The Season is—has been for some time—silly,
And lengthy correspondences are rife.
We have, alas! to read them willy-nilly;
They take a deal of pleasure out of life.
To flee such evils here's an easy way—
Let morning dailies idly rant or vapour,
At the Lyceum go and see the play,
The programme there's the finest DALY paper.2
Footnote 2: (return)A Correspondent, signing himself "A Knight of the Free Lists," suggests that free admissions to the Lyceum should be known, during the American Company's season, as "The Best Daly 'Paper.'"
MOTTO FOR A DEPRESSED TEETOTALLER.—"Whine and Water."
JOHN BULL. "AIN'T YOU GOING TO LEND A HAND?"
RUSSIA. "WELL, I DON'T KNOW;—YOU SEE HE'S A SORT OF RELATION OF MINE!!"
[SALLY, the Chimpanzee (late of the Zoo), is stated to have "drunk beer daily."]
Of all the monkeys at the Zoo
There's none like Tippling SALLY.
She was the first who quenched her thirst
Quite al-co-hol-i-cally.
A draught of beer made her not queer,
But seemed her strength to rally.
MORTIMER GRANVILLE well might cheer
Three cheers for Tippling SALLY.
Of all the days within the week
I chiefly favoured one day,
That was the day when children seek
The rapture called "Zoo Sunday."
For then full drest all in my best
I'd go and visit SALLY,
And see her soothe her hairy breast
So al-co-hol-i-cally!
But now no more poor SALLY's tricks
With glee fill girl or boy full;
No mug of beer her soul can cheer,
Nor glass of O-be-joyful!
We yet may see some Chimpanzee
With Drink's temptations dally,
To WILFRID's woe; but no, ah! no!
It won't be Tippling SALLY!
We are obliged to "Beginner" for the proffered contribution to our collection of Book Reviews. That is, however, a department of the paper our noble friend the BARON DE BOOK-WORMS reserves for his own pen. But as Mr. Punch has never been known to discourage beginners, he finds room here for the interesting contribution, which perhaps should more appropriately have been addressed to his confrère at the office of the Athenæum:—
Don Quixote. By MIGUEL CERVANTES. We have conscientiously plodded through this voluminous work, which is certainly not entirely without merit. It purports to recount the daily doings of a resident in a village of La Mancha (Spain) who, accompanied by a clownish retainer, went forth in search of adventures. He was not very happy, his day's sport being invariably rounded oft by a sound drubbing, received either by himself, his Squire, or both. We wish Lord MACAULAY had lived to see the publication of this work, and had with fuller leisure relieved us of the task of reviewing it. Remembering his method of procedure as illustrated in his article on Dr. NARE's Memoirs of Lord Burleigh, he would doubtless by careful enumeration have been able to show that from first to last Don Quixote had more ribs broken than any man has actually possessed since ADAM was privy to a diminution of their original number. He seems also to have had a perpetual renewal of teeth, keeping pace with their frequent removal by brute force. As for the number of legs and arms he had fractured, MACAULAY's Schoolboy would have shrunk from the task of computing their aggregate.
These are blemishes upon a work that is, at least, well intentioned, and which might have been more successful had our author been inclined to give his hero credit for more acumen. When he represents Don Quixote as running tilt at windmills under the impression that they are armed knights, and when he pictures him charging a flock of sheep in the belief that it is an ordered army, we think he too grossly trifles with the assumed credulity of his readers. Exaggeration is, indeed, the bane of a work that, from first page to last, bears evidence of the drawback of extreme youth on the part of the author. We have been pleased to notice some indications of humour in the conversation of Sancho Panza. But it is the pennyworth of sack to an intolerably large quantity of bread. What we have written has been without desire to discourage Mr. CERVANTES, whom we shall be glad to meet with again, bringing with him the fruits of unremitted practice and of maturer views of life.
["To keep the family true, refined, affectionate, faithful, is the woman's task—a task that needs the entire energies and life of woman; and to mix up this sacred duty with the grosser occupation of politics and trade, is to unfit her for it as much as if a priest were to embark in the business of money-lender."—FREDERIC HARRISON.]
