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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 62.
JANUARY 20, 1872.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.

_Fond Parent._ "I HOPE YOU WILL BE VERY CAREFUL, MR. STIMPSON. I HAVE
ALWAYS BEEN ACCUSTOMED TO CUT THEIR HAIR MYSELF."

_Mr. Stimpson._ "SO I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT, MADAM!"

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         CASE OF REAL DISTRESS.

WE do not covet the post of Prime Minister, nor yet that of Lord
Chancellor, especially if, when Parliament re-assembles, a recent
judicial appointment should be sharply discussed. We can think of the
choice of a new Speaker without discontent with our own lowly lot, and
at the present time envy of the Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas
is not the predominant feeling in our breasts. But of all places, posts,
offices, appointments, and dignities within the reach of an Englishman,
the one which excites in us the least desire is that of "Examiner of
Plays."

Who, with a heart, can resist feelings of the deepest commiseration, the
most profound pity for the sufferings of another, when he hears that in
twelve short years it has been the unhappy lot of the present Examiner
to read one thousand eight hundred dramatic pieces--one thousand eight
hundred tragedies, comedies, melodramas, farces, pantomimes, burlesques,
and extravaganzas? There are labours which no salary can remunerate,
services which no fees can requite.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                       A DISTINGUISHED "FRIEND."

    "In consideration of a costly present which MR. JOSEPH PEASE, of
    South-end, Darlington, has made to the Spanish nation, the young
    King of that country has conferred upon him the Grand Cross of a
    Spanish order, and MR. PEASE, who is a Quaker, has agreed to
    accept the distinction."--_Echo._

A QUAKER a Grand Cross! We should as soon have expected to be introduced
to a Quaker Field Marshal. Henceforth the sensation of surprise must be
numbered amongst the lost feelings. Nothing now can move us more. Not
the sun rising in the west, not the spectacle of an Irish Roman Catholic
Bishop teaching in a Protestant Sunday school, not a Teetotal Lord
Mayor, not the appointment of MR. TOMLINE as Master of the Mint, or SIR
CHARLES DILKE as Lord-Lieutenant of Middlesex, not the total abolition
of the Income Tax, not the conversion of MR. WHALLEY and MR. NEWDEGATE
to Popery, not the purification of the streets,--no, not even the
bestowal of the Grand Cross of our own Order of the Bath on some
Englishman eminent in Art, Literature, or Science!

                   *       *       *       *       *

                               HOME-RULE.

HAS Repeal, that in 'Forty was folly,
  Grown sense in Eighteen-seventy-two?
Will the walls that defied Big DAN'S volley,
  Be by BUTT'S brass two-pounder split through?

Has PADDY, that still has craved ruling
  And rulers, in wrong as in right,
Of a sudden out-grown schools and schooling,
  And shot to Self-Government's height?

And was it but bottomless boasting,
  With a point from Hibernian wit,--
That there ne'er yet was Irishman roasting,
  But an Irishman's hand turned the spit?

Is it JOHN that across the Atlantic
  Stamps PAT Order's foe ever known;
And declares him a nuisance gigantic,
  Till Yankee Home-Rule ousts his own?

Must hist'ry, as writ all untruly,
  Like Hebrew, be read in reverse,
That, since STRONG-BOW, shows Ireland unruly,
  With lawlessness cursed as chief curse?

When the best of the race for home-ruling
  Are those that Home-Rule most distrust;
As convinced that to trust Irish "tooling,"
  Will bring Erin's car in the dust.

Home-Rule! 'Tis a compound sonorous,
  Fine phrase on a green flag to fly;
But take stock of the stuff that's before us--
  And who shall the Home-Rule supply?

Is't your own Irish Lords, Irish Commons,
  Who adorned College Green long ago?
But to London would rather hear summons,
  Than in Dublin be tied by the toe:

For the Greenest of all, the best brother
  Of PAT in JOHN BULL can discern;
And to cool English air from the smother
  Of your factions, is thankful to turn.

Is't the Lawyers, who look for preferment,
  Praise, pence, and distinction, o'er sea;
And when they have ris'n by your ferment,
  Will be glad your close corking to see?

Is't your National Papers--press-razors,
  Produced not to shave, but to sell--
Whose scribes might seem genuine blazers,
  Did not conjurors spit fire as well?

Is't your Priests, with the gag and the blinders,
  Which Church would fain use to tame Law:
Their pincers, for law-reason's grinders,
  Their scissors, for lay-reason's claw?

Is't your Peasants, in feuds and in factions
  Stark mad, for a nothing or name:
In their lodges, at murder's black pactions,
  Or from a <DW18>-back taking aim?

In short, gauging all ranks and classes--
  Those who are, or will be, by the ears--
The units, as well as the masses,
  Lawyers, traders, priests, press, peasants, peers--

All ages, from seventy to twenty,
  All shades, from deep knave to born fool--
I find means of "Home MIS-rule" in plenty,
  But where are the means of "Home _Rule_"?

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         =A Coming Retirement.=

_The Speaker's Commentary_ is already favourably
known. We anticipate a very favourable commentary
on the SPEAKER, when Parliament re-assembles.

                   *       *       *       *       *

"DONNE'S SATIRES."--Pantomimes without political
jokes.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         OUR POCKET-BOOK AGAIN.

