DOI issue:
February 9, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16879#0068
February 9, 1867-1 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
(Quit Bovor. Night in Town. Seaside Interval.)
Still raining.
Happy Thought.—I ’ve stopped here, but the rain hasn’t. I shall say
this as Sheridan’s, or Dean Swift’s.
The butcher orders a fly from Beckenhurst, and the fly fetches me
from Bovor. Old Mrs. Childers regrets my departure, but says; to
cheer me, that she dares say they ’ll all be driven home by the moat rismg.
Happy Thought.—I shall be driven home by the fly.
Happy Thought.—Say this. They laughed.
Happy Thought.—Send it to Bunch. Say so. Engleeield suggests,
“ Why not write for Bunch ?” Stenton, the philosopher, says, “ Yes,
write for Bunch regularly, and they’ll send it you regularly.” (Stupid
joke, after mine) Poss Eelhyr shakes hands warmly and apologises
for the rain.
Mrs. Poss says good-bye, and I feel that I almost sneak out of the
drawing-room. I wish I could say something by which they’d remem-
ber me. The ladies (I see them from outside) have composed them-
selves before the fire, and are intent on their books. I came into this
place like a lion, I leave it like a lamb. Artistically speaking, a con-
versationalist ought to come in like a lamb and go out like a lion.
When Childers and the others have carried my luggage to the gate,
I beg they won’t trouble themselves. They say it doesn’t matter, as it
doesn’t now.
In the Fly.—I look out of window. They have all disappeared, as if
they were tired of me : no waving of hands, no cheers. In old feudal
days there’d have been some hearty stirrup-cup ceremonies. Dreary:
windows of fly up. See nothing: cold, raw, damp. Christmas time
coming on fast. I should like to send Fridoline Symperson a present,
just to hint the state of my affections. What can I send? Christmas
time only suggests turkeys and sausages. Get out my MSS. and make
notes. * * * By the time I have found my MSS., which had been
scrunched up by the maid in among the boots, I find we are at
Beckenhurst. Ticket to town: station-master smiling, asks me if I
ever did anything about that telegram ? I recollect now I’d threatened
to write to the Times. I reply, “ Ah, they ’ll hear about it yet” as if
my vengeance had only been dozing.
London.—Ought at this season of the year to take some Christmas
present down to old Byng. Besides, it’s his birthday. He’ll be just
as glad to see me without it. (I shouldn’t, on my birthday.) There’s
not going to be any party of ladies or he wouldn’t have asked me; but
we shall spend a quiet Christmas-time together, with cosy chats over the
past: yes, we ’re very old friends. However, I ’ll just walk through the
streets and have a look at the shops. The difficulty is, I can’t tell what
Byng would like.
The Haymarket.—A pony runs away, traces broken. Crossing-
sweeper knocked down.
Happy Thought.—Step into a shop.
Shopman says, “ Spirited little animal that, Sir.” I return carelessly,
“ Yes, nice little fellow ; might easily have been stopped, if they’d had
any sense.” I am quitting the shop with a sense of having perfectly
requited the shopkeeper for the temporary refuge by giving him my
opinion on the subject, when I feel a tremendous slap on the back, and
I a voice, which I do not at once recognise, says, “Hallo, old boy!
practical joke, eh ? ” It is Milburd.
He is buying the hottest pickles he can find (it is an Italian ware-
house we are in) to take down to Byng as a birthday present. We are
both going to the same place. Together ? Together: he will call for me.
Happy Thought.—This diminishes cab-fare. I won’t have any change,
that shall be my practical joke on him.
A Night in Town.—Milburd and I go to the theatre. Milburd has
got a voice like a Centaur. (I think I mean Stentor. N.B. Who was
Stentor ? look him out.) People are annoyed. He begins by taking
seats, which turn out not to belong to him, and then the people come
in and there’s a row in the dress circle.
