DOI issue:
May 13, 1871
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16887#0202
May 13, 1871.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
195
Yet, dexterous and deep,
Manage, after that leap,
His balance to keep ?
Where's the athlete, for go,
In Saint Stephens's show,
To equal Low-Lowe ?
Drop your leaps, Miss Ltt-ltt,
And summersets too—
Low-Lowe's out-leapt you!
MY HEALTH.
Billiards.—Bxjdd asks Joslyn if he '11 play a game. Joslyn will,
but observes that " he hasn't touched a cue for years." Bedd now
tries to remember when it was that he last played a game. He
decides that it was ever so long ago.
Mem. Good plan this ; because, lstly, _ if you play badly, why, it
is evidently because you 're out of practice. 2ndly, if you astonish
yourself by making brilliant strokes, it will be clear to your friend
that you used to be a first-rate player, and haven't forgotten your
science. It is arranged that I am to play the winner. I only
remark that it's getting very late. Budd answers carelessly that we
shan't be more than twenty minutes. * * *
Whether it's the dinner of yesterday, or the late hours, or the
change of the weather, I don't know, but I am not so well this
morning. It's true that Budd said, "Never mind what you do
to-day (yesterday) because to-morrow (that's now to-day) you'll
begin your Turkish Baths ;" but still it only shows me that 1 must
be particular as to what I do. It is evident (if yesterday's doings
were the cause of to-day's indisposition) that among the things
i I cannot do with impunity is a dinner given by Joslyn, billiards,
champagne, sherry, various drinks afterwards, and to bed late.
I write down my symptoms in a diary, so as to be able to refer to
it afterwards when consulting a doctor. An excellent plan, and as
the advertisement says of the Cocoa (which I mustn't touch) '' highly
recommended by the Faculty."
Symptoms of To-day. Diary of Health.—Hot nose.....I
pause for awhile to think what else ! I have got a sort of headache
but not quite a headache. I mean not a headache that makes you
say, " 0 do—" I have got it is true to pull down the blinds—" 0 do go
away.....No, I don't want anything, thank you—" (" Thank
you" being given very politely, and meaning "May the anathemas,"
&c, &c.) " If you'd only kindly leave me alone .... and do ask
that dove not to coo .... and please shut up that—that—dog
.....if I could only sleep I might....."
No, it's not that sort of thing. Then there's a pain on my eye-
lids, but not a definite pain, so 1 can't put it down. General lassi-
tude, perhaps, and a feeling of increased fatness, that is, what the
tailors mean when they inform you cheerfully, having shouted out
to the man in the box, " Ninety-six and a half ! " they add, cheer-
fully, " A trifle stouter, Sir, I think, than last time ; " and you sud-
denly pulling yourself up very upright, expand your chest, and
partially correct his mistake by explaining, " and broader," in order
to show him that the increase below is, after all, only symmetrically
in keeping with extension above. This is what I experience this
morning. After this diagnosis I sum up truthfully in my Diary of
Health. Day of the Month. Time. Hot nose. General tightness.
Weather. N.E. wind. Appetite, nothing remarkable, chiefly an
inclination towards dry toast, and a feeling of disgust for butter.
I do not like this Hot Nose. Suppose it swells. Suppose it gradu-
ally becomes redder and redder, a consequence of getting hotter and
hotter. I am sure that a hot nose is a sign of debility ; Meleer, my
medical friend, once told me so, and I took to port wine. Port wine,
everybody is aware, produces this sort of nose; therefore the remedy
was, I hope, homoeopathic. I don't think it has ever gone entirely
away, but has been stealing gradually upwards like afternoon
shadows on a mountain. Occasions will bring out my Hot Nose
symptom. The colour seems, as it were, to be done in a sort of in-
visible ink in which secret despatches used to be written, and which
only show out after a warming before a fire. Joslyn's dinner has
done it. Or, perhaps, to put it more fairly, not being prepared for
Joslyn's dinner by a series of entertainments leading up to Joslyn's
dinner, has done it. My Aunt's and Doddridge's ideas of feeding
are of the plainest description; so, to come (as it were) suddenly
on a dinner like Joslyn's, is really a startler to my Health.
As to my Nerves this morning, I feel that I can't bear anything
or anybody, but that's owing to my Aunt, not Joslyn.
I can't arrive at the condition of my Nerves, because there 's a
shrill voice at the back of the house, out in the road, which ivill go
! on crying out, " Georgina ! " in three distinct syllables. I try to
see where the owner of the voice is, but can't from my window.
