Punch: Punch (101.1891)

136

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 19, 1891.

review, and my notice of it was to appear in The Scalpel on the
following Saturday. It was, on the whole, a capital novel, but it
was by an author who had been, I thought, more successful than
was good for him. He had been elected freely to the best Clubs.
During the season he had gone everywhere. Many editions of his
book had been sold. _ He had acquired a little cult who said extrava-
gant things about him in the literary papers. It is sickening to see
a man reverenced during his lifetime. I could imagine him posing
before his cult and being pleased; even before I had read a page of
his novel, I had made up my mind to administer to him a wholesome
corrective in the pages of The Scalpel. I was rather sorry to find that
it was really a capital novel; but it had enough faults for my purpose.

I had read for some time before I turned my attention to the game
again. When I did so, I was startled, for it was perfectly obvious
that Bill was giving the game away. His usual service is a little
like invisible lightning with a bend in it; he was now serving in a
modified manner, which he generally uses only when he is playing
with girls who are not his sisters. It was also obvious that Tommy,
who looked very elated, fully believed that he was winning on

his own merits, and had no idea that Bill was merely allowing him
to win.

" My game—and set! " cried Tommy, joyously.
" You've improved awfully," said Bill.

I could not imagine why Bill had intentionally lost that set, for I
knew that he hated losing. When Tommy had gone home again to
the Rectory, Bill came up to me to ask how old I thought a man
ought to be before he began smoking. I said that I thought thirty-
six was about the right age, and asked Bill why he had let Tommy
win.

"Oh, nothing particular," said Bill, in his matter-of-fact way ;
" only 1 'd never seen him wear that kind of tie before, and I asked
him what he was doing it for, and he said it was for his aunt; she
died a few weeks back; so I thought I might as well give him the set
to make up for it."

I was rather amused. "Tommy looked very pleased with him-
self," I said.

" Yes, he '11 brag about that game all over the place," replied Bill,
rather despondently. Tor a moment or two he was silent, imagining
the triumph and pride of Tommy. " I'd punch his head as soon as
look at him," he added.

" What on earth for ? He thought he'd won by play."

" He can't play any more than a cow, but that's not'it. I hate to
see anyone get so glorious about anything. Well, I don't know—it's
kind of natural. He'd have had a right to brag, if he had really
won, and he thought he did."

'' Anyhow," I said, severely, " it's a mean trick to want to damage
anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right
to be." - *

" Well, yes—I '11 give you thirty."

" Can't play. I 'in going to finish this novel, Bill."

" Is that one of the books you write about in the papers ? "

"Yes."

"Are you going to praise it, or cut it up ? "

"I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I

believe I fm going to praise it." And I did.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. III.—TO POMPOSITY.

My dear Pomposity,

It was only yesterday that I dined with Bulmer, the
wealthy brewer, in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I
dare not be more precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as
I do that Bulmer's origin, though it may not have been humble, was
certainly obscure. Nobody quite knows how he first managed to
become a partner in the great concern which he now entirely controls.
Fifteen years ago few people ever heard of or drank the " Pellucid
Ale " without which no tap-room and few middle-class luncheon
tables can now be considered complete. Suddenly, however, column
upon column of the daily press overflowed, as it were, with those
two magic words ; analytical chemists investigated the properties of
the beverage, and one and all pronounced it in highly technical
language to contain more bone-forming and sinew-developing
elements than any other known beer. The poetry-and-beer-loving
public was fascinated by a series of memorable stanzas :—■

" The hard3' Briton loves good cheer,

His mighty sinews never fail:
1 Pour me,' he cries ' a draught of Beer,

And let it be Pellucid Ale

So the verse began, and it was

illustrated by a flaring symbolical

picture in two compartments. In

the first a throng of gaunt and

miserable creatures was repre-
sented crawling with difficulty

towards an immense barrel, astride

which sat a lusty, hop - crowned

deity. In the second, every

member of the same throng had

become stout and hearty. The

hollow cheeks were round and

shining with health, the bent

backs were straight, the dreary

faces were wreathed in smiles,

and every hand held a foam-
topped glass of "Pellucid Ale."

Underneath were painted the

words, "After one glass." Even

without the title, the inference

was obvious; the confiding public

drew it, and immense quantities of

Bulmer's ale, almost simulta-
neously, and the result was that, in

a very short time, Bulmer might
have rolled in money if he had felt
disposed — as, to do him justice,
he never did — to render himself
ridiculous. Now what is there in
the fact that Bulmer has made a
fortune in beer that should inflate him to so insufferable an extent ?
Can it be that there is some mysterious property in the liquid itself,
some property which, having escaped even the careful investigation
of the analytical chemists, has pervaded the being of Bulmer, and
has induced him to patronise the inhabited world? I thought so
once. Indeed I have lost myself in conjectures on this point. But I
now know that Bulmer has fallen under your sway, and that yo\i,
my dear Pomposity, direct his every movement, and inspire his
every thought. Now, the other night, when, as I say, 1 was dining at
his table, Bulmer was in one of his most glorious and vain-glorious
moods. Patronage radiated from him upon my humble self and the
rest of the tribe of undoubted inferiors whom he permitted to bask
in his shining presence.

" My dear boy," said Bulmer to me, while he inserted his thumbs
in the arm-openings of his waistcoats, and drummed an approving
tattoo upon his shining shirt-front, " my dear boy, I have always
been your friend, and nobody knows it better than you. Many a
time have I proved it to vou, and I can honestly assure you that
nothing gives me greater pleasure than to welcome you in person to
my humble home."

I thanked the great man deferentially, and assured him I was
deeply sensible of his many kindnesses. But after he had turned
away, some malicious spirit prompted me, in spite of myself, to reflect
upon the favours that Bulmer has conferred upon me. AVere they,
after all, so numerous and so great P Was I, on the whole, so poor a
worm as he imagined me to be ? Had he in fact made me what I
am ? These ungrateful thoughts chased one another through my
perplexed brain, and I was forced to acknowledge to myself that at
the various crises of my career the fairy form of Bulmer had been
absent. Yet Bulmer is flrmly convinced that I owe any modest
success I may have attained and all my annual income to his
beneficent efforts on my behalf. And the w"orst of it is, that he has