DOI Heft:
October 2, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0153
October 2, 1880.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
145
“THE GENTLE CRAFT.”
Preceptor (after a lecture). “ Now, what are the Principal Things that
ARE OBTAINED FROM THE EaRTH 1 ”
Pupil (and “ disciple of IzaaJc Walton”). “ Worms, Sir ! ”
[Loses Fifty Marks !
LAST MEET OF THE SLOW COACH CLUB.
{By the “ Veteran.”)
The last meet for the Season of the Slow Coach Club, of which his Grace the
Duke of Hudford, K.G., is President, and the motto of which is “ tarde veni-
entibus ’osses ’’—not ossa, as the fine old fruity saying' has been ridiculously
misquoted by a contemporary—took place on Monday last. It had originally
been intended to hold the meet in Mud-Salad Market; but, it having been
represented to the Committee, first, that the Market was not a meat one, but an
emporium for fruit and vegetables; and nest, that the Slow Coaches might
interfere with the numerous waggons full of cabbages which form flying but-
tresses to the church of St. Paul, and help to prop up the colonnade of the
Piazza, it was agreed that the Slow Coaches should assemble at that delightful
expanse of greenery, Abney Park, which had been kindly placed at the disposal
of the Club by the late Sir Thomas Abney.
Of course! went to see the start of the Slow Coaches. My fine old crusted
friend and ex-M.F.EL, Jem Poleaxe, tooled me down to. Abney Park in a
truly cemeterical manner. Jem owned to me, with a racy smile on his way, that
he thought he could combine a little pleasure with the business of the day.
“ For, d ’ye see,” he observed, “ there must be a tidy lot of good old rusty worn-
out screws at the meet, and I may see my way to bidding for a high-mettled
racer, ha! ha! or two.” Jem’s humour is all banter and beeswing, and he has
moved in the very first circles.
So at a high, gee woa, yoicks! pace we sped to the Park; and with one
of Watling’s excellent pork-pies, a canful of Peek and Frean’s biscuits,
some Du Barry’s Revalenta Arabica, and a glass or two of the celebrated Cock-
alorum Sherry (a natural wine ; the vines are never plastered, but are carefully
polished every day with Nubian Blacking) under my waistcoat, I felt as high
tol-lol frisky as a fox might feel with the whole Pytchley, Quorn, and East
Mor-Nor-West-Northampton hounds at his heels, to say nothing of the Belhus
hunters, and the Babraham Rollicking Roaring Rams. Ah ! for the grand
historic days, when my late lamented and fine old crusted friend, Sir Hark-
away Gejmstone Eyesnufe, Bart., used to hunt all three packs at once in a
ring-fence! How cleverly he would pass the Soap Works ! How triumphantly
he would shoot the second arch of the Suspension Bridge,
on the Middlesex side, and foul a steam-launch, full
of Cockneys, hired at “The Eight Bells.”*
It was open house and open cellar at Eye-snuff Hall.
’Twas there I met my dear old crony. Soapy Sponge, and.
jolly old Jorrocxs, and Nimrod, of the Quarterly, and
Jehu, and Methusaleh, and all the old jovial set. And
Tom Moody, the Whipper-in. You all knew him well.
Eheu ! fugaces. The quantity of “ Comet,” “ twenty,”
and “forty-seven” port, ChateauMargaux, Pontet Canet,
Guinness’s Stout, and the celebrated Cockalorum Sherry
(a natural wine, containing positively no acid) was some-
thing enormous.
We sat behind Jem’s line old mare, Black Bess, that
beat Eclipse at the Derby, the Godolphin Arabian at
Goodwood, the Coffin Mare at the Leger, and the Flying
Dutchman at the Whetstone Park Handicap in the
days when I was getting my earliest lessons in things
horsey, by being horsed at St. Broomback’s Charity
School. Jem drove me in a gig, of the regular bang-
up, stay-for-nothing, rumtumtiddity order—which has
recently been repaired by those excellent carriage-makers,
Messrs. Spring, Dickey, and Squab, of 910, Song Acre.
We found a rare gathering of the regular old ’uns at
the Park—fine old tawny Britons after my dear old friend
Sir Joseph Hawley’s own heart. None of your yawning,
lisping, crutch-and-toothpick calibre, but jolly dogs of
the Lord George Bentinck calibre, fine old mellow
bucks of the Admiral Rous type. There were several
Old Masters distinguished for theirpictures of fox-hunts.
There was Old Fuller (a most worthy Corinthian), Old
Burton (who looked rather! Melancholy), Old Dan
Tucker, Old Joe (who would persist in kicking up
behind and before), Old Dr. Jacob Townshend, and Ola
Parr. You may be sure that my brother veterans and
I attentively scanned the drags and the prads and the
bang-up old. nobs who held the ribbons. There were
twenty Slow Coaches at the meet; but perhaps the palm
both for superiority of horseflesh and vehicular elegance
must be awarded to my noble friend, Captain the Honour-
able Velvet Paul Shillibeer, whose tasteful equipage,
drawn by four magnificently-matched black Flemish
horses, with long manes and tails, and superb action,
excited general admiration.
