Punch (7.1844)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

WANDERINGS OF OUR FAT CONTRIBUTOR.

[The fattest of our contributors left London very suddenly last week, without giving
the least idea of his movements until we received the following communication. We
don't know whether he is going to travel, nor do we pledge ourselves in the least to
publish another line of the Fat Contributor's correspondence. As far as his tour goes at
present, it certainly is, if not novel, at least treated in a novel manner ; for the reader will
remark that there is not a word about the places visited by our friend, while there is a
prodigious deal of information regarding himself. Interesting as our Fat Contributor is,
yet it may chance that we shall hear enough about him ere many more letters are
received from him.]

There were eleven more dinners hustling one another in my invi-
tation book. " If you eat two more, you are in for an apoplexy,
Glauber," said my medical man. But Miss Twaddlixus is to be
at the Mackwhirters', on Thursday, I expostulated, "and you

know what money she has." "She'll be a widow before she's
married," says Glauber, "if you don't mind.—Away with you i—
Take three grains of blue pill every night, and my draught in the
morning—if you don't, I won't answer for the consequences.—You
look as white as a sheet—as puffy as a bolster—this season you've
grown so inordinately gross and fa* * *

It's a word I can't bear applied to myself. I wrote letters round
to decline my dinners ; aud agreed to go-

But whither \ Why not to Brighton \ I went on the 18th July.
The day before the blow-up. I was out for four hours in a fly on
that day. I saw Lord Brougham in a white hat and telescope—I

saw the sea lighted up with countless smiles—I saw the chain-pier,
and the multitudes swarming on it—I saw the bucks smoking cigars
on the terrace of the Albion.

/ could not smoke—I was with three ladies in the fly—they were
all fat, and, oh ! how hot ! The sun beat down upon us ruthlessly.
Captain Warner wouldn't come. We drove and put back the
dinner. Then Miss Bogle said she would like to drive to the
Library for the last volume of Grant's Visit to Paris.

While we were at Folthorpe's, their messenger came running
in—he had beeD out but one minute that day ; he had seen it. We
had been out four hours; it was all over ! AH that we could see when
we got back was this—

brick building, large, and with the windows cracked and stuffed wiia
coats.

At the Bricklayers' Arms, which we reached at length after paying
several base turnpikes, and struggling through a noisy, dirty, bustling,
dismal city of small houses and queer shops and gin palaces—tha
policeman comes grinning up to the cab, and says, " No train from
here, sir,—next train from London Bridge—hoften these mistakes.
Cab drove away only just this minute. You'll be in time if
)ou go."

The cabman gallops off, with a grin. The brute ! he knew it weli
enough. He went for an extra fare.

As I do not wish to have a coup-de-ioleil; or to be blinded with
dust ; or to have my nerves shattered by the infernal screaming of
the engine as we rush howling through the tunnels : as I wish to Lit
as soft as I can in this life, and find a board by no means so elastic nn
a cushion, I take the first-class, of course—I should prefer having
some of the third-class people for company, though—I find them
generally less vulgar than their betters.

I selected, as may be imagined, an empty carriage : in which I
lived pretty comfortably until we got to Reigate, where two per-
sons with free tickets — engineers and Scotchmen—got into the
carriage.

Of course one insisted upon sitting down in the very seat opposite
me. There were four seats, but he must take that, on purpose to
mingle his legs with mine, and make me uncomfortable. I removed
to the next seat—the middle one. This was what the wretch wanted.
He plumped into my place. He had the two places by the window—
the two best in the coach—he leered over my shoulder at his comrade
a great, coarse, hideous Scotch smile.

I hate engineers, I hate Scotchmen, I hate brutes with free tickets,
who take the places of gentlemen who pay.
that goes anywhere." On alighting at Dover, and remembering the extravagance of

I am at Dover. This is written from the Ship Hotel: let me recol-j former charges at the Ship, under another proprietor (pray Heavens
lect the adventures of the day. | the morrow's little bill may be a mild one!) I thought of goiug else-

The Dover trains go from two places at once : but my belief where. Touters were about seizing upon the passengers and recom-
mending their hotels—"Now, Gents, the Gun I" roared one
monster. I turned sickening away from him. " Take me to the Ship "
I faintly gasped.

On proposing for dinner, the waiter says with an air as if he was
inventing something extremely clever "Whiting, Sir 1 Nice fried
Sole \"

Mon Dim i what have I done to be pursued in this way by whiting
and fried sole { Is there nothing else in the world t Ain't i sick of

C

C U lhe ota. M a mast iticking up in it.

That was what I had come to Brighton for—to eat prawns for
breakfast—to pay five shillings for a warm bath—and not to see the
explosion !

I set off for London the next day. One of my dinners was coming
off that day—I had resigned it. There would very likely be turtle ;
and I wasn't there ! Flesh and blood couldn't stand it. " I will go
to Dover to-morrow," I fcaid, " aud take the first packet that goes_■

is, the cabmen try and perplex you. If it is the turn of the
Bricklayers' Arms train, they persuade you to London Bridge, if of

the London Bridge, they inveigle you to the Bricklayers' Arms_

through that abominable suburb stretching away from Waterloo
Bridge, and into the Great London, which seems as it were run to
seed.

I passed a Theatre—these creatures have a theatre it appears—it
(a called (to judge from a painted placard) the Victoria. It is a