DOI issue:
September 29, 1883
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17755#0165
September 29, 1883.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 153
HOLIDAY ECHOES.
Dramatis Personae—Several hale-looking, bronzed, ‘weather-beaten
Holiday-makers. One Pale-faced Stay-in-Town.
Pale-faced Stay-in-Town. Hullo, Jones ! Back so soon? Thought
you were off for months. And where have you been, and what have
you been doing ?
Jones. Oh, i have been up in Yorkshire, shooting.
P. S. How capital! Splendid county, Yorkshire; grand open
scenery ; vast expanse of moorland; bracing air, that puts your
.nerves right for ever ; good plain food. Why, you must be as sound
■as a bell!
Jones. Oh, yes, I daresay. Of course people talk like that, and I
have no doubt to a certain extent they are right; but, you see, I
|l ■’wasn’t living in a very quiet house.
■' P. S. But in that magnificent air and scenery you didn’t want
quiet and an indoor life.
Jones. No; and we didn’t want brandies-and-sodas in the morning—
or, rather, I think we did ; but it was a moot point—at any rate, we
had them. And then there was “ Boy” always at lunch, and a peg
or two before dinner, and an admirable cellar ; and what with the
grogs in the smoking-room, we never got to bed before two or three,
j P. S. Then I fear I was a little bit premature when I congratulated
you on your perfect state of health.
Jones. Well, yes—no—hardly. I feel a little upset, you know—
rather shaky, and all that; but I have not the remotest doubt but
that when I have settled down, and had two or three weeks in London,
I shall be every bit as well as when I started. ’Morning !
P. S. ’Morning! Here ’s Brown back in London again! How
brown—no pun !—you are looking ! How are you ?
Brown. Among the middlings, thanks—only among the middlings.
P. S. But you have had a holiday ?
Brown. Oh, yes. I have been yachting off the Devon coast.
P. S. Lucky man! Good boat, fine weather, jolly company,
j What could be more delightful ?
Brown. I suppose it sounds rather pleasant. Yes, we had a
rattling boat and fair weather, and a very good lot of men on board.
P. S. You must have inhaled enough ozone to last you your life-
( time. I think to be on a yacht with a good topsail breeze, when the
water goes bowling past you and the weather copper is high out of
! water, and the sea is eddying in the lee-scuppers, and as you bound
i along over the waves you feel that every moment the breeze is
| driving all the musty old cobwebs out of your brain, is one of the
j most invigorating, health-producing sensations the world has. All
■cares seem to fall from you. You fear no knock at the door, dread
j no ring at the bell. Your duns have ceased from troubling, and your
{•callers are at rest. You get no telegrams, and despise newspapers.
Broivn. Of course, of course, from the land-point view of yachting;
j but our host was a very bad sailor, and, consequently, we spent a
| good deal of time in harbour.
P. S. That doesn’t matter so much in Devonshire, as, wherever
you land, you have a lovely walk in every direction.
Broivn. We didn’t land much.
P. S. Then what did you do ?
Brown. We generally used to go below in the cabin and play Loo,
and you know its usual accompaniments.
j P. S. But you weren’t always in harbour. Hang it, you must
I have gone out to sea sometimes.
Brown. Only in calms.
P. S. Even then you got the pure, unadulterated sea air ?
Brown. In a way; for, you see, we generally, in a calm, used to
go down below in the cabin and play Loo, and it was hot, thirsty
weather.
P. S. Your trip, then, won’t have done you so much good as I had
hoped.
Brown. Oh, I am not very bad; and—hullo, it is a quarter to
twelve ! I must be off. I have got to see my Doctor at the hour.
My liver is very wrong, but I have no doubt lie will put me right
soon, and then I shall be as well as ever I was. Glad to have seen
you. Good bye !
j B. S. Good-bye! What, Robinson ? How goes it ? All well at
j home, I hope.
I Robinson. Ho, no ; I am sorry to say we have dreadful trouble at
home. All the children are down, my wife is nearly dead from
fatigue and grief, and I myself have been up nursing them the last
two nights.
P• S. Goodness gracious ! What is it ?
Robinson. The Doctors hardly say definitely, but it is some form of
typhoid.
P- S. Nasty, beastly thing. However, if they will only pull
through quick, you can get them all down to the seaside.
