DOI issue:
December 11, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0283
276
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[December 11, laao.
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
Lloyd's.
F course I knew something about
the official home of the under-
writers of England “who lived at
home at ease,” and, in spite of
their comfort, were thoroughly
conversant “with the dangers of
the seas.” A London dictionary
had told me that they were an
association of gentlemen dating
from 1668, and that since 1774 they
had occupied an upper floor of
the Royal Exchange—ancient and
modern. But I had drawn upon
my “ inner consciousness ” for the
rest. I had imagined clients in
the shape of tough, weather-beaten
sea-captains doing business with
staid old gentlemen seated behind
high desks covered with gigantic
ledgers. I had thought it possible
that now and again a piercing
shriek would break the solemn calm as some poor orphan found by
the notice-board of wrecks, that the ship upon which all her hopes
were centred had sunk beneath the wave. Then I felt certain a
sympathetic group of veteran underwriters would hasten to offer
consolation, while some one (in the distance) played a low and touching
chant on a hidden organ. The poor orphan, having received untold
gold (from a benevolent fund kept for the purpose) would retire under
the guardianship of two sea-captains of venerable appearance, who
would declare that they would look after her ‘ ‘ while a single shot
remained in poor old Davey’s locker,” or something to the same
nautically kind-hearted effect. And then staid, necessary, and old-
fashioned business would commence once more. So much for my
ideal of Lloyd’s, and now for the reality.
I pushed open a swing-door, and came face to face with a beadle.
He was more useful than ordinary beadles, for he was looking after
some sticks and umbrellas. Then I ascended three flights of dark
and dirty stairs fragrant with the fumes of smoke and cooking, and
pushed open another swing-door to come faee to face with a second
beadle, who seemed to be about twice the size of the first. With the
grace of a polite and civilised ogre, he asked me my business. I
mentioned the name of a friend. Suddenly the name was repeated
in stentorian accents, suggesting a mixture of a blast from a fog-
signal and a report from a four-thousand-and-eighty-one-ton gun.
Before the reverberating echoes had died away in the vaulted hall,
a gentleman of the most engaging manners appeared before me.
The gentleman was not my friend, but my friend’s friend. He was
extremely amiable, and in a second I was free of the place.
I passed the cheery shouter in the beadle’s uniform and entered the
great hall. It was, indeed, a wonderful place! Instead of the
aged book-keepers I had pictured to myself, I found a number of
dear acquaintances, more suggestive of the stalls at the Opera, than
business in the very heart of the City of London. One and all seemed
delighted to see me, although I had not come to insure the Great
Eastern. Tommy, Billy, Fra.uk, and Jack were all there. We
had just begun to discuss the merits of the last Gaiety Burlesque,
■when I was startled with a “ Bang! ” a “ ting J n ,a “ smash! ” and,
lastly, a “ crash! ”
“What was it?” I asked, expecting to hear that it was the
breaking up of some ill-fated vessel on the iron-bound coast of India,
or elsewhere, the sounds of which were now being faithfully trans-
mitted to Lloyd’s by a new electric telephone of extra power.
“That’s nothing,” said Tommy ; “ only the chimes on the top of
the Royal Exchange! They give us a tune for every day of the
week. This morning it’s ‘ The Roast Beef of Old England.' ”—
“ Bang—wang—ting a ring—boo! ” went the chimes defiantly.—
Ho, it isn’t,” he continued; “ ‘ The Roast Beef of Old England'
is kept for Saturday. Stay—it’s ‘ The Old Hundredth.' "
He listened; and as he recognised a more than usually discordant
“ crash,” corrected himself with the observation, “that when he said
‘ The Old Hundredth,' of course he meant ‘ God Save the Queen.' ”
My ears at last had rest; and after feasting my eyes upon the
feeblest statue of Prince Albert in the world, (which appeared to
be looking about for an absent screen) another sense was assailed.
“Yes,” said Billy, answering an interrogatory sniff, “it is not
pleasant! We have spent a heap upon ventilation, but it’s no go.
