Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, September 5, 1891 written by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, September 5, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 101.
September 5, 1891.
SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.
CHAPTER III.
_REIMS--NIGHT--STREETS--ARRIVAL--LION
D'OR--DEPRESSION--LANDLADY--BOOTS--CATHEDRAL--LONELINESS--BED._
It is just ten o'clock. Reims seems to be in bed and fast asleep,
except for the presence in the streets of a very few persons, official
and unofficial, of whom the former are evidently on the alert as to
the movements, slouching and uncertain, of the latter.
We drive under ancient Roman Arch; DAUBINET tells me its history in
a vague kind of way, breaking off suddenly to say that I shall see it
to-morrow, when, so he evidently wishes me to infer, the Roman Arch
will speak for itself. Then we drive past a desolate-looking Museum.
I believe it is a Museum, though DAUBINET's information is a trifle
uncertain on this point.
We pass a theatre, brilliantly illuminated. I see posters on the wall
advertising the performance. A gendarme, in full uniform, as if he
had come out after playing _Sergeant Lupy_ in _Robert Macaire_, is
pensively airing himself under the _facade_, but there is no one else
within sight,--no one; not a _cocher_ with whom _Sergeant Lupy_ can
chat, nor even a _gamin_ to be ordered off; and though, from one point
of view, this exterior desolation may argue well for the business
the theatre is doing, yet, as there is no logical certainty that the
people, who do not appear outside a show, should therefore necessarily
be inside it, the temple of the Drama may, after all, be as empty as
was _Mr. Crummles_' Theatre, when somebody, looking through a hole in
the curtain, announced, in a state of great excitement, the advent of
another boy to the pit.
And now we rattle over the stones joltingly, along a fairly
well-lighted street. All the shops fast asleep, with their eyelids
closed, that is, their shutters up, all except one establishment,
garishly lighted and of defiantly rakish, appearance, with the words
_Cafe Chantant_ written up in jets of gas; and within this _Cafe_, as
we jolt along, I espy a _dame du comptoir_, a weary waiter, and two
or three second-class, flashy-looking customers, drinking, smoking,
perhaps arguing, at all events, gesticulating, which, with the
low-class Frenchmen, comes to much the same thing in the end, the end
probably being their expulsion from the drinking-saloon. Where is
the _chantant_ portion of the _cafe_? I cannot see,--perhaps in some
inner recess. With this flash of brilliancy, all sign of life in
Reims disappears. We drive on, jolted and rattled over the cobble
stones--(if not cobble, what are they? Wobble?)--and so up to the
_Lion d'Or_.
[Illustration]
I am depressed. I can't help it. It _is_ depressing to be the only
prisoners in a black van; I should have said "passengers," but the
sombre character of the omnibus suggests "Black Maria;" it _is_
depressing (I repeat to myself), to be the only two passengers
driving through a dead town at night-time, as if we were the very
personification of "the dead of night" being taken out in a hearse to
the nearest cemetery. Even DAUBINET feels it, for he is silent, except
when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only twice
does he make the attempt, and then, meeting with no response from
me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve depression to be set down in a
solemn courtyard, lighted by a solitary gas-lamp. This in itself would
be quite sufficient to make a weary traveller melancholy, without the
tolling of a gruesome bell to announce our arrival. This dispiriting
sound seems to affect nobody in the house, except a lengthy young
man in a desperate state of unwakefulness, who sleepily resents our
arrival in the midst of his first slumber (he must have gone to bed at
nine), and drowsily expresses a wish to be informed (for he will not
take the trouble to examine into the matter for himself) whether we
have any luggage; and this sense of depression becomes aggravated and
intensified when no genial Boniface (as the landlord used invariably
to be styled in romances of half a century ago) comes forth to greet
us with a hearty welcome, and no buxom smiling hostess, is there to
order the trim waiting-maid, with polished candlestick, "to show
the gentleman his room." And, at length, when a hostess, amiable but
shivering, does appear, there is still an absence of all geniality;
no questions are asked as to what we might like to take in the way
of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are
suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if
we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from
the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet _en route_.
