DOI Heft:
Volume XXVI
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16613#0019
12
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
MAKING THE BEST OE A BAD JOB.
“ Ah ! YOU MAY LAUGH, MY BOY, BUT THEBE’S NOTHING LIKE A COLD
Bath to make you Strong and Hearty !”
THE DOMESTIC REFORMER ■
OR, HOW MR. PATERFAMILIAS MADE HOME HAPPY.
Scene 2.—Mr. Paterfamilias has had a Ventilating Apparatus—of
the most complete kind—constructed and adapted to his house, by the
distinguished practical and consulting chemist, Mr. Bellows. It
consists of a pump for forcing in the extei'nal air, worked by the
water-pressure got from a pipe leading, from the reservoir upstairs to
the cistern in the kitchen; a warming chamber, where the air is
heated by hot-ioater vessels, on a plan of Ms. Bellows’s own; a
mixing chamber, where the warm air is cooled down to any tempera-
ture ; a series of apertures in the -floor and skirting-board of every
room in the house., to admit the heated air ; a ventilating shaft for
(drawing off the vitiated air, which communicates with all the chimneys
in the house, and to ichich access is given by valves near the ceilings.
Of course the bricklayers have been in the house for a month. The
bills are left to the imagination of the reader. Open fires have been
sternly suppressed. Colds are prevalent in the family. But the
poisonous proceeds of human expiration are got rid of, and the
scientific principles of ventilation triumph.
Scene as before.
Mrs. P. seated, contemplating the place where the grate used to be in a
disconsolate manner. Miss Laura and Miss Emily much wrapped
up, and looking blue about the nose.
Mr. P. {reading to them from a scientific treatise'). “When a person
is placed in condensed air, he breathes with increased facility ; lie feels
as if the capacity of his lungs was enlarged; his respirations become
deeper and less frequent; he experiences in the course of a short time
an agreeable glow in bis chest—(pausing, and to his daughters) My
dears, don’t you experience—
Miss Laura. A-tch-ew ! A-tcb-ew !
Mr. P. {sternly). Laura!
Miss Laura {dolefully). Oh, Pa, I’ve such a dlead-ful cole il by
head. A-tcb-ew!
Miss Emily.. A-tch-ew ! Ad so have I—le-ally, Papa. A-tch-ew J
jy {dismally). I’m sure, my dears, I don’t wonder at it.
Mr. P. Mrs. Paterfamilias, how can you encourage your daughters
in these absurd fancies ? But to resum e—{recommences reading) “an
agreeable glow in the chest, as if the pulmonary cells were becoming
dilated, with an elastic spirit.” {Inhales.) Yes, I certainly feel the
cells dilated. {To Mrs. P.) My dear, don’t yon recognise in yourself
something of the kind described, since the apparatus was put up ?
Mrs. P We Li, I’ve a kind of tickling in the throat; but I thought
it- was influenza, my dear.
Mr. P. Influenza, Mrs. P. ! Ridiculous !
Mrs. P. Well, I don’t know, I’m sure; but ever since the house
was ventilated, my dear, I don’t know how it is, hut, I’m sure, I’ve
never been myse f.
Miss Laura. Oh, an’ I’m so lwetchedly—A-tch-ew !
Mrs. P. (shivering). Now, there, my dear, don’t yon feel it ?
Mr. P. What ?
Mrs. P. The draught through the floor; look how the carpet’s
dancing.
Mr. P. That is the mixed air, admitted through the channels from
the tempering chamber by the Bellows valve.
Mrs. P. I’m sure I don’t know what it is, my dear, but my feet are
as if I was sitting in an ice-pail.
Miss Emily. And so are mile—oh dear—[hugging herself in her shawl.
Mr. P. impossible! I mixed it myself this morning at 66°—a
healthy and agreeable medium temperature.
Mrs. P. Oh—but only put your hand down.
Mr. P. {putting his hand to the aperture). Well, I declare it does
feel chilly. There must be something wrong with the valves. I ’ll
just go and look into the mixing chamber. [Exit Mr. Paterfamilias.