[Illustration]

REALLY, greatness has its multifold inconvenience. _Falstaff_ wished
that his name were not so terrible to the enemy, as he should then be
less urgently called upon to go and fight. _Mr. Punch_ wishes that his
works were not so universally attractive, as he should not then have to
answer so many questions about them. He has actually had to receive a
Deputation upon the subject of his splendid and unparalleled Pocket-Book
for 1872. It appears that certain improvements which he introduced into
the volume have given the most enormous and outrageous satisfaction to
the majority of mankind, and that the demand for the book has been
excessive--almost inconvenient. But a minority of excellent persons, who
hate all kinds of changes, have complained that by taking out certain
blank pages, he has prevented the complainants from embalming their own
observations by the side of his preternatural wit and humour. As
aforesaid, a Deputation on the subject approached the presence last
Saturday. _Mr. Punch_, of course, listened with his usual affability.
The strong points of the applicants were, that they had been accustomed
for years to write their own biographies and engagements in the sacred
volume, and that the record of their lives thus became nearly
imperishable, as no one in his right senses would ever destroy a
_Punch's Pocket-Book_. They therefore humbly begged him to restore the
old form.

_Mr. Punch_ smiled, and gently said that of course he must be the best
judge of what his friend the Universe required at his hands, and this
proposition was conceded with respectful acclamation. He might just
suggest that his Pocket-Book, although a precious jewel, was not a thing
to be locked up in a cabinet, but one to be the light and joy of a
household for a year, but it might not be so evident that personal
entries, as "_Charles very cross"--"Sweet letter from Arabella,_"
"_Bless Smithson's mistletoe!_" "_I hate Aunt Popkins_," "_Said I had
not dined at Greenwich:" "Ridiculous sermon by new curate_," and the
like, were equally adapted for the perusal of the said household. Such
things might be confided to a humbler receptacle. But the pleas being
renewed, without reference to the answer (we need hardly remark that
most of his visitors were of the sex "that can't argue, and pokes fires
from the top," as good ARCHBISHOP WHATLEY said) _Mr. Punch_ blandly
promised that the views of the deputation should receive the utmost
consideration at his hands. And when he had thus spoken he dismissed the
assembly--or rather conducted it to a sumptuous, yet delicate lunch.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         =Duties and Imposts.=

_Important Notice to Travellers._--Any person arriving from the
Continent is permitted to clear his throat at the Custom House free of
all duty.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          EVENINGS FROM HOME.

THE next evening TOMMY was dressed in an unusual style of elegance:
every article of his attire was of the most exquisite cut; every species
of ornament that fashion permitted to decorate his person was his; not a
stud was omitted, nor was one drop, less than necessary, of
india-rubber-boot-polish forgotten that could tend to render his toilet
perfect. And, indeed, neither MR. BARLOW nor HARRY were far behind him
in appearance on this memorable occasion, which was nothing less than
that of their first visit to the ROYAL GRECIAN THEATRE, in the City
Road.

Here, from their stalls (which were remarkably inexpensive, being,
indeed, only one shilling and sixpence each) they surveyed the wonderful
sight which presented itself to them, of a house densely packed from the
floor to the ceiling.

The Pantomime was the only piece played, and was entitled _Zig-Zag, the
Crooked_. When MR. GEORGE CONQUEST, who represented _Zig-Zag_ himself,
first appeared, as if hewn out of the rock, inanimate as the Sphinx, a
thrill of astonishment ran through the audience, which gradually showed
itself in vehement applause when _Zig-Zag's_ fearful eyes began to move,
as at the command of the Young Prince, the monster became endued with
life and descended from the rock.

_Tommy._ I declare this is the most extraordinary thing I ever saw.

_Harry._ Indeed, you are right, and I could not have conceived anyone
being at once so hideous and so diverting.

Presently there was a brilliant scene, in which there were some
admirable selections from the works of various composers, principally
French, executed in a manner so creditable to the performers, as to call
forth from MR. BARLOW the remark that he had heard nothing better of its
kind in any Theatre this year. When MR. CONQUEST and his Son leaped
several times from the stage to the top scenes ("which" MR. BARLOW
informed his pupils "are termed flies"), and tumbled through trap-doors,
coming up again so quickly, and in so great a variety of places all over
the "boards," that the audience was in a state of constant excitement as
to what next might be going to happen; and when finally _Zig-Zag_ took
such a header, as HARRY had seen the big boys at school do, when they
were going to dive for chalk eggs, from the flies right through the
stage, and was lost to all eyes, then the enthusiastic admiration of MR.
BARLOW and his young friends knew no bounds, and they evinced their
pleasure, as did the rest of the company, in such rounds of applause as
brought on MR. CONQUEST and his Son, without their wigs and false noses,
to bow their acknowledgments.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The following night they went to the GAIETY to witness the performance
of MR. TOOLE in _Dearer than Life_, which MR. BARLOW had seen before,
and in _Thespis_, the Christmas novelty at this theatre.

_Tommy._ If you please, Sir, what sort of piece is this?

_Mr. Barlow._ Indeed, my dear TOMMY, I cannot exactly tell. And it is
nearly impossible for an ordinarily well-instructed person to comprehend
the precise meaning of any one subject on which those who should know
best are apparently disagreed, and who, in consequence, signally fail in
rendering their own meaning intelligible in the public.

