Punch: Punch (60.1871)

April 8, 1871.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

143

Blow up gaols, and drown policemen ; rods, laws, and strait-waist-
coats burke;

And you '11 make this dull world a bright one, of all play and no
?ork!

trying to swallow a sponge-cake. The bell rings, somebody outside
cries sternly, " Any more going on?" and our old Guard looks in
to say, "Now then, Sir, time's up."
Continuing, on my resuming my seat (being received coldly by my

, Aunt), to " think," and to make occasional notes (which I manage

The English oak's a slow-growing tree—ht lor pig-meat alone its , by grasping. my pocket-book tightly in my left hand on my knee,
fruits:

Ihe French poplar of liberty grows in a night,—what matter about
its roots ?

And there's no faith but the Republican, and Odger is its Prophet,
And we, Ghosts of the Tooley Street Three, wish him — and
England—much joy of it.

MY HEALTH.

f) Jyyi The Train. All three silent: turtle-dove cooing; melan-
choly noise. I feel inclined to say a lot of things, but
don't. Must select my subjects carefully, or else they'11 both cry.

Things I feel inclined to say, but don't—{keep 'em for another
time). The noise made by the train fits any tune (hum one and try it
—hum another. Can do this when with musical friend, but not
now ; keep it.)

That we wriggle about a good deal in this train.

That time soon passes while travelling.

That Railway Travelling is superior to Coaching.

That it's delightful to get out of Town.

That the Country is looking very well.

Mem {to consider what I mean by this.) Whatever anyone else
may mean, I find, on analysis, that my notion is, that the Country is
different to Town, that it is green, that there are trees, that there
are fields, that there are sheep and cows.

That it is impossible to make out the name of a station from
listening to the Porters.

That we want a new Act requiring uniformity of pronunciation
among Railway Porters.

That it's a great mistake to allow stupendous advertisements in
stations. Strangers might easily mistake " Panklibanon," or
" Ozokerit," when in enormous letters on a large board, for the
name of the place.

Mem. Pankhbanon wouldn't be a bad title; sounds eastern.
" Cedars of Panklibanon," &c. Wonder what Panklibanon really is.
One thing I do know, that it is not another name for Canterbury,
where we are now halting, and I make this note.

Mem. It is a pity, also, that Guards, Porters, and Officials gene-
rally differ as to the time the train is going to stop at an intermediate
Station. One says, " Two minutes ;" another, " Hardly a minute ;"
a third, " Four minutes ;" a fourth, " Off directly." Our own con-
fidential Guard assures me that I shall have plenty of time for a cup
of tea or coffee and a bun, and he will show me the refreshment-
room. This results in his getting a glass of beer (from me), and in .

my ordering a cup of tea, and just getting it very hot, when I'm ! and feverish at two. Window rattling, wind howling. I try several

and pressing down upon it heavily and slowly with my pencil,
producing thereby a kind of musical character which subsequently
costs me some considerable time and trouble to decipher) would
gradually send me to sleep, but for DoddridgeJ who can't be
persuaded that the wheel is not on fire, and my Aunt, who is sure
we are going so unsteadily as to be certain of an accident.

Mem. Sympathetic nerves. They make me quite uncomfortable.
Doddridge sniffs, and is sure it's fire. My Aunt clutches the seat-
arms convulsively every three minutes, and says, jerkily, " I
can't stand this—I know I can't"—then she breathes, as if with
difficulty, relaxing slightly her hold on the arm—three minutes of
quiet travelling—when we come on to a decline, or an incline, or a
heautiful bit of engineering, which takes us on to a curve, and
nearly sends my Aunt into a fit.

I tell her, cheeringly, that there's nothing to be frightened at. I

beg her to think how many thousands travel and yet--

I've done it. Doddridge has begun to sob, and my Aunt is
staring, in a three-quarter-face attitude, out of the window, with
the tears grad ually gathering in both eyes.
What have I said ?

* * * # * *

Ramsgate.—My Aunt likes to take watering-places at a disad
vantage, as it were. She is the guest who comes too early, and
witnesses the preparations.

-February is not the season for Ramsgate. Ramsgate is "to let."
There is no one on the pier. There is no one on the sands. There
is no one in the street. There is no one on the promenade.

My Aunt has very nice lodgings. There's a piano in the dining-
drawing-room, which I am glad to see.

After all, we shall manage to be cheerful.

Mem. With regard to My Health, go in for diet. Also for quiet.
Diet and Quiet. Just the opportunity here. Opportunity also for
reading, not writing (except occasional notes), but only reading.

A little music in the evening will be cheerful. I ask my Aunt,
after dinner, to sing. She will. Her collection of song-s is of a
deeply melancholy character. She commences with " The Forsaken,"
which makes Doddridge, who is in a corner knitting or doing some-
thing with a piece of green leather, a pattern, and a needle,
snivel. On her finishing, I say, "Very pretty. What is it?"
and I examine the copy. Will she sing again ? Yes. She selects
" My Heart is Sore"—which is very depressing. The burden
of this is, that the singer (my Aunt) complains of having been
slighted and neglected for another (some other lady), after
having trusted herself to the gentleman apostrophised in the ballad
as "Ah, cruel! couldst thou" something or other, which he not
only apparently could, but would, and, for the matter of that, had
done, and pretty effectually too.

After this, we three sit thoughtfully (I don't know what I'm
thinking about), and the Dove coos plaintively. I sleep next door
to the Dove, and hate him.

My Aunt now rises and examines her repertoire. _ She chooses
another. It is '■''Blighted" which cheerful composition shuts up
Doddridge entirely, and sets my Aunt gulping with emotion. She
breaks down. They are both crying. What am I to do ? I don't
feel inclined to cry. I wish I did. I would willingly. My Aunt
can't find her pocket-handkerchief, so, it being a lovely evening and
warm for this time of year, she goes out of the open window, and
sobs on the steps leading into the garden. Doddridge retires. I
look at my watch. Nothing to do. No books. Forgot to buy
papers. 9*30. Too early for bed. I wonder if this sort of thing
will go on every night.

My Aunt says (returning from window), " I'm afraid you'll find
it rather dull here."

I reply, " Oh no, not at all. It's just what I want. It '11 do me
good."

My Aunt hopes it will, and, taking her candlestick, goes to bed.
Quarter to ten. Well, yes, I will go to bed. It's so calm and
quiet here, I shall get a good night's rest. I might smoke outside.
No, it's getting cold, and. above all things my Health requires me to
be very particular about the night air. Daren't smoke in the house.
Perhaps it will do me good to give it up gradually. Am restless.
Bother my Aunt's songs, they've made me quite sad.
In the front of the house it is a calm night: at the back, where
my bedroom is, it is a rough night. Peculiarity, perhaps of Rams-
gate. I've heard that the climate is different on both cliffs, but
that there should be scarcely a breath of wind in front of the house
and a hurricane at the back-door is a meteorological phenomenon.
I am awake at midnieht: I am more awake at one a.m: I am hot