Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 103 October 15 1892 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Editor: Francis Burnand

PUNCH,

VOL. 103.

October 15, 1892.

'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.

DEAR CHARLIE,--The post-mark, no doubt, will surprise you. I'm still at the "Crown," Though I said in my last--wot wos true--I was jest on the mizzle for town. 'Ad a letter from nunky, old man, with another small cheque. Good old nunk! So I'm in for a fortnit' more sulphur and slosh, afore doing a bunk.

Ah! I've worked it, my pippin, I've worked it; gone in for hexcursions all round, To Knaresborough, Bolton, and Fountains. You know, dear old pal, I'll be bound, As hantiquities isn't my 'obby, and ruins don't fetch me, not much! I can't see their "beauty," no more than the charms of some dowdy old Dutch.

A Castle, all chunnicks of stone, or a Habbey, much out of repair, A skelinton Banquetting 'All, and a bit of a broken-down stair, May appear most perticular "precious" to them as the picteresk cops; But give me the sububs and stucco, smart villas, and spick-and-span shops.

'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest scene, 'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly big green. Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha' sketched. Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos fetched.

Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural Show," So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and live poultry, yer know. Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart local band, Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave it a 'and.

This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray" Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black, With a orful tremoler, my pippin!--yus, these are the pick of the pack.

At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot, For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's 'ot; Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts, and such; Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny touch.

When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a blush--rose in bloom, 'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the whole room, 'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening 'is wit On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom in a fit!

One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man. They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a fan, Four six--foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run around--them's the "props," And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf, though tip-tops!

Some gents wos fair frosts at the bizness; one good-'earted trim little toff Would blow with the bowl wrong end uppards. His pardner went pink and flounced off. He gurgled away like a babe with a pap-bottle, guggle--gug--gug! And I 'eard 'er a-giving 'im beans as 'e mizzled, much down in the mug.

Owsomever, it ain't for amusements as 'Arrygate lays itself hout; So, dear boy, it's for doses and douches; and there it scores freely, no doubt, Wy, there's thirty-two Springs in the Bog Field--a place like a graveyard gone wrong-- Besides Starbeck, the Tewit, and others, all narsty, and most on 'em strong.

Since Sir SLINGSBY discovered the first one, now close on three cent'ries ago, Wot a lush of mixed mineral muck these 'ere 'Arrygate Springs 'ave let flow! Well, ere's bully for Brimstone, my bloater, and 'ooray for 'Arrygate air! Wich 'as done me most good I don't know, and I'm scorched if I very much care!

I know 'Arrygate girls cop the biscuit for beauty. They've cheeks like the rose, Their skin is jest strorberries and cream; it's the sulphur, dear boy, I suppose. As for me, I look yaller as taller alongside 'em CHARLIE, wus luck! I 'eard one call me saffron-faced sparrer, and jest as I thought 'er fair struck.

I'd nail 'em, in time, I've no doubt, when I once got the 'ang of their style. There's a gal at the Montpellier Baths. Scissoree! 'ow I've tried for a smile, When she tips me my tannersworth! Shucks! she's as orty and stiff as yer please. Primrose Dames isn't in it for snubs with these arrygant 'Arrygatese!

Reglar Doctor-Shop, 'Arrygate is; see their photos all over the town. Mine is doing me dollups of good; I'm quite peckish, and jest a bit brown. I'm making the most of my time, and a-laying in all I can carry. So 'ere ends this budget of brimstone and baths from your sulphur-soaked

'ARRY.

MR. CHAUNCEY DEPEW, the well-known American lawyer, wonders why on earth the British Government has not long ago given Home Rule to Ireland. He encourages Mr. G.'s Ministry to do their best in this direction, and chaunce-y it. We're always delighted to welcome Mr. CHAUNCEY DEPEW in England, so let him come over with a Depewtation to Mr. G. on the subject.

EQUESTRIAN FRUIT.--At the Horticultural Show the Baroness BURDETT-COUTTS exhibited a "Cob of ADAM's Early Maize." No particulars are given. Was it 14'1 and a weight-carrier? Being ADAM's, it must be about the oldest in the world. "Maize" may be a misprint for "Mews." Next time the Baroness must send a pear.

PROBABLE DEDUCTION.--A pertinacious Salvation Army Captain was worrying a Scotch farmer, whom he had met in the train, with perpetual inquiries as to whether "he had been born again of Water and the Spirit?" At last, MCSANDY replied, "Aweel, I dinna reetly ken how that may be, but my good old feyther and mither took their toddy releegiously every nicht, the noo."