_Harry._ That is true, Sir, and I perceive that you have noticed how, at
various times, this same piece has been announced as a "Musical
Extravaganza," an "Operatic Burlesque," a "Grotesque Drama, illustrated
with music by MR. SULLIVAN," a "Comic Opera," and lately an English
Opera Bouffe. As perhaps next week it may be styled a _Tragicomicopera_,
or some other title, I would like, Sir, to join TOMMY in his question as
to what you suppose this piece really to be?

_Mr. Barlow._ Why, then, for my part, I suppose it is intended for a
specimen of English _Opera bouffe_.

_Harry._ And what, Sir, is _Opera bouffe_?

_Mr. Barlow._ It is a French burlesque--a vehicle for extravagances in
costume, in acting, and in singing. It is in one, two, three, or even
five Acts, and differs from the English burlesque in that it is written
in prose, and depends mainly for its success upon the original music
written for it by some composer, instead of on selections from various
popular sources. In this piece, for example, the dialogue is prosy--I
mean in prose--and the music has been written to suit it. I think we
may, therefore, suppose this piece to be an English _Opera bouffe_.

_Tommy_ (_during the First Act_). I do not understand what characters
these worthy people represent who are trying their best to divert us.

MR. BARLOW, who had been giving the play his closest attention, seemed
to be unable to enlighten his pupil, and requested him to listen to what
was going on, and occasionally refer to the programme, by which means he
would probably arrive at some definite conclusion.

_Harry._ Truly, Sir, this piece reminds me of what you told me about
NEWTON'S _Laws of Motion_, and I look forward to being very happy and
lively to-morrow morning.

_Mr. Barlow._ I am glad to hear it, HARRY. But how do you connect such a
result with the _Laws of Motion_?

_Harry._ Because, Sir, you told me that "Forces acting and reacting are
always equal and contrary to each other." So, Sir, after this night is
over, we may fairly expect a most exhilarating reaction.

TOMMY was so much struck by this fresh instance of HARRY'S capacity for
adapting his learning to whatever circumstances might present
themselves, that he determined to learn the science of mechanics on the
very first opportunity.

The audience continued to listen to the piece with a serenity which
nothing could disturb, except the occasional appearance of MR. TOOLE,
who gave utterance to such quaint drolleries, of his own introduction,
as sent the people into short spasms of laughter, in which MASTER TOMMY
most heartily joined, while MR. BARLOW applauded as loudly as the rest
of the company. But HARRY, whose temper was not quite so pliable, could
not conceal the weariness that was gradually creeping over him. He
gaped, he yawned, he stretched, he even pinched himself in order to keep
his attention alive, but all in vain. He managed to rouse himself twice;
once when MR. TOOLE was singing an additional verse to his song (where,
indeed, the accompaniment, consisting-of railway noises, would not let
him sleep), and once when MADEMOISELLE CLARY was exercising her skill in
a rather pretty melody. But at length the narcotic influence of the
dialogue, conspiring with the opiate charms of the music, he could
resist no longer, but insensibly fell back upon his stall, fast asleep.
This was soon remarked by his neighbours, who straightway conceived an
unfavourable opinion of HARRY'S breeding, while he, in the meantime,
enjoyed the most placid repose, undisturbed by either the envious
remarks of some among the audience, or by the nudgings administered to
his elbow by his friend TOMMY; and, indeed, his slumber was not entirely
dissipated until the performance was finished.

_Harry_ (_on their return to their Lodgings_). Your remarks, TOMMY,
to-night remind me of the story of _Polemo_ and the _Continuous
Highlander_.

MR. BARLOW here made some excuse for retiring to his room; and as HARRY
was on the point of commencing the story, TOMMY asked him to await his
return, as he was only going to fetch his slippers, in order to sit and
listen more comfortably to his friend's narrative.

HARRY consented to wait for him, but, at the end of two hours, as TOMMY
did not return, he retired to his own room, and soon fell asleep.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                        THE FOURTH R IN MERTHYR.

IN an article which appeared the other day our orthodox contemporary,
the _Western Mail_, criticised certain late proceedings of the Merthyr
School Board relative to the Fourth R difficulty in Education. Those
proceedings, says that respectable journal, "were saved from being
utterly ludicrous only by the gravity of the subjects which were under
discussion." But for that consideration, the _Western Mail_ is of
opinion that it would have been good fun "to watch the efforts that were
being made to realise that most delusive of all theoretical
ideas--unsectarian as opposed to secular education." Perhaps most
persons will think that those efforts were, as far as they went, not
altogether unsuccessful, seeing that, after some discussion bearing on
theology, the Board concluded, on the motion of one of its principal
Members--a lady interested in the welfare of her species, MRS. CRAWSHAY
of Cyfartha--that the sole form of devotion, public or private, dictated
by the Founder of Christianity, "should be the sole form of public
devotion employed in the schools." The REV. JOHN GRIFFITHS, the Rector,
"intimated that he would be quite contented with the proposed limitation
of the form of prayer, provided that a doxology were added, recognising"
a doctrine which Unitarians do not recognise. The suggestion certainly
was creditable to a clergyman of the Church of England who keeps a
conscience. It was professional; but the doxology is one of those
special matters in the Fourth R on which professors, and doctors too,
differ. The orthodoxology of one denomination is the heterodoxology of
another.

