Chapter I: Front Matter

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

OCTOBER 12, 1895.

_Old Millionaire._ "GEORGE, I'VE JUST SENT A GUINEA TO THE 'BALACLAVA VETERANS' HOME.'"

_His only Son and Heir._ "A _GUINEA_, FATHER? WHY, _I_'VE SENT MORE THAN THAT, OUT OF MY MISERABLE HALF-PAY!"

_O. M._ "AH, BUT _YOU_'VE GOT GREAT EXPECTATIONS, GEORGE. _I_'VE GOT NONE!"]

* * * * *

A GRAND OLD GARDENER.

["Through the death of Mr. PETER GRIEVE we have lost one of our
best-known landscape gardeners, also a distinguished hybridest
and cross-breeder."--_Daily Chronicle._]

Good gardeners grieve for Mr. PETER GRIEVE,
Who landscape-gardening art has had to leave,
To our regret. Hybridest and cross-breeder,
He in the Garden-World was a great leader.
"Suffolk Sir JOSEPH PAXTON" he was called.
From many an English garden, snugly walled
And florally embellished, plaints will come.
He many a zonal pelargonium,
Double petunia, and other blossom,
Has left, of a new race, to deck earth's bosom.
Better than selfish climb to place and power
It is to bless our world with a new flower.
Better than many Tsars, depend upon it,
This Floral King deserves an ode or sonnet.
PETER THE GREAT _was_ great, but one lived later
Whom sorrowing _Punch_ dares dub "PETER THE GREATER!"

* * * * *

"THE CULTIVATION OF BEES."--SIR,--I see this subject taken up in the _Standard_, but have not had time to peruse the correspondence. I doubt whether bees can be cultivated. I have seen a Learned Pig, Clever Cats, Industrious Hoppers, all thoroughly trained; but never have I come across a Cultivated Bee. The bee is too busy as a worker even to have the leisure which cultivation requires. I have heard of a bee getting so far in his education as to become a "Spelling Bee." But even the "Spelling Bees" seem to have had their day and died out. Yours,

A HUM FROM THE HUMMUMS.

* * * * *

LETTERS TO A FIANCÉE.

MY DEAR GLADYS,--I think your ARTHUR the ideal person to be engaged to. He's serious, you say--he dislikes flippancy--he's inclined to be literal.

Well, surely that's better than being a clown, a buffoon, a mere jester, a Court Fool! How tired you'd get of the cap and bells! of having to laugh, all through life, at your husband's jokes! ARTHUR is sensible; calm in his affection. Is that a reproach? Should you like a "Once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine" sort of villain as a lover? Or a "ladies' man"--a warbler of love-songs--a universal provider of compliments, flowers, pretty speeches,--a very WHITELY of gallantry? You'd be bored to death: and dreadfully jealous as well.

As to your tastes not being identical, that doesn't really matter. Make a few sacrifices of those things you don't care about; bicycling, for instance, and skirt-dancing, and then, in return for such self-denial, he'll probably waive his objections to afternoons, private views, or even--in moderation--clever young men.

On some subjects, I know, sympathy seems impossible; for instance, ARTHUR likes music, but detests concerts: while you, on the other hand, while not caring for music are particularly fond of concerts. A little mutual indulgence on both sides will soon put matters straight.

After a slight dispute never hold out an _instant_ after he shows repentance. Also, _never avoid showing jealousy when you see he expects it_. This is a valuable "tip." False pride on this subject is a fruitful source of discord.

Do not disagree with his general principles. On the contrary, second them; and give him convincing reasons for his own opinions. When it comes to a particular application of them, that you really object to you are sure to know how to act. Believe everything he says, and never correct him about details, especially not if you know you are right. I don't think I need advise you not to bring out authorities to show he is wrong in the etymology of a word or any other subject of discussion, for _that_ is absolutely suicidal, and you would be beyond the pale of reason if you dreamt of such a thing.

Since your cousin FREDDY has been staying with you, I can understand you find it rather awkward. I know FREDDY; with his love of practical jokes (for which you, too, I am certain, have a secret _penchant_), and his determined chatter about his rowing, his riding, and why he didn't back the winner, and how it is he missed the Diamond Sculls, and so on, _ad lib._ I can quite fancy he doesn't get on with ARTHUR, whom he must despise for not having put a hair-brush in his bed the very first evening.