Robinson. That’s where we have just come from.
P. S. What plaoe ?
Robinson. (The reader may fill this in according to his own
libellous taste.)
P. S. But surely that is a town where the death-rate is next to
nothing, and which is always held np to admiration by nine out of
every ten medical men ?
Robinson. It is. That’s why we went there.
P. S. Was there an epidemic raging ?
Robinson. No ; or if there was, we got it all to ourselves.
P. S. Then how do you account for it ?
Robinson. You see we are different to the natives. Drainage has
no power to affect them or their death-rate. It has on us. After
lodging six days over an open sewer, all the youngsters were taken bad.
P. S. How very sad ! But what do the Doctors say ? I trust they
are hopeful.
Robinson. I am happy to say they hold out tolerably flattering
expectations. They consider that now we have got the children back
to our own well-ventilated and well-drained house, they, having
naturally strong constitutions, will not be long in coming round.
Bye! bye!
P. S. Bye ! bye ! old man. What, you, Green ! Heard you were
on the Continent.
Green. How are you ? I got back last night.
P. S. How far did you get ?
Green. Oh, not very far—Antwerp, Brussels, Cologne, up the
Rhine, Baden, Strasbourg, and home by Paris.
P. S. Not a bad little round. Did you enjoy yourself ?
Green. Thoroughly.
P. S. I am glad, to hear that. By Jove, it is a comfort to find one
man has had a good holiday. What, are you going to do to-night ?
One can’t offer much to a man fresh from the Continent; but even in
London one can give a fair approach to a French dinner, and the
Gaiety is open again.
Green. Ugh! Thanks awfully, old Chappie. But I am going
down into the Weald of Sussex this afternoon.
P. S. What on earth for ?
Green. Well, you see, what with travelling, and table-d’ hates and
cafe life, and seeing Galleries, I am a little Hit off colour. So I am
just going down to do a good week’s walking in the country. Get up
early, go to bed early, do five-and-twenty miles a day, live on nothing
but chops and bread-and-cheese, drink a little beer, and only one
glass of whiskey at night, and I believe I shall come back to town
as fit as a Leger winner. So, farewell!
P. S. Farewell! Why, Smith, it is an age since I saw you !
What’s the matter ? Why this lameness ?—why these crutches ?
Smith. Ireland.
P. S. Ireland? You don’t own any property there? Oh, I
remember, you told me you had rented a salmon river over there.
Surely they didn’t shoot you for that ?
Smith. Shoot! I wish they had; it might have finished me off at
once. Got wet through fishing, and have been in agonies ever since.
P. S. You had no sport, then?
Smith. Yes, admirable, till this infernal thing got hold of me.
Well, I can’t stop here chattering, I am just going to try a Turkish
bath ; it can but kill or cure.
P. S. It doesn’t seem to have improved his temper. Hullo,
Wiggy, any news?
Wiggy. Heard about Charley Thompson ?
P. S'. No—what of him? I saw him just before he went, off to
Switzerland; he was going to climb some inaccessible mountain with
some unpronounceable name. Did he get to the top ?
Wiggy. I don’t know whether he got to the top. He fell to the
bottom right enough.
P. S. Hurt?
Wiggy. Two thousand feet of crevasse don’t usually do you much
good. He was killed on the spot,—smashed to pieces.
P. S. Lord, how sad ! Really, what dreadful holidays my friends
seem to have had ! I grumbled at the time, but now I feel perfectly
thankful that I have had to stay in Town. After all, London is the
healthiest and safest place in the world.
\_Bxit round corner, is run over by a Van driven by a drunken
driver, and is removed to Charing Cross Hospital.
Unnatural History.
The Daily Telegraph has added to our knowledge of Natural
History in a truly remarkable manner. In a leading article on the
21st inst. it remarked that—
“ To race a pony against a pigeon would, of course, be a foregone conclu-
sion in favour of the latter ; but it has just been shown, by a race which has
taken place at Bedworth, that a pigeon can fly rather more than double as
fast as a pony.”
This beats dog-and-man-fighting hollow. If the Editor of the D. T.
has seen a Hying pony, let him exhibit it at the Aquarium, and
Farini and Barnttm are not “ in it.” On second thoughts, we once
had a pony that Hew—no, that melted away before we had time to
pocket it. But we ’ll bet another pony the D. T. didn’t mean this.
