DOI Heft:
March 27, 1869
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16883#0125
March 27, 1869.]
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
119
HINTS FOR CONVERSATION.
Volunteer Review, a dis-
tinct thing altogether from
an Amateur Magazine, is
to be held next Monday
at Dover, and you are
hereby cautioned not to
tire off as your own that
joke about “Dover’s Pow-
der ” which you read in a
newspaper, when once
before Shakspeare’s Cliff
reverberated with the roar
of riflery, and the poor
samphire-gatherer hung
halfway down, terror-
stricken at the warlike pro-
ceedings of the Honourable
Artillery Company.
You have heard of a
speaking-trumpet, of a
tasting-order, of smelling-
salts, of a touching dis-
course, of a laughing-stock,
a crying evil, a walking
dictionary, a “ talking
oak,” and many other
things which,. if there is
any accuracy in language,
must be considered as en-
dowed with the senses and faculties of animate beings ; and we have
now to acquaint you with the existence of another member of the same
category—always be scientific in your nomenclature—which, if it can
be generally introduced into Society, will prove a real blessing to the
dullest, the shyest, the youngest of its victims, and save them from the
weather and cold extremities. The discovery we have made is that
there is such a thing as “ a Conversational Sofa.” Only secure that
priceless treasure, and you will never again have to resort to the
earthquake, or the Irish Church Debate, or the prospectus of the
amalgamated operas—the new “Musical Union ”—or Prince Arthur’s
visit to Ireland (the Marchioness oe Ely’s country-house will be
known inhistory as “Arthur’s Seat”), or any other of those subjects,
which when started are a fatal symptom that old Addleby or Young
Boobison is pumped dry, and attacked with the distressing thought
—what on earth am I to say next ?
Do people ever talk upholstery when assembled round “The
Mahogany Tree,” just as they talk dress, or wines, or horses ? If so,
please to try and findout from some thoroughly well-informedperson,and
get to the bottom of it if you can, what an “occasional” chair is, and
what it is at those not infrequent times when it is not a chair ? Will
you also ask the lady who has just charmed you with that tender
andante of Mendelssohn’s, what “ warmed pianos” are, and what is
the caloric applied to these instruments, and if coal, whether Silks-tone ?
Everybody should have a good word and a good wish for the Volun-
tary. System. Were you not once yourself (for six weeks) a very
ineffective private in the Third Stockinghamshire Rifles, and was not
the drill-sergeant almost driven to drink by the uncertainty you displayed
as to which was your right leg and which was your left, and did yon
not resign, on the plea of a lengthened stay in the Metropolis, rather
than have your nether limbs distinguished by chalk symbols ? Unless,
therefore, you are greatly changed, and have seen the error of your
legs since those pleasant days (notwithstanding the drill-sergeant) at
Trentsyde, you are not very likely to be found amongst the plucky men
who will leave home in the gray of the morning and their uniform on
Monday, the 29th, and return, covered with dust and glory, a little after
midnight. As, however, you may be dining out on that day at some hos-
pitable house which has sent its gallant contingent to the great muster,
prepare for. action by making yourself acquainted with the names of
the officers in command of divisions and brigades, and the names and
numbers as given in the papers,—which you had better make up your
mind will be particularly vociferous that evening,—of the various corps
which left the railway stations at 6 a.m., in high spirits and knicker-
bockers, if you desire to get on satisfactorily with charming persons in
pink tulle and blue silk whose parents, husbands, brothers, and—lovers
(there is probably now a genteeler term, but we don’t know it, and this
is in Shakspeare and Tennyson) have gone forth to march past a flagstaff,
and increase the traffic receipts of the London, Chatham and Dover
Railway.
You may be as ignorant of musketry drill as of harpooning, you may
be as clumsy with a rifle as you would be with a theodolite, you may
think Mb. Cardwell right not to increase the capitation grant, but
you must wish the Volunteer army (to whom Easter Monday will not
be exactly a holiday) fine weather, a pleasant journey, a successful
meeting, and—reasonable hotel-charges.
