Puppets at Large: Scenes and Subjects from Mr Punch's Show

We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible implements of torture, which seem to exhilarate Bosch.

"Lokeer!" he says, "Dis vas a pinition" (Bosch for "punishment") "mit a can. Dey lie de man down and vasten his foots, and efery dime he vas shdrook mit de can, he jomp op and hit his vorehaid… Hier dey lie down de beoples on de back, and pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings go roundt, and preak deir bones. Ven de pinition was feenish you vas det." He shows where the Water-torture was practised. "Nottice 'ow de vater vas vork a 'ole in de tile," he chuckles, "I tink de tile vas vary hardt det, eh?" Then he points out a pole with a spiked prong. "Tief-catcher – put 'em in de tief's nack – and get 'im!" Before a grim-looking cauldron he halts appreciatively. "You know vat dat vas for?" he says. "Dat vas for de blode-foots; put 'em in dere, yaas, and light de vire onderneat."

No idea what "blode-foots" may be, but from the relish in Bosch's tone, evidently something very unpleasant, so don't press him for explanations. We go upstairs, and see some dark and very mouldy dungeons, which Bosch is very anxious that I should enter. Make him go in first, for the surroundings seem to have excited his sense of the humorous to such a degree, that he might be unable to resist locking me in, and leaving me, if I gave him a chance.

Outside at last, thank goodness! The Groote Kerk, according to Bosch, "is not vort de see," so we don't see it. Sandford has a sneaking impression that I ought to go in, but Merton glad to be let off. We go to see the pictures at the Mauritshuis instead. Bosch exchanges greetings with the attendants in Dutch. "Got another of 'em in tow, you see – and collar-work, I can tell you!" would be a free translation, I suspect, of his remarks. Must say that, in a Picture-gallery, Bosch is a superfluous luxury. He does take my ignorance just a trifle too much for granted. He might give me credit for knowing the story of Adam and Eve, at all events! "De Sairpan gif Eva de opple, an' Eva gif him to Adam," Bosch carefully informs me, before a "Paradise," by Rubens and Brueghel.

This rouses my Merton half to inquire what Adam did with it.

"Oh, he ead him too!" says Bosch in perfect good faith.

I do wish, too, he wouldn't lead me up to Paul Potter's "Bull," and ask me enthusiastically if it isn't "real meat." I shouldn't mind it so much if there were not several English people about, without couriers – but there are. My only revenge is (as Merton) to carefully pick out the unsigned canvases and ask Bosch who painted them; whereupon Bosch endeavours furtively to make out the label on the frames, and then informs me in desperation, "it vas 'School,' – yass, he baint him!" Bosch kindly explains the subject of every picture in detail. He tells me a Droochsloot represents a "balsham pedder." I suppose I look bewildered, for he adds – "oppen air tance mit a village." "Hier dey vas haf a tispute; dis man say de ham vas more value as de cheese – dere is de cheese, and dere is de ham." "Hier is an old man dot marry a yong vife, and two tevils com in, and de old man he ron avay." "Hier he dress him in voman, and de vife is vrighten." "Hier is Jan Steen himself as a medicine, and he veel de yong voman's polse, and say dere is nodings de madder, and the modder ask him to trink a glass of vine." "Hier is de beach at Skavening – now dey puild houses on de dunes – bot de beach is schdill dere."

Such are Bosch's valuable and instructive comments, to which, as representing Sandford and Merton, I listen with depressed docility. All the same, can't help coming to the conclusion that Art is not Bosch's strong point. Shall come here again – alone. We go on to the Municipal Museum, where he shows me what he considers the treasures of the collection – a glass goblet, engraved "mit dails of tobaggo bipes," and the pipes themselves; a painting of a rose, "mit ade beople's faces in de leafs;" and a drawing of "two pirts mit only von foots."

Outside again. Bosch shows me a house.

"Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland, yassir."

Really, I think Bosch is going to be interesting – at last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature.

"Well, Bosch, go on – what about the old lady?" I ask eagerly, as Merton.

"Wol, Sir," says Bosch, "she nefer go noveres."…

That's all! "A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed!" to quote Mr. Wagg.

