Chapter I: Front Matter

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

October 3rd, 1891.

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. IX.

SCENE--_The Burg Terrace at Nuremberg_. PODBURY _on a bench, grappling with the Epitome of_ SPENCER.

_Podbury_ (_reading aloud, with comments_). "For really to conceive the infinite divisibility of matter is mentally to follow out the divisions to infinity, and to do this would require infinite time." You're right _there_, old cock, and, as I haven't got it to spare, I won't trouble you!--um--um ... "opposite absurdities"--"subjective modifications" ... "ultimate scientific ideas, then, are all representative of ideas that cannot be comprehended." I could have told _him_ that. What bally rot this Philosophy is--but I suppose I must peg away at it. Didn't she say she was sorry I didn't go in more for cultivating my mind? (_He looks up._) Jove, here she comes! and yes, there's that beggar CULCHARD with her! I thought he'd--how the dickens did he manage to--? I see what _he's_ after--thinks he'll cut me out--twice over--but he shan't this time, if I can help it!

_Culchard_ (_to_ Miss HYPATIA PRENDERGAST). No, the Modern Spirit is too earnestly intent upon solving the problems of existence to tolerate humour in its literature. Humour has served a certain purpose in its day, but that day is done, and I for one cannot pretend to regret its decay.

_Miss H. P._ Nor I. In fact, the only humour I ever _really_ appreciated is that of the ancient classics. There has been no true fun since ARISTOPHANES died. At least, _I_ think not.

_Podb._ (_catching the last sentence_). Oh, I say, come, Miss PRENDERGAST. Have you ever read "The Jumping Frog"?

_Miss P._ I was under the impression that _all_ frogs jumped. But I never read--I--ah--_study_.

_Podb._ (_declining to be crushed_). Well, I call MARK TWAIN funny anyhow. But _I'm_ going in for study now. I am--honour bright! I'm swotting up SPENCER--look!

[_He exhibits the volume proudly._

_Miss P._ And are you not enchanted by the logical lucidity of that great thinker?

_Podb._ Um--I should be more enchanted if I ever had the faintest notion what the great thinker was driving at. Look here--here's a simple little sentence for you! _(Reads.)_ "Let us therefore bear in mind the following:--That of the whole incident force affecting an aggregate, the effective force is that which remains after deducting the non-effective, that the temporarily effective and the permanently effective vary inversely, and that the molar and molecular changes wrought by the permanently effective force also vary inversely." (_With pathos._) And that's only in an _Epitome_, mind you!

_Miss P._ Really, Mr. PODBURY, I see nothing particularly incomprehensible in that.

_Culch._ (_with his superior smile_). My dear PODBURY, you can hardly expect to master the Spencerian phraseology and habit of thought without at least _some_ preliminary mental discipline!

_Podb._ (_nettled_). Oh--but _you_ find him plain-sailing enough, I suppose?

_Culch._ I have certainly not encountered any insuperable difficulties in his works as _yet_.

_Podb._ Well, I'll just trouble you to explain _this_--wait a bit. (_Opens volume again._) Ah, here we are--"And these illusive and primordial cognitions, or pseud-ideas, are homogeneous entities which may be differentiated objectively or subjectively, according as they are presented as Noumenon or Phenomenon. Or, in other words, they are only cognoscible as a colligation of incongruous coalescences." Now then--are you going to tell me you can make head or tail of all that?

_Culch._ (_perceiving that_ Miss P. _is awaiting his reply in manifest suspense_). It's simple enough, my dear fellow, only I can't expect _you_ to grasp it. It is merely a profound truth stated with masterly precision.

_Podb._ Oh, is _that_ all, my dear fellow? (_He flings up his heels in an ecstasy._) I _knew_ I'd have you! Why, I made that up myself as I went along, and if _you_ understand it, it's a jolly sight more than _I_ do! [_He roars with laughter._

_Miss P._ (_behind her handkerchief_). Mr. CULCHARD has evidently gone through the--the "preliminary mental discipline."

