Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, September 26, 1891

A little more grammar, a touch of the file To smooth the rough edge of his tongue and his style; And some friends, who could soften his temper or check it, Might amend Baron GRIMTHORPE, who once was called BECKETT.

NO. II.

Some scorn for the faddists who ask us to hug, Not with ropes but with pity, the pestilent Thug, And some sense (of which Fate, it would seem, says he shall lack,) Of the value of logic would much improve TALLACK.

ANOTHER STRIKE THREATENED.--The advent of the brother of the reigning King of SIAM threatens to cause embarrassment in some English houses where HIS HIGHNESS might expect to be received. JEAMES has positively declined to throw open a door and announce, "Prince DAMRONG!" "Such langwidge," he says, "is unbecoming and beneath Me--leastways unless it is remembered in the wages."

To Perpetuate the Memory of Sir SAMUEL WILSON, Kt., A good Husband, a kind Father, A great Sheep-Farmer. Twice elected to the Legislative Assembly of Victoria, He once sat for the borough of Portsmouth. He built Wilson Hall for Melbourne University, And bought Hughenden Manor for Himself. He introduced Salmon into Australian Waters, And married his Eldest Son To the Sixth Daughter of the Duchess of MARLBOROUGH.

Of such is the Colony of Victoria.

"--gently this evening the ripples break On the pebbles beneath the trees, With a music as low as the full leaves make, When they stir in some soft sea-breeze."

One of my "Co." says he always reads anything that comes in his way bearing the trade-mark BLACKWOOD. His faith has been justified on carrying off with him on a quiet holiday, His Cousin Adair, by GORDON ROY. The book has all the requisites of a good novel, including the perhaps rarest one of literary style. Cousin Adair is well worth knowing, and her character is skilfully portrayed. As a foil against this high-minded, pure-souled unselfish girl, there are sketched in two or three of the sort of people, men and women, more frequently met with in this wicked world. But Cousin Adair is good enough to leaven the lump. GORDON ROY is evidently a nom de plume that might belong to man or woman. My "Co." is inclined to think, from certain subtle touches, that he has been entertained through three volumes by a lady.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

With a title so lucky (though luck's all my eye), Your book's sure of readers I'll wager my head. For not even a Critic will dare to reply, When he's asked to review it, "I'll take it as re(a)d."

FROM THE LATEST COLWELL-HATCHNEY EXAMINATION PAPER IN FOREIGN LANGUAGES FOR THE CAKE SCHOLARSHIP.--_Question_. What is the feminine of Beau temps? Answer (immediately given). Belle-Wether.

SCENE--_A Bridge over the Pegnitz, at Nuremberg. Time, afternoon. The shadows of the old gabled and balconied houses are thrown sharply on the reddish-yellow water. Above the steep speckled roofs, the spires of St. Lorenz glitter against the blue sky. CULCHARD is leaning listlessly upon the parapet of the bridge_.

Culchard (to himself). How mediæval it all is, and how infinitely restful! (He yawns.) What a blessed relief to be without that fellow PODBURY! He's very careful to keep out of my way--I've scarcely seen him since I've been here. He must find it dreadfully dull. (He sighs.) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of the conical caps of those towers. I _ought_--but I don't. I fancy that half-engagement to MAUD TROTTER must have, scared away the Muse. I wonder if PODBURY has really gone yet? (Here a thump on the back disposes of any doubt as to this.) Er--so you're still at Nuremberg? [Awkwardly.

Podbury (cheerfully). Rather! Regular ripping old place this--suits me down to the ground. And how are you getting on?

Culch. Perfectly, thanks. My mind is being--er--stimulated here in the direction most congenial to it.

Podb. So's mine. By the way, have you got a book--don't mean a novel, but a regular improving book--the stodgier the better--to lend a fellow?

Culch. Well, I brought an Epitome of Herbert Spencer's Synthetic Philosophy away with me to dip into occasionally. It seems a very able summary, and you are welcome to it, if it's of any use to you.

Podb. SPENCER, eh?--he's a stiff kind of old bird, ain't he? He'll do me to-rights, thanks.

