DOI issue:
September 6, 1884
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17757#0127
120
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 6, 1884.
vestige, not a trace of a Roman having ever had. even so much as a
hip-bath there,—no Roman coins, no Roman ruins. If it had always
had the present rep)utation, wouldn’t the Romans have made the
place F Bah ! I don’t believe in La Bourboule ! I know it will be
beastly! But mind,” concludes the Easy One, as he turns on his
side, away from me, and closes his eyes, “ I ’m hanged if you ’re not
responsible for taking me there ! ”
I am now bound to tell him all I know about the place, its virtues,
its benefits, its charming climate, its situation—high up in the
mountains, — and its
system of baths. I am
going on in this strain
when he looks round
sharply and interrupts
me with,—
* ‘ Have you ever
been there ? ”
I am compelled in
truth to answer, “Ho,
I have not.”
“Very well,” retorts
the Easy One, sitting
suddenly bolt upright,
—‘ ‘ then, till you have,
you don’t know any
more about it than I
do. Your information
is on hearsay,—so is
mine. But when you
spoke of the place at
that dinner-party ”—
he is always twitting
me with this, as if I
were to be tied to
everything being
taken literally that
specially on an occasion when I
La Bourboule according to Fancy,
I said at any dinner-party,
naturally stretched several points in order to gain the one I had
at the moment in view, that is of getting an agreeable travelling
companion, who would beguile the weary hours of the night with
pleasant talk and amusing anecdote—“ when you spoke of La Bour-
boule at that dinner-party, you certainly gave me to understand
you had been there yourself, and knew all about it. Oh yes, you
did.” And down he goes again on the sliding-seat.
Did I speak at that dinner-party about La Bourboule as if I had
been there myself P
I’m really very sorry, but I don’t think I could have,—-at
least I didn’t mislead him intentionally. Besides, the conviction
grows upon me that he could not possibly recollect, with any exact-
ness, much that I had said at that dinner-party, because I remember
his telling me that he was taking champagne, and smoking a big
cigar, on that occasion only, as an exception to his rule ; and then 1
remember distinctly that, on turning to ask him a question, I sud-
denly missed him, and, on subsequent inquiry, I found he had left
comparatively early, but that no one had noticed the precise moment
of his departure ; insomuch that, on my asking for him, the wag of
the company had at once pretended to look under the table. I am
emboldened by this remembrance to affirm that I could never have
said I had been to La Bourboule, as it would have been absolutely
untrue, and therefore, &c., &c.
“ No,” replies the Easy One, who can’t fix himself in a comfortable
position ; “I don’t mean that I understood you to positively say so ;
but from your manner and way of talking about the place, anyone
would have inferred that you had been there for several seasons.”
Of coarse, I can’t help what he inferred from my manner,—but
here the engine re-commences shrieking, and brings this part of our
conversation to an abrupt conclusion. After anathematising the
noise, and once more preparing himself for repose, Chivers complains
that he knows he shall be miserable, as he has left his Valet behind
him, and that in consequence he shall have to carry his own bag—
' Does he throw this out as a hint that he wishes me to carry it for
him P)—and he will have to unpack for himself, and brush his own
clothes, and—0 !—he knows he’s going to be very wretched,—he has
quite forgotten that “his name is Easy,”—and he does hope I won’t
trouble Him any more with talking (here’s a pleasant companion
whose “name is Easy” !), as he wants to get to sleep, and be must
request me not to get out at Limoges, or any other station, as he is
lying just across the portiere, in front of which his legs form a sort
of bar, and I shall have to put him to all sorts of discomfort.
And this is the man whom, from knowing him for the last twenty
years in various circumstances, I have selected as the best and most
agreeable travelling-companion in the world! Moral.—Take care
how you tout for a companion for a journey; stick closely to facts
when describing what you know nothing about except from merest
hearsay, and don’t be too expansive in manner at a dinner-party.
“ What great effects from trifling causes spring ! ”
“ By the way,” he murmurs, before dropping off to sleep, “ what
Hotel did you tell me to take rooms at P ”
I tell him the name of the one where we are both expected.
“ Ah ! ” he groans, “ you ’ve let me into a nice thing. My friends
in Paris, Parisians who know all these French watering-places,
tell me that the Hotel you’re taking me to is quite second-rate.
Ugh! ” he growls, “ I shall leave the beastly hole if I don’t like it.
And, dash it, no servant! I shall have to unpack my own things !
and--Ugh ! ”
_ Why doesn’t he get out at the next station, and take a return-
ticket to London ? But suppose what he says should happen to be true f
Suppose we are the dupes of cunning and designing men, and that
the whole thing is a swindle ! ! Suppose that we find La Bourboule
to be pretty much what Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley found
that Eden really was, after the American Agent’s glowing descrip-
tion of the jjlace as seen on the map ? What then P As they used
to say in old Melodramas, “ The deadly poison (of Chivers’s conver-
sation) has done its work,”—and Iago (Chivers) has whispered into
the ear of Othello (myself) his distrust of JDesdemona (La Bourboule).
