Punch (86.1884)

122 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [March 15, 1884.

'

Customer (with a slight stutter). “ P-b-rlease s-show me some C-C-cuffs and C-Collars.”
Shopman. “ Im-m-m-mediately, Sir. I p-p-perceive you ’ve a s—— light Imp-p-p-
pediment, Sir ! You sh-sh-sh-sh—ould c-c-consult D-D-Doctor Q-Q-Q-Q-Quayer, Sir.
He c-c-c-c-cured me ! ! ”

DAYS OP DINNERS.

“Now. when parties are entertained in well-
appointed sporting country-houses in England,
or in shooting-lodges in Scotland, a succession oi
meals, each partaking more or less of the charac-
ter of a dinner, occupies the attention of-the
guests, with brief intervals for rest, from morning
hours till long past dewy eve.”—Lady John
Manners, m the National Iltvieiu.

Go read the National Review,

0 gormandising sinners,

And learn therein you should eschew
So many tempting dinners.

You eat and drink from morn till night,
With breakfast, dinner, luncheon,

Until you find your waistcoats tight,

Each man a human puncheon.

There ’s breakfast, with each tempting dish,
At early morning taken,

With tiesh and fowl, and many a fish,
With kidneys, chops, and bacon.

There’s luncheon, with the entrees warm,
Cold meat, and pies, and pickles,

With all the gourmet's eye can charm,

And all his jralate tickles.

Then tea comes in the afternoon,

With shaves of bread and butter,

You with the ladies wield the spoon,

And round the muffins flutter ;

Or if to liquor you incline.

And scorn the fragrant Hyson,

They’ll bring you several sorts of wino,

To name your special “ pison.”

The dinner comes with all it brings
To show the cook’s resources:

Not now a modest poet sings
The sequence of the courses.

Let it suffice you’ve all the heart
Can wish for at the table ;

With knife and fork you play your part,
’Mid conversation’s Babel.

Dessert will follow, with each sort
Of fruit known to the era,

With claret, sherry, and with port,
Perchance some old Madeira.

Then coffee and a petit verve

Of brandy ? That’s the question;
Chartreuse, the yellow, men declare
Is best for your digestion.

And, after dinner, when you crowd
The pleasant room for smoking,

Cig&rs and pipes too are allowed,

And then’s the time for joking.
Perchance anchovy-toast is found,

And gay old hoys get trisky
When “ S. and B.” and “slings” go round
With potash and with whiskey.

0 Lady John, you ’re right, you say,

Man is a shocking glutton,

His soul is given up to-day
To endless beef and mutton.

He never tries, it seems to me,

Plain living and high thinking;

For, when he isn’t eating, he
Is certain to be drinking !

THE FOWLER SPREADS HIS NET IN YAIN!

There certainly was some degree of humour in the announcement that the Lord Mayor,
in accordance with his kindly and hospitable character, was about to ask the celebrities of the
House of Commons to a banquet at the Mansion House ; and, in the thorough conviction that
generous fare and generous wine dispelled all ill-nature and ill-feeling, and induced wise and
reasonable men to seek rather for points upon which they could agree than for those on which
they differed, his guests were to be arranged as follows :—Mr. Gladstone and Lord Randolph
Churchill; Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Marriott ; Mr. Newdegate and. Mr. Bradlaugh ;
Mr. Forster and Mr. Parnell; Sir Wilfrid Lawson and Mr. Bass; Sir William Har-
court and Mr. Biggar ; Sir Walter Carden and Mr. Firth ; Mr. Bright and Mr. Labou-
chere. Upon making inquiries, however, in the highest quarters, namely, his Lordship s
front kitchen, our Correspondent was informed that the replies received up to the present
time were of so unsatisfactory a character that it was feared the kind and thoughtful
intention would have to be abandoned.

Ch.urch. and State.

At a meeting of the Brighton Town
Council, the other day—

“Mr. Alderman Abbey said that in his opinion
thev could not have too many piers in Brighton.
(‘Wear / hear ! ’)”

It is gratifying to find this noble senti-
ment applauded, and proves that London-
super-Mare will not countenance anv at-
tempt to disestablish the House of Lords
at present.

The Palmy Days of the Drama.—
When people were not afraid to applaud.