Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 4

deficient in reverence.
[Illustration: "I presume, though, he slept bad, nights."]
[_Close by is a party of three Tourists--a Father and Mother, and a
Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat effusive
Official Catalogue; the Education of all three appears to have been
elementary._
The Daughter (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could not 'elp
fancying this was the artist's por-portrait? portent? no, protest against
des-des (_recklessly_) despoticism, and tyranny, but I see it is
only--Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of Ulyces."

_Her Male Parent._ Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be a'
doin' of in the middle of 'em?
Daughter (_stolidly_). Don't you be in a nurry, Father (_continuing_)
"in the midst of some colonial? That ain't it--colossial animiles
fanatically--fan-tasty-cally--" why, this catalogue is 'alf foreign!
_Female P._ Never mind, say Peterborough at the 'ard words--we shan't
be none the wiser!
Daughter. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave
'is Peterborough grotter--"
_Male P._ That'll do--read what it says about the next one.
Daughter (_reading_). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere.
Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it."
Both Parents (_impressed_). Lor!
[_They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the
Gallery._
_Culch._ (_rising and going to meet her_). Good morning, Miss
TROTTER. We--ah--meet again.
_Miss T._ That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa
restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can--says he doesn't seem to
mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too.
Where've you hitched your friend up?
_Culch._ My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me.
And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this
opportunity of disabusing your mind of the--er--totally false
impression--
_Miss T._ Oh, _that's_ all right. I told him he needn't try to give me
away, for I could see you weren't that kind of man!

_Culch._ (_gratefully_). Your instinct was correct--perfectly correct.
When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the
description my--er--friend considered it humorous to give of me as an
unsociable hypochondriac?
_Miss T._ Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as one
of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled folks to
death almost.
_Culch._ (_annoyed_). Really, this is most unpardonable of Mr.
PODBURY! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one
behind one's back is simply too--I do not aspire to--ah--to tickle folks to
death!
_Miss T._ (_soothingly_). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't
feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your
society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's better
than tickling; every time. And I want you to show me round this
collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was
considerable sand in WIERTZ; sort of spread himself around a good
deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.
(_She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by CULCHARD,
who admires her, against his better judgment, more and more._) ... I
declare if that isn't your friend Mr. PODBURY just come in! I believe
I'll have to give you up to him.
_Culch._ (_eagerly_). I beg you will not think it necessary. He--he has
a guide already. He does not require my services. And, to be plain, my
poor friend--though, an excellent fellow according to his--ah--lights--is
a companion whose society occasionally amounts to a positive
infliction.
_Miss T._ Well, I find him too chinny myself, times. Likely he won't
notice us if we don't seem to be aware of him.
[_They continue to inspect the canvases._

A Belgian Guide (_who has made an easy capture of PODBURY at the
Hotel entrance_). Hier now is a shdrainch beecture. "De toughts and
veesions of a saivered haid." Fairsst meenut afder degapitation; de
zagonde; de tirt. Hier de haid tink dey vant to poot him in a goffin.
Dere are two haids--von goes op, de udder down. Haf you got de two?
Nod yet? No?
Podbury (_shaking his head sagaciously_). Oh, ah, yes. Capital! Rum
subject, though.
_Guide._ Yais, vary magnifique, vary grandt, and--and rom also! Dees
von rebresents Napoleon in hail. De modders show him de laigs and
ahums of dair sons keeled in de vars, and invide him to drink a cop of
bloodt.
_Podb._ Ha, cheery picture that!
_Guide._ Cheery, oh, yais! Now com and beep troo dis 'ole.
(_PODBURY obeys with docility._) You see? A Mad Voman cooking
her shildt in a gettle. Hier again, dey haf puried a man viz de golera
pefore he is daid, he dries to purst de goffin, you see only de handt
shdicking oudt.
_Podb._ The old Johnny seems full of pretty fancies. (_He looks
through