Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 100 February 21 1891 by Various

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PUNCH,

VOL. 100.

February 21, 1891.

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

And still the iceberg was moving. Within its central chamber sat a venerable man, lightly clad in nankeen breeches, a cap of liberty, and a Liberty silk shirt. He was writing cabalistically. He did not know why, nor did he know what "cabalistically" meant. This was his punishment. Why was he to be punished? Those who read shall hear. The walls of the chamber were fitted with tubes, and electric wires, and knobs and buttons. A bright fire burned on the hearth. The thick Brussels carpet was littered with pot-boilers, all fizzing, and sputtering, and steaming, like so many young Curates at a Penny Reading. Suddenly the Philosopher looked up. He spoke to himself. "Everything is ready," he said, and pressed a button by his side. There was a sound as of a Continent expectorating, a distant nose seemed to twang, the door opened, and a tall lantern-jawed gentleman, wearing a goat-beard and an expression of dauntless cunning, stepped into the room.

"I guess you were waiting round for me," said Colonel ZEDEKIAH D. GOBANG , and sat down in an empty armchair, as if nothing had happened.

The Philosopher appeared not to notice. "Next character, please," he said, pulling out a long stop, and placing his square leg on the wicket which gave admission to his laboratory, while he waited for the entrance of the Third Man. There came a murmur like the buzz of a ton of blasting powder, in a state of excitement. A choir of angels seemed to whisper "Beefsteak and Pale Ale," as Lord JOHN BULLPUP dashed, without a trace of emotion, into the room, and sneezed three times without stopping to wipe his boots on the mat.

"Lend me your ears," said the Philosopher. They lent them, but without interest. Yet they were all keen business men. "Attention, my friends!" he continued, somewhat annoyed. "You know why I have summoned you. We have to make another journey together. The moon, the sea, the earth--we have voyaged and journeyed to them, and they are exhausted. It remains to visit the Sun, and to perform the journey in an iceberg. Do you see? Colonel GOBANG will supply the craft, Lord JOHN BULLPUP the stupid courage, and you, M. le Docteur," he added, admiringly, "will of course take the cake."

He paused, and waited for Lord JOHN's reply. It came prompt, and in the expected words.

"Is it a plum-pudding cake?" said Lord JOHN. The rest laughed heartily. They loved their jokes, small and old.

"Are we agreed?"

"We are."

"Have you anything to ask?"

"Nothing. When do we start?"

"We are on our way."

"Shall we not melt as we approach?"

"Certainly not."

"How so?"

"We shall have a constant frost."

"Are you sure?"

"Good. But how to raise the wind?"

When the explosion narrated in the last chapter took place, the Philosopher had been looking out of the window. The shock had hurled him with the speed of a pirate 'bus through the air. Soon he became a speck. Shortly afterwards he reached a point in his flight situated exactly 40,000 miles over a London publisher's office. There was a short contest. Centrifugal and centripetal fought for the mastery, and the latter was victorious. The publisher was at home. The novel was accepted, and the Philosopher started to rejoin his comrades lost in the boundless tracts of space.

"My faith," said Lord JOHN, "I am getting tired of this. Shall we never reach the Sun?"

"Courage, my friend," was the well-known reply of the brave little Doctor. "We deviated from our course one hair's-breadth on the twelfth day. This is the fortieth day, and by the formula for the precession of the equinoxes, squared by the parallelogram of an ellipsoidal bath-bun fresh from the glass cylinder of a refreshment bar, we find that we are now travelling in a perpetual circle at a distance of one billion marine gasmeters from the Sun. I have now accounted for the milk in the cocoa-nut."

"But not," said the Philosopher, as he popped up through a concealed trap-door, "for the hair outside. That remains for another volume." With that, he rang a gong. The iceberg splintered into a thousand pieces. The voyagers were each hurled violently down into their respective countries, where a savage public was waiting to devour them.

TOLSTOI ON TOBACCO.

TOLSTOI fuming, in a pet, Raves against the cigarette; Says it's bad at any time, Leads to every kind of crime; And the man who smokes, quoth he, Is as wicked as can be.

TOLSTOI knew a man who said He cut off a woman's head; But, when half the deed was done. Lo, the murderer's courage gone! And he finished, 'tis no joke, Only by the aid of smoke.