There are forms of public devotion in common use as the prologue to
public dinners. They are invocations in which all present can join,
whatever their belief may be as to the Fourth R--if they have any belief
at all--and if they have none, what then? It would be conscientious of a
Church of England Clergyman to propose the superaddition of a Doxology
to a Grace; but would it be wise? Would it not probably set a company of
mixed denominations quarrelling over their soup?

In relation to food for the mind, MRS. CRAWSHAY proposed to deal with
the Fourth R in a way analogous to that which experience has proved the
most convenient method of adjoining it to food for the body. Herein she
has acted on principles which many persons, besides a writer in the
_Western Mail_, may call "illogical and unsafe," but no thinking man, or
woman either, would call those persons philosophers. If every School
Board were to legislate as to the Fourth R simply on the principle of
teaching just so much of it as children can be expected to understand,
would not their practical arrangement be of necessity about the same as
that recommended by MRS. CRAWSHAY?

                   *       *       *       *       *

                              SUCH A BOOK!

[Illustration]

BIG books are big evils, says some old Greek, not of the vigorous type
here depicted. _Mr. Punch_ seldom agrees with anybody, and he distinctly
disagrees with the Ancient in question. One big book, for instance,
which is no evil, but a good, is _Kelly's Post-Office Directory_, with
which he has been favoured, and which he has been perusing with avidity
ever since it arrived. It was remarked to a clownish servant, who was
eating away at a vast Cheshire cheese, that he was a long time at
supper, and his triumphant answer was that a cheese of that size was not
got through in a hurry. The remark, but not the clownishness, is adopted
by _Mr. Punch_ in regard to the Kelly Book. He has, as yet, read only
the first thousand pages or so, but he intends to complete his labour.
The volume contains the name and address of everybody, in London or the
suburbs, whose name and address anybody can possibly want. _Mr. Punch's_
own grand and brilliant idea is, to do with KELLY something like what
BAYLE did for MORERI. He meditates issuing a _Kelly_ with vast notes of
his own, in which he proposes to give a biography and anecdotes of
everybody mentioned in the original book. As there will be several
thousand volumes, the work must be published by subscriptions, which
perhaps MR. KELLY will be good enough to canvass and collect for _Mr.
Punch_. The _Kelly-Punch Biography_ will be a production worthy the
gigantic genius of the age, and _Mr. Punch_ admits that his
collaborateur has admirably done _his_ part of the work.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                        HISTORIANS AND HERETICS.

BY attempting to enforce the Infallibility Dogma on those inconsistent
people, who, calling themselves Old Catholics, have seceded from Popery
in exercising their private judgment, and refusing, though ordered by an
OEcumenical Council, to eat dirt, the Archbishops of the Roman
Obedience appear to be waking snakes. The _Pall Mall Gazette_ a few days
since, said:--

    "It was announced in our latest edition yesterday, that the
    ARCHBISHOP OF MUNICH has excommunicated PROFESSOR FROSCHHAMMER.
    To-day a German correspondent informs us that the Professor has
    published an essay, in which he proves that the Catholic Clergy
    are all excommunicated for adopting the Copernican system and
    taking interest on money."

Professors FROSCHHAMMER and DOeLLINGER, however, are snakes in a more
serious sense than the ordinary cobras, rattle-snakes, copperheads, and
vipers in general which the Fathers of the Lateran Council would mean by
snakes, as a name for heretics. Hitherto heretics have been regarded by
the Roman Catholic hierarchy as vipers which, in impugning Authority,
bite a file. The above-named Professors appeal to History against the
POPE. DR. MANNING may declare this appeal to be treason. He might add
that it is undeniable treason. The reproach of treason lies in failure.

           "But when it prospers none dare call it treason."

Such snakes as PROFESSOR DOeLLINGER and PROFESSOR FROSCHHAMMER bite
things more vulnerable than files. They bite legs and feet, through
scarlet stockings, and white satin cross-embroidered slippers.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                        =A Creed Miscalled.=

THE researches of MR. FFOULKES and other learned investigators appear to
have proved that the creed of St. Athanasius, so-called, was not
composed until ages after the decease of that personage. If so, it was
unduly entitled with his name. Considering the purport of certain
generally unpopular clauses in Athanasius his Creed, one conceives that
it might, perhaps, be more appropriately styled the Creed of
Anathema-maran-athanasius.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "CHEEK!"]

_Commercial Gent_ (_to Swell who was smoking a fragrant Havannah_).
"WOULD YOU OBLIGE ME, SIR, BY CHANGING INTO ANOTHER CARRIAGE, OR PUTTING
YOUR CIGAR OUT _PRO TEM_.?"

_Swell_ (_nonchalantly_). "O, CERTAINLY." (_Throws his Cigar out of the
Window._)

_Commercial Gent_ (_complacently producing and filling his Meerschaum_).
"SORRY TO TROUBLE YOU, BUT I NEVER CAN ENJOY MY PIPE WHEN THERE'S A BAD
WEED A GOIN'!!"

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         FROM GALWAY TO CANDY.

MR. W. H. GREGORY, the accomplished Member for Galway, goes to Ceylon as
Governor. We firmly believe that the AEdile rejoiceth at this, as MR.
GREGORY knows a deal about Art, and the AEdile loveth not such men. _Mr.
Punch_ regrets to lose a bright speaker from the House, but is glad of
his promotion. It will be no more,

                 "GREGORY, remember thy swashing blow."

