DOI Heft:
September 11, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0117
September 11, 1880.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
109
LAYS OF A LAZY MINSTREL.
III.—A View on the French Coast.
aik about lazy time!—
Come to this sunny clime—
Life is a flowing rhyme—
Pleasant its cadence!
Zephyrs are blowing free
Oyer the summer sea,
Sprinkling deliciously
Merry Mermaidens!
Despite the torrid heat,
Toilettes are quite complete ;
White are the little feet,
Fair are the tresses:
Maidens here swim or sink,
Clad in blue serge—I think
Some are in mauve or pink—-
Gay are the dresses!
If you know Etrefat,
You will know M'sieu la—
Oh, such a strong papa !—
Ever out boating.
You ’ll know his babies too,
Toto and Lolalou,
All the long morning through
Diving and floating.
Oh what a merry crew!
Fresh from the water blue,
Rosy and laughing too—
Daring and dripping!
Look at each merrj^ mite,
Held up a dizzy height,
Laughing from sheer delight—
Fearless of slipping!
He hath a figure grand—
Note, as he takes his stand,
Poised upon either hand,
Merry young mer-pets :
Drop them! You strong papa,
Swim back to Etretat I
Here comes their dear Mamma,
Seeking for her pets!
A SEASONABLE SURPRISE.
(We visit the Alexandra Palace—by the merest chance. Our Report.)
Helpless [we lay, like the ship “in the Bay o’ Biscay, 0,” in the bay-window of the
Eclecticon. All our blooming companions were jaded and gone. We were jaded, but
couldn’t go. We thought of our chains, and sighed for the Brighton Pier. “ Too late—alas !
too late!” Oh, for a dinner out of town at some new place, and an alfresco lounge! In
Paris, in Brussels, in any Continental city, we should have known what to do; but here—
nothing. The Play was not the thing at all. Richmond? No ; if there were any amount of
Richmonds in the field, we are tired of the place, qua dining. Purfleet, Greenwich, Graves-
end ! With Titanic whitebait, and muddy river ? No. Like Sir Charles Coldstream, we
were used up. Nothing in any one of ’em.
Suddenly, little Toby Mory jumps up cheerily—he and ourselves are the only two left in
the Eclecticon, as fogies don’t count. “ I’ve never been there ! ” he cries. “Where?” we
ask. “ The Alexandra! ” is his answer. “ Bah! ” is our retort uncourteous. “ After Rich-
mond, Purfleet, &c., a needless Alexandra ends the song. Besides, Palaces are horrid places.”
We speak boldly in the Eclecticon—but the fogies are asleep. “ Let’s try it,” urges Toby.
And he opens the A.B.C. “ How do we get there ? ” we inquire, yieldingly. Then we object
that it is too late. “ Not a bit,” cries Toby Mory. “ Waiter! Hansom ! ”
We place ourselves in Toby’s hands. It may be the blind leading the blind, neither of us
being acquainted with the place; but Toby and ourselves know our way about blindfolded.
FromKing’s Cross we went to Wood Green, where we descended just as the “gloaming”
had set in, about 7.30, and seeing before us a very undignified sort of half-illuminated
entrance, which proved to be “The Palace Gates,” we presented ourselves to two Check-
takers, who eyed us suspiciously, carefully inspected our railway-tickets, and finally
passed us in..
The air was appetising, the hour. late, and so we engaged a pony-trap to make the ascent
to the Palace. The Postilion, evidently aware that he was carrying CiESAR and his for-
tunes, took us at a solemn pace up the hill. Fearing to stagger the officials by the
impressive grandeur of our arrival in state, we pulled up well in the shade, gave the
Postilion largesse, bade him to keep his own counsel (or to retain him when necessary),
and smiling to nobody right and left, we entered the building. Toby was for going to see
all the entertainments. “ No,” we said, resolutely; “ there is but one entertainment for us,
and that is dinner.”
Instinct, and a friendly man who was waiting for some one to come in and see Mr.
Howard Paul’s. Entertainment, led us to the sal/e d manger. We selected our table, by an
open window, with a view of nothing in particular (lit up) in the distance, and there sat
down. The table was laid for eight; so
with ourselves in the chair at the head, and
Toby Mory on my left, it looked as though
we had invited guests, who had thrown us
over at the last moment.
Undepressed by this, we summoned the
waiter. He flew—in an opposite direction.
Again, “Wai--!” “Yessir!” and he
presented us with a bill of fare, with which
to amnse ourselves while he was busy,
and vanished out of the window like an
uncaged bird. “Wai-!” “Yessir!”
He was back again—and away. Could we
put salt on his tail? How to catch that
waiter. “ Wai-! ” “ Yessir!” and this
time he handed us the wine carte—and once
more flew out of the window. A marvellous
waiter! Was he a spirit ?