Yes, at the "Lion d'Or" at Reims, on this occasion, _hic et nunc_, is
a combination of melancholy circumstances which would have delighted
_Mark Tapley_, and, as far as I know, _Mark Tapley_ only.
"On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one else to
whom I can murmur it confidentially,--for DAUBINET, having a knowledge
of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious passage in order to
examine and choose our rooms,--"there is, indeed, some merit in being
jolly."
DAUBINET returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent boots will
carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I have? They
are _en suite_. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a matter of
perfect indifference to me; but one room being infinitely superior
to the other, I select it, apologetically. DAUBINET, being more of a
_Mark Tapley_ than I am, is quite satisfied with the arrangement, and
has almost entirely recovered his wonted high spirits.
[Illustration]
"Very good. _Tres bien!_ Da! Petzikoff! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep like
a top. _Bon soir! Buono notte! Karascho!_ Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew a man so quick
in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep. He hasn't far
to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, _en route_, and
hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two minutes; I hear
him calling out to me, "All right? Are you all right?" and, once again
invoking the spirit of _Mark Tapley_, I throw all the joviality I
can into my reply as I say, through the wall, "Quite, thanks. Jolly!
Good-night!" But my reply is wasted on him; he has turned a deaf ear
to me, the other being on the pillow, and gives no sign. If he is
asleep, the suddenness of the collapse is almost alarming. Once again
I address him. No answer. I continue my unpacking. All my portmanteau
arrangements seem to have become unaccountably complicated. I pause
and look round. Cheerless. The room is bare and lofty, the bed is
small, the window is large, and the one solitary _bougie_ sheds
a gloom around which makes unpacking a difficulty. I pull up the
blind. A lovely moonlight night. In front of me, as if it had had the
politeness to put itself out of the way to walk up here, and pay me a
visit, stands the Cathedral, that is--some of it; but what I can see
of it, _au clair de la lune_, fascinates me. It is company, it is
friendly. But it is chilly all the same, and the sooner I close the
window and retire the better. Usual difficulty, of course, in closing
French window. After a violent struggle, it is done. The bed looks
chilly, and I feel sure that that stuffed, pillow-like thing, which is
to do duty for blanket and coverlet, can't be warm enough.
Hark! a gentle snore. A very gentle one. It is the first time I ever
knew a snore exercise a soothing effect on the listener. This is
decidedly soporific. It is an invitation to sleep. I accept. The
Cathedral clock sounds a _carillon_. It plays half a tune, too, as if
this was all it had learnt up to the present, or perhaps to intimate
that there is more where that comes from, only I must wait for
to-morrow, and be contented with this instalment. I am. Half a tune is
better than no tune at all, or _vice versa_: it doesn't matter. When
the tune breaks off I murmur to myself, "To be continued in our next;"
and so--as I believe, for I remember nothing after this--I doze off to
sleep on this my first night in the ancient town of Reims.
* * * * *
BUMBLE BROUGHT TO BOOK.
["Mr. Ritchie ... has taken the unusual step of preparing a
memorandum explanatory of ... the Public Health (London)
Act, which comes into operation on the 1st of January ...
The Vestries and District Councils ... have come out with
increased powers, but also with increased responsibilities.
They are in future known as 'the sanitary authorities'; they
must make bye-laws, and enforce not only their own, but
those made by the County Council; and, if they fail in their
duty--as, for example, in the matter of removing house-refuse,
or keeping the streets clean--they are liable to a fine. It is
pleasant to think that, in future, any ratepayer may bring Mr.
Bumble to book."--_The Times_.]
[Illustration: _President of the Local Government Board_. "THERE'S MR.
BUMBLE'S WORK, MADAM, AND IT'LL BE YOUR OWN FAULT IF YOU DON'T KEEP
HIM UP TO IT!"]