The Honourable Member's "blow" will be had where--

                               "The spicy breezes
                        Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle.
                And no one ever sneezes,
                    Or feels a touch of bile."

Such will be the Gregorian Chant for some time to come. A pleasant
exile, and a safe return, are _Mr. Punch's_ sweet wishes to him who
departeth for Candy.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                           UN MONSIEUR SMITH.

AMONG the news of the other day appeared the following:--

    "Two Frenchmen, one of whom, however, gives the name of SMITH,
    are in custody, charged with the commission of several
    burglaries in the suburbs of the Metropolis."

You would have liked to hear one of the Frenchmen give the name of
SMITH. His tongue, surely, betrayed him. M. VAURIEN, or whatever his
real name was, of course, in attempting to give the name of SMITH, gave
that of SMEET or SMIS. Give the name of SMITH, indeed! A Frenchman might
as well try to give the password of Shibboleth.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         A WORKING MAN ON WORK.

AT the National Congress of Trades Societies at Nottingham, last week, a
MR. GRAHAM said:--

    "In his opinion it was one of the rights of a free man to cease
    work when he wished, either for reasonable or even unreasonable
    causes."

This is so exactly _Mr. Punch's_ belief that, wishing at this identical
moment to cease work, for the reasonable or unreasonable cause that he
feels more inclined to smoke, he knocks off, without appending any
proper and moral observations to MR. GRAHAM'S _dictum_. Whether MR.
GRAHAM keeps any sort of servant, and if so, whether MR. GRAHAM
recognises the right in question when he wants his beer fetched, or his
boots cleaned, is the only query that _Mr. Punch_ chooses to exert
himself to put. But he must add that the world would go on delightfully
if this rule were always acted upon; and he is glad that the Trade
Societies are enlightened enough to do their best to bring on a
Millennium.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                       =Suggestion to Mr. Lowe.=

LAY a heavy tax on all persons telling old jokes, making old puns. Let
the tax be doubled in the case of any person attempting to pass off such
old joke or pun as "a good thing he's just heard," or as "a funny thing
that happened to his cousin the other day." MR. LOWE will find
public-spirited men ready to hand in nearly all clubs who will
voluntarily give their services, and for a moderate percentage will act
as Collectors of this particular form of taxation at every dinner-party
(where the name and address of the offender will be taken down), and in
Society's drawing-rooms. This and a tax on photographs will bring in a
handsome additional revenue for Eighteen-Seventy-Two.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A STILL BIGGER "CLAIMANT."]




                               MY HEALTH.
                             (_Concluded._)

[Illustration]

WE somehow turn the dinner conversation upon some peculiar way of
cultivating mangel. PENDELL looks at Old RUDDOCK, and, alluding to the
last speaker's remark, whatever it was, says, "Aha! that isn't the way
we grow mangel in the South, is it, MR. RUDDOCK?" and therewith gives
Old RUDDOCK such a humorous look, as if they had, between them, several
good jokes about mangel, which, when told by Old RUDDOCK, would set the
table in a roar.

I turn towards him with a propitiatory smile, as much as to say, "You
see I'm ready for any of your funny stories." Old RUDDOCK glances up at
me from his plate (he hasn't looked up much since the beginning of
dinner), and replies, gravely and simply, "No." Whereat PENDELL almost
roars with laughter, and nods at me knowingly, as if asking if RUDDOCK
isn't a character. He may be. Perhaps it requires the wine to draw him
out, but he hasn't, as yet, said anything funny or witty; in fact, he
hasn't said anything at all. The conversation, otherwise, is general and
well distributed. Topics principally local.

As far as I am concerned, it is not unlike being suddenly given a bass
part in a quintette, where the other four know their music off by heart.
I speak from experience, remembering how, in the instance alluded to, I
came in wherever I could, with very remarkable effect, and generally at
least an octave too low, leaving off with the feeling that if we had
been encored (of which there wasn't, under the circumstances, the
slightest possible chance), I should have come out very strong, and
_quite_ in tune. As it was, I had first to find my voice, which seemed
to have gone down like the mercury in a barometer on a cold day, and
having succeeded in producing it, I had then to issue it in notes.

During dinner I am frequently brought into the conversation,
apologetically, and appealed to out of politeness, as "probably not
taking much interest in these matters."

The matters in question are usually something vexatious with regard to
paupers, a political question deeply mixed up with the existence of the
Yeomanry, the state of the roads in the next district, the queer temper
of a neighbouring clergyman, the difficulty of dealing with Old SOMEBODY
at a vestry meeting, the right of some parish authorities to bury
somebody who oughtn't, or ought, to have been buried without somebody
else's consent; the best mode of making a preserve, a difference of
opinion as to varieties of cider, the probabilities of a marriage
between TRE-SOMEONE of Tre-somewhere with POL-SOMEBODY of Pol-something
else, and so forth. On consideration, I _am_ interested. For, to a
reflective mind, is not all this the interior mechanism of the Great
British Constitution? Of course.

The only thing that Old RUDDOCK says the whole time, is that he wouldn't
keep Cochin China fowls even if they were given him.