Through an odd fancy of Captain Shillibeer, he has
trained his grooms to sit, not in the dickey, but on the
roof of the drag, with their legs swinging at large ; and
this, combined with the singular uniformity of redness
in their noses, produces a very spirited effect. Captain
Muff got his little lot clubbed with Mr. Streatham
Common’s invalid team, Farcy, Glanders, Spasms, and
Shouldershotten, and Sir Hector O’Dear had a bad
spill in endeavouring to get his highly attractive con-
tingent (Dutch pinks) into line. But, on the whole, the
form was superb. Not a galled jade but winced. Not a
wither but was wrung. Not a fetlock but was sprung.
1 never saw a creamier show of “fiddle-case’’ heads and
“ star-gazers.” They were all roarers. Drooping flanks,
sparkling hocks. Culleton’s crests, puff - pasterns,
oyster-barrels, asthmatic crops, victoria docks, strangled
stifle-joists, hundred-ton cannon bones, and stony curb-
places :—all the points of the Perfect Horse were distri-
buted among this peculiarly cheery high-toned and
down-the-road lot. The Admiral would have wept, and
Sir Joseph would have danced a high, gee woa, tantivy
to see the show.
The whips, having been all thoroughly awakened by
the Club “Knocker Up,” snuffed all round to make
themselves lively, and tooled away in fine style to Kensal
Green, where they were to dine. Your correspondent,
after filling his box with some right Macabaw (Sneezum s,
in Great Catechu Street, is the. only place where you
can get genuine Macabaw), adjourned to Tom Tick s
genial hostelry, the “Slate and Chalk,” and there Jem
and I refreshed ourselves with a chop, supplied to the
establishment bv those highly respectable butchers,
Messrs. Block and Ornament, of Hackney Coach
Marshes, and a glass or two of the celebrated Cocka-
lorum Sherry (a natural wine, with never a headache in
a dozen of it). Then, hey for Tattersall’s ! Outside
Tattersall’s
* Some dim reminiscences of the University Boat Race seem
now to have got interpolated in the "Veteran’s otherwise graphic
narrative. By the way, we anticipate with pleasure the Vete-
ran’s account of “ A Day with the D.T.”—Ed.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
145
“THE GENTLE CRAFT.”
Preceptor (after a lecture). “ Now, what are the Principal Things that
ARE OBTAINED FROM THE EaRTH 1 ”
Pupil (and “ disciple of IzaaJc Walton”). “ Worms, Sir ! ”
[Loses Fifty Marks !
LAST MEET OF THE SLOW COACH CLUB.
{By the “ Veteran.”)
The last meet for the Season of the Slow Coach Club, of which his Grace the
Duke of Hudford, K.G., is President, and the motto of which is “ tarde veni-
entibus ’osses ’’—not ossa, as the fine old fruity saying' has been ridiculously
misquoted by a contemporary—took place on Monday last. It had originally
been intended to hold the meet in Mud-Salad Market; but, it having been
represented to the Committee, first, that the Market was not a meat one, but an
emporium for fruit and vegetables; and nest, that the Slow Coaches might
interfere with the numerous waggons full of cabbages which form flying but-
tresses to the church of St. Paul, and help to prop up the colonnade of the
Piazza, it was agreed that the Slow Coaches should assemble at that delightful
expanse of greenery, Abney Park, which had been kindly placed at the disposal
of the Club by the late Sir Thomas Abney.
Of course! went to see the start of the Slow Coaches. My fine old crusted
friend and ex-M.F.EL, Jem Poleaxe, tooled me down to. Abney Park in a
truly cemeterical manner. Jem owned to me, with a racy smile on his way, that
he thought he could combine a little pleasure with the business of the day.
“ For, d ’ye see,” he observed, “ there must be a tidy lot of good old rusty worn-
out screws at the meet, and I may see my way to bidding for a high-mettled
racer, ha! ha! or two.” Jem’s humour is all banter and beeswing, and he has
moved in the very first circles.
So at a high, gee woa, yoicks! pace we sped to the Park; and with one
of Watling’s excellent pork-pies, a canful of Peek and Frean’s biscuits,
some Du Barry’s Revalenta Arabica, and a glass or two of the celebrated Cock-
alorum Sherry (a natural wine ; the vines are never plastered, but are carefully
polished every day with Nubian Blacking) under my waistcoat, I felt as high
tol-lol frisky as a fox might feel with the whole Pytchley, Quorn, and East
Mor-Nor-West-Northampton hounds at his heels, to say nothing of the Belhus
hunters, and the Babraham Rollicking Roaring Rams. Ah ! for the grand
historic days, when my late lamented and fine old crusted friend, Sir Hark-
away Gejmstone Eyesnufe, Bart., used to hunt all three packs at once in a
ring-fence! How cleverly he would pass the Soap Works ! How triumphantly
he would shoot the second arch of the Suspension Bridge,
on the Middlesex side, and foul a steam-launch, full
of Cockneys, hired at “The Eight Bells.”*
It was open house and open cellar at Eye-snuff Hall.
