Punch: Punch (81.1881)

132 PUNCH, OE THE LONDON CHABIVARL [September 17, 1881.

IMPRESSION DE L'AUTOMNE.

(Stanzas by our muchly-admired Poet, Drawit Milde.)

It is full Autumn now, and yet I know

Hard by there is a little dusky dell
Where still Apollo's plaining hyacinths blow,

Brushed by white feet of Dryads from the well
"With silver pails returning, or perchance
Trod down by laughing Satyrs in their frolic noon-
tide dance:

For still they haunt these woodlands,_ and I think

The little primrose, that pale morning star_
Of flowers, yet blooms there by the river's brink.
And lo ! one splendid apple gleams afar.
Amid the trammelling grasses hath it dropt—
Oh no, by some most beauteous boy the prize was surely cropt

An hour agone, and wanton having bit

One rosv cheek, he chucked it on the sward.

For such delicious lips what fruit were fit, _
Though it were perfumed with that precious nard

"With which dead ladies' dainty limbs they lave,
Then lay them down to rest in some dim, richly-sculptured nave P

Of violets too a tender troop have stayed
To watch with wondering eyes how gleamingly

The clustered berries of that deadly 'shade
Hang i' the hedge—a fruit more sweet to me,

Who know the bitterness of things too sweet,
Than honey in some jar from Mountain Hybla were to eat!

And ah! what trembling blossoms, lingering yet
For Winter's snows to kiss them, on the bough

Of yonder purple cherry-tree are set,
As charmingly as though they came e'en now

From dear Japan, that perfect House of Art!
0 Autumn, how thy beauties stir a young Endymion's heart!

LUXUBY ON THE LINE.

Scene—First- Class Carriage on the Joggem and Joltem Line.
Interlocutors—Brown and Jones.

Brown. Hillo! We 're off. And only we two in the carriage !
Shan't we be shaken up ?

Jones (shuddering), blather ! No stoppage for two hours ; and no
divisions between the seats. By Jove, we shall be bumped to bits.

Brown. Last time I travelled this way I reached home like a dis-
articulated skeleton—only skeletons don't bruise. Ah, it's be-
ginning. [Lurches violently.

Jones. Awful, isn't it? [Pitches forward into Brown's waistcoat.

Broivn. Oh! here, I say, let's barricade ourselves up with our
portmanteaus and rugs somehow.

[They do so, and look like besieged residents in a secondhand
wardrobe-shop.

Janes. Awfully glad to hear General Garfield seems to have a
chance of pulling through, after all.

Brown (heartily). So am I, so's everybody.

{Knocks down a Gladstone bag with a sudden lurch.

Jones. But doesn't this account of his journey to Long Branch
almost make one envy a sick President ? (Reads.)

" The President was then transferred to the car, his mattresses being laid
on spring hoards, arranged in the centre of the car to prevent too much
motion. The floor of the car was heavily carpeted, the sides were draped with
curtains, and the windows and ventilators were covered with gauze, excluding
dust, smoke, noise, and draught. Heavy axles were fastened to the floor of
the car, their weight overcoming oscillation. The President rather enjoyed
the ride."

I should think so ; though going sometimes at sixty miles an hour,

we 're told. Whilst we-

[Sighs heavily, and rubs an abrased elbow.

Broivn. Ah! Shows it is "within the resources of Science" to
give us a pleasanter alternative than that between being packed like
sardines or shaken like doctors' draughts or dice in a box.

[JLas his hat knocked over his eyes.

Jones. Fact is, Railwaydom looks at the Public and at the possi-
bilities of improvement from an altogether wrong point of view.
Bailway travelling, as one of the necessary evils of life, ought to be
mitigated by all the comforts and conveniences that Science can
devise or ingenuity apply. Railwaydom, as living by and on the
Public, ought to make those comforts and conveniences its special
study, and, instead of looking on a curtain as a concession, or a foot-
warmer as an indulgence, regard it as a simple duty to make a long
journey not only as endurable but as enjoyable as possible.

