Punch (92.1887)

May h, 1887.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 229

MR. PUNCH'S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.

A Young Man with a marked tendency to mildness should (and generally
does) select for recitation pieces in which that admirahle quality forms the

smallest possible ingredient. It makes a little
change lor him. while it affords his friends
the surprise and gratificatiou of witnessing
him iaanew character. So the Poet this week
has constructed a piece which offers a highly
effective character-part to the mild hut am-
bitious youth. It is called "The Coster," and
some of the lines may possibly be open to the
charge of coarseness. Perhaps they are coarse;
but then it must be remembered that a Coster
is not a Chesterfield. This is an Age of Real-
ism, and True Art is ever naturalistic. How-
ever, the Poet will undertake to forward,
free of charge, alternative lines to any verses
which may he considered fairly liable to
objection, for delivery in the suburbs and
provinces.

In reciting this poem, it is of vital import-
ance that you, the Young Man for whom it is
intended, should let yourself go. For the
moment, remember that you are the Coster,
rugged, hoarse, brutal even—but with an
honest heart beating under your rabbit-skin
Good is not the Word. veg(.

Should you feel up to it, you might prepare yourself by turning up the
hottoms of your trousers, tying a silk wrapper round your neck, and wearing
your dress-coat inside out—it is not the usual costume of a Costermonger, but it
helps to give you confidence and assists the illusion. Try to be as vulgar as you
oan: no one will mind, if they see the vulgarity is only assumed.
With these preliminary hints we will proceed:—

So yer want me to tell yer a.bout it ? "Well, yer don't seem a bad sort o' bloke.

[This is addressed to an imaginary Interviewer.)
Set down on the hedge o' my barrer ; but mind yer don't tip up the moke!
{"Moke" as you may he aware, is a donkey, in this case an imaginary animal,
harnessed to an unseen barrow; these little details render the whole thing
so much more dramatic and vivid.)
Yer kin stand me a drain when I'm done, if yer like—there's a public that's
'andy by;

For this 'ere 'a a yarn as I never can spin without I gets 'usky and dry.

(The least suggestion of pathos in this last line.)

I 'tu a rough kind o' cove, hut it's bin my pride as I've led a regular life ;

*pr I'm niver too tight of a Saturday night but what I kin wallop the wife.

^ m. alius light'arted in liquor, and I fling about things pretty free ; [spree !

■out a 'ardworkin' man, at the end of the week,—well, he's fond of a bit of a
[If you intend to do this in Clapham or Brixton, write for alternative verses.)

So we lived werry 'appy together fur nigh upon fifteen year,

And our 'ome was a bloomin' 'umble 'ome, but the 'umblest 'ome kin he dear!
(-Rough pathos ; the epithet "bloomin' " is a little coarse {for Camberwell), but
, you can go round and apologise for it afterwards.)

And I got that sweet on the place. Sir, that—there—you may call it strange—

« yer'd orfered me Buckinim Palace, I'm blowed if I think I'd change!

t, (Slap your knee here xoith suppressed feeling.)

*>ut hall of a suddin my thoughts got turned the t'other way about;

I oome upon one o' them Soshalist chaps, as stand at a corner and spout:
0 Feller-workers an' Friends," says he, " Society's rotten an' holler!

iPink o' yer comfortless 'omes," he sez, " and yer lives as is spent in squoller !

^hink 0' the gorgeous gilded rooms as is howned by the bloated rich, [sich ?
™' ith their carpets, and sofies, and soft harm-cheers. Hev you got the likes o'

^■UeSe Swplla loo nmofn^nl aWra^arraTlf afl+ oa Ttot'II coo "friT TTOrSolvpa. wtlPTI Vflll ll

could it never he anythink else but poverty-stricken and sordid,
When it didn't 'ave one b' them li

luxuries rare of which I had bin defrordid ?

if mind.)

suves spiled!

