DOI Heft:
October 23, 1886
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17656#0199
October 23, 1886.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
193
ETON FOOTBALL.
[By Dumb Crambo Junior.)
Mixed Wall " Game." Four Sties to Love.
The "demons'' took part in the Furking out the Bawl from the
game.—Newspaper Report. _Bullies._
A CURE FOR GAIETY.
Mr Dear Me. Punch,
Feeling that my recent visit to the Exhibition of the
Photographic Society of Great Britain had caused nervous exhaustion
from over excitement, I consulted my Doctor, who ordered me what
I may term a " travelling sedative."
" My dear Sir," he said, after feeling my pulse, " there is no doubt
that you have been living too fast, and that the proper thing to do is
to look in at the Fine Arts Exhibition at Folkestone for an hour or
so. If you do not feel immediate relief, I would advise crossing over
to Boulogne on a particularly rough day, and staying for a short time
in that favourite watering-place out of the season.
Thanking my medical adviser for his kindness, I hurried off to
Folkestone, leaving London at eight in the morning (thus, at my very
door, commencing his treatment, as the anxiety of procuring a cab
at so early an hour, was in itself in the spirit of his prescription) and
was soon in the temporary home of the Fine Arts. I was doomed to
disappointment. So far from finding the display calming to my
nerves, I became deeply interested in the many beautiful objects,
and renewed, nay, increased the excitement I experienced in Pall
Mall East.
So tearing myself away from the Folkestone Exhibition, with its
thousands of treasures, 1 betook myself to the Lees, and to my great
satisfaction discovered that the weather forecast "squally — in
places a gale" was amply justified, by the condition of the ocean.
The sea was dashing over the end of the pier, and the fishermen's
smacks were dancing about in the most eccentric fashion. In a word
those who desired to cross the Channel, were sure to have what is
known as a very "dusty passage." Delighted at this pleasant
prospect, I went down to the sea-shore, and was soon on board that
excellent steamer the Louise Dagmar.
Nothing could have been better than what followed. The boat
rolled and plunged, and soon nearly everyone of the erew, after
lending his waterproofs, was busily engaged in attending to that
peculiar requirement of the passengers, usually supposed to be the
exclusive care of the steward. Bat I am sorry to say, that by the
mistaken kindness of an official before starting, I had been placed in
a chair in such an advantageous position, that I did not, in spite of
being a bad sailor, feel the motion of the vessel sufficiently, and
therefore reached Boulogne in fairly good spirits. Knowing how
important it was to me to encourage a calming melancholy, I
envied the fate of a jaunty gentleman in a felt helmet, who had come
on board with a demeanour suggestive of utter indifference to the
condition of the elements. When I first saw him he was holding two
hard captain's biscuits in one hand, and a glass of stout in the other,
evidently believing that in these simple articles of food he possessed
au infallible remedy for sea-sickness. Ten minutes later I again
looked at him, and noticed that he had dropped the biscuits on the
deck, had relinquished the glass, and was gazing in a stony manner
at a sailor who was bending over him full of tip-suggesting sympathy.
Later still I saw a person with an orange-coloured faoe with chocolate
eye-balls, stretched at full length near a broken chair. At first I
did not reoognise the distorted features of this poor wretch,'although
they seemed familiar to me. however, when, at the invitation of the
Steward, the unhappy sufferer commenced searching for his ticket
feebly under the shapeless mass of a crushed felt helmet, I felt sure
that I was looking on all that remained of the jaunty passenger who
had been so full of hope and confidence in biscuits and stout a long,
a very long, two hours before.
On landing, we found the train from Paris was standing beside the
quay, and it was interesting to note how eagerly the passengers
bound for Folkestone scanned our expressive countenances. As the
gentleman with the saffron face, chocolate-coloured eye-balls, and
crushed felt hat appeared from the gangway, a thrill of horror ran
like a wave along the expectant voyagetirs.
Once arrived in my capital hotel (with a name similar to that of
one of the most celebrated of Parisian hostelries) in the Rue Victor
Hugo, I was met with the most cheering intelligence. The bathing
had ceased, the theatre had not yet opened, and the Casino was
deserted. " There was nothing_ doing, and not a soul in the place."