This thought bothers
of
me. The sliding-seat
the coupe-lit is a nui-
sance ; it slides when I
don’t want it to, and then
won’t be got back again
without much physical
exertion, which is too
fatiguing this blazing hot
night, only to slide out
again when least required,
—and for this I have paid
eighteen francs supple-
ment, simply because the
gentleman who said he was
going to “roughit,” that
everything was ‘ ‘ all one
to .him,” and that “his
name was Easy,” wouldn’t
move his things from his
carriage into mine.
I cannot sleep. But. . .
the Grumbler can. His
name is Easy -at last.
There he lies, extended on
his. sliding-seat, his feet encased in natty slippers—“ pumps,” with
striped socks just visible, after the manner of the pantomimists,
who in old pantomimic days used to be down in the bills as “ after-
wards Harlequin”—an intimation scarcely necessary then, as the
future Harlequin invariably played the Lover in “ the opening,” and
was immediately detected by the least experienced habitue, on
account of his pumps and silk stockings,—yes, there lies Chivers—
as “afterwards Harlequin”—fast asleep, and no longer grumbling
or growling, but snoring—but even in his snoring there is so strong
a note of discontent that it only sounds as if he were still grumbling
in his sleep. At Limoges he must play the part of the “ Sleeper
Awakened,” as I shall descend and seek the buffet, in search of a
cooling draught.
Riddle composed, said to, and guessed, by myself, while Monsieur
qui s'appelle “ Ze Facile ” dort en ronflant.—Why might I just as
well have come to La Bourboule in a four-wheeled cab P—Because I
have taken a snowier.
Limoges.—No cooling draught. No ice. Nothing, except ana-
themas from Chivers, to which I pay not the slightest attention.
On we go again, shrieking, whistling, and screaming without.
Snoring within. “ Sleep no more ’’—but I drop off about 5 a.m., and
at 8’45—just one tedious hour late—we arrive at Laqueuille, where
we have to get into an omnibus to take us on to La Bourboule!
Rhyme for Rogers.
Howe’er it be. it seems to me
A Souse of Peers can be no good :
Mob-caps are more than coronets.
And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield!
brood.
“ There 5s no Place like Home ! ”
Especially when it is comfortable. See the following advertise-
ment in the Daily Telegraph :—
A COMFORTABLE HOME offered for an Invalid or Imbecile Person.
Li. A trap kept. Good reference.
“ A trap kept ” ? But what do they want with a trap ? Do they
put the imbecile person in it if he becomes obstreperous, or wbat P
This is one of the things we “ want to know, you know.”
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 6, 1884.
vestige, not a trace of a Roman having ever had. even so much as a
hip-bath there,—no Roman coins, no Roman ruins. If it had always
had the present rep)utation, wouldn’t the Romans have made the
place F Bah ! I don’t believe in La Bourboule ! I know it will be
beastly! But mind,” concludes the Easy One, as he turns on his
side, away from me, and closes his eyes, “ I ’m hanged if you ’re not
responsible for taking me there ! ”
I am now bound to tell him all I know about the place, its virtues,
its benefits, its charming climate, its situation—high up in the
mountains, — and its
system of baths. I am
going on in this strain
when he looks round
sharply and interrupts
me with,—
* ‘ Have you ever
been there ? ”
I am compelled in
truth to answer, “Ho,
I have not.”
“Very well,” retorts
the Easy One, sitting
suddenly bolt upright,
—‘ ‘ then, till you have,
you don’t know any
more about it than I
do. Your information
is on hearsay,—so is
mine. But when you
spoke of the place at
that dinner-party ”—
he is always twitting
me with this, as if I
were to be tied to
everything being
taken literally that
specially on an occasion when I
La Bourboule according to Fancy,
I said at any dinner-party,
naturally stretched several points in order to gain the one I had
at the moment in view, that is of getting an agreeable travelling
companion, who would beguile the weary hours of the night with
pleasant talk and amusing anecdote—“ when you spoke of La Bour-
boule at that dinner-party, you certainly gave me to understand
you had been there yourself, and knew all about it. Oh yes, you
did.” And down he goes again on the sliding-seat.
Did I speak at that dinner-party about La Bourboule as if I had
been there myself P
I’m really very sorry, but I don’t think I could have,—-at
least I didn’t mislead him intentionally. Besides, the conviction
grows upon me that he could not possibly recollect, with any exact-
ness, much that I had said at that dinner-party, because I remember
his telling me that he was taking champagne, and smoking a big
cigar, on that occasion only, as an exception to his rule ; and then 1
remember distinctly that, on turning to ask him a question, I sud-
denly missed him, and, on subsequent inquiry, I found he had left
comparatively early, but that no one had noticed the precise moment
of his departure ; insomuch that, on my asking for him, the wag of
the company had at once pretended to look under the table. I am
emboldened by this remembrance to affirm that I could never have
said I had been to La Bourboule, as it would have been absolutely
untrue, and therefore, &c., &c.
