Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, November 15, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, November 15, 1890
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 99.
NOVEMBER 15, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. VI.--THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING.
(_By_ J. MUIR KIRRIE, _Author of "A Door on Thumbs," "Eight Bald
Fiddlers" "When a Man Sees Double," "My Gentleman Meerschaum," &c._
[With this story came a glossary of Scotch expressions. We
have referred to it as we went along, and found everything
quite intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish
the glossary, we can only appeal to the indulgence of our
readers. The story itself was written in a very clear,
legible hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper labelled, "Arcadia
Mixture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in Six-shilling
cases. Special terms for Southrons. Liberal allowance for
returned empties."]
CHAPTER I.
We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T'NOWHEAD'S Farm. A pig-sty
is not, perhaps, a strictly eligible seat, but there were special
reasons, of which you shall hear something later, for sitting on this
particular pig-sty.
The old sow was within, extended at full length. Occasionally she
grunted approval of what was said, but, beyond that, she seemed to
show but a faint interest in the proceedings. She had been a witness
of similar gatherings for some years, and, to tell the truth, they had
begun to bore her, but, on the whole, I am not prepared to deny that
her appreciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was the brae. Ah,
that brae! Do you remember how the child you once were sat in
the brae, spinning the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I
droppit-it? Do you remember that? Do you even know what I mean? Life
is like that. When we are children the bread is thick, and the butter
is thin; as we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwindles, and
the butter increases; but the old men and women who totter about the
commonty, how shall they munch when their teeth are gone? That's the
question. I'm a Dominie. What!--no answer? Go to the bottom of the
class, all of you.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
As I said, we were all on the pig-sty. Of the _habitues_ I scarcely
need to speak to you, since you must know their names, even if
you fail to pronounce them. But there was a stranger amongst us, a
stranger who, it was said, had come from London. Yesterday when I
went ben the house I found him sitting with JESS; to-day, he too, was
sitting with us on the pig-sty. There were tales told about him, that
he wrote for papers in London, and stuffed his vases and his pillows
with money, but TAMMAS HAGGART only shook his head at what he called
"such auld fowks' yeppins," and evidently didn't believe a single
word. Now TAMMAS, you must know, was our humorist. It was not without
difficulty that TAMMAS had attained to this position, and he was
resolved to keep it. Possibly he scented in the stranger a rival
humorist whom he would have to crush. At any rate, his greeting was
not marked with the usual genial cordiality characteristic of Scotch
weavers, and many were the anxious looks exchanged amongst us, as we
watched the preparations for the impending conflict.
CHAPTER III.
After TAMMAS had finished boring half-a-dozen holes in the old sow
with his sarcastic eye, he looked up, and addressed HENDRY MCQUMPHA.
"HENDRY," he said, "ye ken I'm a humorist, div ye no?"
HENDRY scratched the old sow meditatively, before he answered.
"Ou ay," he said, at length. "I'm no saying 'at ye're no a humorist.
I ken fine ye're a sarcesticist, but there's other humorists in the
world, am thinkin."
This was scarcely what TAMMAS had expected. HENDRY was usually one of
his most devoted admirers. There was an awkward silence which made me
feel uncomfortable. I am only a poor Dominie, but some of my happiest
hours had been passed on the pig-sty. Were these merry meetings to
come to an end? PETE took up the talking.
"HENDRY, my man," he observed, as he helped himself out of TAMMAS'S
snuff-mull, "ye're ower kyow-owy. Ye ken humour's a thing 'at spouts
out o' its ain accord, an' there's no nae spouter in Thrums 'at can
match wi' TAMMAS."
He looked defiantly at HENDRY, who was engaged in searching for
coppers in his north-east-by-east-trouser pocket. T'NOWHEAD said
nothing, and HOOKEY was similarly occupied. At last, the stranger
spoke.
"Gentlemen," he began, "may I say a word? I may lay claim to some
experience in the matter. I travel in humour, and generally manage to
do a large business."
He looked round interrogatively. TAMMAS eyed him with one of his keen
glances. Then he worked his mouth round and round to clear the course
for a sarcasm.
