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PUNCH,

VOL. 101.

October 17, 1891.

THE AUTOMATIC PHYSIOGNOMIST.

WILLIAM HENRY SMITH.

BORN, JUNE 24, 1825. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1891.

O'er-busy Death, your scythe of late seems reaping Swiftly our heads of State; The wise who hold our England's weal in keeping, The gentle and the great.

GRANVILLE is gone; and now another Warden Falls with the fading leaf, Leaving at Hatfield sorrow, and at Hawarden Scarcely less earnest grief.

All mourn the Man whose simple steadfast spirit Made hearty friends of all. Whilst manhood like to his her sons inherit England need fear no fall.

No high-perched, privileged and proud possessor Of lineal vantage he; Of perorating witchery no professor, Or casuist subtlety.

A capable, clear-headed, modest toiler, Touched with no egoist taint, To Duty sworn, the face of the Despoiler Made him not fear or faint.

O'erworn, o'erworked, with smiling face, though weary, The tedious task he plied. Sagacious, courteous, ever calm and cheery Unsoured by spleen or pride.

As unprovocative as unpretentious, Skilful though seeming-slow; Unmoved by impulse of conceit contentious To risk success for show.

O rare command of gifts, which, common-branded, Are yet so strangely rare! Selflessness patient, judgment even-handed And spirit calmly fair!

But England which has instincts above Party Most mourns the Man, now gone, Who gave to Duty an allegiance hearty As that of WELLINGTON.

Sure "the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal" Would his successor praise; As modest, as unselfish, as impartial, Though fallen on calmer days.

No glittering hero, but when England numbers Patriots of worth and pith, His name shall sound, who after suffering slumbers, Plain WILLIAM HENRY SMITH!

A ROMANCE IN NUMBERS.

WHAT? WHO? AND WHICH?

"Lady," said he, at length, "if you take my advice, you will back nothing until they go to the post."

Ah, Paris, beautiful Paris! They enjoyed the balmy air as they drove through the awaking streets to the Grand Hotel. As they entered the courtyard they met the President.

"Is it really true that the Germans refuse to take up the Russian Loan?" asked EUSTACE of the First Frenchman in France.

"I would not say this to anyone but yourself," replied M. CARNOT, looking round to see that no one was listening; "but those who wait longest will see best!"

And with his finger to his mouth in token of discretion and silence, he disappeared. EUSTACE and his fair companion hastened to the telegraph office.

"What a charming gown! Why, it is the prettiest I have seen in my life!" and she gazed with increasing delight at the lady beneath on the boulevard. Then she began to explain the costume to her two male companions. She showed them that an under-skirt of snuff, with a waist of orange-blue, both made of some soft fluffy material , made an admirable contrast.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

YOUR EXCELLENCY,

I wish to ask you a simple question. Why do you render those who spend their lives in your service so extremely ridiculous? That may be just the fashion of your humour; but is it fair to persist as you do? There is, for instance, my old friend BENJAMIN CHUMP, little BEN CHUMP as we used to call him in the irreverent days, before his face had turned purple or his waistcoat had prevented him from catching stray glimpses of his patent-leathered toes. Little BEN was not made for the country, that was certain. A life of Clubs and dinner-parties would have suited him to perfection. In his Club he could always pose before a select and, it must be added, a dwindling circle as a man of influence. "There is no Club, however watched and tended, but one dread bore is there." BEN might have developed into a prime bore, but as he was plentifully supplied with money and had a good cook and a pleasant wife, he would always have managed to gather round him plenty of guests who would have forgiven him his elaborate platitudes, for the sake of his admirable made-dishes. Suddenly, however, he resolved to become a country gentleman. As there is no law to prevent a CHUMP from turning into a squire, BEN had not to wait very long before he was able to put his fatal resolve into execution. He purchased an Elizabethan mansion, and descended with all his airs and belongings upon the unhappy country-side which he had decided to make the scene of his rural education. Before that I used to see him constantly. After that I quite lost sight of him. Occasionally I read paragraphs in weekly papers about immense festivities due to the enterprise of the CHUMPS, and from time to time I received local papers containing long accounts of hunt breakfasts, athletic sports, the roasting of whole oxen, and other such stirring country incidents in which it appeared that the CHUMPS took a prominent part. I will do BEN the credit to say that he never omitted to mark with broad red pencil those parts which referred specially to himself, or reported any speech he may have happened to make.

Now there is nothing in the accident of a corked bottle that ought to crush a man. I have seen a host rise serenely after such an occurrence, and nobody dreamt of imputing it to him for wickedness. But the contrast between the magniloquence of poor BEN and the deadly failure of his wine, was too great. Even Lady MABEL, a kind girl without affectations, could not forbear a smile when the incident was narrated to her in the drawing-room, and some of the other guests, whose names I charitably refrain from mentioning, seemed quite radiant with pleasure at the misfortune of their host. CHUMP, however, was not long in recovering, and before many hours had passed, he was assuring us in the smoking-room, that he proposed to establish sport in his particular district on a broad and enduring basis. On the following morning there was a lawn-meet at the Manor, and, as I'm a living sinner, our wretched host was flung flat on his back before the eyes of all the neighbouring sportsmen and sportswomen by a fiery chestnut which he bought for ?400 from a well-known dealer. What became of him during the rest of the day I know not. Indeed I shrink from continuing the story of his ridiculous humiliations, and I merely desire to remark that if this be your Excellency's manner of rewarding those who serve you, I pray that I may be for ever preserved from your patronage.

