DOI issue:
February 26, 1887
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17657#0110
100
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [February 26, 1887.
HEE! HEE!
{By Walker Weird, Author of " Solomon's Ewers."
Chapter I.—The Pot of Pomatum.
It was in this very'month something over twenty years ago, that I,
Bigwig Lorrell Tree, was sitting one night in my rooms at Cam-
bridge, grinding away at some mathematical work, I forget what.
Short, thick-set, and deep-chested almost to deformity, with
sinewy arms longer than my
legs, heavy features, deep set
grey eyes, a low brow, covered
to my wide lips with a mop of
thick black hair —such was my
appearance nearly a quarter of
a century ago, and such, with
some modifications, is it to this
day. I have but one fault, I am
too fond of practical jokes.
Once I loved a girl very dearly,
and we were engaged. She
wishedme to name the day of our
marriage. By way of answer I
took her to the glass and stood
side by side with her, and looked
into it. "Now," I said, "if I
am the Beauty, who are you ? "
That was when I was only
twenty, and I am much funnier
Facsimile of the Pot of Pomatum. now. There was a knock at my
One-Half Size. door. I had but one friend in
n t n -.i . .' , . the world—I am good at guess-
Greatest length_of the original • 5Jin. conundrums — perhaps it
Greatest breadth . . . . 2 in. wa53 he. Then there was a howl
WelgM2«oz- which shook the College to its
very foundations. I knew the howl and hastened to open the
door. A tall man of about thirty, with remains of great personal
beauty, came staggering in with an immense box. He threw it down,
and then stretching himself on the hearth-rug and placing his head
in the coal-scuttle, fell into a heavy slumber. I revived him by
pouring a bottle of whiskey down his throat.
" Itsh all right," he explained indistinctly, and then he told me a
long incoherent story about his family. So far as I could understand,
he was descended from an early Egyptian priest of Isis. "Not
Cambridge man, but Oxford—hie—Isis," he explained. He was the
sixty:sixth or six hundred and sixty-sixth (he did not seem sure as
to which) lineal descendant of this gentleman, who it appeared had some
quarrel with a lady of theatrical tastes. The name of the Priest was
(so I understood) Killikrankie. The theatrical lady seemed to have
made him disappear in some peculiar manner, and his son thereupon
took the name of Wtndex, which, as my friend reminded me, was
'' Latin for ' venger." He then became almost unintelligible about his
family in the time of " Champagne " (" ole G-erman sportsman," he
suggested), and Charges the Second, and ended, by saying his father
made a fortune in beer. They had called themselves Winkle from
time immemorial, because, as he explained, they were descended from
" Chap at Isis—hie !—priest, you know, at G-unter's ! " He declared
that he had the whole blessed thing in the box, which I was to open
when his son was five-and-twenty. Then he burst into tears, told
me he had made a will leaving me that boy and his entire fortune,
and staggered out.
The next morning my gyp informed me that he had foundWrNKLE
dead and incapable on the stairs. I attended the funeral, and twenty
years afterwards opened that box. It contained a letter addressed " To
my son Pongo, should he live to open this casket," a scroll of paper,
and what appeared to be the piece of a pot of pomatum. The letter
told his son to go in quest of the theatrical lady, who some thousand
years before had made his ancestor disappear, and who was said to
live for ever. The scroll of writing was all in Greek and black-letter,
and is too long for transcription, but I may say it seemed to be the
same incoherent story that poor "Winkle'had. tried to tell me with
his head resting in the coal-scuttle so many years before. I think
he must have written it himself. The piece of the pot of pomatum
was self-explanatory. 1 Sive a sketch of it.
Well, 1 suppose we must go," said Bob—he had been a stable-
help, and m that character I had engaged him as Pongo's nurse—" I
suppose we must go."
" Bob, you are not worth a shilling," I replied.
That day three months we were on the water of the sea of Batter,
bound for Aquariumbar.
Chapter II.—The Halls ofM'dme Too Stir.