Mrs. P. Oh, my dears, I always said how it would be, ever since
your papa had in that dreadful Me. Bellows. I declare the room’s
like the frozen regions; and not a bit of fire to look at—nothing but
those nasty, stuffy, hot-water pipes; and ail those “ bricklayers’ bills,”
too; and—
Miss Laura {sniffing). Oh, mamma, what a dleadful shell—dolt you
shell it, Ebily ?
Miss Emily. Oh yes, it’s ollible !
Mrs. P. So it is. I dare say your papa’s been and done some-
thing to those dreadful valves, as he calls ’em—{A prolonged howl heard
without). Oh, that’s Newton crying ! What can have happened?
Re-enter Mr. P. in a state o great excitement.
Mr. P. Really, Mrs. P., that boy Newton—it’s not to be borne.
He ’s been at that hot-water apparatus again; and now he ’s mined
the stop-cock, and all the water’s run off, and one of the boilers has
got red-hot. It’s a mercy the house wasn’t burnt down.
Mrs. P. Oh, I know it will be, some of these days.
Mr. P. No wonder we were cold, with air coming in at 32°. But
I’ve given him a good flogging, and sent for the plumber to repair
the cock.
Mrs. P. {groans). And then there ’ll be more bills, my dear.
Mr. P. I beg you will not allude to bills, Mrs. P. I pay them—
that is sufficient.
Mrs. P. Yes, dear—but, {sniffing) whatever can that smell be, I
wonder ?
Mr. P. {sniffing). Smell!—Eh ? well really—now—I do think it’s
like sulphuretted hydrogen ?
Mrs. P. It’s very nasty, whatever it’s like—that I know.
Mr. P. {toho has been hunting the smell). And comes through the air-
channels in the skirting board—it’s very odd. Eh—yes—I have it—-
yon know the air tubes from the mixing chamber pass under t*he cellar
—Mrs. P.—depend upon it there’s a cesspool somewhere, and some
of the emanations of it have been taken up into the air-tubes.
Mrs. P. It’s enough to poison one.
Mr.P. Yes — dangerous — decidedly dangerous; what a comfort
we’ve found out its existence. We must have it looked to to-morrow.
The gardener can go to Mr. Batts, and ask him to send up a couple
of his men—my dear—to sound for the cesspool.
Mrs. P. Oh, Mr. P, more of Batts’s men! Do consider. YYe
haven’t had ’em out of the house a week as it is, and those bricklayers
always make a bill—al-ways.
Mr. P. Mrs. P., do you expect that, as the father of a family, I will
consent to remain quiet with the consciousness that a cesspool is
poisoning the air 1 breathe—and my children ? Me Can shall speak to
Batts. I insist upon it.
Mrs. P. Oh, very well, my dear, if you insist upon it.
[.A cloud of smoke is precipitated into the room from the $xit valve
communicating with the ventilating shaft. Miss Laura and
Miss Emily go off in a prolonged chorus of sneezes and coughs.
Mrs. P. Oh, we shall all be smothered !
Mr. P. Smoke coming down ! It’s contrary to the laws of nature.
It must be from the fire in the ventilating shaft. How very unaccount-
able ! [Smoke continues to pour out; Mr. P. rings the bell violently.
Mrs. P. Open the windows, Laura.
Mr. P. {sternly.) No—you’ll entirely derange the ventilating system.
Enter Spraggs, a boy in buttons, with an air of consternation.
Mr. P. Spraggs ! What is the meaning of this smoke ?
Spraggs. Oh—if you please. Sir—Master George’s terrier, e’d got
a rat—’untin’ it up stairs—and the rat he went through the flue door
into the wentilatin’ shaft—and the terrier ’e went arter ’fm—and
Master George thinks e’ve stuck fast in the flue, Sir—and the smoko ■
can’t get out, I think, Sir, and so it’s a cornin’ down stairs kevery- I
where like heverythink.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
MAKING THE BEST OE A BAD JOB.