S? ™ longer I went on livin' the lower my sperrits sunk,
im- the Missus's eyes weren't black for a month, fori 'adn't the 'art to git drunk!
I r 11 25 another touch of Nature, but is not recommended for Peckham.)
Bi t T ■ })e^eve ^ I 'adn't bin roused I was goin' to rack and to ruin,
k \ a must make a heffort some'ow, so I give a copper a doin',
s had found my barrer a blockin' the way, and they took me afore the beak,
"ho saw what 1 wanted was change of hair, and sent me to quod for a week.
•to* {Pause here, to mark the beginning of anew era.)

ArvT' i en * come out at tae nenl* °' my time' * *elt like a haltered cove >
Ati^ t 1' w^ a chastened 'art, I sped to my hattio at Lisson Grove,
Sjid I olambered up by the crazy stair, and I softly hopened the door,
-"■"en I started back. . . . (This is your best dramatic effect. Work it up.)

There was nothink there the same as I'd seen it afore!

I couldn^ think for the turn I got, and fur wonderin'
W hat did. it mean ? "

It made me shiver and shake for fright—fur the blessed
iloor was clean !

But I wentured in ; and I rubbed my heyes; for darned
if it didu't seem,

That either I couldn't be right in my 'ed, or was in some
orrible dream!

(Pause ; then continue, in a tone of concentrated horror.)

Fur the room was painted a light pea-green (which the
same is a culler I 'ates!),

And, wherever you couldn't get at 'em, was 'anging up
blue and white plates ;

The mantelpiece had a petticut on, and up on the winder-
sill

"Was a mug o' voilets, as smelt that loud as they werry

nigh made me ill!
The door was a dollop o' Japanese fans, and the cupboard

was painted white,
And hover it some'un had sprinkled a iob-lot o' spadgers
.inflight!

A thing as they calls a "dodo," on the walls was a

rimnin' round,
And my old gal was a settin' asleep in a ruebub-cullered

gownd!

(Try to realise here how excessively all this would be
calculated to annoy a Costermonger.)
In my hown armcbeer, as had got a coat of horiental red,
And a big humberella was hupside down on the ceiling
over her 'ed!

Well, I routed her up in a minnit and I ssz: " You 're a

nice cup o' tea!
(Coarse again, but characteristic—risk it.)
This 'ere is a pretty state o' things for your 'usban' to

come in and see!
D'yer think I'm a goin' to set in a place as is on'y fit for

Tom-fools ?

With yer wickerwork cheers, and yer plants in pots, and
these 'ere little three-legged stools ! "

" Why, Bill," she sez, " I should never ha' thought as
you'd fly in a tearin' pass-ion,

'Cause a kind old lady's took in her head to do us up in
the fashion!

She thought it was jist what yer wanted so, and she

never meant to insult yer,
For this 'ere is lnxoorious comfort, Bill,—it's what them

asetics calls ' Culcher!'
See, these little ' hoccasional tables' is for arternoon tea

and chat,

Or for, when a gentleman's oallin', to put down his

chimley pot 'at;
Them plates is considered ' so de-corative,' and so is the

pots and pans,

But I can't recollect the partickler good of the humberella
and fans."

" I dessay it's werry genteel," sez I, "hut my notion o'

comfort it ainH.
To live in a litter o' stuff like this would aggerawate a

I fancy I sees myself fallin' about when I've taken an

And a toeakin' my shins like a bloomin' bull in a blessed
Chiney shop.

I'll not have none of_it, Betsy," I sez, and I chucked the
lot of it out,

And my 'art it throbbed with a honest pride as I see it go

up the spout!
(Give this with a spirited independence.)
For we all on us has our feelings, Sir, and mine was cruel

hurt,

To think as a swell could ha stooped so low as to rob a

poor man of his dirt!
So I never anker for Culcher now, or henvy the' harris-

toerats;

I'm cured for life o' the longing I 'ad for a roomful of
brick-a-bats,

Of spadgers and pea-green paint you will find in the attic
'ardly a trace,

And when my old woman and me has words—there's
alius plenty o' space !

That is all, but the author believes it will he found to
bristle with opportunities for the beginner. There is an
alternative ending, in which the Coster is refined and
redeemed by the gentle influences of his new surround-
ings, but there really should be some limits to Naturalism.