"Wouldn't you?" exclaims PENDELL, looking slily at me and beginning to
laugh, evidently in anticipation of some capital story, or a witticism
from RUDDOCK. No, not another word. He is, it strikes me, reserving
himself. I turn to my partner, and try to interest her in Ramsgate,
Torquay, the Turkish bath, London and Paris news. She doesn't like
Torquay, has never been to Ramsgate, and from what she has heard of it
thinks it must be vulgar (to which I return, "O, dear no," but haven't
got any proof that it isn't. I find out that she goes every season to
London, and knows more about operas than I do, and finally was brought
up in Paris, and generally stops there for a month yearly with her Aunt,
so that I am unable to give her any information on my special subjects,
and as she clearly wants to listen to some story which TREGONY of
Tregivel, on the other side of her, is telling, I feel that I'd better
continue my dinner silently, or draw RUDDOCK out. I try it, but RUDDOCK
won't come out.

_Dessert._--TREGONY of Tregivel _does_ come out genially, without the
process of drawing. He has some capital Cornish stories, with an
inimitable imitation of Cornish dialect.

_Flash._--While he is telling a rather long anecdote to think of
something good and new to cap it. Why not something with (also) an
imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a
Scotchman, but can't remember it in time.

Odd how stories slip away from you just at the moment you especially
want to remember them. During a pause in the conversation I remember my
story, and secure attention for it by suddenly asking PENDELL (which
startles him) if "he's ever heard," &c., and of course he, politely,
hasn't. Odd. Somehow, this evening I _can't_ recall the Scotch accent. I
try a long speech (not usually belonging to the story) in Scotch, so as
to work myself up to it, but, somehow or other, it will run into Irish.
My story, therefore, takes somewhat this form. I say, "Then the
Scotchman called out, 'Och, bedad'--I mean, 'Ye dinna ken'"--and so
forth. Result, failure. But might tell it later, when I'm really in the
humour, which I evidently am _not_ now, and yet I thought I was.

Old RUDDOCK begins to come out, not as a _raconteur_, but as an
interrupter, which is a new phase of character.

For example, TREGONY commences one of his best Cornish stories, to which
we are all listening attentively, something about an uncle and a nephew,
and a cart.

"They went," says TREGONY, "to buy a cart"----

"A what?" says RUDDOCK, really giving his whole mind to it.

"A cart," answers TREGONY.

"O," returns RUDDOCK, "I beg pardon. Yes, well"--

"Well," resumes TREGONY, "they wanted something cheap, as they had no
use for it except to get home,----"

"Get what?" asks RUDDOCK.

"Home," replies TREGONY, evidently a bit nettled.

"Oh, ah! yes," returns RUDDOCK. "Home--well?"

"Well," TREGONY continues, looking towards his opposite neighbour, so as
to avoid Old RUDDOCK if possible, "the landlord of the Inn says to them,
'I'll lend you and NEVVY BILL a cart----'"

RUDDOCK'S in again with "A what?"

I can't help turning upon him, and saying, rather angrily, "A cart!" I
feel inclined to add, "You old idiot." Then I say to TREGONY,
encouragingly, "Yes."

"'Only' (continues TREGONY), says the Landlord, joking them, 'mind yew
du bring the wheels back safe and sound.' So they promised, and then
they went about the town till it was rather late and getting dark----"

"Getting _what_?" asks Old RUDDOCK. Everybody annoyed, and two persons
besides myself repeat the word "dark" to him.

With these interruptions, and the consequent necessity of making it all
quite clear, specially when it comes to TREGONY imitating the
conversation between Uncle and Nephew, in two voices, when Old RUDDOCK
perpetually wants to know "_Who_ said that," and so puzzles TREGONY that
sometimes he makes the Uncle take the Nephew's voice, and _vice versa_,
and the story is getting into difficulties, when the servant enters with
a message to our Host from MRS. PENDELL, which brings us to our feet,
and into the drawing-room, TREGONY promising me the story quietly in a
corner.

The other ladies have come. We all try to enter the drawing-room
carelessly, as if the ladies weren't there, or as if we'd been engaged
in some fearful conspiracy in the next room, and were hiding our
consciousness of guilt under a mask of frivolity. MISS BODD, of
Popthlanack, is alone at a table, turning over the pages of a
photographic album. I join her.

_Careful Flash._--Take care never to offer an opinion on photographic or
any other sort of portraits, unless you're quite sure of your ground.

I remark generally that I don't care about photographic portraits.
Before MISS BODD can answer, I hear a rustle behind me, and a voice asks
simply, "Why?"

Good gracious! _It is_--MISS STRAITHMERE! She is staying with the
CLETHERS ["MR. CLETHER is here," PENDELL tells me. "He's written a work
on the Moon. Quite a character----"], and as the REV. MR. CLETHER is the
Rector of Penwiffle, she is not a mile from the house, and will be here
every day.

Singing and playing. MISS STRAITHMERE asks me, "Why I'm so serious? Will
I tell her? _Do. Why?_"

I expect RUDDOCK to sing. He doesn't. MR. CLETHER is talking to him. I
join them. I am anxious to hear what MR. CLETHER'S view of the Moon is.
He replies, "O, nothing particular."

"But," I urge, RUDDOCK listening, "You have made a study of astronomy,
and in these days"--I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly
what I was going to say; but I rather fancy it was that "In these days
the moon isn't what it was."

MR. CLETHER modestly repudiates knowing more about the moon than other
people, and says that PENDELL is right about his having written a book,
but he has never published it.

"_Why_?" asks MISS STRAITHMERE, joining us.

Carriages. Thank goodness!

