Punch (72.1877)

288

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[Juke 23, 1877.

The Oxus. If it is the Oxus, we ought to be near Khiva. If it isn't
the Oxus, where are we P

11 a.m.-Fine day. Warm. Wind S.W. by E.C. Clear. No
wolves. Nothing visible anywhere. Stopped for breakfast, ^and
worked at fitting up my new sleigh with a " speaking machine, on
the principle of the one in the Grand Hotel, Paris. It is connected
with a lightning conductor which stands up at the back of the sleigh
The Conductor is thus made to exclaim, at intervals, "Khiva!
Khiva! Full inside! All right!" This will have the double
effect of keeping off wolves and attracting any passengers, as there
is plenty of room in it, and at three kopecks a head an honest rouble
may be turned. The sleigh is fitted with a pair of boots, instead of
one, which is a novelty. Lady Bright, the Unfair Circassian,
quarrelsome. Shall drop her at Khiva, and the boys too. Rations
running short. They threaten to mutiny and eat the Pig. A firm
hand is necessary. Onward. Ha! Khiva in sight. . An anxious
night ... on guard before the boot where the Pig is. . . Through
a slit in the covering of the sleigh I hear the confoundedly Unfair
Circassian telling the Tartar boys how nice ham is ! and what
delicious things pigs' trotters are! Then she describes crackling
and pig's fry! ! The Tartar boys, by their religion, are bound to
detest pig. She is trying to convert them. Hate proselytism.
What a subject for a romance, The Pig and the Proselyte ! a Tale
of the Great Atrocity.' . . . Another moment I burst in upon them !
I begged them to remember the teaching they received on their
mother's knee. They writhe . . . they do remember the teaching
they received on their mother's knee ... I have struck a wrong
chord . . I adjured them by all the glories of their ancient creed
not to apostatise . . I drew a fearful picture—or a pigture—of the
pains of indigestion . . they were touched, and the Pig is un-
touched ! The Unfair Circassian Hew at me . . . ah ! what a night
of terror ! ! ! . . Wickski all round . . . quiet restored ... we speed
onward . . .

Wednesday, 4 a.m.—Khiva—it must be Khiva—in sight ... at
last! . . .

Same Day, g a.m. — At the gates. Saw a Sentinel. " Ve
Gates f " I asked. (German jeu de mot—one of my splittersideren—
quite new.) He presented his musket—I presented wickski. "0
much-caressed son of extraordinary overfed parents ! " he exclaimed,
" I never take anything so early, except—a prisoner." ....

Same Evening. — In a Russian gaol. At least, I think it's
Russian. I don't know whether I'm at Khiva, or not: no one will
tell me. All I can ascertain from the Gaoler's Daughter (a pretty
black-eyed girl) is that this is a Russian outpost, but that the name
and the whereabouts is a secret. " Can I send a letter by this out-
post?" I inquired. She smiled; and hearing her father's keys

clanking in the corridor, she retired.....I am alone.....

Boys, Circassian, and Pig, all gone. I contrive to write my Diary
by ingeniously (for I am never at a loss) making some ink out of
brick-dust mixed with the remains of my wickski. It is an ad-
mirable invention, will cost half the price of the best ink, and can
be patented, on my return, as " Brickski- Wickski, or Indelible
Khivan Incorrosive Ink." I have sharpened an old rusty nail, and
am now writing this on a leaden plate, placed here for my supper,
which (the plate, I mean) I shall throw out of window, in the hope
of its being found, and forwarded to you. I have no Private Wire.
Nothing. I shall write on the leaden plates (throwing them out of
window as soon as finished, and only hope they won't fall on any
unfriendly head), then on my pocket-handkerchiefs, linen, and sheets.
They will be sheets ready for the Press. The Gaoler's Daughter
addresses me as " Lord Bright." The Circassian has told her
this. Please get up a Subscription for " Lord Beight, the Unhappy

Nobleman now languishing in a Russian gaol at-" .... I'11 let

you know where it is when they tell me ... . but do get up an
agitation, and memorialise the Government. Couldn't you induce
W. E. G. to make speeches about me ? Tell him it's the'Turks who
are atrocitying" me—not the Russians. My agent in town will
receive subscriptions, and will forward to me safelv any packages of
lint, soap, books, warm clothing, champagne, haunches of venison,
&c, &c, " all addressed to the Unhappy Nobleman," &c, &c.
Work the Oracle, or, if you don't, I shall never get to Khiva!
There's a subject for a song in prison! It would sell immensely.
Composed by Our Riding Representative (or Representative for the

Last Riding) when in prison at-tz. (It is pretty sure to end in

u °r „owa" un-til we &et more frontier wards, when it ends in

m or n, as the case may be.) The words would be something to
this effect:—

" Then work the oracle, my boys,
And use the mighty lever
To raise subscriptions, or, my boys,
I '11 never get to Khiva !

