



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 dramatist; and
SHAKSPEARE JOHNSON COCKAIGNE, the man of literary all-work.

"It is very fine this to me when therefore I come out why," observes an
Italian explorer, who has the reputation of speaking five-and-twenty
languages fluently, and is particularly proud of his English.

"Certainly," I answer promptly, because my friend is a little
irritable, and still believes in the possibilities of the _duello_.

"Therefore maybe you find myself when I am not placed which was
consequently forwards." And with this the amiable explorer from the
sunny south, no doubt believing that he has been imparting information
of the most valuable character, relapses into a smiling silence.

In the course of the voyage I find that, if I pleased, I could wait
until a quarter to four, and then return to my native shores. This
would give me more than three hours in Calais. But what should I do
with them?

"You might go to the Old Church," says Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., "which
was an English place of worship in the time of Queen MARY. Some of the
chapels are still dedicated to English Saints, and there are various
other memorials of the British occupation."

"Or you can go to the _plage_," puts in the MACSTORM. "Great fun in
fine weather. Whole families pic-nic on the sands. They feed under
tents or in chalets. In the water all day long, except at meal-times.
At night they retire, I think, to a little collection of timber-built
villas, planted in a neatly-kept square. The whole thing rather
suggestive of ALEXANDER SELKIRK _plus_ an unlimited supply of a
quarter-inch deal flooring, canvas, and cardboard."

[Illustration]

In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine
to go no further than the _buffet_. Acting under the instructions of
Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well,
I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent
generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders.
A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us
say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysee, takes me in hand. We
make out a _menu_ on the spot--Melon, _tete de veau a la vinaigrette_,
_caneton aux petits pois_, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle
of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a _cafe_ and _chasse_. All good. Then
the _garcon_ skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a
dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These
athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise
the performer--if he wishes it--a prosperous career on the lofty
_trapeze_), are undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers
Albion bound. Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my
lunch, settled my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good
steamer that is to carry me back to my native land.

Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I watch
them after _dejeuner a la fourchette_ through the perfumed haze of an
unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned, they are not a
patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian coast line,
but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond compare." I remember that
at one time or another I have heard "the finest music in the world,
but at that moment there comes stealing into my ears a melody worth
all that music put together, the chime of English village bells." I
recollect that I have heard these beautiful expressions used in the
Garrick Theatre on the occasion of the revival of a certain little
one-act piece. Mr. ARTHUR BOUCHIER was then eloquent (on behalf of
the author) in praise of Dover, and I now agree with him. What can
be more beautiful than the white cliffs of Albion and the sound of
English village bells--after a capital lunch at Calais, and during the
enjoyment of an unusually good cigar?

The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train
arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for
Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day."

"How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring out a cup
of tea.

"And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I owe to
twenty minutes on the continent."

And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they shall
serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title and
the end to an article.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My pater reads the Bristol newspapers, but I don't,
because there's never any pirates or red Indians in them, but happening
to look in one the other day I noticed an awfully good thing. It said
that at a place called Stapleton all the parents were very indignant at
the way in which the schoolmistress had been treated by the manigers,
and to show their symperthy they decided to keep their children from
school. The school was nearly empty in consequents. Now I don't think
my schoolmaster has half enough sympathy shown him. He does know how
to cane, certainly, but he isn't really such a beast as fellows make
out--at least not just the day or so before the holidays begin--and
would you mind telling parents that they ought to keep their boys at
home for a week or a fortnight after next term begins, to show how much
they symperthise with him? Poor chap, he has lots of trouble--I know he
has, because I give him some.

Yours respekfully, BLOGGS JUNIOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

BAWBEES THANKFULLY RECEIVED.--A National Scottish Memorial to BURNS
is in the Ayr. "Surely," writes a perfervid one, "BURNS did as much
for our country and the world as SCOTT, yet how very different the
monuments of the two in Edinburgh and Glasgow! I am sure no Scotchman
would grudge his mite, however poor, for such a purpose." Quite so. But
it would take a good many "Cotter's Saturday mites" to build anything
like the Scott Memorial in Princes Street. And what is this that the
Rev. Dr. BURRELL, of New York, said in presenting a new panel for the
Ayr statue of BURNS from American lovers of the poet? "The stream of
pilgrims," he observed, "from America to the banks of the Doon was
twice as large as that which found its way to the banks of the Avon."
Then why should not the stream of dollars follow, and erect a colossal
"Burns Enlightening the Nations" somewhere down the Clyde--say, at the
Heads of Ayr? _Hamlet_ beaten by _Tam O'Shanter_, and Avon taking a
back seat to Doon! Flodden is, indeed, avenged.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WEARING O' THE GREEN.--There was a discussion at the Cork
Corporation's meeting on a recommendation of the Works Committee, that
"a new uniform, of Irish manufacture, be ordered for the hall-porter."
What should be the colour, was the difficulty? "Some members," we
regret to read, "were in favour of blue"; and then the debate went on
thus--

Mr. BIBLE he thought they should stick to the green Mr. FARINGTON said
that green uniforms rot; Mr. LUCY denounced such a statement as mean,
And--"never change colour!"--advised Sir JOHN SCOTT.

So the hall-porter will have a uniform of "green and gold"--the green
to be durable," and the gold to make it endurable!

       *       *       *       *       *

CABBY? OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. II.--IN THE SHELTER. ME AND BILLY BOGER.

[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at
the Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.]

    There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, _with_ a cough, and
    a fare as is sour and tight-fisted,
    Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits
    terrible twisted.
    And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in.
    With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer,"
   _And_ 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad!
    What do _you_ think? I says to my pal BILLY BOGER.

    Brown-crusted one, BILLY; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a
    "Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according.
    Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up
    like, against a damp hoarding.
    Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, BILL do; won't take it on
    nohow, the orkurd old Tartar.
    The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em
    from playing the martyr!

    "That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says BILL with a
    grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me
    Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer
    all round; but Lord love me
    Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and
    larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it;
    Cuss it and cross it, and over _you_ go! Better far to stand by and
    look on, till you're out of it.

    "Heye like a bloomin' old robin, _you_ 'ave," says BILL (meaning _me_),
    "allus cocked at creation
    As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end
    of your fine 'observation'?
    You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading
    'em out' as Yank JONATHAN puts it.
    And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss
    till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"

    Carn't 'it it, we carn't. But we're pals all the same, becos BILL is
    more 'onest than some who're more 'arty. We kid, and we kibosh each
    other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old BILLY'S the party,
    And when BILLY busts JACK is all there, you bet, although _I_ tool a
    Forder and _'e_ a old Growler.
    But pickles ain't in it for sourness with BILLY, nor yet fresh-laid
    widders for