How different are the scenes that I now have to tell, from that
which has just been told! Gone are the quiet College Booms with
their picturesque et-eeteras, and in their place rise several useful
visions. "Were I writing this for a weekly pictorial newspaper, such
as the Illustrated or the Graphic, I might here describe a number of
incidents to give the artist a chance. For instance, I would go in
for a squall, and tell how a vast wave came with a wild rush of
boiling foam and made me cling for my life to the shroud, ay, and
swept me straight out from it like a flag in a gale. Then I could dabble
in some hunting sketches, and describe how two lions tried to eat
us, and how one was eaten himself for his pains. "Would not this be an
extraordinary scene ? I might tell how one of the lions managed to
get well on the bank with a crocodile in pursuit of him, half standing
and half swimming, and nipping his hind leg. I might add that
the lion roared till the air quivered with the sound, and then, with a
savage shrieking snarl, turned round and clawed hold of the croco-
dile's head. The crocodile with one of his eyes torn out, shifted his
grip and the lion roaring with agony, laid his great hind claws in
the crocodile's comparatively soft throat and ripped it open as one
would rip up a glove. That ought to illustrate pretty well, ought
it not ? Then, with the same end in view, I might have a great deal
to say about the savages belonging to the early Egyptian sorceress—
how the girls kissed the men, how the men tortured strangers by
putting a red-hot soup tureen on their heads, and many other matters
equally picturesque. I admit the soup-tureen incident would have
had a peculiar charm for me, had I used it, as I could then have
described the victims as " going to pot."
But, as this story will not be illustrated save by the sketch to
which I have already alluded, I need not go into all this, but may as
well come- to my first .interview with Hee-Hee-the-Donkey-
that-will-have-her-way. Eor short she was always called Hee.
Another name she had was Ayeshaish, pronounced Ass-ish. She lived
in the land, of M'dme Tor-S6r, amongst the Umbuggums (the people
who deceive). I was introduced by an old man called Bille Stickings
(Pongo's nurse, Bob,—a gentleman scarcely worth a couple of six-
pences—always amusingly spoke of him as Billy) to her presence.
Hee was seated, robed in a sort of peignoir. She was attended
by deaf mutes.
" There," said Hee, as Billy left us, " he has gone, the white-
headed old fool! Ah! how little does a man acquire iu life. He
gathereth it up like water, but like water it runneth through his
ringers ; and yet, if his hands be but wet as though with dew, behold
a generation of fools call out, ' See, is he not a wise man !' "
From this I saw at once that the lady was a constant reader of the
works of Martin Earotjhar Tupper ; and, on further investigation,
discovered she had for several years kept a commonplace-book.
Under these circumstances, I will not repeat my conversations with
her on various occasions, as they might become tedious. However,
it is only right to say that, having heard her repeat, with a somewhat
foreign accent, "Para avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno," and
" Tot™, Tira-reis, Trarei," I became convinced that she was also a
proficient in the dead languages, and quite qualified to be the Head
of Girton or Lady Margaret's. Evidently to impress me, she showed
me some reflections on a table in a darkened corner of the room. I
saw, as distinctly as ever I saw anything in my life, Pongo lying on a
bench in another apartment. A young lady was watching over him
with a look of infinite tenderness, and with her chesnut locks falling
on to her right shoulder.
" This is called the Kam-Orrers-Kurrer! " Hee cried, with a bell-
like laugh. " Hast thou aught to ask of me, 0 Yew Tree P "
"Aye, one thing, 0 Ass-ish!" I said, boldly. "I would gaze
upon thy form."
" Thou shalt, my Plane Tree."
She lifted her white and rounded arms—never had I seen such
arms before—and slowly, very slowly, withdrew some fastener
beneath her hair. Then all of a sudden the long bath-like wrapping
fell to the ground. I gazed at her and I do not exaggerate—shrank
back blinded and amazed. I had heard of the beauty of circus, acro-
batic beings, and now I saw it. She was a mass of splendid spangles,
with a deep broad coat of gold which fitted tightly to the figure
from the neck to the knees. Though the face before me was that of
a young woman of certainly not more than thirty years, in perfect
health and with the improving flush of rouge upon her cheeks, yet
it had stamped upon it a look of intense experience. I felt instinct-
ively that, given a trapeze, she would jump for several miles.
'' Now," said Hee, after she had resumed her covering," wouldstthou
see some of the wonders of this place, 0, Sherry and Port Tree ? "
I bowed, and in a moment followed her to some side passages
where were some figures covered with sheets.
" Uplift the cloths, 0 my Christmas Tree," said Ass-ish, butwhen
I put out my hand to do so I drew it back again. It seemed like
sacrilege, and to speak the truth I was awed by the solemnity of the
place and the presences before me. Then, with a little laugh at my
fears, she drew them herself, discovering the life-like presentment
of the most eminent personages. There were monarchs and heroes
of all ages, and in the quaintest costumes. They stood like ghosts
in their calm, if somewhat eccentric attitudes. Nearly all the
figures—so masterly was the art with which they had been treated
—were as perfect as the day on which they had been erected, in some
cases, no doubt, years and years before.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [February 26, 1887.
