DOI Heft:
October 15, 1864
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0160
October 15, 1864.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
153
AN AWFUL OPERATION.
{Being an Account of a Wonderful Crop.)
sloved, Calm, ever-
Placid Punch, —
Even in these days
of Sensation 1 was
not prepared for the
horrible tortures
fractised by—shall
say men ? Yes, by
men upon their fel-
low-men in the cause
of civilisation, in the
obtrusive advance-
ment of science, and
under the pretence
of conferring bene-
fits—inestimable be-
nefits—on mankind.
“ Oh, Thingummy”
(I forget the letter
of the quotation, but
the spirit is the
point),
“What crimes do they
not commit in thy
name 1 ”
Notes of admira-
tion are wanting to me; all the available ones, of the only size really adapted to my
meaning, are used on the largest Posters about Town. Those of a lesser note fail
me. But I will multiply them—I will raise them to the »th !
Sir, I have undergone an Awful Operation! ! I tremble while thinking of
the past! !! Have I been racked? Worse than that!! ! Drawn? Worse than
that; aye, worse than'if I had been caricatured by photography into the bargain.
Quartered ? Worser—a deal worser !!!! Tight Boots ? No. Thumbscrew ?
No! You will never guess. Oh, Mr. Punch, tell it not in Gath, if you ever go
there, but I, your beautiful, your own, your own correspondent, have had my Hair
cut!!! !! Cut by—I am not going to use strong language—but am going to say,
cut by Machinery!!!! Never, never again, Mr. P., not even if my locks grow
long, matted, and ragged, as did those of Peter the Wild Boy, or Peter the Hermit,
or some Peter or other. However, I’ll no more be a re-peater of this name, but
come to the point at once. Point! that word recalls the scene from first to last.
“ Did I want the points ”—he, the hairdresser, called them pints—“off? or would
I ’ave a deal off? ” I chose the latter. No sooner was I vested in a garment—
something between a gentleman’s summer dressing-gown and a lady’s bathing-
dress—of that grotesque pattern with which, of late, the pictures of a facetious
singer styling himsell “The Cure,” have made us sufficiently acquainted,—no
sooner, I say was I bound in this extraordinary wrapper—like a volume of Strype—
and had taken my seat in front of a large looking-glass, than the operator began
arranging certain apparatus that filled me with apprehension, and made my hair
stand right up on end, all ready for cutting, like quills upon the fretful what-you-
may-call-him. He first pulled ropes from the ceiling, after the manner of one about
to imitate M. Leotard on the trapeze. These ropes were fitted with a peculiar
pair of scissors, made, as I take it, on the model of those used in the opening of a
Pantomime, when His Majesty King Humguittn sends for the Court Barber to
trim him; on which occasion the usual result is that the Court Barber is trimmed
by His Gracious Majesty. I assure you that to have seen my hairdresser’s talented
assistants dance into the room, footing it to some lively measure, with huge cans
labelled “Hot Water,” “Soap,” “Bear’s Grease,” would not have been to me a
matter for much surprise. However, they didn’t. Such a proceeding would have
savoured of a joke; and that this, my friend, was no joke, I do most solemnly
declare! Two more ropes held a circular comb: a young man took his place
behind my chair; then there were, to use another stage phrase, “Wheels heard
without,” and, with a whirr-whirr-whirr, like the deafening sound in a small manu-
factory, or in the Polytechnic during the hours of exhibition, the ropes began to
move rapidly up, up, up, down, down, down, backwards and forwards, and round
and round, the scissors commenced snipping the air, and the comb, as it appeared
to me, began circling round my head, like the fearful stuffed nondescript bird at
Astley’s, which is worked by a string over the prostrate body of the agonised dummy
Mazeppa. Suddenly, the young man controlled the gambols of these wild creatures,
and directed them at my head. At my head, literally, not my hair. Bah! they
disdained that, tearing through it like buffaloes through a prairie, and seizing upon
my scalp with the ferocity of a Bed Indian warrior.
“ Here ! Hi! Take ’em off! ” I cried.
“ You find ’em a little ’ard at first, Sir ? ” inquired the young man blandly.
“ Hard ! I should rather say I-” whirr, whirr, whirr,—off again. “ Hold !
Stop! ”
The young man takes this opportunity to explain :—
“ You see, Sir, our Proprietor only patented 'em last week, ana we ain't got quite
into the way of working 'em: it's a little hawkward like at first!'
