Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 98 January 4 1890 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Editor: Francis Burnand

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 98

JANUARY 4, 1890

London: Published at the Office, 85, Fleet Street, and Sold by All Booksellers. 1890.

It was the wondrous tale of STANLEY which had turned the Sage's attention to the pages of the great Epic of Commerce.

He had read:--

"Afric behold! alas, what altered view! Her lands uncultured, and her sons untrue; Ungraced with all that sweetens human life, Savage and fierce, they roam in brutal strife; Eager they grasp the gifts which culture yields, Yet naked roam their own neglected fields."

And though even Africa has considerably changed since the year of grace 1497, when "daring GAMA" went "incessant labouring round the stormy Cape," Mr. PUNCH thought of that great gloom-shrouded Equatorial Forest and its secular savage dwarf-denizens, and mused how much there was yet for our modern GAMAS to do in the Dark Continent.

Mr. PUNCH found himself in the lovely "Isle of Venus," the delicious floral Paradise which the Queen of Love, "the guardian goddess of the Lusian race," created "amid the bosom of the watery waste," as "a place of glad repast and sweet repose," for the tired home-returning GAMA and his companions.

"Of 'glad repast,'" said a familiar voice, "there is plenty and to spare; but for the 'sweet repose,' 'tis not to be found in this 'Isle of Banqueting.'"

"Mr. STANLEY, I presume?" said the Sage.

"As fame-preoccupied, country-loving GAMA, wearied of the 'feasts, interludes, and chivalrous entertainments,' with which 'the taste of that age demonstrated the joy of Portugal,' might perchance have snubbed some too importunate Don. 'The compliments of the Court and the shouts of the streets were irksome to him,' says the chronicle."

"SALISBURY is not quite a Prince HENRY apparently," remarked the modern GAMA. "He and his father JOHN did not find the discoveries and acquisitions of their heroic compatriot 'embarrassing.' 'The arts and valour of the Portuguese had now made a great impression on the minds of the Africans. The King of CONGO, a dominion of great extent, sent the sons of some of his principal officers to be instructed in arts and religion.' This was four hundred years ago! And now the Portuguese can be safely snubbed and sat upon, even by a SALISBURY! But if your prudent Premier doesn't 'stiffen his back' a bit, with regard to the tougher and tentative Teuton, 'the arts and valour' of the Britishers will not make as great an impression on the minds of the Africans as your ill-used East African Company could desire."

"'One hand the pen, and one the sword employed.'

"'Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires. Shall haughty Gaul or sterner Albion boast That all the Lusian fame in thee is lost!'"

"'The King or hero to the Muse unjust, Sinks as the nameless slave, extinct in dust.'

"For the present, STANLEY'S arm and Mr. PUNCH'S pen suffice to save the State from such abasement. But let our timid Premiers and our temporising Press remember the glories of GAMA and CAMOENS, and the fate of ungrateful and indolent Lusitania!"

"The Pen of Mr. PUNCH!" cried CAMOENS. "Ah, long have the valiant VASCO and myself desired to peruse its sparkling and patriotic outpourings.".

"And you, my STANLEY," proceeded Mr. PUNCH, "said to the banqueting Fishmongers, 'I am an omnivorous reader whenever an opportunity presents itself.' It presents itself here and now. Take, Illustrious Trio, the greatest gift that even PUNCH can bestow upon you, to wit his

"Ninety-Eighth Volume!"

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.

FOURTH ENTRY.

Find myself in a mess with a highly-intelligent native of India, another man up from Oxford, and an African law-student. Latter black and curly, but good-natured. Says there is a great demand for English-made barristers on the Gambia, and he's going to supply the demand.

Have wild and momentary idea of going to the Gambia myself.

"Why," I ask this enterprising negro, "why don't English barristers--white ones, I mean--go and practise there?" Feel that reference to colour is not felicitous; still, difficult to express the idea otherwise.

African doesn't mind. Shows all his teeth in a broad grin, and says, "Inglis men die, die like flies, on the Gambia."

Oxford man tells me in a whisper that "he believes he's a Baboo." Indeed! Don't feel much wiser for the information.

African getting jealous of Baboo's fluent talk. Rather a sportive negro, it appears. Says he goes to theatre nearly every night. Has a regular and rather festive programme for each day.

