DOI issue:
September 18, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0140
132
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 18, 1880.
MR. PUNCH’S NIGHTMARE.
(A Vision of September.)
IT may have been the
Salmon Mayonnaise,
or it may not. Yet, so
it was!
“ Come,” said the Spirit
(it was crying). “ 1 will
show yon things that shall
harrow up your soul! ”
Then it moved its pen-
like wand.
In a moment Mr. Punch
found himself in a country
inn. A tourist, clothed in
a cheap, ill-fitting costume,
was angrily expostulating
with the proprietor.
“ What! Three shil-
lings a night for a small
room, and eighteen pence
for attendance ! As sure
as my name is Smith, that
I live at Clapham, that I
escape Income-tax as re-
cipient of something less
than a hundred and fifty
pounds a year, will I have
revenge ! Mark me well—
as ‘ A Swindled Traveller ’
will I write to the Times ! ”
The hotel-keeper and his family sank upon their knees as the
vision faded away, giving place to another.
And now the Spirit ana his unwilling companion were in a sub-
urban kitchen-garden. A venerable idiot was busily engaged in
watching the lazy gambols of a corpulent spider.
“ A most interesting study,” murmured the venerable idiot, “ and
one that has given me materials for a letter exceeding in dimensions
a column and a half. I must send it to the Papers.”
The Spirit uttered a despairing cry, and waved his pen once more.
A railway station. A lawyer’s clerk was chuckling over Brad-
shaw's Time Tables.
“Five minutes late to-day, and to-morrow (come a fortnight)
nearly half an hour too early! What glorious discoveries! My
contribution will look well under the heading of ‘ Railway Unpunc-
tuality.’ Not a moment must be lost in sending my communication
to the Papers.”
“ And he will be as good as his word ! ” shrieked the Spirit. “ I
have known him for many, many years ! ”
The Spirit had scarcely spoken when the scene had changedagain.
A person with a vacant expression of countenance, conjuring up
recollections of Hanwell and Colney Hatch, sat before, a desk in a
study. He looked up as Mr. Punch stood before him. “I was
writing to you! ” he cried, in an ecstasy of joy. “ I am the in-
ventor of the joke about the hero of the Channel swim being JVebb-
footed, and I have just finished an exquisite jeu de mot turning upon
the double meaning of Tanner the faster and ‘ tanner ’ the slang
for sixpence. See, here is-”
“ Take me away! ” gasped Mr. Punch. Then he found himself
in the presence of a lady. Such a lady ! Blue spectacles, short iron-
grey ringlets, and fifty-two! With these advantages a long red
nose and a sneer worthy of Mepliistopheles.
“ I am a spinster,” cried this unpleasant-looking female, “ and I
warn you that Woman at last shall have her rights! In these
twenty pages I have fully expressed my views ! ”
“ Behold, I send them to the Papers ! ”
“No, no!” murmured Mr. Punch, as he hid his eyes in his
pocket-handkerchief ; and now, quite unmanned, wept bitterly.
He was now in a library.
“ 1 have discovered,” said a gentleman with very long hair. “ that,
exactly 46,782 persons pass, on an average, over London Bridge in
the course of a summer’s afternoon. I have ascertained, also, that
the word “ and” is used no less than 863,472,003 times in the first
edition of Pilgrim's Progress. I have also calculated that-”
“But why bore me with these uninteresting facts?” asked Mr.
Punch, interrupting his persecutor.
“Why, indeed?” acquiesced the gentleman with the long hair.
“ Will you not.see them, and many others of a similar nature, in the
letters I periodically send to the Papers ? ”
And yet another Scene. A company of beer-hemuddled Agricul-
turists were seated round an empty table—a table that recently had
groaned under the weight of fish, vegetables, and butcher’s meat. A
fifth -rate “ silent Member” was holding forth in a desultory fashion
npon the affairs c.f the world in general and the nation in particular.
“ My speech of many hours’ duration will not be lost,” thought
the droning bore, as he gazed upon the slumbering faces of his
audience; “as an ‘ Extra-Parliamentary utterance’ it will go down
to fame—in the Papers ! ”
But here Mr. Punch started up.
“ I will see and hear no more ! ” he shrieked. “ Who are you ? ”
“ I am the Spirit of the Press,” was the mournful response ; “ and
these creatures for many weeks will haunt us both. We must learn
to love them.”
“Love them! Never! Who are they?”
“The Monsters of Dulness! The Twaddlers that will suck up
every inch of printing space! In a word—the Yampires of the
Silly Season ! ”
And Punch shuddered as he repeated it. But the Spirit had
vanished without offering him any compensation for his night’s
disturbance.
A PICK-ME-UP.
“ Zoedone ” is in everyone’s mouth—at least its proprietors would
be delighted if it were. A case was sent us for Counsel’s opinion.
