Punch: Punch (57.1869)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 10, 1869.

MORE HAPPY THOUGHTS.

ery jolly to have a
friend like Willis.
A large-hearted, ge-
nerous fellow, who
keeps open bedroom
for friends. Perhaps
he'll let me stay
here for a week or
so. At nine o'clock
in London, with
nothing particular
to do, it is difficult
to decide where to
go. The theatres
are half over; and
then if you haven't
got your place, and
aren't dressed for
the evening, it's
uncomfortable.
There's Cremorne.
But nobody's there
until about eleven.
Madame T u s -
saud's is always
the same; but I
suppose that's shut
by this. Besides,
I want something
more stirring and
exciting. Wonder
if anything's going
on at the Egyptian
Hall? Might walk
there. 1 go there:
it is closed. At St.
James's Hall there
are the Christys. As

1 arrive, people are beginning to leave. Policeman at door says it
will all be over in ten minutes. No good going in for ten minutes.
Ttiree shillings for fourteen minutes is—three in fourteen is four and
two-thirds of a minute, or a shilling over. I should like to make
a night of it somewhere: but where P I almost wish Wigthorpe
had stopped with me. I shouldn't have minded paying his cab to
Cremorne, if he would have come. If I went now, I should be in time
for everything : perhaps the balloon, too ; certainly the fireworks.

Happy Thought.—Go to my Club, and see if I can get somebody to
go wrh me.

Mine is a quiet little Club in a quiet corner. It's very convenient
for anyone living in the country: at least so everyone says. But I
can't see why it is more convenient than any other when you're once
in London. It makes a home for you in town. As I enter I notice a
new hall-porter, who notices me, and he evidently inquires my name of
another porter. To save trouble, I ask if there are any letters for me.
I don't expect any, of course. By the way, I do, though—an answer
from Boodels about publishers jumping at his poems. Porter makes
a faint attempt at pretending to remember my name. I help him to it.
There is a letter from Boodels. Into the smoking-room to read it.
I don't want any brandy-and-water, nor a cigar, but I call for them,
and take a seat in the smoking-room. As I don't recognise anyone
there, I am glad to have Boodels' letter to read. Boodels' letter
informs me that his printing and publishing was an exceptional affair,
as his publisher was a distant connection of his family's by his mother's
side, and so they did it more to oblige him than for any other reason;
but he was sure, if I knew any respectable firm, they would be most
happy to do it for me. If it is a work of a philosophical and scientific
character, why not go (says the letter) to Popgood and Spritt ? He
incloses Popgood and Spritt's address (cut out of a newspaper) and
wishes me luck. "P.S. You mustn't be surprised if you hear of my
being married soon. Don't mention it at present. Any day you like
to come down and have some fun dragging the pond, do. I shall be
delighted to see you. Bemember me to your wife."

Oh, Boodels can't be going to be married. Impossible. But why
impossible P Why should I be surprised ?

Happy Thought.—To write him something pretty and neat back in
verse. Something he can keep and show to his intended, and sav,
" Wasn't that thoughtful of him ? "

1 will. Awkward word to rhyme to—" Boodels." Poodles.
Noodles. Toodles. There's a farce called[The Toodles. Saw it once
in a country theatre. Mr. and Mrs. Toodles. Might say

" Oh, may you, William Augustus Boodels,
Be happy as Mister and Mrs. Toodles ! "

Then Noodles has to be got in :—

" 'Tis true, my dear Boodels,
Unmarried are Noodles,
They pet their small lap-dogs,
Canaries, and Poodles.
But you," &c, &c.

Mem. To work this up, and send it to-morrow. I find that the firm
that published Boodels' lucubrations was Winser, Finchin, and
Wattlemas. The whole firm couldn't have been distant connections.

Past Eleven o'clock—No one in the Club I know. If I go to Cre-
morne by myself, it's dull; and the fireworks will be over. Besides,
after all, what are fireworks unless you're in spirits for'em ? A gentle-
man in evening dress saunters into the Club-room, followed by two
others, laughing heartily. They all order " Slings," and as the first
turns round, I exclaim, " Hallo, Milburd ! " It's quite a pleasure to
join in a conversation.