I Prithee, ARAMINTA, hear
What FREDERIC HARRISON has said:
Don't read for College honours, dear,
And put a towel round your head.
Don't sully what should surely be
An unstained soul, with tricks of trade;
Leave stern official work to me,
While you remain a simple maid.
Don't prate of woman's function, sweet,
Your only duty is to charm;
Leave platform spouting, as is meet,
To men; it cannot do them harm.
Your influence comes from gracious ways,
Your glory in the home doth lie;
The guardian angel of our days,
Until you bless us when we die.
Don't enter on ignoble strife
With man, 'tis yours to soar above—
To all the higher things of life,
Divine compassion, and pure love.
'Tis yours to stimulate, refine,
To win men by a kindly heart;
Not grovel with us where the sign
Of Mammon hangs above the mart.
Thine is the task to reign supreme
Within the sacred sphere of home;
To make our life one happy dream,
Thine own as spotless as the foam.
To trade, to toil, to head the feast,
To seek the politician's gain,
Were hateful:—ay, as though the priest
Took usury, within the fane!
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS owns to being easily affected by a pathetic episode. He well remembers how years ago in the course of a discussion among literary men about books and their writers, the Baron acknowledged that in spite of his having been told how the pathos of DICKENS was all a trick, and how the sentiment of that great novelist was for the most part false, he still felt a choking sensation in his throat and a natural inclination to blow his nose strenuously whenever he re-read the death of Little Paul, the death of Dora, and some passages about Tiny Tim. There was no dissentient voice as to the death of Colonel Newcome; all admitted the recurrence of that peculiar choking sensation, read they their THACKERAY never so often. Now the Baron differs from Josh Sedley in, as he thinks, many respects, but he is almost as "easily moved to tears" as was that stout hero. Wherefore this preface? Well, 'tis because the Baron owns to having "snivelled," if you will, when reading a delightful story, published by MACMILLAN in one volume ("bless all good stories in one vol., clearly printed!" says the Baron, parenthetically), entitled simply, Tim. No relation to Tiny Tim already mentioned; quite another child. The Baron strongly recommends this story, and especially to Etonians past and present, as giving a life-like picture which the latter will recognise, of the career at that great public school of a fragile little chap entirely unfitted by nature for the rough and tumble of such a life. The considerate tutor, too, is no effort of imagination; he exists; and, perhaps, such an one may have always existed since the division between Collegers and Oppidans first began. The Baron in his own time, nigh forty years ago, knew an exceptional species of this rare genus; but there are plenty of witnesses to the truth of the Etonian portion of Tim. "Tolle, lege!" quoth the Baron, and be not ashamed if in reading the latter portion of the story you have to search for your pocket-handkerchief, and, glancing furtively around, murmur to yourself, "But soft! I am observed!" Then when unobserved, "wipe the other eye!" and thank the unknown author of Tim; at the same time not forgetting your guide, philosopher, and friend,
"The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty MARMION?"
Fallen! And not as leaders love to fall,
In battle's forefront, loved and mourned by all;
But fiercely fighting, as for his own hand,
With the scant remnant of a broken band;
His chieftainship, well-earned in many a fray,
Rent from him—by himself!
None did betray
This sinister strong fighter to his foes;
He fell by his own action, as he rose.
He had fought all—himself he could not fight,
Nor rise to the clear air of patient right.
Somewhere his strenuous soul unsoundly rang,
When closely tested. Let the laurels hang
About his tomb, for, with whatever fault,
He led with valour cool a fierce assault
Upon a frowning fortress, densely manned
With strong outnumbering enemies. He planned
Far-seen campaigns apparently forlorn;
He fronted headlong hate and scourging scorn,
Impassively persistent. But the task
Of coldly keeping up the Stoic mask
O'ertaxed him at the last; it fell, and lo!
Another face was bared to friend and foe.
Scarce to his foes will generous judgment lean—
Foes mean as merciless, and false as mean,
Their poisoned pens, which even softening Death,
Which hate should hush and stifle slander's breath,
May not deprive of venom, prodding still
The unresponsive corse they helped to kill,
Is an ignoble sight. Turn, turn away!
