MR. PUNCH'S TOUR ROUND THE WORLD.
Reading edition
"Mr. Punch," said poor old Eighty-Nine, who was growing feebler and feebler, "I am uneasy in my mind."
"Didn't know you had one," replied the Sage. "But what do you want with me?"
"You have been a great comfort to me—a very great comfort. I wish you would do something for my successor."
"What, Young Ninety? Well, I will keep a friendly eye upon him also."
"Yes, do. But I want you to begin at once. Help him through his life, as you have helped me."
"Why, certainly," said Mr. Punch, smiling. "All he will have to do will be, to put in an appearance with threepence at 85, Fleet Street, every Wednesday."
"But can't you give him a start off? Why not look round the world, and give him the result of your journey in the Almanack? Let him be remembered in the future as commencing with the Christmas of the 'Extra Extra,' as I shall be recalled in the coming ages as the year in which the Punch Staff went to Paris."
"How is it to be done?" asked the Sage.
"How is it to be done?" echoed poor old Eighty-Nine. "Why you have only to wish, and it is done! You know that your wishes are those which must be obeyed."
So, to oblige the fast-fading year, Mr. Punch wished himself in France. There he was in a moment! He had landed at Dieppe without undergoing the tortures of the steam-boat passage.
On the beach was seated a melancholy-looking tourist, who commenced, as Mr. Punch approached him, a weird nautical song, to the accompaniment of a concertina. It ran as follows:—
THE LAY OF THE CHANNEL-PASSAGE SALT.
Ho! Yeho, Boys! Yeho! I'm no craven, When you set me in face of the sea; Be it Folkestone—or even Newhaven, That I hail from, it's all one to me; For I take up my post by the funnel, And I reck not which way the winds blow; And I scorn thoughts of bridge or of tunnel As I start, singing Ho, boys! yeho! But who drops a hint about going below? Why, he'll see I've the knack, boys, Just like every true Jack, boys, Of paying my fare with a "Ho, boys! Yeho!" We have scarcely left port, yet, already, All my nautical visions grow blurred; If I move,—well, I feel so unsteady, That I half wish that I had not stirred. Weakly smiling, I turn to the steward, And inquire if he thinks it will blow; He just gazes to windward and leeward, And replies, "You'd best get down below." But no! I'm not thinking of going down below, Though I'm not easy here, And I own I feel queer, I'm equal, as yet, to a modest Yeho! Well, 'tis over! At truth no use blinking! Face that passage again? Oh! I daren't! Through the first half I feared we were sinking,— Through the second I feared that we weren't! Though gin, chloral, stout, brandy, and "bitter," I tried all in turns, but to find them no go, Still, in voice for a hospital fitter, I gave them a plaintive, "Yeho! boys! Yeho!" For the steward had carried me gently below! That's the best place, you'll find, Should you make up your mind, To shout in Mid-Channel, "Ho! Yeho, boys! Yeho!"
"Bravo!" cried Mr. Punch, as the singer finished—"I quite agree with you. But now let me see what else is to be seen on the sands."
It was a gay scene—all the gayer for the delightful weather. Mr. Punch, knowing that his wishes must immediately be gratified, had taken care to desire beau temps en permanence.
"This is really very charming," murmured the Sage; "and I am not surprised that one of the brightest of my Artists chose it for his holiday resting-place last Summer—and, as I live, there he is! Halloa! Hi! Have you forgotten your old friend?"
"Forgotten you, my dear Mr. Punch!" said a gentleman of extreme elegance, approaching the Sage. "How could you think of such a thing? Why, you have had proofs of my goodwill every week for the last quarter of a century."
"So I have," returned Mr. Punch, heartily, "and have you anything from your portfolio you can show me?"
"What do you think of this?" And he showed him two Gauls, en costume de bain.
"What are these?" asked the Sage.