I accompany RUDDOCK to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy
Fawkes out for an airing.

I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a _feu de joie_ of humour
and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the
show at the Crystal Palace.

PENDELL (who I believe is still drawing him out) says to him, "You'll
have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much
as to say, "_Now_ you'll hear him, _now_ it's coming. He's shy before a
party, but _now_----"

RUDDOCK replies, from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye."

And away goes the vehicle, turns the corner, and disappears from view in
the avenue.

PENDELL chuckles to himself. "Quite a character," I hear him murmuring.
Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, "Old RUDDOCK! ha!
ha! Rum old fellow."

And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected "Nicht wi'
RUDDOCK." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing.
Yet PENDELL seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare
say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old RUDDOCK was at
his best. After this, how about SHERIDAN?

_Next morning._--My friend, MISS STRAITHMERE, is coming at two o'clock.
I find that I can leave, _via_ Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I
can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill? No, I
must go up to town, and consult my Doctor.

Adieu, Penwiffle. If I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall,
out at Tintagel or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine,
I should.... Well, I don't know but I should have to answer the
question, "Why?"

My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British
Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the library at
my _Analytical History of Motion_.

If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall
continue it; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent
exercise.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The Doctor _does_ agree with me. He advises me to try my own
prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling
on him regularly every Monday.

                   *       *       *       *       *

I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make
no further notes, unless, at some future time, I commence a history of a
British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with
a quotation from SHAKSPEARE, who was, among other things, evidently a
valetudinarian, and finish these papers by saying,

                  "The tenor of them doth but signify"
"My Health."
                                  _Two Gent. of Verona._ Act iii. sc. 1.


[Illustration: "ON THE TOP OF THE HILL, TOO!"]

"MY TIRESOME HAT! _SO_ KIND OF YOU, MR. MUGGLES! YOU DON'T MIND WAITING
FOR ME, DO YOU?"

    [_Don't he, though! He minds very much. Feels very foolish, and
    dreads being chaffed--particularly by some of those fellows
    below!_]


                             IN THE TEMPLE.

LORD DERBY has made a political speech of a very sensible
character--"that goes without to say" in his case. He tells the
Conservatives that they are to be neither apathetic nor precipitate,
that they are to play a waiting game--the World to him who can
Wait--and, meantime, they are to support MR. GLADSTONE against the
extreme men on his own side. And, said the Earl, "political life is not
to be looked at as if it were a soaped pole, with L5,000 a year, and
lots of patronage at the top." The sentiment is lofty and honourable.
"But," said to _Mr. Punch_ a rising lawyer, who intends to rise a good
deal higher, "the deuce of it is that LORD DERBY talks from the top of a
golden Pyramid about soaped poles. Hang it! I'm like _Becky Sharp_--I
should find it precious easy to be patriotic with fifty thousand a year.
If I didn't feel I could manage the nation for the best (though of
course I could), confound it! I'd myself engage the best Premier that
money could secure, and serve the country that way. But blow it, as it
is, and HENRIETTA'S governor refusing to hear of me until I'm in
Parliament, you see, old cuss----" "Virtue alone is happiness below,"
replied _Mr. Punch_ severely, as he went away to get some oysters at
PROSSER'S.

                   *       *       *       *       *

NOTE BY A FOREIGNER.--On England's possessions the sun never sets. True;
and on one of them, London, the sun never rises.


[Illustration: SAT UPON.]

_Hospitable Host._ "DOES ANY GENTLEMAN SAY PUDDEN?"

_Precise Guest._ "NO, SIR. NO _GENTLEMAN_ SAYS _PUDDEN_."


                                 "IF!"

                         (_A Channel Sketch._)

'TOTHER day I steamed from Dover
  To Boulogne-sur-Mer:
We'd bad weather crossing over:
  Very sick we were.

Busy, Steward's-Mate and Steward--
  "Basins!" was the cry:
Ocean heaved, because it blew hard;
  Heaved, and so did I.

In the intervals of basin
  Blessed dreams were mine:
FOWLER was from Ocean 'rasin'
  Every ill-ruled line.

Over Neptune's worst commotion
  Holding despot's state,
He not only ruled the Ocean,
  But he ruled it straight!

Steady, sea ne'er so ugly,
  Did his craft behave;
Passengers, carriaged snugly,
  Sweeping o'er the wave!

Not a soul from out his cushions
  Moved, the passage through;
Padded soft against concussions,
  And spring-seated, too!

O, it was a blessed vision!
  Blessed all the more
For that awful exhibition
  Betwixt shore and shore.

But when _terra-firma_ reason
  On that dream I fixed,
At a less afflicted season,
  Doubt with hope was mixed.

For, I thought--Can FOWLER answer
  That his boats won't roll--
Grant, that, swift as a _merganser_,
  O'er the sea they bowl?

_If_ they roll--and who can promise
  That they never will?--
Little joy to JOHN BULL from his
  Power of sitting still.

Think of an afflicted train-full
  Cabined, cribbed, confined--
Rolling with the rollings painful
  Of that pen inclined!

Face to face, and knee to knee, sick,
  Retch and heave and strain,
Think of a whole hundred sea-sick
  All along the train!

Sea-sickness in open ocean
  May be bad to bear,
But, boxed up in a train in motion,
  Worse, far worse, it were!

