DOI Heft:
February 9, 1884
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17756#0079
72
GREATER LONDON.
(A Story of the Immediate Future.)
The Traveller had left St., Paul’s for more than two hours, and
was still travelling underground in the direction of the broad
Atlantic. He looked at his electric distance-marker, and found that
he had journeyed some hundreds of miles. At length the train
stopped, and he was told he had reached the terminus. He looked
out, and saw, half obliterated, on a notice-board the words, “ Land’s
End, Cornwall.”
“ Come, I have escaped at last! ” he murmured. And then, to be
quite sure that he was at length out of London, he asked a passing
porter, “ What is the name of this Station ? ”
“ West Kensington, Sir,’’ was the prompt reply.
The Traveller stamped with rage. Then he tore his hair. Then
he jumped into a train just leaving the platform. He found that he
had got into an Express. He tore through the earth (the line was
underground) for hours—perhaps for days. Once he fancied he saw
St. Paul’s, but it might have been only a fancy. But on went the iron
horse, on and on. It came to a standstill at last. He put his head
out of window, and recognised the sea. Apparently he had reached
the Norfolk or Yorkshire coast.
“Where am I?” was his question.
“East Kensington, Sir,” replied the Guard, touching his cap.
“ We have only got as far as this at present, Sir. The line to the
new buildings will be ready in a month or so.”
The Traveller foamed at the mouth.
“Can I never be quit of this hateful Metropolis?” he shouted,
and once more jumped into a just-departing train. This time he was
hurried towards Scotland. Most of the line was underground, but
now and again he caught a glimpse of scenery (covered with houses),
which showed him that he was travelling towards the land of the
Gael. At length the train was again brought to a standstill.
A Highland Station-Master opened the door of the carriage.
“ Have I reached Inverness ? ” asked the Traveller, alighting.
“ Inverrrness !! There’s jist na sich place ! ” replied the Official
with the broadest of broad accents. “Ye’ve jist come to Narthe
Kensington ! ” The Traveller shrieked. But there was one thing to
be done. He retraced his steps. And now he journeyed towards India.
For months and months he hurried on. Nay, his excursion consumed
the better part of a year. He felt the heat of the equator, which
gradually gave place to antarctic cold. Covered with furs, at length
he reached the spot, which was, he felt sure, the Antipodes of the
North Pole. As far as he could see, there was snow and ice, amid
j things that looked like smoking chimney-pots.
“I am alone!” he murmured. “Still this is good—I have left
London behind me! At last I am satisfied.”
At this moment he noticed a native of the place. The man was a
! dwarf, and evidently belonged to some race similar to the Esquimaux.
The Traveller questioned this strange-looking person, but without
effect. The native spoke an odd sort of language, quite unlike any
European tongue. At length the Traveller succeeded, by signs, in
making the resident know that he was anxious to learn the name of
the place to which he had come. Could the native say where the
Traveller was ? He could, and would. And his answer was the
last words that the Traveller ever heard, for they killed him.
When asked for the name of the place on which they were stand-
ing, the native replied, “ South Kensington !!! ”
PLAYFUL FACTS AND FANCIES.
Dea u Me. Punch,
I was prevented by circumstances, over which I had no
control (I like to be original in the selection of my phrases), from
being present at the initial performance of Camaralzaman at the
Gaiety Theatre. The next morning I eagerly bought four of the
daily papers to learn from them some particulars about the per-
formance of the night before. I was greatly gratified to find from
the Daily Telegraph that “ the story of the old Persian Legend was
told with admirable directness and point,” and that the play “was
to all intents a Drama, well-constructed and intelligible to the most
careless observer.” _ Glancing, at the Times, however, I was sorry to
notice that the Critic of that journal was evidently “the most care-
less observer,” if, indeed, not something worse, as that Gentleman
was forced to admit that the story “ was by no means clear to his
unassisted understanding.” Turning to the 'Daily News, the repre-
sentative of that admirable journal boldly asserted that “the Author
was loudly called for, but did not appear,” an announcement flatly
contradicted by the proverbially courteous Morning Post, which
declared that “ Mr. Burnand appeared, and bowed his acknowledg-
ments.” When Doctors differ, who shall agree ?—Yours ever,
A Puzzled Platgoek.