"I will tell you," replied the melancholy-looking tourist, approaching with his concertina. Then, in a soft voice, he sang the following lines, which he called
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT
Amid the throng that crowds the shore I casually met them, And, though I never see them more, I never shall forget them! Dear Sons of Gaul! The one so sleek And plump, with sea-foam dripping: The other! Ah! so limp and weak, Scarce equal to a dipping. But, as they stand together there, Half conscious none can match them, A sight for the admiring fair!— I seek a phrase to catch them. And, as one lights his cigarette, Ho! presto! In completeness I feel at last that I have met With living "Light and Sweetness"!
"Just so," observed Mr. Punch. "But I must be off."
"Going to Paris by the train de luxe! Ah, how different it used to be when our fathers were boys together. Do you remember the old-fashioned diligence? Some day we may travel by train across the sea."
"Well, I have a still easier mode of travelling. I can beat diligence and locomotive with a wish. I want to be in Paris!" In a moment, the Sage found himself seated under the Tour Eiffel amidst the ruins of the Exhibition. The confusion was indescribable.
"Dear me, I think I've had about enough of this!" said Mr. Punch. "I fancy I should like to be in Switzerland."
Hey presto! and the Sage was in the home of the picturesque—in the land of table d'hôtes of the first order, and of hotel prices of nearly the same altitude as the mountains.
"This is very perfect," observed the Sage to his faithful attendant. Toby growled. "There is nothing needed to complete my happiness."
"Except me—'scuse me—except me."
"You! And who may you be?"
"Not know me, Mr. Punch? Why, that is a good one!"
Then the First Gentleman in the World, who has appropriately been called the "pink," not to say the rose (of courtesy), recognised a well-known contributor to his pages. He gave this admirable type of a race that has its exponents in every country under the sun some excellent advice, and suggested that they might part company with mutual advantage.
"My good friend," said Mr. Punch, "I am quite aware that you are in the habit of corresponding with an intimate known as 'Charlie.' Oblige me with a duplicate of your next letter, and it shall be immortalised." It will be seen that Mr. Punch has kept his word.
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.
'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND. Dear Charlie,—You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be bound. Not for Parry alone, mate, this time—I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss Round. Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie—guess it's a sight you'd enjoy To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy. 'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by rail, But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale; Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old chap; And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the rap. Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep, as you know, But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed Young Frow? I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came much of a spill; But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose 'Ill. But that's entry nous, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel,—no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' crevassy, I did do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie—Guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, Cos I would dance, and sing too-ral-li-ety, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them Guides, and no herror; they don't know their place, not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight.
Father Chrismas not in it with me, Charlie—sort of big snowball on legs; And cold, Charlie? Flasks was no use, could ha' gurgled neat Irish in kegs. Still, I wosn't much 'urt, mate, thanks be—only needled a bit in my pride, And I soon got upsides with the party, and fair took it hout of that Guide. He'd a mash at Chermooney—neat parcel enough, though in course not my style; Couldn't patter her lingo—wus luck!—but I could do the lardy, and smile; And that Merry Swiss Boy got so jealous, along o' some capers o' mine, That I'm sure, if he'd twigged arf a chance, he'd a chucked me slap into the Rhine. Then I tried Shammy-hunting, old pal, but I didn't make much of a bag, Stalking curly-'orned goats in a country all precipice, hice-hill, and crag, Might suit Mister Manfred, it may be—he didn't seem nuts on his life; But give me rabbit-potting in Devon, where rocks is not edged like a knife. 'Ad a try arter Idlewise, too—sort o' fluffy-leaved, snow-coloured flower— 'All the mugs seem to set heaps o' store by—I sent a bit on to Bell Bower. Though she would prefer a camelia. Bell calls all them forren gals "cats"; Wonder what she'd ha' said to see me spooning round 'midst short skirts and longplaits! They'd a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite wooden to kiss; But a gal's a gal all the world hover. In Switzerland, 'Arry, is Swiss. Yus, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, no doubt; But there's larks to be 'ad near Mong Blong, if a party knows what he's about. 'Ad enough on it arter a fort-nit, though. Scenery's all mighty fine, But too much of yer Halpine Club bizness is boko, and not in my line. I remember them Caffys, dear boy, Roo der Caire and the Tower, so, thinks I, Slippin' 'ome I'll take France on the way, and go in for a bit of a fly. I done Parry a treat, mate, this time. 'Ad a ride in the Bor der Boolong; You may see, by the sketch I've inclosed, as I came out perticular strong. It is honly hus English can ride. Frogs ain't in it ah shovel, yer know. They in fack always fails in Ler Sport, though they gives Bull a lead at Ler Bo! L'Horloge ain't arf bad. Snakes! sich voices! The cackle and gag, too, fust-rate; My Parisian pal 'elped me out, but my larf was sometimes a bit late, And so flummoxed the Frenchies a few; one old chap in blue blouse and cropped hair Must ha' thought me a walking conundrum, to judge by his thunderstruck stare. I was togged in stror 'at and striped flannels; I'd 'ad the straight tip from a chum; I cried, "Beast!"—that's the French for Hangore, quite O. K., though I own it sounds rum, I gave mouth to the Pa-ta-ta chorus, I slapped the Garsong on the back; And, sez I, "Say ler jolliest lark, que jay voo poor kelk tom, that's a fack!"