"So you're the puir crittur," said the stone-breaker, "'at's meanin'
to be a humorist."
This was the challenge. We all knew what it meant, and fixed our eyes
on the stranger.
"Certainly," was his answer; "that is exactly my meaning. I trust I
make myself plain, I'm willing to meet any man at catch-weights.
Now here, he continued," are some of my samples. This story about a
house-boat, for instance, has been much appreciated. It's almost
in the style of Mr. JEROME'S masterpiece; or this screamer about my
wife's tobacco-pipe and the smoking mixture. "Observe," he went on,
holding the sample near to his mouth, "I can expand it to any extent.
Puff, puff! Ah! it has burst. No matter, these accidents sometimes
happen to the best regulated humorists. Now, just look at these," he
produced half-a-dozen packets rapidly from his bundle. "Here we have
a packet of sarcasm--equal to dynamite. I left it on the steps of
the Savile Club, but it missed fire somehow. Then here are some
particularly neat things in cheques. I use them myself to paper my
bedroom. It's simpler and easier than cashing them, and besides,"
adjusting his mouth to his sleeve, and laughing, "it's quite killing
when you come to think of it in that way. Lastly, there's this
banking-account sample, thoroughly suitable for journalists and
children. You see how it's done. I open it, you draw on it. Oh, you
don't want a drawing-master, any fellow can do it, and the point is it
never varies. Now," he concluded, aggressively, "what have you got to
set against that, my friend?"
We all looked at TAMMAS. HENDRY kicked the pail towards him, and
he put his foot on it. Thus we knew that HEHDRY had returned to his
ancient allegiance, and that the stranger would be crushed. Then
TAMMAS began--
"Man, man, there's no nae doubt at ye lauoh at havers, an' there's
mony 'at lauchs 'at your clipper-clapper, but they're no Thrums fowk,
and they canna' lauch richt. But we maun juist settle this matter.
When we're ta'en up wi' the makkin' o' humour, we're a' dependent on
other fowk to tak' note o' the humour. There's no nane o' us 'at's
lauched at anything you've telt us. But they'll lauch at me. Noo
then," he roared out, "'A pie sat on a pear-tree.'"
We all knew this song of TAMMAS'S. A shout of laughter went up from
the whole gathering. The stranger fell backwards into the sty a
senseless mass.
"Man, man," said HOOKEY to TAMMAS, as we walked home; "what a crittur
ye are! What pit that in your heed?"
"It juist took a grip o' me," replied TAMMAS, without moving a muscle;
"it flashed upon me 'at he'd no stand that auld song. That's where the
humour o' it comes in."
"Ou, ay," added HENDRY, "Thrums is the place for rale humour." On the
whole, I agree with him.
* * * * *
SUGGESTIVE.--_My Musical Experiences_, by BETTINA WALKER, will
probably be followed by _My Eye_, by BETTINA MARTIN.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE YOUNG SPARK AND THE OLD FLAME.]
_Young Spark_. "TRY ME! YOU'VE TOLERATED THAT FUSTY OLD FOGEY LONG
ENOUGH!"
_Old Flame (aside)_. "FLASHY YOUNG UPSTART!"]
["It is obvious that small tunnels for single lines, of the
usual standard gauge, may be constructed some distance below
the ground, and yet the atmosphere of such tunnels be as pure
as upon a railway on the surface."--_Illustrated London News,
on the City & South London Electric Company_.]
"_Young Spark_" _loquitur_:--
Your arm, my dear Madam! _This_ way, down the lift, Ma'am!
No danger at all, no discomfort, no dirt!
You love Sweetness and Light? They are both in my gift, Ma'am;
I'll prove like a shot what I boldly assert.
Don't heed your Old Flame, Ma'am, he's bitterly jealous,
'Tis natural, quite, with his nose out of joint;
You just let him bluster and blow like old bellows,
And try _me_ instead--_I_ will not disappoint!
Old Flame? He's a very fuliginous "Flame," Ma'am;
I wonder, I'm sure, how you've stood him so long;
He has choked you for years--'tis a thundering shame, Ma'am!
