DOI issue:
December 25, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0300
Desember 25, 1880.J
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
293
on, a gwiun of his rounds. The moon wuz up, and purty nigh at the
full. “ ’Tis my delight of a shiny night in the sazon of the year.”
Ned, ’a know’d that well enough ; set a thief to catch a thief; not
thatil allows poachun ’s thievun,—that is, poachun as it used to be in
the old days, but ’a know’d a moonlight night was the time o’ day, as
the Irishman said, for the keepers to be on the look-out. So in the
coorse of his beat ’a wuz takun of a turn in Giles’s ’Ood, when some
way off ’a see a light a glimmerun droo the cover. ’Cause by this time
the clouds had rose and the sky begun to be overcast. So ’a made his
way towards the light that shone brighter and brighter the darker
the night grow’d and the nigher ’a got, till ’a come nigh enough to
make ut out a summut shinun out o’ the middle of a holler tree. ’A
went a step or two closer, and then ’a see a sight ’a said ’a hoped ’a
should never see no more agen as long as ’a lived, wot struck un all
of a heap and gie un a shock like as if a ramrod o’ cold iron had ben
drove down his backbone. ’A said, and ’a s’ore, ’a sin as plaain
as eyes could see a figger of a body in a shroud wi’ a Death’s Head
on, all alight inside, and the eyes a flamun like gurt glow-worms,
and the nose and mouth too a breathing out fire. The arms on’t
was stretched out crosswise like as if invitun of un to come to um
and offer’n to elapse un; and afoor ’a ’d got time to cry “ Loora-
massy ! ” the thing gie a groan more dismaller than the last dyun
grunt of a stuck pig ; and then vanished, leavun un rooted to the
earth beneath un like a ground-ash stick. There ’a stood some
time afoor ’a know’d what ’a wuz about. When ’a come to, the snow
had begun to fall, and by the time ’a got whoam ’a was as white all
over as a imidge o’ Father Crissmus ; and his veaee white too—half
froze to death awuz wi’ cold and fright. Never^no moor, never no
moor would Ned Norris nor nary one o’ the Keepers venter into
Giles’s ’Ood arter dark; not they.
Well; but how about me ? Had I seed this here Ghoast in Giles’s
’Ood myself, and know’d on ’un already ? Ees, I had. 1 ought to
a sin un afoor anybody else, cause the truth o’ the matter wuz I
made un. I farmed un by manes of a prop and a palun and a pair
o’ old gloves at the ends on’t, and an old sheet as had got moor holy
than ritechus, and a good-sized turmut that I scooped out and carved
wi’ holes for eyes, nose, and mouth, like the Man i’ the Moon, and
by way of beautifyun the Ghoast’s peepers in partickler, stuck bits o’
green glass in um, which made um look all the moor soopernateral,
O’ course, I needn’t explaain who ’twas that hid hisself behind
the Ghoast in the holler tree, and gied the horrable groan, and sud-
duntly doused the glim in the turmut lantern.
“ Why, you jolly old ’umbug!” exclaimed the Irrepressible One. “That
wasn’t a ghost! I don’t believe in ghosts,” said’Arky. Postlethwaite
heaved a sigh.
“ I do,” said the On-blighted Being; “ Shakspeare did.”
Some of the company rose at once to dispute this position, but before
Mr. Punch had decided who was to speak first, Toby rushed in head over
heels, barking furiously.
“I can’t help it, Master,” yelled Toby in his best dog-Latin, which his
master translated for the company’s benefit; “but there are three Gentlemen
outside, who want to know whether you’ll subscribe a trifle to the Land
League.”
“ With the greatest pleasure ! ” instantly responded the Just and Generous
Sage, his eye twinkling. “What, ho! without there ! Start an avalanche! ”
Ihere was a roar of thunder. “ Now, Gentlemen,” he said, smiling cheerily,
“ that's disposed of. Perhaps Mr. Postlethwaite will oblige?”
The iEbthetic Young Man rose languidly from his seat, and leaning against
a bookcase, with the Lily in his hand, and the Peacock's Feather in his hair,
he read aloud-
Jflmr ties $Ipe£;
OR, POSTLETHWAITE’S LAST LOVE.
