



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

SEPTEMBER 7, 1895.




THAT POOR PENNY DREADFUL!

["Is the 'Penny Dreadful' and its influence so very dreadful, I
wonder?"--JAMES PAYN.]

  Alas! for the poor "Penny Dreadful"!
  They say if a boy gets his head-full
      Of terrors and crimes,
      _He_ turns pirate--sometimes;
  Or of horrors, at least, goes to bed full.

  Now _is_ this according to Cocker?
  Of Beaks one would not be a mocker,
      But _do_ many lads
      Turn thieves or foot-pads,
  Through reading the cheap weekly Shocker?

  Such literature is _not_ healthy;
  But _does_ it make urchins turn stealthy
      Depleters of tills,
      Destroyers of wills,
  Or robbers of relatives wealthy?

  I have gloated o'er many a duel,
  I've heard of DON PEDRO the Cruel:
      Heart pulsing at high rate,
      I've read how my Pirate
  Gave innocent parties their gruel.

  Yet I have ne'er felt a yearning
  For stabbing, or robbing, or burning.
      No highwayman clever
      And handsome, has ever
  Induced _me_ to take the wrong turning!

  A lad who's a natural "villing,"
  When reading of robbing and killing
      _May_ feel wish to do so;
      But SHEPPARD--like CRUSOE--
  To your average boy's only "thrilling."

  Ah! thousands on Shockers have fed full,
  And yet _not_ of crimes got a head-full.
      Let us put down the vile,
      Yet endeavour the while,
  To be _just_ to the poor "Penny Dreadful"!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EVIDENT.

_George._ "EH--HE'S A BIG 'UN; AIN'T HE, JACK?"

_Minister_ (_overhearing_). "YES, MY LAD; BUT IT'S NOT WITH EATING AND
DRINKING!"

_Jack._ "I'LL LAY IT'S NOT ALL WI' FASTIN' AN' PRAYIN'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

FOR WHEEL OR WOE.

The Rural District Council at Chester resolved recently to station
men on the main roads leading into the city to count the number
of cyclists, with a view to estimating what revenue would accrue
from a cycle tax. Extremely high and public-spirited of the Chester
authorities to take the matter up. These dwellers by the Dee ought to
adopt as their motto, "The wheel has come full cycle."

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHO IS SYLVIA?"--An opera, from the pen of Dr. JOSEPH PARRY, the
famous Welsh composer, entitled _Sylvia_, has been successfully
produced at the Cardiff Theatre Royal. The _libretto_ is by Mr.
FLETCHER and Mr. MENDELSSOHN PARRY, the _maestro's_ son, so that the
entire production is quite _parry-mutuel_.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RAILWAY RACE.

[Illustration]

A new British sport has arisen, or rather has, after a seven years'
interval, been revived within the last week or so, and the British
sporting reporter, so well-known for his ready supply of vivid and
picturesque metaphor, has, as usual, risen to the occasion. That large
and growing class of sedentary "sportsmen," whose athletic proclivities
are confined to the perusal of betting news, have now a fresh item
of interest to discuss in the performances of favourite and rival
locomotives. More power has been added to the elbows of the charming
and vociferous youths, who push their way through the London streets
with the too familiar cry of "Win-nerr!" (which, by the way, has quite
superseded that of "Evening Piper!"). And the laborious persons who
assiduously compile "records" have enough work to do to keep pace with
their daily growing collection. Even the mere "Man in the Street" knows
the amount of rise in the Shap Fell and Potter's Bar gradients, though
possibly, if you cross-question him, he could not tell you where they
are. However, the great daily and evening papers are fully alive to the
occasion, and the various sporting "Majors" and "Prophets" are well to
the fore with such "pars" as the following:--

Flying Buster, that smart and rakish yearling from the Crewe stud, was
out at exercise last evening with a light load of eighty tons, and did
some very satisfactory trials.

       *       *       *       *       *

Invicta, the remarkably speedy East Coast seven-year-old, made a very
good show in her run from Grantham to York yesterday. She covered the
80-1/2 miles in 78 minutes with Driver TOMKINS up, and a weight of some
120 tons, without turning a hair. She looked extremely well-trained,
and I compliment her owners on her appearance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Really something ought to be done with certain of the Southern
starters. I will name no names, but I noticed one the other day whose
pace was more like thirty hours a mile than thirty miles an hour. I
have heard of donkey-engines, and this one would certainly win a donkey
race.