_Culch._ (_scarlet and sulky_). Of course, if Mr. PODBURY descends to childishness of that sort, I can't pretend to--

_Podb._ (_wiping his eyes_). But you _did_ pretend, old chap. You said it was "profound truth" and "masterly precision"! I've got more profound truth where _that_ came from. I say, I shall set up as an intellectual Johnny after this, and _get_ you to write an Epitome of me. I think I pulled your leg _that_ time, eh?

_Culch._ (_biting his lip_). When you have extracted sufficient entertainment from that very small joke, you will perhaps allow Miss PRENDERGAST to sit down and begin her sketch. You may not be aware that you've taken her place.

[_He withdraws majestically to the parapet, while_ PODBURY _makes way for_ Miss P. _with apologies_.

_Podb._ (_as he leans over seat while she sketches_). I wish your brother BOB had been here--he would have enjoyed that!

_Miss P._ It was really too bad of you, though. Poor Mr. CULCHARD!

_Podb._ He shouldn't try to make me out a bigger duffer than I am, then. But I say, you don't _really_ think it was too bad? Ah, you're _laughing_--you don't!

_Miss P._ Never mind what I really think. But you have got us both into sad disgrace. Mr. CULCHARD is dreadfully annoyed with us--look at his _shoulders_!

_Culch._ (_leaning over parapet with his back to them_). That _ass_ PODBURY! To think of his taking me in with an idiotic trick like that! And before Her too! And when I had made it all right about the other evening, and was producing an excellent impression on the way up here. I wish I could hear what they were whispering about--more silly jokes at my expense, no doubt. Bah! as if it affected _me_!

_Podb._ (_to_ Miss P.). I say, how awfully well you draw!

_Miss P._ There you betray your ignorance in Art matters. Sketching with me is a pastime, not a serious pursuit, (_They go on conversing in a lower tone._) No, _please_, Mr. PODBURY. I'm quite sure he would never--

_Podb._ (_rises; comes up to_ CULCHARD, _and touches his shoulder_). I say, old chappie--

_Culch._ (_jerking away with temper_). Now, look here, PODBURY. I'm not in the mood for any more of your foolery--

_Podb._ (_humbly_). All right, old boy. I wouldn't bother you, only Miss PRENDERGAST wants a figure for her foreground, and I said I'd ask you if you'd keep just as you are for a few minutes. Do you mind?

_Culch._ (_to himself_). Afraid she's gone too far--thinks she'll smooth me down! Upon my word, it would serve her right to--but no, I won't be petty. (_Aloud._) Pray tell Miss PRENDERGAST that I have no immediate intention of altering my position.

_Podb._ Thanks awfully, old chap. I knew you'd oblige.

_Culch._ (_incisively_). I am obliging Miss PRENDERGAST, and her only. (_Raising his voice, without turning his head._) Would you prefer me to _face_ you, Miss PRENDERGAST?

_Miss P._ (_in tremulous tones_). N--no, thank you. It--it's so much more n--natural, don't you know, for you to be l--looking at the view.

_Culch._ As you please. (_To himself._) Can't meet my eye. Good! I shall go on treating her distantly for a little. I wonder if I look indifferent enough from behind? Shall I cross one foot? Better not--she may have begun sketching me. If she imagines I'm susceptible to feminine flattery of this palpable kind, she'll--how her voice shook, though, when she spoke. Poor girl, she's afraid she offended me by laughing--and I _did_ think she had more sense than to--but I mustn't be too hard on her. I'm afraid she's already beginning to think too much of--and with my peculiar position with Miss TROTTER--(MAUD, that is)--not that there's anything definite at present, still--(_Aloud._) Ahem, Miss PRENDERGAST--am I standing as you wish? (_To himself._) She doesn't answer--too absorbed, and I can't hear that idiot--found he hasn't scored so much after all, and gone off in a huff, I expect. So much the better! What a time she is over this, and how quiet she keeps! I wish I knew whether it was coquetry or--shall I turn round and see? No, I must be perfectly indifferent. And she _did_ laugh at me. I distinctly saw her. Still, if she's sorry, this would be an excellent opportunity for--(_Aloud._) Miss PRENDERGAST! (_No reply--louder._) May I take it that you regret having been betrayed into momentary approbation of a miserable piece of flippancy? If so, let me assure you--(_Turns round--to discover that he is addressing two little flaxen-haired girls in speckled pinafores, who are regarding him open-mouthed._ Miss PRENDERGAST _and_ PODBURY _have disappeared_.) PODBURY _again!_ He must have planned this--with _her_! It is too much. I have done--yes--done with the pair of them! [_Strides off in bitter indignation._

* * * * *

SCHOOL-BOY'S FIRST EXPERIENCE OF SMOKING.--One sickarette,--and he never could do another. _O si sic omnes_!