It's fearful. " Geor-gee-ner! " Then, after a few seconds' rest,
" Geor-gee-ner ! " I'd Georgeener her—whatever that might
be—if I caught her. If I could see her, I'd tap at the window
severely, and threaten her.
The door of the yard is blown open, and I see the little miscreant
now—a child of about eight or ten, or twelve, perhaps (for I never
can make out children's ages by their appearance, and there really
appears to be no rule as to when a child ought to begin to talk) is
standing in the middle of the road, calling "Geor-gee-ner!"
Georgeener is somewhere in the distance, and won't answer. It
paralyses my dressing. I stand at the window, mesmerised by this
child. She doesn't change her key, or her emphasis, or her intona-
tion. She stands quite still, and does it mechanically. I tap my
window sharply. She can't hear. Why can I hear her f
" Geor-gee-ner! " for the twentieth time.
I will ring. I do ring. It takes a good deal of ringing to fetch
up our enormous Housemaid at the lodgings. She is so big that she
can't come up with one pull: three good ones do it as a rule, and
then not without a consultation with some one (generally the Cook)
invisible. The ceremony of ringing the bell for Mary is as
follows :—
One pull. No effect whatever.
Second pull. A louder one; audible as sounding down-stairs
somewhere. Indistinct murmurs also arise from below, like those
made by a distant crowd on the stage. Burden of indistinct chorus,
apparently. (Strophe) " Where's Mary P" (Anti-strophe.) "Don't
know. Up-stairs, I think." That's another curious thing, she's
always up-stairs.
Third pull. Much louder, and of a remonstrative character.
Mem. Subject for something, " Bells and Bellringers, by One
of Themselves." Also, "How to Wait, by a Waiter." Think it out.
" Geor-gee-jyetj / / "
Third pull is immediately followed by a bell up-stairs. This
brings out Mary (she is about six feet high, and would have
made a capital companion to a plough-hoy, as a plough-girl,
if there is such a person) from somewhere above. She wants to
know, over the banisters, to save trouble, "What bell's that?"
Answer from an invisible's unrecognisable voice below, "Dining-
room, I think." Mary comes down lumpily. She hasn't heard
distinctly, " What bell?" she asks, rather crossly. Cook's voice
from below fancies it's Dining-room. Mary heard murmuring
something about she wishes as something, &c, &c, and Cook heard
in answer that she did, &c, &&, whatever it is; to which Mary
replies grumpily, that she (Mary) thinks as she (Cook) might, &c, &c,
and then she goes to the Dining-room and inquires, as if out of pure
curiosity, " Did you ring, Mum ? " of my Aunt.
It takes all this time to get Mary to come to my door. When she
arrives it occurs to me that I have no right to interfere with a child's
holloaing Georgeener out in the road, but still, if it's a nuisance
(and it is), why not remove it ?
I tell Mary from my side of the door that there is a child, &c,
&c, and will she oblige me by stepping out and sending the child
away. She will. I hear her go to the front door, but, in the inter-
val between the first bell-pull and this, Georgeener has responded
to the summons, and the child has disappeared. Mary lumps back
again, and says through the door, " There ain't none, Sir," and away
she goes up-stairs to the top of the house, so as to be well out of the
way of the next down-stairs bell.
I finish my dressing, and join my Aunt at breakfast.
I knock at the door, in order not to startle her, and enter. Must
be very conciliatory this morning. The wicker dove-cote is on the
table, and my Aunt is engaged at the sideboard, getting out some
seed. She has not heard me. I foresee that will happen when she j
turns round. She '11 be fearfully startled, and go oft' into something
or other jerky—not hysterics, but a sort of spasmodic faint pecu-
liarly her own.
Shall I retire, on tiptoe, and re-enter presently. If she turned
and caught me stealing out, the consequences might be serious, and
in my present state I don't know but that I might have a fit myself.
Shall I cough ? Shall I speak ? Not too suddenly. She is so
engaged with her bird-seed that whatever I do she must jump.
Suddenly it occurs to me to take up the newspaper and say, '' Good
morning, Aunt." . . I say it . . . it's all over. . . . She has knocked
over the bird-seed bag, the tray, and the water, and is clutching I
the sideboard with one hand, and plucking at her left side with the j
other.
I wish 1 knew what to do in these cases.
I've heard something about " good things " to do with hysterical
subjects—one was, I think, "Hold 'em down and stamp on'em."
Another, " Stuff a pocket-handkerchief in their mouths." Another, .
" Beat their open palms." Another, " Undo the collar; give them
air" (what with? the bellows if at hand ?)
Great Events in the Family.
Mrs. Malaprop's youngest grandson has just been vaccinated.