But these wonders did not allay the
pangs of hunger—though sweet music from
a mysterious piano arose and calmed the
savage breasts for a while. At last—unable
to shoot the waiter as, like Folly, he flew,
we walked up to the Master of the Feast,
and gravely informed, him that we had
studied the menu twice carefully, that we
had heard two tunes on the piano, and were
thoroughly pleased with everything so far
—but might we dine ? Would he command
the tricksy sprite of a waiter, by some
mighty spell, to serve us with—in fact—
our dinner ? . Mr. Prospero, the Master—
civilly did this—most civilly, and a capital
dinner was served. Grouse excellent.
Champagne first-rate. Everything good.
And then—we strolled forth. Once more
the distant lights intrigued us. Beautiful
and extensive grounds, and oh, the loveliest
night!!
People coming up the steps told us that
something was going on—as we understood
them at first—* * on three legs.” This turned
out to be their way of pronouncing, “ On
the Three Lakes.” So thither we wended
our way. Time 9.30. Sounds of music and
revelry. Thousands of twinkling coloured
lights. Marvellously beautiful effects of
light and shade, while the electric light
was thrown on one of the three lakes,
around which was a crowd—reminding us
of the Gathering of the Clans—listening to
the band and to a singer in the Pavilion on
the water’s edge.
Our surprise at this scene was only
equalled by our intense gratification. Here
we were. Where? Surely at Baden-Baden,
or assisting at some fete on the Continong !
A really fairy-like scene, and within the
easiest distance. A great boon to the tired
Londoner, who has no Vauxhall, no Cre-
morne, to go to. And, to our thinking, far
surpassing the—but comparisons are odious,
and the allusion is clear as crystal.
This is emphatically no puff, but tardy
justice done to a place of which we have
hitherto steered clear—no puff, we repeat,
except as a return for a breath of air on a
very hot night, and one of the most stri-
kingly picturesque al fresco scenes we’ve
come across for years.
At ten we began to return. Being uncer-
tain as to trains and stations, we inquired
of an official. “ Oh,” was his answer,
“ the trains go anyhow now.”
Fancy a Bradshaw compiled on this plan!
However, we found the trains going quite
regularly, not by any means “anyhow,”
and so w.e returned rejoicing. To all who
are compelled to remain in the Little
Tillage, we recommend our experience of a
night’s outing at the Alexandra Palace.
New Translation [Vide Lord Beacons-
field’s speech on the Ground Game Bill).
—“ Experto Crede”—Trust the Poacher.
109
LAYS OF A LAZY MINSTREL.
III.—A View on the French Coast.
aik about lazy time!—
Come to this sunny clime—
Life is a flowing rhyme—
Pleasant its cadence!
Zephyrs are blowing free
Oyer the summer sea,
Sprinkling deliciously
Merry Mermaidens!
Despite the torrid heat,
Toilettes are quite complete ;
White are the little feet,
Fair are the tresses:
Maidens here swim or sink,
Clad in blue serge—I think
Some are in mauve or pink—-
Gay are the dresses!
If you know Etrefat,
You will know M'sieu la—
Oh, such a strong papa !—
Ever out boating.
You ’ll know his babies too,
Toto and Lolalou,
All the long morning through
Diving and floating.
Oh what a merry crew!
Fresh from the water blue,
Rosy and laughing too—
Daring and dripping!
Look at each merrj^ mite,
Held up a dizzy height,
Laughing from sheer delight—
Fearless of slipping!
He hath a figure grand—
Note, as he takes his stand,
Poised upon either hand,
Merry young mer-pets :
Drop them! You strong papa,
Swim back to Etretat I
Here comes their dear Mamma,
Seeking for her pets!
A SEASONABLE SURPRISE.
(We visit the Alexandra Palace—by the merest chance. Our Report.)
Helpless [we lay, like the ship “in the Bay o’ Biscay, 0,” in the bay-window of the
Eclecticon. All our blooming companions were jaded and gone. We were jaded, but
couldn’t go. We thought of our chains, and sighed for the Brighton Pier. “ Too late—alas !
too late!” Oh, for a dinner out of town at some new place, and an alfresco lounge! In
Paris, in Brussels, in any Continental city, we should have known what to do; but here—
nothing. The Play was not the thing at all. Richmond? No ; if there were any amount of
Richmonds in the field, we are tired of the place, qua dining. Purfleet, Greenwich, Graves-
end ! With Titanic whitebait, and muddy river ? No. Like Sir Charles Coldstream, we
were used up. Nothing in any one of ’em.
Suddenly, little Toby Mory jumps up cheerily—he and ourselves are the only two left in
the Eclecticon, as fogies don’t count. “ I’ve never been there ! ” he cries. “Where?” we
ask. “ The Alexandra! ” is his answer. “ Bah! ” is our retort uncourteous. “ After Rich-
mond, Purfleet, &c., a needless Alexandra ends the song. Besides, Palaces are horrid places.”