What the Northampton Radicals Desire.—Eabour-chere.
[February 9, 1884.
IRRESOLUTION.
Scene—The Home Office. Tables covered with huge heaps of official
returns, from the Corporation, the Metropolitan Board of Works,
and the Thirty-Eight Districts of the Metropolis.
The Home Secretary discovered, looking weary and worn. He
throws himself back in his uneasy chair, and soliloquises—
To be, or not to be, that is the question ;—
Whether ’tis better for awhile to suffer
The harmless follies of the Corporation ;
Or to bring on myself a sea of troubles,
Much easier raised than ended. To pass m'y Bill,—
No more ; and by a Bill, to say we end
The headache, and the thousand natural worries
That place is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To pass my Bill;—
To pass ! perchance to fail;—ay there’s the rub!
And in that fierce debate what Cads will come,
When they have shuffled much in that turmoil,
And give me their paws ! There ’s the respect
That makes calamity of my bored life ;
For who would bear the patronage of Froth,
The oppressive candour of that proud man Beale,
The pangs of chaffing Dllke, Selborne’s delay,
The insolence of Chamberlain, and the spurns
My patient merit of the Premier takes,
When he himself might peace and quiet make
By mere inaction ? Who would boredom bear,
To groan and sweat under official life,
But that the thought of doing something great—
That undiscovered thing, that seldom comes
To poor Home Secretaries—urges me on,
Though I would rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that I know not of ?
Thus, too, sharp Londoners, poor cowards all,
May think—if so, I pall in resolution.
My enterprise, though of great pith and moment,
Which none regard, and which seems all awry,
Loses the name of action.
THE RIGHTS AND WISDOM OF JURIES.
To the Editor of “ Punch.”
Sir,—This is an age of sham sentiment and sickly gush, and those
who were once considered—and rightly, too—the most practical
common-sense nation in Europe, have developed into a conglomera-
tion of snivelling idiots. Wipe out the name “England” from the
map, and substitute “ Colney Hatch.” One day we are maudlin over
an over-sized beast, whose departure from these shores I, for one,
rejoiced at; the next we are shedding maniacs’ tears over the arrival
of an over-sized black king more hideous, if possible, than the
departed monster. Then we shriek over another enormity; and, as
if that was not low enough for us to fall, we select a lower depth in
admiring and adulating the British Jury. What next ?
I may tell you candidly that I have the greatest contempt for the
British Juryman. A smug-faced tradesman, with no ideas beyond
the contents of his till, and. his knowledge that his Queen’s Taxes
and Water-Rates have been paid, linked to a female whose mind
cannot extend beyond her brats and her servants’ delinquencies, is, I
confess, no character before whom I can fall down and worship.
I will ask Mr. Charles Reade a fewr simple questions :—
Has he ever been wrongfully accused of forgery ?
Has he ever been put on his trial for that offence ?
Has a Jury ever found him Guilty ?
Has he ever undergone eighteen months’ hard labour, resulting
from that finding ?
Because I Have !
But enough, I think I have shown, without any bias or prejudice,
that this present admiration for British Jurymen is absurdly exces-
sive and despicably weak. Yours sincerely,
A" Late Inmate or the House oe Correction.
To the Editor of “ Punch.”
Sir,—Mr. Charles Reade’s letter deserves to be printed in gold,
and I can heartily endorse every word he has said with regard to a
case of my own. I was committed for trial not long ago at Bow
Street Police-Court. At the Central Criminal Court, the Grand
Jury returned a true bill, evidence was dead against me, the Judge
summed-up strongly—even more strongly than the Counsel for the
Prosecution—for a conviction, and twelve honest men and true, with-
out leaving the box, found a verdict of Not Guilty. All honour to
them, and to Mr. Reade. Yours thankfully,
L. P. Loader.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
GREATER LONDON.