       *       *       *       *       *

These long-distance races are, no doubt, excellent tests for the
strength and stamina of our leading cross-country "flyers," but I
must enter a protest against the abnormally early hours at which the
chief events are now being pulled off. A sporting reporter undergoes
many hardships for the good of the public, but not the least is the
disagreable duty of being in at the finish at Aberdeen, say at 4.55
A.M. The famous midnight steeple-chase was nothing to it.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was some very heavy booking last night at Euston, and Puffing
Billy the Second was greatly fancied. He has much finer action and
bigger barrel than his famous sire, not to mention being several hands
higher. It is to be hoped that he will not turn out a roarer, like the
latter.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are dark rumours abroad that the King's Cross favourite has been
got at. She was in the pink of condition two days ago; but when I saw
her pass at Peterborough to-day, she was decidedly touched in the wind.
The way she laboured along was positively distressing. Besides, she was
sweating and steaming all over.

       *       *       *       *       *

I will wire my prophecies for to-day as soon as I know the results.

THE SHUNTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST."

_Hackney_ (_to Shire Horse_). "LOOK HERE, FRIEND DOBBIN, I'LL BE SHOD
IF THEY WON'T DO AWAY WITH US ALTOGETHER SOME OF THESE DAYS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PICKINGS FROM PICARDY.

AFTER THE PROCESSION. A SOLO BY GRAND-PERE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY "COPPER."

(_After Wordsworth's "Character of the Happy Warrior."_)

[Sir JOHN BRIDGE, at Bow Street, bidding farewell to Detective-Sergeant
PARTRIDGE, retiring after thirty years' service, described the virtues
of the perfect policeman. He must be "absolutely without fear," "gentle
and mild in manner," and utterly free from "swagger," &c., &c.]

  Who is the happy "Copper"? Who is he

  Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be?

  --It is the placid spirit, who, when brought

  Near drunken men, and females who have fought,

  Surveys them with a glance of sober thought;

  Whose calm endeavours check the nascent fight,

  And "clears the road" from watchers fierce and tight.

  Who, doomed to tramp the slums in cold or rain,

  Or put tremendous traffic in right train,

  _Does_ it, with plucky heart and a cool brain;

  In face of danger shows a placid power,

  Which is our human nature's highest dower;

  Controls crowds, roughs subdues, outwitteth thieves,

  Comforts lost kids, yet ne'er a tip receives

  For objects which he would not care to state.

  Cool-headed, cheery, and compassionate;

  Though skilful with his fists, of patience sure
 ,
  And menaced much, still able to endure.

  --'Tis he who is Law's vassal; who depends

  Upon that Law as freedom's best of friends;

  Whence, in the streets where men are tempted still
  By fine superfluous pubs to swig and swill

  Drink that in quality is not the best,

  The Perfect Bobby brings cool reason's test

  To shocks and shindies, and street-blocking shows;

  Men argue, women wrangle,--Bobby _knows_!

  --Who, conscious of his power of command

  Stays with a nod, and checks with lifted hand,

  And bids this van advance, that cab retire,

  According to his judgment and desire;

  Who comprehends his trust, and to the same

  Keeps true with stolid singleness of aim;

  And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait

  For beery guerdon, or for bribery's bait;

  Thieves he must follow; should a cab-horse fall,

  A lost child bellow, a mad woman squall,

  His powers shed peace upon the sudden strife,

  And crossed concerns of common civic life,

  A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

  But who, if he be called upon to face

  Some awful moment of more dangerous kind,

  Shot that may slay, explosion that may blind,

  Is cool as a cucumber; and attired

  In the plain blue earth's cook-maids have admired,

  Calm, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law,

  Fearless, unswaggering, and devoid of "jaw."

  Or if some unexpected call succeed

  To fire, flood, fight, he's equal to the need;

  --He who, though thus endowed with strength and sense,

  To still the storm and quiet turbulence,

  Is yet a soul whose master bias leans

  To home-like pleasures and to jovial scenes;

  And though in rows his valour prompt to prove,

  Cooks and cold mutton share his manly love:--

  'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high

  On a big horse at some festivity,

  Conspicuous object in the people's eye,

  Or tramping sole some slum's obscurity,

  Who, with a beat that's quiet, or "awful hot,"

  Prosperous or want-pinched, to his taste or not,

  Plays, in the many games of life, that one

  In which the Beak's approval may be won;

  And which may earn him, when he quits command,

  Good, genial, Sir JOHN BRIDGE'S friendly shake o' the hand.

  Whom neither knife nor pistol can dismay,

  Nor thought of bribe or blackmail can betray:

  Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
  Looks forward, persevering, to the last,

  To be with PARTRIDGE, ex-detective, class'd:

  Who, whether praised by bigwigs of the earth,

  Or object of the Stage's vulgar mirth,

  Plods on his bluchered beat, cool, gentle, game,

  And leaves _somewhere_ a creditable name;

  Finds honour in his cloth and in his cause,

  And, when he dips into retirement, draws

  His country's gratitude, the Bow Street Beak's applause:

  This is the happy "Copper"; this is he

  Whom every Man in Blue should wish to be.