I remain , Your Excellency's humble servant,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

APPROPRIATE TITLE FOR MR. ANDREW LANG.--The Folk-Loreate.

"AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM!"

Five-and-thirty black slaves, Half-a-hundred white. All their duty but to make Shindy day and night, Now with throats of thunder, Now with clattering lips, While she thumps them cruelly With stretched finger-tips.

When she quits the chamber All the slaves are dumb, Dumb with rapture, till the Minx Back shall come to strum, Dumb the throats of thunder, Hushed chromatic skips, Lacking all the torturing Of strained finger-tips.

Dusky slaves and pallid, Ebon slaves and white, When Minx mounts her music-stool Neighbours fly with fright. Ah, the bass's thunder! Oh, the treble's trips! Eugh, the horrid tyrannies Of corned finger-tips!

Silent, silent, silent, All your janglings now; Notes false-chorded, slithering slaps, Pedal-aided row! Where is Minx, we wonder? Ah! those scrambling skips! Back she's come to torture us With her finger-tips!

That is true and tersely put. Still I may observe that if C. lived at this period and had his choice, say between Aix-la-Chapelle and Homburg or Aix-les-Bains, it is doubtful whether he would have built his cathedral here. Unlike the two latter watering-places, Aix-la-Chapelle has other fish to boil besides the invalids who come hither attracted by the fame of its hot springs. It is a manufacturing town, and has all the characteristics of one. At Homburg or Aix-les-Bains you walk up a street, turn a corner and find yourself among pine-trees, or in a smiling valley with a blue lake blinking at the sun. Here the baths are in the centre of the town, and, like a certain starling, you feel you "can't get out."

But invalids musn't be choosers, and if RUSTEM ROOSE sends you to Aix-la-Chapelle--he's always sending somebody somewhere--to la-Chapelle you must carry your Aix, in the hope that you may leave them there.

Sorry to find Squire of MALWOOD, who spent a morning here on his way to Wiesbaden, agreeing in SARK's view of the standard of female beauty at Aix.

"Strange," he mused, "that Nature never makes an ugly flower or tree or blade of grass; and yet, when it comes to men and women, behold!" and he swept a massive arm round the blighted scene in the crowded Kaiserplatz.

A small boy who thought the beneficent stranger in blue serge was chucking pfennings about the Square, careered wildly round in search of the treasure. We walked on without undeceiving him. To quote again from an old friend: "There is nothing more conducive to the production and maintenance of a healthy mind in a sound body than enterprise and industry, even when, owing to misapprehension or miscalculation, their exercise leads to no immediate reward."

It had been quite a surprise one morning to find the SQUIRE striding into the coffee-room at "Nuellens."

"Thought you were down at Malwood," I said, "looking after your flocks and herds, your brocoli and your spring onions."

"So I had hoped to be," he said, as we strolled up and down under the trees in the Elisengarten. "But the fact is, TOBY, dear boy, I could not stand the weather. I am of a sensitive nature, and it cut me to the heart to see cold winds nipping the fruit and trees, the flood of rain beating down the corn, the oats, and the mangel-wurzel. People make a mistake about me. They regard me as an ambitious politician, caring for nothing but the House of Commons and the world of politics. At heart I am an agriculturist. Give me three acres and a cow--anybody's, I don't care--and I will settle down in peace and quietness, remote from political strife, never turning an ear to listen to the roll of battle at Westminster. I am often distraught between the attractions of interludes in the lives of CINCINNATUS and of WILLIAM OF ORANGE's great Minister. Of the two I think I am more drawn towards the rose-garden at Sheen than by CINCINNATUS's unploughed land. Before I die I should like to create a new rose and call it 'The Grand Old Man.'"

Quite a revelation this of the true inwardness of the SQUIRE. Would astonish some people in London, I fancy, if ever I were to mention this conversation. But, to quote once more from a revered authority: "We all live a dual life, and are not actually that which, upon cursory regard, the passer-by believes us to be. Every gentleman, in whatever part of the House he may sit, has a skeleton in the cupboard of his valet."

The SQUIRE stayed here only a morning, passing on to other scenes. I watched his departure with mingled feelings; sorrow at losing a delightful companion, and apprehension of what might happen if he were to remain here to go through the full cure. The place is, as SARK says, the most brimstony on the same level. You breathe brimstone, drink it, bathe in it, and take it in at the pores. At the end of three weeks or a month you are dangerously saturated with the chemical. An ordinary lucifer match is nothing to a full-bodied patient at the end of three weeks treatment at Aix-la-Chapelle. If the SQUIRE had stayed on, I should never have seen his towering frame pass underneath a doorway without my heart leaping to my mouth. Some day he would have accidentally struck his head against the lintel and would have ignited as sure as a gun.

If CHARLEMAGNE were now alive, I feel certain from what I know of him, he would have exhausted the resources of civilisation in search of a preventive of this ever-present and dangerous risk. Under CAROLO MAGNO the patient might have gone about the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle with sweet carelessness, knowing that, however much brimstone he carried, he would strike only on the box.

FAMILY TIES.

"Won't you help me bind the Dragon?" says the Briton to the Russ. Oho! ingenuous JOHNNY! I'm opposed to needless fuss, And have other fish to fry--say near the Oxus! Not a hang Do I care for what may happen on the great Yang-tse-Kiang.

The Mantchus and the Romanoffs are not exactly chums, And a Tartar insurrection, when that little trouble comes, As it may do if you press too much at Pekin, well, who knows? There is always something pleasing in the quarrels of one's foes.

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