High time the Young Spark put a term to his wrong.
Just look at me! Am I not trim, smart, and sparkling,
As clean as a pin, and as bright as a star?
Compare me with him, who stands scowling and darkling!
So gazed the old gallant on Young LOCHINVAR.
He's ugly and huffy, and smoky, and stuffy,
And pokey, and chokey, and black as my hat.
As wooer he's dull, for his breath smells of sulphur;
Asphyxia incarnate, and horrid at that!
You _cannot_ see beauty in one who's so sooty,
So dusty, and dingy, and dismal, and dark.
He's feeble and footy; 'tis plainly your duty
To "chuck" the Old Flame, and take on the Young Spark.
A Cyclops for lover, no doubt you discover,
My dear Lady LONDON, is not _comme il faut_;
If I do not woo you the sunny earth over.
At least I lend light to love-making below.
He's just like old Pluto, Persephone's prigger;
_You_'ll follow Apollo the Younger--that's me!
He's sombre as Styx, and as black as a nigger.
_His_ lady-love, LONDON! Bah! Fiddle-de-dee!
His murky monopoly, Madam, is ended.
Come down, my dear love, to my subterrene hall!
I think you'll admit it is sparkling and splendid,
As clean as a palace, not black as a pall.
Electrical traction with sheer stupefaction
Strikes Steam, the old buffer, and spoils his small game.
You're off with the old Love, so try the new bold Love,
And let the Young Spark supersede the Old Flame.
[_Carries her off in triumph._
* * * * *
PARS ABOUT PICTURES.
Close upon a hundred years ago, when GEORGE THE THIRD was King,
MENDOZA opened a saloon in the Strand, whereat various studies in
Black and Blue might be enjoyed. To-day MENDOZA has a gallery in King
Street, which is devoted to studies in Black and White. You may say,
history repeats itself. Nothing of the kind. The gentleman of GEORGE
THE THIRD'S time devoted himself to the pugilistic art; the gentleman
of the time of VICTORIA gives his attention to graphic art. The one
was the patron of fists, the other of fingers--that makes all the
difference. MENDOZA the Past, closed eyes--MENDOZA the Present opens
them, and, if you go to the St. James's Gallery, you will find a
pleasant collection of Eye Art--open to all peepers. It is true it may
not be High Art, but you will find it, like Epps's Cocoa, "grateful
and comforting."
Mr. MCLEAN, who has had an Art-show in the Haymarket since the days
of GEORGE THE THIRD, or rather his ancestor had, is "quite up to time,
and smiling," with his present collection (your Old PAR can't help
using the argot of the P.R., and brings COLE, not to Newcastle, but to
the Haymarket, in "_A Bend in the River, near Maple Durham_." He shows
us the views of BURTON BARBER on "_Compulsory Education_," also a
wondrous picture of the "_Gate of the Great Mosque of Damascus_," by
BAUERNFEIND, "_A Venetian Brunette_," by FILDES, and many other works
that will well repay inspection, but of which there is no space for
anything more to be said by yours par-enthetically,
OLD PAR.
* * * * *
THE GENTLE ART (OF SNIGGLING).
["Whoever walks beside the river (the Ettrick), will observe
five or six or more men and boys, equipped with gigantic
wading-breeches, busy in each pool. They are only armed with
rods and flies, and thus have a false appearance of being
fair fishers.... The truth is that the apparent sportsmen are
snigglers, not anglers. They drive the top part of their rods
deep into the water, so as to rake the bottom, and then bring
the hook out with a jerk. Every now and then ... one of
the persecuted fishes ... is hauled out with short
shrift."--_Daily News._]
Oh! the world's very bad, and our hearts they are sore
As we think of the errors and wrongs we have got to
Endure uncomplaining, and oh! we deplore
The things people do, that they really ought not to!
With Courtesy dead, and with Justice "a-bed,"
When the mention of Love only causes a giggle,--
But we'd manage to live and still hold up our head,
Were it not for the villain who ventures to sniggle.