Happy Thought— Step quickly into the lobby. Milburd coming
out angrily says, “ he’d have knocked that fellow’s head off for two
pins.” I try to pacify him. I say, “ What’s the use of getting into
a row? It never does any good.” I feel it wouldn’t as far as I’m
concerned. Milburd insists that the pair of us would have licked the
lot, and wants to catch them coming out. I say “ No ! ” decidedly, to
this. I’d rather not catch them coming out. He goes on to observe
that “ lie should like to punch his head.” I agree with him there :
I should like to.
Happy Thought (for the twentieth time).—Learn boxing.
Happy Thought.—Go to Evans’s.
AIilburd takes me there. I’ve often heard of this place, yet
never been there till now. Much pleased. Excellent glee-singing.
Milburd, who evidently does know London very well, introduces me
to an elderly kindly gentleman, whom he calls Mr. Green, and whis-
pers to me, “ You know Green, don’t you?” I don’t. The kindly
gentleman, who is I fancy looking for some seat where he has left his
hat, for he is walking about without it, shakes hands impressively with
Milburd, “ and hopes that all are well round his (Milburd’s) fire-side.”
This hearty old English greeting Milburd meets, I think, somewhat
irreverently by replying, “ Thanks, yes. All well round the fireside
Poker a little bent with age, tongs as active as ever, shovel rather
lazy.” Whereat Mr. Green smiles, pats him on the arm, and takes
snuff deprecating such levity. Milburd says, “ Oh, I must have
heard of Green.”
Happy Thought.—Green, of course, aeronaut.
Happy Thought.—Ask him all about balloons.
I engage him in conversation. Has he been up in a balloon lately ?
He smiles, takes snuff, and nods his head as if he knew all about it,
but couldn’t answer just now. _ I ask him, “ if he’s not afraid of going
up so high ? ” His reply to this is, “ that I will have my joke.” He
leaves us. Milburd explains that he is the revered proprietor, and
tells me a long story concerning the ancient fame of this great supping
place.
We sup most comfortably at the cafe end- as Milburd inartistically
puts it, “ quite undisturbed by the singing. ’ He, however, knows it
all by heart; I do not. Ladies, he informs me, view the scene from
the gallery, veiled and behind gratings, as in St. Peter’s.
Saturday. Don’t feel well. Milburd proposes that we shan’t go to
Byng’s till Monday.
Happy Thought.—Run down to Brighton: freshen us up for the week.
Milburd says, “ Yes, by all means ; where shall we stay ? ” Anywhere.
Happy Thought.—The Grand Hotel.
Very well: cold day in train. Draughts in carriages: shivering.
Colder as we approach Brighton. Milburd, who is a red-faced
hearty chap, says, rubbing his hands, “This will freshen you up, my
boy—this will make your hair curl.” If there is any one thing more
than another that sets me against a place it is to be told that “ It will
set me up,” or “ It ’ll make my hair curl.” I point out that it’s
beginning to rain. Milburd replies, “ Oh, no—-sea mist,” as if sea
mist was healthy : why can’t he own it is rain ? I express myself to
the effect that it is raw, to which Milburd returns, being in boisterous
animal spirits, “ Cook it.” I wish I hadn’t come with him, he is so
unsympathetic. He can’t understand what it is for anyone to have
a pain across their shoulders and a headache. I’ve explained my
symptoms to him several times. I assure him that he is quite wrong in
saying that I eat too much, and am getting too fat.
Terminus : damp fly, rattling windows. Brighton looks windy,
foggy, damp, drizzly, wretched. Grand Hotel: very grand. An official,
in a uniform something between the dress of a railway guard and a
musician in a superior itinerant German band, receives us. He is the
Head Porter. We are shown into the lofty and spacious hall. We see
dinners going on in the Coffee-room. Even Milburd is awed. I have
a sort of notion that a gorgeous man in livery will presently request us
to walk up and His Grand Royal Highness will receive us.
Happy Thought.—Hotel for giants. In corridors seven-leagued boots
put out to be brushed.