Awkward ! Ha! ha ! Good, that. My hair was lying about the floor in little
twisted knqts : what remained on my head resembled—hang me, if I know what it
resembled, except the tufts on Mr. Pecksniee’s head, or
the comic wigs, in which the Brothers Webb appeared as
the Twin Dromios. And oh ! my poor skin!
“Should he take hany more off?” inquired the young
man—the youngest man, I subsequently found, who had not
long been out of his apprenticeship.
“ Trim it evenly,” said I; “ and, for Heaven’s sake,
in the old-fashioned way.”
He smiled.
“ 1 should prefer doin’ of it in that way myself. Sir,” he
whispered in my ear, “ but Master says we must use this
’ere napparatus, so as in this slack time of year we may get
our 'anas in for the Seasing."
This comes of stopping in Town unfashionably! Oh,
cursed fate, that didn’t give me to the moor!
“ There,” said I, “ just brush it smooth, and have done.”
“ ’Ave it washed, Sir? Gents mostly ’as it washed.”
“ Yes, by all means.”
“ Hand will you ’ave some Medicated Balsamic Begene-
rator, or our Emollient Capellarion ? ”
“ Some of the Capellarion,” I answered, in the off-hand
manner of one accustomed to the regular use of that expen-
sive pomade.
It is always as well to give your hairdresser this idea, or,
if you show the least indecision or ignorance on this sub-
ject, he will be down upon you, all in the way of business,
with tender inquiries as to whether “ you wouldn’t like a
bottle of the Balsam ? ” or, more persuasively, as if it cost
nothing, “ Shall I horder you a pot of the Capellarion ? ”
If you show any signs of weakness or wavering, he will
put it in a more forcible manner—“You should ’ave a
bottle of our Tittivator,” or, decisively, “ You ’ll take a
bottle of The Begenerator, then, with you, Sir, to-day,”
and this, mind you, settles the question. If you don’t
buy his master’s wares, on which the young man doubtless
gets a per-centage, and justly too, you cannot but feel that
you have fallen in the opinion of the hairdresser; not that
this is of importance when you are once out of his hands,
but while in the power of a man who holds the scissors
over you, it is politic to make him think as much of you
as possible. Boldly, therefore, profess a thorough know-
ledge of all the unguents in the shop. “The Medicated
Balsam is your constant companion: without the Titti-
vator,” say you, “ no person’s toilette-table can be com-
plete. The Capellarion is the delight of your mornings—
the Medicated Balsam the solace of your declining day.”
Now for the wash. The ceiling opens above my head;
a pipe appears; a brazen tube like the neck of a watering-
pot pointing downwards, taking my hair for the flower-bed.
1 am about to ask “ what this is,” when— ssssh—squish
—down it comes and I am deluged with the fragrant Capel-
larion. This is not so bad. Before I can recover my
breath, whirr, whirr, whirr go the wheels again, and two
fierce iron or brazen arms appear from somewhere, armed
with the stiffest of rough towels. I try to avoid the blow
from the one on my right, and am caught with wonderful
precision on my left ear by the other. Both arms begin
to pummel me; whirr, whirr, go the wheels; everything
seems in motion, the looking-glass, I fancy, dances, the
cries of other struggling victims rise from various corners
of the room, the little comb laughed to see such sport, the
brush runs away with the scissors, the young men execute
a war-dance—whizzle, whizzle, whizzle—I don’t know
whether I stand on my head or my heels, until I find
myself in the front shop before the counter, paying money
to a cheerful-looking lady in black.
Lovers of sensation should be made acquainted with this
fact, viz., that, for all the above mentioned excitement,
performed exactly as described, you are only charged One
Shilling; ay—and, what is more, in that small sum is also
included Shaving by Machinery, if you feel inclined to stop
for it. I didn’t; and, therefore, am still able to sign myself
Professor Hairey.
A Capital Job for the Conjurors.
We are happy to announce that several of our best con-
jurors are engaged in the discovery of the means whereby
the Spiritualists accomplish what they grandly term their
“manifestations,” but which sceptics have been heard to
speak of by a shorter name. The Wizards of the North,
South, East, and West will work together in this task, and
the result of their labours will be published in a pamphlet,
to be called, out of compliment to the Brothers Davenport,
(with of course the leave of Mr. Lever) Davenport Done.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
153
AN AWFUL OPERATION.