Chorus. With my (the singer's and composer's) tol de rol de
riddle lol,
Tol de rol de riva,
Oh tol de rol de riddle lol,
When shall I get to Khiva ? "

You see my spirits are still above proof. . . Hark! a footstep.
Hush! 'tis the night-watch! he guards my lonely cell. I must
hide my leaden plates, sheets, and writing apparatus ! . . . 'Tis the
Gaoler. He will enter and find me whistling in my sleep . . . will
write more directly he has gone. . . .

HOW TO SPEND A HAPPY SUNDAY.

leasant can't be
1 wrong " is the
motto of the
Upper Ten — as
for instance :—

Lady Mille-
fleurs haut0n
{Grosvenor Sq.).
— Church, of
course,youknow,
in the morning,
and then a gentle
drive to Twicken-
ham on my Lord's
drag, a dinner at
the Orleans Club,
and a pleasant
journey home in
the cool of the
evening.

Mrs. Smith
Fitz-Smith
Smtthe {Bays-
water). —' West-
minster Abbey or
the Chapel Royal
(when we get a
ticket) in the

morning, and then a stroll in the Zoo. Nice little dinner for the
girls and. their friends afterwards, you know, because we must
think about the future.

The Hon. Bertie Dangle {Noodles'1 Club, St. James's).—Oh, get
up at twelve, don't you know ? Breakfast at one, and then, if it's
really a jolly day, take the train to Maidenhead, go up the river to
Henley in a steam-launch, and dine at Skindle's afterwards.

Mrs. Golightly Fastwayes {Mayfair).—Can't do better than
take a coach from Slough, and pic-nic at Burnham Beeches. Drive
back in the moonlight with a pleasant party—particularly jolly—at
least I always find it so, my dear.

Cat-el Court, Esq. {Cornhill and St. James's Street).—Pack up a

bag on Saturday, and take the train to-no, I won't tell you the

name, as the place is my own discovery—on the river. Get a room
at the Inn (excellent one), and be up betimes on Sunday morning.
Put on your flannels, get into a boat, pull to a quiet shady nook,
and then smoke, fish, and sleep. Refreshments, iced food and
claret-cup. Top up with a cold dinner with an old chum in the
evening. Up to business at ten the next morning. That's about
the best way of spending Sunday that I know of.

Mr. Dormouse {Duke Street, St. James's).—Well, I always spend
my Sunday in the Club ; and, on my word, I find it one of the nicest
days in the week. Breakfast, and then the Observer and a mild
cigar in the smoking-room. Then a little chat in the drawing-
room with one or two old fellow-members—fogeyish, perhaps, but,
at all events, not fast—hate your fast fellows. Then into the library,
and read until dinner-time. Late dinner, and bed. What more
can a quiet man want ?

Mr. Counter {Bond Street and Pimlico).—Generally order
out the 'osses and the carriage, and take a drive to the " Star
and Garter " at Richmond. Then, yer know, me and Mes. T. and
the gals, and Tom and some of his College friends, 'ave a real good
dinner (champagne and what not), and come 'ome again.

Mr. Smallpiece {Stoke Neivington).—Oh, I can't do it in the
the same style as them West-End relatives of mine. The money in
the till won't run to it. No ; what I does is to put the 'orse in the
cart, and take the Missus and the young 'uns to 'Ampton Court, for
to see the 'orse chestnuts in bloom. And very pleasant it is, too.

Bill Jones, Labourer {Seven Dials).—'Ow do I spend Sundays?
Why, 'ow can I ? There ain't nowhere for me to go to. The
Museums and Picter Galleries, they ain't for the likes of me ! No ;
I can't go nowheres ; so I chucks myself into the publie*-'ouse until
I am turned out by the potboy and run in by the Peeler! That's
what X do on a Sunday. 'Cos why ? 'Cos you nobs ain't left me
nothing else for to do !

Prison Discipline Bill Amendment.—For Penal Servitude read

Peaceful Seclusion passim.