Good Philistines all, I don’t carry manuscripts about me to read
to the likes of you ! and if I did, you couldn’t understand them—and
if you could, I should be Supremely disgusted,—moreover, you would
have the advantage of me.
But I can speak plain English when it suits me, and make myself
pretty well understood, when I like—even by such as yourselves—
wherefore, since you are willing to listen, I will tell you why I am
here to-night, far, far away from the Cimabue Browns—remote, ah
me! from the tender companionship of my Mattdle !
You have never heard of MAUDiE_and Mrs. Cimabue Brown ? I
dare say not. To know them is a Joy, and the privilege of a select
and chosen few ; for they are simply Perfect. Yet in their respec-
tive perfection, they differentiate from each other with a quite
ineffably subtle exquisiteness.
For She is Supremely Consummate—whereas He is Consummately
Supreme. I constantly tell them so, and they agree with me.
I also make a point of telling everybody else.
My modesty prevents me from revealing to you all they tell me
(and everybody else) about myself, beyond the mere fact that they
consider me alone to combine, in my own mind and person, Supreme
Consummateness with Consummate Supremacy—and I agree with
them. We get on uncommonly well together, 1 can tell you.
It will not surprise you, seeing that I am thus gifted, to hear that
for the last year or two I have been quite a Social Celebrity. It
happened in this wise.
One evening, for want of anything better to say, I told Mrs. Cimabue
JSrown, in the strictest confidence, that I could sit up all night with
a Lily. She was holding one in her hand, as usual. She was deeply
moved. Her eye moistened. She said, “ Quite so ! ” and wrung my
fingers. And it struck her as such a beautiful thought, that she
couldn’t help letting it out before that blundering buffoon Grigsby,
who always tries to poke his vulgar fun at Maudle and myself;
and Grigsby went and told it to every soul he knew, as a good
■joke against Me !
Now Grigsby, for some reason or other that I could never make
out, knows everybody worth knowing, and everybody worth knowing
very naturally wanted to know a man who could sit up all night
with a Lily!
A Lily! Just think of it, ye worthy Philistines! what a flower to
have chosen! and for what a purpose! How Consummate ! How
Perfect! how Supreme, Precious and Blessed 1 Nay, how Utter!
I became the fashion. These very adjectives of mine have grown
into household words. Even Grigsby uses them now, and about me
of all people; me, whom he pretends to hate! For does he not call me,
and to my very face, too, a Supreme duffer, a Consummate ass, a
Blessed idiot, a Precious fool, a Perfect noodle, nay, an Utter Nin-
compoop !
Poor Grigsby ! What an utter sell for him ! But he lacks the
real sense of humour !
I had imitators, of course. I can hardly call them rivals. Pilcox
declared he could sit up all night with a Stephanotis—and actually
did so, I believe, and was seedy for a month in consequence! _ And
as for Milejngton Sopley, he swore he never went to bed without
an Aloe Blossom! a thing that only happens once in a century!
They overdid it. They always do. And Grigsby lets them alone.
Next season I took Maudle aside, and whispered to him (in the
hearing of Grigsby) that I had sat up all night with a Primrose. I
thought it a capital change after the Lily. So simple, you know I
And we all went in for simplicity just then, even the little Cimabtje
Browns ! And what a sell for Pilcox and Sopley, with theu- Aloe
Blossoms and Stephanotises!
A tear rolled down the Perfect cheek of Maudle (for his cheek is
almost as consummate as mine); pressing me to his bosom he said,
“ Distinctly so ! ” Grigsby let off a big D., and went forth like an
indignant lamb to spread the news abroad.
It took immediately; the people worth knowing (Grigsby’s people,
Ha! Ha!) literally fought for me—Grigsby was nowhere.
Pilcox followed suit with a Marigold, or a Dandelion, or some such
twaddling superannuated old weed. And Sopley, poor boy ! tried it
on with a Snowdrop, so he said: but it was in June, you know, and
didn’t do at all. They overdid it, as usual, and were out of it again I
The fact is, “ they ain’t got no Tack,” as Grigsby says when he
wants to be funny. And as for the sense of humour, they are as
badly off as Grigsby himself. Besides which, Pilcox gets his clothes
Yol. 79.
