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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 103 September 17 1892 by Various
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Ebook has 118 lines and 13174 words, and 3 pages
Amid these uncomfortable surroundings CHEPSTOWE described himself as penetrated with raptures of fierce joy at having shaken himself free from the world and its puling insincerities to dwell amid "Unpitying shapes of death's dread twin despair," where "Rapine and slaughter raged, and none rebuked." Another reviewer observed that "The soul of ARCHER's, the tavern-brawler's glorious victim, KIT MARLOWE, has taken again a habitation of clay. She speaks trumpet-tongued by the mouth of Mr. CHEPSTOWE. We note in these outpourings of dramatic passion an audacity, an energy, an enthusiasm, that are calculated to shake Peckham Rye to its centre, and make Balham tremble in its ridiculous carpet slippers. Who--to take only one example--but Mr. CHEPSTOWE or MARLOWE could have written thus of 'Rapture'?--
"'Not in the mouths of prating men who deem That God dwells in the senseless clay they mould, Who live their little lives and die their deaths, Lapped in a smug respectability; Who never dreamt of breaking puny laws Formed for a puny race of grovellers; But in the blood-stained track of flaming swords, Wielded by knotty arms in Man's despite, Or on the wings of crashing battle-balls, Bone-shattering dealers of a thousand wounds, The roaring heralds of indignant God, There rapture dwells, and there I too would dwell.'
"Here is power that would furnish forth a whole legion of the poetasters who crawl through our effete literature!" But I cannot pursue these memories. They are too painful. For who speaks of CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to cumber his bookshelves with the volumes in which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the tin pots delivered his shrieking message? His very name has flickered out; and when I spoke of him the other day, I was asked, by a person of some intelligence, if I referred to CHEPSTOWE who had just made 166 playing cricket for the Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the lion and the lizard keep his courts, and yet JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in his day. He blustered through many editions, he bellowed his contempt at a shrinking world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by the aid of newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and to-day the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded with that of an eminent cricket-player!
My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to wipe him out so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?
Farewell for a space. I may have to write to you again.
Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.
PHANTASMA-GORE-IA!
They stand alone on the moonlit spot,-- Sing Ho--ho! and Ha--ha! there! One is the villain, and one is not, But the heroine's father. They stand alone on the patch of light -- Oh, 'tis a glorious place and night For a Murder Scene! Rather!
They talk of deeds -- Sing Ha--ha! and Ho-ho! there! The heavy father, to reason blind, Has them with him to show there! The deeds relate to the old man's will; The villain wants them to pay a bill! The night is cold, and the night is still Let the music be slow there!
TO MY LUGGAGE-LABELS.
Wonderful pictures of purple and gold, Ultramarine, and vermilion, and bistre; Splendid inscriptions of hostels untold, Touching memorials breathing of "Mr.;" "Schweizerhof," "Bernerhof," "Hofs" by the score; Signs of the Bear and the Swan, and the Bellevue, Gasthaus, Albergo, Posada, galore-- Beautiful wrecks, how I wish I could shelve you!
Visions of Venice--her stones and her smells! Whiffs of Cologne--aromatic mementos; Visiting cards, so to speak, of hotels; Como's, Granada's, Zermatt's and Sorrento's Ah! how ye cling to my boxes and bags, Glued with a pigment that baffles removal; Dogged adherents in dirt and in rags; Labels, receive my profane disapproval!
Much as I prized you, when roaming afield, Loved you, when Life was metheglyn and skittles, Wished you the spell of remembrance to wield, Calling the scenery back and the victuals; Still, when it blows and it rains, and it irks, Here in apartments adjoining a seaview, After a meal that would terrify Turks, Somehow I feel I can scarcely believe you.
THE UGLY FACE: A MORAL DUTY
Some years ago a babe was born--I need not name the place-- With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face, Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits, While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.
His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort, His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short; That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear, When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."
Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch, For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch; And in course of time he grew up--though a loving mother's joy-- Into quite a champion specimen of the genius "ugly boy."
At school his teasing comrades gave him many comic names, And he became the victim of all sorts of naughty games; Nor did the master like him, for he felt that such a face, Mid a row of ruddy youngsters, was extremely out of place.
In time, his father placed him in the City--as a clerk-- Where his personal appearance excited much remark; But he fell out with his principal, whose customers complained, That his clerk was making faces, and said "Bosh!" when he explained.
On perceiving from the office that he never would be missed, As Mr. GILBERT puts it, he determined to enlist; And so one summer afternoon he started forth in search Of a Sergeant who perambulates close by St. Martin's Church.