In the vast galleried hall, Milburd, luggage, and self, guarded by a
boy in buttons. Solitary individuals come down-stairs, look at us
suspiciously, and go out. Waiters pass and re-pass us, all suspiciously.
Opposite sits an elegant lady in a box, or bar.
Happy Thought.—Ask her for rooms.
She has been waiting for this, and is prepared for us. She gives us
tickets, numbered, as if we were going to a show. Seems to me sug-
gestive of waxworks.
Milburd says, “ We will go up by the lift.” A gloomy porter with
an embarrassed manner shows us into the lift. It is a dismal place,
and after Milburd has tried a joke, which is as much a failure as a
squib on a wet pavement, not even making the lift-porter smile, we
subside into gloominess.
Happy Thought— Diving-bells : Polytechnic : also, old ascending-
room, Colisseum.
(Note. During the three days I am at the Hotel, I have either seen
the lift-porter starting from the ground-floor when I have been going
out, or arriving at one of the upper stories, after I have walked up the
stairs ; I’ve never caught him descending, nor got him when I wanted
him.)
We emerge from the lift, on to the third gallery—helpless. Milburd
knows all about it, and finds the chambermaid. Rooms comfortable—
very, but with two mysterious draughts which make me sneeze.
Milburd orders dinner in the Coffee-room.
Happy Thought (during the dsh course).—Harvey discovered the cir-
culation of the sauce.
After dinner, into the smoking-room. “ Why should a smoking-
room, now-a-days, be rendered purposely uncomfortable? Why should
it be the only apartment where easy chairs, divans, cheerful paper, are
unknown ? Why in a most luxurious hotel, should there be a smoking-
room which is cheerless by day, and dingy by night ? ” Milburd asks
me these questions pettishly, and describes the sort of room he would
have. Warm and cheery, small tables, lamps, not gas, chess-boards,
bookcases well filled, newspapers; writing tables, with supply of
writing materials laid on ; goocf fires in winter throughout the day, and
let the room have a good view from its windows.
Pouring with rain—and we came here for a change !
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
(Quit Bovor. Night in Town. Seaside Interval.)
Still raining.
Happy Thought.—I ’ve stopped here, but the rain hasn’t. I shall say
this as Sheridan’s, or Dean Swift’s.
The butcher orders a fly from Beckenhurst, and the fly fetches me
from Bovor. Old Mrs. Childers regrets my departure, but says; to
cheer me, that she dares say they ’ll all be driven home by the moat rismg.
Happy Thought.—I shall be driven home by the fly.
Happy Thought.—Say this. They laughed.
Happy Thought.—Send it to Bunch. Say so. Engleeield suggests,
“ Why not write for Bunch ?” Stenton, the philosopher, says, “ Yes,
write for Bunch regularly, and they’ll send it you regularly.” (Stupid
joke, after mine) Poss Eelhyr shakes hands warmly and apologises
for the rain.
Mrs. Poss says good-bye, and I feel that I almost sneak out of the
drawing-room. I wish I could say something by which they’d remem-
ber me. The ladies (I see them from outside) have composed them-
selves before the fire, and are intent on their books. I came into this
place like a lion, I leave it like a lamb. Artistically speaking, a con-
versationalist ought to come in like a lamb and go out like a lion.
When Childers and the others have carried my luggage to the gate,
I beg they won’t trouble themselves. They say it doesn’t matter, as it
doesn’t now.
In the Fly.—I look out of window. They have all disappeared, as if
they were tired of me : no waving of hands, no cheers. In old feudal
days there’d have been some hearty stirrup-cup ceremonies. Dreary:
windows of fly up. See nothing: cold, raw, damp. Christmas time
coming on fast. I should like to send Fridoline Symperson a present,
just to hint the state of my affections. What can I send? Christmas
time only suggests turkeys and sausages. Get out my MSS. and make
notes. * * * By the time I have found my MSS., which had been
scrunched up by the maid in among the boots, I find we are at
Beckenhurst. Ticket to town: station-master smiling, asks me if I
ever did anything about that telegram ? I recollect now I’d threatened
to write to the Times. I reply, “ Ah, they ’ll hear about it yet” as if
my vengeance had only been dozing.
