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October 29, 1864.J

PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

183

A NATIONAL GRIEVANCE.

lter tlie law? We
should think so. If
we knew where to
find any of the
Ministers, we would
have Parliament
summoned at once.
Don’t talk to us.
The Act for shut-
ting the Haymarket
dens and other
houses of rascality
at one in the morn-
ing was all right
enough, but who
dreamed that it
would affect Paddy
Green’s? The idea
is monstrous. Why,
not only is nothing
wrong ever said or
done there, not only
might Marchionesses
sit in the gallery
(we believe they do)
and hear all that goes
on, but that Hall is
a school, a place of
instruction. With
his own royal ears
has Mr. Punch heard
Horace’s “ Integer
vitce ” delightfully
sung there as a quar-
tette, and heartily
applauded. Is that
the sort of work to
be stopped by a law
intended to put down
profligacy ? Bother, bosh! People may say that theoretically one in
the morning is time for one to be going liome, and so it is, theoretically ;
but while composers make Operas that play till 12 45, how are you to
get to supper in Covent Garden, and get it over and have your weed,
by one ? Again we say bother and bosh. It is a duty to go very often
to Mr. Green’s: first, because it is a pleasant haunt; and secondly,
because he is like Abdiel, faithful alone among the faithless found ; that
is to say, he alone excludes objectionable songs and objectionable
societv. But the duty cannot be completely discharged while the one
o’clock rule is enforced. An exception must be made in favour of
Evans’ late joys. We dare say that when the Home Secretary sees
this, he will write to Paddy Green, and desire him to violate the law
whenever convenient, and that he, the Home Secretary, will send
him a cheque for any penalties that may be inflicted. But that is an
irregular way of doing business, and the first task for the next Session
must be the Evans’ Emancipation Act.

QUIET WATERING-PLACES.

No. III.—FKESHCHURCH (Continued).

After the Ordinary .—'With, an extra-ordinary attack of dyspepsia.
Have I ever dined with Bears ? I never had that pleasure ; probably
if the chance were afforded me, the Bears would dine, and I shouldn’t.
I here merely record the fact that such a set of Bears, as sat down to
the “ hordinary” at the Dolphin, Ereshchurch, I never met. “Nevar,
Nev-ar, Nay-vax! ” as Mr. J. B. Buckstone would emphatically de-
clare, with a distension of cheek and a shaking of head, irresistible.
How they did eat! and in what a fashion! I really felt inclined to warn
one closely-cropped gentleman against so rash a mode of using the knife,
as that in which he was indulging. Judging, from one or two of his
remarks, which were somewhat of the unnecessarily-strongest, that
he was not the sort of person to take a stranger’s interference in
good part, I restrained niyself, and trembled for his safety. An
accidental twist of the knife, one slice either to the right or the left,
and there is no knowing what amount of food, this already capacious
mouth might have, at one and the same time, accommodated. I could
not choose but watch him; and, watching, saw the knife sliding about
the very edge of this elastic crater, and in the midst of beans and bacon
paused in horror. These gentlemen generally seemed to be rather
partial to an approach to the raw material in their victuals. The cook
knew their palates, evidently. He, or she, had left undone everything

that ought to have been done; and he, or she, was a sinner above all
others, in consequence: hence my dyspepsia; hence this note, writ
immediately after the bear-fight. There were only two waiters to
twenty-five or thirty guests, and this pah- attended, specially, to three
or four very horsey-looking gents, tight in the trousers, stiff in the neck,
red in the hands,with a ring, a pin, or a watch-chain of such an unobtrusive
character, as to attract your attention some seconds before you had
connected these phenomena with their exhibitor. They scrambled for
greens, they dashed with knives, spoons and forks, at potatoes;
they shoved the salt about anyhow, and pulled the mustard-pot away
from one another, without a word of apology. While yet their mouths
were full, they would have asked for more, but utterance being impos-
sible, they ingeniously knocked the backs of their knives against the
tumblers, to imitate a bell, and thereby summon the attendant. The
waiter, having evidently his master’s interest at heart, came when he
chose, and didn’t come when he didn’t choose, which latter case
happened once hi every three calls.

