Punch (67.1874)

72

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[August 15, 1874.

TANTALUS.

Old Party. “ I say, my Lad, could you Eat one op those Kidney-Pies,
if you were Offered one ? ”

Vulgar Boy. “ Eat one of them Kidney-Pies ? Why, I could Swoller
the ’ole blessed Lot ! ”

Old Party. “ Could you, really ! Now, / couldn’t Eat one if I were
PAID FOR IT! ” [Exit Old Party.

ORDER! ORDER!

House of Commons! House of Lords !
When a Member used those words
In the good old days gone by,

“ Order ! ” was at once the cry.

This or that was called, in case
It were named, “ another place.”

What next ? By and by, irate
And excited in debate,

Members will, as they declaim,

Of each other speak by name !

Then what mortal can foresee
What the consequence will be ?

O may Order’s late transgression
Not occur again next Session !

DON CARLOS ON HIS COUNTRY.

Don Carlos declares in his late manifesto :—

“ I dream of the glory reserved to this hidalgie land, to the
point of imagining that possibly she is destined to be the in-
itiator of the purification of the active and intelligent Latin
race, spread over both Continents, as the indispensable van-
guard of Christian civilisation.”

The vanguard of the Carlist forces in Spain appears
to be employed less in diffusing Christian civilisation
than in waving civil war, as distinguished from civilised
warfare. The former, rather than the latter, in both the
Old Continent and the New, has for some time been the
sphere of action in which the Latin race has chiefly dis-
tinguished itself by its activity, if not by its intelligence.
There is much more reason to wish than to hope that
Spain may be destined to initiate its purification. But
unless that process is effected by some agency or other,
that race bids fair, or rather foul, to sink to a level
with the Mongolian or Malay, the Red Indian, or the
Nigger. Then, perhaps, Professors, lecturing on national
skulls in ethnological societies of the future, will describe
the Latin race as prognathous.

Temple Gardens to Temple Bar.

Here’s a wrinkle, Temple Bar!

If you can’t stay where you are.

City sites no need to try—

There ’s the very thing close by !

as if he’d been outwitting somebody by his own unaided ingenuity,
“ there are bed-rooms under here.” He almost goes off into a
guffaw at this. Then he adds, “And below that is where the
excursionists come: they have only to order their liquor, and they ’re
provided with salt, pepper, and mustard for nothing.” This is very
nearly too much for him.

Next Day.—A Bank Holiday. I should say, at Spaborough, a
sandbank holiday. Here’s the crowd of Ramsgate and Margate and
Boulogne, only with a North Country accent. But such sands, and
such driving and riding races on ponies and donkeys, and such a
row and noise and bustle below us superior creatures on the terraces
of the Grand Hotel, from morning till late in the afternoon. York
comes here, Leeds comes here, and even Manchester, for an excur-
sion. Here_ you may see the new edition of A Trip to Spaborough.
In the evening, the renowned Messrs. So-and-So are at some rooms,
giving their “ marvellous entertainment,” Mrs. Thingummy is
“reading” at the Spa, Mr. and Mrs. What-you-may-call-’em are
ready to delight the public at one of the theatres, and Mr. Stick-
inthemud and his talented company are doing their best at another.
There is a band alfresco for those to whom stuffy rooms and hot
theatres are now an abomination ; but it’s pleasanter to lounge on
the terrace of the Grand, smoke the fragrant havannah, and
moralise on the vanity of things in general, than to mix with the
giddy throng.

I have one complaint to make, and there is no remedy. I was
horrified to find that there were blacks (I don’t mean nigger
minstrels they ’re everywhere) at Spaborough ; genuine London
blacks, on my dressing-table ; nasty smuts. I don’t like mention-
ing this to the housemaid, as she might make the stereotyped reply

say to me as to the London blacks. So I keep my grief to myself.

But the Rover resolves that he will flee away (“ flee” being the
word just now uppermost in his mind), and seek some far-off vale,
where, far from excursion steamers, excursionists, niggers, spas,
theatres, donkeys and their riders, he may be at rest.

Then you will again hear from

Your Own Reddy Rover.

P.S.—Spaborough by night is lively. Bands, crowds, fire balloons,
and flirtations, Chinese lanterns, steamers, boats, and real good fire-
works on the Spa, let off by the Crystal Palace artificer. By the
way, I met a Cambridge Professor here. He told me he invariably
came to Spaborough for five weeks’ vacation. I was beginning to
observe that “I supposed the attractions”—when he cut me short
by saying, “ 0 no, I don’t care about these things—fireworks and
all that; but Spaborough is the only place (and I’ve tried a lot of
’em) where they have really good Marionettes. They ’re first-rate
here, only ”—and a shade of annoyance crossed his ample forehead
—“ they always will play the Babes in the Wood, and I’m beginning
to get tired of it.” Not bad this for an eminent Collegiate Divine.

Friend and Fisher.

It is stated in the Glasgow Herald that Mr. Bright has been
staying at Stornaway, and, on the day of his leaving that place,
fished in the Creed. We are not informed that the Right Honour-
able Member for Birmingham caught any articles.

Man and Dog.—There is no foundation for the report which was
neglected to be circulated last week that the proprietors of the
Daily Telegraph and the New York Herald have telegraphed to Mr.
H. M. Stanley to go and find “ Brummy” and “ Physic.”