THE AUSTRO-GERMAN OFFICER'S VADE-MECUM.

"CROSSING THE BAR."

IN MEMORIAM.

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

BORN, AUGUST 5, 1809. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1892.

Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed In Autumn, when the songless woods are still, And with October's boding hectic flushed Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land, His land, his England, which he loved so well: And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand The Poet's passing bell Sends forth its solemn note, and every heart Chills, and sad tears to many an eyelid start.

Sad tears in sooth! And yet not wholly so. Exquisite echoes of his own swan-song Forbid mere murmuring mournfulness; the glow Of its great hope illumes us. Sleep, thou strong Full tide, as over the unmeaning bar Fares this unfaltering darer of the deep, Beaconed by a Great Light, the pilot-star Of valiant souls, who keep Through the long strife of thought-life free from scathe The luminous guidance of the larger faith.

No sadness of farewell? Great Singer, crowned With lustrous laurel, facing that far light, In whose white radiance dark seems whelmed and drowned, And death a passing shade, of meaning slight; Sunset, and evening star, and that clear call, The twilight shadow, and the evening bell, Bring naught of gloom for thee. Whate'er befall Thou must indeed fare well. But we--we have but memories now, and love The plaint of fond regret will scarce reprove.

Fresh portals, untrod pleasaunces, new ways In Art's great Palace, shrined in Nature's heart, Sought the young singer, and his limpid lays, O'er sweet, perchance, yet made the quick blood start To many a cheek mere glittering; rhymes left cold. But through the gates of Ivory or of Horn His vivid vision flocked, and who so bold As to repulse with scorn The shining troop because of shadowy birth. Of bodiless passion, or light tinkling mirth?

Hysteric ecstasy, new fierce, now faint, But ever fever-sick, shook not his lyre With epileptic fervours. Sensual taint Of satyr heat, or bacchanal desire, Polluted not the passion of his song; No corybantic clangor clamoured through Its manly harmonies, as sane as strong; So that the captious few Found sickliness in pure Elysian balm, And coldness in such high Olympian calm.

Impassioned purity, high minister Of spirit's joys, was his, reserved, restrained. His song was like the sword Excalibur Of his symbolic knight; trenchant, unstained. It shook the world of wordly baseness, smote The Christless heathendom of huckstering days. There is no harshness in that mellow note, No blot upon those bays; For loyal love and knightly valour rang Through rich immortal music when he sang.

ARTHUR, his friend, the Modern Gentleman, ARTHUR, the hero, his ideal Knight, Inspired his strains. From fount to flood they ran A flawless course of melody and light. A Christian chivalry shone in his song From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse, Whence there stand forth two figures, stately, strong, Symbols of spirit's stress; The blameless King, saintship with scarce a blot, And song's most noble sinner, LANCELOT.

Lover of England, lord of English hearts, Master of English speech, painter supreme Of English landscape! Patriot passion starts A-flame, pricked by the words that glow and gleam In those imperial paeans, which might arm Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by his hand The simple sweetness, and the homely charm Of our green garden-land Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade, Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.

The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold, Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn, Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold, Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn; Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill, Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill, Still lakes that draw the sun; All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.

From all, far Fa?ry Land, Romance's realm, Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill, The Poet passes--whither? Not the helm Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright Than does that leonine laurelled visage now, Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light. Grave eye, and gracious brow Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore, To face the Light that floods him evermore.

Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas! Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream. But we--we hear thy manful music still! A royal requiem for a kingly soul! No sadness of farewell! Away regret, When greatness nears its goal! We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

TO MY SWEETHEART.

A Hothouse where some roses blew, And, whilst the outer world was white, The gentle roses softly grew To fragrant visions of delight.

Some wretched florist owned them all, And plucked them from their native bowers, Then gaily showed them on his stall To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."

A gay young gallant bought some buds, And jauntily went out to dine With other reckless sporting bloods, Who talked of women, drank of wine;

But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank, And told tales not too sanctified. Abashed the timid blossoms shrank, Changed colour, faded, and then died.

Yet roses, too, I gave to you, I saw you place them near your heart, You wore them all the evening through, You wore them when we came to part.

But now you write to me, my dear, And marvel that they are not dead, Their beauty does not disappear, Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

THOUGHTS--NOT WORTH A PENNY.

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other garments.

"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time--but I get my money for my trouble."

"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"

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