Mean hates pursue the MARMION of our day,
A nobler foe, like DOUGLAS, well may rue
His fall, and sigh, "'Tis pity of him, too!"
Ah! I must trounce the Tory foe,
And love my Toiling neighbour.
The cry with which to fight I go
Is "Labour and Belabour!"
General Public. I am sorry to say the condition of the Postal Service is really extremely defective. The delay in the delivery of letters is most annoying. Frequently a note which should be received in the evening is not obtained until the following morning—proof of this being given by the post-marks.
General Post Office. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. You are most kind. Next, a telegram despatched from one part of London to another part, sometimes takes eight hours, and the reason given is that the counter-clerk has a discretionary power to retain telegrams until he has what he considers a sufficient supply for the messenger to take out for delivery. This naturally causes much delay and consequent inconvenience.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. You are too good. Next, the carelessness at Branch Offices is extremely irritating. For instance, it is often the case that the words of telegrams have been altered and changed during transmission. It is unnecessary to point out that such mistakes are liable to create annoyance, not to say disaster.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. Very many thanks. Then, at offices where females are engaged, rudeness is very common. Would-be purchasers of postage-stamps are frequently kept waiting while the clerks chatter to one another about matters entirely unconnected with the Department. And this habit is gaining ground in those offices in which male labour is only employed, especially in the immediate neighbourhood of St. Martin's-le-Grand itself. It is useless to call attention to this practice, as a simple denial from an official implicated is accepted by the authorities as proof (almost) positive of his or her innocence.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. Again, thanks for your courtesy. But about these and many other grievances, the same stereotyped answer has invariably been received.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. Exactly! That is the very answer. And it is felt that no other outcome will result from agitation. It seems utterly impossible to make the officials in charge realise their responsibility to the taxpayers.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
G.P. Of course; the same parrot-cry! And it may be for years, and it be for ever, before reform is introduced. The probability is, that the present unsatisfactory condition of affairs may exist at St. Martin's-le-Grand until the hour of doom.
G.P.O. Your complaint shall receive consideration.
I have been reading books wherein 'tis shown
(In diction autocratic, sour, un-civil),
That nothing can be absolutely known,
Save that the Universe is wholly evil!
And even this poor result is only plain
To Genius—which, of course, is quite a rarity.
I should have thought this would have given it pain,
And moved it to both modesty and charity;
But what surprises me (—ZOILUS, to mock sure,
Will whip me with sham-epigrams would-be witty,—)
Is that Agnostics seem so awfully pure,
And Pessimists so destitute of pity.
The weather which, in Mr. DUNSTABLE's varied experience of five-and-twenty years, he assures me, has never been so bad, having at length afforded some indications of "breaking" I make the acquaintance, through Mrs. COBBLER, of Mr. WISTERWHISTLE, the Proprietor of the one Bath-chair available for the invalid of Torsington-on-Sea, who, like myself, stands in need of the salubrious air of that health-giving resort, but who is ordered by his medical adviser to secure it with the least possible expenditure of physical strength.