This was scarcely an exaggeration. I went to the old Etablissement,
where "The last Grand Concert of the Season" was announced. I
entered. All that remained of the Cerclo and the "little horses"
was the negro page; the " Exhibition of Pictures " was about to be
removed to supply the prizes for the " Tombola " ,- and the Orchestra
(the makers of the "Grand Concert") were gathered together in a
small room, playing (a dozen strong) to three spectators !
I walked through the deserted streets, finding house after house
"A louer," and ended my promenade by approaching one of the
most "lively" of hotels, bearing an affiche announcing that it was
immediately to be sold by auction.
For three days it rained hard, and on the fourth I felt that the
over-excitement caused by my visit to the Photographic Exhibition
had all but vanished. Boulogne at this moment may be safely
recommended to those who are in search of inspiration for an epic
poem in two thousand cantos, or a tragedy in nineteen Acts. The
shops are full of last year's bonnets : the streets contain only ancient
residents, suggestive of the days when the place was a refuge for the
poor or the proscribed; the hotels are absolutely empty.
To complete my cure, I left by the steamer for Folkestone, feeling
delighted at being able to exchange for the unutterable sadness
of a deserted French watering-place the wild adventures of a " dusty
passage " across the Channel, with a long railway journey to follow.
The voyage was all, nay even more, that I could have desired. I
spent the greater part of two hours and a half in being unexpectedly
thrown from one side of the Louise Dagmar to the other. I was
accompanied on these impromptu little expeditions by a bride and
bridegroom, an aged archdeacon, and a portly French gentleman who
was crossing the Channel for the first time.
In conclusion, I cannot help making the following suggestion.
The Emperor of Russia is said at this moment to be " eccentric," to
talk fiercely to himself, and to wander about his palaces in a savage
mood at night. If he could only he kidnapped, like the ex-Prince
of Bulgaria., and taken to Boulogne, I feel sure that he would be
soothed into the most settled melancholy in half a dozen hours. At
least I know that I was.
I still remain, Tour obedient Servant,
A Perambulating Pleasure-seeker.
BEERS AND " SKITTLES;
That a painter who possesses the power shown in such pictures as
" The Death of Jacob Van Maerlandt" and "A Peoples Grati-
tude " (The Death of Jaques Van Artevelde), should stoop to play
"such fantastic tricks" as Jan Van Beers again revels in at the
Salon Parisien, seems more than a little pitiful. Popinjay Art is
plentiful enough. It is the trick whereby mediocrity antics itself
into a sort of notoriety, and cynical cleverness indolently plays the
fool with an easily-humbugged public. It is probably calculated—
perhaps with some reason—that these stagey tricks, and lime-light
effects, and dismal draperies, and bogey surprises, and peep-show
horrors will perplex people into a foolish wonder, if not into an im-
possible enjoyment or an honest approval. Maybe that is all which
is aimed at ? But ivhat an aim for anything calling itself Art!
Posturing Pierrots and smirking skeletons, goggling sphinxes and
giggling cocottes, cadaverous surprises and ensanguined startlers,
all the parade of nightmare and nastiness, pall upon the mind, as the
phantasmagoric effects ami sickly scents do upon the senses, of the
visitors to the Salon Parisien. Whim and fantasy are all very de-
lightful in their way. But this is not Wonderland, it is the world of
drunken delirium and the Witches' Sabbath. A girl with emerald face,
purple hair, and vivid vermilion lips, peeping between amber por-
tieres, is an inoffensive thongh purposeless, and not very interesting
bizarrerie. But such gratuitous ghastlinesses as " WUlo" the Wisp,"
" Felo de se," " Vive la Mort!" and particularly the offensively named
"Ecce Homo" are simply revolting horrors. Somebody has hazarded
the statement that they are Edgar-Poe-ish. Pooh! PoEwasoreepy
sometimes, but he was an artist, an idealist, subordinating even
occasional horror to the beautiful in his daring dreams. I>o>
Mr. J. V. B., Art, like life, is not all Beers and "Skittles."
