Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 6, 1891

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 6, 1891
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en376 downloads on Project Gutenberg

Subjects

English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Humour·British Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #13391.

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The Vicar's Daughter (suddenly recognising the New Curate, who is blinking unsuspectingly in the lantern rays). Oh, Mr. TOOTLER, you've just come in time to help us! The man with the lantern says he only manages the slides, and can't do the talking part. And I've asked lots of people, and no one will volunteer. Would you mind just explaining the pictures to the children? It's only a little Nursery tale--_Valentine and Orson_--I chose that, because it's less hackneyed, and has such an excellent moral, you know. I'm sure you'll do it so beautifully!

Mr. Tootler (a shy man). I--I'd do it with pleasure, I'm sure--only I really don't know anything about Valentine and Orson!

The V's D. Oh, what does that matter? I can tell you the outline in two minutes. (She tells him.) But it's got to last an hour, so you must spin it out as much as ever you can.

Mr. Tootler (to himself). Ought I to neglect such a golden opportunity of winning these young hearts? No. (Aloud.) I will--er--do my best, and perhaps I had better begin at once, as they seem to be getting--er--rather unruly at the further end of the room. (He clears his throat.) Children, you must be very quiet and attentive, and then we shall be able, as we purpose this evening, to show you some scenes illustrative of the--er--beautiful old story of Valentine and Orson, which I doubt not is familiar to you all. (Rustic applause, conveyed by stamping and shrill cheers, after which a picture is thrown on the screen representing a Village Festival.) Here, children, we have a view of--er--(with sudden inspiration)--Valentine's Native Village. It is--er--his birthday, and Valentine, being a young man who is universally beloved on account of his amiability and good conduct--(To the Vicar's D. "Is that correct?" The V.'s D. "Quite, quite correct!")--good conduct, the villagers are celebrating the--er--auspicious event by general rejoicings. How true it is that if we are only good, we may, young as we are, count upon gaining the affection and esteem of all around us! (A Youthful Rustic, with a tendency to heckle. "Ef 'ee plaze, Zur, which on 'em be Valentoine?") Valentine, we may be very sure, would not be absent on such an occasion, although, owing to the crowd, we cannot distinguish him. But, wherever he is, however he may be occupied, he little thinks that, before long, he will have to encounter the terrible Orson, the Wild Man of the Woods! Ah, dear children, we all have our Wild Man of the Woods to fight. With some of us it is--(He improves the occasion.) Our next picture represents--(To Assistant.) Sure this comes next? Oh, they're all numbered, are they? Very well--represents a forest--er--the home of Orson. If we were permitted to peep behind one of those trunks, we should doubtless see Orson himself, crouching in readiness to spring upon the unsuspecting Valentine. So, often when we--&c., &c. The next scene we shall show you represents the--er--burning of Valentine's ship. Valentine has gone on a voyage, with the object of--er--finding Orson. If the boat in the picture was only larger, we could no doubt identify Valentine, sitting there undismayed, calmly confident that, notwithstanding this--er--unfortunate interruption, he will be guided, sooner or later, to his--er--goal. Yes, dear children, if we only have patience, if we only have faith, &c., &c. Here we see--(an enormous Bison is suddenly depicted on the screen) eh? oh, yes--here we have a specimen of--er--Orson's pursuits. He chases the bison. Some of you may not know what a bison is. It is a kind of hairy cow, and--(He describes the habits of these creatures as fully as he is able. The Youthful Rustic. "Theer baint nawone a-erntin' of 'un, Zur.") What? Oh, but there is. Orson is pursuing him, only--er--the bison, being a very fleet animal, has outrun his pursuer for the moment. Sometimes we flatter ourselves that we have outrun our pursuer--but, depend upon it, &c., &c. But now let us see what Valentine is about--(Discovering, not without surprise, that the next picture is a Scene in the Arctic Regions.) Well, you see, he has succeeded in reaching the coast, and here he is--in a sledge drawn by a reindeer, with nothing to guide him but the Aurora Borealis, hastening towards the spot where he has been told he will find Orson. He doesn't despair, doesn't lose heart--he is sure that, if he only keeps on, if he--er--only continues, only perseveres--(Aside. What drivel I am talking! To Assistant. I say, are there many more of this sort? because we don't seem to be getting on!)--Well, now we come to--(a Moonlight Scene, with a Cottage in Winter, appears)--to the--ah--home of Valentine's mother. You will observe a light in the casement. By that light the good old woman is sitting, longing and praying for the return of her gallant boy. Ah, dear children, what a thing a good old mother is! (To the Vicar's Daughter. "I really can not keep on like this much longer. I'm positively certain these slides are out of order!") The V.'s D. "Oh no; I'm sure it's all right. Do please go on. They're so interested!" The Young Heckler. "'Ow bout Valentoine, Zur?--wheer be 'ee?" Ah, where is Valentine, indeed? (To Ass.) Next slide--quick! (Recognises with dismay a View of the Grand Canal.) No--but, I say--_really_ I _can't_--Here we have Valentine at Venice. He has reached that beautiful city,--well called the Queen of the Adriatic,--at last! He contemplates it from his gondola, and yet he has no heart just now to take in all the beauty of the scene. He feels that he is still no nearer to finding Orson than before. (The Young Heckler. "Naw moor be we, Zur. We ain't zeed nayther on 'em zo fur!" Tumult, and a general demand for the instant production of Orson or Valentine.) Now, children, children! this is very irregular. You must allow me to tell this story my own way. You will see them both in good time, if you only keep still! (To Ass.) I can't stand this any more. Valentine and Orson must be underneath the rest. Find them, and shove them in quick. Never mind the numbering! (The screen remains blank while the Assistant fumbles.) Well, have you got them?