In a fountain which played handy--it was near Trafalgar Square-- He was rushing off to drown himself, the victim of despair, When he knocked against a person he'd not seen for quite an age, Who had left his home some years before, and gone upon the Stage.
"With a mouth like yours to grin with, and your too delicious squint, And the ears that Nature's given you with such a lack of stint,-- No matter what an author may provide you with to speak, You're a ready-made Comedian--with your fifty quid a week."
And it was so. Though he started at a figure rather less Than the one that I have mentioned, still the truth I but express When I say he now is earning such a wage as wouldn't shock A respectable Archbishop or a fashionable jock.
And the face that all men sneered at, now is very much admired, And the public ne'er, apparently, of watching it grows tired, And the Merchant who dismissed him, in the Stalls is wont to sit, While the Sergeant and his sweetheart are applauding from the Pit.
"PUTTING ON THE HUG."
The Bear! Reminds me of a horrid dream I had that night. A funny one, But startling! I awoke with such a scream! I dreamt some link Bound me to a big Bruin, rampant, tall, A regular Russian Shagbag, In whose close hug I felt extremely small, And squeezable as a rag-bag.
FROM THE VALE OF LLANGOLFLYN.
A WELSH GOLFER.
WHY YOUNG MEN DON'T MARRY.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The reason is obvious. It is entirely owing to your advice to those about to marry--Don't! I myself have been on the brink of proposing to several thousand delightful girls, a large per centage of which, I am convinced, would have gladly accepted me. I have in every case been restrained by the recollection of your advice.--Your obedient and obliged Servant,
HUGH ADOLPHUS LATCH-KEY.
Yours, thoroughly aggrieved, BERTIE COOL-CHEEK,
P.S.--If ETHEL really didn't understand her position, and would like to reopen the matter, I would not be haughty about it.--B. C-C.
Yours, just-a-little-disappointed, ETHEL TRINKERTON,
A HINT TO EDITORS.
TO A PHEASANT.
A SPORTSMANLIKE SONG FOR SEPTEMBER.
I Stand in the copses sighing As the cruel hours creep by, And I see you slowly flying Above the trees on high. Your wondrous wealth, of feather Has weaved a subtle spell, And I softly wonder whether You'd really taste as well. For my hand is fairly steady Though my heart is beating fast, Oh, tell me that you too are ready To make this hour your last. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may; Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day? Oh! tell me why, why should I remember With a thought of wild alarm, That all through the month of sweet September You should be free from harm. Why, why does your beauty enslave me, As it does, you're bound to allow Oh! say but the word that will save me, And tell me to shoot you now. For my heart is wildly beating , And the moments madly fleeting Are going to come never more. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may, Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day?
"THE GRATUITOUS OPINION."
The Eminent Lawyer was about to return to his private address, when there was a knock at the door of his Chambers. He attended to the summons himself, and found facing him an elderly and carefully dressed individual.
"That some of my suburban neighbours desire the information, must be my excuse for troubling you," said the visitor.
"Nay, do not apologise," returned the Eminent Q.C., "it is my pleasantest duty to give legal tips or applications to anybody. It is not altogether lucrative, as I deliver them for nothing, but then on the other hand, they are suitable for insertion in the papers, and that is a comforting consideration. What can I do for you?"
"I have to ask you on behalf of my suburban neighbours," continued the visitor, "whether there is any principle which is accepted by Judges to regulate their decisions in cases where drunkenness seems to be the incentive of crime?"
"I shall only be too glad to find a solution to a problem which appears one of great difficulty--the more especially as certain inhabitants of the suburbs are so deeply interested in the subject. It seems to me that some Judges think one way and some another."
"That is strange," murmured the visitor. "Cannot their Lordships come to a common conclusion?"
"I am infinitely obliged to you for the information," said the visitor, "as now I know what to do."
"You are not homicidal, I trust!" exclaimed the Lawyer, jumping up from his chair, and taking protection behind a desk. "I have the greatest possible objection to homicidal clients."
"Be under no apprehension," was the reply. "I have a strong desire to shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve to do it. If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?"
The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied. "I have no wish to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted my time for consideration, I would propose that you should try the matter for yourself. Become intoxicated, put yourself within the clutches of the law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap."
"You are very good," returned the would-be homicide, "but I have one difficulty. When I make up my mind to remove a person by unconventional means , and consume the necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication--"
"Yes," interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.
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