HOLIDAY ECHOES.
Dramatis Personae—Several hale-looking, bronzed, ‘weather-beaten
Holiday-makers. One Pale-faced Stay-in-Town.
Pale-faced Stay-in-Town. Hullo, Jones ! Back so soon? Thought
you were off for months. And where have you been, and what have
you been doing ?
Jones. Oh, i have been up in Yorkshire, shooting.
P. S. How capital! Splendid county, Yorkshire; grand open
scenery ; vast expanse of moorland; bracing air, that puts your
.nerves right for ever ; good plain food. Why, you must be as sound
■as a bell!
Jones. Oh, yes, I daresay. Of course people talk like that, and I
have no doubt to a certain extent they are right; but, you see, I
|l ■’wasn’t living in a very quiet house.
■' P. S. But in that magnificent air and scenery you didn’t want
quiet and an indoor life.
Jones. No; and we didn’t want brandies-and-sodas in the morning—
or, rather, I think we did ; but it was a moot point—at any rate, we
had them. And then there was “ Boy” always at lunch, and a peg
or two before dinner, and an admirable cellar ; and what with the
grogs in the smoking-room, we never got to bed before two or three,
j P. S. Then I fear I was a little bit premature when I congratulated
you on your perfect state of health.
Jones. Well, yes—no—hardly. I feel a little upset, you know—
rather shaky, and all that; but I have not the remotest doubt but
that when I have settled down, and had two or three weeks in London,
I shall be every bit as well as when I started. ’Morning !
P. S. ’Morning! Here ’s Brown back in London again! How
brown—no pun !—you are looking ! How are you ?
Brown. Among the middlings, thanks—only among the middlings.
P. S. But you have had a holiday ?
Brown. Oh, yes. I have been yachting off the Devon coast.
P. S. Lucky man! Good boat, fine weather, jolly company,
j What could be more delightful ?
Brown. I suppose it sounds rather pleasant. Yes, we had a
rattling boat and fair weather, and a very good lot of men on board.
P. S. You must have inhaled enough ozone to last you your life-
( time. I think to be on a yacht with a good topsail breeze, when the
water goes bowling past you and the weather copper is high out of
! water, and the sea is eddying in the lee-scuppers, and as you bound
i along over the waves you feel that every moment the breeze is
| driving all the musty old cobwebs out of your brain, is one of the
j most invigorating, health-producing sensations the world has. All
■cares seem to fall from you. You fear no knock at the door, dread
j no ring at the bell. Your duns have ceased from troubling, and your
{•callers are at rest. You get no telegrams, and despise newspapers.
Broivn. Of course, of course, from the land-point view of yachting;
j but our host was a very bad sailor, and, consequently, we spent a
| good deal of time in harbour.
P. S. That doesn’t matter so much in Devonshire, as, wherever
you land, you have a lovely walk in every direction.
Broivn. We didn’t land much.
P. S. Then what did you do ?
Brown. We generally used to go below in the cabin and play Loo,
and you know its usual accompaniments.
j P. S. But you weren’t always in harbour. Hang it, you must
I have gone out to sea sometimes.
Brown. Only in calms.
P. S. Even then you got the pure, unadulterated sea air ?
Brown. In a way; for, you see, we generally, in a calm, used to
go down below in the cabin and play Loo, and it was hot, thirsty
weather.
P. S. Your trip, then, won’t have done you so much good as I had
hoped.
Brown. Oh, I am not very bad; and—hullo, it is a quarter to
twelve ! I must be off. I have got to see my Doctor at the hour.
My liver is very wrong, but I have no doubt lie will put me right
soon, and then I shall be as well as ever I was. Glad to have seen
you. Good bye !
j B. S. Good-bye! What, Robinson ? How goes it ? All well at
j home, I hope.
I Robinson. Ho, no ; I am sorry to say we have dreadful trouble at
home. All the children are down, my wife is nearly dead from
fatigue and grief, and I myself have been up nursing them the last
two nights.
P• S. Goodness gracious ! What is it ?
Robinson. The Doctors hardly say definitely, but it is some form of
typhoid.
P- S. Nasty, beastly thing. However, if they will only pull
through quick, you can get them all down to the seaside.
Robinson. That’s where we have just come from.