So if FOWLER cannot promise
  Pitch-and-toss shall be
Game of chance, far-banished from his
  Skimmers of the sea,

Better 'gainst our woes we gird us--
  Cold, and stench, and spray--
Than in railway train you herd us,
  Nausea's helpless prey!

If the traveller from Dover
  Reached the other shore,
Worser woes, than crossing over,
  Were for him in store.

Awfuller than the up-turn he
  Suffers from the tide,--
Think upon that six hours' journey
  On the other side!

Present woe 'gainst worse mismarriage--
  Put it to the vote--
And I'll bet 'tis _contra_ carriage,
  And _for_ open boat!


A BURIED ARMY.

THE _Leeds Mercury_ is such an excellent paper, that _Punch_ takes from
it anything as unhesitatingly as (to use LORD LYTTON'S illustration) one
takes change from an honest tradesman, without looking at or counting
the coins. That journal said, the other day--

    "There was a demonstration at Lausanne yesterday, in memory of
    the soldiers belonging to GENERAL BOURBAKI'S army who died in
    Switzerland, after being interred there last year."

We cannot see why there should have been a demonstration; at least, if
it was a demonstration of wonder, the wonder would have been if the
soldiers had survived their interment. It was Antaeus, if we recollect
aright, whose strength was renewed when he came in contact with the
Earth, but he never went under it, at least not until Alcides had done
with and for him. But is France aware that this is the way in which one
of her armies was got rid of? Is this the boasted hospitality of
Switzerland?

                   *       *       *       *       *

THE RAINBOW may be accurately described as the real NOAH'S _Arc_.

                   *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A MISCONCEPTION.]

_Passenger._ "AND WHOSE HOUSE IS THAT ON THE TOP OF THE HILL THERE?"

_Driver of the "Red Lion" 'Bus._ "O, THAT'S MR. UMBERBROWN'S, SIR. HE'S
WHAT THEY CALL A R. A."

_Passenger_ (_Amateur Artist_). "O, INDEED! AH! A MAGNIFICENT PAINTER!
YOU MUST BE RATHER PROUD OF SUCH A GREAT MAN LIVING AMONGST YOU DOWN
HERE!"

_Driver._ "GREAT MAN, SIR? LOR' BLESS YER, SIR, NOT A BIT OF IT! WHY,
THEY ONLY KEEPS ONE MAN-SERVANT, AND HE DON'T SLEEP IN THE 'OUSE!!!"

                   *       *       *       *       *

                          THE NEW YEAR'S FINE.

                     (_Husband and Father sings._)

AN Income-tax increased to pay,
  And that assessed at higher rate!
Well, we must bear it as we may,
  By means of thrift, my weeping Mate.
We'll pinch, in clothing and in cup;
  Thou shalt accustomed dress resign;
I'll give my GLADSTONE claret up,
  To meet my LOWE'S augmented fine.

What though that heavy forfeit make
  A small, uncertain income less?
What if away the coin it take,
  Which I should hoard against distress?
What though my earnings needs must cease
  As soon as I shall be no more,
And may not last till my decease,
  But fail us both, my Wife, before?

Still, whilst we wince beneath the Screw,
  Put on with added stress this year,
We'll think how much, because we Few
  Are taxed, the Many spend in Beer.
Our impost we'll with joy endure,
  Because it seems the only plan
From fiscal burdens to secure
  Exemption for the Working-Man.

The Working-Man who works with tools,
  Such tools as hammers, saws, and planes,
By hand; whose numerous suffrage rules
  The smaller class who work by brains.
Rejoice we that what we must spare,
  The Working-Man has got to spend.
We're privileged to pay his share,
  Till our ability shall end.

At least when next another year,
  Another Budget's weight shall bring
To bear on us, if we are here
  Still, as plucked nightingales, to sing,
We've cause, another little call,
  At any rate, of hope to see,
For payment of the needful all
  To set the Breakfast-Table free.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         AMERICAN INCREDULITY.

In a speech delivered at New York on "Forefathers' Day," the REV. HENRY
BEECHER, discoursing of the "Pilgrim Fathers," said:--

    "That they had their faults we all know. They brought with them
    some of the prejudices of Europe, and had not freed themselves
    from notions of persecution. They believed, above all things, in
    the existence and power of the evil one. The devil was
    everywhere in their thoughts. In our modern times we have gone
    free from that superstition. We of New York know there is no
    such being."

In the early days of New England anyone who owned to being an Adiabolist
would have been deemed an Atheist. But then there was no Tammany or Erie
Ring. Plunder and fraud, picking and stealing, are courses from which
some natures can only be restrained by the piety which firmly believes
in the personality, cornute and caudal, of MILTON'S hero. "We of New
York know there is no such being." Do we? We think we do, but may have
flattered ourselves.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Printed by Joseph Smith of No. 24, Holford Square, in the Parish of St.
James, Clerkenwell, in the County of Middlesex, at the Printing Offices
of Messrs. Bradbury, Evans, & Co., Lombard Street, in the Precinct of
Whitefriars, in the City of London, and Published by him at No. 85,
Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, City of London.--SATURDAY,
January 20, 1872.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the document, the OE ligature was replaced with "OE".

In the article "My Health," there is a mismatched round bracket, that
starts with "(to which I return," but it is unclear where the closing
bracket should go.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or The London Charivari, Vol.
62, January 20, 1872, by Various

*** 