Punch (88.1885)

26

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [January 17, 1885.

WHAT SITTERS HAVE TO PUT UP WITH SOMETIMES.

Jones (the celebrated Portrait Painter) never allows the Sitter to
hove a Muscle until the Sitting is over, for fear of disturbing the
Folds ! Unfortunately Jones is a great Wagnerite, and, carried away
BY HIS ENTHUSIASM, HE WILL SING WHOLE PIECES OF RECITATIVE FROM PAR-
SIFAL IN THE MIDDLE OF A SEANCE—VERY TRYING WHEN THE SlTTER IS BEING
PAINTED IN THE ACT OF POINTING TO A FAVOURITE PASSAGE IN AN tDITION DM

Luxe, for instance !

A MERRY MEDICO.

In Muscovy there dwells a Leach,

His name it is Balinsky,

Who doth a novel doctrine preach,

Which lawyers might call risky.

A little girl was foully slain,

And eke her house was plundered :

Three culprits being caught, ’twas plain
That “ somebody had blundered.”

The murderess confessed her deed,

Her name was Semenova ;

Yet she’s acquitted—yes, indeed!

And now she lives in clover.

The Doctor framed a new defence,

There never was a lamer ;

For why P—She was a “ Psychopath,”

And therefore you can’t blame her!

Now if you really want to know
The Psychopathic nature,

It seems to mean what’s base and low
In other nomenclature.

The “Psychopath” ’s an “Egotist; ”

They think that right whioh pleases ’em;

And moral wrong, they do insist,

Is whatsoeverAeases ’em.

To gain their end, they ’ll put to death
Their nearest blood relation;

So never stop a Psychopath
From following his vocation!

No cure the smallest good can do,

And prisons only rile ’em,

And it’s a shame to send ’em to
A Lunatic Asylum.

So let them satisfy their needs,

And kill with much impunity ;

They ’re only “nervous invalids,”

Like most of the community.

Which shows that jurymen are wise
To place such great reliance

On all who wave before their eyes
The “ blessed light of Science.”

“ Multa Revolvens.” — Portant beaucoup de ‘re-
volvers.’ New French Classics. Translation.

A NEW AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

The Real Original Wandering Jew, a relation of Eugene Sue’s—
not Black-Eyed Sue’s—who is still about, and likely to be, writes
from Paris to say that he thinks his Autobiography, published in
monthly parts, and continued through a few centuries, would he
highly interesting. It would, he fancies, beat Irving’s Annals of Our
Times into fits ; and, as he was on speaking terms with everybody of
any note (he remembers poor Claudian perfectly, and considered him
a miserable rival and weak impostor), he could give some anecdotes
in his own racy style, which would make the fortune of many a
diner-out. He asks us our advice as to a publisher, and as he looks
forward to getting rid of about twenty-five editions yearly, he
questions whether he shouldn’t call it an Ought-to-Sell-o/jraphy,
instead of an Autobiography. We have answered his queries, and
place a specimen of his work before our readers :—

“It was in the year 1649 that I had the pleasure of meeting Charles
the First. Went to see him at Whitehall, where he was staying at
the. time (he died, there shortly afterwards) furnished with a letter
of introduction from my dear old friend Oliver Cromwell. The
King, was clad in a rather gaudy dressing-gown and a startling
smoking-cap. As I entered .he was enjoying a large cigar. Taking
up a box of weeds from a side-table, he offered me one, saying that
‘ although his father objected to tobacco and witches, he found the
former excellent.’ I never saw him again, but was very intimate
with his sons. His eldest hoy and namesake was a decidedly over-
rated person. Many of the ‘ good things ’ credited to him in reality
were spoken by his brother, James the Second. However,
‘ Charles the Merry Monarch ’ (as he was called by his own set),
was not a) had raconteur, and possessed some excellent port. A
connection of the family, William the Third, I met in after

years. All I can recollect about him was that he spoke Dutch with
fluency.

1 ‘ I remember meeting William Shakspeare at a Moot given before
Queen Elizabeth at Gray’s Inn. ‘ Betsy,’ as we used to oall her in
those days, was very fond of the Hon. Society, and invariably insisted
upon presiding at the Pensions and dining with the Benchers. On
this occasion she had dined too well, or the weather was sultry. At
all events, she had gone to sleep. The Benchers naturally did not
like to disturb her, as she was known to have a 1 nasty temper ’ when
crossed. I was laughing at the incident, when a fat middle-sized
man, with an uncommonly high forehead, came up to me, and saying
that he was William Shakspeare, asked me what he should do? It
appeared that he had been engaged to read A Midsummer - Night's
Dream, and that there was no one to listen to him. I may explain
that the Queen having gone to sleep, it was etiquette for everyone
to pretend to follow her example. William (or ‘ Belly,’ as he
was called at the Globe Play-house), pointed out that the artful old
Treasurer for the year (one Bacon—a lawyer of some repute), was
sleeping with one eye open. I forget how the incident ended, as I
had to hurry away to keep another engagement.

“ Two more friends I met about this time were, John Milton, the
Poet, and the First Duke of Marlborough, who won Blenheim, and
several other victories. Jack was blind, but genial. He acted as
Latin Secretary to Oliver Cromwell (by the way, Cromwell,
although his father was a Brewer, came of a good old stock), and
used to swear at his employer in the dead, languages. He has made
me roar again at the things he has said in Oliver’s presence—the
latter, of course, not in the least knowing what sentiments his
amanuensis was uttering. I remember seeing some of the proof-
sheets of Paradise Regained, a poem not to be mentioned in the
some mouth with Paradise Lost. ‘Handsome Jack Churchill,’
as the First Duke of Marlborough was called, although, no doubt,