_Bumble_. Wot, more dooties piled upon me? It's a beastly black shame
and a bore.
Which Ritchie beats _Oliver Twist_ in a canter at "asking for more."
Didn't grasp his dashed Hact, not at fust, though of course I opposed
it like fun;
But this 'ere Memyrandum's a startler. _I_ want to know what's to be done.
_Me_ keep the streets clean, _me_ go poking my dalicot nose into 'oles
As ain't fit for 'ogs, but is kep' for them Sweaters' pale wictims--pore
soles?
_Me_ see that the dust-pails is emptied, and underground bedrooms made
sweet?
_Me_ nail the Court Notices hup upon Butchers as deals in bad meat?
Great Scissors, it's somethink houtrageous. I knew Ritchie's Act meant
'ard lines,
And it's wus than I could 'ave emagined. But wot I funk most is them
FINES!!!
Fine _Me_--if I make a mistake, as, perhaps, even BUMBLE may do!
That _is_ turning the tables a twister! More powers? Ah, well, that
might do,
But increase my great "Responsibilities," give them Ratepayers a chance
Of a calling _me_ hover the coals! Won't this make my hold henemies dance?
I never did like that HYGEIA, a pompous and nose-poking minx--
A sort of a female _Poll Pry_, with a heye like an 'ork or a lynx;
But the making me "Sanit'ry," too--oh, I know wot _that_ means to a T.
She's cock--or say, hen--of the walk, and her sanit'ry slave'll be Me!
Oh, I fancy I see myself sweeping the snow from the streets with a broom,
Or explorin'--with fingers to nose--some effluvious hunderground room!
Or a-trotting around with the dust-pails when scavengers chance to run
short!
Oh, just _won't_ the street-boys chyike me and 'ousemaids of BUMBLE make
sport?
Disgustin'! But there RITCHIE stands with his dashed Memyrandum. A look
In his heye seems to tell me that he too enjoys bringing BUMBLE to book,
As the _Times_--I'm serprised at that paper!--most pleasantly puts it
to-day.
My friend BONES the Butcher too! Moses! wot _would_ my old parlour-chum
say
If he saw me a nailing a Notice--but no, that's too horrid a dream.
I must be a 'aving a Nightmare, and things cannot be wot they seem.
I could do with mere Laws--bye or hother-wise--Hacts, jest like Honours,
is easy,
But this Memyrandum of RITCHIE's queers BUMBLE, and makes him feel queasy,
Can't pertend as I don't hunderstand it, it's plain as my nose, clear as
mud.
_I'm_ responsible for--say Snow-clearing! It stirs up a Beadle's best
blood!
And when they can _Fine_ me for negligence, jest like some rate-paying
scrub--
Oh! Porochial dignity's bust! I must seek a pick-up at my Pub!
[_Does so._
* * * * *
[Illustration: A MODEST REQUEST.
"I HEAR YOU'RE SO CLEVER ABOUT ZENANA WORK. WILL YOU SHOW ME THE
STITCH?"]
* * * * *
"FIRST-CLASS" TRAVELLING
_MADE EASY, BY PAYING A "THIRD-CLASS" FARE AND A SMALL ADDITIONAL
TIP._
(BY ONE WHO HAS DONE IT.)
1. Arrive at station in four-wheeler, accompanied by lots of
superfluous rugs, wraps, air-cushions, and pillows, &c., and if
your domestic arrangements permit of it, two young ladies and one
middle-aged one, who should assume an anxious and sympathetic mien.