'ARRY ON HORSEBACK.
Don't fancy he twigged, not percisely. But, lor', them French waiters is snide, With their black Heton jackets, white aprons, and trim "mutton chopper" each side, At the Caffys, dear boy, 'arter twelve, it's a wonder to see 'em waltz round With a tray-full of syrups and strors, with no spillings, and 'ardly a sound. Bit confusing at fust, the French lingo; their posters an' cetrer looks rum, And you've got to be fly to their meaning afore you can make the thing hum. I kep' on button-holing old buffers to find out my way about town, And sailed briskly along fur as "Esker—?" when, 'ang it!—I mostly broke down. Esker voo, with a gurgle to follow, don't fetch 'em, these Frenchies, not much; "Conny par" comes a great deal too often, and then a cove feels out of touch. If you want to make love, find yer way, or keep check on the nuggets you spend, You must put in the patter O. K., mate, or somehow you come out wrong end. 'Ad a turn at the old Expersition, bid one larst good-bye to the Tower, And chi-iked lar Rerpooblick a bit for her luck in jest keepin' in power. The Bullanger boom was a fizzle. They say he's mopped out; I dunnow; But it wouldn't surprise me, my pippin, to see him yet Bossing the Show. I had met Mister Punch at Chermooney—he also was out on the scoop, On a Trip Round the World, so he told me. Sez I, "I'll pal on to your troop." But he gave me a look from his lamps, and somehow I choked off like a shot, "Take your own line," sea he, "and my tip; do not swagger, drink deep, or talk rot!" Should 'ave like to ha' joined him, in course, but he's sech a 'ot 'and at a 'int, Still he said if I'd send him a letter to you, mate, he'd put it in print. So look hout for the Halmanack, Charlie! You saw my last letter from Parry? Well this with some picters, I 'ope will bring similar kudos to 'Arry.
Having disposed of 'Arry, Mr. Punch wished himself in the Celestial Empire. And in China the Sage found himself. Pagodas and pigtails met him on every side.
"Really, not half bad," murmured the Sage, and then, turning to Toby, he was surprised to find his attached attendant trembling from the tail backwards. "Ah, I see: a Celestial restaurant! No, no, my boy, don't be alarmed. They shan't eat you. If I want any food, it shall be some light refreshment—say a Feast of Lanterns."
"I'm pleased to see you looking so well, Sir," said a portly person, with a remarkably florid complexion, and wearing a suit of well-worn evening clothes, emerging from the restaurant. "I've been waiting for you, Sir, a long time."
"That you have, Robert—in the City and elsewhere. But what are you doing in China?"
"It's a long story, Mr. Punch; but if you don't mind eating this bird's-nest soup, which isn't bad, though not a patch upon our dear tuttle, I will tell you how I came to leave our glorious Corporation, and got into these outlandish parts."
Mr. Punch bowed, and discarding a pair of chopsticks for a spoon, toyed with the succulent preparation while he listened to
"Robert's Story about China."
