DOI Heft:
November 8, 1873
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16937#0194
182
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[November 8, 1873.
BABY-CARRIAGES WANTED.
jettl Mr. Punch,
I am what my
friends are pleased
to call a “regular
old bachelor,” al-
though, in point of
fact, I am neither
old nor regular, in
either hours or
habits. But, al-
though I am a
bachelor, I am not
averse to matri-
mony, at least, for
other people; nor
have I that violent
antipathy to babies
which, I believe, is
not uncommon to
persons like myself,
who live in single
blessedness.
Still, babies are
a nuisance in some
cases, I confess:
as, for instance, on
a journey, and un-
der such conditions
as those whereof, the other day, I found myself a victim. Returning
from a holiday amid the mountains of North Wales, with mind con-
tented and serene, and nerves tranquil and at rest, I was disturbed in
my day-dreaming of the scenery and sunsets (to say nothing of the
mutton), which are still sweet in my memory, by the inroad on my
solitude of a Baby, and its rattle, and its mother, and its nurse. Sir,
there never was a pack of hounds that equalled this small creature in
the power of giving tongue. For fifty miles or more it continued in
full cry, and, when its vocal clamour ceased, it began a concert of
instrumental noises, which were hardly less distressing. Besides
the rattle I have mentioned, it was gifted with a trumpet, and this
it blew and blew, until it wellnigh blew my brains out. After this
performance, it began to cry again—with hunger, the Mamma said,
and thereupon the nurse produced a pint of milk and a cooking
apparatus, an Infant’s Patent Etna, I rather think she called it.
This volcano smoked away, and made a horrid smell, and clearly
■contravened the law, for ours was not a smoking-carriage.
A short interval was here devoted to refreshment, and then the
concert recommenced, with doubled and redoubled vigour, and was
■enlivened by a series of infantile gymnastics, which seemed to solve
the problem of perpetual motion. “I like mortals never sleep”
appeared to be the motto of this unwelcome little stranger; and,
though I could not but admire the patience of its nurse, what I felt
towards her charge was the reverse of admiration.
For the protection of the public from similar discomforts, I would
suggest that Baby-Carriages should he specially provided, and that
infants elsewhere should be rigidly excluded. It is bad enough that
ladies, when travelling by train, should smuggle in their lap-dogs
with them, as they far too often do, to annoy their fellow passengers,
and to defraud the Company. But Babies are a far more serious
infliction, and it is certainly high time that a nuisance such as this,
which is certainly a crying one, should somehow be abated.
In the meanwhile pray believe me
Tours resignedly,
A Yictim.
OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS.
Return to England. Search for Ilorse recommences.
12'30 a.m.—Latest bulletin from myself to myself: “Arrived at
Folkestone.”
Ilappy Thought.—“ All’s well that ends well.” Thank goodness !
ended well.
A kindly sailor is at my elbow. “ Had quite a nice berth of it,
Sir,” he says. This really means, “ Look here : you’ve had a jacket
and tarpaulin in use all this time, and that can’t be done for nothing,
you know. What are you going to stand ? ” I reply, cheerfully,
“ Yes, I have had a very good berth,” but ignore the implied request.
He turns quite round to me, and almost whispers (adopting this sort
of undertone, I believe, so as not to be overheard by the Captain),
“ I should like to drink your health this morning, Sir.”
Happy Thought.—No public-houses open after twelve.
As I do not, however, like to confront him with an objection which
would bring up vast political questions, on which he may have strong
opinions, it occurs to me—(several things often occur to me before
I lay out sixpence in this way)—to ask him, “ Are you the man who
lent me his tarpaulin and jacket ? ”
Happy Thought.—Be just before you are generous.
Truth compels him to own that he is not the man I took him for.
Then, I explain to him, he, personally, has no claim upon me. He
adinits the justice of my remark, and, catching sight of the Captain,
I fancy, who, like “the sweet little cherub” in the nautical ballad,
is perched up aloft, keeping a watchful eye on poor Jack--
-By the way, “a cherub perched anywhere is a grand in-
stance of poetic licence. \_Note.—To go into this thoroughly in
Typical Developments, Yol. X., under “C” for “Cherub,” Divi-
sion A., “ Artistic Theology.”]-
--the kindly sailor is gradually absorbed into the deep shadow,
and, like a baffled spirit of evil, disappears in the gloom.
