Punch (103.1892)

48 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 30, 1892.

if you are so kind, I '11 take whatever yer goin' to 'ave yerself, I
ain't partickler.

Lady N. {as the Butler appears). Clarkson, show this—this
gentleman the way out.

Mr. G. Don't you trouble, old pal, I can find it for myself. (To
Lady N.) I b'lieve. if the truth was known, you're eomin' round
already. Mum. I '11 tell yer what I '11 do. I '11 leave some o' these
'ere little pamphlieks, as you might git your good man to run his eye
over. " Why I am aRadikil," " The Infamy of Tory Gov'ment,"
'"Ow we are Robbed!" &c. And 'ere's a picter - poster—"The
'Orrers of Coercion under the Brutal Balfour ! " Yer might put it
up in yer front winder—it don't commit yer to nothing, yer know!—
it '11 amuse the kids, if you've any family.

Clarkson (in his ear). Will you walk downstairs quietly, or shall
I have to pitch you ?

Mr. G. (roused at last). What, I'm to cop the push, am IP An'
what for, eh ? What 'ave I done more than you swells ha' bin doin'
ever since the Elections started? (To Lady N.) You come pokin'
into our 'ouses, without waitin' to be invited, arskin' questions and
soft-sawderin', and leavin' tracks and coloured picters—and we put
up with it all. But as soon as one of us tries it on, what do yer do ?
—ring for the Chucker-out! Ah, and reason enough, too—yer know
yer'11 get beaten on the argyments! (Here he is gently out firmly
led out by Clakkson, and concludes his observations on the stairs out-
side.) Stuck-up, pudden'-'eaded fossils ! . . . battenin' on the
People's brains! . . . your time '11 come some day! . . . Wait till
Ouelch 'ears o' this! &c, &c.

Lady N. (alone). Thank goodness he 's gone !—but what an ordeal!
I really must part with Clarkson. And—whatever the Primrose
League Council may say—I shall have to tell them I must give up
canvassing. I don't think I can do it any more—after this!

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Read it!" said Everyone. "Read what?" asked the Baron.
" The Wrecker" answered Everyone. "I will," quoth the Baron,
promptly. And—it was done. It took some time to do, but of this
more anon. The Baron's time is fully occupied, never mind how, but
fully, take his word for it. A copy of The Wrecker was at once
provided by its publishers, Messrs. Cassell & Co., and the question

for the Baron to consider, was not
What will I do with it?" but

How, when, and where, will I read it ? Clearly 'twas
book. Everybody was saying so, and what Everybody is saying has
considerable weight. A book not to be trained through at express
pace, so that the beauties of the surrounding scenery would be lost,
but something that when once taken up cannot be put down again,
like the brass knobs worked by an electric-battery,—something
giving you fits and starts, and shocks, as do the electric brass-knobs
aforesaid; something that, if you begin it at 4 p.m., exhausts you
by dinner-time, and after dinner, keeps you awake till you read the
last line at 2 a.m., and then tumble into bed parched, fevered,
exhausted, but in ecstasies of delight, feeling as if you were the
hero who had experienced all the dangers, and had come out of
them triumphantly.

Such were the Baron's anticipations as to the joys in store for him
on reading The Wrecker, by Messrs. Robert Louis, Stevenson" and
Llotd Osbourne. The Baron hit on a plan, he must isolate himself
as if he were a telephone-wire. "Good," quoth he, "Isolation is
the sincerest flattery,—towards authors." The friend in need, not
in the sense of being out at elbows, appeared at the right moment,
as did the Slave of the Lamp to Aladdin. " Come to my house in
the mountains," said this Genius, heartily; "come to the. wold
where the foxes dwell, not a hundred miles from a cab-stand, yet
far far away,—amid lovely scenery, in beautiful air, to quiet reposeful
rooms, with the silence of the cloister and the jollity of the Hall
where beards wag all, in the evening, when the daily task is done."
"Friend Reginald Syde, I thank thee," responded gratefully the
Baron. "I amthere ! " And in less time than it takes to go the
whole distance in a four-horsed coach with a horn blowing and the
horses blown, the Baron, travelling by special express, was there,—

all there! The Authorities on the line made no extra charge for
taking The Wrecker as luggage.

