DOI issue:
August 1, 1868
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16882#0055
August 1, 18G8.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
47
ODD MEN OUT.
PREFACE.—!. THE MAH WITH AN EAR.
It was a toss up whether I should put them into the photograph
book of “ A Few Friends,” but I decided upon making- them into a
collection of the Odd Men Out.
Happy Thought.—To call them Heads and Tales, i.e., Sketch the head
and then write the tale.
But this idea was immediately abandoned, as among the first in the
collection came
The Headless Man; that is, The Man without a Head on his
shoulders.
After him comes another portrait, of whom you will hear as The
Man with a head on his shoulders.
The other Portraits are—
The Man with an Ear.
The Man with a Nose.
The Man with an Eye.
The Man with a Palate.
The Man with a Yoice.
The Man with No Yoice.
Leaving the Man with a Plead and the Headless Man for the present,
| we will come to the Man with an Ear.
There is a Man with an Ear who knows howto play some instrument
and plays it, as he says, merely for his own amusement, which however
does not prevent him from treating you to a private performance when
you weakly allow yourself to get with him alone for five minutes in his
own room. Pie doth, as it were, ravish you with sweet sounds when
he getteth you into his net. With this ear of his he does wonderful
things. ELe uses it as an elephant does his trunk, for the purposes of
picking up. There is the Man with an Ear who does not play upon an
instrument; and the Man wdth an Ear wdio does.
I met Bilscombe (one of the former division) standing in the street
in an attitude of the deepest attention. I salute him.
“ Ssh ! ” says Bilscombe. I look about to see what is the cause of
this mystery.
“ Ssh ! ” says he again, apparently feeling that some sort of explana-
tion is perhaps necessary. “ I want to catch something.”
If by any chance my practical-joking friend, Grigg, is with me, he
-will pretend that what Bilscombe wants to catch is a fly or a flea, and
disturb him gently by pretending to hunt it on his coat-collar.
“Ah!” says Bilscombe, with a sigh of annoyance, “they’ve
finished. Bother ! ” When for the first time I discover that he has
been listening to as much as he could catch of the strains of a German
Band, performing selections from something or other round the corner
of the next street.
“ I wonder what that tune was,” he says more to himself than me,
as we walk on.
To humour him I inquire W’hat tune; but this was before I knew
Bilscombe well.
“ Well,” says he, “it goes like thiswhereupon he stops suddenly,
it may be in the middle of Regent Street, he doesn’t care, and standing
exactly opposite me, he directs an imaginary band with a short stick,
much after the impulsive manner of the late M. Jullien, while the
part of the imaginary orchestra is filled by his mouth and nose to-
gether (mouth shut, nose open, like an organ with two pipes), which
under the direction of the stick, perform a solo of this sort, time a
little uncertain, say two four to begin with, and four and a half when
in doubt,—“ Rum dum a dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum dummy
dum dum di rum di—”
I tell him I don’t know it, and propose moving.
“No, no,” says Bilscombe, “that part’s all right: here’s the
difficultydoodle loodle rum adum doo and—then, how does it go
then ? ”
“ I really don’t know,” I answer.
“ You’re the tenth man I’ve asked to-day vdio doesn’t know,” he
exclaims, almost angrily.
“ Why does he want to get hold of this tune so particularly ? ”
It appears from Bilscombe’s modest confession that he is the colla-
borateur of a friend (under the assumed name of—well never mind
what) who writes those amusing pieces in which a considerable element
of success is either the judicious adaptation of the popular melodies of
the day, or the careful introduction of such novelties as shall become
popular. “ My department,’’ Bilscombe informs me, “ is the musical.
You know I’ve a deuced quick ear,”—I admit it—“ and if I once hear
a tune, I can always catch it: at least,” he corrects himself, remem-
bering his failure just now, “ I can generally.”
“ But this tune ? ” I ask.
“ This tune,” he replies, “is the most confounded tune ever written.