Then the real man appears. Qmite dramatic. There is an Eye,
too, from somewhere above on him, as he appears shuffling and un-
easy, and immediately on receiving the money (two strange coins,
belonging to no particular nation, and given me in change with some
francs at Boulogne), he, too, glides away, and vanishes. He seemed
perfectly satisfied before he vanished. Perhaps I may have given
him two rare coins, invaluable to a collector.
One other passenger lands with me: a long man, in a long coat,
inclined to be confidential. I am not. Lonely place, the harbour.
No one in sight. Large Hotel near at hand. Remember it as first-
rate when I was stopping there. Everybody civil and pleasant.
Long man observes that he was not going there at first, but, since I
recommended it, he will. He was, in fact, he says, going to the
Hotel de Paris, just on the opposite side; but since I am going to
the Big Hotel, why so will he. Quite hearty and affectionate. I
tell him he couldn’t do better, and it occurs to me that if the Big
Hotel is, as I’ve heard, chock full, and there’s only one bed there,
which of us will have it? I will, for choice, as I don’t like the
sound of “ Hotel de Paris ” in England: it’s too much like Leicester
Square.
At the door of the Big Hotel. I anticipate a hearty greeting
(because, when I stayed here before, I had established most amicable
relations with the Bootses and Waiters generally), even though
qualified by regret at their being unable to give me the best bed-
room in the house. No signs of life anywhere. The Hotel has its
eyes shut, its eyelids closed, and you can almost hear it snoring in
the moonlight. Boots is asleep, too.
Happy Thought.—The Sleeping Booty.
Ring him up, or ring him down; depends, of course, upon where
he may he. Through the glass door, we see Night Porter advancing.
I notice a deep, a very deep, growl from somewhere. Not a sharp,
short growl, with something in it of the ejaculatory brevity of a
satisfied grunt, but a prolonged, steady growl, proceeding, I soon
find, from something large and black underneath the hall table ; a
growl not to be finished properly, except by a sudden leap out upon
the detested object, who, in this case, is myself, being nearer the
table than my Chance Companion. This is a cheerful welcome on
one’s return to England! and so specially friendly in a Hotel.
“ Any Rooms ? ”
The Porter, a very tall man, with weak knees, and only half
awake, is uncertain. Growling going on. Perhaps the dog has
come in late, and hasn’t been able to get a bed, except underneath
the table, and he ’s growling at that and not at us.
The uncertain young man is a Boots by day, and a Porter by
night. Another Boots appears : he is a short Boots. Blucher Boots
and (the tall one) Wellington Boots. Consultation between the two
heroes. I foresee the result: so does my Chance Companion, who is
beginning to regret that he didn’t carry out his original intention of
patronising the Hotel de Paris.
Chance Companion stupidly says to Boots, “I’m only here for
the night.” Of course they won’t care what they do with him for
only one night.
The consequence of this is, that we shall he Numbers 269 and 266
in the books of the Hotel, and be stowed away among the boxes.
Happy Thought.—In order to prevent this, I will tell the Boots
that, if I like the place, I will stop here some weeks, and I remark
how pleasant it was when I was here some time ago.
I advance towards them in order to say this and ingratiate myself
with them. Wellington Boots requests me to stop in the Hall
where I am, and not approach the spot where he and Blucher Boots
are deliberating.
To this (being taken aback by this unexpected _ rebuff from.
Wellington Boots, and giving up all idea of ingratiating myself
with him, at all events) 1 reply that “I shall stop where I like.”
Long Boots angry; Short Boots hesitating.
“ Are there any rooms ? ” I ask.
“ That,” answers Wellington Boots, irritably, “is what we’re
talking about, if you ’ll stop where you are.”
I deny his right to order a visitor about, and have a good mind to
ring up the Manager or Proprietor, whoever he is. If 1 knew which
bell would summon him, I’d do it.
