Punch (71.1876)

October H, 1876.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

157

childhood! Songs of my youth! I can scarcely believe
tbat to-morrow morning I am actually going to Killar-
ney! And to think that one has to take a ticket for the
journey to Killarney just as if it were an ordinary place!

Along the Canal, which, but for the dirtiness and
dinginess, would make me think I had got suddenly
into Amsterdam instead of Dublin,—by Guinness's
Brewery,—shaving corners,—narrowly escaping kicks
from the feet of other passengers on other cars,—nearly
jerked off by the confounded tramways—per varios
casus, per tot discrimina rerum—I arrive att he terminus.

The English travellers in the train (for Killarney)
with me do me the honour of taking me for an Irishman,
and consult me on the subject of Dublin, Bray, and
Wicklow generally. This is gratifying. I am acclima-
tised. Only I wish they wouldn't ask me about "the
hunting here in the winter "—and " what those moun-
tains are in the distance ?" Also, an elderly Saxon
asks me, "What counties are we passing through
now ? " I don't like to guess, and I don't want to dispel
the illusion,—which has something in it of comedy for
me—by referring at once to Black's Guide.

Mem.—Another.time to read up the Guide beforehand.
With a very little superficial knowledge, " crammed " at
breakfast time, one could impose on these simple-
minded tourists to any extent. Then they would write
in their diaries, " Met an Irish Gentleman in the train,
who told us that the finest trout were to be obtained," &c.
&c. "He also gave us some valuable information as to
the state of the country. He seemed intelligent, with
a very pronounced brogue, probably that of some Western
provinciality."

Killarney.—At last! My first view of Killarney is
from the window of the Hotel omnibus, about nine
o' clock on a pitch-dark night, only illumined by the
occasional gas lamps, which show me that I am being
taken through some sort of a town, then out of it, by
a tediously long drive up to the Hotel on the Lake,
named after Her,Most Gracious Majesty.

Of the Lake or the Mountains I cannot even catch
a glimpse. I have arrived like the guest who will come
too early to a party, and who has to wait till the candles
are lighted, before he can see the decorations of the
salon. Or, I have arrived after the opera is over, and
the box-keepers have draped the house in majestic
brown-holland. Or, I am not "in the ' Season," and
Killarney is not on view. At all events I must wait
either till " The Moon has Lit her Lamp above,''—as
the ballad in the Lily of Killarney has it,—or, if the
Moon doesn't do this, I must patiently await Aurora.
Being a Lady, she has a right to be unpunctual.

On retiring for the night, I attempt to make out some-
thing from the bedroom window. I fancy I see the lake.
It is very close—not the lake, which may be a mile
off, for aught I know—but the weather. " They say "
it always rains at Killarney.

Morning.—'Tis all my fancy painted it! 'tis lovely,
'tis divine ! The " Victoria " is beautifully situated—
couldn't, in fact, be better; and of course everybody
showing the'hoighth of civility—but in Ireland, cela va
sans dire. What if my bell is more ornamental than
useful*? and what if 1 vainly expend my labour in at-
tempting to summon the Boots, or the . Chambermaid ?
Am I not more than repaid for my trouble by the
pains immediately taken by the Manager, by the Pro-
prietor (who comes from some distance on purpose),
by the Barmaids, by the Boots (who ought to have heard
it ring, but didn't), by the Waiter (who happened to
be standing near the other Waiter, when it" might have
rung, and he not known it "), and, lastly, by the Ostler,
who, having nothing whatever to do with the interior
economy of the house, goes out of his way (happening
to be passing through) to give his opinion as to this par-
ticular bell ? And these all assemble—first in the pas-
sage, then on the stairs, then outside, on the lawn, to
look up to where my room is, when I harangue them,
as if it were an election, from the window. As only
my upper, and my better half, is visible, the effect,
from below7, must resemble that produced by Punch in
the show, when he is looking out for that provoking
puppet "Joey" the Clown, who will insist on hiding
round the corner. My audience, one after another, give
their opinion and their advice on the subject: a pro-
ceeding which occupies a good half-hour after I have
already employed twenty minutes in vain endeavours
at making the bell sound.

_ I venture to say I never yet met with so much genuine and hearty commisera-
tion, so much real sympathy, and so little help (for no one did anything), as on
this occasion of my not having been able to make my bedroom bell heard;
and when the subject is finally exhausted, I have quite forgotten what on earth
it was I had wanted when I first pulled that bell-rope.

The Landlord offers to change my room. I shall be provided with a first-
rate bell, only I shall not have such a first-rate view. I prefer my present
belle vue to his view of the bell. (This jeu de mot can be worked up to thus :
" When Sydney Smith was travelling in Ireland, he happened," &c.)

I stay here some days, and the bell never does answer, and, consequently, no
one ever answers the bell. But as some external repairs are going on, which
necessitate the presence in the garden of at least three of the household at a
time, including always either the Manager or the Proprietor, I find that,
when I want anything, my most simple plan is to, first, ring the bell, on the
chance (for wrhile there is life and a bell-pull there is hope—or while there is a
rope there is a hope), and then put my head out of window, repeating the Punch
performance, and shout, as if I were being held back by an assassin in the bed-
room, and were struggling to escape on to the top of the verandah, until some
one below asks quietly, " What is it, Sorr ? " or politely, "Did you call, Sir ? "
It's a long process, but it is an exercise of several virtues, and, in the end, it
succeeds.

Early Morning.—The usual thing, of course. There is nothing for it but
" the beaten track." There is, however, only one tourist besides myself at the
Hotel just now—the others are leaving, or have left—and he has started inde-
pendently. I put myself in the Landlord's hands. He tells me I shall want a
horse and car, a pony for.crossing the mountain, a couple of boatmen and a boat
for the lake, and luncheon for myself and the aforesaid boatmen. Great
preparations. But lead on ! I follow !

The trap is at the door—outside car of the highest respectability, and with
the best-looking horse I've yet seen. " He 's new to the work," says my driver,
" but he '11 be all right. Jump up, Sorr ! " And we trot away.

DIARIES, DIARIES, DIARIES!

Messes. T. J. Smith
& Co. (of Queen
Street, Cheapside,)
have shot down on
Mr. Punch a batch of
their multiform Diaries,
Clerical and Profes-
sional, Commercial and
Scribbling, Official and
Pocket, in foolscap and
quarto, octavo and post-
octavo, long and short,
fat and lean, limp and
stiff, ruled and plain,
with blotting-paper and
without, in cases and
out of cases, for house
and office, [for washing
and account - keeping,
to be hung on the wall
or laid on the desk. In
whatever form, or for
whatever purpose days
can be recorded, here is
a record handy, from
the firm of Smith._

If, as there is wisdom
in the multitude of coun-
sellors, there were sav-
ing of time in the mul-
titude of Diaries, no
man need henceforth
lose a day. But is there

not reason to fear, on the other hand, that, in the multiplicity of Diaries, days
may be lost—as men have been lost in the labyrinths of the catacombs ? Mean-
while, we shall look with respect at Messes. Smith's heap of multiform Diaries
as a reminder of the value of those days whose employment we fear Mr. Punch will
never enterinthem. Of "scribbling" hehas sufficient already from his Correspon-
dents : and he has enough to do in recording the day's works in the week's pages.

"In that New Land which is the Old."

"Messrs. Goschen and JomERT, representatives of the English and French Bond-
holders, leave Paris this morning for Egypt."—Times, Oct. 6.

By prayers of Egypt's victims sped o'er ocean,
Goschen starts homewards—to the land of Goshen.
May miracles be wrought at his commands,
Until his client's Bonds are off their hands!