VOL. XOI.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
193
ETON FOOTBALL.
[By Dumb Crambo Junior.)
Mixed Wall " Game." Four Sties to Love.
The "demons'' took part in the Furking out the Bawl from the
game.—Newspaper Report. _Bullies._
A CURE FOR GAIETY.
Mr Dear Me. Punch,
Feeling that my recent visit to the Exhibition of the
Photographic Society of Great Britain had caused nervous exhaustion
from over excitement, I consulted my Doctor, who ordered me what
I may term a " travelling sedative."
" My dear Sir," he said, after feeling my pulse, " there is no doubt
that you have been living too fast, and that the proper thing to do is
to look in at the Fine Arts Exhibition at Folkestone for an hour or
so. If you do not feel immediate relief, I would advise crossing over
to Boulogne on a particularly rough day, and staying for a short time
in that favourite watering-place out of the season.
Thanking my medical adviser for his kindness, I hurried off to
Folkestone, leaving London at eight in the morning (thus, at my very
door, commencing his treatment, as the anxiety of procuring a cab
at so early an hour, was in itself in the spirit of his prescription) and
was soon in the temporary home of the Fine Arts. I was doomed to
disappointment. So far from finding the display calming to my
nerves, I became deeply interested in the many beautiful objects,
and renewed, nay, increased the excitement I experienced in Pall
Mall East.
So tearing myself away from the Folkestone Exhibition, with its
thousands of treasures, 1 betook myself to the Lees, and to my great
satisfaction discovered that the weather forecast "squally — in
places a gale" was amply justified, by the condition of the ocean.
The sea was dashing over the end of the pier, and the fishermen's
smacks were dancing about in the most eccentric fashion. In a word
those who desired to cross the Channel, were sure to have what is
known as a very "dusty passage." Delighted at this pleasant
prospect, I went down to the sea-shore, and was soon on board that
excellent steamer the Louise Dagmar.
Nothing could have been better than what followed. The boat
rolled and plunged, and soon nearly everyone of the erew, after
lending his waterproofs, was busily engaged in attending to that
peculiar requirement of the passengers, usually supposed to be the
exclusive care of the steward. Bat I am sorry to say, that by the
mistaken kindness of an official before starting, I had been placed in
a chair in such an advantageous position, that I did not, in spite of
being a bad sailor, feel the motion of the vessel sufficiently, and
therefore reached Boulogne in fairly good spirits. Knowing how
important it was to me to encourage a calming melancholy, I
envied the fate of a jaunty gentleman in a felt helmet, who had come
on board with a demeanour suggestive of utter indifference to the
condition of the elements. When I first saw him he was holding two
hard captain's biscuits in one hand, and a glass of stout in the other,
evidently believing that in these simple articles of food he possessed
au infallible remedy for sea-sickness. Ten minutes later I again
looked at him, and noticed that he had dropped the biscuits on the
deck, had relinquished the glass, and was gazing in a stony manner
at a sailor who was bending over him full of tip-suggesting sympathy.
Later still I saw a person with an orange-coloured faoe with chocolate
eye-balls, stretched at full length near a broken chair. At first I
did not reoognise the distorted features of this poor wretch,'although
they seemed familiar to me. however, when, at the invitation of the
Steward, the unhappy sufferer commenced searching for his ticket
feebly under the shapeless mass of a crushed felt helmet, I felt sure
that I was looking on all that remained of the jaunty passenger who
had been so full of hope and confidence in biscuits and stout a long,
a very long, two hours before.
On landing, we found the train from Paris was standing beside the
quay, and it was interesting to note how eagerly the passengers
bound for Folkestone scanned our expressive countenances. As the
gentleman with the saffron face, chocolate-coloured eye-balls, and
crushed felt hat appeared from the gangway, a thrill of horror ran
like a wave along the expectant voyagetirs.
Once arrived in my capital hotel (with a name similar to that of
one of the most celebrated of Parisian hostelries) in the Rue Victor
Hugo, I was met with the most cheering intelligence. The bathing
had ceased, the theatre had not yet opened, and the Casino was
deserted. " There was nothing_ doing, and not a soul in the place."
