Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, August 2, 1890

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, August 2, 1890
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en412 downloads on Project Gutenberg

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English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Poetry·Humour

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #12323.

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My akwaintance among eminent selebraties seems to be rapidly encreasing. Within what Amlet calls a week, a little week, after my larst intervue with the emenent young Swell as amost lost his art to the pretty Bridesmade, I have been onored with the most cordial notice of a werry emenent Amerrycane, who cums to Lundon wunce ewery year, and makes a good long stay, and allus cums to one or other of our Grand Otels. He says he's taken quite a fansy to me, and for this most singler reason. He says as I'm the ony Englishman as he has ewer known who can allus giv a answer rite off to ewery question as he arsks me! So much so, that he says as how as I ort to be apinted the Guide, Feelosofer, and Frend of ewery one of the many Wisiters as we allus has a staying here!

Well, all I can say is, that if I affords the heminent Amerrycane jest about harf the fun and emusement as he does me, I must be a much cleverer feller than I ewer thort myself, or than my better harf ewer told me as I was. Ah, wouldn't he jest make her stare a bit if she herd sum of his most owdacious sayings. Why, he acshally says, that the hole system of marrying for life is all a mistake, and not consistent with our changable nature! And that we ort to take our Wives on lease, as we does our houses, wiz., for sewen or fourteen years, and that in a great majority of cases they woud both be preshus glad when the end of the lease came! And he tries werry hard to make me bleeve, tho in course he doesn't succeed, that in one part of his grate and staggering Country, ewerybody does jest as he likes in these rayther himportant matters, and has jest as many Wives as he can afford to keep, and that the King of that place has about a dozen of 'em! Ah, if you wants to hear a Teel downright staggerer as nobody carnt posserbly bleeve, don't "ask the Pleaceman," but arsk an Amerrycane!

He wanted werry much to go to Brighton, and see our new Grand Metropole Otel opened last Satterday; so I spoke to our most gentlemanly Manager, and he gave him a ticket that took him down first-class, and brort him back, and took him into the Otel, and supplied him with heverythink as art coud wish for, or supply, and as much Shampane as he could posserbly drink--and, when there ain't nothink to pay for it, it's reelly estonishing what a quantity a gennelman can dispose of--; and the way in which he afterwards told me as he showed his grattitude for what he called a reel first-class heavening's enjoyment was, to engage a delicious little sweet of apartments for a fortnite, so we shall see him no more for that length of time. He told me as he had seen all the great Otels of Urope and Amerrykey, but he was obligated to confess, in his own emphatic langwidge, that the Brighton Metropole "licked all creation!" I didn't quite understand him, but I've no doubt it was intended as rayther complimentary. He rayther staggered me by asking what it cost, but I was reddy with my anser, and boldly said, jest exaoly a quarter of a million.

He told me that, in his own grand country, he was ginerally regarded as a werry truthful man, which, of course, I was pleased to hear, for sum of his statements was that staggering as wood have made me dowt it in a feller-countryman. For hinstance, he acshally tried to make me bleeve that his Country is about 20 times as big as ours! Well, in course, common politeness made me pretend to bleeve him, speshally as he's remarkable liberal to me, as most of his countrymen is, but I coudn't help thinking as it woud have been wiser of him if he had made his werry long Bow jest a leetle shorter. He's a remarkabel fine-looking gennelman, and his manners quite comes up to my description. ROBERT.

Henry Irving, will the Master feel the fierce and bracing breeze, As you wander by the margin of the restless Eastern seas?

Save the seagull slowly swirling none shall hear the tale of woe, Learn how dark the life that ended in the fatal "Kelpie's Flow."

'Mid the murmur of the ocean you will tell how Edgar felt When his Lucy broke her troth-plight, and he flung down Craigengelt,

Fitting place for actor's study, all that long and lonely shore; Yonder point methinks as Wolf's Crag should be known for evermore.

Henceforth will the place be haunted when the midnight hour draws nigh: Men shall see the Master standing stern against the stormy sky.

Faint, impalpable as shadow from the cloudland, Lucy there Shall keep tryst; the moon's effulgence not more golden than her hair.

And, in coming nights of Autumn, when the vast Lyceum rings With reverberating plaudits, and the town thy praises sings,

Memories of the sands at Lowestoft shall be with you ere you sleep; In your ears once more shall echo diapason of the deep.

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, A leader on weak women and their woe, In toil and industry, in art and trade, In this hard world below.