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[November 8, 1873.
BABY-CARRIAGES WANTED.
jettl Mr. Punch,
I am what my
friends are pleased
to call a “regular
old bachelor,” al-
though, in point of
fact, I am neither
old nor regular, in
either hours or
habits. But, al-
though I am a
bachelor, I am not
averse to matri-
mony, at least, for
other people; nor
have I that violent
antipathy to babies
which, I believe, is
not uncommon to
persons like myself,
who live in single
blessedness.
Still, babies are
a nuisance in some
cases, I confess:
as, for instance, on
a journey, and un-
der such conditions
as those whereof, the other day, I found myself a victim. Returning
from a holiday amid the mountains of North Wales, with mind con-
tented and serene, and nerves tranquil and at rest, I was disturbed in
my day-dreaming of the scenery and sunsets (to say nothing of the
mutton), which are still sweet in my memory, by the inroad on my
solitude of a Baby, and its rattle, and its mother, and its nurse. Sir,
there never was a pack of hounds that equalled this small creature in
the power of giving tongue. For fifty miles or more it continued in
full cry, and, when its vocal clamour ceased, it began a concert of
instrumental noises, which were hardly less distressing. Besides
the rattle I have mentioned, it was gifted with a trumpet, and this
it blew and blew, until it wellnigh blew my brains out. After this
performance, it began to cry again—with hunger, the Mamma said,
and thereupon the nurse produced a pint of milk and a cooking
apparatus, an Infant’s Patent Etna, I rather think she called it.
This volcano smoked away, and made a horrid smell, and clearly
■contravened the law, for ours was not a smoking-carriage.
A short interval was here devoted to refreshment, and then the
concert recommenced, with doubled and redoubled vigour, and was
■enlivened by a series of infantile gymnastics, which seemed to solve
the problem of perpetual motion. “I like mortals never sleep”
appeared to be the motto of this unwelcome little stranger; and,
though I could not but admire the patience of its nurse, what I felt
towards her charge was the reverse of admiration.
For the protection of the public from similar discomforts, I would
suggest that Baby-Carriages should he specially provided, and that
infants elsewhere should be rigidly excluded. It is bad enough that
ladies, when travelling by train, should smuggle in their lap-dogs
with them, as they far too often do, to annoy their fellow passengers,
and to defraud the Company. But Babies are a far more serious
infliction, and it is certainly high time that a nuisance such as this,
which is certainly a crying one, should somehow be abated.
In the meanwhile pray believe me
Tours resignedly,
A Yictim.
OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS.
Return to England. Search for Ilorse recommences.
12'30 a.m.—Latest bulletin from myself to myself: “Arrived at
Folkestone.”
Ilappy Thought.—“ All’s well that ends well.” Thank goodness !
ended well.
A kindly sailor is at my elbow. “ Had quite a nice berth of it,
Sir,” he says. This really means, “ Look here : you’ve had a jacket
and tarpaulin in use all this time, and that can’t be done for nothing,
you know. What are you going to stand ? ” I reply, cheerfully,
“ Yes, I have had a very good berth,” but ignore the implied request.
He turns quite round to me, and almost whispers (adopting this sort
of undertone, I believe, so as not to be overheard by the Captain),
“ I should like to drink your health this morning, Sir.”
Happy Thought.—No public-houses open after twelve.
As I do not, however, like to confront him with an objection which
would bring up vast political questions, on which he may have strong
opinions, it occurs to me—(several things often occur to me before
I lay out sixpence in this way)—to ask him, “ Are you the man who
lent me his tarpaulin and jacket ? ”
Happy Thought.—Be just before you are generous.
Truth compels him to own that he is not the man I took him for.
Then, I explain to him, he, personally, has no claim upon me. He
adinits the justice of my remark, and, catching sight of the Captain,
I fancy, who, like “the sweet little cherub” in the nautical ballad,
is perched up aloft, keeping a watchful eye on poor Jack--
-By the way, “a cherub perched anywhere is a grand in-
stance of poetic licence. \_Note.—To go into this thoroughly in
Typical Developments, Yol. X., under “C” for “Cherub,” Divi-
sion A., “ Artistic Theology.”]-
--the kindly sailor is gradually absorbed into the deep shadow,
and, like a baffled spirit of evil, disappears in the gloom.
