DOI issue:
December 8, 1866
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16878#0245
December 8, 1866.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
237
evidently, the clear knowledge of a native, “No, that’s Beckenhurst
Station: this is Beckenhurst village.”
“What, all this?” I ask, alluding to the distance we’ve already
travelled. He informs me, with his whip pointing straight forward,
and then from left to right, at the hedges, “ Yes, all this : Bovor’s a
matter of four mile from here.”
I tell him that they said it was only four miles from Beckenhurst
Station : which notion seems to amuse him behind his collar and
comforter, and under his hat.
Happy Thought.—These country people never know what distance
is: therefore, he may be wrong. Yes, but wrong which way? Is it
more or less than four miles ? I ought to have asked at the station
how much a mile the fly charges here. This is just one of those
occasions when I want presence of mind. I think of these things,
just like my repartees and similes, a quarter of an hour after I ougiit
to have said them.
Happy Thought.—To pretend I know the road: then he won’t
impose on me. I do recollect having been in this neighbourhood, or
at all events in Kent, when I was a child. I observe, with decision,
“Oh, it’s not more than four miles.” It doesn’t seem to make very
much difference to him, so perhaps they charge here by the hour. I
don’t like to ask him to drive fast; and yet if he dawdles for the sake
of running up a bill, I shan’t get to Bovor Castle, until, perhaps,
one o’clock in the morning, when everyone’s fast asleep.
TJnhappy Thought— Supposing I can’t get in? Because, hang it, as
my telegram has not arrived, they d"n’t expect me. If I do get in,
p’raps they won’t have got a bed. House full, perhaps. I put this
case to the driver, and add, “ I suppose (as a matter of course) that I
can easily get a bed at the Hotel.” He asks, gruffly, “ What Hotel ? ” I
say, “ Why, at Bovor.” This amuses him under his wrapper, as before,
and he observes presently, “ There ain’t no Hotel.” I think he’s
stickling for names, and putting too fine a point (so to speak) upon it;
so I explain that when I say Hotel, I mean village Inn. He answers
me, displaying some little petulance, “Thereain’t no village adding,
as a consequence, “and there ain’t no Inn.” “No Inn!” I exclaim.
I hardly like asking after this if there is a Castle. Supposing it should
be only a practical joke of Childers ? Impossible.
“ If the worst comes to the worst,” I say, “ I can get a bed at the
hotel at Beckenhurst, then ? ” He is doubtful about this, as they ’re
sure to be closed, being so late.
Happy Thought.—This flyman comes from some stables : the stables
belong to an inn, of course. I put this to him, thus, that “ if the worst
does come to the wTorst, I can get a bed at his inn. He extinguishes
all hope in this quarter by telling me that “his master only lets out
horses and flys.”
I hope to goodness Childers will be up. He used to be a great
fellow m town for sitting up late. Perhaps in the country he goes to
bed early.
Happy Thought.—Dismiss anxiety, and obtain information about the
country from the driver.
I ask him about the crops. He doesn’t know much about crops.
“ Any floods ? ” I inquire. He’s not heard of any.
Happy Thought.—Get some statistics from him about Cattle Plague.
I ask him “ if he’s had much Cattle Plague here.” He is angry and
returns that “ he hasn’t had no Cattle Plague.” He thinks I’m laugh-
ing at him. These country people are very tetchy. I tell him politely,
that I don’t mean that he’s had the Cattle Plague (though he’s ass
enough for anything, but I don’t say this), but I want to know has it
been bad here. “ He hasn’t heard as it has.”
Perhaps he’s got some information about the antiquities of the
county._ No he hasn’t. “Bovor Castle’s very old,” I suggest, to
draw him out. He “supposes as it is.” I ask “How old?” He
don’t know; but it’s been there ever so long. “ Is he acquainted
with Mr. Childers ? ” “ No he ain’t.”
He won’t be drawn out. It is lighter now. The moon shines.
Delightful night to arrive at_ an old Peudal Castle. I imagine to
myself a grand entrance : Gothic or Norman arches : [Happy Thought.
Get up my architecture.] a fine old bridge, a large massive gate, with
an iron rod at the side, which moves a deep toned bell on the arrival
of a guest. Or perhaps, a horn hung up outside wherewith to summon
the warder. Shall read Ivanhoe again. We go down hill.
We are in a lane full of ruts: there is no doubt about that. He
informs^me “ We’re just there.” It is past twelve o’clock.
I can’t see the Castle ; perhaps it will burst upon me presently iu
the full light ot the pale romantic moon. It doesn’t, however, and my
driver pulls up at an old wooden five-barred gate leading into a field.
