DOI issue:
October 10, 1863
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16872#0163
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Regent’s Park. It is covered with trees, or else, I dare say, you would
see a fine prospect from the top. I have never been there, but I have
looked at it through my opera-glass from a wood, and a field opposite,
and on the other side of i,he River Ness, winch comes from Loch Ness,
which is the deepest of all the lochs, deeper than the German Ocean,
or even old Pam.
Yours respectfully,
Tomnahurich, Inverness. Epicurus Rotundus.
HOW, WHEN AND WHERE?
OR, THE MODERN TOURIST’S GUIDE TO THE CONTINENT.
e Serenely happy Tourist
will now remember that he
has just arrived at Mayence,
without his rug, batbox,
umbrella, carpet-bag, porta-
ble bath, race-glasses, walk-
ing-stick-campstool, and
writing desk, all of which
he has accidentally left on
board the steamer that is
now bearing his treasures
to Mannheim. As he reaches
the door of the Rbeinisctier
Hof, the sense of the fear-
ful loss comes upon him like
a flash of lightning. He
claps his hands to his
pockets, not meaning as
it were to applaud them
for having done something
clever, but with a vague
idea that the portable bath,
campstool and carpet-bag
may not be so far off after
all. What before were lux-
uries, now assume an im-
portance that makes them
appear absolutely necessary
to the traveller’s existence. “Everything,” he cries, “was in my
carpet-bag! I can’t get on without a rug! and what the dash
can I do at Baden-Baden if I haven’t got a hat-box? My soap’s
in my carpet-bag, so’s my brush, and comb and—and—my other boots ! ”
By the way, those other boots, always carried and not required, or if
not carried invariably wanted, are sure to be lost during the trip.
Apropos de Boots, however, we will just stop for one minute to say
that, if any traveller, fond of grandly romantic scenery, wishes to
make certain of seeing a good fall of water he had better trip up the
Bhine with his boots.
To return to the missing articles.
As landlords and waiters everywhere are supposed to know every-
thing, the obvious course will be at once to question them on the
subject.
“ Were the articles directed ? ” asks the host.
The Tourist patiently explains that he doesn’t generally label a rug,
a great coat, and an umbrella, but inwardly regrets that, he had allowed
the direction “ Mr. Smith, Passenger to Bristol,” to remain upon his
portable bath.
“ Monsieur know's the name of his bateau a vapeur ? ” the landlord
suggests, mixing a little Erench and English in order to show that he
is prepared for his customer whatever he may say.
Monsieur however hasn’t got the slightest notion what was the name
of the “ battue a vampire,” and prides himself upon having pronounced
the name right that time, anyhow.
“ Ah ! ” says the Landlord, “ Monsieur knew the Captain ? ”
“ Good heavens ! No : nor the Stoker, nor Boiler, nor Man at the
Wheel, nor anybody connected with the steamer.”
“ Did they see where you got out ? ” asks the Landlord.
The Tourist had been so engaged with his large luggage that he had
not seen if, in stage phrase, “he had been observed.”
“ The boat stops at Mannheim,” the Landlord remarks.
“ Well, there I suppose,” suggests the traveller, “they take out all
the luggage.”
“ Yes,” replies.the Proprietor of the Rheinischer Hof, “ and if the
things are not claimed at once-”
Well!” inquires our friend, anxiously noting a slight hesitation
on the speaker’s part in arriving at the catastrophe.
“Well,” resumes Rheinischer Hof slowly, “ if they’re not claimed
at once—they sell them.”
“ Tourist! a blight is on thy path
What ’ll become of the portable bath ! ”
[October 10, 1863.
L. 7
Whistle the air of the “ Mistletoe Bough ” and sing,
“ Oh, my portable bath !
O-o-h! My por-tar-blebath! ”
Chorus, in which the sympathising Landlord and waiters will (if not
otherwise engaged, and if conversant with the air,) join,
“ O-o-oh his portable bath !
O-o-oh his port-tar-blebath ! ”
After this, order dinner, see your room, shake hands with the Land-
lord, and determine to let byegones be byegones.
The most remarkable object in Mayence will be of course yourself.
Do not let the knowledge of this importance prevent you from visiting
the Cathedral. Protestant though you may be, you will be here re-
ceived into the Church by the Suisse, who is generally a fine handsome
looking man, of whom the ladies say in Suisse-whispers, “ Do look at
his Suisse-whiskers ? ” The Erench, ever attached to the lightest
possible literature, once converted this Cathedral into a Magazine. It
soon, however, fell to the ground, and now-a-days very little that is
original remains, as the people subsequently took all their articles from
the French.
