DOI issue:
September 14, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16880#0117
September
Hearty Friend is in over the steps, quickly, laughing, jumping, shouting,
and rubbing himself with towels.
Getting out of a boat is difficult enough to any one unaccustomed to
it, but the difficulty subsides into nothing when compared with get-
ting in.
I lay hold of the steps naturally enough. They swing against the
boat and my fingers are pinched. Hearty Friend laughing above
Boatman with indication of smile on his face. Neither offer any assist-
ance. “ Come up,” shouts His Heartiness. My legs won’t go up the
steps; it seems as if they would not come near me at all. They are
dragged forcibly under the boat. 1 think of the jelly-fishes ; they are
expecting me. Thoughts flash across me of people sucked under
paddle-wheels, of sharks, conger-eels, and jelly-fish again; the ends of
the steps catch my waist. A few seconds more I must give it up and
disappear, perlmps, for ever; food for the jelly-fish. “ I say,” 1 cry,
“ do bear a hanxf.”
The boatman puts out his hand over the side, I grasp it in the clutch
of agony ; if I go he shall come too. Now then for a death struggle
with the steps. The boatman tugs at me. I tug at the boatman.
Either he comes over, or I come in M y legs move from under the boat,
I somehow grapple with the rowlock (I could hold on with my teeth to
anything now, so desperate have I become), and find myself on the first
bar of the steps. “Don’t upset the boat,” cries my Hearty Friend,
who has had to hold on to the opposite side during my gymnastics.
The last difficulty is getting my legs over the side. Another clutch at
the boatman with one hand (don’t, let him go in a hurry) at the seat
with the other, and I tumble over on my knees,—anyhow, no matter
how I am, thank goodness, in the boat. All the power has gone out
of my legs. I can’t stand upright. Every quarter of a minute I am in
danger of suddenly disappearing over the side into the sea. I sit, quite
wet, on my clothes. My Hearty Friend has used nearly all the towels,
and has made all the seats damp. I like having a comfortable room to
dry oneself in, washhand-stand, soap, clean linen and so forth.
“Don’t I feel fresh?” inquires my Hearty Friend. “No; lam
tired. I have hurt my toe, it is all red ; I have bruised myself all over,
and I feel sleepy, hot and uncomfortable. “Lor!” says my Flearty
Friend, “ you ought to do this every morning. Pick you up in no
time. Now, I say, dry yourself quickly and dress. Don’t be all day.”
1 can’t get myself dry quickly, or, for the matter of that, at all; so give
it up, and tear my socks in pulling them on ; everything seems to stick
and be dragged on with difficulty. My hat on the top of my wet head is
very uncomfortable. My slippers are full of sand and are wet. On reach-
ing the shore, the boatman waits for a wave to take us in. When it
comes it takes me in who had been watching it on “the starn,” wetting
me through. At this I detect the second smile on the boatman’s face.
We disembark. I am quite lame. Will we want a boat to-morrow
morning? inquires the man. His Heartiness says, “ Yes ; same time.”
I say “yes,” too, to put my Hearty Friend on the wrong scent. Not
again, if I know it. He eats a hearty breakfast; everything he does is
hearty, except this making me bathe, and that’s heartless.
I have lost my appetite, My foot is swollen. The doctor calls.
When he hears of my bathing among the jelly-fishes he says that’s it;
they’re poisonous sometimes, that’s the danger of bathing out of a
boat, except you make it a rule never to go among the jelly-fishes. Must
lay up for two or three days, and this is how I have commenced my
sea-side holiday with my Hearty Friend, whom I here anathematise,
and all jelly-fishes.
He has left, so I now turn over to photograph number two, my
Gloomy Friend.
SOMETHING TO SEE
Everybody knows that there is nobody in town now, excepting
some two millions and a half of miserable people, who either have had
their holiday, or else have to do without one. It is a sad fate to be
confined in London in the middle of September, when one’s relatives
and friends are nearly all of them away, and one hardly has so much as a
theatre to go to. Prisoners in town when every one is out of it should
have some rational recreation provided by the Government. They
might be suffered to amuse themselves by pulling down the Monster
Statue which disgraces Hyde Park Corner, or blowing up the Pepper-
boxes which make Trafalgar Square so hideous.
Some such fun as this may be supplied t.o London captives, in the
dull days of September, by the enlightened wisdom of our newly re-
formed Parliament. Meanwhile, as only some three theatres are open
now, and there is nothing new at any of them, we really should be
thankful to Mr. Howard Paul for opening the Strand with a “ Novel
Entertainment.” For this well-timed act of charity to our poor
prisoners in town, he may fairly claim the title of Hoavard, the Philan-
thropist. Having seen the Streets of London for the eleventh time at
least, and smiled their twenty-second smile at Mrs. Rosalind Scott-
Siddons, and roared their sixty-seventh roar at the burlesque of Black
eyed Susan, they can go and see the opera of Faust, performed by Mr.