(A Story of the Immediate Future.)
The Traveller had left St., Paul’s for more than two hours, and
was still travelling underground in the direction of the broad
Atlantic. He looked at his electric distance-marker, and found that
he had journeyed some hundreds of miles. At length the train
stopped, and he was told he had reached the terminus. He looked
out, and saw, half obliterated, on a notice-board the words, “ Land’s
End, Cornwall.”
“ Come, I have escaped at last! ” he murmured. And then, to be
quite sure that he was at length out of London, he asked a passing
porter, “ What is the name of this Station ? ”
“ West Kensington, Sir,’’ was the prompt reply.
The Traveller stamped with rage. Then he tore his hair. Then
he jumped into a train just leaving the platform. He found that he
had got into an Express. He tore through the earth (the line was
underground) for hours—perhaps for days. Once he fancied he saw
St. Paul’s, but it might have been only a fancy. But on went the iron
horse, on and on. It came to a standstill at last. He put his head
out of window, and recognised the sea. Apparently he had reached
the Norfolk or Yorkshire coast.
“Where am I?” was his question.
“East Kensington, Sir,” replied the Guard, touching his cap.
“ We have only got as far as this at present, Sir. The line to the
new buildings will be ready in a month or so.”
The Traveller foamed at the mouth.
“Can I never be quit of this hateful Metropolis?” he shouted,
and once more jumped into a just-departing train. This time he was
hurried towards Scotland. Most of the line was underground, but
now and again he caught a glimpse of scenery (covered with houses),
which showed him that he was travelling towards the land of the
Gael. At length the train was again brought to a standstill.
A Highland Station-Master opened the door of the carriage.
“ Have I reached Inverness ? ” asked the Traveller, alighting.
“ Inverrrness !! There’s jist na sich place ! ” replied the Official
with the broadest of broad accents. “Ye’ve jist come to Narthe
Kensington ! ” The Traveller shrieked. But there was one thing to
be done. He retraced his steps. And now he journeyed towards India.
For months and months he hurried on. Nay, his excursion consumed
the better part of a year. He felt the heat of the equator, which
gradually gave place to antarctic cold. Covered with furs, at length
he reached the spot, which was, he felt sure, the Antipodes of the
North Pole. As far as he could see, there was snow and ice, amid
j things that looked like smoking chimney-pots.
“I am alone!” he murmured. “Still this is good—I have left
London behind me! At last I am satisfied.”
At this moment he noticed a native of the place. The man was a
! dwarf, and evidently belonged to some race similar to the Esquimaux.
The Traveller questioned this strange-looking person, but without
effect. The native spoke an odd sort of language, quite unlike any
European tongue. At length the Traveller succeeded, by signs, in
making the resident know that he was anxious to learn the name of
the place to which he had come. Could the native say where the
Traveller was ? He could, and would. And his answer was the
last words that the Traveller ever heard, for they killed him.
When asked for the name of the place on which they were stand-
ing, the native replied, “ South Kensington !!! ”
PLAYFUL FACTS AND FANCIES.
Dea u Me. Punch,
I was prevented by circumstances, over which I had no
control (I like to be original in the selection of my phrases), from
being present at the initial performance of Camaralzaman at the
Gaiety Theatre. The next morning I eagerly bought four of the
daily papers to learn from them some particulars about the per-
formance of the night before. I was greatly gratified to find from
the Daily Telegraph that “ the story of the old Persian Legend was
told with admirable directness and point,” and that the play “was
to all intents a Drama, well-constructed and intelligible to the most
careless observer.” _ Glancing, at the Times, however, I was sorry to
notice that the Critic of that journal was evidently “the most care-
less observer,” if, indeed, not something worse, as that Gentleman
was forced to admit that the story “ was by no means clear to his
unassisted understanding.” Turning to the 'Daily News, the repre-
sentative of that admirable journal boldly asserted that “the Author
was loudly called for, but did not appear,” an announcement flatly
contradicted by the proverbially courteous Morning Post, which
declared that “ Mr. Burnand appeared, and bowed his acknowledg-
ments.” When Doctors differ, who shall agree ?—Yours ever,
A Puzzled Platgoek.