But, as Bosch frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas not in de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny.

FEELING THEIR WAY

(A Study in the Art of Genteel Conversation.)

The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. Time – Evening. Mrs. Ardleigh (of Balham), and Mrs. Allbutt (of Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery.

Mrs. Allbutt. You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the butter in the pan, make a paste of it with dry flour.

Mrs. Ardleigh. It sounds delicious – but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.

Mrs. All. I never do. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now some men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband does.

Mrs. Ard. I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure I should never —

Mrs. All. Oh, it takes time, of course – but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper? – because that's a great improvement!

Mrs. Ard. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything – and that's eggs.

Mrs. All. (with elegant languor). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm very fond of —fried, that is.

Mrs. Ard. They're very nice done in the real shells. Or on scollops. We have silver – or rather – (with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour), silver-plated ones.

Mrs. All. How funny – so have we! (Both women feel an increase of liking for one another.) I like them cooked in milk, too.

    [The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments.

Mrs. Ard. My doctor does do me good, I must say – he never lets me get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.

Mrs. All. That's like my doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time. That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.

Mrs. Ard. (feeling that Mrs. Allbutt can't be "anybody very particular" after all). What – to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired of it? I should.

Mrs. All. (with dignity). I didn't say I always went to Margate. On the contrary, I have never been here before, and shouldn't be here now, if my doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.

Mrs. Ard. (reassured). I only came down here on my little girl's account. One of those nasty croupy coughs, you know, and hoops with it. But she's almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air. Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet a soul one knows!

Mrs. All. Well, that's the charm of it – to me. One has enough of that during the Season.

Mrs. Ard. (recognising the superiority of this view). Indeed one has. What a whirl it has been to be sure!

Mrs. All. The Season? Why, I never remember one with so little doing. Most of the best houses closed – hardly a single really smart party – one or two weddings – and that's positively all!

Mrs. Ard. (slightly crushed, in spite of a convictionthat – socially speaking – Balham has been rather more brilliant than usual this year). Yes, that's very true. I suppose the Elections have put a stop to most things?

Mrs. All. There never was much going on. I should rather have said it was Marlborough House being shut up that made everything so dull from the first.

Mrs. Ard. Ah, that does make such a difference, doesn't it? (She feels she must make an effort to recover lost ground.) I fully expected to be at Homburg this year.

Mrs. All. Then you would have met Lady Neuraline Menthol. She was ordered there, I happen to know.

Mrs. Ard. Really, you don't say so? Lady Neuraline! Well, that's the first I've heard of it. (It is also the first time she has heard of her, but she trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission.)

Mrs. All. It's a fact, I can assure you. You know her, perhaps?

Mrs. Ard. (who would dearly like to say she does, if she only dared). Well, I can hardly say I exactly know her. I know of her. I've met her about, and so on. (She tells herself this is quite as likely to be true as not.)

Mrs. All. (who of course does not know Lady Neuraline either). Ah, she is a most delightful person – requires knowing, don't you know.

Mrs. Ard. So many in her position do, don't they? (So far as she is concerned – they all do.) You'd think it was haughtiness – but it's really only manner.

Mrs. All. (feeling that she can go ahead with safety now). I have never found anything of that sort in Lady Neuraline myself (which is perfectly true.) She's rather odd and flighty, but quite a dear. By the way, how sad it is about those poor dear Chutneys – the Countess, don't you know!

Mrs. Ard. Ah (as if she knew all the rest of the family), I don't know her at all.

Mrs. All. Such a sweet woman – but the trouble she's had with her eldest boy, Lord Mango! He married quite beneath him, you know, some girl from the provinces – not a county-family girl even.

Mrs. Ard. (shocked). Dear, dear! not a county family!

Mrs. All. No; somebody quite common – I forget the name, but it was either Gherkin or Onion, or something of that sort. I was told they had been in Chili a good while. Poor Mango never had much taste, or he would never have got mixed up with such a set. Anyway, he's got himself into a terrible pickle. I hear Capsicums is actually to be sold to pay his debts.