First we pumped in sewer gas ; then when that didn’t seem to do,
we pumped in something else. How when it’s windy outside, we are
blown inside; when it snows over the way, we freeze here; when
it’s hot in the Poultry, we stifle over the Exchange. This morning
you would think we were passing our time in keeping live rabbits,
and making mutton-broth—now, wouldn’t you ? ”
Transacting Business.
Fortunately my Friend’s Friend interposed before I had time to
answer. He had been exchanging merry remarks with some young
gentlemen, who seemingly had been
running up to him to tell him cer-
tain “ good things.” He now apo-
logised for this. “They are my
clients,” he exclaimed ; “and we have
been doing business.” “ Business! ”
and yet no gold-rimmed spectacles,
and enormous ledgers; only a few
words entered in a little book,
and the thing was done I Had my
Friend’s Friend been compiling a
jest hook, he could not have been
more cheerful. Hay, he might have
been a great deal less ! We now made the rounds of the rooms.
I found myself passing a crowd of smiling gossiping gentlemen,
seated opposite to one another at little tables, who looked as if they
had nothing more serious in the world to do than to ask each other
conundrums. Had they been Frenchmen. I am sure they would have
been playing ecarte, or partaking of the delicious excitement of
dominoes! At the upper end were younger men. “ The House of
Lords!” whispered Tommy, who joined us for a moment. “Only
peers in their own right are admitted here ! ” and he was off before I
could make any further inquiries. Entering a sort of cupboard, we
saw the telephone in full operation. Jack was sending a message to
Tom about something nautical—I think Billee Taylor. Hext we
entered a library, apparently full of dictionaries. There were also
some models of new indentions. “Great larks those,” said Regy,
putting his head in. “We get the inventors to explain them! ”
“And now,” said my Friend’s Friend, as Regy disappeared, “you
must see the Captain’s Room.”
I paused, and a vision of Captain Cuttle appeared before me. I
took out my note-book ready to record the tales of stormy adven-
tures I expected to hear re-
lated. I even headed a page
with “ How I Weathered the
Horn in ’26.” I was prepared
to find myself in a whole kennel
of aged sea dogs. I thought
I should find hooks for arms,
and gigantic telescopes in lieu
of umbrellas. I nearly hitched
up my trowsers in sympathy,
and brushed up my vocabulary
(limited) of sea terms. I passed
in, and found a luxurious eat-
ing house! Instead of weather-
beaten tars, I met Tom, and
Dick, and Algy, and a lot of their “ pals.” There was a luncheon bar
at the end, and there were boxes on either side. I was received with a
shout of hospitality. I tried an appropriate joke about “ the chops
of the Channel.” It fell flat. Hobody wanted to be nautical. The
latest story from the “ Steak” in exchange for the freshest “ good
thing” from “the House” was very much more to the purpose.
“ But why ? ” I asked—“ why the Captain’s Room ? ” “ I am sure
I don’t know,” answered Algy, sipping his Chablis; “’spose it’s
because they sell ships here while. a fellow is quietly taking his
luncheon ! Waiter, some more natives! ”
And with this explanation I left the Captain’s Room.
But f had more to do.
Before quitting Lloyd’s I had
to view the place in quite a
different light. I had to see
the books where every move-
ment of every ship upon the
face of the earth was kept
from day to day. I had to
recognise that in spite of the
tone of universal cheeriness
(extending even to “ the
Doctors ” who helped their
brother underwriters out of
unusual risks), that every-
thing was as well and as
thoroughly done as if every
member had worn gold-rimmed spectacles and had passed his life
in doddering over musty folios resting on lofty desks. I noticed
that, in spite of their airy manner, Jack, and his “pals” were
thorough men of business.
As I left, the doorkeeper was shouting in stentorian tones the
name of a firm I could not catch. If he had wished to describe the
place in which he was standing, he might have called “Work
ombined with Pleasure! ” and if he had, I should have heartily
agreed with him!
The Captain’s Room—The Ideal.
