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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 107 August 11 1894 by Various
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VOL. 107.
August 11, 1894.
LORD ORMONT'S MATE AND MATEY'S AMINTA.
And now the climax comes not with tongue-lolling sheep-fleece wolves, ears on top remorselessly pricked for slaughter of the bleating imitated lamb, here a fang pointing to nethermost pit not of stomach but of Acheron, tail waving in derision of wool-bearers whom the double-rowed desiring mouth soon shall grip, food for mamma-wolf and baby-wolf, papa-wolf looking on, licking chaps expectant of what shall remain; and up goes the clamour of flocks over the country-side, and up goes howling of shepherds shamefully tricked by AEsop-fable artifice or doggish dereliction of primary duty; for a watch has been set through which the wolf-enemy broke paws on the prowl; and the King feels this, and the Government, a slab-faced jubber-mubber of contending punies, party-voters to the front, conscience lagging how far behind no man can tell, and the country forgotten, a lout dragging his chaw-bacon hobnails like a flask-fed snail housed safely, he thinks, in unbreakable shell soon to be broken, and no man's fault, while the slow country sinks to the enemy, ships bursting, guns jammed, and a dull shadow of defeat on a war-office drifting to the tide-way of unimagined back-stops on a lumpy cricket-field of national interests. But this was a climax revealed to the world. The Earl was deaf to it. Lady CHARLOTTE dumbed it surprisingly. Change the spelling, put a for u and n for b in the dumbed, and you have the way MORSFIELD mouthed it, and MATEY swimming with BROWNY full in the Harwich tide; head under heels up down they go in Old Ocean, a glutton of such embraces, lapping softly on a pair of white ducks tar-stained that very morning and no mistake.
"I have you fast!" cried MATEY.
"Catch as catch can," was her next word. Plop went a wave full in the rosy mouth. "Where's the catch of this?" stuttered the man.
"A pun, a pun!" bellowed the lady. "But not by four-in-hand from London."
She had him there. He smiled a blue acquiescence. So they landed, and the die was cast, ducks changed, and the goose-pair braving it in dry clothes by the kitchen fire. There was nothing else to be done; for the answer confessed to a dislike of immersions two at a time, and the hair clammy with salt like cottage-bacon on a breakfast-table.
Lord ORMONT sat with the jewels seized from the debating, unbeaten sister's grasp.
"She is at Marlow," he opined.
"Was," put in Lady CHARLOTTE.
The answer blew him for memory.
"MORSFIELD's dead," his lordship ventured; "jobbed by a foil with button off."
"And a good job too."
Lady CHARLOTTE was ever on the crest-wave of the moment's humour. He snicked a back-stroke to the limits, shaking the sparse hair of repentance to the wind of her jest. But the unabashed one continued.
"I'll not call on her."
"You shall," said he.
"Shan't," was her lightning-parry.
"You shall," he persisted.
"Never. Her head is a water-flower that speaks at ease in the open sea. How call on a woman with a head like that?"
The shock struck him fair and square.
"We wait," he said, and the conflict closed with advantage to the petticoat.
A footman bore a letter. His step was of the footman order, calves stuffed to a longed-for bulbousness, food for donkeys if any such should chance: he presented it.
"I wait," he murmured.
"Whence and whither comes it?"
"Postmark may tell."
"Best open it," said the cavalry general, ever on the dash for open country where squadrons may deploy right shoulders up, serre-files in rear, and a hideous clatter of serjeant-majors spread over all. He opened it. It was AMINTA's letter. She announced a French leave-taking. The footman still stood. Lord ORMONT broke the silence.
But her punishment was certain. For it must be thus. Never a lady left her wedded husband, but she must needs find herself weighted with charge of his grand-nephew. Cuckoo-tutor sits in General's nest, General's wife to bear him company, and lo! the General brings a grand-nephew to the supplanter, convinced of nobility beyond petty conventions of divorce-court rigmarole. So the world wags wilful to the offshoot, lawn-mowers grating, grass flying, and perspiring gardener slow in his shirt-sleeves primed with hope of beer that shall line his lean ribs at supper-time, nine o'clock is it, or eight--parishes vary, and a wife at home has rules. A year later he wrote--
THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION.
EASTWARD HO!
"Oh East is East, and West is West," says strenuous RUDYARD KIPLING, And what has the West taught to the East, save the science of war, and tippling? To ram, and to torpedo, and to drain Drink's poisoned flagons? And Civilisation sees her work in--armour-plated Dragons! The saurians of primeval slime they fought with tooth and claw, And SHO-KI'S dragon, though possessed of wondrous powers of jaw, And MIOCHIN'S scaly monster, whereat SHO-KI'S pluck might melt, And the dragon speared by stout St. George in the bold cartoons of SKELT,-- These were but simple monsters, like the giants slain by JACK, But your dragon cased in armour-plate with turrets on his back, And a charged torpedo twisted in his huge and horrid tail. Is a thing to stagger Science, and to make poor Peace turn pale!
Mem. by a Muddled One.
OLD THREE-VOL.
There rose two Book-Kings in the West, Two Kings both great and high; And they have sworn a solemn oath Good old Three-Vol. shall die.
They took a pen and wrote him down, Piled sins upon his head; And they have sworn a solemn oath Good old Three-Vol. is dead.
REMNANTS.
In the young season's prime Yon remnant felt its major portion reft, And waited for the surplus time Ingloriously left.
For it no glories of the lawn, No whirling in the valse that greets the dawn, No record in the fleeting roll of fame That gives the wearer's name, And tells a waiting world what gown she wore; While that which went before No cheaply-sober destiny has found But graced fair Fashion's ground, Where Pleasure, gaily deck'd, Within the fancied circle of select, Watches the Polo cavalry at war, The victim pigeons tumbled in their gore, The rival Blues at Lord's, the racing steeds On Ascot's piney meads, Or where luxuriant Goodwood's massy trees Murmur to no common breeze, And see afar the glint of England's summer seas.
Impute no fault, ye proud, nor grandeur mock, If frugal Elegance, discreet and fair, The aftermath of lavish Fashion reap, And, having waited long with nought to wear, Get the same goods, though late, and get them cheap. Next year the daintiest gowns by lawn and lock May haply be the fruit of surplus summer stock.
LYRE AND LANCET.
A BETTING MAN ON CRICKET.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
A VOTE OF THANKS.
Oh, men of Mars, we thank you, your behaviour's really kind! For now the silly season's set in with all its "rot," You once more raise the question whether you exist or not.
No doubt the good old topics will trot out yet again:-- "Is Flirting on the Increase?" "Is Marriage on the Wane?" Big gooseberries as usual with sea-serpents will compete, To help the British Press-man his columns to complete!
What is it that you're shewing terrestrial telescopes? Is't pills you're advertising, or booming patent soaps? How on earth can one discover what by this beacon's meant, Whether news of Royal Weddings or Railway Strikes is sent?
Alas! We haven't mastered the transplanetic code; Your canals are yet a riddle, in vain your fires have glowed! Still, do not let your efforts each August-tide abate-- You furnish us with "copy," which maintains the Fourth Estate!
DISTINGUISHED VISITORS TO BOURNEMOUTH.--The Royal Bath Hotel announces "Private Suites." Is "General Bitters" there also?
EDUCATIONAL MOTTO. --"A place for every child, and every child in its place."
"MOWING THEM DOWN!"
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