I’ve hunted it all over London. It’s driving me perfectly mad. There,”
he stops suddenly. “ I think I’ve got it—rum de dum, dum de dum,”
he looks at me inquiringly. I wonder to myself if he has got it, and
hope so sincerely. No he hasn’t. I comfort him by observing that it
will come in time, and forthwith attempt a change in the conversation.
“ Come in time ! ” he exclaims. “ If it doesn’t come in good time,
it won’t do. The piece is to be produced in a few days, and Tom (the
chief collaborateur) says he must have it. “Hallo ! look there ! ” and,
before I can offer the slightest resistance, he has Vurried me round the
corner of a small street, and into an alley where some dirty children are
dancing to an organ.
The organ man is performing “ Not for Charley,” or “ Canoe Joseph
is my Name,” or “ P'addle your own Champag7ief or whatever any of
these tunes may be called.
Bilscombe shakes his head. No, of course not : just like his luck.
Let’s wait for the next tune. I say, “No, come along,” and inform
him, on my owm authority, that I am sure the man hasn’t got the tune
lie wants on his instrument.
Bilscombe yields, and we return to civilised life.
It is half-past twelve, so I propose that we shall take a walk in the
park. (Hate going alone, and Bilscombe will do, unless I can find
somebody else ; he will do very well if he ’ll only promise not to
stop, and sing and direct orchestras with his stick. I make this
proviso at the corner of Bond Street, when he is asking me if one
couldn’t get a capital comical effect out of the March from Norma,
Rum turn ti nun turn (stick up) Rum (stick down) turn (stick to the
left) tetum (stick to the right) turn, (stick up, knocking off an elderly
gentleman’s hat.) Elderly gentleman forgets himself in offering to
remember Bilscombe wdien he sees him again: obsequious apology
from Bilscombe, with tenders for brushing his hat for him himself.
Tenders spurned, and old gentleman nearly run over while turning
to throw a last indignant look at Bilscombe as lie is crossing. _
Altercation between old gentleman and cabman : left quarrelling, and
we pursue our way down Bond Street.
Bilscombe promises to be quiet, and says that lie shouldn’t wonder
if by dismissing the subject entirely from his mind it would come to
him later on.
I tell him, with great inward satisfaction, that I’ve got no doubt of
it. Dismiss it. He dismisses it. When it returns to him I shall not
be there. Unfortunately, the first music-shop on the left-hand side
catches his eye.
He stops me—only for a moment, he says—or will I come in with
him. I ’ll come in—we enter. The shop is full.
{To he continued.)
IRISH PROTESTANT BOYHOOD.
The Dublin Correspondent of the Post, the other day, announcing a
Protestant demonstration to come off under the presidency of the
Eaul oe Enniskillen, said :—
“ A placard has been posted throughout the County Fermanagh stating
that the Earl of Enniskillen ‘ hopes and expects every Protestant, from
fourteen to sixteen years of age, will be at his post on that day, to enter his
protest against the meditated attacks upon the Established Church and the
Protestant Constitution by the enemies of both.’”
The meeting of Protestants thus convoked, in view of the conditions
of age prescribed for those invited to attend it, seems to have been
designed to be a demonstration of Protestant boys who would be boys
indeed.
Riddle.
When does an Editor play a singular trick with grammar ?
[Chorus of impenitent Contributors.-—“When he tries to improve our
contributions.”
That’s not it.]
When he Declines an Article.
Something New.
In the match between the Lords and Commons at Wimbledon, the
lowest score made on the side of the Peers was by Lord Dufferin.
This is the first time we ever heard of even an approach on his Lord-
ship’s part to being a Duffer in anything undertaken by him.
ALL THE WAY FROM THE BASS ROCK.
In the Wimbledon reports how refrigerating it was to read of “ The
Bass Prize! ” TV hat gift could have been more seasonable than a
cask of the best Burton—perhaps we ought to say a butt ?
cool !
That excellent but audacious fellow, Barnby Willows, had the
courage to ask his friends to a housewarming in the height of the
tropical weather.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
47
ODD MEN OUT.
