



Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
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    PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

    VOL. 98

    January 11, 1890.




UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

    "Tres volontiers," repartit le demon. "Vous aimez les tableaux
    changeans; je veux vous contenter."

    _Le Diable Boiteux._


XVI.

  "Midnight's meridian is supposed to mark
  The bound twixt toil and slumber. Light and dark
    Mete out the lives of mortals
  In happy alternation," said my guide.
  "Six hours must fleet ere Phoebus shall set wide
    His glowing orient portals.

  "The last loud halloo at the tavern-door
  long since has driven the reckless and the poor
    From misery's only haven
  Forth on the chilling night. 'All out! All out!'
  Less sad would fall on bibulous souls, no doubt,
    The refrain of the Raven.

  "London lies shuttered close. Law's measured beat
  Falls echoing down the shadow-chequered street;
    A distant cab-wheel clatters;
  The wastrel's drunken cry, the waif's low moan,
  Reach not the ear of tired Philistia, prone,
    Dreaming of other matters."

  "The Shadow's slow subacid speech, I knew,
  Foreboded more than mirth. Downward we drew,
    Silent, and all un-noted,
  O'er sleeping Shopdom. Sleeping? Closer quest
  Might prove it one vast Valley of Unrest
    O'er which we mutely floated.

  "Post-midnight peace," I said, "must fall like balm,
  After the long day's turmoil, on this calm,
    Close-clustering, lamp-lit city,"
  "Peace?" sighed the Shadow. "She of the white dove
  Is not less partial in her gifts than Love,
    Or Wealth, or Worldly Pity.

  "See yon close-shuttered shop! Peace broodeth there,
  You deem perchance; but look within. A lair
    Of midnight smugglers, stirring
  At the sea's signal, scarce seems more agog.
  And yet each toiler's heart lies like a log,
    Sleep each tired eye is blurring.

  "Feet scuttle, fingers fleet, pens work apace;
  A whipt-up zeal marks every pallid face;
    One voice austere, sonorous,
  Chides, threatens, sometimes curses. How they flush,
  Its victims silent, tame! That voice would hush
    A seraph-choir in chorus.

  "Strident, sardonic, stern; the harrying sound
  Lashes them like a flail the long hours round,
    Till to strained nerves 'twere sweeter
  To silence it with one fierce passionate grip,
  Than into some bland Lotos Land to slip,
    And moon out life to metre.

  "From early morn till midnight these poor slaves
  Have'served the public;' now, when nature craves
    Rest from the strain and scurry
  Of Shopdom's servitude, they still must wake
  Some weary hours, though hands with fever shake
    And nerves are racked with worry.

  "Though the great streets are still, the shutters up,
  Gas flares within, and ere they sleep or sup
    These serfs of Competition
  Must clean, and sort and sum. There's much to do
  Behind those scenes set fair to public view
    By hucksters of position.

  "The shop-assistant's Sabbath has begun!
  His sixteen hours long Saturday has run
    Its wearing course and weary.
  The last light's out, and many an aching head
  At last, at last, seeks in a lonely bed
    A dreamland dim and dreary.

  "In roseate visions shall racked souls rejoice
  Haunted by echoes of that harrying voice?
    Nay, friend, uncounted numbers
  Of victims to commercial strain and stress,
  Seek nought more sweet than dull forgetfulness
    In the short night's scant slumbers."

  "Too sombre Spirit, hath the opening year
  No scenes of gayer hope and gentler cheer?
    Is all beneath night's curtain
  In this vast city void of promise glad?
  Are all the guests of midnight spectres sad,
    And suffering and uncertain?"

  So I addressed the Shadow. "Friend," he smiled.
  "'Twas 'lurid London' that you wished 'untiled.'
    Most secret things are sinister.
  Innocent mirth needs no Ithuriel spear
  To make its inner entity appear.
    Still, to your mood I'll minister.

  "Not long-drawn Labour only breaks the rest
  Of London's night. Society in quest
    Of Gold's sole rival, Pleasure,
  Makes little of the bounds of dark and day.
  Night's hours lead on a dance as glad and gay
    As the old Horaes' measure.

  "Look!" Such a burst of laughter shook the room
  As might dispel a desert anchorite's gloom.
    Flushed faces keen and clever
  Contorted wildly; such mirth-moving shape
  Was taken by that genial histrion's jape
    As mobs are mute at never.

