Punch: Punch (100.1891)

February 14, 1891.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 77

being as novel as it is effective, attracted the attention of the wily
and observant D.ruriolanus, who mentally booked the effect as some-
thing startlingly new and original for his next Pantomime. 'The
combat between the Saxon Slogger, very mnch out of training, and
the Norman Nobbier, rather over-trained as the result proved, is
decidedly exciting, and the Nobbier would be backed at long odds.
Altogether, the whole show was thoroughly appreciated by

Wamba Junior.

SPECIMENS PEOM MR. PUNCH'S SCAMP-ALBUM.

No. I.—The Classical Scholar in Reduced Circumstances.

You are, let us say, a young professional man in chambers or
offices, incompetently guarded by an idiot boy whom you dare not
trust with the responsibility of denying you to strangers. You hear
a knock at your outer door, followed by conversation in the clerk's
room, after which your salaried idiot announces, '' A Gentleman to
see you." Enter a dingy and dismal little man in threadbare black,
who advances with an air of mysterious importance. " 1 think," he

begins, " 1 'ave the pleasure of speaking to Mr.-" (whatever your

name is.) '' I take the liberty of calling, Mr.-, to consult you on a

matter of the utmost importance, and I shall feel personally obliged if
you will take precautions for our conversation not being over'eard."

He looks grubby for a client—but appearances are deceptive, and
you offer him a seat, assuring him that he may speak with perfect
security—whereupon he proceeds in a lowered voice.

" The story I am about to reveal," he says,
smoothing a slimy tall hat, " is of a nature so
revolting, so 'orrible in its details, that I can
'ardly bring myself to speak it to any 'uming
ear!" (Here you will probably prepare to
take notes.) " You see before you one who is
of 'igh birth but low circumstances ! " (At
this, you give him up as a possible client, but
a mixture of diffidence and curiosity compels
you to listen.) " Yes, Sir, I was ' fruges con-
sumeary nati.' I 'ave received a neducation
more befitting a dook than my present con-
dition. Nursed in the lap of haffiuence, I was
trained to fill the lofty position which was to
have been my lot. But ' necessitas,' Sir, as
you are aware, ' necessitas non abat lejim,' and
such I found it. While still receiving a clas-
sical education at Cambridge College—(praps
you are yourself an alumbus of Halma Mater f
No ? I apologise, Sir, I'm sure)—but while
preparing to take my honorary degree, my
Father suddenly enounced the horful news
that he was a bankrup'. Strip of all we pos-
sessed, we were turned out of our sumchuous
'ome upon the cold world, my Father's grey
'airs were brought down sorrowing to sang-
widge boards, though he is still sang win of
paying off his creditors in time out of what
he can put by from his scanty hearnings. My poor dear Mother—a
lady born and bred—sank by slow degrees to a cawfy-stall, which is now
morgidged to the 'ilt, and my eldest Sister, a lovely and accomplished
gairl, was artlessly thrown over by a nobleman, to 'oom she was
engaged to be married, before our reverses overtook u3. His name
the delikit hinstinks of a gentleman will forbid you to inquire, as
likewise me to mention—enough to 'int that he occupies a prominent
position amongst the hupper circles of Society, and is frequently to be
met with in the papers. His faithlessness preyed on my Sister's
mind to that degree, that she is now in the Asylum, a nopeless
maniac ! My honely Brother was withdrawn from 'Arrow, and now
'as the yumiliation of selling penny toys on the kerbstone to his
former playfellers. ' Tantee nannymice salestibus hires,' indeed, Sir !

" But you ask what befell myself." (You have not—for the simple
reason that, even if you desired information, he has given you no
chance, as yet, of putting in a word.) "Ah, Sir, there you 'ave me
on a tender point. 'Hakew tetigisti' if I may venture once more
upon a scholarly illusion. But I 'ave resolved to conceal nothing—
and you shall 'ear. For a time I obtained employment as Seckertary
and Imanuensis to a young baranit, 'oo had been the bosom friend of
my College days. He would, I know, have used his influence with
Goverment to obtain me a lucritive post; but, alas, 'ere he could do
so, unaired sheets, coupled with deliket 'elth, took him off premature,
and I was once more thrown on my own resources.