PREFACE.—!. THE MAH WITH AN EAR.
It was a toss up whether I should put them into the photograph
book of “ A Few Friends,” but I decided upon making- them into a
collection of the Odd Men Out.
Happy Thought.—To call them Heads and Tales, i.e., Sketch the head
and then write the tale.
But this idea was immediately abandoned, as among the first in the
collection came
The Headless Man; that is, The Man without a Head on his
shoulders.
After him comes another portrait, of whom you will hear as The
Man with a head on his shoulders.
The other Portraits are—
The Man with an Ear.
The Man with a Nose.
The Man with an Eye.
The Man with a Palate.
The Man with a Yoice.
The Man with No Yoice.
Leaving the Man with a Plead and the Headless Man for the present,
| we will come to the Man with an Ear.
There is a Man with an Ear who knows howto play some instrument
and plays it, as he says, merely for his own amusement, which however
does not prevent him from treating you to a private performance when
you weakly allow yourself to get with him alone for five minutes in his
own room. Pie doth, as it were, ravish you with sweet sounds when
he getteth you into his net. With this ear of his he does wonderful
things. ELe uses it as an elephant does his trunk, for the purposes of
picking up. There is the Man with an Ear who does not play upon an
instrument; and the Man wdth an Ear wdio does.
I met Bilscombe (one of the former division) standing in the street
in an attitude of the deepest attention. I salute him.
“ Ssh ! ” says Bilscombe. I look about to see what is the cause of
this mystery.
“ Ssh ! ” says he again, apparently feeling that some sort of explana-
tion is perhaps necessary. “ I want to catch something.”
If by any chance my practical-joking friend, Grigg, is with me, he
-will pretend that what Bilscombe wants to catch is a fly or a flea, and
disturb him gently by pretending to hunt it on his coat-collar.
“Ah!” says Bilscombe, with a sigh of annoyance, “they’ve
finished. Bother ! ” When for the first time I discover that he has
been listening to as much as he could catch of the strains of a German
Band, performing selections from something or other round the corner
of the next street.
“ I wonder what that tune was,” he says more to himself than me,
as we walk on.
To humour him I inquire W’hat tune; but this was before I knew
Bilscombe well.
“ Well,” says he, “it goes like thiswhereupon he stops suddenly,
it may be in the middle of Regent Street, he doesn’t care, and standing
exactly opposite me, he directs an imaginary band with a short stick,
much after the impulsive manner of the late M. Jullien, while the
part of the imaginary orchestra is filled by his mouth and nose to-
gether (mouth shut, nose open, like an organ with two pipes), which
under the direction of the stick, perform a solo of this sort, time a
little uncertain, say two four to begin with, and four and a half when
in doubt,—“ Rum dum a dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum dummy
dum dum di rum di—”
I tell him I don’t know it, and propose moving.
“No, no,” says Bilscombe, “that part’s all right: here’s the
difficultydoodle loodle rum adum doo and—then, how does it go
then ? ”
“ I really don’t know,” I answer.
“ You’re the tenth man I’ve asked to-day vdio doesn’t know,” he
exclaims, almost angrily.
“ Why does he want to get hold of this tune so particularly ? ”
It appears from Bilscombe’s modest confession that he is the colla-
borateur of a friend (under the assumed name of—well never mind
what) who writes those amusing pieces in which a considerable element
of success is either the judicious adaptation of the popular melodies of
the day, or the careful introduction of such novelties as shall become
popular. “ My department,’’ Bilscombe informs me, “ is the musical.
You know I’ve a deuced quick ear,”—I admit it—“ and if I once hear
a tune, I can always catch it: at least,” he corrects himself, remem-
bering his failure just now, “ I can generally.”
“ But this tune ? ” I ask.
“ This tune,” he replies, “is the most confounded tune ever written.
