROLD;
"_Gulliver's Travels_, by DEAN SWIFT, _Etc._;" and SHERIDAN's Plays.
"Etc.," in both the first-mentioned books, forms a considerable
portion of each volume. "Etc.," in the first includes the _Hedgehog
Letters_, which are very Jerroldian; and in the second it means the
immortal _Tale of a Tub_, the _Battle of the Books_, and a fragment
from the Dean's correspondence.
[Illustration: Bound in Boards.]
The Baron begs to return thanks for an odd volume, one of privately
printed _opuscula_ of "_The Sette of Odd Volumes_," which has been
presented to him by the Author, Mr. WALTER HAMILTON, F.R.G.S.,
and F.R.H.S., who has the honour of filling the important post of
"Parodist" in the above-mentioned society or "Sette." This little odd
volume epitomises the Drama of England within the last three centuries
in most interesting fashion, without losing a single important point.
Why it should have fallen to the lot of the "Parodist to the Sette"
to do this, is only explained by the Sette being made up of Odd, very
odd, Volumes. What are their rules? Do they go "odd man out" to decide
who shall pay for the banquet? Must they dine in the daytime, because,
being an odd lot, they cannot sit down to dinner at eventide?
A list of the Odd members is given in the little book; but who cares
what, or who, the Odds are, as long as they each and all are happy?
'Tis a pity that, in this _multum in parvo_ of a book, the author
should have spoken disparagingly of "Glorious JOHN." It would be worth
while to refer to MACAULAY's _Dramatists of the Restoration_, and to
compare the licence of that age with that of SHAKSPEARE's time, when
a Virgin Queen, and not a Merry Monarch, was on the throne. And, when
we come to SHERIDAN's time, how about _The Duenna_, and _The Trip to
Scarborough_, which was supposed to be an improvement on the original?
However, _puris pura puerisque puellis_, as my excellent friend, Miss
MAXIMA DE BETUR observes. But one ought not to look a gift pony in the
mouth any more than one ought to critically examine a jest which is
passed off in good company. The jest was not meant to be criticised,
and the pony wasn't given you in order that you might critically
express an opinion on its age. If a pony--a very quiet, steady grey
pony--were presented as a mark of affection and esteem to the Baron,
he most certainly would _not_ inspect its mouth, seeing that he would
not be a tooth the wiser for the operation; but, if the Baron had
a friendly vet. or a hipposcientist at hand, he would certainly ask
_him_ to examine the gift cob before the Baron either drove or rode
him.