This was scarcely an exaggeration. I went to the old Etablissement,
where "The last Grand Concert of the Season" was announced. I
entered. All that remained of the Cerclo and the "little horses"
was the negro page; the " Exhibition of Pictures " was about to be
removed to supply the prizes for the " Tombola " ,- and the Orchestra
(the makers of the "Grand Concert") were gathered together in a
small room, playing (a dozen strong) to three spectators !
I walked through the deserted streets, finding house after house
"A louer," and ended my promenade by approaching one of the
most "lively" of hotels, bearing an affiche announcing that it was
immediately to be sold by auction.
For three days it rained hard, and on the fourth I felt that the
over-excitement caused by my visit to the Photographic Exhibition
had all but vanished. Boulogne at this moment may be safely
recommended to those who are in search of inspiration for an epic
poem in two thousand cantos, or a tragedy in nineteen Acts. The
shops are full of last year's bonnets : the streets contain only ancient
residents, suggestive of the days when the place was a refuge for the
poor or the proscribed; the hotels are absolutely empty.
To complete my cure, I left by the steamer for Folkestone, feeling
delighted at being able to exchange for the unutterable sadness
of a deserted French watering-place the wild adventures of a " dusty
passage " across the Channel, with a long railway journey to follow.
The voyage was all, nay even more, that I could have desired. I
spent the greater part of two hours and a half in being unexpectedly
thrown from one side of the Louise Dagmar to the other. I was
accompanied on these impromptu little expeditions by a bride and
bridegroom, an aged archdeacon, and a portly French gentleman who
was crossing the Channel for the first time.
In conclusion, I cannot help making the following suggestion.
The Emperor of Russia is said at this moment to be " eccentric," to
talk fiercely to himself, and to wander about his palaces in a savage
mood at night. If he could only he kidnapped, like the ex-Prince
of Bulgaria., and taken to Boulogne, I feel sure that he would be
soothed into the most settled melancholy in half a dozen hours. At
least I know that I was.
I still remain, Tour obedient Servant,
A Perambulating Pleasure-seeker.
BEERS AND " SKITTLES;
That a painter who possesses the power shown in such pictures as
" The Death of Jacob Van Maerlandt" and "A Peoples Grati-
tude " (The Death of Jaques Van Artevelde), should stoop to play
"such fantastic tricks" as Jan Van Beers again revels in at the
Salon Parisien, seems more than a little pitiful. Popinjay Art is
plentiful enough. It is the trick whereby mediocrity antics itself
into a sort of notoriety, and cynical cleverness indolently plays the
fool with an easily-humbugged public. It is probably calculated—
perhaps with some reason—that these stagey tricks, and lime-light
effects, and dismal draperies, and bogey surprises, and peep-show
horrors will perplex people into a foolish wonder, if not into an im-
possible enjoyment or an honest approval. Maybe that is all which
is aimed at ? But ivhat an aim for anything calling itself Art!
Posturing Pierrots and smirking skeletons, goggling sphinxes and
giggling cocottes, cadaverous surprises and ensanguined startlers,
all the parade of nightmare and nastiness, pall upon the mind, as the
phantasmagoric effects ami sickly scents do upon the senses, of the
visitors to the Salon Parisien. Whim and fantasy are all very de-
lightful in their way. But this is not Wonderland, it is the world of
drunken delirium and the Witches' Sabbath. A girl with emerald face,
purple hair, and vivid vermilion lips, peeping between amber por-
tieres, is an inoffensive thongh purposeless, and not very interesting
bizarrerie. But such gratuitous ghastlinesses as " WUlo" the Wisp,"
" Felo de se," " Vive la Mort!" and particularly the offensively named
"Ecce Homo" are simply revolting horrors. Somebody has hazarded
the statement that they are Edgar-Poe-ish. Pooh! PoEwasoreepy
sometimes, but he was an artist, an idealist, subordinating even
occasional horror to the beautiful in his daring dreams. I>o>
Mr. J. V. B., Art, like life, is not all Beers and "Skittles."
VOL. XOI.