Paul in some four minutes and three-quarters, and they may hear how
his wife imitates the vocal Mr. Reeves, which, in one respect, she fails
to do, seeing that she never disappoints the public.
THINGS NEW AT THE “ZOO.”
Go, people, and pay all
To see the she-Gayal
That Bartlett has brought from the Indies ;
And. the wolves from Thibet,
Which mammals we bet
Will raise in their den fearful shindies.
The Arctonyx snout
Is the newest thing out,
The first ever heard of in London;
A Panolia deer,
Fresh to this hemisphere,
Awaits you, your beer and your bun done.
There’s a Pigeon that sings,
And one with bronze wings,
Polyplectrons and likewise a Loris ;
A Monkey—men tell us
To call it Eutellus—
The charge but a bob at the door is.
There are Demoiselle Cranes
To be seen for your pains,
With six or eight more of the Tortoise;
And a Hemipode ends
This list of new friends
The Marian Moore lately brought us :—
No, stay, there are Pelicans—
Rhyme to them Helicon’s
"Verse-helping fount might supply us ;
But a New River draught,
Teetotally quaffed,
Is all the liqueur we have by us.
So then Floreat “ Zoo”
Both old beasts and new ;
And when you have seen all its treasures.
Take an ice or a tartlet,
And thank Mr. Bartlett
For adding so much to your pleasures.
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY.
(Query in Advertisements, as thus :)
rl'0 BE SOLD, a bargain, a most disagreeable and undesirable
k DETACHED COTTAGE, in the charming neighbourhood of Piddinghoe, Sussex.
There are three excellent reception rooms, damp and mouldy in summer and
flooded in winter, seven bed-rooms, two with fire-places, three smelling of mice, but
all low and. inconveniently small, with little windows, Good Kitchen, swarming
with black-beetles, scullery ditto, out-house and wash house filled with rats who
come out even in the day-time, a Paddock of no use, all broken down, Three Acres
of Garden, limey soil, River near, and the village sewerage also. The present tenant
will be glad to get out of it on any terms. He believes the Landlord would part
with the lease for a fair consideration.
The Weather.—A “ close morning.” To-morrow morning is the
closest at present.
Vol. 53.
4—2
Hearty Friend is in over the steps, quickly, laughing, jumping, shouting,
and rubbing himself with towels.
Getting out of a boat is difficult enough to any one unaccustomed to
it, but the difficulty subsides into nothing when compared with get-
ting in.
I lay hold of the steps naturally enough. They swing against the
boat and my fingers are pinched. Hearty Friend laughing above
Boatman with indication of smile on his face. Neither offer any assist-
ance. “ Come up,” shouts His Heartiness. My legs won’t go up the
steps; it seems as if they would not come near me at all. They are
dragged forcibly under the boat. 1 think of the jelly-fishes ; they are
expecting me. Thoughts flash across me of people sucked under
paddle-wheels, of sharks, conger-eels, and jelly-fish again; the ends of
the steps catch my waist. A few seconds more I must give it up and
disappear, perlmps, for ever; food for the jelly-fish. “ I say,” 1 cry,
“ do bear a hanxf.”
The boatman puts out his hand over the side, I grasp it in the clutch
of agony ; if I go he shall come too. Now then for a death struggle
with the steps. The boatman tugs at me. I tug at the boatman.
Either he comes over, or I come in M y legs move from under the boat,
I somehow grapple with the rowlock (I could hold on with my teeth to
anything now, so desperate have I become), and find myself on the first
bar of the steps. “Don’t upset the boat,” cries my Hearty Friend,
who has had to hold on to the opposite side during my gymnastics.
The last difficulty is getting my legs over the side. Another clutch at
the boatman with one hand (don’t, let him go in a hurry) at the seat
with the other, and I tumble over on my knees,—anyhow, no matter
how I am, thank goodness, in the boat. All the power has gone out
of my legs. I can’t stand upright. Every quarter of a minute I am in
danger of suddenly disappearing over the side into the sea. I sit, quite
wet, on my clothes. My Hearty Friend has used nearly all the towels,
and has made all the seats damp. I like having a comfortable room to
dry oneself in, washhand-stand, soap, clean linen and so forth.
“Don’t I feel fresh?” inquires my Hearty Friend. “No; lam
tired. I have hurt my toe, it is all red ; I have bruised myself all over,
and I feel sleepy, hot and uncomfortable. “Lor!” says my Flearty
Friend, “ you ought to do this every morning. Pick you up in no
time. Now, I say, dry yourself quickly and dress. Don’t be all day.”