       *       *       *       *       *

"TWENTY MINUTES ON THE CONTINENT."

(_By Our Own Intrepid Explorer._)

"I tell you what you want," said my friend SAXONHURST. "You find your
morning dumb-bells too much for you, and complain of weakness--you
ought to get a blow over to France."

[Illustration]

The gentleman who made the suggestion is a kind guardian of my health.
He is not a doctor, although I believe he did "walk the hospitals" in
his early youth, but knows exactly what to advise. As a rule, when I
meet him he proposes some far-a-field journey. "What!" he exclaims,
in a tone of commiseration; "got a bad cold! Why not trot over to
Cairo? The trip would do you worlds of good." I return: "No doubt it
would, but I havn't the time." At the mere suggestion of "everyone's
enemy," SAXONHURST roars with laughter. He is no slave to be bound by
time. He has mapped out any number of pleasant little excursions that
can be carried out satisfactorily during that period known to railway
companies (chiefly August and September) as "the week's end." He has
discovered that within four-and-twenty hours you can thoroughly "do"
France, and within twice that time make yourself absolutely conversant
with the greater part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow
over" to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no
lengthy proceedings.

"About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you to
rights," continues SAXONHURST, in a tone of conviction. "Just you
trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they will pull you
through. Keep your eye on the 9 A.M. Express from Victoria and you will
never regret it."

Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the resources
of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia, lunch
sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of (literally)
five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight hours one could
travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call upon the
Gallic _douane_, test the _cuisine_ of the _buffet_ attached to the
Hotel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day." It
seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to perform it, it
was as easy as possible.

There is no deception at 9 A.M. every morning at the Victoria Station.
A sign-post points out the Dover Boat Express, and tells you at the
same time whether you are to have the French-flagged services of the
_Invicta_ and the _Victoria_, or sail under the red ensign of the
_Calais-Douvres_. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I fancy it is
the fastest of the speedy trio. Near to the board of information is a
document heavy with fate. In it you can learn whether the sea is to
be "smooth," "light," "moderate," or "rather rough." If you find that
your destiny is one of the two last mentioned, make up your mind for
breezy weather, with its probable consequences. Of course, if you can
face the steward with cheerful unconcern in a hurricane, you will have
nothing to fear. But if you find it necessary to take chloral before
embarking (say) on the Serpentine in a dead calm, then beware of the
trail of the tempest, and the course of the coming storm. If a man who
is obliged to go on insists that "it will be all right," take care, and
beware. "Trust him not," as the late LONGFELLOW poetically suggested,
as it is quite within the bounds of possibility that he may be "fooling
thee." But if the meteorological report points to "set fair," then
away with all idle apprehensions, and hie for the first-class smoking
compartment, that stops not until it gets to Dover pier, for the pause
at Herne Hill scarcely counts for anything.

As you travel gaily along through the suburbs of Surrey and the hops of
Kent, you have just time to glance from your comfortable cushioned seat
at "beautiful Battersea," "salubrious Shortlands," "cheerful Chatham,"
"smiling Sittingbourne," "favoured (junction for Dover and Ramsgate)
Faversham," and last, but not least, "cathedral-cherishing Canterbury."
You hurry through the quaint old streets of "the Key to Brompton" (I
believe that is the poetical _plus_ strategical designation of the
most warlike of our cinque ports), and in two twos you are on board
the _Calais-Douvres_, bound for the _buffet_ of _buffets_, the pride
of the caterer's craft, or rather (to avoid possible misapprehension)
his honourable calling. The Channel is charming. This marvellous twenty
miles of water is as wayward as a woman. At one time it will compel
the crews of the steamers to appear in complete suits of oil-skin; at
another it is as smooth as a billiard-table, and twice as smiling. The
report at Victoria has not been misleading. We are to have a pleasant,
and consequently prosperous passage.

On board I find a goodly company of lunchers. Mr. Recorder BUNNY,
Q.C., sedate and silent--once the terror of thieves of all classes,
and ruffians of every degree, now partly in retreat. Then there is the
MACSTORM, C.B., warrior and novelist. Foreign affairs are represented
by MM. BONHOMMIE and DE CZARVILLE, excellent fellows both, and capable
correspondents in London. Then there are a host of celebrities. DICKY
HOGARTH, the caricaturist; SAMUEL STEELE SHERIDAN, the dramat