“ Here’s Bovor Castle,” says he, as we stop short; and he looks
over his comforter at me as much as to say, “Andwhat are you going
to do now ? ”
I don’t know. I only see a common gate leading into a sloshy field.
“ Can’t we get nearer to the Castle than this ? ” I ask, not seeing
the Castle at all anywhere.
It appears we can’t, as the Castle is in a sort of hollow. It is sur-
rounded by a moat, and there’s no getting up to it driving, nor even
on foot, if the drawbridge is up.
Happy Thought.—To write a Chapter in Typical Developments on the
idiotcy and thoughtlessness of our Norman ancestors. I wonder if they
ever arrived late at night and couldn’t get in. I will descend.
Happy Thought.—To doubt the honesty of this country driver. If I
descend, he may drive off with my luggage; and. I shall never see him
again. In fact, as he has been behind his wrapper, coat-collar, and
underneath his hat, I haven’t seen him yet, and couldn’t swear to him
in a Court of Law.
Happy Thought.—To make him get down and drag my luggage out,
while I stand at the horse’s head. Good. But what’s next ? Here’s
my portmanteau, box, desk, bag, hat-box, rugs, dressing-case, and how
am I to get up, or down, to Bovor Castle ?
Happy Thought—Hz shall take them on, and I’ll remain with the
horse. He doesn’t like the idea, and mistrusts my stopping with his
gig and horse. These apparently simple bumpkins are full of low cun-
ning. Capital subject for a chapter in Typical Developments. He opens
the gate, and carries my portmanteau across the field. Following him
with my eyes, I gradually become aware of a building in the distance,
across apparently two fields, by moonlight. Not my idea, at present,
of Bovor Castle.
If Childers is not up, and I have to carry all these things back,
and then drive about Kent during the night looking for a bed, it will
be pleasant.
Happy Thought.—Childers shall get up. What a surprise for him !
Luggage still being carried. Halt-past midnight.
REFLECTIONS, CYNICAL AND COMMERCIAL.
BY SIR MUNGO MALAGROWTHER.
Character is formed by circumstances—some say. I deny it.
Look at the turf, how green it is ! but does it impart any verdure to
those whose grand stand is upon it ? Go from the turf to the bank.
Some simpletons suppose that all who get up a bank must necessarily
have lofty views, Pshaw! A bank has natural attractions for men
with a keen scent, and who don’t mind little slips in trying to secure
their summum bonum—cent, per cent. I know a bank (it is not that
whereon the wild thyme grows). People shouted “Look at the mint
there! ” and straightway a rush took place to get up the bank. Of
course there was a ditch at the bottom, and every man of them put his
foot in it.
Turning aside from banks, let us look at rails. Women and children,
with here and there a country parson, fancy that everything connected
with rails must be perfectly straightforward. 1 thought so once, but
my faith was shaken in travelling from London to Chatham and Dover.
Rails, I have lately discovered, are carried out in very crooked ways,
and those who lay down the sleepers are themselves remarkable for
being very wide awake. Rolling stock, like rolling stones, gather
sometimes but little moss, and those who have leant heavily upon it,
too often lose their balance. _
I am about to make an original remark, and expect to be ridiculed
and reviled—by those who never take up either an opinion or a news-
aper until it has been aired. Public confidence, like an eel, has won-
erful vitality- It may be fearfully cut up, but its power of voluntary
motion is not annihilated. Perhaps, like its prototype, according to
popular tradition, it rather likes to be stripped of its outer integument
alive. When put over the glowing fire of Chancery, at the final
winding-up, it wriggles about, a little, but gradually becomes reconciled
to the rarefied atmosphere, and is obedient to the call of the chef de
cuisine. What conclusion, then, am I driven to ? This, in plain prose—
that being frizzled yourself does really afford you as much pleasure as
cooking accounts for your most trusting friends.
From banks and rails a short cut brings us to the Commons. There
is some talk—a large sum—about putting the fences further back.
You needn’t walk far to meet wiseacres who are for removing them
altogether. These fences no doubt keep out many a great goose, and
hence arises a deal of angry cackle. I hate cackle, and shall be thank-
ful if a limited number of outsiders receive a general invitation to come
in with their bills. A green goose, inspired by this charming thought,
addressing his equals, exclaimed in my hearing,
“ ’Tis sweet to think that Bright eyes mark our coming,
And will look brighter when we come ! ”
Sweet-stuff! Did you ever see any that wasn’t coloured with poison
and trash ?
To a Retiring L. C. J.
Farewell, kind William Erle !
Though your wig go out of curl,
And moth upon your scarlet cloth may gnaw with hungry jaws
Let Punch your scutcheon fix :
Brave Judge, who loved to mix
Justice’s nobler Essence with the Spirit of the laws.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
237
evidently, the clear knowledge of a native, “No, that’s Beckenhurst
Station: this is Beckenhurst village.”