She reports to us that the child is doing well, and the Doctor says he
has a beautiful Yersicle on his arm.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
195
Yet, dexterous and deep,
Manage, after that leap,
His balance to keep ?
Where's the athlete, for go,
In Saint Stephens's show,
To equal Low-Lowe ?
Drop your leaps, Miss Ltt-ltt,
And summersets too—
Low-Lowe's out-leapt you!
MY HEALTH.
Billiards.—Bxjdd asks Joslyn if he '11 play a game. Joslyn will,
but observes that " he hasn't touched a cue for years." Bedd now
tries to remember when it was that he last played a game. He
decides that it was ever so long ago.
Mem. Good plan this ; because, lstly, _ if you play badly, why, it
is evidently because you 're out of practice. 2ndly, if you astonish
yourself by making brilliant strokes, it will be clear to your friend
that you used to be a first-rate player, and haven't forgotten your
science. It is arranged that I am to play the winner. I only
remark that it's getting very late. Budd answers carelessly that we
shan't be more than twenty minutes. * * *
Whether it's the dinner of yesterday, or the late hours, or the
change of the weather, I don't know, but I am not so well this
morning. It's true that Budd said, "Never mind what you do
to-day (yesterday) because to-morrow (that's now to-day) you'll
begin your Turkish Baths ;" but still it only shows me that 1 must
be particular as to what I do. It is evident (if yesterday's doings
were the cause of to-day's indisposition) that among the things
i I cannot do with impunity is a dinner given by Joslyn, billiards,
champagne, sherry, various drinks afterwards, and to bed late.
I write down my symptoms in a diary, so as to be able to refer to
it afterwards when consulting a doctor. An excellent plan, and as
the advertisement says of the Cocoa (which I mustn't touch) '' highly
recommended by the Faculty."
Symptoms of To-day. Diary of Health.—Hot nose.....I
pause for awhile to think what else ! I have got a sort of headache
but not quite a headache. I mean not a headache that makes you
say, " 0 do—" I have got it is true to pull down the blinds—" 0 do go
away.....No, I don't want anything, thank you—" (" Thank
you" being given very politely, and meaning "May the anathemas,"
&c, &c.) " If you'd only kindly leave me alone .... and do ask
that dove not to coo .... and please shut up that—that—dog
.....if I could only sleep I might....."
No, it's not that sort of thing. Then there's a pain on my eye-
lids, but not a definite pain, so 1 can't put it down. General lassi-
tude, perhaps, and a feeling of increased fatness, that is, what the
tailors mean when they inform you cheerfully, having shouted out
to the man in the box, " Ninety-six and a half ! " they add, cheer-
fully, " A trifle stouter, Sir, I think, than last time ; " and you sud-
denly pulling yourself up very upright, expand your chest, and
partially correct his mistake by explaining, " and broader," in order
to show him that the increase below is, after all, only symmetrically
in keeping with extension above. This is what I experience this
morning. After this diagnosis I sum up truthfully in my Diary of
Health. Day of the Month. Time. Hot nose. General tightness.
Weather. N.E. wind. Appetite, nothing remarkable, chiefly an
inclination towards dry toast, and a feeling of disgust for butter.
I do not like this Hot Nose. Suppose it swells. Suppose it gradu-
ally becomes redder and redder, a consequence of getting hotter and
hotter. I am sure that a hot nose is a sign of debility ; Meleer, my
medical friend, once told me so, and I took to port wine. Port wine,
everybody is aware, produces this sort of nose; therefore the remedy
was, I hope, homoeopathic. I don't think it has ever gone entirely
away, but has been stealing gradually upwards like afternoon
shadows on a mountain. Occasions will bring out my Hot Nose
symptom. The colour seems, as it were, to be done in a sort of in-
visible ink in which secret despatches used to be written, and which
only show out after a warming before a fire. Joslyn's dinner has
done it. Or, perhaps, to put it more fairly, not being prepared for
Joslyn's dinner by a series of entertainments leading up to Joslyn's
dinner, has done it. My Aunt's and Doddridge's ideas of feeding
are of the plainest description; so, to come (as it were) suddenly
on a dinner like Joslyn's, is really a startler to my Health.
As to my Nerves this morning, I feel that I can't bear anything
or anybody, but that's owing to my Aunt, not Joslyn.
I can't arrive at the condition of my Nerves, because there 's a
shrill voice at the back of the house, out in the road, which ivill go
! on crying out, " Georgina ! " in three distinct syllables. I try to
see where the owner of the voice is, but can't from my window.
It's fearful. " Geor-gee-ner! " Then, after a few seconds' rest,
" Geor-gee-ner ! " I'd Georgeener her—whatever that might
be—if I caught her. If I could see her, I'd tap at the window
severely, and threaten her.
