Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 4

STELLA orderin' of 'en about! Now she's started 'en. They ain't not allowed to go 'ittin of 'en--got to go just wheeriver the animiles want. Lor, the guse is takin his genlm'n in among the treeses! Well, if iver I did! That theer tartus gits along, don't he? Passon don't seem com'fable along o' that monkey. I'll back the young sailor gent--keeps that sheep wunnerful stiddy, he do. There's the hold peacock puttin' on a bust now. Well, well, these be fine doin's for 'Auberk 'All, and no mistake. Make old Sir HALBERD stare if he was 'ere, &c., &c.
The Colonel (_wrathfully to his Rabbit, which will do nothing but run round and round him_). Stop that, will you, you little fool. Do you want to trip me up! Of all the dashed nonsense I ever--!
_Mrs. Bangs_. My! Colonel, you do seem to have got hold of a pretty insubordinate kind of a Rabbit, too!
The Colonel (_looking round_). Well, you aren't getting much pace out of your Tortoise either, if it comes to that!
_Mrs. Bangs_. He puts in most of his time in stoppages for rest and refreshment. I'm beginning to believe that old fable's a fraud. Anyway, it's my opinion this Tortoise isn't going to beat any hare--unless it's a jugged one.
Dick Gatling (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in a leisurely manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in supplies. We're going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now she's tacking!
The Curate (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there, quietly now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that? (_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--
_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no use--I can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!
_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I know it will peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found out there's sugar-candy in the varnish.
_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I say, you know--that's all very well, but it's not making him race, is it? Now I am getting some running out of my Goose.
_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress from the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate again!
The Curate (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! do help me! Miss STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back, and it's pulling my hair--'ow!
[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to the rescue._
Dick Gatling (_coming up later_). Why on earth did you all jack up like that? You've missed a splendid finish! My Mutton was forging ahead like fun, when FANSHAWE's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck than the Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here, let's have it all over again!
[_But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having surreptitiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken, and the Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly declined to come out again, sport is abandoned for the afternoon, to the scarcely disguised relief of the Curate, who is prevented from remaining to tea by the pressure of parish-work._
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[Illustration: THE ONLY MAN IN ROTTEN ROW.
SCENE FROM THE RAKE'S PROGRESS.]
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LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Once more I am back in my London "_pied-à-terre_"--(but how it can he a _pied-à-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the fourth floor!--ridiculous language French is to be sure!)--and
very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the latitude of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists, _Char-à-bancs_, and Pirates--the latter disguised as Lodging-letters!
While there we suffered severely from Regattas; which swarm in the Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with the deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta Bacteria, and very painful it was. My friend, Baron VON HODGEMANN, owner of the Anglesey, persuaded me to go on board for a race, and we travelled the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and singing the war-cry of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club!--
To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,[1] When the north wind snores its dismal dirge! In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge, The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge, And weathers the Warner Light!
This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged in another flight of daring which required all the aplomb of a leader