“ Ah ! YOU MAY LAUGH, MY BOY, BUT THEBE’S NOTHING LIKE A COLD
Bath to make you Strong and Hearty !”
THE DOMESTIC REFORMER ■
OR, HOW MR. PATERFAMILIAS MADE HOME HAPPY.
Scene 2.—Mr. Paterfamilias has had a Ventilating Apparatus—of
the most complete kind—constructed and adapted to his house, by the
distinguished practical and consulting chemist, Mr. Bellows. It
consists of a pump for forcing in the extei'nal air, worked by the
water-pressure got from a pipe leading, from the reservoir upstairs to
the cistern in the kitchen; a warming chamber, where the air is
heated by hot-ioater vessels, on a plan of Ms. Bellows’s own; a
mixing chamber, where the warm air is cooled down to any tempera-
ture ; a series of apertures in the -floor and skirting-board of every
room in the house., to admit the heated air ; a ventilating shaft for
(drawing off the vitiated air, which communicates with all the chimneys
in the house, and to ichich access is given by valves near the ceilings.
Of course the bricklayers have been in the house for a month. The
bills are left to the imagination of the reader. Open fires have been
sternly suppressed. Colds are prevalent in the family. But the
poisonous proceeds of human expiration are got rid of, and the
scientific principles of ventilation triumph.
Scene as before.
Mrs. P. seated, contemplating the place where the grate used to be in a
disconsolate manner. Miss Laura and Miss Emily much wrapped
up, and looking blue about the nose.
Mr. P. {reading to them from a scientific treatise'). “When a person
is placed in condensed air, he breathes with increased facility ; lie feels
as if the capacity of his lungs was enlarged; his respirations become
deeper and less frequent; he experiences in the course of a short time
an agreeable glow in bis chest—(pausing, and to his daughters) My
dears, don’t you experience—
Miss Laura. A-tch-ew ! A-tcb-ew !
Mr. P. {sternly). Laura!
Miss Laura {dolefully). Oh, Pa, I’ve such a dlead-ful cole il by
head. A-tcb-ew!
Miss Emily.. A-tch-ew ! Ad so have I—le-ally, Papa. A-tch-ew J
jy {dismally). I’m sure, my dears, I don’t wonder at it.
Mr. P. Mrs. Paterfamilias, how can you encourage your daughters
in these absurd fancies ? But to resum e—{recommences reading) “an
agreeable glow in the chest, as if the pulmonary cells were becoming
dilated, with an elastic spirit.” {Inhales.) Yes, I certainly feel the
cells dilated. {To Mrs. P.) My dear, don’t yon recognise in yourself
something of the kind described, since the apparatus was put up ?
Mrs. P We Li, I’ve a kind of tickling in the throat; but I thought
it- was influenza, my dear.
Mr. P. Influenza, Mrs. P. ! Ridiculous !
Mrs. P. Well, I don’t know, I’m sure; but ever since the house
was ventilated, my dear, I don’t know how it is, hut, I’m sure, I’ve
never been myse f.
Miss Laura. Oh, an’ I’m so lwetchedly—A-tch-ew !
Mrs. P. (shivering). Now, there, my dear, don’t yon feel it ?
Mr. P. What ?
Mrs. P. The draught through the floor; look how the carpet’s
dancing.
Mr. P. That is the mixed air, admitted through the channels from
the tempering chamber by the Bellows valve.
Mrs. P. I’m sure I don’t know what it is, my dear, but my feet are
as if I was sitting in an ice-pail.
Miss Emily. And so are mile—oh dear—[hugging herself in her shawl.
Mr. P. impossible! I mixed it myself this morning at 66°—a
healthy and agreeable medium temperature.
Mrs. P. Oh—but only put your hand down.
Mr. P. {putting his hand to the aperture). Well, I declare it does
feel chilly. There must be something wrong with the valves. I ’ll
just go and look into the mixing chamber. [Exit Mr. Paterfamilias.