HEE! HEE!
{By Walker Weird, Author of " Solomon's Ewers."
Chapter I.—The Pot of Pomatum.
It was in this very'month something over twenty years ago, that I,
Bigwig Lorrell Tree, was sitting one night in my rooms at Cam-
bridge, grinding away at some mathematical work, I forget what.
Short, thick-set, and deep-chested almost to deformity, with
sinewy arms longer than my
legs, heavy features, deep set
grey eyes, a low brow, covered
to my wide lips with a mop of
thick black hair —such was my
appearance nearly a quarter of
a century ago, and such, with
some modifications, is it to this
day. I have but one fault, I am
too fond of practical jokes.
Once I loved a girl very dearly,
and we were engaged. She
wishedme to name the day of our
marriage. By way of answer I
took her to the glass and stood
side by side with her, and looked
into it. "Now," I said, "if I
am the Beauty, who are you ? "
That was when I was only
twenty, and I am much funnier
Facsimile of the Pot of Pomatum. now. There was a knock at my
One-Half Size. door. I had but one friend in
n t n -.i . .' , . the world—I am good at guess-
Greatest length_of the original • 5Jin. conundrums — perhaps it
Greatest breadth . . . . 2 in. wa53 he. Then there was a howl
WelgM2«oz- which shook the College to its
very foundations. I knew the howl and hastened to open the
door. A tall man of about thirty, with remains of great personal
beauty, came staggering in with an immense box. He threw it down,
and then stretching himself on the hearth-rug and placing his head
in the coal-scuttle, fell into a heavy slumber. I revived him by
pouring a bottle of whiskey down his throat.
" Itsh all right," he explained indistinctly, and then he told me a
long incoherent story about his family. So far as I could understand,
he was descended from an early Egyptian priest of Isis. "Not
Cambridge man, but Oxford—hie—Isis," he explained. He was the
sixty:sixth or six hundred and sixty-sixth (he did not seem sure as
to which) lineal descendant of this gentleman, who it appeared had some
quarrel with a lady of theatrical tastes. The name of the Priest was
(so I understood) Killikrankie. The theatrical lady seemed to have
made him disappear in some peculiar manner, and his son thereupon
took the name of Wtndex, which, as my friend reminded me, was
'' Latin for ' venger." He then became almost unintelligible about his
family in the time of " Champagne " (" ole G-erman sportsman," he
suggested), and Charges the Second, and ended, by saying his father
made a fortune in beer. They had called themselves Winkle from
time immemorial, because, as he explained, they were descended from
" Chap at Isis—hie !—priest, you know, at G-unter's ! " He declared
that he had the whole blessed thing in the box, which I was to open
when his son was five-and-twenty. Then he burst into tears, told
me he had made a will leaving me that boy and his entire fortune,
and staggered out.
The next morning my gyp informed me that he had foundWrNKLE
dead and incapable on the stairs. I attended the funeral, and twenty
years afterwards opened that box. It contained a letter addressed " To
my son Pongo, should he live to open this casket," a scroll of paper,
and what appeared to be the piece of a pot of pomatum. The letter
told his son to go in quest of the theatrical lady, who some thousand
years before had made his ancestor disappear, and who was said to
live for ever. The scroll of writing was all in Greek and black-letter,
and is too long for transcription, but I may say it seemed to be the
same incoherent story that poor "Winkle'had. tried to tell me with
his head resting in the coal-scuttle so many years before. I think
he must have written it himself. The piece of the pot of pomatum
was self-explanatory. 1 Sive a sketch of it.
Well, 1 suppose we must go," said Bob—he had been a stable-
help, and m that character I had engaged him as Pongo's nurse—" I
suppose we must go."
" Bob, you are not worth a shilling," I replied.
That day three months we were on the water of the sea of Batter,
bound for Aquariumbar.
Chapter II.—The Halls ofM'dme Too Stir.