He introduces me to his friends Lord Dungeness and Count

de-. I couldn't quite catch the name, but it sounded like

" Bootjack ; " and Milburd took the opportunity of whispering to
me, immediately afterwards, that he was a distinguished Prussian over
here on a secret embassy.

Happy Thought,—To say, " No! is he ?" and watch him taking gin-
aling.

Happy Thought. Hessian boots.

I put this down in my note-book as a happy thought, because,
somehow or other, I can't help associating a Count with Hessian
boots. I never met a real one before. Hitherto, I fancy, I had con-
sidered it as a stage title—a dashing character in a Hussar uniform,
with a comic servant and a small portmanteau. I can't help think-
ing that (as Wigthorpe said at the Erench dinner) I am narrow-
minded on some points. A literary man and a philosopher should
be large-hearted. I confess (to myself in my mem-hook.) that I am
a little annoyed with myself at finding the mention of a Count only
brings up the idea of Hessian boots. Somehow, also, polkas with brass
heels. It shows what early training is : I recollect some picture or
another, when I was a boy, of two smiling Hungarians, in red
jackets and brass heels dancing a toe-and-heel step to polka time.
My nurse used to call them a Count and Countess, and I've Lever got
over it. Must take care how I train my baby with the rashes.

[Our baby always has rashes all over him. There never was such a
troublesome baby. When my wife and myself once went to a theatre,
we heard a troublesome scoundrel described as " a villain of the deepest
dye." By an inspiration I noted down

Happy Thought. Our infant a "baby of the deepest dye."]

The Count de Bootjack does not immediately get up and dance
the polka, but sucks his gin-sling rapidly, talking excellent English.

The conversation turns on farming. Ours is a country gentleman's
club, and therefore, whenever we can, we do turn the conversation on
farming. Lord Dungeness asks me how things are in my part
of the world P I reply (this being safe), that the farmers in my part
are complaining. He becomes interested immediately, and inquires
"What about?" I have to take time to consider my answer, as I
don't know what they are complaining about; nor, except for the sake
of keeping up a conversation, that they are complaining at all. I throw
my remark out as a feeler, because now is evidently an opportunity for
me to learn something about Agriculture. (Typ. Develop., vol. iii.,
par. 1, letter A, " Agriculture.") Milburd takes the reply out of my
mouth, by interrupting with " Pooh ! let 'em complain, the English
farmer doesn't know how to pull the value off his land." We are all
interested now • ready to pick up intelligence about the English farmer.

Milburd's idea is to let the soil rest." This appears very sensible,
and I can't help expressing myself to that effect: the Count asks me
" Why ?" I reply that it is evident to reason (not to put it on agri-
cultural grounds), that if you let it rest, it is fresh again.

Happy Thought. Got out of that very well. The explanation doesn't
seem to impress them much, as they continue their argument. [I note
down what I can of their conversation at odd times, for future use.]
Lord Dungeness wants to know " Why let it rest ?" " There," he
says, "is the ground—there it remains—it doesn't run away."

Happy Thought, which I say out loud, " It might, in a landslip."

Milburd complains that I will come in as a buffoon. I beg his
pardon with some asperity, I meant it. The two others, the Count,
and Lord Dungeness, agree with me that a landslip might make a
difference; but barring landslips, there was your land, you raised your
crops, you turned it over, you were always working it, lower soils and
top soils, with dressings, and you'd pull off cent, per cent, every year.
The Count remarks that that is true, in Turnips alone.

Happy Thought. Cent, per cent, in turnips : go in for turnips.
M'ilburd shakes his head over potatoes this year.

"Except," says Lord Dungeness, "in Jersey—large exports
made there now." This diverts the conversation for a time to Jersey.
I say, apropos of the potatoes, that I've never been to Jersey. Mil-
burd asks me if 1 '11 go, with him ? We have more gin-sling, and I