You must have had a difficult day that Sunday that young DE VERNEY and his sister came down. DE VERNEY, rosy-cheeked and babyish-looking, but about whom a morbid interest centres, because he collects jewels, and was said at one time to take morphia; and Miss DE VERNEY, who "writes," and is utterly amazed and contemptuous when she finds someone who has never heard of her. If it were not for your mother, who forgets people's characteristics, and explains them to each other a little wrong--which often saves the situation--the day would have ended in utter want of harmony. DE VERNEY left, pitying you, and his sister feeling sorry for ARTHUR. I am glad you removed--though only just in time--an absurd booby-trap FREDDY had placed in ARTHUR'S room, because ARTHUR had said he "romped"; and when you and your future husband were alone, he said he hoped your companions in the future would be of a very different calibre to your present friends.

The depressing word "calibre," while cheering ARTHUR left you in lowest spirits, but of course you agreed, and then had a toboganning match with FREDDY the next morning before breakfast, and before ARTHUR had left his room. Write and tell me how you are going on. Is any time fixed for the termination of the engagement? I mean, of course, by marriage.

Your affectionate friend, MARJORIE.

* * * * *

MAXIMUS ORELLIUS.--The author of _John Bull and His Island_ has honoured a _South Wales Daily News_ interviewer with many interesting personal details. Mons. BLOUËT has a rooted aversion to chairmen, because "they give a sort of formal tone to proceedings which I don't care for." Poor chairmen! After all, this is only what they are intended for. Perhaps another MAX--yclept NORDAN--can give some explanation for this distinctly morbid dislike. One unlucky chairman is overwhelmed with ridicule because, in an introductory speech, _he actually forgot the French humorist's name_. "MAX O'RELL" contemplates changing his profession to that of playwright, and has already written a play which he airily describes as "a high-class comedy, dealing with the British aristocracy." However, this is not his first dramatic venture, for, says he, "in 1870 I had a comedy produced in Paris, but the war breaking out my play came to what I think was an untimely end. I have been repeatedly urged to write for the stage, but have hitherto been content with the success I have attained in other directions." _Vivat modestia!_

* * * * *

_Sir M-ch-l H-cks-B-ch, Chancellor of the Exchequer_ (_Reaper_). "FIRST-RATE HARVEST, EH?"

_Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt._ "YES; AND HOW YOU PITCHED INTO _ME_ WHEN _I_ SOWED IT!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

In a recent number of _The Saturday Review_ I read a review of a book of verse, which I need not particularise further, as I am not concerned to affirm or to dispute the justice of the critic's estimate of it. I only refer to it incidentally. The author, according to this reviewer, possessed only the most elementary and commonplace notion with regard to aptness of epithets or allusions. Instances were cited, and we were further asked to believe that with this poet (I quote from the _Saturday_) "the voluble thrush is a family man, and the bibulous bee is a rover."

***

That sentence absolutely fascinated me. It continued to ring and ring in my brain for hours afterwards. It became the refrain to everything I read and everything I thought of. There was only one remedy. I promptly applied it, made a copy of verses to suit the pursuing sentence, and was cured of my ailment.

* * * * *

A FAMILY MAN AND A ROVER.

A rook and an oyster agreed to dispute
As to which held the record for darting:
The rook said "I'm off like a punt on a chute,"
Said the oyster "I don't think I'm starting:
That is, since I know I'm confoundedly slow,
If the rook on the mark remains steady,
I doubt if I'll wait till the starter says 'go,'
I'll be off when he says 'Are you ready?'"
Then the languishing leopard cried "Run while you can,"
And the cricket remarked "Is it over?"
But the voluble thrush was a family man,
And the bibulous bee was a rover.

A celibate snipe thought they'd better look sharp,
But the oyster said "Who's for the grotto?"
Thus evoking a smile from a casual carp,
Who had "_carpe diem_" for his motto.
And a hairy old, hoary old ourang-outang
Grunted "Harmony, gents, or you'll bore us";
And a bandy-legged beetle, when asked if he sang,
Said he only obliged in a chorus.
Then, to make matters smooth till the racing began,
A dove, who had landed at Dover,
Cooed "Voluble thrush, you're a family man,
But, oh bibulous bee, you're a rover."

The runners themselves were contending for fun
On a track which was wooded with parquet:
The odds at the start were a million to one,
Which I quote as the state of the market.
"Do you think they will win?" said a truculent shark;
But the whale said, "I never think nuffing."
"What a desperate race!" was the puffin's remark--
He was palpably pained by their puffing;
Yet it cheered the whole clan, while their races they ran,
To know someone lived calmly in clover;
For the voluble thrush was a family man,
Though the bibulous bee was a rover.