{Being an Account of a Wonderful Crop.)
sloved, Calm, ever-
Placid Punch, —
Even in these days
of Sensation 1 was
not prepared for the
horrible tortures
fractised by—shall
say men ? Yes, by
men upon their fel-
low-men in the cause
of civilisation, in the
obtrusive advance-
ment of science, and
under the pretence
of conferring bene-
fits—inestimable be-
nefits—on mankind.
“ Oh, Thingummy”
(I forget the letter
of the quotation, but
the spirit is the
point),
“What crimes do they
not commit in thy
name 1 ”
Notes of admira-
tion are wanting to me; all the available ones, of the only size really adapted to my
meaning, are used on the largest Posters about Town. Those of a lesser note fail
me. But I will multiply them—I will raise them to the »th !
Sir, I have undergone an Awful Operation! ! I tremble while thinking of
the past! !! Have I been racked? Worse than that!! ! Drawn? Worse than
that; aye, worse than'if I had been caricatured by photography into the bargain.
Quartered ? Worser—a deal worser !!!! Tight Boots ? No. Thumbscrew ?
No! You will never guess. Oh, Mr. Punch, tell it not in Gath, if you ever go
there, but I, your beautiful, your own, your own correspondent, have had my Hair
cut!!! !! Cut by—I am not going to use strong language—but am going to say,
cut by Machinery!!!! Never, never again, Mr. P., not even if my locks grow
long, matted, and ragged, as did those of Peter the Wild Boy, or Peter the Hermit,
or some Peter or other. However, I’ll no more be a re-peater of this name, but
come to the point at once. Point! that word recalls the scene from first to last.
“ Did I want the points ”—he, the hairdresser, called them pints—“off? or would
I ’ave a deal off? ” I chose the latter. No sooner was I vested in a garment—
something between a gentleman’s summer dressing-gown and a lady’s bathing-
dress—of that grotesque pattern with which, of late, the pictures of a facetious
singer styling himsell “The Cure,” have made us sufficiently acquainted,—no
sooner, I say was I bound in this extraordinary wrapper—like a volume of Strype—
and had taken my seat in front of a large looking-glass, than the operator began
arranging certain apparatus that filled me with apprehension, and made my hair
stand right up on end, all ready for cutting, like quills upon the fretful what-you-
may-call-him. He first pulled ropes from the ceiling, after the manner of one about
to imitate M. Leotard on the trapeze. These ropes were fitted with a peculiar
pair of scissors, made, as I take it, on the model of those used in the opening of a
Pantomime, when His Majesty King Humguittn sends for the Court Barber to
trim him; on which occasion the usual result is that the Court Barber is trimmed
by His Gracious Majesty. I assure you that to have seen my hairdresser’s talented
assistants dance into the room, footing it to some lively measure, with huge cans
labelled “Hot Water,” “Soap,” “Bear’s Grease,” would not have been to me a
matter for much surprise. However, they didn’t. Such a proceeding would have
savoured of a joke; and that this, my friend, was no joke, I do most solemnly
declare! Two more ropes held a circular comb: a young man took his place
behind my chair; then there were, to use another stage phrase, “Wheels heard
without,” and, with a whirr-whirr-whirr, like the deafening sound in a small manu-
factory, or in the Polytechnic during the hours of exhibition, the ropes began to
move rapidly up, up, up, down, down, down, backwards and forwards, and round
and round, the scissors commenced snipping the air, and the comb, as it appeared
to me, began circling round my head, like the fearful stuffed nondescript bird at
Astley’s, which is worked by a string over the prostrate body of the agonised dummy
Mazeppa. Suddenly, the young man controlled the gambols of these wild creatures,
and directed them at my head. At my head, literally, not my hair. Bah! they
disdained that, tearing through it like buffaloes through a prairie, and seizing upon
my scalp with the ferocity of a Bed Indian warrior.
“ Here ! Hi! Take ’em off! ” I cried.
“ You find ’em a little ’ard at first, Sir ? ” inquired the young man blandly.
“ Hard ! I should rather say I-” whirr, whirr, whirr,—off again. “ Hold !
Stop! ”
The young man takes this opportunity to explain :—
“ You see, Sir, our Proprietor only patented 'em last week, ana we ain't got quite
into the way of working 'em: it's a little hawkward like at first!'