The Captain’s Room—the Reality.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[December 11, laao.
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
Lloyd's.
F course I knew something about
the official home of the under-
writers of England “who lived at
home at ease,” and, in spite of
their comfort, were thoroughly
conversant “with the dangers of
the seas.” A London dictionary
had told me that they were an
association of gentlemen dating
from 1668, and that since 1774 they
had occupied an upper floor of
the Royal Exchange—ancient and
modern. But I had drawn upon
my “ inner consciousness ” for the
rest. I had imagined clients in
the shape of tough, weather-beaten
sea-captains doing business with
staid old gentlemen seated behind
high desks covered with gigantic
ledgers. I had thought it possible
that now and again a piercing
shriek would break the solemn calm as some poor orphan found by
the notice-board of wrecks, that the ship upon which all her hopes
were centred had sunk beneath the wave. Then I felt certain a
sympathetic group of veteran underwriters would hasten to offer
consolation, while some one (in the distance) played a low and touching
chant on a hidden organ. The poor orphan, having received untold
gold (from a benevolent fund kept for the purpose) would retire under
the guardianship of two sea-captains of venerable appearance, who
would declare that they would look after her ‘ ‘ while a single shot
remained in poor old Davey’s locker,” or something to the same
nautically kind-hearted effect. And then staid, necessary, and old-
fashioned business would commence once more. So much for my
ideal of Lloyd’s, and now for the reality.
I pushed open a swing-door, and came face to face with a beadle.
He was more useful than ordinary beadles, for he was looking after
some sticks and umbrellas. Then I ascended three flights of dark
and dirty stairs fragrant with the fumes of smoke and cooking, and
pushed open another swing-door to come faee to face with a second
beadle, who seemed to be about twice the size of the first. With the
grace of a polite and civilised ogre, he asked me my business. I
mentioned the name of a friend. Suddenly the name was repeated
in stentorian accents, suggesting a mixture of a blast from a fog-
signal and a report from a four-thousand-and-eighty-one-ton gun.
Before the reverberating echoes had died away in the vaulted hall,
a gentleman of the most engaging manners appeared before me.
The gentleman was not my friend, but my friend’s friend. He was
extremely amiable, and in a second I was free of the place.
I passed the cheery shouter in the beadle’s uniform and entered the
great hall. It was, indeed, a wonderful place! Instead of the
aged book-keepers I had pictured to myself, I found a number of
dear acquaintances, more suggestive of the stalls at the Opera, than
business in the very heart of the City of London. One and all seemed
delighted to see me, although I had not come to insure the Great
Eastern. Tommy, Billy, Fra.uk, and Jack were all there. We
had just begun to discuss the merits of the last Gaiety Burlesque,
■when I was startled with a “ Bang! ” a “ ting J n ,a “ smash! ” and,
lastly, a “ crash! ”
“What was it?” I asked, expecting to hear that it was the
breaking up of some ill-fated vessel on the iron-bound coast of India,
or elsewhere, the sounds of which were now being faithfully trans-
mitted to Lloyd’s by a new electric telephone of extra power.
“That’s nothing,” said Tommy ; “ only the chimes on the top of
the Royal Exchange! They give us a tune for every day of the
week. This morning it’s ‘ The Roast Beef of Old England.' ”—
“ Bang—wang—ting a ring—boo! ” went the chimes defiantly.—
Ho, it isn’t,” he continued; “ ‘ The Roast Beef of Old England'
is kept for Saturday. Stay—it’s ‘ The Old Hundredth.' "
He listened; and as he recognised a more than usually discordant
“ crash,” corrected himself with the observation, “that when he said
‘ The Old Hundredth,' of course he meant ‘ God Save the Queen.' ”
My ears at last had rest; and after feasting my eyes upon the
feeblest statue of Prince Albert in the world, (which appeared to
be looking about for an absent screen) another sense was assailed.
“Yes,” said Billy, answering an interrogatory sniff, “it is not
pleasant! We have spent a heap upon ventilation, but it’s no go.