10
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
293
on, a gwiun of his rounds. The moon wuz up, and purty nigh at the
full. “ ’Tis my delight of a shiny night in the sazon of the year.”
Ned, ’a know’d that well enough ; set a thief to catch a thief; not
thatil allows poachun ’s thievun,—that is, poachun as it used to be in
the old days, but ’a know’d a moonlight night was the time o’ day, as
the Irishman said, for the keepers to be on the look-out. So in the
coorse of his beat ’a wuz takun of a turn in Giles’s ’Ood, when some
way off ’a see a light a glimmerun droo the cover. ’Cause by this time
the clouds had rose and the sky begun to be overcast. So ’a made his
way towards the light that shone brighter and brighter the darker
the night grow’d and the nigher ’a got, till ’a come nigh enough to
make ut out a summut shinun out o’ the middle of a holler tree. ’A
went a step or two closer, and then ’a see a sight ’a said ’a hoped ’a
should never see no more agen as long as ’a lived, wot struck un all
of a heap and gie un a shock like as if a ramrod o’ cold iron had ben
drove down his backbone. ’A said, and ’a s’ore, ’a sin as plaain
as eyes could see a figger of a body in a shroud wi’ a Death’s Head
on, all alight inside, and the eyes a flamun like gurt glow-worms,
and the nose and mouth too a breathing out fire. The arms on’t
was stretched out crosswise like as if invitun of un to come to um
and offer’n to elapse un; and afoor ’a ’d got time to cry “ Loora-
massy ! ” the thing gie a groan more dismaller than the last dyun
grunt of a stuck pig ; and then vanished, leavun un rooted to the
earth beneath un like a ground-ash stick. There ’a stood some
time afoor ’a know’d what ’a wuz about. When ’a come to, the snow
had begun to fall, and by the time ’a got whoam ’a was as white all
over as a imidge o’ Father Crissmus ; and his veaee white too—half
froze to death awuz wi’ cold and fright. Never^no moor, never no
moor would Ned Norris nor nary one o’ the Keepers venter into
Giles’s ’Ood arter dark; not they.
Well; but how about me ? Had I seed this here Ghoast in Giles’s
’Ood myself, and know’d on ’un already ? Ees, I had. 1 ought to
a sin un afoor anybody else, cause the truth o’ the matter wuz I
made un. I farmed un by manes of a prop and a palun and a pair
o’ old gloves at the ends on’t, and an old sheet as had got moor holy
than ritechus, and a good-sized turmut that I scooped out and carved
wi’ holes for eyes, nose, and mouth, like the Man i’ the Moon, and
by way of beautifyun the Ghoast’s peepers in partickler, stuck bits o’
green glass in um, which made um look all the moor soopernateral,
O’ course, I needn’t explaain who ’twas that hid hisself behind
the Ghoast in the holler tree, and gied the horrable groan, and sud-
duntly doused the glim in the turmut lantern.
“ Why, you jolly old ’umbug!” exclaimed the Irrepressible One. “That
wasn’t a ghost! I don’t believe in ghosts,” said’Arky. Postlethwaite
heaved a sigh.
“ I do,” said the On-blighted Being; “ Shakspeare did.”
Some of the company rose at once to dispute this position, but before
Mr. Punch had decided who was to speak first, Toby rushed in head over
heels, barking furiously.
“I can’t help it, Master,” yelled Toby in his best dog-Latin, which his
master translated for the company’s benefit; “but there are three Gentlemen
outside, who want to know whether you’ll subscribe a trifle to the Land
League.”
“ With the greatest pleasure ! ” instantly responded the Just and Generous
Sage, his eye twinkling. “What, ho! without there ! Start an avalanche! ”
Ihere was a roar of thunder. “ Now, Gentlemen,” he said, smiling cheerily,
“ that's disposed of. Perhaps Mr. Postlethwaite will oblige?”
The iEbthetic Young Man rose languidly from his seat, and leaning against
a bookcase, with the Lily in his hand, and the Peacock's Feather in his hair,
he read aloud-
Jflmr ties $Ipe£;
OR, POSTLETHWAITE’S LAST LOVE.