P.S. Grumbling are you, because there is nothing in this despatch
about the Irish Church Debate ? Go to your “Essence of Parliament.”
You are sure to find there far better hints than any we can offer.
THE LAST LAUNCH AT DEPTFORD.
Loyally and Lovingly Dedicated by Mr. Punch to H.R.H. Princess
Louise.
If there’s a spirit of the tree, as fair Greek fable tells,
And the green blood of the Dryad is the sap of acorn-bells,
Not death, but higher life, befdls the Nymphs of the oak-trees
That are squared and shaped, and set to frame the ships that rule the
seas.
And they were not doleful Dryads, but exulting ones that spread
Their unseen wings for shelter of Louise’s gracious head,
As she faced the nipping March wind, like a daughter of the.sea.
To christen the last war-ship that from Deptford launched will be.
Lift high the wine, sweet Princess, and with blood-red baptism crown,
The bows, slow creeping streamwards, as the dog-shores are struck
down:
And, fit name for last heart of oak that from Deptford-slips shall glide,
Bid “ God speed ” to The Druid, as she curt’sies to the tide.
’Tis the last launch from Deptford; the old yard has had its day ;
Times change and war-ships with them : oak yields to iron’s sway:
There are wider slips and statelier sheds, and broader quays elsewhere,
And Wisdom says “ concentrate,” and Thrift says “ save and spare.”
Deptford is now a frowsy place, ill-smelling, dank and low,
Where muddy banks are eat away by a foul stream’s festering flow:
Where low Vice haunts and flaunts, and flares, fed full on sailors’ gains,
And threatening them with surer wreck than all lee-shores or mains.
But the Deptford that we look on, to whose yard we bid good bye,
Was once the Deptford, where, in pride. The Great Harry wont to lie ;
Where, lusty King to lordly ship, from his Greenwich palace near,
Bluff King Hal among his shipwrights showed broad breast and face
of cheer.
With delicate Anne Boleyn upon his brawny arm—
Lamb and Lion,—monarch’s majesty, enhancing woman’s charm—
To mark, well-pleased, how in his yard the work sped swift along,
Erom fair keel to tall top-side of swift pink and carrack strong.
And rapid ran the Ravensbourne, a cleanly country stream.
Glassing in its bright bosom, brave attire, and banners’^gleam,
When, fenc’d in tower of jewelled ruff and tun of pearled robe,
Came good Queen Bess to welcome Captain Drake from round the
globe !
’Twas in this very Deptford creek was drawn The Golden Hind,
Eragrant with spices of New Spain, rich with heap’d spoils of Ind,
As to bold Queen bold Buccaneer knelt on his own deck-board
Plain Captain Drake, and rose again Sir Erancis from her sword.
’Twas in Deptford yard, from reign to reign, the Petts * their credit
won,
Handing their craft of ship-builder from famous sire to son;
To Deptford smug Sam Pepys took boat, in Charles’s thriftless day,
To note “ how still our debts do grow, and our fleet do decay.”
And hither, from the fair-trimmed yews and hollies of Sayes Court,
Came a burly, bull-necked Muscovite, for labour and disport;
Sturdy swinker, lusty drinker ; king with king, and tar with tar,
The Northern Demiurgus, Russ Prometheus, Peter Tzar.
Richer in slips and stores and sheds, there be other yards, I trow.
But none more rich in memories. Old Deptford yard, than thou.
It was well done and worthily of a Princess fair and sweet,
To christen the last war-babe, born of thee into our fleet.
And may The Druid ne’er disgrace the parentage she owns,
Or mar the glorious memories that spring from Deptford stones :
May she bear her worthy England, and the white hand that but now
Has dashed the wine of baptism upon her shapely bow !
* The Petts were the hereditary ship-builders of the English navy from
the days of James the First to those of James the Second.
A Third Competitor.
It may have escaped observation that on the day of the University
Boat Race there were three eights on the River—the Oxford Eight, the
Cambridge Eight, and the Chiswick Eyot.
