Punch (71.1876)

102 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 9, 1876.

A.

NASAL REFORM.

hade of SlAWKENBEEGIDS,

here is an advertisement,
extracted, with unimpor-
tant and nominal altera-
tions, from the Daily
News.'—

—ITS nose is . . . Send
mo number of Smith
Buown's, Bla.nk Highway, that
I may get a NOSE MACHINE
to alter it. "Will Beown send
machine by post for 10s. Gd. in
stamps? Write soon.

What an engine, if really
available to modify noses,
and if you, Slawkenbee-
gius and Me. Shandy, are
right, this Nose Machine
must be for good or evil!
For evil, as enabling a ca-
pricious or unnatural parent
to twist and alter perhaps
the leading family feature
of his child. For good, when
instrumental to a scientific
physiognomist in elongating
a stunted nose, rectifying a
misshapen one, or even per-
haps so moulding the nose
as with it to mould also the character. Of course the Duke of Wel-
lington, but for his nose, would never have won Waterloo. Convert a
nose into such another as Wellington's, and constitute another Wel-
lington. Or suppose a Hebrew converted by a Missionary, his nose, by
means of the Nose Machine, could, if he washed it, be converted too.
Talk of Taliacotids, and his rhinoplastic operation, what is that to
Smith Brown, and Me. Beown's rhinoplastic apparatus ? Think
what wonders of moral and social improvement it is capable of
being, and, let us hope, in good hands will be, employed to work!
And all at the comparatively small sum of ten and sixpence ! To be
sure, the name of Beown is a substitute for the one that appears
in the original advertisement, which, purporting to signify a want
of the Nose Machine, may just possibly be mistaken for a dodge to
promote its sale.

HAPPY-THOUGHT NOTES IN IRELAND.

At Morrison's—Tied by the Leg—Dulness—Anticipations unrealised
—Irishmen wanted—Cricket at Trinity—Nothing doing—Reso-
lution— Cheering up—Hospitality—A Promise—Jokes on Bray
—Haihcay Officials—Irish Fatalism—A new Philosophy.

I have only one disturbing thought on awaking to the pleasant
fact that I am in Dublin, and that is the legal memorandum now
lying before me, dating from Plujipton and Spey's, which, speak-
ing for Hee G-eacious Majesty and her trusty and well-beloved Sib
Peteb Pypee, Lord Chief Justice of England, in effect, says, "My
dear friend, don't go too far : be as quick as you can: for, at any
time, and at any place, you may be wanted." Why, even Dr.
Faust's bargain with II Diavolo's agent, Mephistoplieles, was better
than this. He knew the length of his tether : I don't. Evidently,
I must make the best use of my time. With which moral sentiment
I sit down to make my arrangements, and take^ breakfast, in the
grand but cheerless Coffee-Room.

I cannot, as yet, shake off the flat champagney feeling which has
fallen upon me. There is no Rollicking. I have been all along
expecting Rollicking everywhere, and I can't see a sign of it.

I had expected the Waiters to be brimming over with fun. I
anticipated mistakes at my meals which would be immediately re-
deemed by such a sally of wit as would set the table, that is, myself
at the table, in a roar.

Not a bit of it. The Waiters are obliging, but melancholy. The
exemplary and polite Manager speaks with an accent, which, being
in Ireland, I attribute to some provinciality. I address him as an
Irishman. He is flattered by my compliment to his pronunciation
of English, but he is a Frenchman.

After this I am more cautious. Clearly, all is not Irish that is in
Ireland. The Head Waiter speaks English perfectly. He is, at all
events, not an Irishman. I ask him how long he has been here.
Oh, any number of years. I wonder he has not picked up the
brogue. He smiles : he thinks I am satirical ... as he happens to
be an Irishman.

One more shot. A bright-haired, broad-shouldered Waiter, close
shaven, with a bright complexion. A North Country Irishman, I '11

be bound. He certainly has a brogue. Wrong again. He is a
Swede.

As far as Waiters are concerned, I give up all guessing at
nationality.

" Ireland for the Irish " ? Nonsense. Ireland for the Englishmen,
the Frenchmen, and the Swedes. Already I feel I must be a Home-
Ruler, or something which means Ireland for the Irish, and the
Irish for Ireland.

