Punch (102.1892)

April 23, 1892.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

201

TO MY COOK,

Oh, hard of favour, fat of form,
How fairer art thou than thy looks,

Whose heart "with kitchen fires is warm,
Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

Low down upon thy forehead grows
Thick hair of no conducive dye ;

Short and aspiring is thy nose,
Watched ever by a furtive eye.

In shy defiance rarely seen

Where kitchen stairways darkly tend,
A foe to judge thee by thy mien,

Proclaimed in every act a friend I

I know thee little ; not thy views

On public or on private life,
Whether a single lot thou'dst choose,

Or fain would'st be a Guardsman's wife ;

For who can rightly read the change
When, still'd the work-day traffic's din,

In best apparel, rich and strange,
Thou passest weekly to thy kin !

A silken gown, that bravely stands

Environing thy form, or no ;
Stout gloves upon thy straining hands,

For brooch, the breastplate cameo.

Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell
Afar along the pavement sounds,

Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell,
Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.

Nil tangis quod non ornas. Nay,

'Tis not alone the parsley sprig,
The paper frill, the fennel spray,

The Yule-tide's pertly-berried twig ;

But common objects by thy art
Some proper beauty seem to own;

Thy chop is as a chop apart,
Fraught with a grace before unknown ;

The very egg thou poachest seems
Some work of deft orfevrerie,—

A yolk of gold that chastely gleams
Through a thin shrine of ivory.

From thee no pale and wilted ghost,
Or branded by the blackening bar,

But crisp and cheery comes the toast,
And brown as ripening hazels are.

Thy butter has not lost the voice
Of English meads, where cowslips grow,

And oh,f the bacon of thy choice—■
Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!

And mutton, colder than the kiss
Of formal love, where loathing lurks

Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss,
Fired with the spirit of thy works.

To true occasion thou art true,
As upon great occasions great;

Doing whatever Cook may do
When Phyllis, neat, alone will wait,

As when the neighbouring villas send
Their modish guests to statelier fare,

And PnYLLis, neat, is helped to tend
By that staid man the Greengrocer.

Though thou art more than plain in look,
Thou wieldest charms that never tire—

0 Cook—we will not call thee Cook,
Thou Priestess of the Genial Fire.

LAYING A GHOST!

PROSPECTIVE ARRANGEMENTS.—Owing to
the continued success of Hamlet, it has been
decided (by arrangement with the Author) to post-
pone, &c.—Extract from Advertisement in Daily
Paper.

Scejos—Sanctum of Popular Actor-Manager
of Theatre Royal Haymarhet. Popular
Actor - Manager dozing over a submitted
Play. He closes his eyes and slumbers.
When to him enter Master William
Shakspeaee.

Master W. S. {shouting). What ho, Sir
Player! Wake up, Sir, wake up !

P. A.-M. {rousing himself). Delighted to
see you, Mr. Shakspeaee. I hope you have
been in front and seen us ?

Master W. S. Yes: I just had a glance.
Find you have put in some new business.
When will all you fellows leave me alone ?

P. A.-M, {earnestly). I hope, Sir, that in
the cause of Art you do not object, that

Master W. S. {interrupting). Oh, no! It
makes little difference to me what you do.
My author's fees ceased years ago! But look
here, What do you mean by this ? {Produces
Press-cutting of advertisement and reads) —
" Theatre Royal, Haymarket, Prospective
Arrangements. Owing to the continued suc-
cess of Hamlet, it has been decided (by ar-
rangement with the Author) to postpone"
another play. Now, Master Tree, or as I may
call ye, "Master up a Tree," what have you
to say to that ? You see your advertisement
has caught my eye. I am here to answer it!

P. A.-M. Most wonderful! I do not know
how or wherefore my pen slipped, but slip it
did, indeed. However, I apologise. Is that
enough P

Master W. S. More than enough !

Enter the Ghost of Hamlet's Father
suddenly.

Ghost {with a glance at W. $.). Ah, the
Governor here already! Still, I may have
my chance as well as he ! I gave the plot of
Hamlet! Why shouldn't I have another
shot? {To P. A.-M.)—

But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.

P. A.-31. {eagerly). The very thing for a
melodrama. Delighted to make your ac-
quaintance—hem—in the Spirit!

Master W. S. Nay, good Master Player,
this is scarcely business! If anything in
that line is to be done, I should do it. {To
Ghost of Hamlet's Father). Begone, Sirrah!

Ghost. Nay, this is professional jealousy !

(To P. A.-M.). I find thee apt-

[A booh falls, and Master Wm. Shakspeaee
and Ghost of Hamlet's Father vanish
together.

P. A.-M. {opening his eyes). Was I
dreaming? {With a recollection of ''''The
Red Lamp.") I wonder! {Left wondering.

TAKING A SIGHT AT RINGANDKNOCK.

{By Ruddier Stripling,)

Afteb the roughness of the Atlantic, in
which to my taste there is far too much;water
moving about, I stepped on to America with
considerable relief. I was quite satisfied,
after that excellent dinner, the first I had
enjoyed since Liverpool slid away eastward,
to walk aimlessly through the streets till I
fell into the arms of a broad-shouldered, pug-
nosed, Irish New York policeman. I remember
no more till New York passed away on a
sunny afternoon, and then I fell asleep again
and slept till the brakeman, conductor, Pull-
man-car conductor, negro porter and news-
boy somehow managed to pull me out into
the midnight temperature of 80 below freez-
ing. It was just like having one's head put
under the pump, but it did not quite revive
me, for I mistook my host in his sleigh for a
walrus, and tried to harpoon him with my
umbrella. After matters had been explained,
we went off, at least I did, and never woke
up till I fell out into a snow-drift, just as we
turned a corner at our journey's end.

In the morning, I had some idea that the
sky was a great sapphire, and that I was
inside it, and that the fields were some sort
of velvet or wool-work, going round and
round with the sun rioting over them, what-
ever that may mean, till my head ached. I
can't quite understand
all this now, but it
seemed a very pictur-
esque, impressionist de-
scription when I wrote
it. Then I went for
a walk down Main
Street. I think it is
about 400 miles long,
for I got nowhere near
the end, but this was
perhaps owing to my
uncertainty as to which
side was the pleasanter

to walk on. At last I „ Ta-ra-ra-Bocim!"
gave it up, and sat
down on the side-walk. Now, the wisdom of
Yermont, not being at all times equal to
grasping all the problems of everybody else's
life with delicacy, sometimes makes pathetic
mistakes, and it did so in my case. I ex-
plained to the policeman that I had been
sitting up half the night on a wild horse in
New Zealand, and had only just come over
for the day, but it was all in vain.

The cell at Yermont was horribly uncom-
fortable. I dreamt that I was trying to boil
snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and
to swim on my head in deep water, with a
life-belt tied to my ankles. There was
another man there, and in the early morning
he told me about Mastodons and Plesiosauri
in a wood near the town, and how he caught
them by the tails and photographed them;
and also that Ringandknock, a mountain
near, was mentioned by Emerson in a verse,
which I remembered, because he made
" co-eval". rhyme with " extended." Only
a truly great Philosopher could have done
that.

It was all new and delightful ; and it
must have been true, because my informant
was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West,
who refrained from laughing at me. I have
met very few people who could do that. Next
day all the idleness and trifling were at an
end, and my friends conveyed me back to
New York.

epitaph on a dyeb.

This Dyer with a dire liver tried _
To earn a living dyeing, and he died.