Even though you, or any other Tourist, may have given up all idea
of laying hands upon the lost baggage, yet you, as a pedestrian, should
walk to Mannheim. At this place you’ll halt, and probably begin to
limp as one maimed by the unwonted exercise, unless you have been
previously accustomed to do the same thing, or as the Erench call it, j
maim-chose, or shoes, as in this case.
A pleasant wet day may be spent at Mannheim, by trying to find out j
by the aid of the Mannheim Directory, the address of your old friend >
who has performed the Samson-like gymnastic feat known as “ Taking
up his Residence” in this ancient town. We’ve often heard of Dra-
matic critics being able to “ give a theatre a lift with their pens,” and
we suppose that these expressions are the results of a strong muscular j
creed.
But to the Directory.
Mannheim houses are not as other houses. They are arranged in !
blocks, chiefly blocks of stone. The streets intersect one another at
right angles wherever they can, and at wrong angles wherever they
can’t, and by generally interfering with one another in the most unac-
countable manner, produce upon the mind of the stranger the feeling
that he might as well be in Fair Rosamond’s Bower, or the Maze at I
Hampton Court, without the sweet little cherub who sits up aloft and
sings out “ To your Right—To ycur left,” and other intelligible instruc-
tions to help him on his way.
The streets have no names, though they will have, and pretty hard |
ones too, after you’ve been puzzling and meandering about them.
The simple direction for finding out where anybody lives is, ask him
himself on the first opportunity; but if you can’t see him, and haven’t
got time to write, take the Directory, and observe that all the blocks
are arranged alphabetically, that the houses are numbered, and that j
there are many blocks more than the Alphabet has letters, and that !
t hen you begin again and make the best you can of it. That’s plain so
far, isn’t it ? Well, let’s say you want to call on Mr. B. Very good.
Mr. B. you find lives at A, now on this point you will not be at Sea.
Then A being a block, you find the number; now, we forgot to mention ;
that each block is numbered as well as every house, so that when you’ve
ascertained the number of the house, you must take care not to confuse
it with the number of the block, and when you’ve carefully arrived at
a knowledge of both numbers, your next step will be to retrace your
former ones, and see whether you were correct in the first instance.
After this, take care that the block is the block in the Alphabet and not
one out of the Alphabet; then see that the number is the same as the
one you had fixed upon, and finally learn whether or no B lives at this
Regent’s Park. It is covered with trees, or else, I dare say, you would
see a fine prospect from the top. I have never been there, but I have
looked at it through my opera-glass from a wood, and a field opposite,
and on the other side of i,he River Ness, winch comes from Loch Ness,
which is the deepest of all the lochs, deeper than the German Ocean,
or even old Pam.
Yours respectfully,
Tomnahurich, Inverness. Epicurus Rotundus.
HOW, WHEN AND WHERE?
OR, THE MODERN TOURIST’S GUIDE TO THE CONTINENT.
e Serenely happy Tourist
will now remember that he
has just arrived at Mayence,
without his rug, batbox,
umbrella, carpet-bag, porta-
ble bath, race-glasses, walk-
ing-stick-campstool, and
writing desk, all of which
he has accidentally left on
board the steamer that is
now bearing his treasures
to Mannheim. As he reaches
the door of the Rbeinisctier
Hof, the sense of the fear-
ful loss comes upon him like
a flash of lightning. He
claps his hands to his
pockets, not meaning as
it were to applaud them
for having done something
clever, but with a vague
idea that the portable bath,
campstool and carpet-bag
may not be so far off after
all. What before were lux-
uries, now assume an im-
portance that makes them
appear absolutely necessary
to the traveller’s existence. “Everything,” he cries, “was in my
carpet-bag! I can’t get on without a rug! and what the dash
can I do at Baden-Baden if I haven’t got a hat-box? My soap’s
in my carpet-bag, so’s my brush, and comb and—and—my other boots ! ”
By the way, those other boots, always carried and not required, or if
not carried invariably wanted, are sure to be lost during the trip.
Apropos de Boots, however, we will just stop for one minute to say
that, if any traveller, fond of grandly romantic scenery, wishes to
make certain of seeing a good fall of water he had better trip up the
Bhine with his boots.
To return to the missing articles.
As landlords and waiters everywhere are supposed to know every-
thing, the obvious course will be at once to question them on the
subject.
“ Were the articles directed ? ” asks the host.
The Tourist patiently explains that he doesn’t generally label a rug,
a great coat, and an umbrella, but inwardly regrets that, he had allowed
the direction “ Mr. Smith, Passenger to Bristol,” to remain upon his
portable bath.
