Punch (86.1884)

February 23, 1884.]

PUNCH, UK THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

GENUS SRRITABILE.

Jones (ivho has been asked by Brown, as a Friend, his candid opinion oj Brown’s
last Boole). “Well, my dear Fellow, since you ask me, you'know, I—a—
MUST SAY THAT—-A—THAT YOUR LAST BOOK IS PERHAPS HARDLY QUITE-”

Brown. “ Oh, confound it ! One can’t please every one, hang it all ! ”

[Bolts in a huff.

THE PARCEL AND THE PEER.

(Stray Chapter of Hereditary Romance.)

“ Lord Tennyson has not as yet taken his seat as a Peer of the Realm. The noble
Lord’s robes were prepared in due course, and were made up in a parcel for transmission
to the House of Lords, but have not yet reached their destination. The police are
endeavouring to find them.”—Contemporary Tragedy.

*******

The ample cloak and slouched hat of the handsome Stranger lent him, as he
stood without in the titful dicker of the local gaslight, almost a romantic look.
Yet the Official was obdurate. He would not let him in.

“It’s no use talking about it,” said the custodian, decisively. “You
haven’t got ’em on,—and that’s all I know about it.”

“ But I tell you,” retorted the other almost dercely, “ they were promised in
plenty of time, and ought to have arrived. It was arranged that—I was to
put them on here.”

The Official looked at the speaker incredulously, and shook his head. Then
he turned from the gusty entrance, and proceeded leisurely n the direction of
the Peers’ Robing-Room.

At that moment the Policeman on duty in Palace Yard turned the corner by
the Victoria Tower. The Stranger saw his opportunity. With resolute alacrity
he passed the threshold. In another minute he had caught up with and was
facing his recent interlocutor in a small Gothic antechamber leading by a narrow
passage to the very precincts of the Upper House.

The two for a moment stood opposite each other silent and motionless. The
Official was the drst to speak.

“ Well, I never ! ” he said. “ If I don’t call you a preciou.- cool ’un ! Why,
what will you be up to next ? ”

An angry dush swept over the pale features of the Stranger. “Come!”
he cried, sharply, “we must have an end of this. Don’t you know who lam?”

“ Know who yon are ? ” was the ready rejoinder. “ No,—nor don’t care to.
But, if you don’t walk olf, thev ’ll soon dnd out for you at the Westminster
Police-Court! ”

“ Yarlet! ” shouted the Stranger, for a moment stung
from his altitude of high-bred self-restraint, “ know that
1 am-” and he whispered a great name in the Official’s

ear.

The latter started back a pace, and then looked at him
with a familiar wink. “ Oh, indeed !” he said. “Any-
thing else ?—I suppose you have brought your harp along
with you! ”

‘ ‘ I have! See! ’ ’ came the ready and triumphant answer.

As he spoke, the Stranger produced a large Corinthian
lyre from under the folds of his cloak, and assuming,
with natural grace, an easy classic attitude, struck on
the instrument a few familiar chords.

The Official made a movement as if he would stop him.

“ I will soon prove to you my right to he here,” con-
tinued the Stranger, gathering courage, as he noticed the
growing alarm and amusement of the astonished subor-
dinate. “ Listen! ” he cried.

“You must mind and send ’em early, send’em early,
Hyams dear,

For to-morrow is my very first appearance as a Peer;

My very first appearance—so, if you mean delay,

I must "hire ’em from Nathan or May, Hyams ; I must
hire ’em from Nathan or May ! ”

The clear rich treble voice echoed down the cloistered
passage, and seemed to drown the windy thunder of
oratory that was now rumbling loudly from the august
chamber beyond. The Official looked scared. Still he
seemed unconvinced.

“You mustn’t do that here,” he cried, glancing
anxiously at the distant door. “ They ’ll hear you inside.”

4 4 And they shall! ” retorted the now inspired Stranger,
kindling with enthusiasm, as he struck another measure,
“ What will they say to this ?—

“ All night outside the Upper House,

Beyond the doors that swung and creak’d,

The Poet, like some baffled mouse,

Behind the lobby curtains shriek’d,

Or down dark alleys crept about.

They would not let him pass the doors.

4 That dress won’t go upon all fours! ’

They shouted. Then he peered without,

And merely said, 4 Oh, this is dreary! ’

4 He cometh not,’ he said;

4 But when he does—however weary—-
I mean to punch his head! ’ ”

As the wild pathos of the last line rang along the
Gothic roof, there was momentary pause in the Great
Conservative Peer’s Oration, that still came booming from
the adjacent Chamber. Then followed a terrible peal of
laughter. The Official knelt at the feet of the Stranger.
He was imploring him now.

“Don’t, my Lord ! ’’—don’t! ” he cried, entreatingly.
“I don’t doubt a bit now who you are. It’s all right,
of course ; but, please, don’t give them any more of it.
They’ve heard you already, and it’s as much as my
place is worth to allow this sort of thing in thr Lobby.
Let me get you a four-wheeler, my Lord, and tell him
to drAe to the tailor’s. There must have been some
mistake.” The poor man spoke earnestly. There was a
deep humility in his tone. The Stranger was softened.
He suffered himself to be led back quietly to the
entrance. 44 Perhaps they sent them by Parcels’ Post ? ”
he said, sadly.

“Perhaps,” replied the Official, helping him eagerly
into the vehicle. “Where to, my Lord?” he asked,
obsequiously.

44 Freshwater ! ” was the absent reply.

***■■*•*

A little later, a cab was nearing the Waterloo Terminus.
As it passed him, a Railway Porter, retiring for the
night, thought he heard a melancholy strain floating from
the open window. He halted on his way. Then the
following fragment of some sad complaining ditty fell
upon his listening ear :—

4 4 Behold me gay as budding Spring !

And yet, I trust, they ’re not too small;

—That when I get ’em on,—that all
May cry, 4 By Jove, he looks the thing ! ’

44 So ran my dream—yet what am I ?

A Baron fit to take the oaths,

A Baron who had bought his clothes,—

Yet now must get a fresh supply! ”