And for awhile the thought of the sad part Played by them and of Fate's ill-balanced scales, Moistened mine eyelids, and made ache mine heart, Remembering these strange tales

Of woman's miseries in every land, I saw wherever poverty draws breath Woman and anguish walking hand in hand, The dreary road to death.

Those pallid sempstresses of HOOD'S great song Peopled the hollow dark, not now alone, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And grief's sad monotone,

From hearts, like flints, beaten by tyrant hoofs; And I saw crowds in sombre sweating-dens, With reeking walls and dank and dripping roofs-- Fit scarce for styes or pens.

Death at home's sin-stained threshold; honour's fall Dislodging from her throne love's household pet, And wan-faced purity a tyrant's thrall, With wild eyes sorrow-wet.

And unsexed women facing heated blasts And Tophet fumes, and fluttering tongues of fire; And virtue staked on most unholy casts, And honour sold for hire:

Squadrons and troops of girls of brazen air, Tramping the tainted city to and fro, With feverish flauntings veiling chill despair And deeply-centred woe.

So shape chased shape. I saw a neat-garbed nurse, Wan with excessive work; and, bowed with toil, A shop-girl sickly, of the primal curse Each looked the helpless spoil.

Anon I saw a lady, at night's fall Stiller than chiseled marble, standing there; A daughter of compassion, slender, tall, And delicately fair.

Her weariness with shame and with surprise My spirit shocked: she turning on my face The heavy glances of unrested eyes, Spoke mildly in her place.

"I have long duties; ask thou not my name Some say I fret at a fair destiny. Many I have to tend; to make my claim Some venture: we shall see."

"I trust, good lady, that in a fair field, The case 'twixt you and tyranny will be tried," I said; then turning promptly I appealed To one who stood beside.

She said, "Poor pay, and plenteous fines, and worse, Made me rebel amidst my mates' applause. To insubordination I'm averse, But have I not good cause?

"We are cut off from hope in our hard place, Sweet factory? Ah, well, our sweets are few. We strike for justice. Man might show some grace, I think, Sir; do not you?"

Turning I saw, ranging a flowery pile, One sitting in an entry dark and cold; A girl with hectic cheeks, and hollow smile; Wired roses there she sold,

Or strove to sell; but often on her ear The harrying voice of stern policedom struck, And chased her from her vantage, till a tear Fell at her "wretched luck."

Again I saw a wan domestic drudge Scuttering across a smug suburban lawn; Tired with the nightly watch, the morning trudge, The toil at early dawn.

And then a frail and thin-clad governess, Hurrying to daily misery through the rain. Toiling, with scanty food, and scanty dress, Long hours for little gain.

Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back To her dull garret-home through the chill night, Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack Of harsh commercial might!

These I beheld, the world's sad woman-throng, Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god, Their destiny to creep and drudge along, And kiss grief's chastening rod.

And then I saw a spirit surface-fair, A Mænad-masked betrayer, base, impure, But with sin's glittering garb, and radiant air, Gay laugh, and golden lure.

It smiled, it beckoned--whither? To the abyss! But of that throng how many may be drawn By the gay glamour and the siren kiss To where sin's soul-gulfs yawn?

How many? No response my vision gave. Make answer, if ye may, ye lords of gain! Make answer, if ye know, ye chiders grave Of late revolt, and vain!

Dream of Fair Women? Nay, for work and want Mar maiden comeliness and matron grace. Let sober judgment, clear of gush and cant, The bitter problem face!

ERIN AVENGED.--The Irish champions, HAMILTON, PIM, and STOKER, have won the "All-England" (it should be All-Irish) Tennis Championship, both Single and Double, beating the hitherto invincible Brothers RENSHAW, and other lesser Lights of the Lawn. And now at Bisley the Irish Team have, for the third time in succession, won the Elcho Challenge Shield. The old caveat will have to be changed into "No _non_-Irish need apply!"

QUITE THE NEWEST SONGS.--"_Over the Sparkling Serpentine_." By the author and composer of "_Across the Still Lagoon_." "_Five Men in a Cab_." By the ditto ditto of "_Three Men in a Boat_;" "_Hates Copper Nightmare_" to follow "_Love's Golden Dream_;" and the "_General's Dustpan_;" also, shortly; a companion song to the popular "_Admiral's Broom_."

"A GATHERING OF THE CLAN."--According to Debrett, the Earl of CLANCARTY (by the way, the Patent of Nobility granted to this family in 1793, is consequently not a hundred years old) bears on his arms "A Sun in splendour." The authority is too good to imagine for a moment that this can be a misprint!

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