Good Philistines all, I don’t carry manuscripts about me to read
to the likes of you ! and if I did, you couldn’t understand them—and
if you could, I should be Supremely disgusted,—moreover, you would
have the advantage of me.
But I can speak plain English when it suits me, and make myself
pretty well understood, when I like—even by such as yourselves—
wherefore, since you are willing to listen, I will tell you why I am
here to-night, far, far away from the Cimabue Browns—remote, ah
me! from the tender companionship of my Mattdle !
You have never heard of MAUDiE_and Mrs. Cimabue Brown ? I
dare say not. To know them is a Joy, and the privilege of a select
and chosen few ; for they are simply Perfect. Yet in their respec-
tive perfection, they differentiate from each other with a quite
ineffably subtle exquisiteness.
For She is Supremely Consummate—whereas He is Consummately
Supreme. I constantly tell them so, and they agree with me.
I also make a point of telling everybody else.
My modesty prevents me from revealing to you all they tell me
(and everybody else) about myself, beyond the mere fact that they
consider me alone to combine, in my own mind and person, Supreme
Consummateness with Consummate Supremacy—and I agree with
them. We get on uncommonly well together, 1 can tell you.
It will not surprise you, seeing that I am thus gifted, to hear that
for the last year or two I have been quite a Social Celebrity. It
happened in this wise.
One evening, for want of anything better to say, I told Mrs. Cimabue
JSrown, in the strictest confidence, that I could sit up all night with
a Lily. She was holding one in her hand, as usual. She was deeply
moved. Her eye moistened. She said, “ Quite so ! ” and wrung my
fingers. And it struck her as such a beautiful thought, that she
couldn’t help letting it out before that blundering buffoon Grigsby,
who always tries to poke his vulgar fun at Maudle and myself;
and Grigsby went and told it to every soul he knew, as a good
■joke against Me !
Now Grigsby, for some reason or other that I could never make
out, knows everybody worth knowing, and everybody worth knowing
very naturally wanted to know a man who could sit up all night
with a Lily!
A Lily! Just think of it, ye worthy Philistines! what a flower to
have chosen! and for what a purpose! How Consummate ! How
Perfect! how Supreme, Precious and Blessed 1 Nay, how Utter!
I became the fashion. These very adjectives of mine have grown
into household words. Even Grigsby uses them now, and about me
of all people; me, whom he pretends to hate! For does he not call me,
and to my very face, too, a Supreme duffer, a Consummate ass, a
Blessed idiot, a Precious fool, a Perfect noodle, nay, an Utter Nin-
compoop !
Poor Grigsby ! What an utter sell for him ! But he lacks the
real sense of humour !
I had imitators, of course. I can hardly call them rivals. Pilcox
declared he could sit up all night with a Stephanotis—and actually
did so, I believe, and was seedy for a month in consequence! _ And
as for Milejngton Sopley, he swore he never went to bed without
an Aloe Blossom! a thing that only happens once in a century!
They overdid it. They always do. And Grigsby lets them alone.
Next season I took Maudle aside, and whispered to him (in the
hearing of Grigsby) that I had sat up all night with a Primrose. I
thought it a capital change after the Lily. So simple, you know I
And we all went in for simplicity just then, even the little Cimabtje
Browns ! And what a sell for Pilcox and Sopley, with theu- Aloe
Blossoms and Stephanotises!
A tear rolled down the Perfect cheek of Maudle (for his cheek is
almost as consummate as mine); pressing me to his bosom he said,
“ Distinctly so ! ” Grigsby let off a big D., and went forth like an
indignant lamb to spread the news abroad.
It took immediately; the people worth knowing (Grigsby’s people,
Ha! Ha!) literally fought for me—Grigsby was nowhere.
Pilcox followed suit with a Marigold, or a Dandelion, or some such
twaddling superannuated old weed. And Sopley, poor boy ! tried it
on with a Snowdrop, so he said: but it was in June, you know, and
didn’t do at all. They overdid it, as usual, and were out of it again I
The fact is, “ they ain’t got no Tack,” as Grigsby says when he
wants to be funny. And as for the sense of humour, they are as
badly off as Grigsby himself. Besides which, Pilcox gets his clothes
Yol. 79.
10