The Assistant. No, Sir; I'm rather afraid they ain't here. Fact is, they've sent me out with the wrong set o' slides. This ain't Valentine and Orson--it's a miscellaneous lot, Sir!

[_Collapse of Curate as Scene closes in._

I bust suppose the Doctor dose, (I do not bead a pud!) What ails be; but that aidlbelt grows! This Subber brigs do sud. Subtibes the east wids blow like bad, Subtibes code showers pour, But daily cubs that doctor's lad,-- "The Bixture as Before!"

The Idfluedza I have got, Or I ibadgid so; Subtibes I'b cold, subtibes I'b hot, I cough, I sdeeze, I blow, But GLADSTUD's better, SBITH is well, I do dot bend. O lor!-- There's that codfonded kitchid bell; "The Bixture as Before!"

I've had at least a budth of it, Sidtz I was first struck dowd, Yet here id slippered feet I sit! By daily half-a-crowd-- For bedsud taxes by poor purse. It is ad awfud bore. This bedsud bakid be feel worse-- "The Bixture as Before!"

I'b odly a poor City clerk. Quidide is bodstrous dear; By doctor treats it as a lark, Ad tries by bide to cheer. But if by situashud goes, I'b ruid--ad two score! What cad avail the Doctor's dose-- "The Bixture as Before"?

It bay be Bicrobes, as they say, This Idfluedza pest; What batters? I bust cough--ad pay! The Doctor orders "Rest"! Bicrobes be blowed, ad Rest go hag! I'll stad this thig do bore! BARY! was that the door-bell rag? --"The Bixture as Before"!

"It is stated that the Pungwé route to Mashonaland has been again closed by the Portuguese Authorities."--_Reuter, May 24_.

Now then, young Obstructive, still playing the sentry, Where nobody wants you to watch or mount guard? Are you to rule everyone's exit and entry? Clear out, my young friend, or with you 'twill go hard. Yon Portuguese Tappertit, turn it up, do! D'ye think I'll be stopped by a monkey like you?

My Mash, that young woman! Will you bar our meeting? We're sweethearts. Will you interfere with our tryst? You pert whippersnapper, my sable-skinned sweeting My masculine wooing's too wise to resist. Shall RHODES be cut out by a small Portuguese, With a gun and a swagger? Pooh! Fiddle-de-dee!

We've put up too long with your pranks, my fine fellow, Because of your size, upon which you presume. Oh, it's no use to twirl your moustache and look yellow! Mean having that gal, howsoever you fume. You'd better behave yourself, boy, or no doubt Before very long we shall clean you right out.

Look at home, keep your own ways a little bit clearer, And don't go a-blocking up other folks' roads. Eh? You warn me off her? I mustn't come nearer? Ha, ha! My good-nature your impudence goads. Clear out, whilst you're safe, you young shrimp! Don't be rash! For I shan't let you come between me and my Mash!

A LAST WORD ON THE WHAT-YOU-MAY-CAL-DERON PICTURE.--It isn't often that one of "the inferior clergy," represented by a Clarke in orders, is pitted against an "Abbott," as recently happened in the discussion about Mr. CALDERON's picture of "_St. Elizabeth's Heroic Act of Renunciation_." In this instance the Clarke got the better of the Abbott, and the others, including Professor HUXLEY, who is always ready to rush in and invite somebody to tread on the tail of his coat, were nowhere. The Times issues its fiat, concluding the arguments on both sides--"The Times has spoken, causa finita est"--and the picture will remain one of the chief attractions in the Royal Academy Exhibition until such time as it ascends to the undisturbed Oilysium of The Happily Immortals. In the meantime, being on the line, Mr. CALDERON will be perfectly satisfied if his picture be generally recognised as "_St. Elisabeth of Well-Hung-ary_."

Take a handful of jokelets and beat them up small, In sophistical fudge, with no logic at all; Then pepper the mixture with snigger and jeer; Add insolent "sauce," and a soupçon of sneer; Shred stale sentiment fine, just as much as you want, And thicken with cynical clap-trap and cant, Plus oil--of that species which "smells of the lamp"-- Then lighten with squibs, which, of course, should be damp; Serve up, with the air of a true Cordon Bleu, And you'll find a few geese to taste it and praise you!

Mrs. Grundy. My dear! Why, it's absolutely shocking! All the papers are ringing with the impropriety! Couldn't possibly go!

Second Miss G. But, Mamma dear, the Boat-Race Scene is so excellent. We might sit at the back of the box, and put our fingers in our ears when you signalled to us.

Mrs. Grundy. Well, as you say, the Boat-Race Scene is excellent, and as for impropriety, we must ignore it.

Second Miss G. It is simply magnificent, and the dialogue is so interesting. Twenty years ago they said it was improper! As IBSEN would observe, "Only fancy that!"

Mrs. Grundy. Did they? Well, as you say, the Boat-Race Scene is excellent; and as for the impropriety,--in these days of Ghosts, Pillars of Society, and Dancing Girls, we haven't time to notice it!

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