Then the real man appears. Qmite dramatic. There is an Eye,
too, from somewhere above on him, as he appears shuffling and un-
easy, and immediately on receiving the money (two strange coins,
belonging to no particular nation, and given me in change with some
francs at Boulogne), he, too, glides away, and vanishes. He seemed
perfectly satisfied before he vanished. Perhaps I may have given
him two rare coins, invaluable to a collector.
One other passenger lands with me: a long man, in a long coat,
inclined to be confidential. I am not. Lonely place, the harbour.
No one in sight. Large Hotel near at hand. Remember it as first-
rate when I was stopping there. Everybody civil and pleasant.
Long man observes that he was not going there at first, but, since I
recommended it, he will. He was, in fact, he says, going to the
Hotel de Paris, just on the opposite side; but since I am going to
the Big Hotel, why so will he. Quite hearty and affectionate. I
tell him he couldn’t do better, and it occurs to me that if the Big
Hotel is, as I’ve heard, chock full, and there’s only one bed there,
which of us will have it? I will, for choice, as I don’t like the
sound of “ Hotel de Paris ” in England: it’s too much like Leicester
Square.
At the door of the Big Hotel. I anticipate a hearty greeting
(because, when I stayed here before, I had established most amicable
relations with the Bootses and Waiters generally), even though
qualified by regret at their being unable to give me the best bed-
room in the house. No signs of life anywhere. The Hotel has its
eyes shut, its eyelids closed, and you can almost hear it snoring in
the moonlight. Boots is asleep, too.
Happy Thought.—The Sleeping Booty.
Ring him up, or ring him down; depends, of course, upon where
he may he. Through the glass door, we see Night Porter advancing.
I notice a deep, a very deep, growl from somewhere. Not a sharp,
short growl, with something in it of the ejaculatory brevity of a
satisfied grunt, but a prolonged, steady growl, proceeding, I soon
find, from something large and black underneath the hall table ; a
growl not to be finished properly, except by a sudden leap out upon
the detested object, who, in this case, is myself, being nearer the
table than my Chance Companion. This is a cheerful welcome on
one’s return to England! and so specially friendly in a Hotel.
“ Any Rooms ? ”
The Porter, a very tall man, with weak knees, and only half
awake, is uncertain. Growling going on. Perhaps the dog has
come in late, and hasn’t been able to get a bed, except underneath
the table, and he ’s growling at that and not at us.
The uncertain young man is a Boots by day, and a Porter by
night. Another Boots appears : he is a short Boots. Blucher Boots
and (the tall one) Wellington Boots. Consultation between the two
heroes. I foresee the result: so does my Chance Companion, who is
beginning to regret that he didn’t carry out his original intention of
patronising the Hotel de Paris.
Chance Companion stupidly says to Boots, “I’m only here for
the night.” Of course they won’t care what they do with him for
only one night.
The consequence of this is, that we shall he Numbers 269 and 266
in the books of the Hotel, and be stowed away among the boxes.
Happy Thought.—In order to prevent this, I will tell the Boots
that, if I like the place, I will stop here some weeks, and I remark
how pleasant it was when I was here some time ago.
I advance towards them in order to say this and ingratiate myself
with them. Wellington Boots requests me to stop in the Hall
where I am, and not approach the spot where he and Blucher Boots
are deliberating.
To this (being taken aback by this unexpected _ rebuff from.
Wellington Boots, and giving up all idea of ingratiating myself
with him, at all events) 1 reply that “I shall stop where I like.”
Long Boots angry; Short Boots hesitating.
“ Are there any rooms ? ” I ask.
“ That,” answers Wellington Boots, irritably, “is what we’re
talking about, if you ’ll stop where you are.”
I deny his right to order a visitor about, and have a good mind to
ring up the Manager or Proprietor, whoever he is. If 1 knew which
bell would summon him, I’d do it.