Culch. It strikes me, PODBURY, that you must find the time rather long, to want a book of that kind. If you wish to resume our--ah--original relations, I am quite ready to overlook what I am sure was only a phase of not unnatural disappointment.

Podb. (cheerily). Oh, that's all right, old fellow. I've got over all that business. (He colours slightly.) How soon did you think of moving on?

Culch. (briskly). As soon as you please. We might start for Constance to-morrow, if you like.

Podb. (hesitating) Well, you see, it's just this: there's a fellow staying at my hotel--PRENDERGAST, his name is--rattling good sort--and I've rather chummed up with him, and--and he's travelling with a relation of his, and--well, the fact is, they rather made a point of my going on to Constance with them, don't you see? But I daresay we could work it so as to go on all together. I'll see what they say about it.

Culch. (stiffly). I'm exceedingly obliged--but so large a party is scarcely--however, I'll let you know whether I can join you or not this evening. Are you--er--going anywhere in particular just now?

Podb. Well, yes. I've got to meet PRENDERGAST at the Café Noris. We're going to beat up some stables, and see if we can't hire a couple of gees for an hour or two before dinner. Do you feel inclined for a tittup?

Culch. Thanks, but I am no equestrian. (To himself, after PODBURY's departure.) He seems to manage well enough without me. And yet I do think my society would be more good for him than--. Why did he want to borrow that book, though? Can my influence after all-- (He walks on thoughtfully, till he finds himself before an optician's window in which a mechanical monkey is looking through a miniature telescope; the monkey suddenly turns its head and gibbers at him. This familiarity depresses him, and he moves away, feeling lonelier than ever.)

ON THE TERRACE OF THE BURG. HALF AN HOUR LATER.

Culch. (on a seat commanding a panorama of roofs, gables, turrets, and spires). Now this is a thing that can only be properly enjoyed when one is by oneself. The mere presence of PODBURY--well, thank goodness, he's found more congenial company. (He sighs.) That looks, like an English girl sketching on the next seat. Rather a fine profile, so regular--general air of repose about her. Singular, now I think of it, how little repose there is about MAUD. (The Young Lady rises and walks to the parapet.) Dear me, she has left her india-rubber behind her. I really think I ought-- (He rescues the india-rubber, which he restores to the owner.) Am I mistaken in supposing that this piece of india-rubber is your property?

The Y.L. (in musically precise tones). Your supposition is perfectly correct. I was under the impression that it would be safe where it was for a few moments; but I am obliged to you, nevertheless. I find india-rubber quite indispensable in sketching.

Culch. I can quite understand that. I--I mean that it reduces the--er--paralysing sense of irrevocability.

The Y.L. You express my own meaning exactly.

[_CULCHARD, not being quite sure of his own, is proportionately pleased._

Culch. You nave chosen an inspiring scene, rich with historical interest.

The Y.L. (enthusiastically). Yes, indeed. What names rise to one's mind instinctively MELANCHTHON, JOHN HUSS, KRAFT, and PETER VISCHER, and DÜRER, and WOHLGEMUT, and MAXIMILIAN THE FIRST, and LOUIS OF BAVARIA!

Culch. (who has read up the local history, and does not intend to be beaten at this game). Precisely. And the imperious MARGRAVE OF BRANDENBURG, and WALLENSTEIN; and GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, and GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN. One can almost see their--er--picturesque personalities still haunting the narrow streets as we look down.

The Y.L. I find it impossible to distinguish even the streets from here, I confess, but you probably see with the imagination of an artist. Are you one by any chance?

Culch. Only in words; that is, I record my impressions in a poetic form. A perfect sonnet may render a scene, a mood, a passing thought, more indelibly than the most finished sketch; may it not?

The Y.L. That is quite true; indeed, I occasionally relieve my feelings by the composition of Greek or Latin verses, which I find, on the whole, better adapted to express the subtler emotions. Don't you agree with me there?

Culch. (who has done no Greek or Latin verse since he left school). Doubtless. But I am hindering your sketch?

The Y.L. No, I was merely saturating my mind with the general effect. I shall not really begin my sketch till to-morrow. I am going now. I hope the genius of the place will inspire you.