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
119
HINTS FOR CONVERSATION.
Volunteer Review, a dis-
tinct thing altogether from
an Amateur Magazine, is
to be held next Monday
at Dover, and you are
hereby cautioned not to
tire off as your own that
joke about “Dover’s Pow-
der ” which you read in a
newspaper, when once
before Shakspeare’s Cliff
reverberated with the roar
of riflery, and the poor
samphire-gatherer hung
halfway down, terror-
stricken at the warlike pro-
ceedings of the Honourable
Artillery Company.
You have heard of a
speaking-trumpet, of a
tasting-order, of smelling-
salts, of a touching dis-
course, of a laughing-stock,
a crying evil, a walking
dictionary, a “ talking
oak,” and many other
things which,. if there is
any accuracy in language,
must be considered as en-
dowed with the senses and faculties of animate beings ; and we have
now to acquaint you with the existence of another member of the same
category—always be scientific in your nomenclature—which, if it can
be generally introduced into Society, will prove a real blessing to the
dullest, the shyest, the youngest of its victims, and save them from the
weather and cold extremities. The discovery we have made is that
there is such a thing as “ a Conversational Sofa.” Only secure that
priceless treasure, and you will never again have to resort to the
earthquake, or the Irish Church Debate, or the prospectus of the
amalgamated operas—the new “Musical Union ”—or Prince Arthur’s
visit to Ireland (the Marchioness oe Ely’s country-house will be
known inhistory as “Arthur’s Seat”), or any other of those subjects,
which when started are a fatal symptom that old Addleby or Young
Boobison is pumped dry, and attacked with the distressing thought
—what on earth am I to say next ?
Do people ever talk upholstery when assembled round “The
Mahogany Tree,” just as they talk dress, or wines, or horses ? If so,
please to try and findout from some thoroughly well-informedperson,and
get to the bottom of it if you can, what an “occasional” chair is, and
what it is at those not infrequent times when it is not a chair ? Will
you also ask the lady who has just charmed you with that tender
andante of Mendelssohn’s, what “ warmed pianos” are, and what is
the caloric applied to these instruments, and if coal, whether Silks-tone ?
Everybody should have a good word and a good wish for the Volun-
tary. System. Were you not once yourself (for six weeks) a very
ineffective private in the Third Stockinghamshire Rifles, and was not
the drill-sergeant almost driven to drink by the uncertainty you displayed
as to which was your right leg and which was your left, and did yon
not resign, on the plea of a lengthened stay in the Metropolis, rather
than have your nether limbs distinguished by chalk symbols ? Unless,
therefore, you are greatly changed, and have seen the error of your
legs since those pleasant days (notwithstanding the drill-sergeant) at
Trentsyde, you are not very likely to be found amongst the plucky men
who will leave home in the gray of the morning and their uniform on
Monday, the 29th, and return, covered with dust and glory, a little after
midnight. As, however, you may be dining out on that day at some hos-
pitable house which has sent its gallant contingent to the great muster,
prepare for. action by making yourself acquainted with the names of
the officers in command of divisions and brigades, and the names and
numbers as given in the papers,—which you had better make up your
mind will be particularly vociferous that evening,—of the various corps
which left the railway stations at 6 a.m., in high spirits and knicker-
bockers, if you desire to get on satisfactorily with charming persons in
pink tulle and blue silk whose parents, husbands, brothers, and—lovers
(there is probably now a genteeler term, but we don’t know it, and this
is in Shakspeare and Tennyson) have gone forth to march past a flagstaff,
and increase the traffic receipts of the London, Chatham and Dover
Railway.
You may be as ignorant of musketry drill as of harpooning, you may
be as clumsy with a rifle as you would be with a theodolite, you may
think Mb. Cardwell right not to increase the capitation grant, but
you must wish the Volunteer army (to whom Easter Monday will not
be exactly a holiday) fine weather, a pleasant journey, a successful
meeting, and—reasonable hotel-charges.