London.—Ought at this season of the year to take some Christmas
present down to old Byng. Besides, it’s his birthday. He’ll be just
as glad to see me without it. (I shouldn’t, on my birthday.) There’s
not going to be any party of ladies or he wouldn’t have asked me; but
we shall spend a quiet Christmas-time together, with cosy chats over the
past: yes, we ’re very old friends. However, I ’ll just walk through the
streets and have a look at the shops. The difficulty is, I can’t tell what
Byng would like.
The Haymarket.—A pony runs away, traces broken. Crossing-
sweeper knocked down.
Happy Thought.—Step into a shop.
Shopman says, “ Spirited little animal that, Sir.” I return carelessly,
“ Yes, nice little fellow ; might easily have been stopped, if they’d had
any sense.” I am quitting the shop with a sense of having perfectly
requited the shopkeeper for the temporary refuge by giving him my
opinion on the subject, when I feel a tremendous slap on the back, and
I a voice, which I do not at once recognise, says, “Hallo, old boy!
practical joke, eh ? ” It is Milburd.
He is buying the hottest pickles he can find (it is an Italian ware-
house we are in) to take down to Byng as a birthday present. We are
both going to the same place. Together ? Together: he will call for me.
Happy Thought.—This diminishes cab-fare. I won’t have any change,
that shall be my practical joke on him.
A Night in Town.—Milburd and I go to the theatre. Milburd has
got a voice like a Centaur. (I think I mean Stentor. N.B. Who was
Stentor ? look him out.) People are annoyed. He begins by taking
seats, which turn out not to belong to him, and then the people come
in and there’s a row in the dress circle.
Happy Thought— Step quickly into the lobby. Milburd coming
out angrily says, “ he’d have knocked that fellow’s head off for two
pins.” I try to pacify him. I say, “ What’s the use of getting into
a row? It never does any good.” I feel it wouldn’t as far as I’m
concerned. Milburd insists that the pair of us would have licked the
lot, and wants to catch them coming out. I say “ No ! ” decidedly, to
this. I’d rather not catch them coming out. He goes on to observe
that “ lie should like to punch his head.” I agree with him there :
I should like to.
Happy Thought (for the twentieth time).—Learn boxing.
Happy Thought.—Go to Evans’s.
AIilburd takes me there. I’ve often heard of this place, yet
never been there till now. Much pleased. Excellent glee-singing.
Milburd, who evidently does know London very well, introduces me
to an elderly kindly gentleman, whom he calls Mr. Green, and whis-
pers to me, “ You know Green, don’t you?” I don’t. The kindly
gentleman, who is I fancy looking for some seat where he has left his
hat, for he is walking about without it, shakes hands impressively with
Milburd, “ and hopes that all are well round his (Milburd’s) fire-side.”
This hearty old English greeting Milburd meets, I think, somewhat
irreverently by replying, “ Thanks, yes. All well round the fireside
Poker a little bent with age, tongs as active as ever, shovel rather
lazy.” Whereat Mr. Green smiles, pats him on the arm, and takes
snuff deprecating such levity. Milburd says, “ Oh, I must have
heard of Green.”
Happy Thought.—Green, of course, aeronaut.
Happy Thought.—Ask him all about balloons.
I engage him in conversation. Has he been up in a balloon lately ?
He smiles, takes snuff, and nods his head as if he knew all about it,
but couldn’t answer just now. _ I ask him, “ if he’s not afraid of going
up so high ? ” His reply to this is, “ that I will have my joke.” He
leaves us. Milburd explains that he is the revered proprietor, and
tells me a long story concerning the ancient fame of this great supping
place.