First we pumped in sewer gas ; then when that didn’t seem to do,
we pumped in something else. How when it’s windy outside, we are
blown inside; when it snows over the way, we freeze here; when
it’s hot in the Poultry, we stifle over the Exchange. This morning
you would think we were passing our time in keeping live rabbits,
and making mutton-broth—now, wouldn’t you ? ”
Transacting Business.
Fortunately my Friend’s Friend interposed before I had time to
answer. He had been exchanging merry remarks with some young
gentlemen, who seemingly had been
running up to him to tell him cer-
tain “ good things.” He now apo-
logised for this. “They are my
clients,” he exclaimed ; “and we have
been doing business.” “ Business! ”
and yet no gold-rimmed spectacles,
and enormous ledgers; only a few
words entered in a little book,
and the thing was done I Had my
Friend’s Friend been compiling a
jest hook, he could not have been
more cheerful. Hay, he might have
been a great deal less ! We now made the rounds of the rooms.
I found myself passing a crowd of smiling gossiping gentlemen,
seated opposite to one another at little tables, who looked as if they
had nothing more serious in the world to do than to ask each other
conundrums. Had they been Frenchmen. I am sure they would have
been playing ecarte, or partaking of the delicious excitement of
dominoes! At the upper end were younger men. “ The House of
Lords!” whispered Tommy, who joined us for a moment. “Only
peers in their own right are admitted here ! ” and he was off before I
could make any further inquiries. Entering a sort of cupboard, we
saw the telephone in full operation. Jack was sending a message to
Tom about something nautical—I think Billee Taylor. Hext we
entered a library, apparently full of dictionaries. There were also
some models of new indentions. “Great larks those,” said Regy,
putting his head in. “We get the inventors to explain them! ”
“And now,” said my Friend’s Friend, as Regy disappeared, “you
must see the Captain’s Room.”
I paused, and a vision of Captain Cuttle appeared before me. I
took out my note-book ready to record the tales of stormy adven-
tures I expected to hear re-
lated. I even headed a page
with “ How I Weathered the
Horn in ’26.” I was prepared
to find myself in a whole kennel
of aged sea dogs. I thought
I should find hooks for arms,
and gigantic telescopes in lieu
of umbrellas. I nearly hitched
up my trowsers in sympathy,
and brushed up my vocabulary
(limited) of sea terms. I passed
in, and found a luxurious eat-
ing house! Instead of weather-
beaten tars, I met Tom, and
Dick, and Algy, and a lot of their “ pals.” There was a luncheon bar
at the end, and there were boxes on either side. I was received with a
shout of hospitality. I tried an appropriate joke about “ the chops
of the Channel.” It fell flat. Hobody wanted to be nautical. The
latest story from the “ Steak” in exchange for the freshest “ good
thing” from “the House” was very much more to the purpose.
“ But why ? ” I asked—“ why the Captain’s Room ? ” “ I am sure
I don’t know,” answered Algy, sipping his Chablis; “’spose it’s
because they sell ships here while. a fellow is quietly taking his
luncheon ! Waiter, some more natives! ”
And with this explanation I left the Captain’s Room.
But f had more to do.
Before quitting Lloyd’s I had
to view the place in quite a
different light. I had to see
the books where every move-
ment of every ship upon the
face of the earth was kept
from day to day. I had to
recognise that in spite of the
tone of universal cheeriness
(extending even to “ the
Doctors ” who helped their
brother underwriters out of
unusual risks), that every-
thing was as well and as
thoroughly done as if every
member had worn gold-rimmed spectacles and had passed his life
in doddering over musty folios resting on lofty desks. I noticed
that, in spite of their airy manner, Jack, and his “pals” were
thorough men of business.
As I left, the doorkeeper was shouting in stentorian tones the
name of a firm I could not catch. If he had wished to describe the
place in which he was standing, he might have called “Work
ombined with Pleasure! ” and if he had, I should have heartily
agreed with him!
The Captain’s Room—The Ideal.
The Captain’s Room—the Reality.