1 can’t get myself dry quickly, or, for the matter of that, at all; so give
it up, and tear my socks in pulling them on ; everything seems to stick
and be dragged on with difficulty. My hat on the top of my wet head is
very uncomfortable. My slippers are full of sand and are wet. On reach-
ing the shore, the boatman waits for a wave to take us in. When it
comes it takes me in who had been watching it on “the starn,” wetting
me through. At this I detect the second smile on the boatman’s face.
We disembark. I am quite lame. Will we want a boat to-morrow
morning? inquires the man. His Heartiness says, “ Yes ; same time.”
I say “yes,” too, to put my Hearty Friend on the wrong scent. Not
again, if I know it. He eats a hearty breakfast; everything he does is
hearty, except this making me bathe, and that’s heartless.
I have lost my appetite, My foot is swollen. The doctor calls.
When he hears of my bathing among the jelly-fishes he says that’s it;
they’re poisonous sometimes, that’s the danger of bathing out of a
boat, except you make it a rule never to go among the jelly-fishes. Must
lay up for two or three days, and this is how I have commenced my
sea-side holiday with my Hearty Friend, whom I here anathematise,
and all jelly-fishes.
He has left, so I now turn over to photograph number two, my
Gloomy Friend.
SOMETHING TO SEE
Everybody knows that there is nobody in town now, excepting
some two millions and a half of miserable people, who either have had
their holiday, or else have to do without one. It is a sad fate to be
confined in London in the middle of September, when one’s relatives
and friends are nearly all of them away, and one hardly has so much as a
theatre to go to. Prisoners in town when every one is out of it should
have some rational recreation provided by the Government. They
might be suffered to amuse themselves by pulling down the Monster
Statue which disgraces Hyde Park Corner, or blowing up the Pepper-
boxes which make Trafalgar Square so hideous.
Some such fun as this may be supplied t.o London captives, in the
dull days of September, by the enlightened wisdom of our newly re-
formed Parliament. Meanwhile, as only some three theatres are open
now, and there is nothing new at any of them, we really should be
thankful to Mr. Howard Paul for opening the Strand with a “ Novel
Entertainment.” For this well-timed act of charity to our poor
prisoners in town, he may fairly claim the title of Hoavard, the Philan-
thropist. Having seen the Streets of London for the eleventh time at
least, and smiled their twenty-second smile at Mrs. Rosalind Scott-
Siddons, and roared their sixty-seventh roar at the burlesque of Black
eyed Susan, they can go and see the opera of Faust, performed by Mr.
Paul in some four minutes and three-quarters, and they may hear how
his wife imitates the vocal Mr. Reeves, which, in one respect, she fails
to do, seeing that she never disappoints the public.
THINGS NEW AT THE “ZOO.”
Go, people, and pay all
To see the she-Gayal
That Bartlett has brought from the Indies ;
And. the wolves from Thibet,
Which mammals we bet
Will raise in their den fearful shindies.
The Arctonyx snout
Is the newest thing out,
The first ever heard of in London;
A Panolia deer,
Fresh to this hemisphere,
Awaits you, your beer and your bun done.
There’s a Pigeon that sings,
And one with bronze wings,
Polyplectrons and likewise a Loris ;
A Monkey—men tell us
To call it Eutellus—
The charge but a bob at the door is.
There are Demoiselle Cranes
To be seen for your pains,
With six or eight more of the Tortoise;
And a Hemipode ends
This list of new friends
The Marian Moore lately brought us :—
No, stay, there are Pelicans—
Rhyme to them Helicon’s
"Verse-helping fount might supply us ;
But a New River draught,
Teetotally quaffed,
Is all the liqueur we have by us.
So then Floreat “ Zoo”
Both old beasts and new ;
And when you have seen all its treasures.
Take an ice or a tartlet,
And thank Mr. Bartlett
For adding so much to your pleasures.
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY.
(Query in Advertisements, as thus :)
rl'0 BE SOLD, a bargain, a most disagreeable and undesirable
k DETACHED COTTAGE, in the charming neighbourhood of Piddinghoe, Sussex.
There are three excellent reception rooms, damp and mouldy in summer and
flooded in winter, seven bed-rooms, two with fire-places, three smelling of mice, but
all low and. inconveniently small, with little windows, Good Kitchen, swarming
with black-beetles, scullery ditto, out-house and wash house filled with rats who
come out even in the day-time, a Paddock of no use, all broken down, Three Acres
of Garden, limey soil, River near, and the village sewerage also. The present tenant
will be glad to get out of it on any terms. He believes the Landlord would part
with the lease for a fair consideration.
The Weather.—A “ close morning.” To-morrow morning is the
closest at present.
Vol. 53.
4—2