"Lecture, morning," he says; "afternoon, walk in Park, sometimes ride. Night, theatre or music-hall." He grins like an amiable gargoyle. In his own country African law-student must be quite a lady-killer--a sort of Gambia masher.

Incidentally mention to Hindoo difficulty of law of Real Property, especially "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case."

It seems Hindoo understands matter perfectly. Begins to explain the "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case." Does it by aid of two salt-cellars and a few knives .

African masher more jealous. Laughs at Baboo's explanation. He and Baboo exchange glances of hatred. African, who is carving, brandishes knife. Is he going to plunge it into heart of Baboo just as he's got through his explanation? Looks like it, as the shilling claret seems to have got into place where we may suppose African's brain to be. However, dinner ends without a catastrophe.

After attending the usual amount of legal lectures, the "Final" Exam. approaches.

Examiner who tackles me has an eye-glass.

Flattered at the supposition. Answer in a way which seems to partly satisfy Examiner, who passes on to next man with a new question. In a minute or two my turn comes round again.

"Now, Mr. JOYNSON," Examiner again observes cheerfully, "let me ask you quite an elementary question in Real Property. Just give me a brief, a very brief, explanation of what you understand by the Rule in SHELLEY'S Case!"

But I don't understand anything by it! It's a piece of hopeless legal gibberish to me. I stammer out some attempt at an answer, and see Baboo looking at me with a pitying, almost reproachful, glance. "Didn't I," he seems to say, "explain it all to you once at dinner? Do you really mean to say that you've forgotten the way in which I arranged the salt-cellars and the table-knives, and how I turned the whole case inside out for your benefit?"

I admit the offence. Examiner seems surprised at my ignorance--informs me that "it's as easy as A.B.C." It may be--to him and the Baboo.

Baboo, being asked the same question, at once explains the whole matter, this time without the aid of the salt-cellars and cutlery.

A few days later go to look at result of examination. Result, for me--a Plough!

"Me failed too. Me go back Gambia. You come back with me!"

Tell him I'm not "called" yet: certainly not called to Gambia.

"Then come to Alhambra!" he suggests, as a sort of alternative to a visit to the tropics.

THE BUSY B.

How doth the busy Jerry Builder Improve his shining hoard, And gather money, basely earned, From every opening Board!

With what serene, well-practised skill, He "squares" Surveyors too! For Jobbery finds some baseness still For venal hands to do.

Whether for work or healthful play His buildings will not last. May he be called some day, some day, To strict account at last!

A BALLAD OF EVIL SPEED.

I would I had not met you, Sweet, I wish you had been far away From where, in Upper Wimpole Street, We two foregather'd yesterday. Somewhere in that unlovely street Summer's lost beauty, hid away, Woke at the music of your feet, And sought the little girl in grey. Around your head the sunbeams play-- Home to the depths of your deep eyes Soft shadows of the woodland stray, Then sparkle with a quick surprise, As when the branch-entangled skies Shake from the depths of woodland stream, Awhile in laughing circles gleam, Then spread to heaven's peace again. Amber and gold, and feathery grey, You suited well the Autumn day, The muffled sun, the misty air, The weather like a sleepy pear. And yet I wish that you had been Afar, beside the sounding main, Or swaying daintily the rein Of mettled courser on the green, So I had passed, and passed unseen.

Then suddenly the sombre way Rock'd like the darkness struck by day, The endless houses reel'd from sight, And all romance and all delight Came thronging in a glorious crowd. So, when the drums are beating loud, The mob comes sweeping down the Mall, Far heralding the bear-skins tall. Glorious in golden clothing comes The great drum-major with his drums And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then The scarlet wall of marching men, Midmost of which great Mavors sets The colours girt with bayonets. Yes, there were you--and there was I, Unshaved, and with erratic tie, And for that once I yearn'd to shun My social system's central sun. How could a sloven slave express The frank, the manly tenderness That wraps you round from common thought, And does not ask that you should know The love that consecrates you so. No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold, I basely seemed to set at naught That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought. What must she think, my girl of gold? I dare not ask; and baffled wit Droops--till sweet hopes begin to flit-- Like butterflies that brave the cold-- Perhaps she didn't notice it.

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