2. On your cab drawing up, stay with a gentle forbearance the rush
of the ordinary attentive porter, and request him, as if you had
something important to communicate, to send you "the guard of the
train" by which you propose to travel. On the appearance of this
official, who will not fail to turn up, you will now appeal to one of
your three female assistants, the middle-aged one for choice. Placing
your case, as it were, in her hands, she will, in a half-sympathetic,
half-commanding tone, address the official somewhat as follows:--"This
gentleman, who is travelling to Barminster, and is going third-class
(she makes a point of this), is, as you see, a great invalid, and
he will require (this with a certain sense of being understood to
mean a handsome tip) a carriage to himself." If said with a certain
self-assurance, involving a species of lofty wink, this will probably
be understood in the right sense by the official in question, and will
be probably met by some such assurance as--"The train is very full,
Madam, but I will do my best for the gentleman, and can ensure him, I
think, a compartment to himself, at least, as far as Bolchester, where
I leave the train. But I will explain the matter to my successor, and
I have no doubt that he will be able (this also with a significant
wink) to ensure the gentleman's seclusion. You are, I think, four? If
you will follow me, and take my arm, Sir, I think we shall be able to
manage it for you."
3. Enlist the assistance of several attendant porters, regardless
of apparent outlay, who have been fairly let into your secret, and
are prepared to, and in fact absolutely do, empty a third-class
compartment already packed with passengers for Barminster, who retreat
awe-stricken at your approach.
4. Immediately on taking possession of your carriage, recline the
whole length of the five seats, faced by your three sympathetic
and anxious-miened female companions. Be careful to give each of
the assistant porters certainly not less than sixpence apiece in
ostentatious fashion. Do not, however, as yet administer the shilling,
or perhaps, eighteenpence you purpose giving to the original guard of
the train who is to hand you over to the official who will have charge
of you after Bolchester.
5. You will possibly have a _mauvais quart d'heure_ before departure,
for though your guard, in hopes of the remunerative fee, will
have carefully locked you in, he will not be able to prevent the
calculating and more or less unfeeling British public, who, composed
of a party of nine, are looking for as many places as they can find
together, from discovering that you have six vacant places in your
carriage, and directing the attention of other railway officials, not
initiated into your secret agreement, to this circumstance. You must
therefore be prepared for some such curt brutality as, "Why, look
'ere, EMMA, there's room for 'arf-a-dozen of us 'ere!" or, "I'm
sure 'e needn't be a sprawlin' like that, takin' 'arf the carriage
to 'isself," a rebuke which your feminine supporters resent in
their severest manner. You are, however, at length saved by the
interposition of your guardian angel, who sweeps away the party of
nine unseated ones with a voice of commanding control, as much as to
say, "This isn't your end of the train; besides, can't you see the
poor gentleman's pretty well dying?" And he does hurry them off, and
pack them in somewhere or other, but whether to their satisfaction or
not, it is easier to hazard a guess than faithfully to record.
6. Bolchester is reached, and you are formally introduced to your
final guarding and protecting angel, who rapidly takes in the
situation, and by an assurance that he will see to your comfort,
this, accompanied by a slightly perceptible wink, leaves you in happy
expectation, which the result justifies, of reaching your destination
uninvaded.
* * * * *
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
NO. V. Scene--_Upper deck of the Rhine Steamer, Koenig
Wilhelm, somewhere between Bonn and Bingen. The little
tables on deck are occupied by English, American, and German
tourists, drinking various liquids, from hock to Pilsener
beer, and eating veal-cutlets. Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER is on
the lower deck, discussing the comparative merits of the New
York hotels with a fellow countryman. Miss MAUD S. TROTTER
is seated on the after-deck in close conversation with
CULCHARD. PODBURY _is perched on a camp-stool in the forward
part. Near him a British Matron, with a red-haired son, in
a green and black blazer, and a blue flannel nightcap, and a
bevy of rabbit-faced daughters, are patronising a tame German
Student in spectacles, who speaks a little English._
[Illustration: Mr. Cyrus K. Trotter discussing New York Hotels.]
_The British Matron_. Oh, you _ought_ to see London; it's our
capital--chief city, you know. Very grand--large--four million
inhabitants! [_With pride, as being in some way responsible for this._
_A Rabbit-faced Daughter_ (_with a simper_). Quite a little _world_!
