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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 103 October 22 1892 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 103
OCTOBER 22, 1892
IN MEMORIAM.
WILLIAM HARDWICK BRADBURY.
BORN, DEC. 3, 1832. DIED, OCT. 13, 1892.
Large-hearted man, most loyal friend, Art thou too gone--too early lost? Our comrade true, our tireless host! Prompt to inspire, console, defend! Gone! Hearts with grateful memories stored Ache for thy loss round the old board.
That past for him, indeed, was filled With a proud spirit-retinue. Greatness long since his guest he knew. Whom THACKERAY's manly tones had thrilled; Who heard keen JERROLD's sparkling speech, And marked the genial grace of LEECH.
No more shall those blue eyes ray out Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth; That ever mobile mouth give birth To frolic whim, or friendly flout? Our hearts will miss thee to the end, Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!
Tribute to genius all may give, Ours is the homage of the heart; For a friend lost our tears will start, Lost to our sight, yet who shall live, Whilst one who knew that bold frank face At the old board takes the old place.
For those, his closer kin, whose home Is darkened by the shadow grey, What can respectful love but pray That consolation thither come In that most sacred soothing guise Which natural sorrow sanctifies.
Bereavement's anguish to assuage Is a sore task that lies beyond The scope of friendship or most fond Affection's power. Yet may this page, True witness of our love and grief, To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!
"ANECDOTAGE."
THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.
I talk as well as anyone About the different kinds of tackle, I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun, Discuss the worth of wings and hackle; I've flies myself of each design, No book is better filled than mine.
But when I reach the river's side Alone, for none of these I wish. No victim to a foolish pride. My object is to capture fish; Let me confess, then, since you ask it-- A worm it is which fills my basket!
O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm, On which with scorn the haughty look, It is thy fascinating squirm Which brings the fattest trout to book, From thee unable to refrain, Though flies are cast for him in vain!
Deep gratitude to thee I feel, And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen, When rival anglers view my creel, And straightway turn a jealous green; And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?" "A fancy pattern," I reply!
SWORD AND PEN;
OR, THE RIVAL COMMANDERS.
"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!' it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong. Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."
"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of men to argue, but to obey."
"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound too tightly to precedent."
The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.
"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you. I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."
"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be found in the most recent dictionaries."
And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.
"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.
"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they remain as they were."
"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man in the Cloak.
"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.
"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger.
"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that--"
"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they please, and they may rest assured that their communications will escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."
Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of command.
"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are you the Commander-in-Chief?"
"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress. "Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"
A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.
THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.
PROEM.
And first advances, as by right supreme, With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream, With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing, As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard. Though passion-scarred, Porphyrogenitus at least he looks; Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks; Unreminiscent now of youthful rage, Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage, Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe, Whose polished paganry's erotic flow, And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings, The virtues, and most other "proper" things, Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed. Such is the power of timely palinode! Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang, As the first Bard this moving measure sang:--
ON THE BAYS.
Beyond the bellowing onset of base war, Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest. Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar To win the wreath that he beyond the bar Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.
For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king, Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring In thy poetic garden's trim parterre; Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air, More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting; Some living love our England for thee bare.
Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea, And trumpet paeans loud to Liberty, With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet, Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet, From the pure passage of the god to be; And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.
THE WORTH OF VERSE.
Wild thoughts which occupy the brain, Vague prophecies which fill the ear, Dim perturbation, precious pain, A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,-- These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:-- Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!
I know the chambers of my soul Are filled with laudatory airs, Such as the salaried bard should troll When he the Laureate laurels wears. And I am he who opened Hades, To harmless parsons and to ladies!
His "chaste white Muse" could not object, For mine is white, and awfully chaste. Now ALGERNON has no respect For purity and public taste. EDWIN is given to allegory. Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!
He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak. And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"
IN A GHOST-SHOW.
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