8 o’clock.—More bells than ever on the pier. I am told it is the last
boat coming in. 1 think I shall walk on to the pier, and rejoice over
the last boat. Crowds on the promenade. I will avoid the promenade
and affect the pier, which I see is less frequented, just now, than ’twas
a few minutes since. It is twopence to go on to the pier. Well, two-
pence is not dear for peace and quietude. The toll-taker stares at
me. Why not ? perhaps he can’t help it. Yes, here I can walk alone,
and view the broad expanse of waters. Nothing save the Blue, the
Eresh, the Ever Eree beyond the pier-head, except—“ Yeo heo ! Yeo
heo!” Hullo! what’s that? Nautical sounds. Sailors landing at
the pier-head. Smugglers, p’raps. No ! Yachtsmen. They are lugging
something up. Can’t they do it without all that noise? What are
these people doing? Will I “bear a hand” with a pole? No.
Then I’d better “ get out.” I get out accordingly, and ask the toll-
taker what is going to happen. The Mayor and the pier-authorities,
it appears, have granted permission for an alfresco dance on the pier, to
be given by the yachtsmen. “ It ’ll be a pretty sight.” Will it ? But
it may rain ? Yes : that’s one comfort, it may rain, and that ’ll stop
the noise. “Ah! then, they’ll have it in the Dolphin.” Heaven
forbid!

10. —It has begun; on the pier; and, as far- as 1 can see and hear,
it has begun everywhere else. In the hotel, out of the hotel, on the
promenade, on the pier. I am getting accustomed to the sound, and
shall go to bed. The bells are at it again. Talking of bells, I will ring
aud ask at what time the first boat starts in the morning. Dear me,
where is the bell ? There is not such a thing. I should say that this is
the only room in Ereshchurch without one. No matter, I ’ll call.

10'30.—I have been calling for about a quarter of an hour. Oh,
here’s some one. “ Did I want any thing ? ” Did I? yes I do. The
boat starts it seems at seven in the morning. “There’s sure to be
some one up at that time.” Very good. To bed.

11. —Not asleep. The noise won’t let me. Music everywhere; When
I say music, I judge that it is music when you are close to it, and take
each band separately. But, from my position, a conglomeration of
sounds reaches me, peculiarly unmelodious.

IT30.—Eireworks. They cheer each rocket, and shout unmeaningly
at everything else.

12. —Dancing in-doors. I light a candle and try to read. I blow out
my candle, and give it up as a bad job.

1 a.m.—Noises, banging of doors, people going to bed ; more noises
and scuffling. Why can’t they go to bed, without scuffling? How-
ever, that they do go to bed at all, is a thing for which one must be

thankful.

2. —Now I shall sleep. Hullo! Somebody comes into my room. A
gentleman, in evening dress, carrying a candle I start up and say,
“ Hullo ! ” He will apologise and retire. Nothing of the sort. He
walks up to me, holds the candle unsteadily before me, smiles and
shakes his head. He is drunk; and, with a candle, dangerous. He
wants to show me how the fireworks are done. I object, and request
him to leave the room. Where’s my bell? Ob, I forgot, there isn’t
one. He tells me, hi an idiotic fashion, that I am a jolly good fellow,
and then makes a miserable attempt to give the same sentiment
musically. I ask him politely why he doesn’t go to his room ? He says,
“ this is his room.” I point to the fact of my being here, as nega-
tiving his assertion. He says, indistinctly, that “ he’s very glad to see
me;” and “ allssshallbeverglad to see me.” He means that he shall
always be very glad to see me. Eor my part, I don’t care if I never set
eyes on him again. He takes a seat, and shakes his head at his boots,
in a reproachful manner. What on earth am I to do ? Hi! Somebody
else at the door. Another gentleman in evening dress. Also intoxi-
cated ? No. He apologises for the intoxicated person, who, he says,
is his friend, and then, with some difficulty—owing to the inebriated
person’s still existing desire to show me, practically, how the fireworks
are done—removes him.

3. —I will now sleep; and at seven good bye to Ereshchurch.
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