[_She looks down her nose, as if in fear of having said
something a little too original._
_The Germ. Stud._ No, I haf not yet at London peen. Ven I vill pedder
Englisch learn, I go.
_The Blazer_. You read our English books, I suppose? DICKENS, you
know, and HOMER, eh? About the Trojan War--that's his _best_ work!
_The Stud._ (_Ollendorffically_). I haf not read DIGGINS; but I haf
read ze bapers by _Bigvig_. Zey are vary indereshtin, and gurious.
_A Patriotic Young Scot_ (_to an admiring Elderly Lady in a black
mushroom hat_). Eh, but we just made a pairrty and went up Auld
Drachenfels, and when we got to th' tope, we danced a richt gude Scots
reel, and sang, "_We're a' togither an' naebody by_." concluding--just
to show, ye'll understan', that we were loyal subjics--wi' "_God Save
th' Queen_." The peasants didna seem just to know what to mak' of us,
I prawmise ye!
_The Black Mushroom_. How I wish I'd been one of you!
_The Young Scot_ (_candidly_). I doot your legs would ha' stood such
wark.
[_PODBURY becomes restless, and picks his way among the
camp-stools to CULCHARD and Miss TROTTER._
_Podbury_ (_to himself_). Time _I_ had a look in, I think. (_Aloud._)
Well, Miss Trotter, what do you think of the Rhine, as far as you've
got?
_Miss T._ Well, I guess it's navigable, as far as _I've_ got.
_Podb._ No, but I mean to say--does it come up to the mark in the
scenery line, you know?
_Miss T._ I cannot answer that till I know whereabouts it is they mark
the scenery-line. I expect Mr. CULCHARD knows. He knows pretty well
everything. Would you like to have him explain the scenery to you
going along? His explanations are vurry improving, I assure you.
_Podb._ I daresay; but the scenery just here is so flat that even my
friend's remarks won't improve it.
_Culch._ (_producing his note-book ostentatiously_). I do not propose
to attempt it. No doubt you will be more successful in entertaining
Miss TROTTER than I can pretend to be. I retire in your favour. [_He
scribbles._
_Podb._ Is that our expenses you're corking down there, CULCHARD, eh?
_Culch._ (_with dignity_). If you want to know, I am "corking down,"
to adopt your elegant expression, a sonnet that suggested itself to
me.
_Podb._ Much better cork that _up_, old chap--hadn't he, Miss TROTTER?
[_He glances at her for appreciation._
_Miss T._ That's so. I don't believe the poetic spirit has much
chance of slopping over so long as Mr. PODBURY is around. You have
considerable merit as a stopper, Mr. PODBURY.
_Podb._ I see; I'd better clear out till the poetry has all gurgled
out of him, eh? Is that the idea?
_Miss T._ If it is, it's your own, so I guess it's a pretty good one.
[_PODBURY shoulders off._
_Culch._ (_with his pathetic stop on_). I wish I had more of your
divine patience! Poor fellow, he is not without his good points; but I
do find him a thorn in my flesh occasionally, I'm afraid.
_Miss T._ Well, I don't know as a thorn in the flesh is any the
pleasanter for having a good point.
_Culch._ Profoundly true, indeed. I often think I could like him
better if there were less in him to like. I assure you he tries me so
at times that I could almost wish I was back at work in my department
at Somerset House!
_Miss T._ I daresay you have pretty good times there, too. Isn't that
one of your leading dry goods stores?
_Culch._ (_pained_). It is not; it is a Government Office, and I am
in the Pigeonhole and Docket Department, with important duties to
discharge. I hope you didn't imagine I sold ribbons and calico over a
counter?
_Miss T._ (_ambiguously_). Well, I wasn't just sure. It takes a pretty
bright man to do that where I come from.
_An Old Lady_ (_who is sitting next to PODBURY, and reading a
home-letter to another Old Lady_). "Dear MARIA and dear MADELINE
are close by, they have taken very comfortable lodgings in Marine
Crescent. Dear MADELINE's frame is expected down next Saturday."