How different are the scenes that I now have to tell, from that
which has just been told! Gone are the quiet College Booms with
their picturesque et-eeteras, and in their place rise several useful
visions. "Were I writing this for a weekly pictorial newspaper, such
as the Illustrated or the Graphic, I might here describe a number of
incidents to give the artist a chance. For instance, I would go in
for a squall, and tell how a vast wave came with a wild rush of
boiling foam and made me cling for my life to the shroud, ay, and
swept me straight out from it like a flag in a gale. Then I could dabble
in some hunting sketches, and describe how two lions tried to eat
us, and how one was eaten himself for his pains. "Would not this be an
extraordinary scene ? I might tell how one of the lions managed to
get well on the bank with a crocodile in pursuit of him, half standing
and half swimming, and nipping his hind leg. I might add that
the lion roared till the air quivered with the sound, and then, with a
savage shrieking snarl, turned round and clawed hold of the croco-
dile's head. The crocodile with one of his eyes torn out, shifted his
grip and the lion roaring with agony, laid his great hind claws in
the crocodile's comparatively soft throat and ripped it open as one
would rip up a glove. That ought to illustrate pretty well, ought
it not ? Then, with the same end in view, I might have a great deal
to say about the savages belonging to the early Egyptian sorceress—
how the girls kissed the men, how the men tortured strangers by
putting a red-hot soup tureen on their heads, and many other matters
equally picturesque. I admit the soup-tureen incident would have
had a peculiar charm for me, had I used it, as I could then have
described the victims as " going to pot."
But, as this story will not be illustrated save by the sketch to
which I have already alluded, I need not go into all this, but may as
well come- to my first .interview with Hee-Hee-the-Donkey-
that-will-have-her-way. Eor short she was always called Hee.
Another name she had was Ayeshaish, pronounced Ass-ish. She lived
in the land, of M'dme Tor-S6r, amongst the Umbuggums (the people
who deceive). I was introduced by an old man called Bille Stickings
(Pongo's nurse, Bob,—a gentleman scarcely worth a couple of six-
pences—always amusingly spoke of him as Billy) to her presence.
Hee was seated, robed in a sort of peignoir. She was attended
by deaf mutes.
" There," said Hee, as Billy left us, " he has gone, the white-
headed old fool! Ah! how little does a man acquire iu life. He
gathereth it up like water, but like water it runneth through his
ringers ; and yet, if his hands be but wet as though with dew, behold
a generation of fools call out, ' See, is he not a wise man !' "
From this I saw at once that the lady was a constant reader of the
works of Martin Earotjhar Tupper ; and, on further investigation,
discovered she had for several years kept a commonplace-book.
Under these circumstances, I will not repeat my conversations with
her on various occasions, as they might become tedious. However,
it is only right to say that, having heard her repeat, with a somewhat
foreign accent, "Para avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno," and
" Tot™, Tira-reis, Trarei," I became convinced that she was also a
proficient in the dead languages, and quite qualified to be the Head
of Girton or Lady Margaret's. Evidently to impress me, she showed
me some reflections on a table in a darkened corner of the room. I
saw, as distinctly as ever I saw anything in my life, Pongo lying on a
bench in another apartment. A young lady was watching over him
with a look of infinite tenderness, and with her chesnut locks falling
on to her right shoulder.
" This is called the Kam-Orrers-Kurrer! " Hee cried, with a bell-
like laugh. " Hast thou aught to ask of me, 0 Yew Tree P "
"Aye, one thing, 0 Ass-ish!" I said, boldly. "I would gaze
upon thy form."
" Thou shalt, my Plane Tree."
She lifted her white and rounded arms—never had I seen such
arms before—and slowly, very slowly, withdrew some fastener
beneath her hair. Then all of a sudden the long bath-like wrapping
fell to the ground. I gazed at her and I do not exaggerate—shrank
back blinded and amazed. I had heard of the beauty of circus, acro-
batic beings, and now I saw it. She was a mass of splendid spangles,
with a deep broad coat of gold which fitted tightly to the figure
from the neck to the knees. Though the face before me was that of
a young woman of certainly not more than thirty years, in perfect
health and with the improving flush of rouge upon her cheeks, yet
it had stamped upon it a look of intense experience. I felt instinct-
ively that, given a trapeze, she would jump for several miles.
'' Now," said Hee, after she had resumed her covering," wouldstthou
see some of the wonders of this place, 0, Sherry and Port Tree ? "
I bowed, and in a moment followed her to some side passages
where were some figures covered with sheets.
" Uplift the cloths, 0 my Christmas Tree," said Ass-ish, butwhen
I put out my hand to do so I drew it back again. It seemed like
sacrilege, and to speak the truth I was awed by the solemnity of the
place and the presences before me. Then, with a little laugh at my
fears, she drew them herself, discovering the life-like presentment
of the most eminent personages. There were monarchs and heroes
of all ages, and in the quaintest costumes. They stood like ghosts
in their calm, if somewhat eccentric attitudes. Nearly all the
figures—so masterly was the art with which they had been treated
—were as perfect as the day on which they had been erected, in some
cases, no doubt, years and years before.