“ No,” replies the Easy One, who can’t fix himself in a comfortable
position ; “I don’t mean that I understood you to positively say so ;
but from your manner and way of talking about the place, anyone
would have inferred that you had been there for several seasons.”
Of coarse, I can’t help what he inferred from my manner,—but
here the engine re-commences shrieking, and brings this part of our
conversation to an abrupt conclusion. After anathematising the
noise, and once more preparing himself for repose, Chivers complains
that he knows he shall be miserable, as he has left his Valet behind
him, and that in consequence he shall have to carry his own bag—
' Does he throw this out as a hint that he wishes me to carry it for
him P)—and he will have to unpack for himself, and brush his own
clothes, and—0 !—he knows he’s going to be very wretched,—he has
quite forgotten that “his name is Easy,”—and he does hope I won’t
trouble Him any more with talking (here’s a pleasant companion
whose “name is Easy” !), as he wants to get to sleep, and be must
request me not to get out at Limoges, or any other station, as he is
lying just across the portiere, in front of which his legs form a sort
of bar, and I shall have to put him to all sorts of discomfort.
And this is the man whom, from knowing him for the last twenty
years in various circumstances, I have selected as the best and most
agreeable travelling-companion in the world! Moral.—Take care
how you tout for a companion for a journey; stick closely to facts
when describing what you know nothing about except from merest
hearsay, and don’t be too expansive in manner at a dinner-party.
“ What great effects from trifling causes spring ! ”
“ By the way,” he murmurs, before dropping off to sleep, “ what
Hotel did you tell me to take rooms at P ”
I tell him the name of the one where we are both expected.
“ Ah ! ” he groans, “ you ’ve let me into a nice thing. My friends
in Paris, Parisians who know all these French watering-places,
tell me that the Hotel you’re taking me to is quite second-rate.
Ugh! ” he growls, “ I shall leave the beastly hole if I don’t like it.
And, dash it, no servant! I shall have to unpack my own things !
and--Ugh ! ”
_ Why doesn’t he get out at the next station, and take a return-
ticket to London ? But suppose what he says should happen to be true f
Suppose we are the dupes of cunning and designing men, and that
the whole thing is a swindle ! ! Suppose that we find La Bourboule
to be pretty much what Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley found
that Eden really was, after the American Agent’s glowing descrip-
tion of the jjlace as seen on the map ? What then P As they used
to say in old Melodramas, “ The deadly poison (of Chivers’s conver-
sation) has done its work,”—and Iago (Chivers) has whispered into
the ear of Othello (myself) his distrust of JDesdemona (La Bourboule).
This thought bothers
of
me. The sliding-seat
the coupe-lit is a nui-
sance ; it slides when I
don’t want it to, and then
won’t be got back again
without much physical
exertion, which is too
fatiguing this blazing hot
night, only to slide out
again when least required,
—and for this I have paid
eighteen francs supple-
ment, simply because the
gentleman who said he was
going to “roughit,” that
everything was ‘ ‘ all one
to .him,” and that “his
name was Easy,” wouldn’t
move his things from his
carriage into mine.
I cannot sleep. But. . .
the Grumbler can. His
name is Easy -at last.
There he lies, extended on
his. sliding-seat, his feet encased in natty slippers—“ pumps,” with
striped socks just visible, after the manner of the pantomimists,
who in old pantomimic days used to be down in the bills as “ after-
wards Harlequin”—an intimation scarcely necessary then, as the
future Harlequin invariably played the Lover in “ the opening,” and
was immediately detected by the least experienced habitue, on
account of his pumps and silk stockings,—yes, there lies Chivers—
as “afterwards Harlequin”—fast asleep, and no longer grumbling
or growling, but snoring—but even in his snoring there is so strong
a note of discontent that it only sounds as if he were still grumbling
in his sleep. At Limoges he must play the part of the “ Sleeper
Awakened,” as I shall descend and seek the buffet, in search of a
cooling draught.
Riddle composed, said to, and guessed, by myself, while Monsieur
qui s'appelle “ Ze Facile ” dort en ronflant.—Why might I just as
well have come to La Bourboule in a four-wheeled cab P—Because I
have taken a snowier.
Limoges.—No cooling draught. No ice. Nothing, except ana-
themas from Chivers, to which I pay not the slightest attention.
On we go again, shrieking, whistling, and screaming without.
Snoring within. “ Sleep no more ’’—but I drop off about 5 a.m., and
at 8’45—just one tedious hour late—we arrive at Laqueuille, where
we have to get into an omnibus to take us on to La Bourboule!
Rhyme for Rogers.
Howe’er it be. it seems to me
A Souse of Peers can be no good :
Mob-caps are more than coronets.
And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield!
brood.
“ There 5s no Place like Home ! ”
Especially when it is comfortable. See the following advertise-
ment in the Daily Telegraph :—
A COMFORTABLE HOME offered for an Invalid or Imbecile Person.
Li. A trap kept. Good reference.
“ A trap kept ” ? But what do they want with a trap ? Do they
put the imbecile person in it if he becomes obstreperous, or wbat P
This is one of the things we “ want to know, you know.”