The case in question has been since tried
before us magisterially. The opinions of
our Tasting Facuity are—
First.—Zoedone is a first-rate drink for
everyone who likes it.
Secondly.—That to those accustomed to
ginger-beer every day, Zoedone will be a
pleasant change.
Thirdly.—Areal saving at children’s par-
ties, when, on the immortal Marchioness's
method of dealing with the orange-peel and
water {vide Old Curiosity Shop), the young
idea may be induced to believe that it is
indulging freely in Champagne.
Fourthly.—7joedone is a blessing—but not
an unmixed blessing,— as it goes capitally
with any spirituous liquor, e.g., brandy,—
the proportions being left to the fancy of
the individual mixer.
Fifthly.—Zoedone may be safely recom-
mended as a beverage for your mother-in-
law, and as an admirable economical substitute for Sparkling
Rhenish and Moselle Wines for a guest who has been asked for a day
and has invited himself to stay a month.
N.B.—But, seriously, here is our private and confidential tip. It
is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, the Zoedone
must be thoroughly iced ; then—put a liqueur glass of brandy into a
small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you. like shandygaffian sort of drinking,
you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty
guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. Solvitur drink-no-endo.
Verb. sap. We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse—
Made of something, ere we part,
Tell me, tell me what thou art ?
If the truth must be contest,
With a nip thou goest best.
W itb liqueur, one little “ go,’ ’
Zdg-hwv ads dycnrco.
(Signed)
Tristram Shandy Gaff, Sworn Taster.
THE END.
Tuesday, Sept. 7, 1880.
(A Vague Pwminiscence of Longfellow.)
Tardily, wearily,
Reacheth its goal
The Session of ’80,
Tired old soul!
Cover the benches,
And put out the light;
Divisions are over,
And sittings all night.
The bells are all dumb,
And idle the wire ;
Rant sinks into silence,
Reporters retire.
Fewer and fewer
The few footsteps fall;
Quiet and Constables
Reign over all!
The V7orld.
Tnu Drury Lane Advertisement says “ there isbut.one opinion.”
Indeed ! Quot homines, tot sententioe. Does the advertisement imply
that only one person has seen the World ? Or that the audi-
ence spoke on the subject as one man ? Did it only pay as one man ?
But it’s good all round, say Messrs. Merritt, Pettitt, and Harris,
the three men of the World.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 18, 1880.
MR. PUNCH’S NIGHTMARE.
(A Vision of September.)
IT may have been the
Salmon Mayonnaise,
or it may not. Yet, so
it was!
“ Come,” said the Spirit
(it was crying). “ 1 will
show yon things that shall
harrow up your soul! ”
Then it moved its pen-
like wand.
In a moment Mr. Punch
found himself in a country
inn. A tourist, clothed in
a cheap, ill-fitting costume,
was angrily expostulating
with the proprietor.
“ What! Three shil-
lings a night for a small
room, and eighteen pence
for attendance ! As sure
as my name is Smith, that
I live at Clapham, that I
escape Income-tax as re-
cipient of something less
than a hundred and fifty
pounds a year, will I have
revenge ! Mark me well—
as ‘ A Swindled Traveller ’
will I write to the Times ! ”
The hotel-keeper and his family sank upon their knees as the
vision faded away, giving place to another.
And now the Spirit ana his unwilling companion were in a sub-
urban kitchen-garden. A venerable idiot was busily engaged in
watching the lazy gambols of a corpulent spider.
“ A most interesting study,” murmured the venerable idiot, “ and
one that has given me materials for a letter exceeding in dimensions
a column and a half. I must send it to the Papers.”
The Spirit uttered a despairing cry, and waved his pen once more.
A railway station. A lawyer’s clerk was chuckling over Brad-
shaw's Time Tables.
“Five minutes late to-day, and to-morrow (come a fortnight)
nearly half an hour too early! What glorious discoveries! My
contribution will look well under the heading of ‘ Railway Unpunc-
tuality.’ Not a moment must be lost in sending my communication
to the Papers.”
“ And he will be as good as his word ! ” shrieked the Spirit. “ I
have known him for many, many years ! ”
The Spirit had scarcely spoken when the scene had changedagain.
A person with a vacant expression of countenance, conjuring up
recollections of Hanwell and Colney Hatch, sat before, a desk in a
study. He looked up as Mr. Punch stood before him. “I was
writing to you! ” he cried, in an ecstasy of joy. “ I am the in-
ventor of the joke about the hero of the Channel swim being JVebb-
footed, and I have just finished an exquisite jeu de mot turning upon
the double meaning of Tanner the faster and ‘ tanner ’ the slang
for sixpence. See, here is-”
“ Take me away! ” gasped Mr. Punch. Then he found himself
in the presence of a lady. Such a lady ! Blue spectacles, short iron-
grey ringlets, and fifty-two! With these advantages a long red
nose and a sneer worthy of Mepliistopheles.