  A long soft-lighted room, the muffled beat
  On carpets soft of watchful waiters' feet
    In deft attendance gliding;
  A table spread with toothsome morsels, fit
  For the night-feast of genius, wealth and wit,
    Of a skilled _chef's_ providing.

  Goodfellowship, _bonnes bouches_, right pleasant tales
  Of _bonnes fortunes!_ Here a quaint cynic rails,
    There an enthusiast gushes.
  Gay talk flows on, not in a rolling stream,
  But with the brooklet's intermittent gleam
    And brisk irradiant rushes.

  Side-lights from all Society shift here
  Reflected in keen _mot_ and jocund jeer,
    Wild jest, and waggish whimsey.
  Stagedom disrobed and Statecraft in undress,
  Stars of the Art-world, pillars of the Press,
    Sage solid, _flaneur_ flimsy,

  All cross and counter here; they lounge and sup:
  The fragrant smoke-cloud and the foaming cup
    Tickle their eager senses.
  What care these for the clock, whilst banter flows
  And dainty "snacks" and toothsome herring-roes
    The distant cook dispenses?

  "How different these," my calm companion said,
  "From the crowd yonder! These yearn not for bed
    As rest from leaden labour."
  The night may be far spent, the Sabbath dawns,
  But here no dull brain-palsied drowser yawns
    At his half-nodding neighbour.

  "With wit, and wealth, and wine, the hours of night
  In sombre Babylon may dispense delight.
    These revellers, slumber-scorning,
  Radiant and well-arrayed, will stop, and stop,
  Till waiters drowse. But then, yon slaves of Shop
    Must meet a different morning."

  (_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

An unsatisfactory christmas present.--We can well understand and
sympathise with you in your disappointment on discovering that you had
been deceived as to the amount of intelligence possessed by the Learned
Pig that you had been induced to purchase as a Christmas present for
your invalid Grandfather. It must have been very annoying, after having
imagined that you had provided your aged relative with a nice long
winter's evening amusement resulting from the creature's advertised
powers of telling fortunes and spelling sentences with a pack of
ordinary playing cards, to receive a letter from the housekeeper
bitterly complaining of its performance, which seems merely to have
consisted of eating all the tea-cake, biting a housemaid, getting
between your Grandfather's legs and upsetting him in his armchair, and,
finally, when pursued, trying to obtain refuge in the grand piano. You
cannot be surprised after this experience, that it has been intimated to
you that if you do not take the creature yourself away at once, it will
be forthwith handed over to the first policeman that passes. Yes, spite
the pig's reputed intellectual gifts, we would advise you to close with
the pork-butcher's offer you mention. When the creature has been cut up,
send your Grandfather some of the sausages. This may possibly appease
the old gentleman, and serve to allay the irritation that your
unfortunate Christmas gift appears to have occasioned.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NORTH WALLS.--The Sporting Correspondent of the _Sunday Times_ tells
us that Colonel NORTH is "having a new ball-room"--(he wouldn't have an
old one built, would he? But no matter)--"the walls of which are
composed of onyx." Of course, a Billionaire pays all the workmen
punctually and regularly; therefore, "Owe-nix" walls are an appropriate
memorial. _Si monumentum quaeris, circumspice._

       *       *       *       *       *

DARES AND ENTELLUS.

(_New Non-Virgilian Version told by Punchius to the Shade of Sayerius in
the Elysian Fields. With Intercalary Observations by the Illustrious
ex-Pugilist._)

Illustration: _Mr. Punch._ "WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT, TOM?"

_Shade of Sayers._ "THINK!" (_Disgusted._) "WHY, I THINK THE SOONER THE
P. R.'S PUT DOWN, THE BETTER!"