* * * * *

* * * * *

"HOTEL ME, GENTLE STRANGER!"

[Mrs. WHEELER and Mrs. CUSTER, two literary ladies of New York, are starting a hotel for women only.]

Says Mrs. CUSTER to Mrs. WHEELER:
"I propose we put out a 'promoting' feeler!"
Says Mrs. WHEELER to Mrs. CUSTER,
"Monopolist Males we shall greatly fluster;"
'Hotel it not in Gath!' at present
Till we have made things nice and pleasant.
First rule--'No Rules!' O, of course male noddies
Will snigger at once, the superior bodies!
But OSCAR WILDE must 'pull up his socks,'
Ere he'll equal women at paradox.
What I mean is this, in our 'Women's Hotel,'
We'll have no such thing as the 'Curfew Bell,'
And no fixed hour for the cry, 'Out lights!'
We will give free way to true 'Woman's Rights,'
Which are to thump, strum, tap, twirl, trill,
From morn till night at her own sweet will.
That's why we cherish, despite male spleen,
Typewriter, Piano, and Sewing-Machine!
The 'woodpecker tapping' is, indeed, not in it
With Emancipate Woman--no, not for a minute!
Our Hotel will be, when we've won the battle,
'The Paradise of unlimited Rattle,'
'The Realm of the Spindle,' 'the Home of the Duster!'"
Says Mrs. WHEELER to Mrs. CUSTER.
"Nought tabooed save Man! So comes Peace the Healer!"
Says Mrs. CUSTER to Mrs. WHEELER.
_Punch hopes_ their Hotel may flourish--only,
Spots "Reserved for Ladies" are often--lonely!

* * * * *

THE GERMAN EMPEROR GOING NAP.--It now appears that the words descriptive of NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE used by the German Emperor, and to which the French took so strong an exception, were not "_Le parvenu Corse_," but "_Le conquérant Corse_," which, of course, makes all the difference. At this banquet it would have been better had each course been omitted from the _menu_.

* * * * *

A Vain Vaunt.

_La belle France_ boasts of being Art's true henchman!
That cosmopolitan claim she should be mute on.
"Art for Art's sake!" shouts the thrasonic Frenchman,
"Save when that Art is Teuton,"
Though Art's not marred for him by subtle sin
A German twang poisons e'en _Lohengrin_.

* * * * *

_Benevolent Old Lady._ "NO, MR. SMITH; I SHALL NOT CONTINUE MY SUBSCRIPTION TO YOUR CRICKET-GROUND ANY LONGER--FOR I FIND YOU ALLOW IT TO BE USED IN THE WINTER FOR PIGEON-SHOOTING!"

_Secretary to the Local Cricket Club._ "BUT, MADAM, YOU CAN'T BE AWARE THAT WE SHOOT AT NOTHING BUT _CLAY PIGEONS!_"

_B. O. L._ "I DON'T CARE _WHAT_ THE BREED MAY BE--IT'S EQUALLY CRUEL!"]

* * * * *

THE ARMADA FROM THE SPANISH.

(_Commenced by Mr. J.A. Froude and concluded by the Duke of Medina Sidonia._)

It may be remembered that the English writer in _Longman's Magazine_, had got to the point when after trying to get out of the expedition by pleading poverty, incompetency, and anything else I could think of, I was forced to go on my way to England with apparent satisfaction. We had putrid pork and mouldy biscuit, but still I informed the King that we were "content and cheerful." Had I given him any other intelligence, the chances are that he would have had my head--not a good one, but sufficient to meet my modest requirements.