“What, all this?” I ask, alluding to the distance we’ve already
travelled. He informs me, with his whip pointing straight forward,
and then from left to right, at the hedges, “ Yes, all this : Bovor’s a
matter of four mile from here.”
I tell him that they said it was only four miles from Beckenhurst
Station : which notion seems to amuse him behind his collar and
comforter, and under his hat.
Happy Thought.—These country people never know what distance
is: therefore, he may be wrong. Yes, but wrong which way? Is it
more or less than four miles ? I ought to have asked at the station
how much a mile the fly charges here. This is just one of those
occasions when I want presence of mind. I think of these things,
just like my repartees and similes, a quarter of an hour after I ougiit
to have said them.
Happy Thought.—To pretend I know the road: then he won’t
impose on me. I do recollect having been in this neighbourhood, or
at all events in Kent, when I was a child. I observe, with decision,
“Oh, it’s not more than four miles.” It doesn’t seem to make very
much difference to him, so perhaps they charge here by the hour. I
don’t like to ask him to drive fast; and yet if he dawdles for the sake
of running up a bill, I shan’t get to Bovor Castle, until, perhaps,
one o’clock in the morning, when everyone’s fast asleep.
TJnhappy Thought— Supposing I can’t get in? Because, hang it, as
my telegram has not arrived, they d"n’t expect me. If I do get in,
p’raps they won’t have got a bed. House full, perhaps. I put this
case to the driver, and add, “ I suppose (as a matter of course) that I
can easily get a bed at the Hotel.” He asks, gruffly, “ What Hotel ? ” I
say, “ Why, at Bovor.” This amuses him under his wrapper, as before,
and he observes presently, “ There ain’t no Hotel.” I think he’s
stickling for names, and putting too fine a point (so to speak) upon it;
so I explain that when I say Hotel, I mean village Inn. He answers
me, displaying some little petulance, “Thereain’t no village adding,
as a consequence, “and there ain’t no Inn.” “No Inn!” I exclaim.
I hardly like asking after this if there is a Castle. Supposing it should
be only a practical joke of Childers ? Impossible.
“ If the worst comes to the worst,” I say, “ I can get a bed at the
hotel at Beckenhurst, then ? ” He is doubtful about this, as they ’re
sure to be closed, being so late.
Happy Thought.—This flyman comes from some stables : the stables
belong to an inn, of course. I put this to him, thus, that “ if the worst
does come to the wTorst, I can get a bed at his inn. He extinguishes
all hope in this quarter by telling me that “his master only lets out
horses and flys.”
I hope to goodness Childers will be up. He used to be a great
fellow m town for sitting up late. Perhaps in the country he goes to
bed early.
Happy Thought.—Dismiss anxiety, and obtain information about the
country from the driver.
I ask him about the crops. He doesn’t know much about crops.
“ Any floods ? ” I inquire. He’s not heard of any.
Happy Thought.—Get some statistics from him about Cattle Plague.
I ask him “ if he’s had much Cattle Plague here.” He is angry and
returns that “ he hasn’t had no Cattle Plague.” He thinks I’m laugh-
ing at him. These country people are very tetchy. I tell him politely,
that I don’t mean that he’s had the Cattle Plague (though he’s ass
enough for anything, but I don’t say this), but I want to know has it
been bad here. “ He hasn’t heard as it has.”
Perhaps he’s got some information about the antiquities of the
county._ No he hasn’t. “Bovor Castle’s very old,” I suggest, to
draw him out. He “supposes as it is.” I ask “How old?” He
don’t know; but it’s been there ever so long. “ Is he acquainted
with Mr. Childers ? ” “ No he ain’t.”
He won’t be drawn out. It is lighter now. The moon shines.
Delightful night to arrive at_ an old Peudal Castle. I imagine to
myself a grand entrance : Gothic or Norman arches : [Happy Thought.
Get up my architecture.] a fine old bridge, a large massive gate, with
an iron rod at the side, which moves a deep toned bell on the arrival
of a guest. Or perhaps, a horn hung up outside wherewith to summon
the warder. Shall read Ivanhoe again. We go down hill.
We are in a lane full of ruts: there is no doubt about that. He
informs^me “ We’re just there.” It is past twelve o’clock.
I can’t see the Castle ; perhaps it will burst upon me presently iu
the full light ot the pale romantic moon. It doesn’t, however, and my
driver pulls up at an old wooden five-barred gate leading into a field.