With his rod and his hook see him carefully rake
The bed of the river, and gallantly wading,
Arrayed in his breeches, endeavour to make
Of genuine sport but a mere masquerading.
You might think him a fool for his trouble--but look!
(And it's true, though at first it appears to be gammon)
With a horrible jerk, as he pulls up his hook,
The sportsmanlike sniggler has landed a salmon!
As a nation of sportsmen, it rouses our ire
To hear of sport ruined by such a proceeding;
And to snigglers we earnestly wish and desire
To give the advice they so sadly seem needing.
Let them think, as they work their inglorious plan,
How old IZAAK must turn in his grave and must wriggle;
And may they in future all see if they can,
By learning to angle, forget how to sniggle!
* * * * *
IN OUR GARDEN.
[Illustration]
Discovered on returning home that the Member for SARK had not at
all exaggerated the facts picturing disaster to our onion-bed. This
portion of the garden had been disappointing from the first. Early
in the Spring, when hope beat high, and the young gardener's fancy
lightly turned to thoughts of large crops, SARK and I were resting
after a frugal luncheon, when ARPACHSHAD suddenly appeared at the open
window. I knew from his beaming face that something was wrong.
Perhaps I should explain that ARPACHSHAD is our head gardener. We have
no other, therefore he is the head. Out of the garden he is known as
PETER WALLOPS. It was SARK who insisted upon calling him ARPACHSHAD.
SARK had noticed that about the time of the Flood there was singular
deliberation in entering upon the marriage state. Matrimony did not
seem to be thought of till a man had turned the corner of a century.
SHEM, himself, for example, was fully a hundred before his third
son, ARPACHSHAD, was born. But ARPACHSHAD was already a husband and a
father at thirty-five.
"That," said SARK, "is a remarkable circumstance that has escaped
the notice of the commentators. It indicates unusual forwardness
of character and a habit of swift decision. We hear nothing more of
ARPACHSHAD, but we may be sure he made things move. Now what we want
in this garden is a brisk man, a fellow always up to date, if not
ahead of it. Let us encourage WALLOPS by calling him ARPACHSHAD."
WALLOPS on being consulted said, he thought it ought to be a matter of
another two shillings a-week in his wages; to which I demurred, and it
was finally compromised on the basis of a rise of a shilling a-week.
As far as I have observed, SARK'S device, like many others he has put
forward, has nothing in it. WALLOPS couldn't be slower in going round
than is ARPACHSHAD. The only time he ever displays any animation is
when he discovers some fresh disaster. When things are going well
(which isn't often) he is gloomy and apprehensive of an early change
for the worse. When the worst comes he positively beams over it.
Difficult to say whether he enjoys himself more in an over-wet season,
or in one of drought. His special and ever-recurring joy is the
discovery of some insect breaking out in a fresh place. He is always
on the look-out for the Mottled Amber Moth, or the Frit-fly, or
the Currant Scale, or the Apple-bark Beetle, or the Mustard
Beetle,--"Black Jack," as he familiarly calls him. To see, as is
not unfrequent, a promising apple-tree, cherry-tree, or damson-tree,
fading under the attack of the caterpillars of the Winter Moth, makes
ARPACHSHAD a new man. His back unbends, his wrinkles smooth out, the
gleam of faded youth reillumines his countenance, and his eyes melt in
softer glance.
"The flies hev got at them honions," he said, on this Spring
afternoon. "I thought they would, and I reckon they're done for. Ever
seen a honion-fly, Sir? A nice, lively, busy-looking thing; pretty
reddish-grey coat, with a whitish face, and pale grey wings.
About this time of the year it lays its eggs on the sheath of the
onion-leaf, and within a week you've got the larvey burrowing down
into the bulb; after which, there's hardly any hope for your honion."
"Can nothing be done to save them?" SARK asked. As far me, I was too
down-hearted to speak.