Awkward ! Ha! ha ! Good, that. My hair was lying about the floor in little
twisted knqts : what remained on my head resembled—hang me, if I know what it
resembled, except the tufts on Mr. Pecksniee’s head, or
the comic wigs, in which the Brothers Webb appeared as
the Twin Dromios. And oh ! my poor skin!
“Should he take hany more off?” inquired the young
man—the youngest man, I subsequently found, who had not
long been out of his apprenticeship.
“ Trim it evenly,” said I; “ and, for Heaven’s sake,
in the old-fashioned way.”
He smiled.
“ 1 should prefer doin’ of it in that way myself. Sir,” he
whispered in my ear, “ but Master says we must use this
’ere napparatus, so as in this slack time of year we may get
our 'anas in for the Seasing."
This comes of stopping in Town unfashionably! Oh,
cursed fate, that didn’t give me to the moor!
“ There,” said I, “ just brush it smooth, and have done.”
“ ’Ave it washed, Sir? Gents mostly ’as it washed.”
“ Yes, by all means.”
“ Hand will you ’ave some Medicated Balsamic Begene-
rator, or our Emollient Capellarion ? ”
“ Some of the Capellarion,” I answered, in the off-hand
manner of one accustomed to the regular use of that expen-
sive pomade.
It is always as well to give your hairdresser this idea, or,
if you show the least indecision or ignorance on this sub-
ject, he will be down upon you, all in the way of business,
with tender inquiries as to whether “ you wouldn’t like a
bottle of the Balsam ? ” or, more persuasively, as if it cost
nothing, “ Shall I horder you a pot of the Capellarion ? ”
If you show any signs of weakness or wavering, he will
put it in a more forcible manner—“You should ’ave a
bottle of our Tittivator,” or, decisively, “ You ’ll take a
bottle of The Begenerator, then, with you, Sir, to-day,”
and this, mind you, settles the question. If you don’t
buy his master’s wares, on which the young man doubtless
gets a per-centage, and justly too, you cannot but feel that
you have fallen in the opinion of the hairdresser; not that
this is of importance when you are once out of his hands,
but while in the power of a man who holds the scissors
over you, it is politic to make him think as much of you
as possible. Boldly, therefore, profess a thorough know-
ledge of all the unguents in the shop. “The Medicated
Balsam is your constant companion: without the Titti-
vator,” say you, “ no person’s toilette-table can be com-
plete. The Capellarion is the delight of your mornings—
the Medicated Balsam the solace of your declining day.”
Now for the wash. The ceiling opens above my head;
a pipe appears; a brazen tube like the neck of a watering-
pot pointing downwards, taking my hair for the flower-bed.
1 am about to ask “ what this is,” when— ssssh—squish
—down it comes and I am deluged with the fragrant Capel-
larion. This is not so bad. Before I can recover my
breath, whirr, whirr, whirr go the wheels again, and two
fierce iron or brazen arms appear from somewhere, armed
with the stiffest of rough towels. I try to avoid the blow
from the one on my right, and am caught with wonderful
precision on my left ear by the other. Both arms begin
to pummel me; whirr, whirr, go the wheels; everything
seems in motion, the looking-glass, I fancy, dances, the
cries of other struggling victims rise from various corners
of the room, the little comb laughed to see such sport, the
brush runs away with the scissors, the young men execute
a war-dance—whizzle, whizzle, whizzle—I don’t know
whether I stand on my head or my heels, until I find
myself in the front shop before the counter, paying money
to a cheerful-looking lady in black.
Lovers of sensation should be made acquainted with this
fact, viz., that, for all the above mentioned excitement,
performed exactly as described, you are only charged One
Shilling; ay—and, what is more, in that small sum is also
included Shaving by Machinery, if you feel inclined to stop
for it. I didn’t; and, therefore, am still able to sign myself
Professor Hairey.
A Capital Job for the Conjurors.
We are happy to announce that several of our best con-
jurors are engaged in the discovery of the means whereby
the Spiritualists accomplish what they grandly term their
“manifestations,” but which sceptics have been heard to
speak of by a shorter name. The Wizards of the North,
South, East, and West will work together in this task, and
the result of their labours will be published in a pamphlet,
to be called, out of compliment to the Brothers Davenport,
(with of course the leave of Mr. Lever) Davenport Done.