P. S. What plaoe ?
Robinson. (The reader may fill this in according to his own
libellous taste.)
P. S. But surely that is a town where the death-rate is next to
nothing, and which is always held np to admiration by nine out of
every ten medical men ?
Robinson. It is. That’s why we went there.
P. S. Was there an epidemic raging ?
Robinson. No ; or if there was, we got it all to ourselves.
P. S. Then how do you account for it ?
Robinson. You see we are different to the natives. Drainage has
no power to affect them or their death-rate. It has on us. After
lodging six days over an open sewer, all the youngsters were taken bad.
P. S. How very sad ! But what do the Doctors say ? I trust they
are hopeful.
Robinson. I am happy to say they hold out tolerably flattering
expectations. They consider that now we have got the children back
to our own well-ventilated and well-drained house, they, having
naturally strong constitutions, will not be long in coming round.
Bye! bye!
P. S. Bye ! bye ! old man. What, you, Green ! Heard you were
on the Continent.
Green. How are you ? I got back last night.
P. S. How far did you get ?
Green. Oh, not very far—Antwerp, Brussels, Cologne, up the
Rhine, Baden, Strasbourg, and home by Paris.
P. S. Not a bad little round. Did you enjoy yourself ?
Green. Thoroughly.
P. S. I am glad, to hear that. By Jove, it is a comfort to find one
man has had a good holiday. What, are you going to do to-night ?
One can’t offer much to a man fresh from the Continent; but even in
London one can give a fair approach to a French dinner, and the
Gaiety is open again.
Green. Ugh! Thanks awfully, old Chappie. But I am going
down into the Weald of Sussex this afternoon.
P. S. What on earth for ?
Green. Well, you see, what with travelling, and table-d’ hates and
cafe life, and seeing Galleries, I am a little Hit off colour. So I am
just going down to do a good week’s walking in the country. Get up
early, go to bed early, do five-and-twenty miles a day, live on nothing
but chops and bread-and-cheese, drink a little beer, and only one
glass of whiskey at night, and I believe I shall come back to town
as fit as a Leger winner. So, farewell!
P. S. Farewell! Why, Smith, it is an age since I saw you !
What’s the matter ? Why this lameness ?—why these crutches ?
Smith. Ireland.
P. S. Ireland? You don’t own any property there? Oh, I
remember, you told me you had rented a salmon river over there.
Surely they didn’t shoot you for that ?
Smith. Shoot! I wish they had; it might have finished me off at
once. Got wet through fishing, and have been in agonies ever since.
P. S. You had no sport, then?
Smith. Yes, admirable, till this infernal thing got hold of me.
Well, I can’t stop here chattering, I am just going to try a Turkish
bath ; it can but kill or cure.
P. S. It doesn’t seem to have improved his temper. Hullo,
Wiggy, any news?
Wiggy. Heard about Charley Thompson ?
P. S'. No—what of him? I saw him just before he went, off to
Switzerland; he was going to climb some inaccessible mountain with
some unpronounceable name. Did he get to the top ?
Wiggy. I don’t know whether he got to the top. He fell to the
bottom right enough.
P. S. Hurt?
Wiggy. Two thousand feet of crevasse don’t usually do you much
good. He was killed on the spot,—smashed to pieces.
P. S. Lord, how sad ! Really, what dreadful holidays my friends
seem to have had ! I grumbled at the time, but now I feel perfectly
thankful that I have had to stay in Town. After all, London is the
healthiest and safest place in the world.
\_Bxit round corner, is run over by a Van driven by a drunken
driver, and is removed to Charing Cross Hospital.
Unnatural History.
The Daily Telegraph has added to our knowledge of Natural
History in a truly remarkable manner. In a leading article on the
21st inst. it remarked that—
“ To race a pony against a pigeon would, of course, be a foregone conclu-
sion in favour of the latter ; but it has just been shown, by a race which has
taken place at Bedworth, that a pigeon can fly rather more than double as
fast as a pony.”
This beats dog-and-man-fighting hollow. If the Editor of the D. T.
has seen a Hying pony, let him exhibit it at the Aquarium, and
Farini and Barnttm are not “ in it.” On second thoughts, we once
had a pony that Hew—no, that melted away before we had time to
pocket it. But we ’ll bet another pony the D. T. didn’t mean this.