P.S. Grumbling are you, because there is nothing in this despatch
about the Irish Church Debate ? Go to your “Essence of Parliament.”
You are sure to find there far better hints than any we can offer.
THE LAST LAUNCH AT DEPTFORD.
Loyally and Lovingly Dedicated by Mr. Punch to H.R.H. Princess
Louise.
If there’s a spirit of the tree, as fair Greek fable tells,
And the green blood of the Dryad is the sap of acorn-bells,
Not death, but higher life, befdls the Nymphs of the oak-trees
That are squared and shaped, and set to frame the ships that rule the
seas.
And they were not doleful Dryads, but exulting ones that spread
Their unseen wings for shelter of Louise’s gracious head,
As she faced the nipping March wind, like a daughter of the.sea.
To christen the last war-ship that from Deptford launched will be.
Lift high the wine, sweet Princess, and with blood-red baptism crown,
The bows, slow creeping streamwards, as the dog-shores are struck
down:
And, fit name for last heart of oak that from Deptford-slips shall glide,
Bid “ God speed ” to The Druid, as she curt’sies to the tide.
’Tis the last launch from Deptford; the old yard has had its day ;
Times change and war-ships with them : oak yields to iron’s sway:
There are wider slips and statelier sheds, and broader quays elsewhere,
And Wisdom says “ concentrate,” and Thrift says “ save and spare.”
Deptford is now a frowsy place, ill-smelling, dank and low,
Where muddy banks are eat away by a foul stream’s festering flow:
Where low Vice haunts and flaunts, and flares, fed full on sailors’ gains,
And threatening them with surer wreck than all lee-shores or mains.
But the Deptford that we look on, to whose yard we bid good bye,
Was once the Deptford, where, in pride. The Great Harry wont to lie ;
Where, lusty King to lordly ship, from his Greenwich palace near,
Bluff King Hal among his shipwrights showed broad breast and face
of cheer.
With delicate Anne Boleyn upon his brawny arm—
Lamb and Lion,—monarch’s majesty, enhancing woman’s charm—
To mark, well-pleased, how in his yard the work sped swift along,
Erom fair keel to tall top-side of swift pink and carrack strong.
And rapid ran the Ravensbourne, a cleanly country stream.
Glassing in its bright bosom, brave attire, and banners’^gleam,
When, fenc’d in tower of jewelled ruff and tun of pearled robe,
Came good Queen Bess to welcome Captain Drake from round the
globe !
’Twas in this very Deptford creek was drawn The Golden Hind,
Eragrant with spices of New Spain, rich with heap’d spoils of Ind,
As to bold Queen bold Buccaneer knelt on his own deck-board
Plain Captain Drake, and rose again Sir Erancis from her sword.
’Twas in Deptford yard, from reign to reign, the Petts * their credit
won,
Handing their craft of ship-builder from famous sire to son;
To Deptford smug Sam Pepys took boat, in Charles’s thriftless day,
To note “ how still our debts do grow, and our fleet do decay.”
And hither, from the fair-trimmed yews and hollies of Sayes Court,
Came a burly, bull-necked Muscovite, for labour and disport;
Sturdy swinker, lusty drinker ; king with king, and tar with tar,
The Northern Demiurgus, Russ Prometheus, Peter Tzar.
Richer in slips and stores and sheds, there be other yards, I trow.
But none more rich in memories. Old Deptford yard, than thou.
It was well done and worthily of a Princess fair and sweet,
To christen the last war-babe, born of thee into our fleet.
And may The Druid ne’er disgrace the parentage she owns,
Or mar the glorious memories that spring from Deptford stones :
May she bear her worthy England, and the white hand that but now
Has dashed the wine of baptism upon her shapely bow !
* The Petts were the hereditary ship-builders of the English navy from
the days of James the First to those of James the Second.
A Third Competitor.
It may have escaped observation that on the day of the University
Boat Race there were three eights on the River—the Oxford Eight, the
Cambridge Eight, and the Chiswick Eyot.