Both Mr. WISTERWHISTLE and his chair are peculiar in their respective ways, and each has a decided history. Mr. WISTERWHISTLE, growing confidential over his antecedents, says, "You see, Sir, I wasn't brought up to the Bath-chair business, so to speak, for I began in the Royal Navy, under His Majesty King WILLIAM THE FOURTH. Then I took to the Coast-Guard business, and having put by a matter of thirty pound odd, and hearing 'she' was in the market,"—Mr. WISTERWHISTLE always referred to his Bath-chair as "she," evidently regarding it from the nautical stand-point as of the feminine gender,—"and knowing, saving your presence, Sir, that old BLOXER, of whom I bought her, had such a good crop of cripples the last season or two, that he often touched two-and-forty shillings a-week with 'em, I dropped Her Majesty's Service, and took to this 'ere. But, Lor, Sir, the business ain't wot it wos. Things is changed woeful at Torsington since I took her up. Then from 9 o'clock, as you might say, to 6 P.M., every hour was took up; and, mind you, by real downright 'aristocracy,'—real live noble-men, with gout on 'em, as thought nothink of a two hours' stretch, and didn't 'aggle, savin' your presence, over a extra sixpence for the job either way. But, bless you, wot's it come to now? Why, she might as well lay up in a dry dock arf the week, for wot's come of the downright genuine invalid, savin' your presence, blow'd if I knows. One can see, of course, Sir, in arf a jiffy, as you is touched in the legs with the rheumatics, or summat like it; but besides you and a old gent on crutches from Portland Buildings, there ain't no real invalid public 'ere at all, and one can't expect to make a livin' out of you two; for if you mean to do the thing ever so 'ansome, it ain't reasonable to expect you and the old gent I was a referring to, to stand seven hours a day goin' up and down the Esplanade between you, and you see even that at a bob an hour ain't no great shakes when you come to pay for 'ousing her and keepin' her lookin' spic and span, with all her brass knobs a shining and her leather apron fresh polished with patent carriage blackin': and Lor, Sir, you'd not b'lieve me if I was to tell you what a deal of show some parties expects for their one bob an hour. Why, it was only the other day that Lady GLUMPLEY (a old party with a front of black curls and yaller bows in her bonnet, as I dare say you've noticed me a haulin' up and down the Parade when the band's a playin'), says to me, says she, 'It ain't so much the easy goin' of your chair, Mr. WISTERWHISTLE, as makes me patronise it, as its general genteel appearance. For there's many a chair at Brighton that can't hold a candle to it!'" But at this point he was interrupted by the appearance of a dense crowd that half filled the street, and drew up in silent expectation opposite my front door. Dear me, I had quite forgotten I had sent for him. But the boy who cleans the boots and knives has returned, and brought with him the One Policeman!
"Lash the lubber to the top-gallant yard and give him five hundred with the cat o' ninetails!" shouted the pirate Captain, blue with passion.
There was a murmur amongst his crew. Because their messmate had forgotten to touch his cap, it seemed hard to their poor untutored minds he should receive so heavy a punishment.
"What, mutiny!" cried the ruffian skipper, "here take this and this and this!" and he distributed the contents of his revolver amongst the sailors aft.
In the meanwhile, the poor wretch was hanging to the topgallant yard, expecting every moment to be his last.
"A sail, Sir," said the boatswain, saluting, as he mounted to the quarter-deck.
"Get ready the torpedoes, and serve out per man a hundredweight of smokeless powder cartridges. We shall have rough work." Then he added, "By the way, what is the time?"
"About half-past two, Sir," returned the other, and then, as his Captain made an unsuccessful grab, he muttered, "No you don't!"
The ship in pursuit came on apace, and soon the two vessels were yard-arm to yard-arm engaged in mortal combat. For a while the confusion was so great that it was impossible to say what would be the upshot. But a fortunate torpedo sent the pirate craft to the bottom, and of all her crew, only the skipper survived. He was brought (loaded with chains) before his conqueror.
"Well, you scoundrel," said the British Captain, "have you anything to urge in your defence before we prepare you for your execution?"
"What would be the good?" was the sulky reply. "I know my fate."
"That voice, those husky tones," exclaimed the epauletted representative of the English Admiralty; "surely I know them. They bring back painful recollections. Show your face, Sirrah!"
"Why should I?" queried the conquered Chief. "It won't do me any good!"
But at a gesture of the British Captain, his prisoner was seized, and his face forcibly washed.
"What, BILLY TOMPKINS!" murmured the Briton, "and we meet again like this!"
"Yes," answered the other, "and it can't be helped. You have your duty to perform, and so have I. Do your worst!"
"But, BILLY, you were not always like this!"
"No, JACK, I was not. Once I used to prattle at my mother's knee. I was beloved by my brothers and sisters, and I was the pride of the nursery!"
And then the strong man broke down, and wept bitterly.
"But have you not fallen very low?" asked the British Captain, gently.
"Indeed I have! I am a thief, a liar, a scoundrel—and, in fact, a blackguard!"
"With such surroundings," returned the Officer R.N., pointing to the debris of the pirate craft, "it is difficult to dispute your contention. Indeed, you are a blackguard! But to what cause do you owe your fall?"
"To my early training."
"I do not comprehend you. Your early training! Where were you trained?"
"In the Britannia!"
And then the British Captain completely understood the situation.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.