We sup most comfortably at the cafe end- as Milburd inartistically
puts it, “ quite undisturbed by the singing. ’ He, however, knows it
all by heart; I do not. Ladies, he informs me, view the scene from
the gallery, veiled and behind gratings, as in St. Peter’s.
Saturday. Don’t feel well. Milburd proposes that we shan’t go to
Byng’s till Monday.
Happy Thought.—Run down to Brighton: freshen us up for the week.
Milburd says, “ Yes, by all means ; where shall we stay ? ” Anywhere.
Happy Thought.—The Grand Hotel.
Very well: cold day in train. Draughts in carriages: shivering.
Colder as we approach Brighton. Milburd, who is a red-faced
hearty chap, says, rubbing his hands, “This will freshen you up, my
boy—this will make your hair curl.” If there is any one thing more
than another that sets me against a place it is to be told that “ It will
set me up,” or “ It ’ll make my hair curl.” I point out that it’s
beginning to rain. Milburd replies, “ Oh, no—-sea mist,” as if sea
mist was healthy : why can’t he own it is rain ? I express myself to
the effect that it is raw, to which Milburd returns, being in boisterous
animal spirits, “ Cook it.” I wish I hadn’t come with him, he is so
unsympathetic. He can’t understand what it is for anyone to have
a pain across their shoulders and a headache. I’ve explained my
symptoms to him several times. I assure him that he is quite wrong in
saying that I eat too much, and am getting too fat.
Terminus : damp fly, rattling windows. Brighton looks windy,
foggy, damp, drizzly, wretched. Grand Hotel: very grand. An official,
in a uniform something between the dress of a railway guard and a
musician in a superior itinerant German band, receives us. He is the
Head Porter. We are shown into the lofty and spacious hall. We see
dinners going on in the Coffee-room. Even Milburd is awed. I have
a sort of notion that a gorgeous man in livery will presently request us
to walk up and His Grand Royal Highness will receive us.
Happy Thought.—Hotel for giants. In corridors seven-leagued boots
put out to be brushed.
In the vast galleried hall, Milburd, luggage, and self, guarded by a
boy in buttons. Solitary individuals come down-stairs, look at us
suspiciously, and go out. Waiters pass and re-pass us, all suspiciously.
Opposite sits an elegant lady in a box, or bar.
Happy Thought.—Ask her for rooms.
She has been waiting for this, and is prepared for us. She gives us
tickets, numbered, as if we were going to a show. Seems to me sug-
gestive of waxworks.
Milburd says, “ We will go up by the lift.” A gloomy porter with
an embarrassed manner shows us into the lift. It is a dismal place,
and after Milburd has tried a joke, which is as much a failure as a
squib on a wet pavement, not even making the lift-porter smile, we
subside into gloominess.
Happy Thought— Diving-bells : Polytechnic : also, old ascending-
room, Colisseum.
(Note. During the three days I am at the Hotel, I have either seen
the lift-porter starting from the ground-floor when I have been going
out, or arriving at one of the upper stories, after I have walked up the
stairs ; I’ve never caught him descending, nor got him when I wanted
him.)
We emerge from the lift, on to the third gallery—helpless. Milburd
knows all about it, and finds the chambermaid. Rooms comfortable—
very, but with two mysterious draughts which make me sneeze.
Milburd orders dinner in the Coffee-room.
Happy Thought (during the dsh course).—Harvey discovered the cir-
culation of the sauce.
After dinner, into the smoking-room. “ Why should a smoking-
room, now-a-days, be rendered purposely uncomfortable? Why should
it be the only apartment where easy chairs, divans, cheerful paper, are
unknown ? Why in a most luxurious hotel, should there be a smoking-
room which is cheerless by day, and dingy by night ? ” Milburd asks
me these questions pettishly, and describes the sort of room he would
have. Warm and cheery, small tables, lamps, not gas, chess-boards,
bookcases well filled, newspapers; writing tables, with supply of
writing materials laid on ; goocf fires in winter throughout the day, and
let the room have a good view from its windows.
Pouring with rain—and we came here for a change !