“ I am a spinster,” cried this unpleasant-looking female, “ and I
warn you that Woman at last shall have her rights! In these
twenty pages I have fully expressed my views ! ”
“ Behold, I send them to the Papers ! ”
“No, no!” murmured Mr. Punch, as he hid his eyes in his
pocket-handkerchief ; and now, quite unmanned, wept bitterly.
He was now in a library.
“ 1 have discovered,” said a gentleman with very long hair. “ that,
exactly 46,782 persons pass, on an average, over London Bridge in
the course of a summer’s afternoon. I have ascertained, also, that
the word “ and” is used no less than 863,472,003 times in the first
edition of Pilgrim's Progress. I have also calculated that-”
“But why bore me with these uninteresting facts?” asked Mr.
Punch, interrupting his persecutor.
“Why, indeed?” acquiesced the gentleman with the long hair.
“ Will you not.see them, and many others of a similar nature, in the
letters I periodically send to the Papers ? ”
And yet another Scene. A company of beer-hemuddled Agricul-
turists were seated round an empty table—a table that recently had
groaned under the weight of fish, vegetables, and butcher’s meat. A
fifth -rate “ silent Member” was holding forth in a desultory fashion
npon the affairs c.f the world in general and the nation in particular.
“ My speech of many hours’ duration will not be lost,” thought
the droning bore, as he gazed upon the slumbering faces of his
audience; “as an ‘ Extra-Parliamentary utterance’ it will go down
to fame—in the Papers ! ”
But here Mr. Punch started up.
“ I will see and hear no more ! ” he shrieked. “ Who are you ? ”
“ I am the Spirit of the Press,” was the mournful response ; “ and
these creatures for many weeks will haunt us both. We must learn
to love them.”
“Love them! Never! Who are they?”
“The Monsters of Dulness! The Twaddlers that will suck up
every inch of printing space! In a word—the Yampires of the
Silly Season ! ”
And Punch shuddered as he repeated it. But the Spirit had
vanished without offering him any compensation for his night’s
disturbance.
A PICK-ME-UP.
“ Zoedone ” is in everyone’s mouth—at least its proprietors would
be delighted if it were. A case was sent us for Counsel’s opinion.
The case in question has been since tried
before us magisterially. The opinions of
our Tasting Facuity are—
First.—Zoedone is a first-rate drink for
everyone who likes it.
Secondly.—That to those accustomed to
ginger-beer every day, Zoedone will be a
pleasant change.
Thirdly.—Areal saving at children’s par-
ties, when, on the immortal Marchioness's
method of dealing with the orange-peel and
water {vide Old Curiosity Shop), the young
idea may be induced to believe that it is
indulging freely in Champagne.
Fourthly.—7joedone is a blessing—but not
an unmixed blessing,— as it goes capitally
with any spirituous liquor, e.g., brandy,—
the proportions being left to the fancy of
the individual mixer.
Fifthly.—Zoedone may be safely recom-
mended as a beverage for your mother-in-
law, and as an admirable economical substitute for Sparkling
Rhenish and Moselle Wines for a guest who has been asked for a day
and has invited himself to stay a month.
N.B.—But, seriously, here is our private and confidential tip. It
is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, the Zoedone
must be thoroughly iced ; then—put a liqueur glass of brandy into a
small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you. like shandygaffian sort of drinking,
you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty
guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. Solvitur drink-no-endo.
Verb. sap. We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse—
Made of something, ere we part,
Tell me, tell me what thou art ?
If the truth must be contest,
With a nip thou goest best.
W itb liqueur, one little “ go,’ ’
Zdg-hwv ads dycnrco.
(Signed)
Tristram Shandy Gaff, Sworn Taster.
THE END.
Tuesday, Sept. 7, 1880.
(A Vague Pwminiscence of Longfellow.)
Tardily, wearily,
Reacheth its goal
The Session of ’80,
Tired old soul!
Cover the benches,
And put out the light;
Divisions are over,
And sittings all night.
The bells are all dumb,
And idle the wire ;
Rant sinks into silence,
Reporters retire.
Fewer and fewer
The few footsteps fall;
Quiet and Constables
Reign over all!
The V7orld.
Tnu Drury Lane Advertisement says “ there isbut.one opinion.”
Indeed ! Quot homines, tot sententioe. Does the advertisement imply
that only one person has seen the World ? Or that the audi-
ence spoke on the subject as one man ? Did it only pay as one man ?
But it’s good all round, say Messrs. Merritt, Pettitt, and Harris,
the three men of the World.