“ Here’s Bovor Castle,” says he, as we stop short; and he looks
over his comforter at me as much as to say, “Andwhat are you going
to do now ? ”
I don’t know. I only see a common gate leading into a sloshy field.
“ Can’t we get nearer to the Castle than this ? ” I ask, not seeing
the Castle at all anywhere.
It appears we can’t, as the Castle is in a sort of hollow. It is sur-
rounded by a moat, and there’s no getting up to it driving, nor even
on foot, if the drawbridge is up.
Happy Thought.—To write a Chapter in Typical Developments on the
idiotcy and thoughtlessness of our Norman ancestors. I wonder if they
ever arrived late at night and couldn’t get in. I will descend.
Happy Thought.—To doubt the honesty of this country driver. If I
descend, he may drive off with my luggage; and. I shall never see him
again. In fact, as he has been behind his wrapper, coat-collar, and
underneath his hat, I haven’t seen him yet, and couldn’t swear to him
in a Court of Law.
Happy Thought.—To make him get down and drag my luggage out,
while I stand at the horse’s head. Good. But what’s next ? Here’s
my portmanteau, box, desk, bag, hat-box, rugs, dressing-case, and how
am I to get up, or down, to Bovor Castle ?
Happy Thought—Hz shall take them on, and I’ll remain with the
horse. He doesn’t like the idea, and mistrusts my stopping with his
gig and horse. These apparently simple bumpkins are full of low cun-
ning. Capital subject for a chapter in Typical Developments. He opens
the gate, and carries my portmanteau across the field. Following him
with my eyes, I gradually become aware of a building in the distance,
across apparently two fields, by moonlight. Not my idea, at present,
of Bovor Castle.
If Childers is not up, and I have to carry all these things back,
and then drive about Kent during the night looking for a bed, it will
be pleasant.
Happy Thought.—Childers shall get up. What a surprise for him !
Luggage still being carried. Halt-past midnight.
REFLECTIONS, CYNICAL AND COMMERCIAL.
BY SIR MUNGO MALAGROWTHER.
Character is formed by circumstances—some say. I deny it.
Look at the turf, how green it is ! but does it impart any verdure to
those whose grand stand is upon it ? Go from the turf to the bank.
Some simpletons suppose that all who get up a bank must necessarily
have lofty views, Pshaw! A bank has natural attractions for men
with a keen scent, and who don’t mind little slips in trying to secure
their summum bonum—cent, per cent. I know a bank (it is not that
whereon the wild thyme grows). People shouted “Look at the mint
there! ” and straightway a rush took place to get up the bank. Of
course there was a ditch at the bottom, and every man of them put his
foot in it.
Turning aside from banks, let us look at rails. Women and children,
with here and there a country parson, fancy that everything connected
with rails must be perfectly straightforward. 1 thought so once, but
my faith was shaken in travelling from London to Chatham and Dover.
Rails, I have lately discovered, are carried out in very crooked ways,
and those who lay down the sleepers are themselves remarkable for
being very wide awake. Rolling stock, like rolling stones, gather
sometimes but little moss, and those who have leant heavily upon it,
too often lose their balance. _
I am about to make an original remark, and expect to be ridiculed
and reviled—by those who never take up either an opinion or a news-
aper until it has been aired. Public confidence, like an eel, has won-
erful vitality- It may be fearfully cut up, but its power of voluntary
motion is not annihilated. Perhaps, like its prototype, according to
popular tradition, it rather likes to be stripped of its outer integument
alive. When put over the glowing fire of Chancery, at the final
winding-up, it wriggles about, a little, but gradually becomes reconciled
to the rarefied atmosphere, and is obedient to the call of the chef de
cuisine. What conclusion, then, am I driven to ? This, in plain prose—
that being frizzled yourself does really afford you as much pleasure as
cooking accounts for your most trusting friends.
From banks and rails a short cut brings us to the Commons. There
is some talk—a large sum—about putting the fences further back.
You needn’t walk far to meet wiseacres who are for removing them
altogether. These fences no doubt keep out many a great goose, and
hence arises a deal of angry cackle. I hate cackle, and shall be thank-
ful if a limited number of outsiders receive a general invitation to come
in with their bills. A green goose, inspired by this charming thought,
addressing his equals, exclaimed in my hearing,
“ ’Tis sweet to think that Bright eyes mark our coming,
And will look brighter when we come ! ”
Sweet-stuff! Did you ever see any that wasn’t coloured with poison
and trash ?
To a Retiring L. C. J.
Farewell, kind William Erle !
Though your wig go out of curl,
And moth upon your scarlet cloth may gnaw with hungry jaws
Let Punch your scutcheon fix :
Brave Judge, who loved to mix
Justice’s nobler Essence with the Spirit of the laws.