"In conclusion, Sir, you 'ave doubtless done me the hinjustice to
expect, from all I 'ave said, that my hobjick in obtaining this inter-
view was to ask you for pecuniary assistance ? ' (Here you reflect
with remorse that a suspicion to this effect has certainly crossed your
mind). "Nothing of the sort or kind, I do assure you. A little
ummg sympathy, the relief of pouring out my sorrers upon a feeling
art, a few kind encouraging words, is all I arsk, and that, Sir, the

first sight of your kind friendly face told me I should not lack. Pore
as I am, I still 'ave my pride, the pride of a English gentleman, and
if you was to orf er me a sovereign as you sit there, I should liing it in
the fire—ah, I should—'urt and indignant at the hinsult! " (Here
you will probably assure him that you have no intention of outraging
his feelings in any such manner.) "No, and why, Sir? Because you
'ave a gentlemanly 'art, and if you were to make sech a orfer, you
would do it in a kindly Christian spirit which would rob it of all
offence. There's not many as I would bring myself to accept a'paltry
sovereign from, but I dunno—I might from one like yourself—I might
Ord hignara malt, miseris succurreary disco, as the old philosopher
says. You 'ave that kind of way with you." (You mildly intimate
that he is mistaken here, and take the opportunity of touching the
bell). " No, Sir, don't be untrue to your better himpulses. 'Ave a
feelin 'art, Sir! Don't send me away, after allowing me to waste my
time 'ere—which is of value to me, let me tell yer, whatever yours is !
—like this ! . . . Well, well, there's 'ard people in this world ? I'm
going, Sir ... I 'ave sufficient dignity to take a 'int . . . You
'aven'tgot even a trifle to Bpare an old University Scholar in redooced
circumstances then? . . . Ah, it's easy to see you ain't been at a
University yourself—you ain't got the hair of it! Farewell, Sir, and

may your lot in life be 'appier than-All right, don't hexcite yourself.

I've bin mistook in yer, that's all. I thought you was as soft-edded
a young mug as you look. Open that door, will yer ; I want to get
out of this 'ole ! "

Here he leaves you with every indication of disgust and disap-
pointment, and you will probably hear him indulging in unclassical
vituperation on the landing.

OUR BOOKING-OFFiCE.

The Baron is delighted with Montagu Williams's third volume
of Reminiscences, published by Macmillan & Co. His cheery after-
dinner conversational style of telling capital stories is excellent. He
is not writing a
book, he is talking
to us ; he is telling
us a series of good
things, and, quoth
the Baron, let me
advise you to light
your cigar and sit
down in your arm-
chair before the
fire, as not only do
you not wish to
interrupt him,
even with a query,
but you feel in-
clined, to say, as
the children do A !'

3h

when, seated
round you in the wintry twilight, they have been listening to a story
which has deeply interested them—" Go on, please, tell us another ! "
The following interpolated " aside," most characteristic of Montagu
Williams's life-like conversational manner of telling a story, occurs
at page 8, where giving an account of a robbery, of which he himself
was the victim, and telling how a thief asked to be shown up to his, the
narrator's room, he says, " The porter, like a fool, gave his consent."
The interpolated " like a fool," carries the jury, tells the whole
story, and wins admiration for the sufferer, who is the real hero of
the tale. But beyond the book's merit as an interesting and amusing
companion, it contains some valuable practical suggestions for
relieving the ordinary distress in the poorest districts which ought to
receive attention in the highest quarters.

To some readers interested in theatrical life, Polly Mountemple
must prove an interesting work of fiction, if a story can be so styled
which, as its author assures his readers with his latest breath, I
should say in his last paragraph (p. 291), "is a true tale." It is the
story of a "ballet lady" who rises in "the profession" to the
dignity of a speaking part, and is on the point of being raised still
higher in the social scale, and becoming the wife of a real live young
nobleman, when she sensibly accepts a considerable sum of money,
consents to forego her action for breach of promise, and finally
marries a highly respectable acrobat, and becomes the landlady of
the "Man of Kent." The earlier portion is entertaining, especially
to those who are not altogether ignorant of some of the personages,
sketches of whom are drawn by the author, Mr. Charles Hollis,
with, it is not improbable, considerable fidelity. They are rough
sketches, not by any means highly finished, but then such was the
character of the original models. Before, however, it can be accepted
by the general public as giving an unexaggerated picture of a certain
sort of stage-life, it ought to have the imprimatur or the nihil obstat
of some generally acknowledged head of the profession; for "the
profession" is Hydra-like in this respect—a republican creation,
with many heads. The Baron de Book-Wobms.