The door of the yard is blown open, and I see the little miscreant
now—a child of about eight or ten, or twelve, perhaps (for I never
can make out children's ages by their appearance, and there really
appears to be no rule as to when a child ought to begin to talk) is
standing in the middle of the road, calling "Geor-gee-ner!"
Georgeener is somewhere in the distance, and won't answer. It
paralyses my dressing. I stand at the window, mesmerised by this
child. She doesn't change her key, or her emphasis, or her intona-
tion. She stands quite still, and does it mechanically. I tap my
window sharply. She can't hear. Why can I hear her f
" Geor-gee-ner! " for the twentieth time.
I will ring. I do ring. It takes a good deal of ringing to fetch
up our enormous Housemaid at the lodgings. She is so big that she
can't come up with one pull: three good ones do it as a rule, and
then not without a consultation with some one (generally the Cook)
invisible. The ceremony of ringing the bell for Mary is as
follows :—
One pull. No effect whatever.
Second pull. A louder one; audible as sounding down-stairs
somewhere. Indistinct murmurs also arise from below, like those
made by a distant crowd on the stage. Burden of indistinct chorus,
apparently. (Strophe) " Where's Mary P" (Anti-strophe.) "Don't
know. Up-stairs, I think." That's another curious thing, she's
always up-stairs.
Third pull. Much louder, and of a remonstrative character.
Mem. Subject for something, " Bells and Bellringers, by One
of Themselves." Also, "How to Wait, by a Waiter." Think it out.
" Geor-gee-jyetj / / "
Third pull is immediately followed by a bell up-stairs. This
brings out Mary (she is about six feet high, and would have
made a capital companion to a plough-hoy, as a plough-girl,
if there is such a person) from somewhere above. She wants to
know, over the banisters, to save trouble, "What bell's that?"
Answer from an invisible's unrecognisable voice below, "Dining-
room, I think." Mary comes down lumpily. She hasn't heard
distinctly, " What bell?" she asks, rather crossly. Cook's voice
from below fancies it's Dining-room. Mary heard murmuring
something about she wishes as something, &c, &c, and Cook heard
in answer that she did, &c, &&, whatever it is; to which Mary
replies grumpily, that she (Mary) thinks as she (Cook) might, &c, &c,
and then she goes to the Dining-room and inquires, as if out of pure
curiosity, " Did you ring, Mum ? " of my Aunt.
It takes all this time to get Mary to come to my door. When she
arrives it occurs to me that I have no right to interfere with a child's
holloaing Georgeener out in the road, but still, if it's a nuisance
(and it is), why not remove it ?
I tell Mary from my side of the door that there is a child, &c,
&c, and will she oblige me by stepping out and sending the child
away. She will. I hear her go to the front door, but, in the inter-
val between the first bell-pull and this, Georgeener has responded
to the summons, and the child has disappeared. Mary lumps back
again, and says through the door, " There ain't none, Sir," and away
she goes up-stairs to the top of the house, so as to be well out of the
way of the next down-stairs bell.
I finish my dressing, and join my Aunt at breakfast.
I knock at the door, in order not to startle her, and enter. Must
be very conciliatory this morning. The wicker dove-cote is on the
table, and my Aunt is engaged at the sideboard, getting out some
seed. She has not heard me. I foresee that will happen when she j
turns round. She '11 be fearfully startled, and go oft' into something
or other jerky—not hysterics, but a sort of spasmodic faint pecu-
liarly her own.
Shall I retire, on tiptoe, and re-enter presently. If she turned
and caught me stealing out, the consequences might be serious, and
in my present state I don't know but that I might have a fit myself.
Shall I cough ? Shall I speak ? Not too suddenly. She is so
engaged with her bird-seed that whatever I do she must jump.
Suddenly it occurs to me to take up the newspaper and say, '' Good
morning, Aunt." . . I say it . . . it's all over. . . . She has knocked
over the bird-seed bag, the tray, and the water, and is clutching I
the sideboard with one hand, and plucking at her left side with the j
other.
I wish 1 knew what to do in these cases.
I've heard something about " good things " to do with hysterical
subjects—one was, I think, "Hold 'em down and stamp on'em."
Another, " Stuff a pocket-handkerchief in their mouths." Another, .
" Beat their open palms." Another, " Undo the collar; give them
air" (what with? the bellows if at hand ?)
Great Events in the Family.
Mrs. Malaprop's youngest grandson has just been vaccinated.
She reports to us that the child is doing well, and the Doctor says he
has a beautiful Yersicle on his arm.