Humming the '^Wearing of the Green" I take my way down to
Westland Row Station. The only "Wearing of the Green" I can
see comes from the shoes of the cricketers engaged in a match on the
Trinity College ground. The sports of the Collegians are visible to
the public through the railings, very much as the sports of the Blue
Coat Boys are witnessed with delight by the passers-by, to and fro,
before that depressing debtors'-prison sort of grille.

I join the spectators at the railings. No ; I cannot associate the
appearance of these Collegians, nor the exterior of the College itself,
with anything academical—that is, as I understand academical. I
see no accidental caps and gowns, which give the local colouring to
the streets, to the College grounds, and even the neighbourhood, of
the old Universities, Oxford and Cambridge. I see nothing which
calls to mind the Students' club caps of Heidelberg and Bonn, or the
Polytechnic of Aachen. It is all too modern, too unacademical, for
a College, and after this I should not be surprised if ;I saw the
Judges and Barristers in the Law Courts without their wigs and
bands.

From all along the line of lookers-on outside I hear no sharp re-
marks, no telling observations, in fact, nothing humorous or funny
whatever. I sigh and pass on. Have I arrived in Dublin at a time
when, as they say in the City, "things are uncommonly flat, and
nothing doing " P I walk on, " speculating for a rise," as I pass the
Carmen on their stand. There are no rises, there are no sells. I
have come on Dublin at a bad moment.

I will go to Bray. Were I to announce this intention in the
presence of some foolish jesters, whose aim in life is never to let a
word pass that can be played upon, they would immediately retort,
" Are you going to Bray ? Nothing more natural, my dear fellow."
It is a kind of pun that makes one sad.

Happy Thought—Call on a friend of Keppel Biekett's, who
" knows the ropes," or, rather, " the lines/' and ask about going to
Bray, and what to see when I get there. He is so delighted to see
me, and I am so heartily received that I begin to cheer up.

My excellent acquaintance is sorry to part with me for a moment.
Have I breakfasted ? Yes ? Then, will I take anything ? No ?
Then won't I come and lunch ? Won't I dine ? Won't I stay with
them ? Surely I am not going away so soon ? Why, there are at
least fifty people who would never forgive him (the speaker) if he
allowed me to quit Dublin.

Happy Thought.—The Irish are evidently a most hospitable
people.

I explain. Legal business (meaning Plhmpton and Spey) neces-
sitates a short stay.

Daley's distress is really genuine. If he could only improvise a
dinner-party on the spot, there and then, in his office, he would do
so. He hardly can bring himself to part with me. He has his
doubts about my ever coming back again, if once I am allowed to
leave Dublin. He is overflowing with genial regret that he cannot
travel with me, keeping a guard over me as though I were a
hospitality-prisoner, for whose appearance at the dinner hour he,
Daley, had made himself responsible. But if I go now I shall
return ? Certainly.

" I must get De. Phoede McMullen and Sib Richaed Lofttjs to
meet you," says my new.friend, Daley, pondering. " Ye '11 know
Phoede and Loftds ? "

Will I ? I mean, do I ? No, I regret to say I don't. I feel,
somehow, I ought to.

"Phoede writes for the Magazines, and his book on The Dithy-
rambic of Slogan—maybe ye '11 have heard of that P It made a good
deal of stir lately, and neither Tennyson nor Bbowning could reply
to it."

I feel that I'm " not in it," as the sporting men say.

Happy Thought—01 course I know De.—er—er—(I have forgot-
ten his name, and Daley kindly supplies it)—yes, De. Phoede, by
reputation, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting him.

" You shall then," says Daley, heartily. " III get together all
the boys I can, and we II have a night of it."

I am delighted at the prospect. Yet my joy is tinctured with
fear. Who are " the boys" ? What does a "night of it" meani
Whiskey punch and smoking, and every one, being accustomed to
" nights of it," all right except myself ? And is it myself that 11 be
ill for at least a week afterwards f If so—then the best thing will
be to see the country first and enjoy my days, then return to Dublin
" to make nights of it."

Yet I feel that I have Pldthpton and Spey after me. Before
starting for Bray I write to them, " Sirs, I shall be at Bray before
you get this, and after that probably ' Post Office, Dublin,' will find