    Then bulky DARES in the ring appears,
    Chucking his "castor" in'midst husky cheers.
    DARES, the so-called "Champion" of his land,
    Who met the great KILRAINUS hand to hand,
    And at the Pelicanus strove--in vain--
    The Ethiopian's onset to sustain.
    Such DARES was, and such he strode along,
    And drew hoarse homage from the howling throng.
    His brawny breast and bulky arms he shows,  }
    His lifted fists around his head he throws, }
    Huge caveats to the inadvertent nose.       }
    But DARES, who, although a sinewy brute,
    Had not of late increased his old repute,
    Looked scarce like one prepared for gain or loss,
    And scornful of the surreptitious "cross;"
    Rather the kind of cove who tackled fair
    Would think more of the "corner" than "the square."
    (_"Ah! bust him, yes!"_ SAYERIUS _here put in,
    "He meant to tie or wrangle, not to win.
    I'd like to--well, all right, I will not say:
    But 'twasn't so at Farnborough in my day."_)
    Next stout ENTELLUS for the strife prepares,
    Strips off his ulster, and his body bares,
    Composed of mighty bone and brawn he stands.
    A six-foot straight, "fine fellow of his hands."
    ENTELLUS, Champion of the Austral realm,
    Whose sight fat DARES seemed to overwhelm.
    (_"Yah!" cried_ SAYERIUS, _"brave_ HEENANUS _stood
    Well over me; yes, and his grit was good.
    But did I funk the Big 'Un from the fust?
    No, nor when nine times I had bit the dust!"_)
    They both attentive stand with eyes intent,
    Their arms well up, their bodies backward bent.
    One on his clamorous "Corner" most relies;
    The other on his sinews and his size.
    Unequal in success, they ward, they strike,
    Their styles are different, but their aims alike.
    Big blows are dealt; stout DARES hops around,
    His pulpy sides the rattling thumps resound.
    (_"He always was a fleshy 'un, yer know,"
    Said brave_ SAYERIUS. _"But on yer go!"_)
    Steady and straight ENTELLUS stands his ground,
    Although already rowdy rows abound.
    His hand and watchful eyes keep even pace,
    While DARES traverses and shifts his place,
    And, like a cornered rat in a big pit.
    Keeps off, and doesn't like the job a bit.
    (_"No, that I'll bet!" the brave_ SAYERIUS _said.
    "Wish I'd been there to punch his bloomin' 'ed!"_)
    More on his feet than fists the cur relies,
    And on that crowded "Corner" keeps his eyes.
    With straightening shots ENTELLUS threats the foe, }
    But DARES dodges the descending blow,              }
    And back into his Corner's prompt to go.           }
    Where bludgeon, knuckleduster, knotted sticks,
    Foul sickening blows and cruel coward kicks
    Are in his interest on ENTELLUS rained
    At every point that plucky boxer gained.
    (_"Oh!" groaned_ SAYERIUS. _"And this sort of thing
    Wos let go on, with gents around the Ring!"_)
    In vain ENTELLUS gave sly DARES snuff;
    DARES already felt he'd had enough;
    But twenty ruffians, thralls of bets and "booze,"
    Had sworn could he not win he should not lose.
    DARES, you see, was "Champion" of his land,
    And these were "Trojans all" you'll understand.
    (_"Champion be blowed!_" SAYERIUS _said_. _"Wus luck,
    They wasn't Trojans. This is British pluck!"_)
    Then from the Corner fiendish howls arise,
    And oaths and execrations rend the skies.
    ENTELLUS stoutly to the fight returned.
    Kicked, punched and mauled, his eyes with fury burned,
    Disdain and conscious courage fired his breast,
    And with redoubled force his foe he pressed,
    Laid on with either hand like anything,
    And headlong drove his rival round the Ring;
    Nor stops nor stays, nor rest, nor breath allows.
    Thereon the Corner raised redoubled rows,
    Yelled false alarms of "Rescue!" heaved half-bricks,
    And murderous missiles and unmanly kicks
    Poured on ENTELLUS, whilst fat DARES slunk
    Between his bullies, like a shabby skunk.
    (_"Bah!" growled_ SAYERIUS. _"Fancy_ CRIBBS _or_ GULLIES
    _Backing down under guard of blackguard bullies!"_)
    But now the Ref., who saw the row increase,
    Declared a "draw," and bade the combat cease.
    (_"A draw?"_ SAYERIUS _shouted_. _"Was he drunk?
    Or had he, like the rest, a fit of funk?"_)
    "This," PUNCHIUS said, "ended the precious game.
    In which all, save ENTELLUS, suffered shame.
    SAYERIUS mine, I trust you take delight
    In this description of a Champion Fight!"

    "A _Fight_," SAYERIUS shouted. "Oh, get out!
    It was a 'barney.' If this ruffian rout
    Of cheats and 'bashers' now surround the Ring,
    You'd better stop it as a shameful thing.
    In JACKSON'S time, and even in my day,
    It did want courage, and did mean fair play--
    Most times, at least. But don't mix up _this_ muck
    With tales of rough-and-tumble British pluck.
    I'd like to shake ENTELLUS by the hand,
    And give that DARES--wot he'd understand
    Better, you bet, than being fair or "game,"
    Or trying to keep up the Old Country's name!
    But anyhow, if Boxing's sunk so low