Punch: Punch (87.1884)

August 16, 1884.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

“QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY”

Mr. Punch to Lord Northbrook. “I’m off to the Moors, and you’re off to the Egyptians. Ha! ha! Hope ytht Yl hate a

Good Time of it ! ”

princely profusion. “ When in doubt put up a
cistern,” seems to have been the golden rule
of the architect, and these cisterns proudly
boast (through their placards) that they have
no connection with any other establishment.
All very grand, and very scientific, and
perhaps very comfortable! But you cannot
help showing concern at finding that all these
scientific contrivances have something or
other to be turned off or on “in case of
accidents;” for you feel sure that if “The
Sanitary House ” ever did get out of order,
you would he immediately crushed or blown
up, or suffocated, or meet some other fate
| equally deadly and horrible ! This idea may
I be caused by prejudice ; for all that it is an
idea, and a fixed one. And you notice that
there are seemingly a good many outbuildings
| which to the builder should mean “quite a
little holiday,” and to the householder not

quite “ a little bill.” Descending from floor
to floor—you look into the dining-room en
route, and are so frightened by an air-
purifier or filter that your speed is con-
siderably accelerated—you arrive at length
at the basement. Here again the sinks are
on the palatial principle, and the walls are
lined with washable distemper.

And at this point it may be noted that
“The Sanitary House” is coated with
“ non - poisonous paint,” whicn suggests,
inferentially, that the pigments used next-
door must be of the most deadly character—a
cheerful reflection!

At this moment, you hear an old Lady
remark, ‘ ‘ I like the other house best—it may
be faulty, but give me none of your new-
fangled notions! ”

You listen to that old Lady with a certain
sympathy!

THE (NORTH) BROOK.

(Some Way after Tennyson.)

’Tis an ill wind thus blows me out,

From home I must be sailing,

"Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt,
The grouse with zest unfailing,

’Tis the confoundedest of bores,
Unpleasantest of prescriptions,

That whilst they ’re off to seek the Moors,

I ’m sent to the Egyptians !

Northward their joyous course they ’ll take,
But Eastward I must travel.

All my engagements it will break,

And all my prospects gravel!

I ’m sent to watch by Nile’s swift flow.

Confound that ancient river !

M.P.’s may come, M.P.’s may go;

Must I toil on for ever ?