I’ve hunted it all over London. It’s driving me perfectly mad. There,”
he stops suddenly. “ I think I’ve got it—rum de dum, dum de dum,”
he looks at me inquiringly. I wonder to myself if he has got it, and
hope so sincerely. No he hasn’t. I comfort him by observing that it
will come in time, and forthwith attempt a change in the conversation.
“ Come in time ! ” he exclaims. “ If it doesn’t come in good time,
it won’t do. The piece is to be produced in a few days, and Tom (the
chief collaborateur) says he must have it. “Hallo ! look there ! ” and,
before I can offer the slightest resistance, he has Vurried me round the
corner of a small street, and into an alley where some dirty children are
dancing to an organ.
The organ man is performing “ Not for Charley,” or “ Canoe Joseph
is my Name,” or “ P'addle your own Champag7ief or whatever any of
these tunes may be called.
Bilscombe shakes his head. No, of course not : just like his luck.
Let’s wait for the next tune. I say, “No, come along,” and inform
him, on my owm authority, that I am sure the man hasn’t got the tune
lie wants on his instrument.
Bilscombe yields, and we return to civilised life.
It is half-past twelve, so I propose that we shall take a walk in the
park. (Hate going alone, and Bilscombe will do, unless I can find
somebody else ; he will do very well if he ’ll only promise not to
stop, and sing and direct orchestras with his stick. I make this
proviso at the corner of Bond Street, when he is asking me if one
couldn’t get a capital comical effect out of the March from Norma,
Rum turn ti nun turn (stick up) Rum (stick down) turn (stick to the
left) tetum (stick to the right) turn, (stick up, knocking off an elderly
gentleman’s hat.) Elderly gentleman forgets himself in offering to
remember Bilscombe wdien he sees him again: obsequious apology
from Bilscombe, with tenders for brushing his hat for him himself.
Tenders spurned, and old gentleman nearly run over while turning
to throw a last indignant look at Bilscombe as lie is crossing. _
Altercation between old gentleman and cabman : left quarrelling, and
we pursue our way down Bond Street.
Bilscombe promises to be quiet, and says that lie shouldn’t wonder
if by dismissing the subject entirely from his mind it would come to
him later on.
I tell him, with great inward satisfaction, that I’ve got no doubt of
it. Dismiss it. He dismisses it. When it returns to him I shall not
be there. Unfortunately, the first music-shop on the left-hand side
catches his eye.
He stops me—only for a moment, he says—or will I come in with
him. I ’ll come in—we enter. The shop is full.
{To he continued.)
IRISH PROTESTANT BOYHOOD.
The Dublin Correspondent of the Post, the other day, announcing a
Protestant demonstration to come off under the presidency of the
Eaul oe Enniskillen, said :—
“ A placard has been posted throughout the County Fermanagh stating
that the Earl of Enniskillen ‘ hopes and expects every Protestant, from
fourteen to sixteen years of age, will be at his post on that day, to enter his
protest against the meditated attacks upon the Established Church and the
Protestant Constitution by the enemies of both.’”
The meeting of Protestants thus convoked, in view of the conditions
of age prescribed for those invited to attend it, seems to have been
designed to be a demonstration of Protestant boys who would be boys
indeed.
Riddle.
When does an Editor play a singular trick with grammar ?
[Chorus of impenitent Contributors.-—“When he tries to improve our
contributions.”
That’s not it.]
When he Declines an Article.
Something New.
In the match between the Lords and Commons at Wimbledon, the
lowest score made on the side of the Peers was by Lord Dufferin.
This is the first time we ever heard of even an approach on his Lord-
ship’s part to being a Duffer in anything undertaken by him.
ALL THE WAY FROM THE BASS ROCK.
In the Wimbledon reports how refrigerating it was to read of “ The
Bass Prize! ” TV hat gift could have been more seasonable than a
cask of the best Burton—perhaps we ought to say a butt ?
cool !
That excellent but audacious fellow, Barnby Willows, had the
courage to ask his friends to a housewarming in the height of the
tropical weather.