Mrs. P. Oh, my dears, I always said how it would be, ever since
your papa had in that dreadful Me. Bellows. I declare the room’s
like the frozen regions; and not a bit of fire to look at—nothing but
those nasty, stuffy, hot-water pipes; and ail those “ bricklayers’ bills,”
too; and—
Miss Laura {sniffing). Oh, mamma, what a dleadful shell—dolt you
shell it, Ebily ?
Miss Emily. Oh yes, it’s ollible !
Mrs. P. So it is. I dare say your papa’s been and done some-
thing to those dreadful valves, as he calls ’em—{A prolonged howl heard
without). Oh, that’s Newton crying ! What can have happened?
Re-enter Mr. P. in a state o great excitement.
Mr. P. Really, Mrs. P., that boy Newton—it’s not to be borne.
He ’s been at that hot-water apparatus again; and now he ’s mined
the stop-cock, and all the water’s run off, and one of the boilers has
got red-hot. It’s a mercy the house wasn’t burnt down.
Mrs. P. Oh, I know it will be, some of these days.
Mr. P. No wonder we were cold, with air coming in at 32°. But
I’ve given him a good flogging, and sent for the plumber to repair
the cock.
Mrs. P. {groans). And then there ’ll be more bills, my dear.
Mr. P. I beg you will not allude to bills, Mrs. P. I pay them—
that is sufficient.
Mrs. P. Yes, dear—but, {sniffing) whatever can that smell be, I
wonder ?
Mr. P. {sniffing). Smell!—Eh ? well really—now—I do think it’s
like sulphuretted hydrogen ?
Mrs. P. It’s very nasty, whatever it’s like—that I know.
Mr. P. {toho has been hunting the smell). And comes through the air-
channels in the skirting board—it’s very odd. Eh—yes—I have it—-
yon know the air tubes from the mixing chamber pass under t*he cellar
—Mrs. P.—depend upon it there’s a cesspool somewhere, and some
of the emanations of it have been taken up into the air-tubes.
Mrs. P. It’s enough to poison one.
Mr.P. Yes — dangerous — decidedly dangerous; what a comfort
we’ve found out its existence. We must have it looked to to-morrow.
The gardener can go to Mr. Batts, and ask him to send up a couple
of his men—my dear—to sound for the cesspool.
Mrs. P. Oh, Mr. P, more of Batts’s men! Do consider. YYe
haven’t had ’em out of the house a week as it is, and those bricklayers
always make a bill—al-ways.
Mr. P. Mrs. P., do you expect that, as the father of a family, I will
consent to remain quiet with the consciousness that a cesspool is
poisoning the air 1 breathe—and my children ? Me Can shall speak to
Batts. I insist upon it.
Mrs. P. Oh, very well, my dear, if you insist upon it.
[.A cloud of smoke is precipitated into the room from the $xit valve
communicating with the ventilating shaft. Miss Laura and
Miss Emily go off in a prolonged chorus of sneezes and coughs.
Mrs. P. Oh, we shall all be smothered !
Mr. P. Smoke coming down ! It’s contrary to the laws of nature.
It must be from the fire in the ventilating shaft. How very unaccount-
able ! [Smoke continues to pour out; Mr. P. rings the bell violently.
Mrs. P. Open the windows, Laura.
Mr. P. {sternly.) No—you’ll entirely derange the ventilating system.
Enter Spraggs, a boy in buttons, with an air of consternation.
Mr. P. Spraggs ! What is the meaning of this smoke ?
Spraggs. Oh—if you please. Sir—Master George’s terrier, e’d got
a rat—’untin’ it up stairs—and the rat he went through the flue door
into the wentilatin’ shaft—and the terrier ’e went arter ’fm—and
Master George thinks e’ve stuck fast in the flue, Sir—and the smoko ■
can’t get out, I think, Sir, and so it’s a cornin’ down stairs kevery- I
where like heverythink.