Punch (88.1885)

274

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[June 6, 1885.

THE TITHE DINNER. * I

Waiter. “ Clear Turtle or Ox-Tail, Sir?”

Eastern County Farmer (on consideration). “'Wh' there, Bo’, I ’ONT hev' neethor, thanky.
I Can allus get Broth at Hoom’ ! ”

THE BUTLERS OE GREAT MEN.

[Interviewed by Our Own BacJc-stairs Representative.)

No. Y.—At the Last op the Barons.

The sun had been shining very strongly, and I had been walking very sharply; and the result
was, when I arrived at the residential castle inhabited by the Last of the Barons, I was, not to put
it too mildly, precious hot. But, hot as I was before I entered Sir John’s, “hot” was not
the word afterwards. I knooked at the back entranoe,. the Baron’s portcullis was raised instan-
taneously, and the door was opened like a flash of lightning; the Baron’s Retainers,—he has
had a lot of ’em in his time with his briefs, but I don’t mean them, I mean the Butler and one of the
Footmen,—seized me by the arms, hauled me into the passage before I could breathe, slammed the
door, and pulled two massive velvet curtains over it. When I recovered myself, and before I
even said, “How do you do?” I exclaimed, “What’s up?” The Butler replied, “Nothing—we
have to be careful of the draughts.”

“ What,” I asked, “has the Cook got a oold ? ” .

“No,” replied he, “Lor’no—no chance of catching cold here. The Baron is so susceptible to
fresh air, we have even to bung up the larder window.”

I took a glance round, and saw that the whole of the extensive stone passages were lined with
thiok damask curtains. The keyholes were all stopped up ; sand-bags were on the closed windows ;
the doors were all edged with felt, and the place was just like an oven. I could not help remarking
that the place was insufferably hot; and the Butler replied that, in comparison with the upper part
of the house, it was an ice-safe. I said—“ Does not the Baron ever get any fresh air ? ”

“ Oh. yes,” replied the Baron’s Butler, “ he gets more than he wants at the Law Courts. It’s
very difficult to keep out the draughts here. Now, at his Lordship’s place at Ascot it’s easier, for
he has enclosed his house in a gigantic conservatory.”

With these observations I was shown into the Butler’s pantry, where a nice little meal was
prepared for me. I said, “ I suppose you really see very little of the Baron ? ”

“In what way ? ” inquired the Butler.

“ I mean,” I explained, “ his Lordship must he occupied in Court all day, and the seriousness of
his work, and the importance of his decisions and judgments, must keep him locked up at home all
night.”

“ Oh, no,” replied the Butler, “he’s not that sort of man. He is delightful and cheerful to a
degree. The decisions and judgments don’t bother him'much. His jokes do, though. He has an
awful trouble to get them up. He’s quite grateful when I casually ‘ let off ’ a little thing of my
own, for he will always adopt it, and I have the gratification of seeing it in print next day. When
the great sculpture case was on, I said to him, ‘I suppose, Sir John, you will not be sorry when
that case is bust up ? ’ The Baron thanked me very much, and he used the joke the next day, and
the Times report said there were “ roars of laughter m Court, which were with difficulty suppressed.”
I could not help remarking that such simplicity in the Last of the Barons was surprising to me.
The Butler said, “ Oh ! his life out of Court is as innocent as a boy’s. When he is at Ascot, it is as

innocent as a child’s. Give him a
French book and a dictionary, and
he ’ll be happy all day. In August, if
it happens lo be broiling hot, he will
put on a thick ulster and a respirator
and go on the Virginia Water in a
punt, and sum up to the sticklebacks.
He loves fishing.

I concluded my interview, and as
I ascended the kitchen steps, having
been shot out of the place as rapidly
as I was lugged in, i oould not help
thinking (to alter the adage) how
little things please great minds.

THE SEASON.

The season’s set in, my fair Ladies,
Now don the gay bonnet and gown,
The country quite thrown in the
shade is

By all the delights of the town.
And Phyllis intent upon pleasure,
Leaves Corydon lone in the land,
To come up and tread a gay measure,
To Liddell’s enjoyable band.

The season’s beginning, and heavy
The programme put down for eaoh
day,

Your brothers are off to the levee,
The drawing-room sees your array.
They ’re busy with “ spotting the
winners,”

And laying a hundred to ten,

They dote upon dishes and dinners,
You think about women and men.

The season’s beginning, and pleasant
Your fair and prophetical dreams,
How is it to youth all the present,

So perfectly beautiful seems.

And doubtless new triumphs await

. Vu’

At dinner or supper or ball,

That haply unduly elate you,

At holding poor fellows in thrall.

The season’s beginning, suppose a
Fair maiden can music enjoy,

Old Drury oan give you Carl Rosa,
And Sullivan’s at the Savoy.
Each theatre claims your attention,
Or else you can visit at night,
South Kensington’s home of Inven-
tion,

And revel in fountains and light.

The season’s beginning, high-hearted
The debutantes rush to the fray,
The long round of gaiety’s started,
That rouses our London in May.

Ah ! ladies you, certes, have reasons,
To think that no pleasures can cloy
For know that the best of all seasons,
Is always the first you enjoy.

Good Advice.—The Times Corre-
spondent, writing from Vienna lately,
said, “The Servian Government will
scarcely venture to leave young
Karageorgevicks out of sight.”
How can anybody with such a name
become obscure ? It is quite “ a
name to conjure with”—for anyone
who can pronounce it properly.

Latest Derby Day News. —
Scratched ! — The Pictures at the
Royal Academy.

Deer at any Price.—Venison.