Round, round came the rook, who was heartily clapped
He was winning, wings down, in a canter;
The succulent bivalve was collared and lapped,
In spite of his beard and his banter.
But a rifle went off, and a dredger drew nigh;
We shall never know which was the winner,
For the rook's next appearance was made in a pie,
And they served up the oyster at dinner.
Which proves very plainly that life is a span;
We are cattle, and Death is our drover.
Fate waits for the thrush, who's a family man,
And the bibulous bee, who's a rover.

***

No more this week. I am flying from a country where September fails to provide anything but sunshine. Perhaps in Switzerland there may be snow and a sweet foretaste of winter. At any rate, I am off to find out for myself. My next "Roundabout Reading" will be done in the country of Cantons. I shall study the _Referendum_ face to face!

* * * * *

"IN RE DIGGLE _V._ THE PROGRESSIVES."--Mr. DIGGLE says, as long as ratepayers support the Progressives, the rates will increase. _Ergo_, to support the Progressives, and pay for it, is Re-diggle-ous! Quite so.

* * * * *

SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND.

ON A CALLANDER CHAR-À-BANCS.

SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers
bound for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the
coach "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when
the driver will consider them sufficiently wet to start._

_The Head Boots_ (_to the driver_). There's another to come yet; he'll no be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye, Sir, plenty of room on the second seats.

_The Surly Passenger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the apron._) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!

_The Driver_ (_tranquilly_). Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet domp.

_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over _me_. Haven't you got a _dry_ one somewhere?

_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.

_The Surly P._ (_with a snort_). At Callander! Much good that is! (_With crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me I'd better get inside the boot at once!

_The Driver_ (_with the air of a man who is making a concession_). Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.

[_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take
up a male and female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately
behind the_ Surly Passenger.

_The Female P._ (_enthusiastically, to her companion_). There's dear old Mrs. MACFARLANE, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always _say_ about the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!

[_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._

_Her Companion._ _That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden _you_'re waving to. _She_'s keeping in-doors--and shows her sense too.

_The Female P._ (_disgusted_). Well, I _do_ think after our being at the farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_, that is; get all they _can_ out of you, and then, for anything _they_ care----!

_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, Ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!

_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, Sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_ back, and _I_ don't complain.

_The Surly P._ I _do_, Ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.

_A Sardonic P._ (_in the rear, politely_). On the contrary, Sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.

_A Chatty P._ (_to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation_). What fish do you catch in that river there?

_The Driver_ (_with an effort_). There'll be troots, an, maybe, a pairrch or two.

_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?

_Driver_ (_cautiously_). Aye, it would be that.

_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.

_Driver_ (_evasively_). Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.

_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.

_Driver_ (_more confidently_). Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.

_Chatty P._ (_persistently_). You've seen goldfish--know what they're _like_, eh?

_Driver_ (_placidly_). I canna say I do.

[_They pass a shooting party with beaters._

_Chatty P._ (_as before_). What are they going to shoot?

_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse drivin'.

_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they begin firing at the butts. I know they _have_ butts up on the moor, because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse?_

_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, Mem; they'll jist be phaysants.

_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It _does_ seem so cruel to kill them!

_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.

_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally different thing.

_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?

_Driver._ Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.

_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of interests on the route, I must say.

_Driver_ (_modestly_). There'll be them on the corch that know as much aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over yonder?

_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.

_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it had ye looked.

[_He relapses into a contented silence._

_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?

_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there _Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his way.

[_The_ Surly Passenger _snorts as though he didn't consider this
information_.

_The Lady P._ (_who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake"_). _Fitz-James who?_

_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's his name on the side of this one.

_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_ it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.

_The Driver_ (_to the_ Surly Passenger, _with another outburst of communicativeness_). Yon stoan is called "SAWMSON'S Putting Stoan." He hurried it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.

[_The_ Surly Passenger _receives this information with an
incredulous grunt_.

_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley, some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!

_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, Mem; burrnt doon two or three years back.

_The Lady P._ (_with a sense of the irony of events_). _Burnt_ down! A Hydropathic! Fancy!

_Male P._ (_as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa_). There, _that's_ Mr. FIGGIS'S place.

_His Comp._ What--_that?_ Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with green Venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything! Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_ parts, seemingly!

_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be better than being in the Caledonian Road!

[_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the
caprices of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia
and the Caledonian Road respectively._

* * * * *

THE WHEEL OF FATE.

(_A Fragment of an Old Romance, slightly Modernised._)