Punch (77.1879)

December 6, 1879.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

263

Customer. " I—aw—want my—aw—Mustaches dyed."

Artist. "Yessir—certainly, Sir—'brought 'em with you, Sir? !"

THE WAY WE DIE NOW.

{A Tragedy of Civilisation.)

Scene—A Street in the heart of a great City on a bleak November
night. Bundle of Hags discovered huddled together on a door-
step. Enter a Guardian of the Peace.

Guardian of the Peace. Come, now, yer mustn't do that 'ere. Git
up, and go 'ome.

Bundle of Rags. I haye no home. 1 'm very ill.

Guardian of the Peace. Well, yer can't be ill 'ere, you know.
Come, git up ! (Bundle of Bags staggers to its feet.) Oh, yer've
been a-drinkin', 'ave yer ? I shall have to run yer in. Now, then !

Bundle of Rags. 1 haven't tasted food for three days. I 'in
starving. Oh, let me be ! Let me die here !

Guardian of the Peace {softened). Oh, it ain't drink, ain't it?
Well, if yer've got nowheres to go to—'ere, 1 '11 help yer. Come
along!

{They "come along" till they reach the door of a Charitable
Institution.

Guardian of the Peace. 'Ere, 'ere's some one for yer. This 'ere
young 'oman's very bad. I've 'ad a reglar job to git her along.
We've come from the other side of the Cut.

Official No. 1 {surveying Bundle of Rags philosophically). Have
you! Well, you've had your job for nothing, then. It ain't our
business. It's the district 'ouse as is the place for her. [Shuts wicket.

Bundle of Rags {tottering). But I shall never get there. Let me
lie down, and die !

Guardian of the Peace. No, I can't let yer do that. You'll git
along nicely enough presently. It's only a trifle over two mile.
Come along!

{They again "come along," and arrive at the door of another
Institution for the alleviation of human suffering.
Guardian of the Peace. 'Ere now, help her in, will yer'; and
look sharp. She's very bad. We've come all the way from the
Charity Shop, down Whitechapel way.

OVER THE BORDER.

Mr. Gladstone is making a good thing out of his
visit to Midlothian. Besides the mauds, plaids, rugs,
tweed suits, table-covers,1] albums, and caskets which
have been duly recorded in the daily papers, number-
less other articles, chiefly of a domestic and useful
character, have been presented to him, but, most un-
accountably, without finding a chronicler.

The following may be relied on as a tolerably accurate
list of the many additional gifts from his friends and
supporters, with which Mr. Gladstone will return across
the border richly laden.

Several gallons of the very best Usquebaugh.

A hamper full of Dundee Marmalade, each pot authen-
ticated with the signature of " E. Jenkins, M.P."

Finnan Haddies enough to supply the family break-
fast-table until the meeting of Parliament.

Bannocks, oatcakes, scones, shortbread, and other
trophies of the Land o' Cakes in reckless profusion.

Potted grouse, muir-fowl, ptarmigan, and capercailzie.

Brose, cockaleekie, haggis, and collops, in tins.

A dozen sacks of best rough-ground Scotch oatmeal
(for porridge).

" A peck o' maut" for Willie to brew.

Boxes of kippered salmon.

A set of bagpipes beautifully mounted in electro-plate.
A Scotch cap.

A complete Highlander's suit.

Cairngorm brooches, buttons, sleeve-links, and studs
to ditto.

Several Scotch terriers, Skye terriers, and Dandie
Dinmonts.
A Shetland pony.
A team of Clydesdales.

Photographs of Burns's birthplace, farm, monument,
pipe, and punch-bowl; a lock of Adam Smith's wig ;
Dugald Stewart's umbrella; the Ettrick Shepherd's
crook ; and the original covers of the first number of the
Edinburgh Review.

Various editions of The Heart of Midlothian, appro-
priately bound in boards enamelled, with all the Scotch
tartans—and,

Last, but not least, a tireless set of Scotch ears, and
a countless number of Scotch hearts.

Hot and Cold.—Peruvian Securities, in a Chili pickle.

Official No. 2 {encouragingly). Well, and you've had your walk for
nothing. You must take her to the Asylum,—that's what you must do.

Guardian of the Peace. Why couldn't he ha' told us that down at
the Shop ? Why, the girl's well nigh beat.

Official No. 2. Well, that's no business of mine. The Asylum—
that's where you must take her. [Retires for the night.

Bundle of Rags. Oh, but I can't go further. I'm dying ! Oh,
let me lie down ;—do, do let me lie down!

Guardian of the Peace. No, now you cheer up; it ain't much
further, and you'll be all right and comfortable when you gits
there. Come along!

[They "come along" once more, and reach the gate of an Asylum
for the Sick.

Guardian of the Peace. Now, look sharp there ! This young
'oman's very bad. She's almost a-dying. Come now, lend us a
'and, and let's git her in.

Official No. 3. Get her in without a order ? What are you
talkin' of ?

Guardian of the Peace. Horder ? They said nothink down yonder
about a horder. Besides—look at her. She's as bad as she can be.
Why, the girl's a-dying !

Official No. 3. I knows nothing of that. She can't come in with-
out a order. [ The Bundle of Rags dies.
Guardian of the Peace. Well, she won't want one now, poor girl!
[And the Bundle of Rags is taken in, without an order, as the
Curtain falls.

A Parnellian Protest.

Mr. Parnell, reading this week's Spectator, came on this
sentence:—

" Daly and Killen and Davitt may be Fenian Head-Centres for all we
know."

" i/ead-Centres those fellows!" he muttered, contemptuously.
4"Tail-Centres' at most!"