We speak boldly in the Eclecticon—but the fogies are asleep. “ Let’s try it,” urges Toby.
And he opens the A.B.C. “ How do we get there ? ” we inquire, yieldingly. Then we object
that it is too late. “ Not a bit,” cries Toby Mory. “ Waiter! Hansom ! ”
We place ourselves in Toby’s hands. It may be the blind leading the blind, neither of us
being acquainted with the place; but Toby and ourselves know our way about blindfolded.
FromKing’s Cross we went to Wood Green, where we descended just as the “gloaming”
had set in, about 7.30, and seeing before us a very undignified sort of half-illuminated
entrance, which proved to be “The Palace Gates,” we presented ourselves to two Check-
takers, who eyed us suspiciously, carefully inspected our railway-tickets, and finally
passed us in..
The air was appetising, the hour. late, and so we engaged a pony-trap to make the ascent
to the Palace. The Postilion, evidently aware that he was carrying CiESAR and his for-
tunes, took us at a solemn pace up the hill. Fearing to stagger the officials by the
impressive grandeur of our arrival in state, we pulled up well in the shade, gave the
Postilion largesse, bade him to keep his own counsel (or to retain him when necessary),
and smiling to nobody right and left, we entered the building. Toby was for going to see
all the entertainments. “ No,” we said, resolutely; “ there is but one entertainment for us,
and that is dinner.”
Instinct, and a friendly man who was waiting for some one to come in and see Mr.
Howard Paul’s. Entertainment, led us to the sal/e d manger. We selected our table, by an
open window, with a view of nothing in particular (lit up) in the distance, and there sat
down. The table was laid for eight; so
with ourselves in the chair at the head, and
Toby Mory on my left, it looked as though
we had invited guests, who had thrown us
over at the last moment.
Undepressed by this, we summoned the
waiter. He flew—in an opposite direction.
Again, “Wai--!” “Yessir!” and he
presented us with a bill of fare, with which
to amnse ourselves while he was busy,
and vanished out of the window like an
uncaged bird. “Wai-!” “Yessir!”
He was back again—and away. Could we
put salt on his tail? How to catch that
waiter. “ Wai-! ” “ Yessir!” and this
time he handed us the wine carte—and once
more flew out of the window. A marvellous
waiter! Was he a spirit ?
But these wonders did not allay the
pangs of hunger—though sweet music from
a mysterious piano arose and calmed the
savage breasts for a while. At last—unable
to shoot the waiter as, like Folly, he flew,
we walked up to the Master of the Feast,
and gravely informed, him that we had
studied the menu twice carefully, that we
had heard two tunes on the piano, and were
thoroughly pleased with everything so far
—but might we dine ? Would he command
the tricksy sprite of a waiter, by some
mighty spell, to serve us with—in fact—
our dinner ? . Mr. Prospero, the Master—
civilly did this—most civilly, and a capital
dinner was served. Grouse excellent.
Champagne first-rate. Everything good.
And then—we strolled forth. Once more
the distant lights intrigued us. Beautiful
and extensive grounds, and oh, the loveliest
night!!
People coming up the steps told us that
something was going on—as we understood
them at first—* * on three legs.” This turned
out to be their way of pronouncing, “ On
the Three Lakes.” So thither we wended
our way. Time 9.30. Sounds of music and
revelry. Thousands of twinkling coloured
lights. Marvellously beautiful effects of
light and shade, while the electric light
was thrown on one of the three lakes,
around which was a crowd—reminding us
of the Gathering of the Clans—listening to
the band and to a singer in the Pavilion on
the water’s edge.
Our surprise at this scene was only
equalled by our intense gratification. Here
we were. Where? Surely at Baden-Baden,
or assisting at some fete on the Continong !
A really fairy-like scene, and within the
easiest distance. A great boon to the tired
Londoner, who has no Vauxhall, no Cre-
morne, to go to. And, to our thinking, far
surpassing the—but comparisons are odious,
and the allusion is clear as crystal.
This is emphatically no puff, but tardy
justice done to a place of which we have
hitherto steered clear—no puff, we repeat,
except as a return for a breath of air on a
very hot night, and one of the most stri-
kingly picturesque al fresco scenes we’ve
come across for years.
At ten we began to return. Being uncer-
tain as to trains and stations, we inquired
of an official. “ Oh,” was his answer,
“ the trains go anyhow now.”
Fancy a Bradshaw compiled on this plan!
However, we found the trains going quite
regularly, not by any means “anyhow,”
and so w.e returned rejoicing. To all who
are compelled to remain in the Little
Tillage, we recommend our experience of a
night’s outing at the Alexandra Palace.
New Translation [Vide Lord Beacons-
field’s speech on the Ground Game Bill).
—“ Experto Crede”—Trust the Poacher.