Punch: Punch (75.1878)

298

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 28, 1878.

MUSIC OF THE FUTURE.

Music being taught no longer by the ear, but by tlic eye exclusively (and forming apart
of Compulsory Education), Organ-Grinders are superseded by Peripatetic Pro-
fessors bearing the printed Scores of the Best Masters, and beating time as tlmj
turn over the leaves.

Shoe-Black (reading). "Heavenly Adagio, ain't it, Bill?"

Crossing-Sweeper. "Yes! But I think he's taking the Tempo too
Aggelerato I "

WE'RE ALL A-NAGGING.

Nag ! Nag ! Nag!

There is nought but nagging now;
The general tongue seems to spitefully wag

To the tune of UnlimitetLJlow.

For the Outs they nag th*. Ins,

And the Ins they nag the Outs ;
The man who loses nags him who wins ;
When the loser stops nagging the winner begins,
And 'tis cocking of noses and lifting of chins,

And changing of buffets and flouts.

Grim Gladstone nags the Earl,

And the Earl nags W. G.,
With the temper and taste of two roughs o'er their purl,

Or a brace of old vixens at tea.
And Rad nags Tory, and Tory Had ;
And Cad nags Swell, and Swell nags Cad;
Poet nags Poet, as hound bays hound,
And the Parsons nag at each other all round.
The Critic sublime, with a temper short,
The Artist nags in right Billingsgate sort;
And the Artist nags back, in open Court,
In a fashion that giveth the groundlings sport,

And maketh the Cynic grin.

Nag! Nag! Nag! Nag!

There is never an end to the din.
And now, alas ! the contagion spreads
To the biggest-wigged of the big-wigged heads :
Law's Top Lights join in the wordy fray,
And nag each other in such a fashion,
It puzzles the weary observer to say

Which Light may boast

That he nags the most
Like a grumpy old girl in a passion.
Oh, angry Goodies of either sex,
Invective's vocables cease to vex

With such misapplication ;
Your slang-whang rivalries much perplex

A squabble-sickened nation.
Are tact and taste and good-temper fled ?
Politeness vanished, and patience dead ?
Sage's tantrums and Statesmen's tiffs,
Bards indulging in sneers and sniffs,
Judges burning the midnight oil
To point and sharpen, with petty toil,
Tiny dartlets of puny spite—
Bah! 'tis a paltry and piteous sight,
And makes one wonder, now and then,
What has become of all the Men ?
When female tongues in wrath are wagging,
Pteason weakens as words grow strong,—
But now the favourite Gentleman's song
Would seem " We 're all a-nagging ! "

we 're going to have the real point!)—"from New York, saying, that
at such a time and on such a day, Mr. Waddilove died; and,
on comparing dates, the moment of his decease exactly corresponded
with the time of the apparition. I don't attempt to explain this
sort of thing," says Pelkin Wadd, mysteriously; " I only tell you
what was told me on really unimpeachable authority."
During the discussion that follows Pelkin Wadd's narrative,
I try to think of a ghost-story—a first-rate one—told "me by the
very man himself, who had seen the ghost, with the names, dates,
places, and everything as clear as daylight: and himself, the narrator,
a public character, above fear, and of irreproachable morality.
Dear me! What was his name ? I feel it is no use beginning the
story, unless I can give his name; and I can't, for the life of me,
recall it at this moment. I shall probably remember it to-morrow,
when I am miles away from the present party. Still, if I could but
remember the story now, it is so good, so convincing, and would be
presented on such evidence, that I am sure I should dwell in the
grateful remembrance of every one, as the raconteur of the marvellous
story of.this evening. _ And as I am only second-hand with this story,
having received it directly from the person to whom it occurred,
any one wishing to treat his friends to such a story, would, naturally
send for me. In fact, it is one of those stories, which is a little
fortune in itself to diners-out. It is far better than a humorous
story, as the interest depends on getting it first-hand, if possible,
but if not, at all events second-hand ; while a humorous story may
be all the better for the little embellishments and additions of various
witty raconteurs ; truth, in the latter case, being no object.
I do wish I could remember my story.

Hoshfokd tells us about what he himself saw when he was sleeping
in some old manor house.

"I woke up," he declares, " and saw as clearly as I see you "—this
he addressed to Pelkin Wakd, who is a very evident object—" a
woman in a sort of white dress, and without a head."

This does startle us. Without a head! We all unconsciously
move our chairs nearer the fire, and the shadows seem to be creep-
ing slowly up towards us out of the recesses. Looking nervously
behind me, it seems that we are at this moment only separated by
the dining-table from the shadows.

" But," says Sandilands, " you were dreaming."

We all wish to force Hoshfokd into allowing that he doesn't know
whether he was dreaming or waking. He won't alter a single item
of his story. He says in effect you can take it or leave it. There it
is, swallow it, or don't swallow it. I should like to suggest the
explanation, that it was somebody who had lost her head, and
wandered into his room; but I know Jossltn Dyke would set
this down to sneering or trifling, while really it is only due to
nervousness.

"I tell you," he affirms with evident conviction, that I saw a
Headless Woman standing at the foot of my bed, as clearly as I see
anyone in this room." .

Josslyn observes calmly. "Certainly. Why not P"

We are all silent. Why shouldn't Hoshfokd see a Headless
Woman ? No : no one can state any just cause or impediment. ^ I
am still trying to remember my story. I don't like to say 1 ve
got such a capital ghost-story if I could only recollect it." That s
the truth; but I must be silent, as truth is not to be told at all times.

Then Josslyn, being asked to give some account of The Mote, begins
by saying, " Well, I am not fond of talking about it "—this sounds as
though he were on intimate terms with the ghosts, and didn't like to
betray their secrets.