"Well," said ARPACHSHAD, ruefully, not liking the prospect of
interfering with beneficent Nature, "if you was to get a bag of soot,
wait about till a shower was a coming on, carefully sprinkle the
plant, and let the soot wash in, _that_ might save a few here and
there. Or if you were to get a can of paraffin, and syringe them,
it would make the fly sit up. But I don't know as how it's worth the
trouble. Nater will have its way, and, if the fly wants the honion,
who are we that we should say it nay? I think, TOBY, M.P., if I was
you, I'd let things take their swing. It's a terrible thing to go a
interfering with Nater."
But we didn't follow ARPACHSHAD'S advice. Having undertaken to run
this garden, we were determined to do it thoroughly; so I got SARK to
sweep out the flues of the furnace in the greenhouse, in the course of
which he broke several panes of glass, not expecting, so he explained,
to find the handle of his brush so near the roof. We half filled a
sack with soot, and carried it to the onion-bed. Then we waited for
a wet day, usually plentiful enough in haymaking time, now long
deferred. ARPACHSHAD insisted that we were to make quite sure that
rain was coming--then sprinkle the soot over the unsuspectiong onion.
"We waited just too long, not starting till the rain began to fall.
Found it exceedingly unpleasant handling the soot under conditions of
moisture. But, as SARK said, having put our hands to the soot-bag,
we were not going to turn back. Nor did we till we had completed the
task, ARPACHSHAD looking on, cheered only by the hope that the heavy
rain would wash the soot off before it could have any effect on
the fly. On the whole, the task proved productive of reward. Either
ARPACHSHAD had been mistaken, and the crop had not been attacked by
the fly, or the soot had done its work. Anyhow, the bed bloomed
and blossomed, and, at the time I left for Midlothian, was looking
exceedingly well. Then came SARK'S telegram, as described in the last
chapter. After the fly came the mildew. Close on the heels, or
rather the wings, of the _Anthomyia Ceparum_, fell the _Peronospora
Schleideniana._
"It isn't often it happens," said ARPACHSHAD, rubbing his hands
gleefully;--"but, when you get one on the top of t'other, you don't
look for much crop in that particular year."
* * * * *
HOW IT'S DONE.
_A Hand-book to Honesty._
NO. V.--MONEY LENT (ONE WAY AMONG MANY.)
SCENE I.--_Apartment of innocent but temporarily impecunious person._
I.P. _discovered reading advertisements and correspondence._
[Illustration]
_Impecunious Person_. Humph! It _sounds_ all right. I _have_ heard
that these Loan-mongers are sometimes scoundrels and sharks. But
this one is surely genuine. There is a manly frankness, a sort of
considerate and sympathetic delicacy about him, that quite appeals to
one. No inquiry fees, no publicity, no delay! Just what I want. Has
clients, men of capital, but _not_ speculators, who wish to invest
money on sound security at reasonable interest. Just so! Note of hand
of any respectable person sufficient. _That_'s all right. Advance at
a few hours' notice. Excellent! Let me see, the address is Fitz-Guelph
Mansions, W. That sounds respectable enough. A penniless shark would
hardly live _there_. By Jove, I'll write, and make an appointment _at
his own address_, as he suggests.
[_Does so, hopefully_.
SCENE II.--_Fitz-Guelph Mansions, W., at_ 11 A.M. _Enter_ Impecunious
Person, _hurriedly_.
_Impecunious Person_. Ah! I'm a little bit late, but here's the place
sure enough, and that's the number. Fine house, too. Nothing sharkish
about _this_, anyhow.
[_Makes for No. 14, consulting his watch. On door-step encounters
another person, also apparently in a hurry, and also consulting his
watch. This person is perhaps a trifle shabby-genteel in attire, but
genially pompous and semi-military in bearing. He makes as if to go,
but stopping suddenly, stares at_ I.P., _and addresses him._--
Ahem! I--a--beg pardon, I'm sure, but have you by any chance an
appointment for 11 A.M. at this address, with a Mr. MUGSNAP?
_I.P_. Why--a--yes, as a matter of fact, I have.
_Mr. Mugsnap_. Quite so. And your name is SOFTSHELL?
_I.P_. Well--yes, as a matter of fact, it is.
_Mr. Mugsnap (cheerily_). Ah! that's all right. Well met, Mr.