Well, we sailed towards England, and as Mr. J.A. FROUDE has already explained (quoting from my own letter to King PHILIP), "knowing nothing of navigation," I soon made a bad shot. Instead of going to Tilbury, I drifted towards Cronstadt, even then a fortress of some consideration. I could tell you a great deal more, were it not that I succumbed to sea-sickness and gave up my command. The expedition was now, of course, commanded by the steward, but the duties of his unpleasant office left him but little time for directing an invasion. Well, we got within reach of England when the wind began to blow, and before I could hitch myself up with a marling-spike, every man Jack of us was ready for Davy Jones's locker!

But why should I dwell upon the events of the next few days? We were out-manoeuvred and beaten. I myself took refuge in a wood of mahogany trees, and it was my delight and my privilege to supply the requirements of the British colony in all that they desired. The result of this was that I and a few personal friends took refuge in a forest in which mahogany trees flourished. It was in this leafy prison that I supplied the genuine old Armada mahogany "as advertised." I would be afraid to say how many places I supplied with wood from the Armada. I may hint that I know something of the tables at Westminster and the benches of Gray's Inn. But there, that is many years ago, and all I can say now is, "Heave away, boys," and "Three cheers for the Don, the Keys, and the Donkey." I was the Don, the keys were supplied to those who paid for them, and the donkeys could defend themselves. The Armada was not a success, and after this frank avowal, it seems to me that Mr. FROUDE need render no further explanation. Surely the story of the Spanish Invasion is copyright. And if it is, Mr. FROUDE has no right to tamper with my work, the more especially as it is immediately appropriated by that model of modern journalism the _Review of Reviews_.

* * * * *

PHILOSOPHICAL REFLECTION.--We have five senses. That's quite enough. If we had a sixth sense, what a _new sense_ it would be!

* * * * *

"IN CELLAR DEEP."

(_Latest Up-to-Date Version of a celebrated Bacchanalian ditty, as
it might be revised by Dr. Mortimer Granville and Mr. James
Payn._)

["No one drinks alcoholic liquor (unless it be beer) to quench
thirst."--JAMES PAYN.]

In Cellar deep I sit and steep
My soul in GRANVILLE'S logic.
Companions mine, sound ale, good wine--
_That_ foils Teetotal dodge--hic!
With solemn pate our sages prate,
The Pump-slaves neatly pinking.
He's proved an ass, whose days _don't_ pass
In drinking, drinking, drinking!

In water pure there's danger sure,
All fizzle-pop's deceiving;
And ginger-beer must make you queer
(If GRANVILLE you're believing).
Safe, on the whole, is Alcohol;
It saves man's strength from sinking.
I injure none, and have good f--fun.
Whilst drinking, drinking, drinking!

Hic! Hic! Hooray!! New reasons gay
For drink from doctors borrow!
The last (_not_ first) is simple thirst,
Thatsh true--to LAWSON'S sorrow!
Good Templarsh fain would "physic PAYN,"
And GRANVILLE squelch like winking;
But all the same, true Wisdom's--hic--game
Is drinking, drinking, drinking!

[_Left playing it._

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S NAVAL NOVEL.

[_Mr. Punch_ has observed with much gratification the success of
various _brochures_ professing to give, under the disguise of
retrospect, a prophetic but accurate account of the naval battle
of the immediate future. _Mr. Punch_ has read them carefully over
and over again. For some time he has been living, so to speak, in
the midst of magnificent iron-clad fleets. In vain have torpedoes
been launched on their occasionally death-dealing mission against
him, in vain have immense shells exploded in his immediate
neighbourhood. Nothing, not even the ramming of one whole squadron
by another, has succeeded in daunting him. He has remained
immovable in the midst of an appalling explosion which reduced a
ship's company to a heap of toe-nails. And now, his mind fired by
the crash of conflict and the intoxication of almost universal
slaughter, he proposes to show the world how a naval novel that
means to be accurate as well as vivid, to be bought by the public
in thousands as well as to teach useful lessons to politicians and
sailors, ought really to be written. _Mr. Punch_ may as well state
that he has _not_ submitted this story to any naval experts. His
facts speak for themselves, and require no merely professional
approval to enhance their value.]

WHO'D BE A SAILOR?

(_A Story of Blood and Battle._)