TOLSTOI asks us, when do boys First essay Nicotian joys? And he answers, quite aghast, When their innocence is past. Gamblers smoke, and then again Smoking pleases the insane.

TOLSTOI, when he writes this stuff, Swears he's serious enough; Lately Marriage earned his sneers; At Tobacco now he jeers; Proving that, without the weed, Some folks may be mad indeed.

Oh, my love my passion can hear--and see, Over the garden wall; She is sighing, and casting sheeps' eyes at me, Over the garden wall: Miss CANADA muses; look at her there! My wooing and BULL's she is bound to compare, And she pretty soon will to join me prepare, Over the Garden Wall!

Over the garden wall, O sweetest girl of all! Come along do, you'll never regret; We were made for one another, you bet! 'Tis time our lips in kisses met, Over the Garden Wall!

Your father will stamp and your father will rave, Over the garden wall; And like an old madman no doubt will behave, Over the garden wall. M'KINLEY has riled him, he's lost his head. MAC's Tariff is stiff, but if me you'll wed, I'll give Reciprocity, darling, instead, Over the Garden Wall!

One day you'll jump down on the other side, Over the garden wall; There's plenty of room, and my arms are wide. Over the garden wall: JOHNNY may jib, and Sir JOHN may kick, I have an impression I'll lick them--slick; So come like a darling and join me quick, Over the Garden Wall!

Over the garden wall! Dollars, dear, rule us all. Patriot sentiment's pretty, and yet Interest sways in the end, you bet! MERCIER's right; so pop, my pet, Over the Garden Wall!

Where there's a will there's always a way, Over the garden wall! MACDONALD's a Boss, but he's had his day, Over the garden wall! Tariffs take money, but weddings are cheap, So wait till old JOHNNY is snoring asleep, Then give him the slip, and to JONATHAN creep. Over the Garden Wall!

MOST APPROPRIATE.--The Bishop of DURHAM has appointed Mr. T. DIBDIN Chancellor of the Diocese of Durham. He already holds the Chancellorships of Exeter and Rochester. Three Chancellorships, all on the high sees too! "THOMAS DIBDIN" is the right man in the right place.

PROVERB "UP TO DATE."--"Cumming events cast their shadows before." And let's hope the shadows will be speedily dispelled.

HOW IT'S DONE.

OLD TIMES REVIVED.

THE ETHICS OF MATCH-BOXES.

What is the true explanation of the use which people make of matches--of safety matches, wooden matches, wax matches, and, less commonly, of fusees? Ask any man why he uses such things, and he will tell you that he does it to get a light, or because others do it.

Some may not yet be convinced that the striking of matches is suggestive and immoral. To me nearly everything is suggestive, but there are some stupid persons in England. I will be patient with them, and give them more evidence.

Finally, you strike a match that never struck you, that never offended you in any way. Is that just, or even manly? Yet, in nine cases out of ten, the law takes no notice of the offence.

I do not think I ever met anybody who was quite as moral, or quite as original, as I am. You should give a complete set of my works to each of your children. I might have generalised on the ill-effects of those vices from a special case--my own case. Had I done so, I could have got it printed. I can get anything printed that I write. I preferred to take a newer line, and to show you how vile you are when you use matches. Everything is vile. But you are wondering, perhaps, how a great novelist becomes a small faddist. You must wait till next month, and then read my article on the immorality of parting one's hair with a comb. A common table-fork is the only pure thing with which one can part one's hair. Combs deaden the conscience. But more of this anon.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

THE RIVAL "JARVIES;"

OR, THE IRISH JAUNTING CAR.

When first I knew CH-RL-S ST-RT, 'Twas in a happier day, The Jaunting Car he drove in Went gaily all the way. But now the Car seems all askew, Lop-wheel'd, and slack of spring; Myself and WILL, in fear of a spill, Feel little disposed to sing, As we sit on the Jaunting Car, The drivers at open war, Seem little to care For a Grand Old Fare, As they fight for the Jaunting Car.

CH-RL-S ST-RT at one rein, Sir, And J-ST-N at the other. Give prospect small of progress In pummelling one another. As Honest JOHN my chance is gone Of helping ill-used PAT, If the Union of Hearts in Shindy starts, And the Message of Peace falls flat. WILL and I on the Jaunting Car, With the couple of Jarvies at war, Are sad to our souls, Wherefore win at the polls If we lose on the Jaunting Car?

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