SOFTSHELL! (_Produces letter_.) This is yours, I fancy. The time was
eleven sharp, and you're just seven minutes and a quarter behind. I
was just off, for if I gave all my clients seven minutes and a quarter
grace, I should lose about four hours a day, Sir. (_Laughs jovially_.)
But no matter! Just step this way. (_Produces latch-key_.) But no, on
second thoughts I won't go back. Unlucky, you know! We'll step across
to the Wine Shades yonder, and talk our business over together with
a glass of sound port, my boy. Best glass of port in London, BUMPUS
sells, and as an old Army Man I appreciate it.
[_They cross to "The Shades," where_ Mr. MUGSNAP _wins upon his
companion by his hearty style, and all difficulties in the way of "an
early advance" are smoothed away in a highly satisfactory manner. A
couple of references, of course, "just as a matter of form," and a
couple of guineas for visiting them. Not an Inquiry Fee, oh! dear no,
merely "expenses." Some people apply for a loan, and, when everything
is arranged, actually decline to receive it! Must provide against_
that, _you knew. Within three days at the outside_, Mr. SOFTSHELL _is
assured, that money will be in his hands without fail. Meanwhile the
"couple o' guineas" leave his hands, and_ Mr. MUGSNAP _leaves_ him,
_hopeful, and admiring_.
_I.P. (strolling homeward_). Very pleasant person, Mr. MUGSNAP. Quite
a pleasure to deal with him. Sharks, indeed! How worthy people get
misrepresented! By the way, though, there's one question I forgot to
ask him. I'll just step back. Don't suppose he has gone yet.
[_Returns to No. 14, Fitz-Guelph Mansions. Knocks, and is answered by
smart and austere-looking Domestic._
_I.P_. Oh, just tell Mr. MUGSNAP I should like just _one_ word more
with him. Won't detain him a moment.
_Austere Domestic_. Mr. MUGSNAP! And who's Mr. MUGSNAP, pray? Don't
know any sech persing.
_I.P_. Oh yes, he lives here. Met him, by appointment, only an hour
ago. Hasn't he returned?
_A.D. (emphatically_). I tell you there ain't no Mr. MUGSNAP lives
here at all.
_I.P_. Oh _dear_, yes! Stout gentleman--military appearance--white
waistcoat!
_A.S. (scornfully_). Oh, _him_! I saw sech a party 'anging about
suspiciously awhile ago, and _spoke to the perliceman about him_. But
I don't know him, and he don't live _here! [Shuts door sharply_.
_I.P. (perspiring profusely, as the state of things dawns upon him!
_) Phew! I see it all. "A plant." _That's_ why he met me on the
door-step. Of course he doesn't live here at all. Gave a respectable
address, and _watched for me outside!_ And the sleek-spoken shark is
gone! So are my two guineas!
[_Retires a sadder, and a wiser man_.
* * * * *
THE MAN OF SCIENCE.
[It has been suggested, with reference to an amusing article
in _Blackwood,_ on a new religion, that science is equal to
it.]
PROFESSOR PROTOPLASM _sings_:--
I'm a mighty man of science, and on that I place reliance,
And I hurl a stern defiance at what other people say:
Learning's torch I fiercely kindle, with my HAECKEL, HUXLEY, TYNDALL,
And all preaching is a swindle, that's the motto of to-day.
I'd give the wildest latitude to each agnostic attitude,
And everything's a platitude that springs not from my mind:
I've studied entomology, astronomy, conchology,
And every other 'ology that anyone can find.
I am a man of science, with my bottles on the shelf,
I'm game to make a little world, and govern it myself.
I'm a demon at dissection, and I've always had affection
For a curious collection from both animals and man:
I've a lovely pterodactyle, some old bones a little cracked, I'll
Get some mummies, and in fact I'll pounce on anything I can.
I'm full of lore botanical, and chemistry organical,
I oft put in a panic all the neighbours I must own:
They smell the fumes and phosphorus from London to the Bosphorus:
Oh, sad would be the loss for us, had I been never known.
I am a man of science, with my bottles on the shelf;
I'm game to make a little world, and govern it myself.