_Second Old Lady_. MADELINE's frame! Is anything wrong with the poor
girl's spine?
_First Old Lady_. I never heard of it. Oh, I see, it's _fiance_,
my dear. CAROLINE _does_ write so illegibly. (_Continuing._)
"Um--um,--suppose you know she will be maimed--" (perhaps it _is_
her spine after all--oh, _married_, to be sure), "very slowly" (is it
slowly or shortly, I wonder?), um--um, "very quiet wedding, nobody but
dear Mr. WILKINSON and his hatter."
_Second O.L._ The idea of choosing one's hatter for one's best man!
I'm surprised MARIA should allow it!
_First O.L._ Maria always _was_ peculiar--still, now I come to look,
it's more like "brother," which is certainly _much_ more suitable.
(_Continuing._) "She will have no--no bird's-marks ..." (Now, what
_does_ that--should you think that meant "crows-feet"? Oh, no, _how_
stupid of me--_bridesmaids_, of course!)--"and will go to the otter
a plain guy"--(Oh, Caroline really is _too_....)--"to the _altar_ in
plain _grey_! She has been given such quantities of pea-nuts"--(very
odd things to give a girl! Oh, _presents_! um, um)--"Not settled
yet where to go for their hangman"--(the officiating clergyman, I
suppose--very flippant way of putting it, I _must_ say! It's meant for
_honeymoon_, though, I see, to be _sure_!) &c., &c.
_Culch._ I should like to be at Nuremberg with you. It would be an
unspeakable delight to watch the expansion of a fresh young soul in
that rich mediaeval atmosphere!
_Miss T._ I guess you'll have opportunities of watching Mr. PODBURY's
fresh young soul under those conditions, any way.
_Culch._ It would not be at all the same thing--even if he--but you
_do_ think you're coming to Nuremberg, don't you?
_Miss T._ Well, it's this way. Poppa don't want to get fooling around
any more one-horse towns than he can help, and he's got to be fixed up
with the idea that Nuremberg is a prominent European sight before he
drops everything to get there.
_Culch._ I will undertake to interest him in Nuremberg. Fortunately,
we are all getting off at Bingen, and going, curiously enough, to the
same hotel. (_To himself_.) Confound that fellow PODBURY, here he is
_again_!
_Podb._ (_to himself, as he advances_). If she's carrying on with
that fellow, CULCHARD, to provoke me, I'll soon show her how little
I--(_Aloud._) I say, old man, hope I'm not interrupting you, but I
just want to speak to you for a minute, if Miss TROTTER will excuse
us. Is there any particular point in going as far as Bingen to-night,
eh?
_Culch._ (_resignedly_). As much as there is in not going farther than
somewhere else, _I_ should have thought.
_Podb._ Well, but look here--why not stop at Bacharach, and see what
sort of a place it is?
_Culch._ You forget that our time is limited if we're going to stick
to our original route.
_Podb._ Yes, of course; mustn't waste any on the Rhine. Suppose we
push on to Maintz to-night, and get the Rhine off our hands then?
(_With a glance at Miss TROTTER._) The sooner I've done with this
steamer business the better!
_Miss T._ Well, Mr. PODBURY, that's not a vurry complimentary remark
to make before me!
_Podb._ We've seen so little of one another lately that it can hardly
make much difference--to _either_ of us--can it?
_Miss T._ Now I call that real kind, you're consoling me in advance!
_The Steward_ (_coming up_). De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen!
(_examining_ CULCHARD's _coupons_). For Bingen--so?
_Culch. I_ am. This gentleman gets off--is it Bacharach or Maintz,
PODBURY?
_Podb._ (_sulkily_). Neither, as it happens. I'm for Bingen, too, as
you won't go anywhere else. Though you _did_ say when we started, that
the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop
just as the fancy took us!