“ Monsieur know's the name of his bateau a vapeur ? ” the landlord
suggests, mixing a little Erench and English in order to show that he
is prepared for his customer whatever he may say.
Monsieur however hasn’t got the slightest notion what was the name
of the “ battue a vampire,” and prides himself upon having pronounced
the name right that time, anyhow.
“ Ah ! ” says the Landlord, “ Monsieur knew the Captain ? ”
“ Good heavens ! No : nor the Stoker, nor Boiler, nor Man at the
Wheel, nor anybody connected with the steamer.”
“ Did they see where you got out ? ” asks the Landlord.
The Tourist had been so engaged with his large luggage that he had
not seen if, in stage phrase, “he had been observed.”
“ The boat stops at Mannheim,” the Landlord remarks.
“ Well, there I suppose,” suggests the traveller, “they take out all
the luggage.”
“ Yes,” replies.the Proprietor of the Rheinischer Hof, “ and if the
things are not claimed at once-”
Well!” inquires our friend, anxiously noting a slight hesitation
on the speaker’s part in arriving at the catastrophe.
“Well,” resumes Rheinischer Hof slowly, “ if they’re not claimed
at once—they sell them.”
“ Tourist! a blight is on thy path
What ’ll become of the portable bath ! ”
[October 10, 1863.
L. 7
Whistle the air of the “ Mistletoe Bough ” and sing,
“ Oh, my portable bath !
O-o-h! My por-tar-blebath! ”
Chorus, in which the sympathising Landlord and waiters will (if not
otherwise engaged, and if conversant with the air,) join,
“ O-o-oh his portable bath !
O-o-oh his port-tar-blebath ! ”
After this, order dinner, see your room, shake hands with the Land-
lord, and determine to let byegones be byegones.
The most remarkable object in Mayence will be of course yourself.
Do not let the knowledge of this importance prevent you from visiting
the Cathedral. Protestant though you may be, you will be here re-
ceived into the Church by the Suisse, who is generally a fine handsome
looking man, of whom the ladies say in Suisse-whispers, “ Do look at
his Suisse-whiskers ? ” The Erench, ever attached to the lightest
possible literature, once converted this Cathedral into a Magazine. It
soon, however, fell to the ground, and now-a-days very little that is
original remains, as the people subsequently took all their articles from
the French.
Even though you, or any other Tourist, may have given up all idea
of laying hands upon the lost baggage, yet you, as a pedestrian, should
walk to Mannheim. At this place you’ll halt, and probably begin to
limp as one maimed by the unwonted exercise, unless you have been
previously accustomed to do the same thing, or as the Erench call it, j
maim-chose, or shoes, as in this case.
A pleasant wet day may be spent at Mannheim, by trying to find out j
by the aid of the Mannheim Directory, the address of your old friend >
who has performed the Samson-like gymnastic feat known as “ Taking
up his Residence” in this ancient town. We’ve often heard of Dra-
matic critics being able to “ give a theatre a lift with their pens,” and
we suppose that these expressions are the results of a strong muscular j
creed.
But to the Directory.
Mannheim houses are not as other houses. They are arranged in !
blocks, chiefly blocks of stone. The streets intersect one another at
right angles wherever they can, and at wrong angles wherever they
can’t, and by generally interfering with one another in the most unac-
countable manner, produce upon the mind of the stranger the feeling
that he might as well be in Fair Rosamond’s Bower, or the Maze at I
Hampton Court, without the sweet little cherub who sits up aloft and
sings out “ To your Right—To ycur left,” and other intelligible instruc-
tions to help him on his way.
The streets have no names, though they will have, and pretty hard |
ones too, after you’ve been puzzling and meandering about them.
The simple direction for finding out where anybody lives is, ask him
himself on the first opportunity; but if you can’t see him, and haven’t
got time to write, take the Directory, and observe that all the blocks
are arranged alphabetically, that the houses are numbered, and that j
there are many blocks more than the Alphabet has letters, and that !
t hen you begin again and make the best you can of it. That’s plain so
far, isn’t it ? Well, let’s say you want to call on Mr. B. Very good.
Mr. B. you find lives at A, now on this point you will not be at Sea.
Then A being a block, you find the number; now, we forgot to mention ;
that each block is numbered as well as every house, so that when you’ve
ascertained the number of the house, you must take care not to confuse
it with the number of the block, and when you’ve carefully arrived at
a knowledge of both numbers, your next step will be to retrace your
former ones, and see whether you were correct in the first instance.
After this, take care that the block is the block in the Alphabet and not
one out of the Alphabet; then see that the number is the same as the
one you had fixed upon, and finally learn whether or no B lives at this