The weather was favourable for reading; an interminable down-
pour, when one is grateful for any book, even a Dictionary of
Dates, or the remains of a Boyle's Court Guide. The Brave Baron
shut himself into his room, laid in stores of tobacco and grog,
decided, in the course of half an hour, on a comfortable position, and
then laid himself out for the perusal, not to say the study, of The
Wrecker. Introductory Chapter excellent,—appetising. " Oliver
asks for more," murmurs the Baron to himself, settling down to "the
Yarn." Chapter I. Now a strange thing happened. The Story
broke off! suddenly—inexplicably. Descriptions, yes, by the hand-
ful, by the cartload—all excellent, no doubt—and much to be
appreciated by a reader with nothing on earth to do the whole year
round; but, about page 53, the Baron began to be uneasy, shifted his
pillows, refilled pipe, took "modest quencher," and then turned to
grapple with The Wrecker. No good. Where the deuce had the
Story got to ? When would the excitement come in ? Where was
the sensation ? Toiling on, went the Baron, stopping frequently to
wish he had a dictionary wherein he might ascertain the meaning of
strange, uncouth words and phrases, and to anathematise the
Authors separately or together. Had Osbourne interfered with
Stevenson, or was Stevenson allowing Osbourne to have his say,
reserving himself for a grand coup at half-price ? Would Osbourne
chuck Stevenson overboard, or was it to be t'other way off ? At
page 90 the Baron decided he would take a walk round, even if
it were pouring cats and dogs, and exclaiming, "Air, air, give me
air ! " he rushed forth. It was fine. A brisk walk and a talk—just
like King Charles " who walked and talked"—with his genial host
Rigi Syde, restored the Baron's circulation, and made him wonder
to himself at the reported great circulation of the book. Back to his
room again—into easy chair—p. 100—Happy Thought. This book is
about ships and sea, The Baron will be a Skipper!—and so he skips,
skips, with great relief, until " A sail in sight appears,"—spell
it " sale," and there's a picture of it—" He hails it with three
cheers! "

Now the Story, at p. 13-1, begins in good earnest, and, except for
the idle dilletante reader, all the foregoing, from the first Chapter,
might go by the board—that is, as far as the Baron can make out.
He speaks only for himself. The Chapter describing the sale by
auction is first-rate; no doubt about it. The Baron's spirits, just
now down to zero, rose to over 100°. On we go: Throw over
Osbourne, and come along with Louis Stevenson of Treasure
Lsland. Bah! that exciting Chapter was but a flash in the pan:
brilliant but brief: and " Here we are!" growls the Baron," struggling
along among a lot of puzzling lumber in search of excitement
number two, which does not seem to come until Chapter XXIV.,
p. 383." Then there is a good blow out —of brains, a scrimmaging, a
banging, and a firing, and a scuffling, and a fainting, and one mar-
vellous effect. And then-is heard no more. The Baron harks

back, harks for'ard. No : puzzlement is his portion. Who was who,
when everybody turned out to be somebody else ? Where was the
Money? or more important, Where is the Interest? "Well, that I
cannot tell," quoth he, " but 'twas a famous queer Sto-ree /" Per-
haps the Baron, reading against time, did not do it justice ; or, perhaps
he did. Anyway, meeting a Lady-Stevensonian admirer, the Baron
ventured to communicate to her his great disappointment; where-
upon she timidly whispered, " Well, Baron, to tell you the truth, I
quite agree with you. I found it awfully tedious—except the sensa-
tions ; but everybody is praising it; so please, O please, do not betray
my secret! " " Madam, a lady's secret, even the universally-known
Lady Audley's Secret, is inviolable when intrusted to

Your devoted Servant, The Baron de B.-W."

SUMMERUMBRELLA.

long for sunshine, such as there must be
In Egypt, blazing on the native Fellah;

I see no sun or sky, I only see

My own Umbrella!

"No sun, no moon," as Hood wrote long ago,
'' No sky," no star— called, by the Romans,
stella—

Like negative November here below,
My own Umbrella!

Think not of "Amaryllis in the shade " !

Can I play tennis in the rain with Bella,
Holding aloft, while through the flood 1
wade,

My own Umbrella ?

I 'm sick of sitting in the Club to scoff ;

I '11 take a walk. Hang me ! Some English " fellah "
Has left his rotten gamp, and carried off
My own Umbrella!

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