Punch (95.1888)

88

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 25, 1888.

COMING DOWN ON THE SWEATERS.

" Quoth Dun-Kaven,

Never more! "

THE DIARY OF A NOBODY.

August 4.—Got up at six, but as it was pouring wet, and we had been
thrown over in respect to our apartments at Margate, and (as Caeeie
wisely observed), Monday was Bank Holiday, we would abandon our
visit till Tuesday. We became more than reconciled to this, for the
first post brought a nice letter from Willie (son by my first), acknow-
ledging a trifling present which Caekie sent him, the day before
yesterday being his twentieth birthday. To our utter amazement he
turned up himself in the afternoon, having journeyed all the way
from Oldham. He said he had got leave from the bank, and as
Monday was a holiday, he thought he would give us a little surprise.

August 5 (Sunday).—We had a bottle of port for dinner, and drank
dear Willie's health. He said, " Oh, by the bye, did I tell you
I've cut my first name, ' William,' and taken the second name,
' Lupin.' In fact, I'm only known at Oldham as ' Lupin Pootee.'
If you were to ' Willie ' me there, they wouldn't know what you
meant." Of course, Lupin being a purely fancy name, Caeeie was
delighted, and began by giving a long history of the Lupins. I
ventured to say that I thought William a nice simple name, and
reminded him he was christened after his Uncle William, who was
much respected in the City. Willie, in a manner which I did not
much care for, said sneeringly, " Oh, I know all about that—Good
old Bill ! " and helped himself to a third glass of port. Cahele
objected strongly to my saying " Good old," but she made no remark
when Willie used the double adjective. I said nothing, but looked
at her, which meant more. I said, " My dear Willie, I hope you
are happy with your colleagues at the bank." He replied, " Lupin,
if you please, and with respect to the bank, there's not a clerk who
is a gentleman, and the ' boss' is a cad." I felt so shocked, I could
say nothing, and my instinct told me there was something wrong.

Aug. 6, Bank Holiday.—As there was no sign of Lupin moving
at nine o'clock, I knocked at his door, and said we usually break-
fasted at half-past eight, and asked how long would he be ? Lupin
replied that he had had a lively time of it, first with the trains shaking
the house all night, and then with the sun streaming in through the
windows in his eyes; and giving him a cracking headache. Caeeie
came up and asked if he would like some breakfast sent up, and he
said he could do with a cup of tea, and didn't want anything to eat.
Lupin not having come down, I went up again at half-past one, and
said we dined at two ; he said he "wouldbe there." He never came
down till a quarter to three. I said, "We have not seen much of
y°3 and you will have to return by the 5-30 train; therefore, you
will na-reto leave in an hour, unless you go by the midnight mail."
He said, " Look here? Guv'nor, it's no use beating about the bush.
I've tendered my resignation at the bank." For a moment I could
not speak. When my speech came again, I said, "How dare you.
Sir r How dare you take such a serious step without consulting me ?
Don't answer me, Sir,—you will sit down immediately, and write a
note at _ my dictation, withdrawing your resignation and amply
apologising for your thoughtlessness." Imagine my dismay when he
replied with a loud guffaw, " It's no use. If you want the good old
truth, I've got the chuck!" 3

A daily Advertisement informs us that " She is in active pre-
paration." L'Mistoire des Femmes. She's getting herself up
regardless of expense. Always in active preparation, and always
keeping us waiting.

THE PLAINT OF THE GRAND PIANO.

I was a grand piano once—nay, hearken what I say—

The grandeur is no longer here, it left me yesterday.

One leather-souled executant at a sitting could demolish

The mellow pride of tuneful years, of tone, and power, and polish.

A dapper man, with weary brow, and smile of conscious pow'r,
A Jove, prepared to improvise tone-thunder by the hour,
Is Wasmtth Hammeemann, whose touch would disconcert the dead,
Whose foot would rush with pedal-crush where angels fear to tread.

He kept his soul in patience while lesser people played,
As one who bears with cruder views that taste-bound souls degrade ;
He pitied plaintive melody and winning modulation,
Biding his time—and then it came—the afternoon's sensation.
He hovered over the keyboard, like a wild beast over its prey,
And he tossed his head, and he rattled his wrists^-and then he began
to play;

To play ! And in that crowded room was none with heart to see
That what was play to him and them was worse than death to me'

He struck a chord, as a hawk strikes a lark who is dumb with fear,
And his fingers spread over the octaves like a slander in full career,
And my overstrung nerves that waited the worst nigh sprung from

the shuddering case
As he finished his horrible prelude with an awful bang in the bass.

He gloated ; I waited • and then began a butchery great and grim,
And melody screamed and harmony writhed, and form, rent limb
from limb,

Was hurled in murderous largesse to the careless, ravening crowd,
Who chatted and laugh'd the louder, as my agony waxed more loud.

He checked his course, and he wirgled round, till he found the soul
of pain,

And he thumped it with pitiless fingers, again, again, again!
Then, like a pawing horse let go, he tore at headlong pace, [bass.
And drowned the tortured treble's cry in the roar of an anguished

My tendorest tones, that answer clear the artist's lightest touch,
Were yank'd in handfuls out like hair in some fierce maniac's
clutch, , [pride.

And my beautiful keys, that never yet had sullied their tuneful
Like elephants with the tusk-ache in ivory anguish cried.
Hark to the murmurs sad and low, self-struck upon my strings,
Such music as a dying love, unknown, unsolacedT sings.
For yesterday's undreamt disgrace can never not have been,
And'l must shrink from music now, and sob " Unclean, unclean ! "

The girls have practised on me. in endless ladders of scales,
Whereby they mounted to castle'd heights, and the realms of fairy

tales; _ [last

And I loved their wayward endeavours, and my patient sweetness at
Won them to tell me their love's young dreams as I hallowed their

childhood's past.

And the Governess, meek and modest, who counted the tale of bars,
Would slip from the sleeping children, and the schoolroom worries

and jars; [forgot,
And the tender heart would open to me, and, work-a-day woes
The pencil-cramped hands would tremble, and the tears from her

heart weird hot.
They called her a Perfect Treasure, but 'twas I alone who knew
The tale of the young life's struggle, so tender and brave and true ;
And when she touched me I told it, and somebody listened and

learned, [returned.
And the winter-time went out of her life, and the daffodil days
And Maud in her tempers would bang away—Sweet Maud—for I

often heard

The fortissimo suddenly ended in a kiss like the chirp of a bird.
And Mabel's curious reveries—how soon a piano discovers
When a girl gives one hand to her music, and the other is clasped in
her lover's.

Perchance some tender hand again may soothe my tortured heart,
May heal the scars of Hammeemann with balm of rare Mozaet ;
Perchance the Nocturne's mystic feet may through my caverns stray,
When great Beethoven's passion-storms have cleansed the plague
away.

But no, farewell that happy past; henceforth I 'in only fit
To play the concertina's part to wandering niggers' wit;
Or, as a street-piano, find as jubilant a goal
As a wet day in China when you do not know a soul.

Yet it may be my past deserts may win a loftier place,
Low in the outer walks of Art, not blatant in disgrace ;
And Music's tutelary powers may bid their Outcast go
And be the sacred music in a panoramic show,

And moan'' The Village Blacksmith" when the lights are burning low.