What the Northampton Radicals Desire.—Eabour-chere.
[February 9, 1884.
IRRESOLUTION.
Scene—The Home Office. Tables covered with huge heaps of official
returns, from the Corporation, the Metropolitan Board of Works,
and the Thirty-Eight Districts of the Metropolis.
The Home Secretary discovered, looking weary and worn. He
throws himself back in his uneasy chair, and soliloquises—
To be, or not to be, that is the question ;—
Whether ’tis better for awhile to suffer
The harmless follies of the Corporation ;
Or to bring on myself a sea of troubles,
Much easier raised than ended. To pass m'y Bill,—
No more ; and by a Bill, to say we end
The headache, and the thousand natural worries
That place is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To pass my Bill;—
To pass ! perchance to fail;—ay there’s the rub!
And in that fierce debate what Cads will come,
When they have shuffled much in that turmoil,
And give me their paws ! There ’s the respect
That makes calamity of my bored life ;
For who would bear the patronage of Froth,
The oppressive candour of that proud man Beale,
The pangs of chaffing Dllke, Selborne’s delay,
The insolence of Chamberlain, and the spurns
My patient merit of the Premier takes,
When he himself might peace and quiet make
By mere inaction ? Who would boredom bear,
To groan and sweat under official life,
But that the thought of doing something great—
That undiscovered thing, that seldom comes
To poor Home Secretaries—urges me on,
Though I would rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that I know not of ?
Thus, too, sharp Londoners, poor cowards all,
May think—if so, I pall in resolution.
My enterprise, though of great pith and moment,
Which none regard, and which seems all awry,
Loses the name of action.
THE RIGHTS AND WISDOM OF JURIES.
To the Editor of “ Punch.”
Sir,—This is an age of sham sentiment and sickly gush, and those
who were once considered—and rightly, too—the most practical
common-sense nation in Europe, have developed into a conglomera-
tion of snivelling idiots. Wipe out the name “England” from the
map, and substitute “ Colney Hatch.” One day we are maudlin over
an over-sized beast, whose departure from these shores I, for one,
rejoiced at; the next we are shedding maniacs’ tears over the arrival
of an over-sized black king more hideous, if possible, than the
departed monster. Then we shriek over another enormity; and, as
if that was not low enough for us to fall, we select a lower depth in
admiring and adulating the British Jury. What next ?
I may tell you candidly that I have the greatest contempt for the
British Juryman. A smug-faced tradesman, with no ideas beyond
the contents of his till, and. his knowledge that his Queen’s Taxes
and Water-Rates have been paid, linked to a female whose mind
cannot extend beyond her brats and her servants’ delinquencies, is, I
confess, no character before whom I can fall down and worship.
I will ask Mr. Charles Reade a fewr simple questions :—
Has he ever been wrongfully accused of forgery ?
Has he ever been put on his trial for that offence ?
Has a Jury ever found him Guilty ?
Has he ever undergone eighteen months’ hard labour, resulting
from that finding ?
Because I Have !
But enough, I think I have shown, without any bias or prejudice,
that this present admiration for British Jurymen is absurdly exces-
sive and despicably weak. Yours sincerely,
A" Late Inmate or the House oe Correction.
To the Editor of “ Punch.”
Sir,—Mr. Charles Reade’s letter deserves to be printed in gold,
and I can heartily endorse every word he has said with regard to a
case of my own. I was committed for trial not long ago at Bow
Street Police-Court. At the Central Criminal Court, the Grand
Jury returned a true bill, evidence was dead against me, the Judge
summed-up strongly—even more strongly than the Counsel for the
Prosecution—for a conviction, and twelve honest men and true, with-
out leaving the box, found a verdict of Not Guilty. All honour to
them, and to Mr. Reade. Yours thankfully,
L. P. Loader.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.