Brown [bracing his legs against the opposite seat until his muscles
grow rigid). Utopian dreamer !

Jones. Not at all. For I was about to add that the Public ought
to devise some means of putting the screw on Railwaydom, and
proving that expensive misery is not its—the Public's—normal and
necessary state. Once knock that fixed notion of official noddles
into a cocked-hat, and the pace at which Improvement, thus sharply
spurred, would proceed, would a little astonish the stick-in-the-
muds who deem all amelioration hopeless—until it is achieved. At
any rate, a long railway-journey would not be a synonym for being
bumped, blinded, and draught-bitten into abject misery—as we are
being.

MATO CHEZ MATA.

What Cheer, my old Rum Puncheon ?

Look here, don't you know, you magnanimous old marlin-
spike ! Avast! Belay ! You gibbering old jib-boom ! You and
your tomatoes! Goto! Go to-mato. Why don't you say tommy-
toes at once ? Why not Tom martyr ?
Eh, you sapient old sprit-sail ? *
Were I not

Troppo caricata, I Or play a toccata,
. I'd sing a ballata, | In praise of Tomata!

For Tomata, I maintain it is, you
benighted old binnacle. See the
famous case of Bardell v. Pickwick.
Said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, " Gentle-
men, what does this mean ?—' Chops
m t) i' h vi4 i an<i Tomata-sauce. Yours, Pick-

ThePoet-Crabbe! CjiOps! Gracious heavens!

And Tomata-sa,uce." Besides this, I 've taken out a poetic licence,
and shall, if I please, sing even about a Potata. Tata, you comic
old cringle. Yours tautomata-cally,

On board the " Shuttlecock," The Lazy Minstrel.

No end of latitude, and no longitude to speak of.

* We'd got as far as this, when we thought we 'd look at the signature.
Oh, from the Lazy One is it ? In his poem (?) last week we queried his
" Tomata." Either it is a feminine noun, or a neuter plural from Tomatum,
like Pomatum or Teetotum, which would make "Pomata" and " Teetota."
He adduces Buzfuz as his authority ! What the dickens—we mean what the
adduces—no—we'll think it over.—Ed.

THE PIC-NIC OF THE PERIOD.

A Pic-nic ! Now the lady of the Hall,

Or Rector's wife, will issue invitations,
That, answered with due courtesy, recall

The agony of ancient aggravations ;
Of thunder-clouds that did the sun eclipse ;

Of sheets of rain 'twixt Medmenham and Marlow :
Of what had brought strong language to the lips.

Of Sandford's and of MertoiVs Mr. Barlow.

A Pic-nic—salmon, lamb, and huge game-pies,

Consumed when lazily on rugs reclining ;
The hapless ant within the gravy dies,

And wasps and slugs are, self-invited, dining.
This at some strange hour when no sane man eats,

With indigestion's pangs you well remember ;
Yet here's an invitation to cold meats—

A luncheon out of doors in drear September.

'Tis very well for girls and beardless boys—■

Young lovers rise superior to the weather—
But even then stern fate will mar their joys,

For ofttimes the wrong couples get together.
So. view it with a calm sagacious eye,

The fuss and worry of the preparation,
The culminating horrors of cold pie,

And own a Pic-nic's an abomination.

Slips of Mems.

Cockneys of Cockaigne will be glad to hear that the old Cock
Tavern is not coming down. Jolly Old Cock! It might " come down"
in its prices, as, though we say it affectionately, it is rather a Dear
Old Cock. What a j oily Cock crew of old Cock Cro-nies used to fore-
gather there ! Keep your pecker up, Old Cock, you 're not going to
be frightened away by what The Globe calls that " scare-crow " the
Griffin. Gallus hard lines if you were, after all these years of
crowing popularity.

By the way, why not put a placard of '' Visitors are requested not
to touch the figures " on the Griffin's pedestal ?

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