’Twas there I met my dear old crony. Soapy Sponge, and.
jolly old Jorrocxs, and Nimrod, of the Quarterly, and
Jehu, and Methusaleh, and all the old jovial set. And
Tom Moody, the Whipper-in. You all knew him well.
Eheu ! fugaces. The quantity of “ Comet,” “ twenty,”
and “forty-seven” port, ChateauMargaux, Pontet Canet,
Guinness’s Stout, and the celebrated Cockalorum Sherry
(a natural wine, containing positively no acid) was some-
thing enormous.
We sat behind Jem’s line old mare, Black Bess, that
beat Eclipse at the Derby, the Godolphin Arabian at
Goodwood, the Coffin Mare at the Leger, and the Flying
Dutchman at the Whetstone Park Handicap in the
days when I was getting my earliest lessons in things
horsey, by being horsed at St. Broomback’s Charity
School. Jem drove me in a gig, of the regular bang-
up, stay-for-nothing, rumtumtiddity order—which has
recently been repaired by those excellent carriage-makers,
Messrs. Spring, Dickey, and Squab, of 910, Song Acre.
We found a rare gathering of the regular old ’uns at
the Park—fine old tawny Britons after my dear old friend
Sir Joseph Hawley’s own heart. None of your yawning,
lisping, crutch-and-toothpick calibre, but jolly dogs of
the Lord George Bentinck calibre, fine old mellow
bucks of the Admiral Rous type. There were several
Old Masters distinguished for theirpictures of fox-hunts.
There was Old Fuller (a most worthy Corinthian), Old
Burton (who looked rather! Melancholy), Old Dan
Tucker, Old Joe (who would persist in kicking up
behind and before), Old Dr. Jacob Townshend, and Ola
Parr. You may be sure that my brother veterans and
I attentively scanned the drags and the prads and the
bang-up old. nobs who held the ribbons. There were
twenty Slow Coaches at the meet; but perhaps the palm
both for superiority of horseflesh and vehicular elegance
must be awarded to my noble friend, Captain the Honour-
able Velvet Paul Shillibeer, whose tasteful equipage,
drawn by four magnificently-matched black Flemish
horses, with long manes and tails, and superb action,
excited general admiration.
Through an odd fancy of Captain Shillibeer, he has
trained his grooms to sit, not in the dickey, but on the
roof of the drag, with their legs swinging at large ; and
this, combined with the singular uniformity of redness
in their noses, produces a very spirited effect. Captain
Muff got his little lot clubbed with Mr. Streatham
Common’s invalid team, Farcy, Glanders, Spasms, and
Shouldershotten, and Sir Hector O’Dear had a bad
spill in endeavouring to get his highly attractive con-
tingent (Dutch pinks) into line. But, on the whole, the
form was superb. Not a galled jade but winced. Not a
wither but was wrung. Not a fetlock but was sprung.
1 never saw a creamier show of “fiddle-case’’ heads and
“ star-gazers.” They were all roarers. Drooping flanks,
sparkling hocks. Culleton’s crests, puff - pasterns,
oyster-barrels, asthmatic crops, victoria docks, strangled
stifle-joists, hundred-ton cannon bones, and stony curb-
places :—all the points of the Perfect Horse were distri-
buted among this peculiarly cheery high-toned and
down-the-road lot. The Admiral would have wept, and
Sir Joseph would have danced a high, gee woa, tantivy
to see the show.
The whips, having been all thoroughly awakened by
the Club “Knocker Up,” snuffed all round to make
themselves lively, and tooled away in fine style to Kensal
Green, where they were to dine. Your correspondent,
after filling his box with some right Macabaw (Sneezum s,
in Great Catechu Street, is the. only place where you
can get genuine Macabaw), adjourned to Tom Tick s
genial hostelry, the “Slate and Chalk,” and there Jem
and I refreshed ourselves with a chop, supplied to the
establishment bv those highly respectable butchers,
Messrs. Block and Ornament, of Hackney Coach
Marshes, and a glass or two of the celebrated Cocka-
lorum Sherry (a natural wine, with never a headache in
a dozen of it). Then, hey for Tattersall’s ! Outside
Tattersall’s
* Some dim reminiscences of the University Boat Race seem
now to have got interpolated in the "Veteran’s otherwise graphic
narrative. By the way, we anticipate with pleasure the Vete-
ran’s account of “ A Day with the D.T.”—Ed.